#gamerkats original

[gamerkats]

Chapter 24, The Night Before Boxing Day

We did it! We made it through another level of the AO3 curse gauntlet. So we're celebrating with a chapter update! Enjoy!

[gamerkats]

"Do you think this easy!?" Mr. Darcy sounded cold as the grave before him. Were it not for the rudeness of the rain, one might mistake emotion leaking down his haughty cheeks. "Even now you laugh at my misfortune of your fortune, father. It is written plainly upon your ever present smirk of pearl!"

Had anyone else been near, he might have appeared quite mad. The only reason for such venture into the family gravesite, was to survey the damage reportedly done by miscreants or robbers. Certainly, a few broken headstones, and toppled reverent statues, were not pocket damaging enough to fire a man of such caliber.

However, the dead were not all that had been buried; blanketed under grasses, tucked in by lament. Long had Mr. Darcy left his past to rot amid the ruin of his childhood. The boy had been laid to rest along side his father; butchered by the soon man of the house, raised by duty and status. Two skulls lay laughing before him, though only one could be seen. And he hated both.

"Is this Hell? Hmm?" A flippant wave through the rain around him as he turned in a circle. "Am I damned to meet everyone's expectations, yet not my own?! Even yours? Ever yours?! You, who has chosen to rest in quiet, but could not be louder that I protect name and lineage. Everything that has befallen my shoulders is because of you! You ruined me!" In a fit and fury, his hands ripped the restful from the wet carved stone of their morbid bed.

He was eye to eye socket now, with the man who made him. His creator in breath and life. Molding his every move from beyond in each tutor and every acquaintance. All successes attributed to being so much like his father, while all failures he wore alone. Your father would want this, your father would not be proud of that.

My father, is dead!

Had that not been true, how different his life would have been; he beat the fantasy into the side of the uplifted, stone grave. How strange, how innocent. How perfect he could have seemed to her, without need of change or polish. Strike after strike, the bony pick axe chipped regret and remorse from his healing soul. To others, this would be insanity; wielding about the remains of his father like a madman. But to him, a dark cathartic series of blows from a legacy upon their heritage.

When it was over, it was truly over. Both within and without. Chest heaving. Body soaked in cool rain and heated sweat. Tears were not a question now, but a declaration of truce. Peace raced over Mr. Darcy, as if a swift clarity crept its wary fox nose between once barking dogs. He was holding a pile of bones; nothing less, sanity more. The skull had long rolled into a set of grasses, as if to watch his blood revenge his body.

Although his heart now felt light, his arms were heavy and released the remains to ground once more. Plopping in an unrecognizable heap of past and present. Only the rain seemed to move, as everything else fell into a mourning hush. Yes, his life would have been different had his father lived, and he allowed to be a boy. But regret was a fit in the rain, desecrating a memory that could not defend itself. And being the ever busy man he was, Mr. Darcy had not the time for it. Not any more.

"S-sir," the meek tones of his grounds keeper bit his ear, "are... are you..."

"I loath rats," was all Mr. Darcy used as explanation for his frightful actions. And despite being as farfetched as his belief he might feel anything beyond contempt for Elizabeth, it was accepted by his man without investigation.

A simple, narrow eyed glance to a still laughing skull on a bladed jade throne, was all he spared of the ungentlemanly event, before he returned to the fires and brimstone of society.

And Now the Screaming Starts! (1973) dir. Roy Ward Baker

[gamerkats]

Chapter 19, Nocturne of Flowers

Sorry for the late notice, we've been really busy. But this chapter is now up on AO3 and Wattpad.

We ended up splitting Chapter 19 because it was insanely long... *cough* 30k *cough* So, Chapter 20 is the continuation. Because we split it, Chapter 20 is needing a bit of reworking. But we hope to have it up soon.

Not sure if we'll go onto Chapter 21 of NoF, or swing back onto The Night Before Boxing Day for a bit. Gotta see what we have time for. Our day jobs and side hustles have been extremely taxing as of late, so we haven't had much time to relax with our GamerKAts writing.

(This is literally our rest, unwind, enjoyable hobby, recharge our batteries account. Complete with all of our stress-free amazing mutuals we truly love and adore.)

Also, we MIGHT be posting the first few chapters of Knighty Night this Fall. The goal was to have the entire first novel posted this year, but we're not sure if that will happen anymore. These stories are our passion projects, which is why we share them for free, but life unfortunately doesn't support happiness. So, these get pushed down in priority a lot. Sorry. :(

Oh, and just a reminder Besties, with all due love to the superfans, if you think you see our writing style under another pen name, NO YOU DIDN'T! 💋

[tildeathiwillwrite]

Tag Game: WIP/OC Q&A

Thanks to @illarian-rambling @willtheweaver @diabolical-blue and @paeliae-occasionally for the tags!

Rules: open the floor for questions about your WIPs/OCs/creative process/inspiration/etc

Well my ask box has never been closed but sure I can push for questions! Can ask about the listed things, but I can give example questions. If anything is a spoiler I will RAFO it lol

Tales from Valaria

The Watcher and the Thief

OCs: Hector, Luc, Rift, Octavian, Kaira + others Can ask about: any of the above OCs, Watchers, devar, Draigo, the Fells, sang, magicians, Stalkers, the artifacts, arson, tf was that creature thing, etc

The Hunter, the Myth and the Cure

OCs: Draven, Octavian, Reese + others Can ask about: any of the OCs, the worldbuilding stuff listed in TWatT but in the context of THtMatC + lycanthropes, the Hunter's Guild, Jumpers, is any of the TWatT cast still alive, etc

Magician's Bait

OCs: Damian, Reese, Luc, Natali + others Can ask about: above OCs, above worldbuilding in the context of MB, etc

The Legend of Orian Goldeneye

OCs: Jas, Killian, Orian, Diana, Henrik, Azura, Morpheus + others Can ask about: the above OCs, dreamshapers, Saint's Shoal, Somnia in general, Iron Hollow, Jumpers, will you release the original draft, tf is going on with the gunblade duo, etc

Trials of the Six

OCs: Hiel, Jarsali, Korfel, Raiann, Aquilar, Elya, Krivyn, Za'ret, Enitan + others Can ask about: the above OCs, Rymn in general, the cultures of Tya, Tectuem, the Permafrost, Mareln, Sala, and the Ilunians, Jumpers, Mages, Guardians, etc

Forsaken: The Doomed City

OCs: Rowan, Victoria, Ollie, Sam, Whisper, Blizzard, Julian + others Can ask about: the above OCs, the city, the superpowers, the squad, how is this related to Forsaken: The Lost Island, do you even have an outline, why is Whisper Like That, etc

tagging my writeblr moots but if you haven't been tagged feel free to ask away anyway!

@blackrosesandwhump @writer-of-worlds @annakayy @fourwingedwriter @faytelumos

@chronicallydragons @gamerkats @spitefulbull @themswritinwords @late-to-the-fandom

@cssnder @phoenixradiant @writingphoenix @agirlandherquill @friendlesscat

@thethistlegirlwrites @kabie-whump @pluttskutt @catwings-writes-things @elizaellwrites

@whumped-by-glitter @aalinaaaaaa @stargazer-luna @pluppsauthor

@hufflepuffwritingstuff2 @scaewolf @corinneglass @crwn-nrth @shes-some-other-where

@floweryprosegarden @paradise0parrot @grimmdivinity @dyoniawrites @42questionsandaloafofbread

@happypup-kitcat24 @overdecorated-furniture @sableglass @caffeineandink

[gamerkats]

(Tw death, traumatic childhood, ghosts)

Tucking my daughter into bed that night was a difficulty level best measured by a “Strong Man” carnival game. And although I tried to be brave, I kept finding myself landing between the lines of “Wimp” and “Wet Noodle”. My hands, it seems, are far too shaken to exact any firm grip on my reality.

That’s why he’s mad at you.

No other utterance in my life has ever disoriented me like this flashing phrase. Flying from her lips as innocently as offering one of her toys an empty cup of tea. Bounding off into the other room to watch her favorite show, with no thought whatsoever for the tomb raider she had been. No worry for the desecration of hallowed ground in which my childhood rests. Memories callously ripped from their graves. Long buried treasures, tarnished from age and neglect, scattered about youthful ruins. A torrent of hollow emotions and distorted forms escaping their cursed slumber to plague my thoughts.

My home no longer feels a sanctuary. I’m on edge. As though this were some sort of wilds. And I now a prey animal, walking the game trails from my daughter’s room to my own. Alert. Aware. Every task easily abandoned with little more than a glance. Every shadow a threat. Every noise a warning. Reaching on the tips of my toes for a chilly past frozen behind stored winter clothing.

What had once been a fond childhood memory of you, now seems to decay into pieces of a belief system I no longer recognize.

Michael.

You were there for me, weren’t you? A friend in the dark. A hand to hold when I was alone. A comforting voice, telling me fanciful tales to drown out the noises of shattering objects and blaming howls. The quakes of fault lines drawn and rumbling beyond thin walls; shaking my foundations, cracking my world in two. A rift so far between what was normal and what was happiness I couldn’t see the other side.

You were the only bridge then.

You were my friend.

You weren’t frightening or threatening.

So, why am I scared of you now?

Yes, I had forgotten you, Michael. Yet, I don’t remember why. These boxes I sift through, once taking up space in the back of my closet, are now filling up my thoughts. Things I’ve kept of a person I hardly know anymore. My report cards, silly pictures of friends I once loved, odd keepsakes holding nostalgia that must be explained, projects and art worthy only of a fridge.

You’re in this, Michael, somewhere.

Filed deep under, “Years I’d Rather Not Remember”, beyond the files of forgiveness and straight into folders of forget.

You were a respite then. But ultimately, little more than a bandage, when what I really needed was a tourniquet. I shouldn’t complain for the peace you gave, but it wasn’t enough. You couldn’t protect me. You didn’t. And you left.

Is that why I forgot you? I’m blaming you for not doing more? For leaving me? Was I punishing an imaginary person who faded away?

That makes no sense. It’s almost crazy even. You’re not real.

And yet…

Now, as I hold a piece of faded paper, tarnished from soiled years and ancient tears, it makes all the sense in the world. I remember. I can’t turn it over, but I know now. The truth. Rattling in my shaking fingers while rivers of lost time rush down my stony cheeks. I don’t recall keeping this. It was probably placed in here by another; thinking that one day, when I was old enough, I would want it.

Yet, today doesn’t feel like that day. I’m not ready. Today feels as though my very being is in flux of torn apart and stitched back together. I’m empty and whole at the same time. I’m adrift in my life, now a single parent myself, and your light is too bright to bear. You want me to come back to shore. To face this. To stop pretending I didn’t lose my partner. To stop acting like they’ll come home.

Just like the stories you told me, right? Second star to the right, and straight on till mourning.

You’re right, Michael, I did forget you. Because I never knew you. Because I hated you. Because I loved you. Because you were never there beyond recounted tales and crinkled photos.

Because you died.

You were gone before I was even born. Taking with you a happy couple I never met, and leaving only empty shells. Undead shadows of their former selves—punished to perform the motions of living, instead of having the time to process their grief. When you’re poor, the world gives no pause, and the hole in your heart becomes a drain that everything will circle.

I won’t turn this over. I can’t. I can’t see you right now. You need to understand why I am placing your obituary back beneath the shield of crayon landscapes and grinning portraits with laser backgrounds.

You left.

And I arrived.

And I hated you.

I hated you enough to forget you.

But now, as I’m trying to bury another, one I did know, one I did hold, you’re back. That can’t be coincidence. That’s concern. That’s love.

Thank you, Michael. I didn’t know I needed this. Needed you. Needed anyone. I think… I know I’m going to be okay now. A little more each day. Because I remember now, that even though we never met, never hugged, played catch, or had pillow forts, I will always be protected by the world’s best big brother.

[gamerkats]

Such dream I dreamed in nightmare bright, Such scream I screamed unbound. Such loss I lost in wander soul, Such fall I fell unground.

Not all the light, oh, Wizardling, Not all the sunrise mark. Not all the bright will safety bring, Not all evil is dark.

Excerpt from the upcoming Chapter 19, Nocturne of Flowers

A little treat for those who are waiting. The reluctant rescue ranger, Cordelia, is in over her head; literally. As elsewhere in trouble, Jasper makes it rain...Terran style.

Just finishing edits of the massive chapter. Thank you all for waiting and for your encouragement to keep going!!! 💋❤

[gamerkats]

Chapter 16, Nocturne of Flowers

*phew!* Lotta work and ingredients in this mess. Our alphabet soup is now served for our wonderful readers!

AO3

Wattpad

[gamerkats]

What's Nocturne of Flowers about?

TL;DR Nocturne of Flowers is an original adventure-thriller love letter to our (the writers) inner 80’s era fantasy writing selves. It’s a genre mashup roller coaster of monsters, magic, mayhem, societal issues, and relationships. A group of Queer found family/friends save the world when a zealot cult, bent on destruction, tears down the Fae Veil—a magic barrier separating the modern-day world from a fantasy one.

Available to read for free on AO3 and Wattpad.

Long story breakdown below cut. Word Count 2,800+

Stars.

They truly are beautiful.

Mysterious, enchanting, knowing. High aloft our heads, gifting stories, guidance, and light to the dark of cold emptiness. Brilliant suns orbiting worlds our limits have yet to envision. Oh, what wonder, what times they’ve seen. A mere twinkle of laughter, sparkle of love, flicker for all the blinks of life they guard. All the dreaming butterflies that dance and flitter away beneath their witness.

The stars exist for many reasons, and science will tick, type, and calculate them all. Save for one—that the stars are, above all else, a message. One carved into each night, when the blackness of space presses heavy upon our eyes, and the empty, endless void coils its tendrils around the insignificant marble we call home.

We are not alone.

Not in the universe. Not in our lives. Not even upon our world. There are others. Living all around like a lingering embrace; hidden by a magic so powerful it is nearly myth now.

Cordelia Mywren thought her life was pretty normal. Money. Influence. Beauty. People obeying her every whim. Magic. You know, normal girl shit. As she had the good fortune of being born and raised as the heir to a powerful Coven of Witches, every day was Cordelia day.

In our writing world, Witch and Wizard have been returned to being gender-neutral titles. And they’re given to people based on whether they practice Day or Night magic. Day magic involves intense study and scholarly casting. Night magic is wild and free-spirited. Depending on the time of day and weather conditions, one’s magic waxes and wanes in strength.

Cordelia, a Witch wielding Night magic, had known all her life she was going to grow up to become the Dark Mother Heiress Apparent of the Mywren Coven. And she’d been looking forward to it too. Who wouldn’t? The life on easy street was entirely Google mapped out for her. All she needed to do was keep driving in the directions that were given.

But when the current Dark Father (Cordelia’s grandfather) decided to finally step down, all Coven political hell broke loose. In order for Cordelia’s father—the current Dark Father Heir Apparent—to take the Coven Throne, all secrets he kept were laid bare for the Gathering. But no bones, nor blood, nor vicious act were quite so crushing as the reveal of stones he never should have laid in his family’s path. A secret so shattering, it threatened to crack the very foundations the Covens were built on.

Cordelia’s father didn’t sire just one heir.

There were others.

And that’s a huge no-no in the rules of Coven Royalty. Bloodlines are not only limited in how many Heirs they can sire, but with whom they sire them. And these little unpolished gems were neither approved nor known. Hidden away to be raised in secret to secure the Mywren bloodline should anything happen to Cordelia. For, as a prophecy sang,

Who so ride the sunset mare, Will dual the morning gold. Who so sit the thirteenth stair, Will rule the arcane old.

A Mywren now sits atop the Thirteenth Stair of Thrones. No easy feat for a family that crawled from the bottom of importance. And loosening their grip upon the cliffs of power was not an option, as they’d likely never be able to climb again. The “arcane old” part was still yet to be seen and understood, but the Mywrens—like all other Coven Royalty—wanted to be there, claiming it, once the prophecy came to fruition.

But nothing did happen to Cordelia. She’s all grown up, safe and secure; adulting like privilege comes with a Pro+ subscription. Once the Dark Father steps down officially, her dad will take the throne, and the spot of Heir Apparent is open. But, as Cordelia’s now revealed half-sisters are also alive and well, all three daughters of the Mywren bloodline are eligible for a seat that sits only one.

And that completely destroyed the vision board of Camila Mywren, Cordelia’s mother and the legal wife of Cordelia’s father. Naturally, Camila wants only the best for her daughter. Even if it would mean snapping a Sacred Thread (a Coven rule) and trimming a few scraggly branches off the family tree. And so, Camila plots and plans to ensure the future she always envisioned for her and hers.

Enter Olivia; estranged member of the Mywren Coven, and mother to Ainsley and Skylar—the once secret heiresses. When word reaches Olivia that the Mywren Coven Dark Father is making preparations to step down, she’s left with only two options.

Run or return.

After having lived carefully in hiding as a single mother—struggling to provide and keep her daughters as unnoticed as possible—Olivia contacts the Mywren Coven and reveals the whereabouts of the unknown heiresses; believing that the longer she keeps them hidden, the more likely it is their skeletons will hang in the backs of political closets.

Returning to the Covens, after being on the run for so long, is no simple transition. Many questions about paternity are being whispered from the lips of Camila into privileged ears wanting to hear. Olivia, you see, isn’t a highborn Witch, she’s a lowborn. The once prized Consort to the Heir Apparent; chosen for her beauty, talent, and wit, but not for her powers. She knew running from her position in the Mywren Coven would cause her to eventually cross a finish line—holding punishment as its reward. There were many who want to make an example of her abandonment and insult to the Royal Houses.

But it wouldn’t be easy for them now. Ainsley and Skylar lived to adulthood. They survived having blood of both magics, high and low, in their veins. Thus, proving the long-held belief that “there can be no mixing of magic lines” as false. Implying that it wasn’t “for the good of the child” to never mix magic, but for the good of those who held power. This also casts doubt, and opens inquiries, upon all supposed evidence of recorded cases where the half-magic infant didn’t survive long after birth.

Because of this, Olivia isn’t considered a heretic runaway Coven member anymore—she’s now the mother of the future. A sort of diplomatic immunity is temporarily granted to her, along with a deep respect spreading throughout the lowborn world. Respect that whispers for change, and prays for restructure.

Lowborns have never sat atop Coven Thrones before, never held positions—let alone half-magics. To have a half-magic Heir is tantamount to treason in the eyes of many who would seek to keep the Thrones high. Ainsley and Skylar were dripping mixed blood into pure waters that made all those, once peacefully swimming, now see only red.

Immediately, their introduction to the family is having their legitimacy called into question. And there is only one thing to prove that Mywren magic flows through their veins.

The Labyrinth.

Paternity tests don’t work on Witches and Wizards—they are of science, and science is often at war with magic. The results can be easily manipulated. The Labyrinth is the only way to establish that Ainsley and Skylar are Mywrens. Which is easier said than done, as both women know absolutely nothing of magic, their real father, or just how wild and mystical the world they thought they knew truly is.

Having been raised as a pauper, finding out you’re a princess in your adult life isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. They’re fish out of water; gasping to catch their breath as others seem to scrape each scale of life they once knew—once understood—from their very sides. First their location—uprooted to live in Eldritch, Vermont. Then their associations—told to leave behind everyone they ever knew, and delete all social media they belonged to. Then their occupation—whatever dreams they once had for careers are now replaced to work at a Security and Technology firm known as NITES.

Olivia might have been a lowborn, but she certainly wasn’t a nobody. Being the official Consort came with many privileges, including meeting important people. Calling in an old debt from an old enemy, Olivia secures Ainsley and Skylar positions at NITES, and convinces their Mywren family to allow them to go.

NITES may be a normal looking company by day, but their true purpose is the safety and security of everything magic in the world. This includes hunting monsters, and running a sort of “Magic Cram School” for up-and-coming Witches and Wizards.

The entire organization of NITES is split into two types. Greens—who know all about magic. Blues—who don’t, and think magic is imaginary. Greens do their best to protect Blues, whether Blues are Coven progeny or even just the general public who know nothing of the supernatural side of the world.

Magic is extremely taxing on not just physical, but also mental and emotional health. So, as a means of training, NITES offers a very special service to the Covens. For an extremely high price, NITES will not only protect their progeny physically, but provide scenarios perfectly tailored to challenge them mentally and emotionally. Being raised outside of magic is a rather normal practice for Covens. Learn your powers too young, and you can cause mass destruction. So, it’s not unusual to have Coven Blues mixed around Coven Greens all trying to become stronger mentally.

And like other Blues working at NITES, Coven Blues believe they’re actual employees, actually working—with no idea that they’re instead training. Just a bunch of Analysts and Engineers working for the prevention of natural disasters. Technically, it’s true, because they, themselves, are the natural disaster that everyone is trying to prevent.

So. Why keep progeny in the dark while working on cases? Why make them use real-world solutions and not magic? Because, as it turns out, training in spells is easy. Your power is yours the moment you Awaken to it. You’re a loaded weapon ready to fire.

But you step into the unknown of the Arcane alone. And it is a sea of voices in your ears, a rush of images across your eyes, and a torrent of emotions through your soul. One innocent mistake, and you’ll drown in power to rot in darkness.

You’ll become a Desecrated One—someone possessed by an eldritch entity that brings about death and decay. To rip shards from their now broken magic, and allow it to mutate into Blights and Fractured—a type of monster that feeds upon the magic that created it. Fractured created from broken Fire Magic will consume heat; sucking the very warmth from your body until you freeze to death. Blights made by shards of Healing Magic will consume health, and so on.

As stated, among their many duties, NITES constantly hunt Fractured, Blights, and other horrible things in the world. And as Witches and Wizards tend to be the largest sources of creating Fractured, it’s better to train them properly—like a gym for magical fitness—before they’re the problem.

Now back to our regularly scheduled Camila. She raised Cordelia in and around magic from the moment she was born; making her one of the youngest Awakened Witches of their time. NITES was never anything she intended for Cordelia to do, until she feared that Ainsley and Skylar may get an advantage she was overlooking. So, like a frumpy child banished to summer camp, Cordelia pretends that she’s an innocent dumb Blue to fit in alongside her reunited half-sisters. All under the guise of making good relations with the estranged family, and putting forth the illusion of acceptance, not rivalry.

Obviously, the pressure isn’t on Cordelia. She’s extremely well-trained. It’s only Skylar and Ainsley who have until the appointed date of Abdication and Succession to prove their legitimacy, by surviving the Labyrinth they don’t know they’re going to be in.

But this isn’t the end of the story plot. Far, far from it. This is basically prequel.

Naturally, as the Labyrinth is drawing closer, absolutely everything goes batshit wrong. Ainsley and Skylar are super geeks, and love video games and LARPing. One of their favorite events is the game called Sword Quest, that holds a massive LARPing convention once a year in Vermont. Olivia and Camila agree that Ainsley and Skylar can attend Sword Quest one last time. A farewell send off to the last piece of their lives they thought they truly knew. Then it’s off to their Awakening to finally have the truth and their powers revealed.

Before anything remotely good can happen and make everyone’s lives exponentially easier—Skylar is abducted and taken to an entirely different world beyond the Fae Veil.

A second existence of Humans, living on a hidden side of the world known as Terra—mixed all around the modern-day world of Gaea. The Fae Veil barrier is much like a yard of fabric that has been folded; the folds can’t see the other, but if stretched out would be one solid piece. One planet, two separate paths of living. Gaea following science and technology—where magic is done in the shadows. And Terra following magic and mysticism—where technology is the one to hide.

But now, both sides of the planet are about to share in the same problem.

An ancient and very pissed off Queen, Raiya of Lychdain, has broken her captive bonds and is on the warpath to tear everything apart for her own ends. She is one of many, who want to bring down the Veil, merging Terra and Gaea’s shores, to then rule as the Supreme Empress.

What was once a battle for legitimacy—that threatened to tear apart the fabric of Coven politics—quickly spirals into full blown war for Gaea’s survival against Terra.

For Terra’s leader, the Orchid Empress, is now dead. All of Terra is leaderless. And there’s nothing stopping the Terrans from finally making a move on Gaea and destroying them once and for all. Because, while Gaea was focused on their own modern-day problems, Terra has been secretly creating Gates to split the Veil, and preparing legions to go forth and conquer. The only one standing in their way, believing that all of Gaea was not their enemy, was the now late Orchid Empress.

Why all this hostility toward Gaea? Because to a Terran, Gaea is known for two things.

Pollution.

And Witch Hunters—a zealot organization hellbent on bringing about the destruction of all magic and magical beings. They are slayers of dragons, eaters of unicorns, murderers of faeries. And they have destroyed nearly all magic in Gaea; believing that magic is for the divine alone. This is why the people of Gaea know nothing of their true selves, their true history, their true powers.

And as Witch Hunters are nearly finished in Gaea—having forced the remaining Awakened belonging to NITES and the Covens into the shadows of Gaea’s day-to-day life—their main goal now is to do the same to Terra. And so far, they’ve been doing an excellent job sneaking across the Veil and razing villages of innocent people to the ground. All in Gaea’s name.

Therefore, in the minds of the Terran’s, it’s kill or be killed. All Gaeans are to blame, as Witch Hunters are all from Gaea. This is exactly what the Witch Hunters want. To the Gaeans, the Terrans will come across as being the “bad guys” who are blindly attacking with no provocation. To the Terrans, they are fighting for their right to survival against the Gaeans who have only ever shown their cruelty to them and the planet.

It is a war to end all wars—fantasy versus modern.

Magic versus machines.

And naturally, as stories go, the main characters are right smack dap in the center as everything begins to circle the drain. As ancient evil is awoken, and chaos floods the land. Where death is no longer a friend, comfort retired by fear, and shadow has crept our hopeful lanterns quiet.

Yet, in all this darkness, a light, however small, still remains. Perched high above the tides of madness that pull wearied forms onto tearful seas. Set in perfect positions for the bold who lift their heads when told to lower, the brave who stand when forced to kneel, the brash who swim when expected to drown.

Stars.

They truly are beautiful.

And in all their mystery and glory, they have never abandoned us. There is one thing, one glimmer and glitz that evil didn’t count on—the sheer dumb lucky stars watching over the good guys. (Bless you, all the 20’s we rolled at just the right moment!!)

[gamerkats]

What a strange joy this is. Unexpected. Unusual. Remarkable.

I have been many things in my unending existence. Each of them a wondrous glimpse from the short blinks of life I watch. Once, I was a mighty dragon. I sailed oceans of clouds amid schools of birds, where my fury was a thunder and my wrath a horizon’s flame. I’ve been a great Stag, with antlers vast and heavy, carrying the weight of the mists and the hopes of the moorland. I even walked as a human for a time. The Lady of the Loch, they said. A coveted soft and sweet confectionary of a thing. Many stories found their tongues and tunes through the journeys to my wise shores.

But this, I must say, is the most extraordinary of experiences. Passion abounds in the fearless leaps of these little lovers. The rain is a hug. The cold a kiss. The night a chorus of yearning. Never have I known such unbridled devotion than my unexpected amphibious following.

For the gods, you see, have never made anyone in their image.

It is those who believe that make the gods in theirs.

i often think about that deep diving expedition where a toad was caught on camera at the bottom of loch ness

i wonder how he’s doing

[gamerkats]

Chapter 22, The Night Before Boxing Day

New chapter posted!!! More of the crazy adventures of whatever in the hell this romance-thriller is on AO3 & Wattpad!!!

We'd like to thank everyone for your endless support and love. Without you, we're just talking to each other about boys kissing boys, and girls kissing girls.

Oh, and we'd like to also thank a very special helper on this tale....

[gamerkats]

Beiges, browns, and blacks; exactly what she imagined when she’d loomed the street walk below. Sure, there was the odd accent of reds, or fleck of whites, the decorative splashing of art and ferns, but it was as basic a power play as ever. Granite, marbles, exposed steel beams in places for a show of strength, and being in touch with one’s blue-collar roots. Not that the hands that opened the double doors—with their elongated golden handles, and monogrammed etchings—had ever done a blue-collar’s work in a forebear’s age.

She was stories high now, with many NDAs to keep the tales to herself. An elevator had brought her to this towering floor, but it was the love of law that raised her. Pressing her hand upon her knee held her anxious foot still from tapping. This wasn’t the place to show any weakness. Any tell. Especially not before the king, himself, who read voraciously over the papers she’d given.

At first, it was a passing glance upon the long-dried ink. He’d thought she’d been playing. A child. Someone young and naïve enough to climb a jungle gym where giants swung the vines, and venom rivered slides. A few pleasant passive remarks, a practiced playboy’s laugh. He was content to push her swing; allowing her to go as high as she’d like with her initial presentation.

But now, he was gravely quiet.

Only the faintest of blue flicks, from a serious gaze, that she caught with a ghost of a smirk. It was no longer fun. No longer a game. Yes, she’d come to this meeting in a messy bun, large glasses, over a simple grey t-shirt and jeans. Not at all what the three-piece before her expected to see walking through his door. Her degree was from community colleges and state schools. Her practice was nonexistent, with a GPA and accolades worthy of a fridge. She was a nothing. A nobody.

But right now—in a room that was large enough for a single family, amid more money than the average person could fathom—she was everything.

Clearing his throat, he eased back within a leather chair slightly too big for him. “How did you get this information?”

“I’m not at liberty to reveal my sources.” She forced herself to keep from crossing her arms; presenting as confident and placid.

Another moment slid by as he eyed her careful. Oh, how he wanted to tear her apart. Each and every speck of her skin felt the chill of his ire. “What is it you want?”

Not the second question she was expecting, but it was on her practiced list. “Justice,” her answer was as cool as the ice that clicked within his octagonal introductory glass.

“This isn’t justice,” he bit like a cornered dog, “this is black mail.”

“No,” she shook her head, “this is a subpoena. Criminals use black mail—I’d think you were familiar with that, judging by your activities. I’m taking you, and all those you work with, to court. I wanted it to come from me directly; I’m slapping you with a legal gauntlet, as it were. And since you hold the most money and influence among your peers, I’m giving you a chance to warn them I'm coming.”

“This will never hold up,” he stated, leaning forward upon the polished, old wood of his large desk. It felt like the cement holding back a dam, and she but a simple town below. Too stupid to move, too knowledgeable to stay. “This will never see the inside of a court room. I’ll bury you under so much litigation, you’ll suffocate.”

“You really don’t understand the law, do you?” She stood now; it was the only way to keep from shaking under his iced wind. “You, and your colleagues, are not only working as an illegal corporation, but you’re also criminals feeding a system whose only function is recidivism. It’s time you paid for your crimes and true justice protects the streets.”

“You’re going to hear from every top law agency in the world,” he warned, “you should rethink this. You’re obviously smart, and more tenacious than you appear. You know what will happen if you proceed. People are going to get hurt. Innocent people.”

“Are they?” she almost laughed. If he was any more predictable, he’d be a clock. “Tell me, has crime gone up or down since—” Shaking her head a little, she spoke over her shoulder as she began to leave the room. Already she’d stayed too long, and didn’t want to be accused of badgering. “Never mind. You have the papers. When next we meet, it will be before a judge. You can tell them your worries, and how you think you should remain hidden and in operation. Thank you for your time; I know you’re a busy man.”

“You’re making a mistake,” he whipped upon her back, and she felt the sting of its weight in a small shudder, “Neither myself, nor those on this list, are criminals.”

The door was heavier than she remembered when first she’d entered the beast’s den. Yet, it gave way to her as all her future opponents would. “Yes, you are,” she gave him a gaze that turned him instantly to stone, “Vigilantism is a crime. And it’s high time that you, and your super colleagues, learned what due process and legal rights truly are. I’ll see you in court, Mr. Wayne. No litigation hail storm you send will stop that from happening. But if it makes you feel better, you can decide which costume you’ll wear.”

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Chapter 18, Nocturne of Flowers

AO3

Wattpad

We tried really hard to get this done for Valentines, but the stars didn't align. Enjoy our beloved readers!!!!

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"Come to bed, my sparkling loves,"

spoke the moon to all the stars,

"For soon the sun shall have her day,

as you and I had ours."

"How can we sleep, oh silver heart,

we miss all life and love?

When we are here, the mortals rest,

until the sun's above."

The moon knew well the pleasant sights,

from sneaking in the day.

But all the stars were lonely,

hearing music far away.

The moon then made a bargain,

to each and every light.

"You'll leave me in the morning,

and come back to me at night."

"For all your joy, I'll give you,

a pair of vibrant wings.

You'll carry our sky with you,

and be my sweet Starlings."

starlings really are just night sky in a mortal vessel huh

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Night Before Boxing Day Continued

For scrolling brevity, we'll be splitting up in 8 chapter increments on Tumblr.

Read Chapters 1 - 8 on Tumblr here.

Also available to read on GamerKAts AO3

The Night Before Boxing Day No, Nope, No way, 9

Words: 2300+

The farmhouse had been abandoned for at least a year. Some things were dilapidated from neglect, or disuse, but most was simply dusty. The furnishings and decorations were old, but that only showed the state of finances for the previous occupants. Having lasted this long from their original purchase dates, age didn’t denote care. Not that the current group shared the previous family’s sentiment; sweating glasses of liquor without coasters, cigars being put out anywhere it pleased them. This was a stage, nothing more, and one they planned to burn to the ground when this was done.

Mr. Jacobs had purchased the farm, in cash, above asking price, from the elderly couple about the same time the house began collecting dust. The property was quite sizable, and held a few different structures; a barn, a horse stable, a ranch-hand house, a mother-in-law annex, and a sizeable quonset greenhouse. The rest was either woods or fields.

It was isolated. Quiet. Perfect.

The original idea had been to turn this property into a money laundering venture for Tyler. After all, this was Amber’s home territory, so that kept the place from looking suspicious. And it would be easy to move deals of cash back and forth through the guise of raising champion horses.

However, when the Vorpal Blade returned, everything changed.

For eight years, the Vorpal Blade had been the shared nightmare of everyone in the criminal underground. From cartels, to mafia, to street gangs, all the way up into white collars. When they closed their wicked eyes at night, the Vorpal Blade was there. Whining hooks on clinking chains. The constant drip, drip, drip of blood like a broken faucet. Hearing the words snicker snack whispered behind them before everything turned red and black.

To the Vorpal Blade, they were the Jabberwock. The monsters who preyed upon the innocent. And it wasn’t far from the truth; as crime is a fire, and innocent people are the logs of which it feeds upon. The only way to not get burned, is to become a flame yourself. And the Vorpal Blade snicker snacked the hottest of all of them.

A vigilante of the worst kind. One that didn’t turn them into the cops, or bring down their enterprises. A vigilante that stalked whomever, whenever, and for as long as it pleased them before the kill. No rhyme or reason to it. No warning.

When you were the chosen Jabberwock, your time came to a whimpering, abrupt end on a cold, steel hook, as you hung upside down; watching your blood paint a bouquet of white roses red.

But Tyler had brought an end to that. Making it his personal mission to hunt down the Vorpal Blade, and make the world safer for villains once more. It was part of why the criminal underworld revered Tyler as a saint. He was their savior, and his seat of power became untouchable and coveted.

Yet, it seemed Tyler’s own blade wasn’t sharp enough. For the Vorpal Blade was back. And vengeance seemed to mean more than their original patterns.

The Vorpal Blade killed innocent people. Innocent farmers. That wasn’t normal. And that kind of unhinged, unpredictability, meant that if Mr. Jacobs didn’t work fast, and careful, there was no telling how big of a rose garden would be painted this time.

And that meant enlisting the help of someone he never, in a million years, would have ever contacted on his own. Someone he feared almost as much as the Vorpal Blade.

The Wraith.

Which is how he ended up in this place. The money laundering horse farm, currently only laundering confidence into cowardice. Standing downstairs while he, and the others, listened to a loud bang of a door, then more banging, raised feminine voices, and the eventual return of a groaning, muttering son of a European crime family.

“Mr. Evanhart,” Mr. Jacobs smiled his glinting grin, “my, what a number Miss Allison did on your face.”

“That’s not Alli’s work,” Sarah piped up, tying her long, full sunshine hair in a twisting bun. “Your man wouldn’t be returning at all if Alli had been involved.”

“So, the cat does have claws then,” Mr. Jacobs mused to himself. “We’ll need to be more careful when approaching her next. You didn’t harm Amber, did you?”

“Of course not,” Mr. Evanhart grumbled, wondering if he might need something cold on his throbbing cheek, “you think I want the Wraith on my ass too? Bad enough I’m jumping every time I hear anything that fucking remotely sounds like chains. I don’t need to be on two serial killer lists.”

“Ah, a common mistake. The Vorpal Blade, is a serial killer,” Mr. Jacobs corrected, “the Wraith, however, is a contract killer.”

“What’s the diff?” Mr. Evanhart gave a cool warning stare in the rotund man’s direction. Mr. Jacobs might have been calling the shots, but he was no Tyler. He was replaceable. Unlike himself, who was actual criminal royalty. So, his patience only went so deep and far in that regard.

“Most serial killers can’t help themselves; it’s a need, a drug. Killing is like breathing. They tend to get sloppy, as their talents are unsophisticated. And for most of them, they’re driven by attention,” Sarah replied, much to the shock of the surrounding people.

She was the last one they thought would have a say in this. In fact, none of them even knew why Mr. Jacobs had involved her. Just a seemingly bland, blonde, easy to ignore, fuckable romance lead; with the hobbies and aspirations of a blowup doll. The kind slapped in wherever the writers wanted people to phase the woman out, and imagine themselves in her place. But this cardboard cutout spank bank—who was written to be worthy of a gorgeous doctor, who did, indeed, model underwear to put himself through med school—seemed to have an actual brain. And dare they even think, possibly more to her character as a whole.

“It’s why Tyler was able to track the Vorpal Blade down,” Sarah went on, “because serial killers leave clues and breadcrumbs. It’s a game. They want to be caught. Whereas, contract killers, the good ones, are the complete opposite. They’re professionals. They’re paid. It’s not a game, it’s a job. And if you get caught at your job, then you don’t work anymore. Simple as that.”

Everyone was quiet as they watched Sarah. She was something else entirely from what they previously thought. And it echoed in each word she said, as if her true self was a well so deep, it swallowed all romantic, lead female light. “Anyone can kill,” she stated plainly, seeing that no one else was going to speak, “if you kill more than one person, poof, you’re a serial killer. But that doesn’t make you a professional.” Turning to Mr. Jacobs, she asked, “Is that what the Wraith told you to do? Turn my little sister into a serial killer by murdering Amber and Mae?”

“No,” he shook his head slow to emphasize his answer, “this is just a good opportunity and we shouldn’t waste it. We’re luring the Vorpal Blade here with all of the biggest targets he could possibly want. Having Amber and Mae killed by Tyler’s gun would just be an added benefit.”

“How so?” She kept her arms at her sides, and eased back on her heels.

He shrugged, so cavalierly about her sister’s mental and emotional future, that she wanted to punch his eye straight through the back of his skull. “Getting Tyler out of the way would be a benefit to all of us. I sent Andy, and a few others, to round him up at the airport and drive him aimlessly around all night. That way, he doesn’t have any sort of alibi for his actions. The Wraith deals with the Vorpal Blade, Allison kills Amber and Mae, Tyler goes to prison, Allison has a reason to keep her mouth shut, and we all go back to business as usual.”

“Why not just kill Tyler?”

“Because,” he raised a brow, “Tyler is more valuable alive. It’s why trigger-happy Andy gets only a plastic toy gun. I’m not risking Tyler getting killed in case your employer can’t do the job. Nor am I going to risk open crime warfare for any Brutus who gets pissed we moved against Caesar.”

There it was. The reason. And it brought with it a heap of respect she could feel on her shoulders. Sarah worked for the Wraith. And although, none of them could figure out how a token female like her could end up with one of the world’s greatest assassins, they didn’t dismiss it. This puffed coat princess, was also a dragon in her own right.

“What a perfect little package that is,” Sarah said sarcastically before narrowing her gaze, “except that that’s not happening. You were told to bring all of the crime family heads you could here. To this farm. All under the guise of setting Tyler up; hence why you were told to abduct Amber and Mae. This is supposed to look like you’re all about to group stab Tyler; to look like you’re about to move out from under his thumb. A perfect set up that this new Vorpal Blade won’t be able to miss. Their shortsighted justice addiction won’t let them.” Pausing for a breath, steadying her resolve, she added, “This, in no way, was supposed to be a real setup of Tyler, nor is any harm to come to Amber, Mae, or my sister. If you’re not going to abide by the rules, then I’m calling my employer and telling them this whole thing is off. If my little sister is figuratively going on the hook, then literally, so are all of you.”

“Well,” his voice held a mocking chuckle, “for a half sister, you seem to be wholly invested.”

“My family is my business,” she snapped with the chord he struck, “just as you should be focusing on yours. If you want to take down Tyler, do it on your own time. Going rogue like this is only going to blow this entire thing. And the Wraith doesn’t take kindly to rogues. One word from me, and they’ll join the Vorpal Blade. Hell, probably even beat him to the punch by killing every last one of you.”

“Which is why after the Wraith deals with the Vorpal Blade, we’ll be dealing with the Wraith,” his confidence shook his cheeks as snickers and chuckles wafted around her.

“What?”

“God, you really are a dumb blonde, aren’t you?” Mr. Jacobs gave a waddled laugh. “Did you honestly think that any of these people would come just because your employer said so? Because I said so? They’re here because we’re cleaning house. Tyler Walker, Chadrick Winters, the Vorpal Blade, the Wraith, are all going down tonight. None of us will have to look in our shadows again. Merry fucking Christmas to us.”

She was the one to laugh now; a hearty bag of mockery that stole all the grins around her, leaving only scowls. “You’re all serious. Oh, that’s rich. That’s fucking hilarious. You take down the Wraith? You’re all a bunch of lazy cake toppers with frosting between your legs. You couldn’t punch a single person if they weren’t tied helplessly to a chair.”

Wham.

The balled fist of Mr. Jacobs connected with her cheek. It wasn’t that fast, and she’d turned her head with the blow to avoid most of the damage, but still, what little she caught hurt. Nothing broken or cracked, just warming now, showing that he’d shut her up. “What was that about punching?” He asked glaring; the icing was now a bitter lemon in her eyes.

“Do you honestly think that was a good idea?” Her voice dropped as low as her hazel gaze upon the floor, as if he’d shaken her bravado right from her skull.

“Oh, indeed I do,” he grinned, “in fact, it’s part of my plan. See, I need your boss focused. Single minded focus. Tunnel vision. So, Allison might be the unexpected future murderer, but you, my dear, were never going to leave here alive.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” She asked as her mind began to race over this turn of events.

Mr. Jacobs moved from their position more into the living area. There was a low table full of expensive liquor and glasses. Opening an insolated steel box, he removed two perfectly square ice cubes with prongs, and placed them in a designer cut glass. “Sarah,” he spoke over her shoulder while she slowly straightened her stance, “the Vorpal Blade has changed tactics. He’s killing innocent people now. Innocent people like you.”

“You’re not serious,” she snapped, “my employer—”

“Your employer,” he raised his voice over hers, smothering her into silence, “isn’t going to see anything but their little pet, hanging from chains over a bouquet of beautiful, white roses.”

Pouring the alcohol into his glass, as the ice clinked back and forth, he took a savoring sip before looking to her once more. Their eyes locked; hers a now frantic hazel, his a pale, piercing blue. The moment sat heavy between them before he motioned with his hand to the large, brown box that Sarah had delivered. The one he’d asked her to pick up at the small town post office. The one he’d imported from the same area the Vorpal Blade had been discovered by Tyler to use. “Tell me, since you obviously didn’t look inside the package I had you bring, what did you think you were delivering?”

And just like that, without even lifting the lid, she knew. It was her own roses she’d be painting red.

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Night Before Boxing Day, Chapter 23

Read our Queer romance thriller for free on:

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Some goblins to light your dash. 😊