#hag torch

[pagan-stitches]

My Hromnice (thunder) candle in place upon the altar.

[lailoken]

I've always learned that it was traditionally the flower stalk—not the leaves—of Mullein that can be coated in wax and burned as a "Hag Torch" for necromantic workings. Is the idea of using a leaf like this a lost in translation thing, a making do thing, or a separate but related tradition?

Wild Witchcraft by Rebecca Beyer, pg. 108

[growthhyp]

The Garage Sale VIII

Jack took a deep breath, his chest swelling with pride as he recounted the day of his graduation. "It was like walking on air, man," he said, his eyes glazed over with the memory. "I had this new confidence, like I could take on the world. And everyone noticed." He chuckled, the sound deep and rich. "The girls, the guys, even the teachers." His eyes grew distant, reliving the moment. "But it was what I heard that really pissed me off…"Paul leaned in, his curiosity piqued. "What did you hear?"

Jack's expression darkened, his handsome features twisting into a snarl of anger. "Someone had set the fire, man," he growled. "Someone had torched the house with the intention of destroying everything she had ever loved."

Paul felt a knot form in his stomach. "Who?"

Jack's eyes narrowed, the anger in them burning like molten steel. "Adam," he spat out the name like it was a curse. "Adam fucking Rogers. The biggest dick in school, and my neighbor."

Paul's heart sank as he realized the gravity of the situation. "What happened between you two?"

The room grew hazy, the scent of the garage fading away as Jack's story painted a vivid picture in Paul's mind.

Jack was just 15, with a lanky, skinny frame that made him an easy target. He lived with the last family before Mrs. Castellanos took him in, and every day was a battle against the cruelty of the world. Adam Rogers, the neighbor from hell, made it his personal mission to make Jack's life a living nightmare. Adam is 18, a high school senior with a lean and muscular build, Adam's days were filled with football games and bullying the weaker kids. He had a smug smile that seemed to follow Jack wherever he went, a constant reminder of his own inadequacy.

One particularly brutal day, Jack had stumbled home from school, his books scattered on the ground and his glasses cracked, a souvenir from another encounter with Adam's fists. His clothes were torn and dirty, a testament to the struggle he faced just to get through the schoolyard. As he approached the house, he could see Adam leaning against the fence, his football helmet tucked under his arm, watching him with a sneer.

"Hey, faggot," Adam jeered, his voice cutting through the quiet of the suburban street. "Where's your boyfriend today?" The words were like a knife, twisting in Jack's gut.

Jack ignored him, picking up his books as quickly as he could, trying to keep his head down. But Adam wasn't the type to let his prey escape so easily. He stepped closer, his shadow looming over Jack, the smell of his sweat and grass from the football field heavy in the air.

"I said, where's your boyfriend, queer?" Adam sneered, his eyes gleaming with malicious delight. He grabbed Jack's shoulder, spinning him around so they were face to face.

Jack flinched at the contact, his heart racing in his chest. "I don't have a boyfriend," he mumbled, trying to keep his voice steady.

Adam's sneer grew wider, his grip tightening. "Yeah, right," he spat. "You're just a sad little faggot with no friends." He pushed Jack hard, sending him stumbling backward.

Jack felt the familiar burn of tears in his eyes, but before he could respond, Mrs. Castellanos appeared, her eyes flashing with a fury that was terrifying to behold. She stepped in front of him, her small frame seemingly growing to fill the space between them.

"Adam," she said, her voice cold and even, "you will leave Jack alone from this day forward."

Adam's smug expression faltered, his eyes wide with surprise at the sudden appearance of the old woman. He took a step back, his grip on Jack's shoulder loosening.

"What the fuck, you old hag?" he spat.

But Mrs. Castellanos was undeterred. She raised her hand, and a pulse of energy rippled through the air. Adam's eyes rolled back in his head, his body going slack as he was enveloped in a warm, golden light. The air grew thick with the scent of jasmine and musk, the scent of change.

When the light receded, Adam staggered back, his expression one of confusion and fear. He looked down at his hands, as if expecting them to be different, but they remained the same. Yet, something within him had shifted, something fundamental.

The following weeks saw a stark change in Adam's behavior. The once boisterous and confident jock grew quieter, his swagger less pronounced. His eyes lingered longer on the muscular forms of his football teammates in the locker room, a hunger in his gaze that he didn't understand. He tried to push it away, to bury it beneath layers of denial, but it was like trying to hold back the tide with his bare hands.

One fateful day, after a particularly grueling practice, Adam stumbled into the gym showers, his body slick with sweat. The sight of his teammates' bare, muscular forms washed clean of the grime of the game was almost too much to bear. He couldn't help but watch them, his eyes lingering on the defined abs and powerful shoulders that had once filled him with jealousy and scorn. Now, they filled him with something else entirely, something that made his heart race and his cock twitch with need.

He tried to ignore it, to focus on the burning in his muscles and the cold spray of the water, but it was no use. Every time he caught a glimpse of a tight ass or a well-defined chest, he felt his resolve slipping away like sand through his fingers. His mind was a whirlwind of confusion and denial, but his body had a will of its own.

Days turned into weeks, and the whispers grew louder. Adam found himself drawn to the very things he had once mocked, his eyes lingering on the muscular forms of his male classmates, his thoughts straying to the locker room and the showers that had become his personal hell. He tried to fight it, to prove to himself that he was still the same person, but every time he tried to be with a girl, his body betrayed him. His cock remained stubbornly limp, refusing to respond to the soft touches and sweet whispers that had once been his lifeblood.

College came and went, and with it, Adam's dreams of football stardom. Despite his relentless efforts in the gym, his body remained the same—no matter how hard he pushed himself, no matter how much he ate or how much he rested, he couldn't gain a single pound of muscle. It was as if the incantation had capped his growth, leaving him stuck in the limbo of his high school physique. His teammates, who had once looked up to him with envy, now pitied him. His performance on the field suffered, and it wasn't long before the coaches took notice. The same body that had once made him feel invincible now felt like a prison, keeping him from the one thing that had ever brought him true satisfaction.

The locker room had become a torture chamber for Adam. Every flex and grunt of his teammates echoed in his ears like a siren's call, his eyes drawn to their powerful forms despite his desperate attempts to ignore them. The smell of sweat and manliness was a constant reminder of what he had lost—his place in the hierarchy, his identity as the alpha male. He'd find himself getting lost in the sight of their nakedness, the water droplets on their broad backs and chiseled abs, the way the soapsuds clung to their muscular thighs. It was a silent battle, one that he waged with every fiber of his being.

During games, Adam's mind would drift to the locker room, his eyes straying to the jocks on the opposing team. He'd find himself getting hard at the most inopportune moments, his thoughts consumed by the desire to be like them, to feel their power. It didn't take long for his performance to suffer, for his fumbles and missed tackles to become a topic of whispers. His secret was a burden, a weight that grew heavier with every passing day.

In the gym, the smell of sweat and testosterone was a constant torment. He'd watch the other guys lift weights, their muscles bulging and flexing, and his cock would throb in his gym shorts, a traitor to his true desires. He tried to focus on his workout, his eyes glued to the floor or the mirror in front of him, but it was no use. The sight of their glistening skin, the sound of their grunts and groans, it all just served to drive him mad with need.

One by one, the team members started to avoid him. They could feel his eyes on them, see the hunger in his gaze. It was like a disease, spreading through the locker room, making everyone uncomfortable. The whispers grew louder, the jokes crueler. "What's up, Rogers?" they'd say with a sneer. "Still trying to get some action with the guys?" And he'd just laugh it off, pretending not to care, pretending to be the same guy he'd always been.

But he couldn't hide it forever. The day he was kicked out of the football team was like a knife in the gut. The coach had called him into his office, his face a mask of disappointment. "You're just not cutting it anymore, Rogers," he'd said, his voice heavy with accusation. "You've gotta get your head in the game." But Adam knew what he was really saying. He could see it in the glances he got from the other players, the way they looked at him differently now.

Adrift and alone, Adam found himself wandering the college campus, his eyes always drawn to the places that had been his sanctuary. The football field, the gym, the locker room. They were all tainted now, haunted by the ghosts of his former life. He'd sit on the bleachers, watching the other players practice, his heart heavy with regret and longing. He'd go to the gym, pump iron until he could barely move, trying to recapture that feeling of power and belonging. But it was always just out of reach, like a mirage in the desert of his own despair.

The day he was kicked out of the dorm was a low point. The other players had complained about his lack of focus, his erratic behavior. They didn't know about his secret, but they could feel the shift in the air. The room that had once been filled with the sounds of camaraderie and victory now felt like a cage, closing in on him. He packed his bags in silence, the weight of his failure pressing down on him like a leaden blanket.

As he moved into his new dorm, Adam couldn't shake the feeling of dread that clung to him like a second skin. He'd been placed with a regular college student, Aaron, who was as muscular and confident as the men Adam had once envied. The room was small but well-kept, with one glaring exception—the other side of the bed was adorned with rainbow flags, stickers, and posters of shirtless men. Adam felt his stomach drop as he realized his roommate was openly gay, something he'd never had to confront before. He tried to push the thought away, but it was like trying to ignore a blinking neon sign.

Aaron walked in, his smile wide and welcoming. "Hey, I'm Aaron," he said, extending a hand. Adam took it, feeling the firm grip that spoke of strength and confidence, two things he'd lost. "I'm Adam," he mumbled, his eyes darting to the rainbow decor.

Days turned into weeks, and Adam did his best to ignore the growing attraction he felt toward Aaron. He'd catch himself watching his roommate as he moved around the room, his muscles rippling with every step. He'd tell himself it was just the envy of a man who'd lost his edge, but deep down, he knew it was more than that.

He tried to fill his time with study and work, burying himself in his schoolwork to avoid the inevitable. But every night, as he lay in bed, the sounds of Aaron's breathing seemed to call out to him. The soft rustle of the bed sheets, the occasional groan as Aaron shifted in his sleep, it was like a siren's song, drawing him closer to the truth he didn't want to face.

Adam took to wearing headphones while he jerked off, the sound of his own ragged breaths drowned out by the music. He'd scroll through his phone, his eyes lingering on the images of muscular men that he'd saved in a hidden album. The sight of their bulging biceps, the way their abs rippled as they moved, it was like a balm to his soul, soothing the raw ache that had taken up residence there. He'd touch himself, stroking his cock with a desperation that grew with every passing day. The pleasure was intense, a bright light in the darkness of his self-loathing.

But try as he might to ignore the truth, it had a way of finding him. One night, as he lay in bed, his hand wrapped around his shaft, he heard the soft creak of the floorboards. Panic shot through him, his heart racing as he realized Aaron was standing in the doorway, his eyes wide with shock and understanding. The headphones lay tangled on the pillow beside him, a silent testament to his secret.

Adam froze, his hand hovering over his erection. He could feel the heat rising to his cheeks, his eyes darting around the room for an escape. But there was nowhere to go. Aaron stepped closer, the scent of his cologne mixing with the musk of his arousal. "What's going on, man?" he asked, his voice gentle, yet laced with curiosity.

Adam swallowed hard, his heart racing. "It's�� it's nothing," he stuttered, pulling the blanket over himself. "Just… a… a… personal thing."

Aaron's eyes searched his, a mix of concern and something else—desire. "Look, man," Aaron said softly, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate in the pit of Adam's stomach, "I'm not gonna judge you. We all have our… preferences."

Adam felt the weight of the world lift off his shoulders as he realized that Aaron knew. The fear of being outed, of being the subject of more whispers and jokes, dissipated like mist in the morning sun. "Thank you," he murmured, the words thick with relief.

Aaron nodded, his gaze never leaving Adam's face. "You don't have to thank me," he said, his voice still gentle. "But if you ever want to talk about it, I'm here."

The months that followed were filled with an unspoken tension. They remained roommates, but their relationship remained a dance of avoidance and awkwardness. The occasional glances that lingered too long, the accidental brushes of skin as they passed in the hallway—each was a reminder of the night Adam had been caught with his hand in his pants, his eyes on Aaron's body.

===

Graduation approached, a beacon of light at the end of a tumultuous tunnel. The night of the celebration party, Adam found himself swimming in a sea of cheap beer and nostalgia. The music thumped in the background, a cacophony of laughter and chatter filling the air as he leaned against the wall, watching the bodies sway and mingle. Aaron was there too, a beer in his hand, his eyes occasionally meeting Adam's before darting away, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

As the party grew wilder, the drinks grew stronger. Adam felt the warmth of the alcohol seep through his veins, loosening the tightly wound coil of his inhibitions. He stumbled through the crowd, the room spinning, and suddenly, there was Aaron, standing just a few feet away, his muscular frame outlined by the strobe lights. Without thinking, without planning, Adam leaned in, his lips brushing against Aaron's in a clumsy, desperate kiss.

For a moment, the world stopped spinning. Aaron's eyes widened in surprise, but instead of pulling away, he leaned in, kissing Adam back with a passion that made the room fade away. The taste of beer on Aaron's lips was unexpectedly sweet, and Adam felt a thrill of excitement run through him, his cock growing hard against his will.

The kiss grew deeper, their tongues dancing together in a silent symphony of need. Adam felt his body respond, his muscles tightening and his senses heightening. He was aware of every inch of Aaron's body, the feel of his strong arms around him, the press of his broad chest, the smell of his cologne, and the warmth of his breath on his skin.

Aaron's hand slid down to his crotch, and Adam's cock responded immediately, straining against his jeans. Aaron broke the kiss and dropped to his knees, pulling down Adam's pants with a surprising ease. Adam's mind screamed for him to stop, to remember who he was and what he stood for, but his body was beyond his control. The pleasure was too intense, too overwhelming to resist.

Aaron took it all, swallowing every drop with a look of satisfaction that made Adam's knees wobble. They stumbled back to their room, the music from the party a distant throb in their ears. The room was spinning, but Aaron's hand was firm in his, grounding him.

When they reached the door, Adam paused, his heart hammering in his chest. He didn't know what to expect—his mind was a whirlwind of desire and doubt. But Aaron just gave him that knowing smile and pushed him inside, shutting the door behind them.

The room was dimly lit, the only light coming from the glow of the streetlamp outside the window. Aaron's eyes shone in the darkness, hungry and full of promise. Without a word, Adam found himself being pushed onto the bed, his legs spread wide. Aaron hovered over him, his own cock now rock-hard, a testament to his desire.

Adam felt a rush of anticipation as Aaron's hand found his cock, stroking it with a firm grip that sent shivers down his spine. He was lost in the moment, his thoughts consumed by the sensations that Aaron's touch brought forth. Aaron leaned in, his breath hot on Adam's ear, and whispered, "You like this, don't you?"

Adam couldn't find the words to respond, his mind a jumble of emotions. Instead, he could only nod, his body arching off the bed in silent plea. Aaron's hand was replaced by something wet and warm, and Adam realized with a start that Aaron was licking his cock, teasing the head with the tip of his tongue. A moan of pure pleasure escaped his lips, and he felt his body tense, the pressure building within him like a volcano ready to erupt.

With a low growl, Aaron took him in fully, his mouth a tight, wet heat that sent waves of sensation crashing over Adam. His hips bucked upward, and Aaron's hands held him firm, his fingers digging into the flesh of Adam's thighs. Adam could feel his climax building, his toes curling with every stroke of Aaron's tongue. It was too much, too intense, and he was powerless to resist.

Adam felt a sense of release, of letting go, as he gave in to the pleasure. He watched as Aaron's cheeks hollowed out, his eyes closed in concentration. Each suck and lick was a declaration of ownership, a silent promise of more to come. Adam's breath grew ragged, his eyes glazed with desire. He'd never felt so alive, so consumed by another person.

With a primal urgency, Adam rolled Aaron onto his back, the mattress protesting with a squeak. He didn't care who heard them anymore. All that mattered was the feeling of Aaron's body beneath his, the heat of his skin, the musky scent of his arousal. He positioned himself, the tip of his cock brushing against Aaron's eager hole. Aaron's eyes fluttered open, and he let out a low moan, his body begging for more.

Adam pushed in, inch by inch, watching as Aaron's expression shifted from pleasure to something deeper, something more profound. His own moan mingled with Aaron's, the sound echoing through the room. He'd never felt so alive, so in sync with another person. The friction was exquisite, the tightness of Aaron's body a perfect fit for his own.

Aaron's legs wrapped around his waist, urging him deeper, and Adam obliged, his hips moving in a rhythm that seemed as natural as breathing. He could feel Aaron's muscles clench around him, the warmth and wetness a drug that sent him spiraling into an abyss of pleasure. His eyes squeezed shut, and he threw his head back, the sensation of Aaron's body enveloping him too much to handle.

Their bodies moved in unison, the sounds of their passion filling the small room. Adam's muscles tensed and released, the pleasure building with every thrust. Aaron's moans grew louder, his nails digging into Adam's back as he met each movement with an eager buck of his own hips. The mattress squeaked in protest, but they paid it no mind.

Adam felt the warmth of Aaron's body surrounding him, the tightness of his hole gripping him like a vice. The sensation was unlike anything he'd ever felt before, a heady mix of power and vulnerability that sent his mind reeling. He could feel his orgasm building, a pressure that grew with each passing moment until it was all he could think about.

With a final, desperate thrust, Adam came, filling Aaron with his seed. He felt Aaron's body convulse beneath him, his moans turning into a keening cry of pleasure as he reached his own climax, his cock pulsing in Adam's hand. The release was so intense, it was like nothing else mattered. For a brief moment, the world outside their room ceased to exist.

The aftermath was a sticky mess of sweat and come, the air thick with the scent of their passion. Adam pulled out, his cock still hard and glistening, and collapsed onto the bed beside Aaron. His heart hammered in his chest, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. Aaron lay there, panting, his eyes still closed, a look of pure bliss etched on his face.

The silence stretched between them, filled only by the sounds of their bodies calming from the storm of pleasure. Adam's hand found Aaron's, their fingers lacing together in a silent promise that went beyond words. He could feel Aaron's chest rise and fall with each breath, the heat of their bodies melding together. The world outside the room faded away, leaving only the two of them in their cocoon of desire.

Exhaustion claimed them, and soon their eyes grew heavy with sleep. The weight of their bodies, the warmth of their skin, the scent of their shared passion—it was all too much to resist. They drifted off into a slumber filled with the echoes of their cries of ecstasy. The room was a sanctuary of intimacy, the only place where Adam could be free from the prison of his own making.

===

But morning has a cruel way of bringing reality crashing down. The harsh light of day streamed through the window, illuminating the rumpled sheets and the sticky mess of their encounter. Adam's eyes snapped open, and the memories of the night before came flooding back in a rush of panic. His heart raced as he stared at the ceiling, the guilt and anger rising in his chest like bile. He couldn't believe he'd let this happen, that he'd given in to the very desires he'd spent a lifetime running from.

Turning to Aaron, the sight of his peaceful, sleeping form sent a bolt of rage through him. How could Aaron just lay there, so at ease, when Adam felt like he was drowning? The need to lash out was overwhelming, a pressure that built and built until he could no longer contain it. With a roar, he brought his fist down on Aaron's shoulder, shaking him awake. "What the fuck did you do to me?" he spat, his voice thick with anger.

Aaron's eyes snapped open, confusion and fear clouding his features. "What the hell, man?" he croaked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. But before he could say more, Adam was on him, fists flying. Aiden staggered back, trying to defend himself, but Adam's fury was a force to be reckoned with. The room was a blur of limbs and grunts, the bed rocking violently with each blow.

The sound of their struggle grew louder, and soon it was punctuated by the thud of the door being thrown open. The room filled with the shocked faces of their dorm mates, all of them staring in disbelief. "What the fuck is going on in here?" one of them shouted, pushing through the crowd.

Adam's rage was a living entity, a beast that had taken over his body. He didn't care about the audience, didn't care about the consequences. All he knew was that Aaron had ruined him, had made him feel things that no man should ever have to feel. His fists connected with Aaron's face, the crack of bone echoing through the room.

But the pain in his knuckles did nothing to quell the anger boiling inside him. It only made it worse. He could see the fear in Aaron's eyes, could feel the warmth of blood trickling down his own chin. And yet, he couldn't stop.

It wasn't until the sound of sirens pierced the night that Adam's rage finally abated. The sight of flashing blue lights in the window was sobering, and the reality of his actions came crashing down upon him. He'd gone too far. He'd hurt Aaron—his roommate, the one person who had shown him kindness and acceptance in a world that had turned its back on him.

The room was a wreck, the bed a tangled mess of sheets and discarded clothes. Aaron lay on the floor, blood seeping from his nose and a bruise already forming around one eye. His once-handsome features were marred by the fury Adam had unleashed, and the look of pain and betrayal in his eyes was almost too much to bear.

Adam was breathing heavily, his own face a mask of disbelief and horror at what he'd done. The sirens grew louder, the flashing lights casting eerie shadows across the room. The panic set in as he realized the severity of his actions—his future, the one he'd fought so hard to maintain, was now in tatters.

The door burst open, and campus security spilled into the room, their eyes wide with shock at the scene before them. "What the hell is going on here?" one of them bellowed, and Adam felt his world collapse in on itself. He knew what was coming next: handcuffs, a trip to the station, and the end of his college career.

In the days that followed, the whispers grew louder, the stares more pointed. The story of the night had spread like wildfire, and Adam had become the college's poster boy for unbridled aggression. The administration had wasted no time in expelling him, citing his violent behavior and the severe damage he'd inflicted on Aaron as reasons enough to cut ties.

As the finality of his situation settled in, Adam found himself wandering the very campus that had once been his kingdom, now a ghostly reminder of all he'd lost. It was there, amidst the bustling crowd of students, that he saw Jack for the first time. The sight of Jack's lanky and skinny frame brought a flood of memories crashing back.

Jack, the quiet, unassuming guy he'd picked on so mercilessly. The way Mrs. Castellanos had stepped in, her eyes flashing with a power he hadn't understood. The feel of her hand on his forehead, the strange incantation that had sent his world spiraling. It was all connected, all a part of the same twisted web that had led him to this moment.

The security guards' grip on his arms was firm, their faces a blur of disapproval and disgust. They marched him through the halls, his feet dragging as he tried to catch one last glimpse of Jack.

===

Adam's life had become a tumultuous mess, a stark contrast to the days when he was the king of the football field. His muscles had atrophied from lack of use, his once-handsome features now marred by the harsh lines of anger and despair. His hair was unkempt, his clothes tattered, and the gleam of arrogance that once filled his eyes was replaced by a haunted look that spoke of dark thoughts and unspoken regrets.

He often found himself wandering the streets, his gaze lingering on the memories of the past that now felt like a distant dream. The frat houses that had once held wild parties now stood as silent judges of his fall from grace. The football field where he had been a legend now held only echoes of his name, whispered in hushed tones and met with sneers.

The hatred for Jack burned in him like an everlasting flame, a reminder of his own downfall. He watched from the shadows as Jack strutted through campus. The plan began to form, a dark and twisted plot to bring Jack crashing down from his throne. If Jack could rise so high, then it was only fair that Adam should be the one to tear him down.

Adam waited until the witching hour, when the neighborhood was shrouded in a cloak of silence. His heart raced as he approached the house, the shadows stretching out to embrace him like old friends. He'd studied the layout meticulously, knew where the spellbooks were kept—the very same ones that had turned his world upside down. The irony wasn't lost on him; he'd use their own weapons against them.

In the quiet of the night, he slipped in through an unlocked window, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. The house smelled faintly of incense and something else—something ancient and powerful. It was the scent of magic.

Adam's rage fueled his steps as he made his way through the house, his eyes scanning the bookshelves for the telltale glow of enchanted tomes. He found them in a room that had clearly once been Mrs. Castellanos' sanctuary—a place where she had practiced her craft, surrounded by candles and mystical artifacts. The sight of the spellbooks sent a wave of anger through him. He'd show Jack what it felt like to lose everything.

With trembling hands, Adam pulled a lighter from his pocket, the flame flickering to life in the darkened room. He watched it dance for a moment before tossing it onto a pile of old curtains that had been left carelessly near a bookshelf. The fabric caught fire with a satisfying whoosh, and Adam felt a grim satisfaction as the flames began to spread, licking at the books and consuming them.

He didn't dare to stay and watch the destruction unfold. The heat was already intense, and the smoke was beginning to fill his lungs. He had to get out before the house was fully engulfed, before anyone could catch him. He turned and sprinted through the hallways, his eyes stinging and his throat raw from the acrid smoke. He could hear the crackling of the fire growing louder, the house's very bones groaning in protest as the inferno took hold.

The night air hit him like a slap in the face as he leaped out the window, the coldness a stark contrast to the searing heat he'd just left behind. He didn't stop running until he was a safe distance away, his chest heaving and his heart thundering in his ears. The sight of the flaming house in the rearview mirror was a grim triumph, a declaration of war against the one person who had dared to best him.

===

Years passed, and the whispers of Adam's fate grew fainter until he was nothing but a cautionary tale.

Jack's transformation had been nothing short of miraculous. His body, once lanky and unassuming, was now a sculpted masterpiece of muscle and might. It was a power that had come with a price—his mother's house reduced to ashes—but it was one he would never forget.

After graduation, Jack felt the weight of Mrs. Castellanos' legacy heavy on his shoulders. The white polo that he wore; gave him the power and knowledge. The power to read minds and hypnotize others was a heady mix, one that made him feel both invincible and utterly alone.

But there was one thing that gnawed at the back of his mind: the fire that had destroyed his family's home. It had been ruled an accident, a tragic case of faulty wiring, but Jack knew better. The flames had burned more than just wood and memories; they had set alight a rage that simmered in him, demanding justice.

Using his newfound abilities, Jack embarked on a quest for the truth. He searched the minds of those who had known Adam, feeling their thoughts like whispers in the wind. It took weeks of meticulous digging, but finally, the pieces fell into place. Adam's hatred had not been satiated by Jack's transformation. Instead, it had festered and grown, turning into a monstrous desire for revenge.

Jack found Adam's dilapidated house easily, the sadness and anger emanating from it like a palpable force. The once-proud football star was now a mere shadow of his former self, living in the squalor of a home that mirrored the decay of his soul. The house was a sad testament to the life Adam had let slip through his fingers—a stark contrast to the warm, welcoming abode Jack had known from his mother's care.

The door was chipped and peeling, a far cry from the pristine white it had been during their college days. With a heavy heart, Jack raised his fist and knocked, the sound echoing through the silent night. The wait was interminable, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Finally, the door creaked open, and there stood Adam, his eyes bloodshot and his clothes stained with regret.

Adam squinted in the dim light, his eyes narrowing at the unfamiliar form before him. "What do you want?" he barked, the bitterness in his voice a stark reminder of the life he'd squandered.

Jack stepped forward, his body casting a long shadow across the threshold. The firelight from the streetlamps danced across the contours of his muscular frame, a silent testament to the power that now resided within him. "You don't remember me, do you?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate within the very bones of the house.

Adam squinted, his eyes widening as he took in the towering figure before him. The shock was palpable, his mind racing to piece together the puzzle. "Who the fuck are you?" he spat, his voice trembling with a mix of anger and fear.

Jack's smile was cold and calculated, the firelight from the street casting an eerie glow across his face. "I am Jack," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate through the very foundations of the house. "The same Jack you picked on, the same Jack whose life you tried to ruin. Do you remember now?"

Adam stumbled back, his eyes wide with shock as he took in the towering figure before him. The skinny kid he'd known had been replaced by a muscular behemoth, a man who seemed to be carved from granite. "Jack?" he whispered, his voice barely a croak.

Jack stepped into the light, the fire from the streetlamps playing over his powerful physique. "Yes, now you remember," he said, his voice a low growl that seemed to shake the very air. "And now you have to pay for what you've done."

Adam stumbled back, his eyes wide with fear as he took in the sheer size of Jack. The kid he'd picked on and tormented was gone, replaced by a man who looked as though he could bench press a car. "Wait," he stammered, his voice shaking. "Let me apologize. I didn't know it would go this far."

Jack's smile was cold and hard, like chipped ice. "Your apology won't bring my mother back," he said, his eyes burning with a fury that could have melted the very fabric of the universe. "You had your chance to make amends, but you threw it away when you lit the match."

Adam's face crumpled, a mix of fear and desperation etching lines into his once-handsome features. "Please, Jack," he begged, his voice cracking. "I didn't know it would go that far. I didn't know she'd die."

Jack's gaze was like a laser, cutting through the lies and the years of anger that had built up between them. "It doesn't matter what you knew or didn't know," he said, his voice cold and hard. "What matters is that you did it, and now you're going to face the consequences."

Adam's eyes darted around the room, desperation coloring his cheeks. "You don't get it," he choked out, tears of frustration and fear welling in his eyes. "Maria changed me. She did something to me. She turned me into…this!"

Jack's eyes narrowed, his expression unyielding. "And what makes you think I care?" he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "You made my life hell for years, and now you want pity? You're getting what you deserve."

He reached out, his hand glowing with an eerie light that seemed to pulse with the very essence of the enchanted necklace. "By the power of the enchantment my mother bestowed upon me," Jack intoned, his voice deep and resonant, "you shall be cursed to never regain your former strength or appeal unless you are fed the essence of muscular men."

Adam's horror grew with each word, his eyes widening until they threatened to pop out of their sockets. "Please," he whimpered, his voice a pathetic echo of the once-booming bellow that had ruled the locker room. "I'll do anything, just don't do this to me."

Jack's smile grew colder, his eyes darker. "You'll do anything?" he repeated, a hint of amusement in his tone. "Including sucking the cock of every muscular man you see?"

Adam's eyes widened further, his body trembling with horror at the very thought. But as the magic of Jack's words settled into his mind, the idea grew more appealing, his mouth watering at the thought of powerful men's essence filling him. "No, please," he whimpered, but his voice was already changing, his tone growing softer, more pleading.

Jack's grin grew wicked. "You're going to crave it," he whispered, his eyes gleaming with malicious delight. "You're going to seek out the very men you used to despise and beg them to fill you with their strength."

Adam's mind rebelled at the thought, but his body was already responding. His mouth watered, his cock growing hard at the prospect of being dominated by the very men he'd once ruled. The magic of Jack's words wound its way through his mind, weaving a pattern of need and desire that he couldn't resist.

Jack stepped closer, his cock swelling in his pants as he felt the power of the enchantment pulsing through him. He reached out and grabbed Adam by the neck, his grip firm and unyielding. "You want this," he murmured, his voice a seductive whisper that seemed to resonate through Adam's very soul. "You want to serve, to be used, to be filled with the strength of others."

Adam's eyes grew glazed, his body responding to Jack's words as if they were a siren's call. He found himself nodding, unable to resist the strange, compelling urge that was building within him. "Please," he begged, his voice a whimper. "Just let me have it."

Jack's grin grew wider, his eyes glinting with the victory of his revenge. He stepped closer, unbuckling his pants and pulling out his thick, engorged cock. It was a weapon of power, a symbol of the strength he now wielded. "On your knees," he ordered, his voice a low command that brooked no argument.

Adam stumbled, his knees hitting the ground with a thud that seemed to resonate through the very core of his being. His hands trembled as they reached for the zipper of Jack's pants, his mind a whirlwind of emotions—fear, anger, and a strange, desperate need. As the zipper slid down, Jack's cock sprang free, a monument to the power that Adam had once taken for granted.

The sight of the thick, pulsing member was almost too much to bear. The very idea of taking it into his mouth made his stomach churn, but the need was stronger. He leaned forward, his lips parting as if of their own accord. "Thank you, Sir," he whispered, his voice a mere wisp of sound.

Jack's cock was hot and heavy, the veins pulsing with the power of the enchantment. Adam took it in his mouth, the taste salty and slightly sweet, a flavor that seemed to resonate with the very core of his being. His jaw stretched painfully around the girth, and he had to fight the urge to gag as Jack's cock hit the back of his throat. But he didn't dare stop; the need to please was too great.

Jack watched with a cruel smile, his eyes never leaving Adam's teary gaze as he began to thrust his hips, fucking Adam's face with a slow, deliberate rhythm that spoke of his absolute dominance. "That's right," he murmured, his voice a dark caress that sent shivers down Adam's spine. "You're going to suck it like a good little bitch."

Adam's cheeks hollowed as he took more and more of Jack's cock into his mouth, his inexperience evident in the awkwardness of his movements. The taste of Jack's precum was bitter on his tongue, but the power of the enchantment made it into a sweet nectar that filled him with a desperate need to please. He sucked harder, eager to make Jack feel the same way he had felt when he'd been at the top of the social hierarchy.

Jack's moans grew louder, his grip on Adam's head tightening as he guided him in a rhythm that grew more and more demanding. Adam's eyes watered and his nose was buried in the thick bush of hair at the base of Jack's cock, but he didn't dare pull away. The feeling of Jack's cock sliding in and out of his mouth was both terrifying and exhilarating, and he found himself getting lost in the sensation despite his fear and revulsion.

Jack's voice was like a siren's song, guiding him through the act, praising him when he hit the right spots, urging him on when he faltered. "Yes, that's it," Jack growled, his hips thrusting into Adam's face. "Suck it, you little bitch. You're going to learn to love this, aren't you?"

Adam couldn't help but nod, his mouth full of cock. The words were a declaration of his new reality, a reality where he was no longer the one in charge, no longer the one calling the shots. His eyes watered and his throat ached, but he pushed through, driven by a force beyond his own control. The enchantment had twisted his desires, turning him into a creature of submission, eager to please the very men he had once looked down upon.

Jack's moans grew louder, his hips bucking in time with Adam's eager mouth. Each gagging sound only seemed to spur him on, his hand tightening in Adam's hair as he guided him with a firm grip. "Yeah," Jack breathed, his voice strained with pleasure. "You're learning, bitch. Just keep it up."

Adam felt the beginnings of Jack's climax in the pulsing of his cock, the taste of pre-cum growing stronger. He sucked harder, desperate to prove his worth in this twisted new world. He could feel the power of Jack's orgasm building, the very essence of the man's strength and vitality. It was a heady feeling, one that both terrified and excited him.

Jack's hips bucked, and he threw his head back, a primal roar escaping his throat as he reached his peak. Adam's eyes rolled back in his head, his mouth full of Jack's thick, hot cum. He swallowed greedily, the warmth spread through his body, filling him with a sense of purpose that was both exhilarating and humiliating.

As he knelt there, his body began to change. His back arched, and muscles began to bulge beneath his shirt. His arms grew thick and powerful, the veins standing out in stark relief. His chest swelled, pushing his shirt tight against his newfound bulk. The transformation was as undeniable as it was unwelcome. He felt his legs thickening, the muscles straining against the fabric of his pants. He was no longer the pathetic, broken man he'd become—he was something else entirely.

Jack watched with a mix of fascination and horror as Adam's body morphed before his eyes. The power of the enchantment was undeniable, the very essence of his own strength flowing into the man who had once been his tormentor. "What is this?" Adam grunted, his voice now deeper and more animalistic. His cock grew in his pants, pushing against the fabric until it was painfully obvious.

Jack stepped back, his own cock still hard as he took in the sight. Adam was no longer the broken man he'd known; he was a creature of power, his body a testament to the dark magic that had claimed him. "You're becoming what you always wanted to be," Jack said, his voice cold and detached. "Strong, powerful, desired."

Adam's grunts grew louder, his body straining with the effort of his transformation. The fabric of his shirt tore away, revealing shoulders that looked carved from stone and biceps that bulged with newfound might. His jeans ripped at the seams, unable to contain the growth of his thighs and calves. He looked like a creature of the night, a monster born of anger and despair.

Jack's cum filled him. His body responded with an almost primal hunger, his cock thickening and lengthening until it was a massive, throbbing shaft that pointed accusingly at the heavens. The transformation was complete, and Adam was no longer the man he had once been.

With a final, guttural shout, Adam's cock erupted, a fountain of white-hot semen that shot through the air, painting the room in a shower of sticky, potent seed. It was a display of power and need that would have made any porn star envious. His body convulsed with the force of his orgasm, his new muscles rippling and flexing as he emptied himself onto the floor.

Jack stepped back, watching with a mix of satisfaction and revulsion as Adam's body went through its final stages of transformation. The room was thick with the scent of sex and power, a heady aroma that seemed to cling to the very air. Adam's eyes were glazed over with lust and desperation as he watched Jack's cock shrink back down to its normal size.

Finally, the spurts of cum ceased, and Adam's body went still. He looked down at himself, his new muscles flexing unconsciously as he took in his changed form. The once-shameful need to suck cock had become a strange, twisted form of euphoria, a high that only grew stronger as he inspected his body with trembling hands. The bulges and contours of his muscles were like a map of the power he'd stolen from Jack, a reminder of his newfound place in the world.

Jack watched him, his expression a mix of triumph and pity. "Remember," he said, his voice a low growl, "this body comes with a price. You've got a week before it starts to fade." He paused, allowing the reality of his words to sink in. "You'll need to find another muscular man to feed your hunger, to keep the enchantment strong."

Adam nodded, his voice a submissive whisper. "Thank you, Sir," he murmured, his eyes never leaving Jack's. "I'm sorry for everything. I never knew… I never knew what I was doing to you." His words were sincere, the weight of his new reality pressing down on him like a lead blanket.

Jack stepped back, his smirk never leaving his face as he took in the transformed man before him. He knew that Adam's life would never be the same, that every time he saw another muscular man, the need to serve would consume him. It was a fate he'd never wish on anyone, but for the man who had once made his life a living hell, it was poetic justice.

"Adam," Jack said, his voice a low purr that seemed to resonate through the very air, "you will forget that I cursed you. You will think of this…quirk," he spat the word out with contempt, "as something that has always been a part of you, something you were born with."

Adam's eyes were still glazed over, his mind swimming with the aftershocks of the powerful orgasm and the magic that had transformed him. "Yes, sir," he murmured, his voice a soft caress that seemed to echo Jack's own dominance.

Jack nodded, the smirk still playing at the corner of his lips as he pulled up his pants and zipped them shut. He didn't bother to tuck in his shirt; the fabric clung to his muscular frame in a way that seemed almost obscene. With a final, dismissive glance at the kneeling figure before him, Jack turned and left the house. The door slammed shut with a finality that seemed to echo through the night.

The walk back to his own house was filled with a strange mix of anger and satisfaction. He'd taken his revenge, but it hadn't brought him the closure he'd hoped for. The house fire had been a tragedy, one that still haunted him in his dreams, but seeing Adam broken and begging for his power had been a small victory. It was a start, a taste of what was to come.

Jack had always been a man of action, and he knew that sitting around and moping wasn't going to change anything. So he turned his focus to his next move—his plan to help those who'd been bullied and mistreated. It was a mission that had been brewing in the back of his mind for years, and now that he had the power to make a difference, he was determined to see it through.

The garage sale was a stroke of genius, a covert operation that served as both a beacon of hope and a silent threat to those who didn't know better. He'd gathered an impressive collection of enchanted clothes, each one carefully chosen and imbued with a specific power. The magic was subtle, but oh so potent, capable of turning the tables on those who'd once wielded power over others.

Paul sat there, his pants sticky with cum, his thoughts racing. He couldn't believe the story he'd just witnessed, the transformation of a man from tormentor to victim, then to something more. He glanced over at Jack, the hulking figure who now looked at him with a knowing smirk. The vision had been intense, but the reality was even more so—he was still sitting in a foldable chair beside this behemoth of a man.

Jack's words hung in the air, a challenge and an offer all rolled into one. The idea of publishing this story was tantalizing, but the potential fallout was too much to consider. What if it got back to Jack? Would he be seen as a betrayer, someone who'd used his mother's legacy for personal gain? And what of Aiden and Abe? Their relationship was theirs to share, not fodder for the public's entertainment.

Paul took a deep breath, trying to compose himself as he stood up from the chair, his legs feeling like jelly. The sticky evidence of his arousal was a stark reminder of the power of the story he'd just witnessed. He looked at Jack, whose smirk had grown wider, and he felt a strange mix of admiration and fear. "Thank you," he said, his voice shaky. "This… it's a lot to take in."

Jack nodded, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "It's quite the tale," he admitted. "But it's one that needs to be told. Just remember," he added, his voice dropping to a low rumble, "what you choose to do with it is entirely up to you."

Paul felt a knot tighten in his stomach as he processed the implication. He knew that Jack's offer wasn't just about sharing a good story; it was about using the power of the enchanted garments to reshape lives. The thought was both exciting and terrifying. "I'll think about it," he managed to say, his voice sounding more confident than he felt.

Jack's smirk grew into a full-blown smile, revealing perfect, gleaming teeth. "You do that," he said, his eyes twinkling with a mischief that made Paul's heart race. "And remember, the clothes make the man." With that, he turned back to the garage sale, leaving Paul standing there, the story of Adam's transformation still echoing in his mind.

As he walked away, Paul couldn't help but glance back at the house. The curtains fluttered in the breeze, a silent reminder of the power that lay within those walls. He knew that Jack had just handed him a golden opportunity, but it came with a heavy burden. The enchanted garments had the potential to change lives, to right wrongs, but at what cost?

[azrielover]

Skyfall : “Hello”

This is an OC x azriel story which will come in bits and pieces, meaning you could probably read each part as a one-shot in any order! Each part of the “skyfall” series will have one of these mood board covers which gives the “vibe” of the chapter 🫶🏼 I am judging the timeline of the story based on if the year 0 represents the end of the first human wars which are noted in the acotar series! Therefore BCE stands for “before current era” and CE is “current era”.

| Summary: Noelle, the adopted daughter of the Illyrian Lord of Vornhale, discovers a family secret while sneaking around the manor.

| Warnings: child abuse and domestic violence (alluded to and near the beginning)

| Word Count: 2k

| Skyfall Masterlist: click here!

33BCE:

“Why do you never listen insolent girl?” her governess spat, sharp fingernails dug into Noelle’s pale arm as she was dragged further and further away from the falling snow outside. She could still just make out the figures of her elder brothers, Kraven and Matteo, play-fighting through the frosted window, their dark features standing out against the snow dancing around them as the circled each other, wings glowing as the setting rays of sun shone through the membrane. Scrambling to find purchase along the stone walls of her Vornhale manor, the five year old continued to thrash in the older Illyrians hold.

“Please Mistress Cordelia,” she begged, boots kicking at the stone floor as they reached the stair case which led to the manor’s sleeping quarters and the study of the Illyrian Lord of Vornhale, her father. As a very traditional, respected male within the settlement, Tobias Blackwell took his position as “Lord” with the upmost seriousness. Although he was not her real father, he and his wife Thera had taken Noelle in as a newborn, raising her as their own after her mother had died in childbirth and her father was never identified. Thera had been being longtime friends with Noelle’s late mother, and with a yearning for a daughter of her own after two boys, taking her in was an easy decision to make.

Reaching the top of the dark stone steps in a much calmer manner in which their showdown began, Noelle, ever the antagonist, muttered, “Stupid hag”. Her governess froze and stared for a moment then promptly grasped a fistful of Noelle’s hair, white locks tangled in the firm grip of the weathered female’s hand and promptly began to be dragged through the halls.

“Let go! Let go!” she begged, body jerking as her white Illyrian wings grazed the floor, “I’ll walk to my room myself please Cordi, oh please.” Her feet shuffled clumsily in an attempt to keep up with the fast pace she was being pulled along at, wincing as her hair was tugged relentlessly.

“Deciful child,” Cordelia seethed, “No supper for you tonight, and Lord Tobias will be informed of this beastly behaviour,” Noelle whimpered at her words, “You have no right to act this way”, she went on “after you were blessed by the cauldron to be housed with the Lord and Lady of this house.”

Her room was fast approaching, the guards, glacing at her as she passed by, beginning to light the torches along the halls as the day shifted to night, “Do you know how many Illyrian children would kill to be in your position?” she continued, still walking, “A bastard, orphaned girl with nothing to her name being bestowed with riches, food and protection at her beck and call.” A look of disdain crossed her tanned face as they made their way inside the room, “You, child, are undeserving of the mother’s blessing. Stay here until morning. Do not leave.” Turning on her heels, she walked out and slammed the door behind her.

Huffing in admission, Noelle reached up to gently touch her tender scalp, flinching away as she made contact. Focusing on the kernel of light inside of her, she closed her eyes and rested her palm atop her pale blonde hair once more. Glowing light seeped from the tips of her fingers and weaved it’s way along the parts which still hurt, dissapearing into her skin where the pain quickly began to fade, faster than her fae healing could by hours.

Sighing glumly and rolling her eyes, Noelle stalked to the head of her large bed and rested her small hand on a mismatched coloured piece of stone which only just stood out against the rest of the wall. Pushing the stone forward with some effort, a mechanism inside the wall of her bedroom clicked and a hidden door way appeared before her, she quickly entered before it shut behind her. She didn’t like to resort to leaving her room this way as it always made things much more difficult, but it seemed as though she was out of options if she wanted to play in first snow of the winter season before morning came.

Noelle was a stubborn child and found it completely unfair how her adoptive brothers were allowed to enjoy extra play time and she was deigned to be stuck looking down at them from her bedroom window woefully. Having discovered this hidden passage way a few months beforehand, it quickly became her most harboured secret. She was sure no one in the manor knew of it’s existence and Noelle intended to keep it that way, it was very useful and this was her room afterall.

It was pitch black as she followed the dark path down a winding staircase. As no one knew of the passages existence, there was no servants to light the torches along it, and Noelle herself was much to small to reach and light them herself. So instead she rested both hands upon the walls on either side of her, tucked in her wings tightly so they wouldn’t graze the stone, and slowly made her way down. The walls were cold under her touch, and slightly slimy with something she tried not to think too hard about what it could be.

She had never been down the passage after sunset. Usually pockets of light shone through cracks in the walls, but today no such light was given. She had already pushed her own magic by healing herself earlier, so producing any light herself was out of the question.

Noelle began thinking of the many snow angels she planned to make once she got outside, giggling quietly to herself as she remembered Matteo’s sorry attempt at his own, which ended up looking more like a blob than an Illyrian boy. He tried to hit her after she had laughed at him but she had doged him like always. That was when she had been called inside by her governess and Matteo had scampered off to join Kraven like nothing had happened.

The wall began to grow more frosted under her touch, and the stairway downward began to flatten, signifying she had made it to ground level. She ran her fingers along the stone as she strived along, knowing she would soon be out in the fresh winter chill, yet as she walked, she suddenly felt metal and wood on her left. Stopping out of curiosity, she turned to her side and felt about still cloaked in darkness, managing to make out a the shape of a door, a cold, metal knob and a big key hole she managed to stick her finger through and wiggle around. She had not come across this door before in her secret adventures through the passage.

A tug in her chest pulled her closer to the wooden door in front of her, and the urge to continue in that direction became so overwhelming strong, Noelle decided it would be rude to ignore it. Fumbeling around for the door knob again, she twisted it slightly, and to her surprise it opened up into yet another corridor, yet at least this one was lined brightly with torches. Staring opened eyed for a short while at her discovery, the small girl grinned and followed along, forgetting all about the snow outside.

It was the screams that gave away what this place was to Noelle first, the next was the constant sound of dripping water, but the last was the rats which scurried along in front of her dress. Jumping back in horror as a small squeak escaped her, she grimaced. This was her father’s dungeon. She had been forbidden here as it was “no place for a girl”, but she wasn’t afraid. Yet. Nodding to herself in determination, brow furrowing, fists closing tightly, she marched on following the invisible thread which tugged her though.

As she ventured on, less torches had been lit and she felt a sense of real unease for the first time, speeding up slightly in hopes she could out run whatever it was which unnerved her, until finally she was stood in front of a small cell. The cell was only about double her own height and was barred with thick metal. There was a small window, also barred, at the top left side which blew in frost and ice cold winds which explained the intense cold she now felt. Due to it’s size, she doubted that even during the day time this cell would see much light at all.

She was about to head back when a small twitch of movement caught her eye. A small boy was staring right at her, his striking hazel eyes pierced right through her violet ones and his dark hair reminded her of her brother’s, except the child infront of her looked much less groomed, dirt was raked through the matted strands and smeared across his face and body. His supposedly tanned skin seemed sickly pale and the wings she could see protruding from his back were stiff and smaller than should be normal for an Illyrian at his stature. He couldn’t be older than she was.

Noelle approached the bars to the cell, hands finding purchase on two of the poles as she leaned her small face to fit through the space. “Hello”, she whispered cautiously, “I’m Noelle, my father is the Lord of this manor, who are you?”. The boy only stared back at her quietly, observing her and pressing himself further into the wall behind him as he crouched in on himself for warmth.

Noelle glanced to the small window once more and pursed her lips, huffing slightly, “Are you cold?” Silence from the boy across from her again. Stepping away from the cell, she nodded to herself, trying to figure out how in the name of the mother herself a little boy had come to find himself in the dungeons underneath her home.

“Well then,” she started diplomatically, clasping her hands behind her back as she began to pace up and down the front of the boy’s cell, holding eye contact, “You can’t have been here for long. I think I would know if a little Illyrian boy such as yourself has been living in my manor for the past five yea-”

“Four” the boy replied so quietly, Noelle would have missed it if she were not half fae herself, “what?” She stopped and watched as he shifted himself against the wall again, as if in pain. “Azriel,” he pointed to himself with a slender fingers, “is four.”

“Oh,” Noelle breathed, “so you can talk.” The boy, Azriel, nodded once sharply, face grim.

She smiled lightly at him, “I’ve never met anyone younger than me before, what in the cauldron are you doing down here anyways?” Azriel only narrowed his eyes at her, angling his head slightly upwards, the shadows bending around him so well she could hardly see his body. Her eyes caught on the rusted keyhole of the cell door, “you must not get out very often,” she whispered cautiously, Azriel stayed silent as she continued, “have you.. ever been out?” The boy shook his head “no” in a small movement. Noelle hummed in contemplation, “Well, this must be some sort of mistake, my father would never keep a child locked up in here lik-,”

“My father,” the boy’s voice sounded again, notably more confidently this time, “is Lord. Is Tobias.”

Noelle shook her head with a laugh of exasperation, “No silly, father has only 2 sons, Kraven and Matteo.” At the sound of her brother’s names Azriel cringed and she could physically see him close off again.

“You’ve met them.” she said, not a question. A nod. More confused than ever the five year old half Illyrian, half fae child continued her pacing as her thoughts raced. This changed the perception of everything for the youngling, she knew her father had a tendency to be cruel but this? The sound of chattering guards sounded getting closer, startling her into action. Looking back at the boy again, Noelle had made up her mind.

“Ok Azriel,” his name rolled smoothly off her tongue, “I will come back and visit again soon,” Azriel just stared at her, still wary, “I promise.” She dipped her head in goodbye and raced off towards the passage which would lead her back to her bedroom before she was caught.

Maybe Azriel could be her new secret.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That’s the first part done, hope you enjoyed! This is only the beginnings of Azriel and Noelle, their story definitely gets more interesting and will go right through from where we are now till present time in the acotar series!

Thanks for reading ❤️❤️

[thewitcheslibrary]

Hekate

One of the lesser-known deities in the Greek pantheon is Hecate. Being the only Titan to maintain her authority under Zeus' rule, she was the child of Perses and Asteria. The limits of the heavens, the earth, the oceans, and the underworld were not able to contain Hecate's might.

The stories surrounding the goddess Hecate tell us a lot about her domains of influence even if there aren't many myths about her. Many of her characteristics were associated with the underworld in the time of the Romans. But she also had power over things that positioned her squarely in the spotlight. The goddess held great abilities that other gods eventually adopted. Hecate could provide money and benefits to those who worshipped her, but she could also withhold these gifts from those who did not honour her sufficiently. This essay will examine the characteristics and emblems of Hecate.

The origins of Hekate:

Classicalists disagree over where the worshippers of Hecate came from in ancient Greece. There are many who trace the origins of goddess worship back to pre-Greek times, while others trace it back to Thrace. The most widely recognised theory is that Hecate came from the Carians in Asia Minor and was incorporated into Greek religion. Scholars say that the deity is said to have arrived in Greece in the Archaic period. The quantity of cult sites devoted to the goddess Hecatean attests to the adoration of the goddess in Caria. These were particularly noticeable in Lagina. Nonetheless, other classicists contend that the goddess cannot have an Anatolian origin because of the late dates of these Anatolian worship sites.

According to historical accounts, Hecate initially appears in the seventh century BCE in Hesiod's Theogony. Hesiod just makes reference to her parents and her part in the Gigantomachy, in which she slew Clytius. She is noticeably missing from the Homeric epics, though. The most famous literary appearance of Hecate is perhaps her portrayal in the Homeric Hymn to Demeter. Hecate and the sun god Hyperion hear Persephone's screams as Hades kidnaps her in the song. Hecate appeared to Demeter on the tenth day, holding a lamp, after she had been looking for her daughter for nine days.

The goddess did not know who had abducted her daughter, but she informed Demeter what she had heard. Hecate gave Persephone a hug once she was reunited with Demeter. When Persephone went back to Hades every year, she would become her underworld companion. One common iconography associated with this narrative is Hecate holding a torch.

Her divine duties:

In Greek religion, Hecate was entrusted with a wide range of heavenly responsibilities. She was most famously the goddess of the moon, sorcery, witchcraft, darkness, light, and ghosts. She was also the goddess who guarded entranceways and oikos.

As a triple goddess, Hecate was closely connected to the intersection. She was described as a liminal deity with effortless passage from the underworld to the outside world. Her ability to transition between her roles as a goddess and a Titan came from her mythology and lineage. Her cult names and epithets, such as Propylaia (of the gates), Trodia (frequenter of the crossroads), and Enodia (on the path), witness to her liminality.

Lucan's Pharsalia had solidified Hecate's status as a goddess of witchcraft and sorcery by the first century CE. In the Pharsalia, the witch Erichtho calls upon Persephone, the lowest manifestation of Hecate. We discover the hag-like characteristics bestowed to Hecate in the Pharsalia.

Ghosts and Lampades, or nymphs of the underworld, were part of her entourage. Legend has it that Zeus gave Helen the Lampades as a present for her allegiance to him during the Titanomachy. The goddess goes at night with the Lampades, who bear lamps. Depictions of the goddess:

Greek ceramics frequently featured Hecate as a single figure, dressed in a long gown, clutching torches. At intersections and gateways stood the pillars of Hecataea, the goddess of torch-bearing. Later, the most common iconography of Hecate shows her as a triple-formed goddess, each form standing behind the other and facing a different way at a crossroads.

She added the Graces dancing around the goddess, like in the top image, to some of her sculpture votive offerings. She is accompanied by a pack of dogs in some depictions. Pausanias claims in his Description of Greece that Alcamenes, a sculptor, was the first to show Hecate in her triple-form about the fifth century BCE. He adds that next to Wingless Victory's temple on the Acropolis in Athens was a sculpture of the goddess Hecate Epipurgidia (on the tower).

Hecate is shown as trimorphic on the well-known Pergamon Altar (c. 2nd century BCE), battling a monster that resembles a snake with the aid of a dog. Hecate's triple form was shown as three distinct bodies around a central column throughout antiquity. However, this depiction changed into a single goddess with three heads in late antiquity. Hecate is described as having three heads in esoteric literature from this era: the heads of a dog, a serpent, and a horse. Hecate was also associated with other deities from neighbouring pantheons.

Connectivity With Artemis:

Hecate, also known as Ἑκατη, is derived from the Greek term hekatos, which means "worker from afar." One of the most prevalent epithets for Apollo is the male version, Hekatos. This Apolline epithet, according to researchers, associates Hecate with Artemis, a goddess with comparable realms of power. The goddesses had many of the same characteristics. In most depictions, both goddesses were seen with dogs, holding torches, and dressed in hunting boots. Frequently, they were combined to create a twin goddess, as seen in Aeschylus' Suppliants. The chorus in Aeschylus' play refers to the two goddesses as one. The goddesses are once again consolidated in Aristophanes' Frogs (1358f), when the goddesses are called upon by the figure of Aeschylus. Connectivity with Artemis-Selene:

Hecate was combined with the goddesses Artemis and Selene throughout the Roman era, especially in Roman poetry. She was referred to by her Roman name, Trivia, in addition to her combined triple form. By referring to Hecate as Hecate-Selene and other such monikers, the Roman authors fostered her trimorphic representations. Seneca makes many references to Hecate along with her lunar equivalents, even drawing a connection between the goddess and Medea.

Connectivity with Iphigenia

Hecate was identified by early ancient accounts as the daughter of Agamemnon, Iphigenia. Pausanias quotes Hesiod as saying that Artemis's will transformed Iphigenia into Hecate, not killing her. Hecate was sometimes identified in this way with a deity known to the Tauri as Iphigenia. Connectivity with Hermes:

Hecate was identified as the wife of this chthonic Hermes in many ancient traditions. Hermes also had chthonic features. Being gods of the dead, Hecate and Hermes were able to cross borders and liminal zones between realms. First appearing in the first century BCE, the Roman poet Propertius proposed a link between these two gods.

Hekate's sacred animals:

The dog was Hecate's most holy animal, as was previously indicated. The sound of dogs barking from the underworld is described by Apollonius of Rhodes as accompanying Hecate. Pausanias and Ovid, two ancient writers, mention that dogs, especially black canines, were offered as sacrifices to the goddess. Additionally, scholars have proposed that Hecate's connection to dogs is indicative of her function as a goddess of birth. This is so because other birth goddesses, such Eileithyia and Genetyllis, also revered dogs as their holy animals. Hecate's hounds were later connected to the restless spirits of the deceased that followed the goddess in antiquity. Queen Hecuba's transformation into a dog is associated with the goddess Hecate. After Troy fell, so the tradition goes, Odysseus took Hecuba as a hostage. But while travelling to Greece, the Trojan queen slew a Thracian king. Hecuba was punished by being changed into a black dog, which she later adopted as a pet.

The polecat, or weasel, was another animal considered sacred by the goddess Hecate. In the mythology recounted by Antonius Liberalis, Galinthias, Alcmena's midwife, tricked the gods when Heracles was born. Galinthias went to the goddess of childbirth, Eileithyia, after observing Alcmena experiencing labour pains. The Fates informed them that the child had been delivered and had prolonged the labour as a favour for Hera. Galinthias became a polecat in punishment for tricking the gods. Galinthias was chosen by Hecate, who felt sorry for her change, to be her friend and attendant.

Honouring the Goddess Hecate:

In mainland Greece, the worship of other Olympians was more common than the cult of the goddess. In the ancient world, the goddess had a small number of temples devoted to her. In the past, smaller home shrines dedicated to Hecate were typical. These little shrines were built to fend off evil and shield the person from sorcery. The three most important Hecate worship sites in Greece were on the island of Samothrace, in Caria, and in Eleusis.

The goddess was revered as a deity of the mysteries in Samothrace. Her worship has also been documented at Athens, Colophon, Thrace, and Thessaly. Dog sacrifices made in the goddess' honour have been documented in the last two cities. According to Pausanias, Hecate was the goddess most revered by the Aegina people, who thought Orpheus had instituted the goddess's ceremonies on the island. Pausanias also mentions a wooden representation of Hecate that is housed in the temple of Aeginetan.

Hecate has many Orphic Hymns, but no Homeric Hymn dedicated to her. Actually, a song honouring the goddess starts the collection of Orphic Hymns. Her significance stems from her function as a goddess of entrances. Many details concerning Hecate's realms of influence as understood by the Orphics may be found in the Orphic Hymn to Hecate. She was invoked as the goddess of highways and crossroads in their mysteries.

Most notably, she is also called the goddess of the dead, who presides over deserted places. In this hymn, her sacred animals include deer, dogs, and wild predators. She is described as the herder of bulls and a nurturer of youths, as well. The hymn beseeches the goddess to come to the holy rites in a favorable mood with a happy heart.

The more we discover about the goddess Hecate, the more fascinating she appears to be. Her role as a guardian is highlighted by her roles as a liminal figure and a goddess of pathways and entrances. However, her evil side is revealed by her function as a nighttime goddess of sorcery and witchcraft. Hecate is a complex character who merits consideration on par with the more well-known Greek pantheon gods.

Zeus granted Hekate jurisdiction over land, sky, and water (underworld). This was either given to her to aid the Olympians in their fight against the titans (her own "people") or after the event was completed. It wasn't "her power can't be contained"; she was shown to be worthy of the realms.

She was always a deity of witchcrafts and necromancy in ancient Turkey, but when the Romans came in, they kind of wiped off her necromancy features.

Offerings to give to her:

Edibles-

Breads - i personally give her garlic bread

Cakes

Pomegranates

Wines

Honey

Cinnamon

Garlic 

Onion

Milk

Chocolates

Non edibles-

Roses

Lavender 

Poppy seeds

Dandelions 

Blood: If you have ever battled with self-harm of any type or are easily nauseated at the sight of blood, DO NOT ATTEMPT. She cherishes your mental health and well-being more than anything you could ever offer it to her, and Hekate understands that you cannot give Her your essence! She is going to adore and defend you no matter what!

Incense she likes-

Frankincense

Lavender

Jasmine

Citrus - especially orange 

Dragons Blood

Other-

keys *

Candles 

Tea Lights 

Bones 

Fires - i.e. bonfires *

Oil lamps 

Lavender *

Crow/Raven/Owl Feathers - only feathers naturally fallen off 

Statues of Her and Her sacred animals *

Poetry, literature, and music you heavily associate with Her **

Witchraft books, spell books, dedicate any shadow work to her

Devote things to her-

Give food, clothing, toiletries, and other necessities to homeless shelters.

Visit cemeteries and, if permitted (please inquire beforehand), place flowers on the graves

Possess a plush toad, dog, or polecat.

Devote a meal or self care to her!

Give to the less fortunate. If you see a homeless person, get them a hot meal and a hot drink ect. Say a prayer to her before you do it

Share some tea with her or have a cup with her

Adding onto the sharing tea, sit at her altar with the tea and some cake. Talk to her, tell her about your day or ask her about hers

Do some baking and share what you baked

[podsprout]

On Yorick and the Hag’s Hand

So I’m not sure if anyone has talked about this yet but I have absolutely no idea how common knowledge this sort of thing is so I figured I’d share what I know.

I believe Yorick is interested in making a Hand of Glory or something similar. Now Hands of Glory in the historical sense are made from specifically a hanged criminal’s hand and then used by witches, but I can’t help but think of some of the similarities, especially when it comes to the “little black candles” Arthur picked up in the windmill.

When Yorick talks about stopping for the night to alter the hand the implication is they already have everything they need to do so, or at least that was my understanding. The candles being as small as they are seem perfect for applying to the fingers to make the classic Hand of Glory and while Arthur and John have in the past carried around seemingly random items that only have applicable use episodes later, this seems like a smart use for them.

(The only other uses I could think of were some sort of summoning ritual which would be an absolute gamble at best and a monumentally bad idea at worst considering what options they have for forces they’d be dealing with, OR just like, lighting up a room a little better? But it wouldn’t last for very long, and wouldn’t be practical when just the lighter works fine short term and something like a torch is more effective long term)

Hands of Glory are historically said to, when lit, freeze anyone who sees it in place. This power in itself definitely could have use, but with the already stretching of liberties in calling the Hag’s hand a potential Hand of Glory in the first place (not a hanged man, candles not made from hanged man’s tallow, some of the other historical preparation and pickling ingredients presumably not involved) I think it’s fair to say that the powers of the hand could be anything. More taking inspiration from than actually creating one by the definitions of our world.

Anyway this is all just theory and speculation but I’d be curious to know what other people think of this idea, and any other theories people might have!

[tsvwords]

We’ve killed maybe a dozen gods at this point - illegal deities, forsaken deities, and merely the unfortunate.

The movements come easy by now.

We hack down the maypole. Splinter the carvings into fragments. We torch the texts. Smash the stained-glass windows inside the church.

Where there are prayer-marks carved into stone, we extinguish their meanings, scraping our own meandering lines and shapes to obscure the original pattern.

Nobody who comes this way will be able to make sense of this. The homes and the bodies, we burn until there’s nothing left but trophies and carrion.

And then, once all memory of the Mire-Hag has been removed from existence, we make our own marks.

Mercer and I daub the quarry-blood across each other’s faces. Our teeth bright and our eyes laughing as we praise our god and claim his prizes.

After that, we move on.

— Chapter 16: And the Current Flows On Without End.

[carpexdiemm05]

Never After (SGE x Reader) - Chapter 2

Also read on Wattpad!

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I woke to the most brilliant pair of blue eyes I'd ever seen.

And a hand clapped over my mouth.

The sheets of my bed twisted as I writhed, trying to get out of my captor's grip.

"Shh," he said into my ear. "You belong with the others. Now sleep."

As he lifted his fingertip to brush my temple, I was forced to do just that.

***

When I woke for the second time, I was hacking up bucketfuls of water.

I leaned to the side and coughed until the last bits of moisture were dispelled from my lungs. My throat burned.

"Y/n!"

Then Sophie was there, throwing her arms around me and sobbing into my shirt.

"Wha—Sophie?"

"Oh, Y/n, you're okay!"

I gripped her upper arms and pulled her away from me enough so I could see her face. "What are you talking about?"

Her crying eyes were nearly frantic. "I don't know! All I saw was you dropped into the moat and then one of the wolves threw you onto shore but you weren't waking up for the longest time!" She pressed her hands to her tear-stained face and sobbed. "And Agatha's here but she was dropped into the School for Good! Oh, there's been a terrible mistake, they've mixed us up! I'm supposed to be where she is!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, calm down." I shifted to sit up more, wincing as my soggy clothes grated against my sand-crusted skin. "What do you mean? They've mixed what up?"

Sophie cried some more. "Don't you see? We've been taken to the School for Evil."

Something gripped the back of my collar and hauled me to my feet. I came face to face with the snout of a large gray wolf. Its breath stank of rotting carcass.

He pushed me into a line. I stumbled, nearly slipping on wet sand, but the soles of my boots found traction at the last second.

A pack of wolves stood—on two feet—in bloodred soldier jackets and black leather breeches, snapped riding whips to herd students into line. If any dawdled, a wolf delivered a swift crack, so I kept an anxious pace. I spotted Sophie a few heads in front of me, her golden locks making her stick out like a sore thumb.

The tower gates were made of iron spikes, crisscrossed with barbed wire. Nearing them, I saw it wasn't wire at all but a sea of black vipers that darted and hissed in our direction. I swallowed and breezed through. The rusted words held between two carved black swans over the gates read:

THE SCHOOL FOR EVIL EDIFICATION AND PROPAGATION OF SIN

Ahead the school tower rose like a winged demon. The main tower, built of pockmarked black stone, unfurled through smoky clouds like a hulking torso. From the sides of the main tower jutted two thick, crooked spires, dripping with veiny red creepers like bleeding wings.

The wolves drove the children towards the mouth of the main tower, a long serrated tunnel shaped like a crocodile snout. The tunnel grew narrower and narrower until I could barely see the child in front of me. I squeezed between two jagged stones and found myself in a leaky foyer that smelled of rotten fish. Demonic gargoyles pitched down from stone rafters, lit torches in their jaws. An iron statue of a bald, toothless hag brandishing an apple smoldered in the menacing firelight. Along the wall, a crumbly column had an enormous black letter N painted on it, decorated with wicked-faced imps, trolls, and Harpies climbing up and down it like a tree. There was a bloodred E on the next column, embellished with swinging giants and goblins. Creeping along in the interminable line, I worked out what the columns spelled out—N-E-VE-R—then suddenly found myself far enough into the room to see the line snake in front of me. For the first time, I had a clear view of the other students.

One girl had an overbite, wispy patches of hair, and one eye instead of two, right in the middle of her forehead. Another boy was like a mound of dough, with his bulging belly, bald head, and swollen limbs. A tall, sneering girl trudged ahead with sickly green skin. The boy in front of me had so much hair all over him he could have been an ape. They all looked about my age, but the similarities ended there. Here was a mass of the miserable, with misshapen bodies, repulsive faces, and the cruelest expressions I'd ever seen, as if looking for something to hate. One by one their eyes fell on Sophie and they found what they were looking for. The petrified princess in glass slippers and golden curls. The red rose among thorns.

I clenched my jaw.

We needed to get out of here as soon as possible.

I followed the line into a sunken anteroom, where three black crooked staircases twisted up in a perfect row. One carved with monsters said MALICE along the banister, the second, etched with spiders, said MISCHIEF, and the third with snakes read VICE. Around the three staircases, I noticed the walls covered with different-colored frames. In each frame there was a portrait of a child, next to a storybook painting of what the student became upon graduation. A gold frame had a portrait of an elfish little girl, and beside it, a magnificent drawing of her as a revolting witch, standing over a comatose maiden. A gold plaque stretched under the two illustrations:

CATHERINE OF FOXWOOD

Little Snow White (Villain)

In the next gold frame there was a portrait of a smirking boy with a thick unibrow, alongside a painting of him all grown up, brandishing a knife to a woman's throat:

DROGAN OF MURMURING MOUNTAINS

Bluebeard (Villain)

Beneath Drogan there was a silver frame of a skinny boy with shock blond hair, turned into one of a dozen ogres savaging a village:

KEIR OF NETHERWOOD

Tom Thumb (Henchman)

Then I noticed a decayed bronze frame near the bottom with a tiny, bald boy, eyes scared wide. A boy I knew. Bane was his name. He used to bite all the pretty girls in Gavaldon until he was kidnapped four years before. But there was no drawing next to Bane. Just a rusted plaque that read:

FAILED

I looked at Bane's terrified face and felt my stomach churn. What happened to him?

I gazed up at thousands of gold, silver, and bronze frames cramming every inch of the hall: witches slaying princes, giants devouring men, demons igniting children, heinous ogres, grotesque gorgons, headless horsemen, merciless sea monsters. Once awkward adolescents. Now portraits of absolute evil. Even the villains that had died gruesome deaths—Rumpelstiltskin, the Beanstalk Giant, the Wolf from Red Riding Hood—were drawn in their greatest moments, as if they had emerged triumphant from their tales. The other children gazed up at the portraits in awed worship.

Then, another portrait caught my eye. One of a boy grinning maliciously, clad in a tunic made of autumn leaves, hovering fifty feet in the air.

PETER OF MOAT BRAE

Pan (Villain)

I furrowed my eyebrows. What? No, that couldn't be right. Peter Pan was a hero. A boy who had slain Captain Hook and saved the Lost Boys from a lifetime of misery at the hands of Hook's crew.

One of the wolves shoved me forward. "Move along," he growled.

Turning the corner into a wider corridor, I saw a red-skinned, horned dwarf ahead on a towering stepladder, hammering more portraits into a bare wall. The frames on this wall held familiar faces. There was the dough boy I had seen earlier, labeled BRONE OF ROCH BRIAR. Next to him was a painting of the one-eyed, wispy-haired girl: ARACHNE OF FOXWOOD. I scanned the portraits of my classmates, awaiting their villainous transformations.

Then I saw the frame under his hammer. My own face smiled back at me.

I narrowed my eyes. I'm really considered to be Evil? Their standards must have dropped tremendously.

A dark-skinned hag with a massive boil on her cheek thrust a sheet of parchment into my hands, which outlined my schedule.

An ogre then dumped a ribbon-tied stack of books in my hands.

Best Villainous Monologues, 2nd ed.

Spells for Suffering, Year 1

The Novice's Guide to Kidnapping & Murder

Embracing Ugliness Inside & Out

How to Cook Children (with New Recipes!)

A spotted satyr threw a musty black fabric around my neck—the school uniform, a dumpy, tattered tunic that sagged like shredded curtains.

A scream drew my attention immediately. Across the way was Sophie, struggling against a wolf's hold.

"You don't understand!" she screamed. "It's all a mistake!"

The wolf bent down to her level and snarled.

"There are no mistakes."

[pagan-stitches]

This year I decided to make my thunder candle from a mullein stalk, inspired by the very inspiring Polish Folk Witch on her Instagram page. In both Poland and Czechia it was the tradition on Candlemas to have beeswax candles consecrated and then used in the household for a variety of folk magics—the most important of wich was protection against thunderstorms.

I melted a thunder candle from a couple years ago that no longer burned, using a makeshift double boiler from an old measuring cup that I use only for melting wax.

Then I slowly poured the beeswax over the mullein stalk in layers. On the last layer I sprinkled wisteria incense from Alchemy Works gifted to me by my dear friend @msgraveyarddirt who knows that my favorite spot in the spring is sitting in my lawn chair under the wisteria vine. The first picture in this post is taken at the foot of the vine.

Our wisteria:

An obligatory photo of the thunder candle in the window where it is supposed to burn in a thunderstorm to protect the house and a close up of the incense in front of the wisteria vine.

Here is a little history on the use of the mullein stalk as a torch (source):

There are two cultures from which Mullein earned its name as the ‘Candlewick Plant’. Once upon a time ago, ancient Romans dipped the dried flowering spikes of the Mullein plant in tallow or suet in order to make torches. Later, the Greeks found that the dried leaves of the mullein plant were ideal for use as a lamp wick. Prior to the introduction of cotton as a preferred wick material, mullein reigned supreme.

Hag’s Taper:

Mullein has long been a mysterious and mystical plant, favored by herbalists, holistic healers, and yes, presumably, even ‘witches’. There is a long-standing superstition that witches once used (or perhaps still use) mullein for illumination purposes during incantations.

[rainbowbarnacle]

@ceekari replied to your post “I've been kind of a doldrummy thing the past few...”:

Well now I wanna know what the line was :p

​For you, a preview:

You’re certain there has to be some hideous consequence for parting a hag from her penis quilt, but he refuses to let you torch it. Plus, it is pretty funny.

[jakehawkfield]

warning: watching all of the captives you rescued die in minutes to a shadow curse and cutting through them to put them out of their misery may result in a new MAC eyeshadow pallete

When she was plucked from the guard of her Lolth sworn community by illithids and given a chance to think and act for herself, for the first time in her life, Lyra tried her hand at being a good person. She rescued the tieflings, saved what captives she could manage from the hag, and freed the ironhand gnomes from their slavers. She urged all the prisoners at moonrise to seek refuge at last light inn under the Harpers guard, believing it to be the last beacon of safety for them.

When she and her party plundered the gauntlet of shar, at last reaching the Nightsong, the battle against Balthazar wiped lyra, karlach, and astarion from the field within moments. Only shadowheart was left standing, and she fought viciously for her dark lady, barely managing to put down her foe without sucummbing to her own wounds. Her party fallen, shadowheart approached the nightsong and without hesitation plunged her spear through its heart, completely severing what little grasp selune had on the region. Shadowheart ascended to justiciar, bathed in Shar's praise, as the moon priestess' magic faltered and last light was snuffed out.

Companions revivified, lyra ventured to last light to search for survivors. One harper still maintained her sanity, clutching a torch for dear life, completely surrounded by her comrades turned undead. Lyra fought to cut down the shadows but the harper succumbed, eventually, and the final survivor of last light was snuffed out. Lyra cut down the tiefling bards, the ironhand rebels, the blacksmith who saved karlach's heart - all the refugees she'd sent here, in hopes that they would be safe, were put down.

What little good she had brought to the world was snuffed out in an instant. She had been a fool to believe she could be more than her birth, more than what Lolth had deemed her to be. She was a soldier, touched by sorcerous magic so that she could kill and so that she could amass power in her goddess' name. Anything else was a distraction.

[adleryoung]

"This here plan is gettin too dang convoluted!" Burnside protested, brandishing her machete. "Just send me out to stab somebody. It'll be simple. I can just go out, gut everyone who gets in my way, save the dumb baker femme that you ain't never even laid eyes on nor spoken to so it's a wonder you care about her at all, an drag Didelphis back here for judgement. I'll get it all done in one night. There ain't a lowfolk born that can get the drop on me. The Ixies can bet on it."

"I don't like it," I objected.

"If you're so doggone worried about bein' Seelie, just remember it ain't Unseelie to stab somebody if he deserves it."

"No stabbing!" I insisted.

"Fine, I can slash instead."

"That's a bad idea," I persisted, "for the same reason that nailing headless torsos to trees is a bad idea. It may inspire fear but it also draws attention and will cause mass outrage that will spread and bring all the lowfolk on this island right to these woods, with torches and pitchforks. If it turns out this situation requires assassination, and I really hope it doesn't, it would have to be done cleanly, precisely, and secretly so it cannot be traced back to me or my coven. I do not want my organization associated with sloppy and wasteful mass murder!"

"You sounded almost like Ash for a second there," Burnside grinned as she lowered her machete. "All right, I can wait."

I scowled at Burnside for a moment, then directed my attention to the witches.

"All right, all right," I called. "If everyone could please focus and answer my question: Is Didelphis worth saving?"

"Um, no way," Gretchen declared. "She's trying to get us all killed. She's proven herself to be a mean and selfish old hag that doesn't care about any of us. Throw her under the ant-coach, I say."

"She was a pretty crappy coven leader," Petunia added. "She promised us dark power beyond our wildest dreams, but every meeting we would spend a few minutes looking at the same grimoire, and the rest of the night listening to her rant about baking and how much she hated Oonagh. Letting her get burned by an angry mob is probably karma or something. Nothing of value would be lost."

"I don't really like the idea of anyone being killed," Chloe shrugged, "but saving her would only give her another chance to betray us again."

"I'm disappointed with all of you," Rebecca scowled. "Didelphis must be saved."

"What? Why?" the other witches asked in chorus.

"Didelphis represents what all of us could end up being," Rebecca explained. "Especially me. She was a social outcast who spent so much time wallowing in her darker aspects that she eventually believed that was all there was to her. Think about it! She's actually proud of the fact that she's a hideous, mad crone. If I hadn't met Lord Randall, that's exactly what I would have become. I was on that path, but now I'm on a different one and I can hardly wait to share with you what I've learned. If we all get a chance at a happier life, then Didelphis should too. I volunteer to pose as Didelphis like our lord said. I know her better than the rest of you, because I always arrived for coven meetings early, and stayed late to help her around the house and maybe get more pointers on being a witch. I think I can imitate her mannerisms convincingly enough."

That wasn't good. I didn't want to risk my organization's most valuable member (next to Vernier of course) but it would be a mistake to blurt that out in front of the other witches. Plus, I was 99 percent sure Rebecca was an elf, so telling untruths would be a problem for her. It could damage her emerging magickal ability.

I was just about to say something, when an Ixie buzzed up to me and gave a salute.

"Sire, I have more information. There is in fact a ring-leader whipping the rabbit mob into a frenzy. They call him Parson. As best we can tell, he careth not if Didelphis's story is true. He seemeth to be doing this merely to strengthen his influence in the rabbit village. We have also learned that there will be a jury for the trial. Oonagh is popular enough in the town, they were willing to give her that much. If the rest of the coven cannot be found in two days time, then the trial commenceth without them."

Pretty suspenseful, eh? This seems like a good place to pause. I need to take a short break to moisten my throat. In the meantime, why not be like the Ixies and place bets on the coming sequence of events. How do you think I handled this situation? Did Didelphis survive? Did Oonagh?

Discuss among yourselves while I hunt down a decent bottle of wine.

[iomadachd]

Necromantic Herbs: Plants of the Dead

Sourced from Grey Necromancer (deactivated) on Wordpress:

There are a number of plants which can be extremely useful to the necromancer. Among these are the following.

Mullein: Erroneously described as a substitute for graveyard dirt, this in fact is a misconception. Known as the “Hag’s Taper”. The soft leaves are used as candle wicks and the dried stalks are soaked in beeswax or tallow to make a torch for rituals of necromancy. It is also burnt to see manifestations of spirits of the dead at night, to see into the Otherworld, and communicate with the spirits and deities that dwell there. Can also be used in talismans.

Wormwood: Used for summoning spirits and to help them manifest.

Cedar: The dried needles when smouldered serve both as a sustaining feast and call for the blessed dead, and the smoke is used to exorcise malevolent shades. The wood works for this purpose as well when turned into a fetish or as a staff.

Dittany of Crete: Used to aid in the manifestation of the spirits of the dead. Also has somewhat of a nasty reputation because of where it tends to grow. Harvesters tend to fall from the cliffs and crags where it grows and plummet to their death.

Aconite: Also known as Wolfsbane or Monkshood. Because of its incredible toxicity it is better to not to harvest it. If one has the dried root it can be preserved in order to serve as a tutelary spirit. Not to be used by amateurs.

Yew: Known in European countries as the Death Tree, it is a symbol of death, reincarnation, and longevity. Is planted in graveyards to protect the spirits of the dead. It can be used to banish malevolent spirits of the dead. Often associated with sorcery and dark magic. It is considered the sister of the Tree of Life, the birch.

Apple: Considered the food of the Irish dead and the inhabitants of the Otherworld. Can be added to incense blends to feed the spirits of the dead and ancestors.

Mugwort: Ingested as a tea to aid in divination and talking to the dead. Also boiled in water and, then the liquid is used to wash divination tools.

Copal: Serves as a offering to the dead and can be used to appease the spirits who remain in states of trauma or confusion after death.

Willow: The wood of the willow is used in incenses and in the construction of fetishes dedicated to the dead.

Tobacco: May be presented as a herbal offering upon a ancestral altar or a grave in the form of a incense or sacramental smoke to honor the shades of the dead.

Cypress: The oil of this tree serves as a great addition to incenses and formula of the underworld.

Myrrh: The oil aids in all blends of a necromantic design. Can also be mixed into incenses.

Graveyard Mold: Technically no folklore or magical traditions associate this herb with necromancy of any kind. However I have included it here because I believe it can be used as a compound in necromantic incenses. Since it grows on graves it should contain some of the essence of the dead.

Mandrake: According to legend King Solomon carried a piece of this root in his seal ring to give him sovereignty over souls. Since one of its names is the “Little gallows man” it can be used as a poppet for laying curses of death, illness, pain, etc.

Birch: Petitions and blessings are written on the bark of this tree which is then burnt or buried in the grave of the spirit.

Bay Laurel: Used to communicate with the dead, possibly through use as an incense. Easily available in the form of bay leaves.

Chervil: Also known as garden chervil or “gourmet’s parsley” a tea or other drink made with it can be imbibed to aid in rituals of communion with the dead.

Lavender: Burnt as incense in order to bring peace of mind to the dead.

Marigold: Associated with funerals and used in funeral sprays.

Asphodel: In Greek legend is connected with the dead and the underworld. Sacred to Hades, Persephone, and Hekate. The roots were eaten by the poor of Greece and hence thought good enough food for the dead. Could be burnt as incense or the roots could be given as food offerings.

Thyme: Burnt as an incense helps ease the soul of a person who died a violent death.

American Sycamore: Known as “Ghost Trees” for their distinctive patchy appearance. Associated with the dead and poverty.

Elder: In Norse mythology the tree is considered the Guardian of the Road to Hel (and thus sacred to Hela, Goddess of the Dead). Also associated with the ancestors.

[saint-severian]

The Hearth-Keepers

Dark Laith walked slowly up the gravel path that lead up to the holy hill. It felt right to take his time and walk with some air of contemplation and gravity in such a ceremonious moment, but in truth he was also filled with a strange dread and wanted to prolong his meeting with the hearth-keepers. With the sun so low already, the pine trees surrounding him created a dense shade in the forest, and without the torches he would not be able to see. The forest floor was cleaned of brush but the trees were enormous and thick with age. There was an alien, almost undetectable humming feeling in the moist saltwater air here that reminded him of his childhood trips to the forest of Hercynia. Some spirits surely dwelt here, as there, he thought, though perhaps not of the same kind, perhaps less kind to men, more eager to haunt mortal life. Laith's brother had loved the terrifying spacious abyss of the "enchanted" Hercynian wood, had ran through the endless dark forest like he was truly a wolf, born to chase through its timber halls, but only had been dragged away as a pup to mankind. Laith had felt the gods there before he even stepped under the first tree. He had dreamt of them, saw the horror of their bestial faces in the night. They called to him and he knew how real they were.

He felt the gods again here, at the holy hill. He could taste them on the salty air, smell them in the damp earth and hear them in the howl of the cold sea-wind through the tops of the ancient trees. He shivered from that wind and curled his toes in his shoes to push blood back into them, wrapped his fur mantle tighter around him. This country was deeply cold, in every inch of its land.

He glanced to Sindri ahead of him. He was piously silent in the approach to the hill, and Laith was gladly surprised. He hadn't thought such a man to be capable of piety, but there were many things about Sindri Whitemane that did not fit. "Eccentric" is the word Laith's father might have used, smirking, for the hulking white-haired captain. "Insane" is what his mother might have judged. Neither of them were here now, in this forest, Laith thought, only me, Sindri, and the gods, creeping behind each tree, peeking out at me like foxes.

The smell of wood-smoke entered Laith's nose and the lulling crackle of a bonfire could now be faintly heard. How sweet it would be to sleep by that fire after the day - the year? - Laith had been through. No rest yet, Laith thought, and summoned his wits out of the drifting space inside him and into the ritual ahead. 

"You do remember the words, don't you, dark creature?" Sindri asked. His voice was calm but imperious as always, but quieter now. 'Dark' he had called him, as everyone did - but was it an insult when it came from Sindri? Laith wondered. Laith's dark brown hair and greyish pale skin was unusual among other gilded men, and made him look like a foreigner. But then Sindri's white hair and orange-tan skin marked him, too, as coming from a queer outlander tribe. Sindri seemed to sense Laith's thoughts and glanced back with his smouldering scarlet irises and smirking mouth.

"Of course." He reviewed the ritual words once more in his head as the bonfire clearing came into sight.

"It's not the end if you forget," Sindri said, "For me anyway. For you, well... you've had a decent life if these hags end it for you tonight."

Although Laith's kin claimed to practice the same faith as these southerners, this was quite another thing than the tidy timber temples adorned with tapestries and neat stone hearths in his homeland up north. Before him was a clearing in the forest on the edge of a rocky cliff overlooking the bay. Tall stones stood in a large ring around a huge bonfire in the center of the clearing. The stones were covered, every inch, in elaborately carved runes and diagrams whose hollow divets had been painted. Animals, men, monsters, and gods leered out at Laith from the faces of the standing stones. The white-cloaks stood all around, within the circle of stones and outside it, peering like he imagined the gods peering from behind the trees, only the shimmering reflection of red flame in their eyes revealing them. Old men, all of them, perhaps a few more than a dozen, as far as Laith could see. White and grey beards flowed out of the white woolen hoods. Their long, clean white cloaks were tied at the waist with woolen belts dyed red and orange and trimmed with repeating red patterns at the sleeves and hoods. They were somber and still as the standing stones.

A tall priest stepped forward from out of the dark and asked:

"Who comes this way to the hearth of the gods?"

Sindri answered: "Sindri, just a wanderer, comes here, to warm his blood by the old fire."

The tall priest replied: "This wanderer may make an offering." At this Sindri performed the ritual and took his place by the side of the assembly of priests standing in the shadows of the stones.

"Who else comes this night?" said the tall priest. Laith stepped forward into the light of the bonfire and looked into the priest's face as far as he could. Sharp, angular features were chiseled into a long and serene face which had seen much more in life than Laith.

"Laith, just a wanderer, comes here, to warm his blood by the old fire."

"This one too may make an offering."

Laith detected a hint of amusement in the old man's distant eyes. Laith slung his pack out from behind him and took out the tiny goat-kid that had been gently sleeping in it. He carried it forward onto the stone table as Sindri had done moments before. He spoke the words in the ancient language of the elves and tried not to think of what he was doing as he cut the animal's throat with the bronze dagger. He felt some shame at having to repress his sympathies for such an insignificant creature as the blood spilled from its neck on to the dagger, onto his hands, onto the stone table. He had done well enough - it had not had a chance to cry out. He put down the dagger and picked up the animal, dark blood rushing out from its throat, carried it to the edge of the fire. When the flames were hot on his face he took another step forward and flung the beast into the ancient pyre. On the ground at the base of the fire countless charred bones of sacrifices from throughout the ages formed a thick ring. A man-skull stared back at him for a moment, he thought... but surely not. He switched his eyes back to the corpse of the small animal embedded on the logs, its fur beginning to burn off. He stepped back, the burning on his face relieved, looked at the tall priest, and took his place next to Sindri. Laith wondered if he had really joined Sindri's kin as the ritual intended, or if he had merely abandoned his own gods. Sindri smiled at him, then at the priest. Now their talk, the talk of grown men, could begin, and soon, Laith prayed like the child he really was, I will be able to sleep.

[blame-my-muses]

...I have two cauldrons in view of my current seat, as well as a hag torch, a chalice, and several shelves worth of books on herbalism, folklore, and various magical practices. So uh. Yeah, that tracks.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

alright babes, uquiz time.

find out who you would be in fantasy society. i’m reblogging with a link so tumblr doesn’t hide this. 

[scribeofskyrim]

Fredas, 5th of Sun's Dusk, 4E 201

This is the longest day I've had in a while. We're all exhausted, but Thank the Nine, we're alive.

We're in an old Nord crypt that's partially a cave that we found hidden behind a bookcase in the cellar of a little house in the woods.

And that's how we're ENDING the day!

All right, I'm practically dead on my feet but if I don't write down what happened I know sleeping will be useless. It'll be full of nightmares, I know it.

This morning we left the Vilemyr Inn, and as we followed the road towards Orphan Rock, I mentioned the bounty Wilhelm told me about last night. It wasn't far away, so I convinced the others that we should take care of it.

The fact that the bandits were in a Dwarven ruin had nothing to do with Valdimar's eagerness to go, I'm sure.

It was practically right next to an Imperial camp, so I sold what I could to their quartermaster (he didn't have a lot of gold on him) and we went to the ruin.

As luck would have it there was already a party of adventurers there, and they killed the bandit chief, but then they just left. We killed three bandits, so who does the bounty go to?

The others weren't sure either. I'll just ask the jarl whenever we end up going to Riften.

We got back on the road, and soon came upon a little shack just off the road. I poked my head in, and it was obvious that an alchemist lived there! There were ingredients everywhere, and even a butterfly in a jar. We didn't see any sign of them, but there was a journal. I read it, and the alchemist was excited to be staying here, and having good luck with their garden. I looked out back and saw their workstation.

I didn't touch anything, although I was sorely tempted. I'm not an amazing alchemist, but I felt a bit of professional courtesy was in order, and the others nodded in approval.

Okay, I did take ONE Deathbell from their garden to use in a poison, but they had six or something. One wouldn't be missed.

As I was making potions, Valdimar pointed out that it was getting on noon, and we still had a ways to go.

I was aware.

I finished up, then we kept going through a split in the mountain. It started to get snowy, and steep, and I had to get out a torch and use my spells to keep myself warm. The rocks press in close on both sides through there, and we stayed quiet to avoid an avalanche. Aside from a few dead travelers, with no sign of what killed them, nothing happened.

I tried to shake the thought that I might have been there before, but I think the cold would have woken me, then.

Which way did that wagon bring me?

Anyway, the snow stopped as we got out of the cleft in the rocks, but Erandur and I were still starting to freeze. We were getting close to Orphan Rock, but I could hear the sound of an anvil nearby, too.

Anvils mean fire, so we hurried to the sound. We found a Stormcloak camp not far from where we were going, and I took some time to warm up and do some trading with their quartermaster, too!

Here's a secret - I bought some Ebony armor for Lydia at the Imperial camp, and they had another piece here, so I bought that, too. She's very happy now to have a full Nordic set, so I'm going to wait on giving her these until I have all the pieces.

Once we warmed up a bit, we continued on our way to Orphan Rock.

Orphan Rock, true to it's name, is a small rocky outcrop with a hagraven hut and altarspace on top that you can only reach by crossing a fallen log that connects it to the mountainside. We ran into a trio of hags as soon as we approached, and apparently they forgot about the Frost Rune they'd laid down because one of them stepped right on it as they charged us!

They weren't too hard to take care of, and we continued around the base to find our way up to the log. Another hag jumped out from behind a little bit of wall at us, but she wasn't expecting a dog to lunge at her face!

I let the others handle her, and ran straight for the hagraven. I don't know what came over me then, but now, I'm pretty sure I was just trying to get rid of the mounting panic any way I could.

I'm pretty sure I caught a glimpse of Helgen before we left the road.

Lydia asked what I was doing while I ran across the log bridge, and I just yelled back, "Something Stupid!"

It actually wasn't stupid, but it sure as hell didn't feel like it! I summoned a Flame Atronach behind the hagraven, and poisoned my dagger with a paralysis poison while she was distracted. We were both exposed up there, but with no hags to defend her, she was an easy target for the others while I mostly concentrated on blocking her claws once the poison wore off.

I'm still not good at wards, but I'm getting there.

We got her, and she had Nettlebane. It's a strange knife. It's similar in shape to my Ebony dagger, but very rough. The others said it was Ebony, but it's not forged. It's got a chipped edge, like a stone axe.

It feels as old as it looked. It reminds me of Old Magic.

I'll be happier once it's out of my pack.

There was an enchanting table there, and I took a moment to get some practice in - We'd picked up a few items I didn't know the enchantments on - and Valdimar once again pointed out the time. It was mid-afternoon, now. We'd have to hurry if we wanted to make it to Falkreath.

I said I knew, and I felt the chill start to hit me, again. There was a little tent for the hags off to the side, and they had a fire, so we went over there and I pulled out the cookpot.

The others were thankful for the warm food, but they were looking at each other in a way that said they wanted to say something.

Finally, Lydia sighed and said I was stalling.

She was right, but I wasn't happy about it, and I admit, I snapped at her when I told her as much.

I'd been stalling all day.

They knew, and offered to turn back. We could just go around the mountain. There wasn't a time limit on us or anything, but I was wound too tight to listen.

I think I should've. It feels like a mistake coming here, but oh, well.

I insisted that we keep going, and they reminded me that they were with me. I did apologize for snapping, and they understood.

I'm glad I have them. I couldn't have made it through what happened next without them.

We went back to the road, and started towards Helgen.

You know, I can't remember much of what happened next. Cooking by the fire did warm me up a bit, but I do know that as we got close, I was starting to freeze again. Damn Liar's Sun.

I remember going up to the gates, and I turned to look, and there was…

There was a body on a stake RIGHT THERE.

I think the horror was just too much and it got to me. The gate was locked, but locks don't mean anything to me!

I flung the gate open and there were bandits. I remember fighting them, but I was so very cold, and there were charred ruins all over the place, and some burned bodies, and with the bandits yelling and screaming my sight narrowed into a tunnel.

I was too panicked to go down, though.

I know I fought, but I ran while I did. I think I was retracing my old steps, but I was confused because I wasn't sure how to get out without going through the tunnels, and I remembered the cave-in, so I couldn't leave the same way.

I don't know how I got there, but I ended up tripping over the headsman's block. I was alone and confused and cold and scared and all I could hear was that terrible roaring in my ears that I now know was speech and I can't brea-

/\/\/\/\/\

Valdimar, here.

Your spirit wound opened up again, and you were wheezing and it woke me. Don't feel bad, lass, it's fine with me! I'm always happy to help, you know that.

I'm not one for writing - I normally just read - but you asked me to write what happened next for you, and it's no trouble.

Well, we couldn't find you, and you weren't answering when we called out, but Septim led us straight to you.

We found you by the executioner's block, Shouting at a bandit that was running up to chop you in half! You did that scary one, the one you used on that wizard, and he ran, but Septim chased after him and came back later looking mighty pleased with himself.

He's a good dog.

But you were shaking and near frozen to death! Erandur only lasted longer because he used his Ancestor's Wrath to warm up.

He taught a bunch of bandits a quick lesson on why you don't mob a Dunmer in a fight!

We found a brazier outside the main keep. We got you to the fire and offered to take you inside, but you refused.

Erandur was calming you down - He's good at that - and once you started to come back to yourself you saw that he was cold, too.

I know I laughed then, and I'm laughing now.

Good to hear you laugh about it, too.

I'll finish this part, then hand the quill back.

You started to fuss over him being cold, and when he tried to tell you that he would be fine and you should worry about yourself, you grabbed him by the collar and said that if you thought any more about how you were feeling you'd lose it, and that fussing over him was the only thing keeping you from thinking too hard about the fact that you're sitting by a fire in Helgen surrounded by burnt-out buildings and charred corpses!

He held up his hands and said that yes, he was cold, and you could fret away. Worry all you like!

You got out some soup to heat up for all of us, and just fussed over Erandur in general to keep your mind off of Everything. I stood there with you two while Lydia and Septim went back the way we came to find a way out.

You know, she calls him Stupid, but whenever it's her turn to cook she always gives him one of the good cuts. Plays Fetch with him, too, when she's out patrolling. I don't know if you knew that.

You seemed a lot better once you'd had a chance to warm up, and Lydia came back to let us know she'd found the way out.

We got in formation and you kept your head down, and we got the hell out of there.

\/\/\/\/\/

He's a good man. I'm really glad Idgrod assigned him to me.

He got me a drink of water and some food to eat. He was surprised that I'd "let" him write in my journal, but I couldn't write any more about what happened there.

Okay, the look on Erandur's face when I grabbed him by his cloak and pulled him almost to my nose was pretty funny!

Anyway, we left Helgen, and went as quickly as we could along the road. It was getting late, and we found this place.

At first it looked just like any little homestead by the road, but I was curious and wanted to stick my head in. I don't know why. Maybe I just wanted a distraction.

The door was locked, but we got in and a bandit rushed up the cellar steps, swinging a huge axe!

We fought him, and I looked over the room. There was a note stuck to the wall with a dagger. It was a warning from "Rigel Strong-Arm" saying that Roras was dead because he tried to get into her treasure room, and that if anyone else tried it, they'd end up dead, too.

Treasure Room sounded good to me, so I went down to the cellar to investigate.

The top floor is very plain, but the cellar is nice! There's a bed, shelves, a fireplace, and a suspiciously chill breeze coming from underneath a bookcase.

We also found a note on a table there from Rigel to "Rhorlak" - probably who we just killed - saying something about a mold(?) but that he'd have to keep selling wood to keep up the front.

Pretty good setup, actually. Knock over carts that pass by, and just pretend you're a normal woodcutter living by yourself out here.

There's a button on the wall by the bookcase, and when you press it the bookcase opens to reveal a tunnel.

It leads down here into the ruins. There's a large main room with pillars and wooden walkways between them, and some dead bodies that were clearly victims of the bandits. There are some side rooms and tunnels going off it. It's pretty maze-like, actually, and easy to get turned around.

We also found more bandits, but they were mostly just in pairs, and not hard to get rid of.

While we picked up what loot we could - It was mostly supplies, but I'm not complaining! - I found several notes from Roras on a few bandits, looking for their help to break into Rigel's treasure room. Said he knew a guy whose cousin knows a guy…

Yeah, I've heard that one before.

Anyway, we kept going into the next area, and that's where things got serious. It was the middle of the night, and we found their bunk area. As you can imagine, all Oblivion broke loose, but I came up with a plan, and I'm pretty proud of it!

The tunnel that leads to their sleeping area is only wide enough for one person, and has a bend in it. I summoned a Flame Atronach into the sleeping area, then got us all back in the tunnel. Erandur went first, casting spells and firing arrows at them until he got too tired to keep going. I stayed right behind the bend, completely safe from their arrows, and just kept healing him until it was time for Lydia and Valdimar to take over. I did the same for them while they cleared out the rest of the bandits who were coming after us.

Once the fighting stopped, we went back into the sleeping area (here) and then on to the next room, which clearly belonged to Rigel, their chief.

She was awake, and she was fuming. She fought like a mad sabercat! I bolted and led her out into the little dining area to the side here so we could surround her.

She's dead now, and I know there's more to explore, but we're too tired to go on. I don't care if we sleep until noon. We're just going to rest up and get going when we get going.

The treasure will be there tomorrow.

---

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