#golden collection poison of the fixers

[lesfir]

The kiss of the Ascended Astarion is coming, folks. That means a new batch of fixers poison scrolls.

About the kiss itself, the new movements and phrases afterward if any are to be made.

In repertory:

- He's cringe and gross, ew - His kiss is creepy - He's abjusively kissing - He's manipulatively kissing - It's the honeymoon phase of the abusive cycle - He fakes feelings because Mephistopheles took his soul\all good - Kiss with Cazador 2.0. - It's not Astarion's kiss, it’s a husk's kiss - He not himself anymore - He's mimics feelings because he's stuck in trauma - He's like a True Vampire obsessively kissing, it's not love - He has no feelings, he's incapable of love. - Tav is humiliated in his eyes, he doesn't love - He despises Tav and considers Tav a degenerate pet-property, he doesn't love, the kiss isn't real love - It's an act of possession, not a love-kiss - It's a power play, not a love-kiss - He's kissing misogynistic\plain hateful - *Something passive-aggressive, provocative, snide* - Hot, BUT I love Spawn, his kiss is genuine, true and better wuw - It's sad to see that. Heartbreaking - Pathetic - He closes his eyes, he doesn't love - He opens his eyes, he doesn't love - He has eyes, he doesn't love etc.

This tasteless song is sung about everything the Ascended Astarion does. Generally from those who hate the "romanticization" of dark romances with the vampire-decadent who is Astarion. So it's anything, but one single nice romance with the "evil" man for the "path of evil" (like Minthara) in the game and a sincere kiss of Dark Love.

It's funny if Spawn and Lord kiss is no different. And it's not fair if one of them gets a kiss and one of them doesn't. I hope I didn't miss anything. Post will be edited if so

[a-flying-fox]

Buzzing/Black Signal Lore: Alejandro Reyes

Our wisdom flows so sweet. Taste and see...

TRANSMIT - initiate the split morality signal - RECEIVE - initiate the cannibal protocol - EVERY FACE WEARS A MASK - initiate the information tumor pathogen - KEEP AWAY FROM WATER - flip the Seven of Swords - WITNESS - Alejandro Reyes.

Initiate investigation protocols - AFGHANISTAN - Icy black water teaches a fear of the cold, slimy touch of oblivion and the caress of those whom even dead men fear - NEW ENGLAND - Billy’s Muse plays a siren song of red in the darkened mirror of an ancient dream - EGYPT - Deadly secrets still lurk among the ill-fated remnants of the Orochi Group’s babbling research - TRANSYLVANIA - A lullaby haunts halls of horror scarred by the whispering tongues of those whose hunger transcends Dreams - LUXEMBOURG - Shattered realities like voracious stars sip away golden honey and expose the rot beneath for all to see - TOKYO - The rogue broadcast slips unbidden through the electric pathways of the mind and illuminates the path ahead - following the signal…

You think you know how this story starts, sweetling, but our enlightenment didn’t come with a honeyed touch to another warm, midnight cocoon. We screamed through his synapses in the seconds before oblivion whispered to him of the spaces between stars and the icy husks of dead planets. Did our interference precipitate the helicopter’s destructive union with an insurgent missile? Did it leave golden tears in the fragile web of his psyche in which the eel-coils of doubt could nest and metamorphosize? He thinks so.

Initiate the Eight-Way-Wyrm. Cross-referencing. “Fixer” has so many meanings. The Fool and the curiously sentient machine do not have skeletons in their closet, sweetling. Those skeletons lurk in roiling black water, weighted with their own Orochi uniforms. Remain quiet and you can hear their screams.

It is 3 AM, black and liquid and dripping through cracks in the tile of an old mansion. Bubbles of darkened bile stare down at him as he ejects her famous chicken casserole along with the viscous water of the marsh. He thinks memories of red seaweed and a dark fog mirror are merely a dream. It collects in his veins. He wears gloves and denies its existence, but it lurks in the corners of the room with the maddened cries he cannot forget.

Initiate diagnostic protocols.

The Filth is a flowing message. Crawling letters. A living meme. It is the quantum cancer that eats alien shapes into the peeling plaster of an all-night diner. It is the information pathogen that skitters luridly into dark dreams. Its discordant message precipitates madness. He looked into the Void, sweetling, and it looked into him. He cannot forget. It poisons our honeyed touch.

Following the signal…

Somewhere below the sand, he wades through a dark pool to prove he’s not afraid.

In the shadow of a pyramid, his spells kill an Illuminati agent before the seeds of corruption in his blood can germinate.

High in the mountains, a lullaby drowns out footsteps echoing through deserted hallways. He is not moving.

In the spaces between stars, in the darkest part of his dreams, voices promise him things. He accepts.

Initiate the future cadence.

There are cleansing protocols in place, sweetling, but it is probably too late. PATIENT HAS GONE SEPTIC. The pirate broadcast whispers and he listens. Initiate the quarantine signal. Initiate @#$$^*!

WARNING! Our signal is corrupted! Our particle wings tear! A corrupting frequency intrudes. ContaminantGrammarstagnantbilerancidchaoswormtoxictumor...

Sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss-I am the eight-headed virus-let me in.

Hiya Chuck. It’s John.

When you look into the void, the void looks into you. That’s what they say. Who is they? The buzzing? Can an insect feel that shiver of existential dread, Chuck? No, they is you-you-you. Us become me become we.

There’s nothing like unity in fear, is there, Chuck? Look into the void. Shh, it can be our little secret, just you and me. You and me and Alejandro. The Three Musketeers. All-for-one-for-horror.

See, it’s like this, Chuck. The buzzing promises cleansing. But how do you cleanse something that’s seeped that deep into the meat? With honey? No, Chuck. You know the answer. I bet they could cleanse the half of his shattered little mind that likes what I’m saying.

But to do that, they won’t use honey, Chuck. They’ll use fire.

You’ve seen bees smother even each other to cook an intruder in its exoskeleton. You know I’m not lying.

What are you more afraid of? That the fire will miss some hidden pocket of truth? Or that he’ll wake up and tell you that he misses me-me-me?

Food for thought.

See you, Chuck...