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thisuserislilsilly · 20 days ago

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Summary: A theater critique writes about a forgotten play, nothing able to forget what had they witnessed.

Pairing: None

Genre: Drama

TW: Slight gore/ long aaaahhh attempt at making an in-universe document in Warhammer 40k (I tried alright)

Goblin tag squad: @cardinalcanis @finchly-tintinnabulation @artemisareia @echo-of-damnation @meervalv0

@jaghatai-khock @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @druidwolf21

@beckyninja

The eternal controversial one-night play: 10 years later.

By: Kahla Aurgrone, ITCU Theater Critic.

For as it hard as it is to believe, last week marked the tenth anniversary of one of the most unique experience Vernan Majoris and this humble critic had and will ever experience in the lifespan of the universe. To say it has been a different topic to cover is to say the sky is blue.

The first time I heard of it was when it was first being announced, not by common mediums as messages on holopads or depicted in the bright shinning billboards of the main city, but by other rumors passed down by fellow critics and as little announces at the end of your usual "The Emperor's Light" or "Sanguinius, the blessed son" screenings. As such I only could gather the basic information about the director and the theater where it was going to be presented at but nothing more, information that I find critical to express in paper as well.

Hann Helworth had been the only son of Gisbern Helworth, a renowned local director known mostly for their extravagance stories and unique storytelling that made the audience another participant in their works, their son Hann following the footsteps of his father and going one step further by making the members of the audience a character themselves in their first works. Born in 4513. 4224. M41, Hann would be raised with formal education, graduating third of his class and going to write his first play at the age of 21, with those few first scripts being what one would expect a eager and stupid 21 year old to write and put on display in theaters. The work which we will refer today came into be around the time Hann was an old man, most likely in his 70's, when the man had enough money and prestige to write and produce the work that had taken (if rumors are to be believed) more than a decade of his life to write and perfect.

Casting calls, props, lighting and distribution budgets and means to acquire them are believed to have been proportionated by a local "Heretical cult" that had grown in the system and had taken great interest in Hann and his works, promising support in return of putting their Chaos induced ideas into the script and do minor changes to the overall message of the work.

The play, as I had been able to witness it, counted with choreography by Ishmael Orchutoff, starring Elias Nephtheg, Helma von Hart, Baag Sundvarl, Khaziy Pendergorn, Seth Sternbjorn, Abelard Pyten and the crowd members witnessing the work as well, all of them playing roles I will soon detail in the next few paragraphs as faithfully as I can.

The play opened with a hauntingly beautiful overture, the discordant notes seeming to echo the tortured souls of the damned. The stage was bathed in an eerie red glow, the only illumination save for the guttering flames of a dozen candles scattered about. In the center of the stage stood a massive obsidian altar, its surface slick with what could only be imagined as the blood of countless sacrifices. From the shadows at the back of the stage, a figure emerged.

Nephtegh came from behind the altar, clad in elaborate ceremonial robes that shined with a wet sheen of gold and white, their silver mask catching what little light the candles provided, performing a monologue that set the tone.

"Dear audience, it is a pleasure to the ´Wordless´ company, Hann Helworth and each one of my colleagues to present 'Truth and redacted words´" Elias made a bow at the audience, his hands on his back while speaking slowly and calmly. "A play where the audience itself is the star, where your actions and choices will shape the narrative. But be warned, for in this world of shadow and light, there is no right or wrong, only truth and heresy."

As he spoke, the words seemed to echo in the minds of the audience, sending chills down their collective spine. The play then began properly, with Neoth (Elias Nephteg) falling in love and marrying Erda (Helma Von Hart) in the first act, passing through various methods of flirting and conquering the heart of the woman until finally Erda accepts, ending the act with the marriage of the two and the promise of children to be born from their union.

The second act sees their sons (which for the lack of performers they are only represented by Baag, Khazly, Seth and Abelard) being born one by one; Neoth then monologues about the true purpose of his desires to have offspring: To defy the Gods up above and wage war against them, pretending to use his sons and their innate abilities to this purpose and win the self proposed war he has convinced himself or realizing. Erda overhears those maddening plans and one by one hides her sons in different districts of the city, all separated from each other and in wildly unique families with different values at the hour of living, raising and nurturing their kids. The second acts ends with Neoth realizing his sons are missing and taking on the journey to find them.

The following act can be condensed exclusively in Neoth search; finding their sons and changing the names their foster families had given to them, persuading them to join his cause and in the process uncovering their different personalities. In the end however the director is clear to signal the tension growing between the sons and their father, who rejects the facets of their personalities that he dislikes and only addresses them when Neoth needs something from them.

In the fourth act is when I started to see the adverse reactions of the crowd to what was in front of them. They shouted angrily whenever Neoth appeared on screen interacting with his sons, clamoring in triumph when they see Erda return to defend her sons of the cruel set fate Neoth imposed to his sons and cheering, crying, keeping silence or showing discomfort at the different iterations of the sons. One in particular seemed to cause the most uneasiness in the crowd: The second, Neran, had few appearances, but all of them were accompanied by a series of chanting and disturbing music, covered with a totally white expressionless mask always pointed to the crowd, speaking in a monotone voice that never wavered in pitch nor intentions. Neran was the butt of many jokes from the other performers and a clear psychological abuse from Neoth whenever they shared scenes together.

The fifth act was the start of the war Neoth had proposed himself to wage against the Gods, finding failures and defeat each time. His sons were slowly pushed to the side of the Gods, each being offered different powers or ambitions according to their personality; the Gods were always accompanied by the dimming of the candles and all of the performers speaking at once to create their voices. The sons eventually abandon Neoth, killing their mother in the process on a fit of rage induced by the Gods and the act concludes with each reflecting on what they had done except Neran, who for five minutes dedicates himself to stare at the crowd, point at them and leave the stage.

Once the intermission has ended, the play resumes now centering itself on Neran, with more and more scenes of him totally silent, witnessing his brothers fight and argue about what they should do now, both with Erda remains and with the intentions of their father for them. Neran, always to the side, occasionally stares at the crowd and points to them whenever the future is mentioned by one of his brothers. Only once he speaks, proposing he takes responsibility for the killing of their mother and the rest of his brothers to handle the rest.

Neoth punishes Neran severely, in a display of raw theatrics that edge in total torture; the blood of the performers was spilled on stage and spat to a shocked and emotional audience. This is the moment where Hann utilizes the crowd as characters, allowing them to be the mob that witnesses Neran torture, trial and subsequent expulsion from the family home as each brother turn their back on him and never share a scene with Neran again.

The play ends abruptly and in an unexpected way. The Primarchs names are mentioned whenever the sons speak to each other now, with a clash between them that splits the brothers in two groups, the actor playing the arch traitor Horus killing Sanguinius in a fit of rage and unrelenting cruelty that to this day I am not sure of how Abelard continued to perform after being left in such a state. The Emperor is revealed as to be the father and the Gods, the Chaos Undivided prohibit to even be spoken of. Neran is the only character that does not change name and that is excluded for the rest of the play until the end of the last act.

Which leads me to that final act. In which the "Emperor" fights with Horus and kills him not before receiving grievous injuries that leave him bound to a chair, the director displaying the Emperor as a pathetic being, a shell of his former self that in no point regrets his decisions that led all of the characters to that gruesome end. The crowd boo's this, outraged by the implications and emotions evoked in the play, demanding and shouting for Hann and all of the company to be hanged or executed for heresy.

Then Neran comes on stage, accusing the Emperor and his brothers, monologuing for eleven minutes about the events that have happened NOT in the play, but in the real world. And then, in the best and worst interpretation of his career, Seth Sternbjorn begins speaking of events and people I have yet the fear of mentioning for the horror of being marked as a heretic and traitor myself; suffice to say authorities have since then admitted such classified information could had only being conceived by a worshipper of the Chaos Gods; any assistant to the play that dared to mention them was subsequently taken by the Adeptus Arbites and never seen again.

With the revelations and accusations done, Seth ends the monologue reveling in the showers of critics and boo's from the crowd, who at this point have devolved to nothing less than savages screaming and shouting over the performer to shut him down, pronouncing profane words no man should ever repeat again, begging for the immediate death of the heretic and demanding blood to be spilled. It was a chilling scene I will take with me to the grave, my only relief is that the moment was never captured in audio.

The theatrical release, as I have explained before, did not resist more than one attendance, with the theater torn down, burned and exorcised by local priests for the amount of "Heretical energy" that had remained in that place after the show had finished; those who had spoken about it for the next week or so were taken by the Arbiters and, as said before, never seen again. I wrote one small critic of it at the time, calling it a disgrace but not dwelling too deep into the contents of it and that was it, I cut ties to everything that could had ever linked me to the work. The theater company, as I mentioned at the beginning, disappeared in a cloud of smoke and the performers were never seen again.

However if there is a conclusion to get out of all this is the fate of Hann Helworth, who was found in his home soon after the local police had come for him, they found a note that was never made public, but that with a little bribing of my part to the authorities I was able to get a copy of; it spoke of the cult that had taken interest in the work, it both blamed them for his fate and praised them for the work they were doing for the Imperium and that he would be "waiting for the Solticence to receive him in the oblivion beyond" after his time in this universe had passed.

I fear this entity Helworth spoke of in his last moments of life before slicing his neck with a razor was the same Neran character in which the final act of his magnum opus focused on. The Primarch with no emotions, the discarded one.

May this play be as forgotten as its protagonist, producers and performers. And, with some luck, this critique be erased too, so nothing can remain of this play to celebrate even one more anniversary.

– A critique and confession by Kahia Aurgorne.

#fanfiction #warhammer 40k #warhammer 40000 #warhammer fanfic #fanfic writing #warhammer headcanon #Neran Solticence #Painless Mutes #my writing

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bardic-tales · 7 days ago

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Title: Bloodlines and Battlefields

Pairing: Bianca Moore / Sephiroth

Other Characters: Azrakiel (Lord of the Abyssal Incubi), Mordecai (mentioned)

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 2251

Fandom: Final Fantasy VII (AU / Crossover Elements)

Tags: Alternate Universe, Canon Divergence, Angst, Hurt / Comfort, Whump, Enemies, Soulmates, Established Relationship, Anxiety and Mental Health, Magic and Fantasy, Parallel Universe, Supernatural

Warnings: Graphic violence, implied past torture, possession, psychological manipulation, possessive dynamics, dark themes

Summary: When Azrakiel dares to stake his claim on Bianca once more, Sephiroth stands between them, proving with blade and fury that she belongs to him and no one else.

Author's Note: This story is set in the Final Fantasy VII universe, but which specific game or timeline it aligns with is entirely up to the reader's interpretation. Elements from various installments may be present, but no single version is definitive for this narrative. Additionally, to clarify an important aspect of Bianca’s lore. Azrakiel and Asmodeus are one and the same. The name Azrakiel reflects his celestial past, while Asmodeus represents the demonic force he has become. I decided to use Azrakiel to illustrate that Sephiroth isn't up against a normal opponent.

Also, I was so tempted to have OWA as the theme song of this. But we're going to go with Lux Aeterna. It has the dreamy and slightly uplifting beat that would accompany this.

The Northern Crater was a tomb of silence. The jagged, ice-bound walls glistening with an unnatural sheen, reflecting the dim, sickly glow of Mako veins coursing beneath the frozen ground. It was a place where sunlight dared not tread: forsaken and cold. The air was bitter, unmoving, as if the world itself held its breath. This was Sephiroth’s domain, their and Mother’s home, carved out in defiance of Shinra and the Planetary Defenders.

But a slow, deliberate stride fractured the silence. Azrakiel, Lord of the Abyssal Incubi, moved with the fluid grace of a serpent. His obsidian wings folded behind him, as his eyes of molten gold scanning the darkness. His black hair cascaded over broad shoulders, like a dark halo framing a face too beautiful for any realm but the Abyssal.

“You’ve trespassed far enough,” came a voice. The tone was bitter, commanding, and drenched in contempt.

The dark smoke, heavy and choking, unfurled like a living shadow, laced with streaks of poisonous violet that shimmered with an unnatural light. Sephiroth emerged, his black leather coat gleaming under the dim light and the silver pauldrons catching the light as he raised his gleaming Masamune. A bright, lethal light glinted in his cat-like eyes, reflecting the moonlight and promising danger. A chill deeper than the ice snaked up his spine as the black feathers fell like whispers of death around his boots.

Azrakiel’s lips curled into a faint smile. “Sephiroth. How quaint. Does the lion now guard the lamb?” His voice was smooth, a velvet mockery. “Or perhaps you believe Bianca is yours by right?”

The silver-haired god’s pupils contracted, a quiet storm brewing beneath his impassive façade. His grip on Masamune was steady, controlled, though tension coiled beneath his skin like a viper ready to strike.

“She is,” Sephiroth said. His tone edged with calm finality. “You’ve taken enough from her.”

Azrakiel chuckled, a deep, throaty sound that resonated with the sinister sweetness of poisoned honey.

“Taken? I only reclaimed what was already mine.” With the chilling satisfaction of a predator who has successfully stalked and captured its quarry, his golden eyes gleamed brightly. “She carries my blood. She is bound to me.”

Masamune sang through the air. It was a whisper of death so swift that Azrakiel barely had time to shift before steel kissed flesh. A thin line of crimson blossomed on his cheek. The demonic blood sizzling upon contact with the frozen ground. The ice hissed and steamed, and the scent of burning sulfur curling into the cold air.

With a voice as cold and glacial as the alien cells coursing through his veins, Sephiroth made his declaration. “Your claim is void. Flesh and blood are irrelevant. She belongs to me.”

Azrakiel’s expression flickered: something between amusement and disdain. “You sound as if you believe it.” His lips parted in a slow, cruel grin. “Ah, but tell me something, godling. Where were you when she screamed for help? When I flayed her skin from the bone, when I shattered her voice with agony, and I they reduced her body to nothing more than a broken vessel?” He tilted his head. “You weren’t there. That pathetic wretch who called himself her husband came too late.”

A barely perceptible yet sharp edge of fury cut through Sephiroth’s typically calm demeanor, betraying itself only in the subtle, almost imperceptible tremor of his fingers as they tightened around the hilt of his ōdachi, Masamune. He breathed steadily, but his knuckles whitened.

Mordecai had failed her. He hadn’t been there to stop it. Once he had bled for Bianca, it was too late.

If Sephiroth had been there, Bianca would have never suffered beneath Azrakiel’s hands. Before a single blade could ever have touched her flesh, he would have carved the wretched beast into a thousand pieces, preventing any harm from coming to her. She would have never endured Azrakiel’s cruel, slicing blows, the searing pain a brand she’d carry forever, never been forced to stitch herself back together from the ruin he wrought, the rough thread scratching against her raw skin.

Azrakiel’s voice, smooth as silk, dripped with taunting mockery, each word a subtle sting. “And yet, you dare to claim her? As if she is yours?” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Pathetic.”

Sephiroth stepped forward, and the very air around him seemed to still, gravity bending beneath the sheer force of his will. His shadow stretched long and distorted across the glassy ice, flickering with every movement, growing darker as the sun dipped lower.

“She is mine,” he repeated, his voice softer now, but far more dangerous. “And I am not Mordecai.”

Sephiroth spoke the very name with quiet, razor-sharp disdain. Mordecai, who had let her slip through his fingers. Mordecai, whose failure had allowed Bianca’s body to be torn apart, her soul fractured. Sephiroth would not succumb to the same weakness that had undone Mordecai; his resolve was absolute.

His lips curled into something that barely resembled a smile, all cold cruelty and unshaken resolve. “Now, allow me to demonstrate.”

The air split with the sound of steel and fury.

In a surge of darkness, Sephiroth was upon him, the wicked gleam of Masamune carving through the air with unholy speed, unleashing a torrent of brutal strikes that whistled past him. Each cut shrieked on the dark armor. There was a sudden burst of sparks that flew into the air, illuminating both Azrakiel and Sephiroth’s faces.

Azrakiel parried with a conjured blade of void-black steel. His wings unfurled to deflect and counter. The clash sent shockwaves through the desolate wasteland, shattering ice and flinging debris in lethal arcs.

Sephiroth’s eyes glinted with sadistic pleasure as his blade bit deep, drawing a hiss of blood that burned the ground where it fell. Azrakiel snarled. His eyes flashed with a light that seemed to devour the dark. His wings snapped out, creating a wall of force that sent Sephiroth sliding back. Sephiroth’s boots carved furrows in the ice.

But the One-Winged Angel did not falter. With a surge of black feathers, Sephiroth called forth his wing, eyes alight with godlike fury. The air vibrated with a dark resonance, suffused with Jenova’s power and Sephiroth’s will.

Azrakiel’s smile faltered.

“I will not allow you to touch her again,” Sephiroth declared, voice cold as the abyss, divine wrath simmering beneath the surface. “I will burn this world to its bones before I yield her to you.”

“Such passion,” Azrakiel mused, tone a mockery of delight. “It would almost be touching. If it weren’t so pitiful.” His wings beat once, and the surrounding darkness trembled. Runes ignited along his arms, searing the air with eldritch power. “But you forget yourself, Chosen One.”

Sephiroth smirked, tilting his head. “Do I?”

A feint to the left, baiting him into an opening. A flick of the wrist. Masamune sliced low, then high, carving through the air like a specter of death. The demon lord moved to counter, but Sephiroth was relentless. His strikes were a whirlwind of controlled brutality. A downward slash aimed to cleave through ribs. Parried. A thrust to the throat. Dodged by a hair’s breadth.

Then Sephiroth shifted. A fraction of a second. Enough. Then Sephiroth shifted. A fraction of a second. Enough. With a cruel twist of his blade, Masamune sank into Azrakiel’s side with a sickening crunch.

The demon snarled, a raw, untamed fury emanating from his very being. With hardly any awareness of the pain, his arm, propelled by a force that spanned centuries, extended in a decisive open-palmed attack. The impact was devastating.

Sephiroth’s body rocketed backward, the force of the blow enough to shatter lesser men. His boots dug into the ice, gouging deep gorges as he skidded to a halt. Blood dripped from his split lip, smearing crimson against the cold.

And then Sephiroth laughed. Low. Dark. Devoid of anything human.

He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing blood against pale skin. His pupils shrank to razor-thin slits, as a wicked gleam lit his Mako-infused gaze.

“You’re out of your depth, old man,” he sneered. His voice was velvet laced with venom, dripping arrogance and something far worse: certainty. As if the battle had already been decided.

Sephiroth tilted his head, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips, before he continued. “This realm belongs to me. She belongs to me.”

Burning like molten gold, his eyes expanded, their pupils growing larger as dark mist curled around his form, emanating from his very being. Even the shadows themselves, behaving as if they were alive, obeyed his commands, twisting and turning as though they were living creatures. The air thickened. The pressure built, a suffocating weight pressing down on the North Crater, making it hard to breathe.

Then he extended a clawed hand and beckoned. “Then come.”

A deafening roar ripped through the air as the ground split open beneath them, the Lifestream’s green, glimmering light erupting from the fissure in a blinding flash. With a terrifying shriek, the air itself seemed to crack and break apart, as the ice, no longer a solid mass: fracturing, shattering, and finally dissolving into nothing.

From her vantage point beyond the chaotic battleground, Bianca watched with wide, indigo eyes, her breath coming in shallow gasps, her hands trembling violently; however, despite her fear and trembling, she remained rooted to the spot, choosing not to flee. She couldn’t. Not from him. He protected her.

The soul-link thrummed between her and Sephiroth. It blazed with incandescent warmth, an unwavering, glorious connection that filled her with unyielding hope and delight. The all-consuming, scorching rage that coursed through his veins burned through her as well, leaving her feeling consumed by his anger. A frozen dread gripped her, each breath a ragged gasp against the icy weight in her gut. However, underlying the fear, and at a level far deeper than the fear itself, was a conviction, a certainty, that had remained unshaken and unwavering throughout.

She pressed a hand to her chest, fingers digging into the leather vest hugging her firm, supple breasts, and felt the rhythmic echo that was not just her own. His heart. Steady. Unyielding. He was here. He had come for her.

Because he always did.

Her father, the man who had tormented her, the man who was her personal demon, the man who felt like a curse upon her life, stood against him; his golden eyes glowed with an unholy, frightening light. But Sephiroth had never been a man to bow before anyone.

She knew, without question, that he would win.

Her father, the man who had tormented her, the man who was her personal demon, the man who felt like a curse upon her life, stood against him. But Sephiroth had never been a man to bow before anyone.

She knew, without question, that he would win.

Between the brutal clash of swords, the deafening cries of battle, and the chilling wind whistling through the battlefield, Sephiroth’s eyes found hers—a sharp contrast to the storm of violence. A promise, silent yet deafening. It was a vow.

Azrakiel caught it. He saw. And he laughed.

“Ah, I see,” The demon’s voice, smooth as dark velvet, yet edged with a chilling cruelty, drawled the words. “Such devotion. A shame, really. It will be a pleasure to break it.”

Bianca’s stomach plummeted, a sickening freefall reflecting the despair gripping her. Pain consumed her, a relentless tide of memories dragging her under, leaving her gasping for air. The chains. The blood. The glint of Noctemaris plunging into her. Only after Sephiroth’s presence intervened was the intense emotional pain, which had once threatened to destroy her completely, painstakingly repaired and interwoven back together, piece by fractured piece. He had rewritten her into a force that no longer cowered to man.

Now Azrakiel sought to take that from her.

Sephiroth stood still, an unnerving calm in his posture, yet his eyes blazed with that bright green fire that glowed beneath his long silver lashes. Slowly and sharply, his lips curved into a smile, a smile that lacked any warmth whatsoever; it was a cold, sharp smile. “You won’t live to try.”

Azrakiel's smirk barely had time to fade before Sephiroth moved. A flicker. A shadow. Then the Masamune was upon him. And with a snarl, the battle raged anew.

tagging some fellow mutuals: @themaradwrites @craftyhal @megandaisy9 @watermeezer

@prehistoric-creatures @creativechaosqueen @chickensarentcheap @seastarblue

@inkandimpressions @arrthurpendragon