#hopefully its benign

[hmsmilkbone]

I am going to make bread tonight. It ferments, and then I cook it tomorrow. there shall be butter and temporary peace on earth in my corner of life.

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[apaleflame]

life update: my CT scan results came back and i have a lesion on one of my ovaries, which could potentially be whats causing all my urinary problems

[nvuy]

I saw the Boothill text messages leaks and he physically can not cry. How does this info make u feel 🎤

GIVE ME THAT 🎤

“Theoretical question…” Boothill gratefully takes the glass of wine you hand to him before you sidle up next to him in the grass. “…But say the sun was g’nna blow up tomorrow, and you were the only one that knew about it. What would you do?”

He pulls off his hat and rests it by his feet. He feels you staring at him. Your gaze is warm, yet something about it bothers him. Like you’re trying to read him.

He presses his lips together in a thin line.

“That’s definitely a question,” you murmur beneath your breath. “Why?”

He says nothing for a moment.

The warm breeze is gentle.

He’s still staring at the sunset when he replies, “dunno. ‘M curious.” His words are accompanied by a casual shrug.

He hears you shift, maybe slightly uncomfortable. The wine in your glass sloshes.

He takes a sip from his own glass. It’s not his favourite, but you can’t really afford anything to his tastes. But, for what it’s worth, the wine is nice, and good enough to take his mind off how his metal fingers still seem to tremble when he mentions the end of the world.

Sweet and benign on his tongue, just like you. He hums and studies the drink through the glass. Maybe cheap booze ain’t too shabby.

“I guess I’d spend it with my family,” you say. You, too, shrug.

“Would you tell ‘em?” He turns his head to look at you. “That the world’s endin’?”

He watches as you inhale.

Then, you say, “no.” There’s a light shake of your head to accompany your words. “I don’t want to scare them.”

That’s what he did, too. Many, many years ago.

He remembers seeing red smeared all over her little face. How it slowly turned a deep purple as she held her breath. How it then faded completely with its colour, and he lost sight of her gorgeous pinkish cheeks when she took her final breaths.

“What would ya say to them in the last minute?”

He can’t remember her voice anymore.

That lump in his throat swells, and it feels like a cold marble. He’s so tired of trying to swallow it.

“I think I’d be too busy crying like a baby, but…” It was a lighthearted joke as you nudge him in the side. He only lets out a humourless puff of air through his nose. “I’d tell them I love them. That they’re the best people I’ve ever known.”

Something heavy weighs in his chest like hot iron, burning and bubbling at the base of his throat. “Yeah. I get it.”

You touch his cheek gently. “You okay?”

He’s not. “‘M fine.”

“Would you stay with me?” you ask him. “Theoretically. If the world ended tomorrow?”

That cracks a smile on his face, though it’s light. “Sure I would. Theoretically.” The sun always felt nice on his face.

Your skin was even nicer against his. You rest against his shoulder, and he leans his head to press his ear to the side of your face.

“If my metal body’s good for anythin’, I’d try to shield you from the blast.”

You snort. “I appreciate it, though I don’t think even a cyborg can withstand the sun exploding.” You reach up and pet his hair. The white strands pool along your fingertips like running water.

He leans into your touch. “Still. I gots ta try.”

You sigh and flick his forehead lightly. “All theoretical, Boothill.”

The cowboy hums, and you feel it ripple across your skin like waves. “Course.”

“Hopefully the world doesn't end tomorrow,” you add. “You still haven’t taught me how to play the guitar.”

Boothill turns his head so his nose presses to the side of your face. Although his skin is cold, you feel warm and fuzzy. “Even if the world ends, I’d be happy right here.” He reaches down and pats your lap firmly.

He feels your face heat up and you groan. “You’re terrible.”

His cold lips press to your temple and he snickers. “You like it.”

[transfaguette]

always sucks when one of the biggest companies in a space is also The Worst

Unity, which for a long time the majority of indie games and several AAA titles have been developed in, recently announced a new “Runtime Fee” that would charge developers $0.20 per install of their game, starting January 2024. Retroactively!!!! Yes you heard that right. Got a new computer and want to reinstall your favorite game you bought 3 years ago? That’ll cost the dev $0.20, when they themselves make no additional money. A bad actor could, in theory, install a game hundreds of times just to hurt a developers bottom line. But even just in benign scenarios, its enough to threaten the viability of small indie studios. Even if devs wanted to jump ship now, number one they’d have to port all their games to a new engine, a monumental task on its own, and they’d have to learn a new engine and new workflow, new pipeline, etc. This is catastrophic to the indie scene.

And this isn’t handled through the platforms they sell their games on like steam or itch.io, it’s woven into the backend of the engine itself. Unity claims they have systems to detect piracy (but they’re proprietary and secret!) and developers won’t be charged for illegitimate installs. But none of us can be actually sure of that. They are literally making “piracy costs the devs money” a real actual legitimate argument.

And to top it all off, their ghoul of a CEO dumped his shares right before the announcement. They Knew this would be hated and they’re trying to get away with it anyway.

Do note, this only applies to games that already meet the threshold for profit sharing. If you are a hobbyist or making a project for school etc, this won’t affect you.

What can you do? Keep in touch with your favorite developers and indie publishers on social media. Hopefully with enough backlash and support for indie developers, they will retract.

[callmerhynner]

do you do requests and if you do can you do a deaf reader x saiki where she can only hear him bc he puts his voice in her head and gets super scared about it and realizes after why she got so scared

★; I do take requests, happily so actually, it just takes a while for me to finish so...

hope you enjoy!1!1!!

𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐬...

Life's weirdness pops its eery little head in every once in a while, that's a given. All it needs is a trigger. Though, if life had a trigger, you hope that your existence was the finger pulling it.

Because, there you stood with your eyes wide, mouth slowly unhinging itself, and hairs on the back of your neck raised.

You have been deaf for years, the continuous ear-related accidents affecting your hearing greatly. You've accepted that part of yourself, after months of grieving for it, and that you'll never get to hear more than what your hearing aids could provide.

So, why is it that, the one time you take it off, a boy with pink hair and two totally normal-looking hairpins bumps into you and you hear something a clear voice for the first time.

"Sorry." you hear, your heart drops at that. Hands lifting up to check for your aide, to feel nothing, as you watched the boy walk off to the desserts aisle of the supermarket.

You can't help but eye him for a moment or two, trying to piece together some form of explanation--there's no way that your hearing had suddenly just healed itself for a moment or the bump caused yourself to get an auditory hallucination.

Meanwhile, the psychic had. just realized his mistakes after hearing your mile-a-minute thoughts go wind at his mistake. Thinking of ways to fix his mistake, straying from the methods that were...morally questioning, like batting her head in public with the memory banana. Or to let her live her life thinking that she had now suddenly developed auditory hallucinations.

"Sir?" his train of thought halt, feeling a hand poke at his sleeve. He looked back, his body still facing forwards, but you could feel the cold gaze he had on you. When you fall quiet, he tilts his head--reading through your mind, he understands that you're starting to regret trying to confront what could simply be just your imagination.

To which, you give up, you just bow your head down and point at an advertisement starring a new delectable dessert package here in the market. "Which aisle..?" you say, just above a whisper, embarrassment creeping in as you retract your shaking hand from sight.

"Aisle 5, with the snacks."

. . .

"HUH?!" you shout a gasp in shock, jumping back like a stray cat.

'Good Grief...' the psychic mutters, realizing his mistake, once again.

--

One thing about losing one sense of the human anatomy, it trains all your other senses to heighten. Maybe that was why he couldn't get rid of you now. No lie was good enough, no excuse lasted long enough, and nothing intrigued you more than how he could talk to you.

He's tried to wipe your memory, however, you've soon become so benign, so grateful, in his presence that he gave in to your desire to hear something other than the blurred sounds you could hear off your hearing aide.

All you wanted was a voice to hear.

To talk to without feeling misunderstood or slowed down, because you couldn't talk right or that others couldn't understand you signed language.

Saiki simply lets you feel into this human experience that you haven't felt for so long--at the cost of manipulating your thinking pattern into thinking that you could hear him because of some telepathic that you had, with him.

So when people may ask you why you're always talking to him as if you could hear him, all you'd reply with was (even though Saiki would prefer to not be associated with anybody, or so he says):

"We're just friends like that" you hum, with a smile on your lips.

requests are kinda fun... hopefully my first shot wasn't that bad tho--

[a-court-of-mischief-and-madness]

Midnight revelations

Part 4------Part 5

Eris vanserra x rhysand sister reader!

Summary: with the mating bond between her and Eris revealed. Rhysand isn't too happy and asks her to use it to get information out of Eris. After being invited to a ball in the Autumn Court she isn't too sure if she wants to do that anymore.

A/n: sorry for the delay guys, this chapter is a bit short coz it was finals week and I did not get any sleep at all. Hopefully you guys enjoy this one!

Warnings: slight romance, mentions of blood! other than that nothing else.

A few weeks later, the tension in the Night Court was palpable. Rhysand received a note from Beron, summoning him to the Autumn Court. Rhysand, ever wary, gathered his inner circle for the meeting. They all knew Beron rarely summoned anyone without ulterior motives, and his intentions were never benign.

When they arrived at the Autumn Court, Beron was waiting for them, his eyes glittering with malicious delight. Eris stood by his father's side, his expression unreadable, though his eyes flickered with a mix of defiance and resignation.

"Rhysand," Beron greeted, his tone deceptively cordial. "I'm glad you could make it. We have much to discuss."

Rhysand's gaze was cold as he responded, "Get to the point, Beron. Why did you summon us?"

Beron's smile widened, a predator baring its teeth. "It's come to my attention that there is a bond of great significance between our courts." He glanced meaningfully at Eris, then back at you. "Eris, it seems, has found his mate."

Gasps echoed around the room. Rhysand's face contorted with fury, and Mor looked utterly betrayed, her eyes flicking between you and Eris with disbelief and hurt.

You shook your head vehemently, your heart pounding in your chest. "I haven't felt anything," you insisted, your voice trembling with the effort to remain calm. But just as the words left your mouth, your eyes locked with Eris's, and a powerful surge of energy rippled through you.

In that instant, the mating bond snapped into place, the golden thread tying your fates together. It was like a jolt of electricity coursing through your veins, an undeniable connection that sent shivers down your spine. You felt it as a magnetic pull, an unseen force binding you to Eris with an intensity you couldn't ignore.

As the bond solidified, a strange, tingling sensation spread across your scalp. You reached up, instinctively, to touch your hair, your fingers brushing through the dark strands. Before your eyes, the color began to shift, the deep brown transforming into a vibrant, fiery red that matched Eris's own. The change was mesmerizing and terrifying, each strand shimmering as it took on the new hue.

Gasps echoed around the room, and the entire inner circle watched in stunned disbelief. Rhysand's face contorted with fury, and Mor looked utterly betrayed, her eyes flicking between you and Eris with disbelief and hurt.

"What is happening?" Mor whispered, her voice filled with anguish.

Your heart raced as the realization settled over you. The bond was real, and it was changing you in ways you couldn't have imagined. Your hair, now the same shade as Eris's, was a visible mark of the connection between you, one that couldn't be hidden or denied.

Rhysand's fury was palpable, his power crackling in the air around him. "No," he growled, stepping protectively in front of you. "I won't allow this. She isn't going anywhere."

Beron's smile was triumphant. "You have no choice, Rhysand. According to the laws of Prythian, she must be given the opportunity to meet with her mate. She must visit the Autumn Court every week."

Rhysand clenched his fists, his anger barely contained. "I don't care about your laws, Beron. I won't let you use her for your schemes."

Beron raised an eyebrow, his expression mocking. "This isn't about you, Rhysand. This is about the bond between them. Denying it will only cause them both pain."

You could feel the truth of Beron's words in the depth of your soul, the bond tugging at you, demanding to be acknowledged. Despite your fear and uncertainty, you knew you couldn't ignore it.

Mor stepped forward, her face pale with a mix of betrayal and concern. "Do you want this?" she asked softly, her eyes searching yours for any sign of your true feelings.

Torn between loyalty to your family and the undeniable pull of the bond, you looked at Eris, his red hair and amber eyes reflecting a mixture of hope and fear. "I don't know," you whispered, your voice breaking.

Beron seized the moment, his tone authoritative. "Then it's settled. According to the ancient laws, she will visit the Autumn Court every week to explore the bond. It's only fair."

Rhysand's eyes flashed with defiance, but he knew the laws were binding. With a heavy heart, he turned to you, his gaze softening with concern. "Are you sure about this?" he asked quietly.

You nodded, feeling the weight of the decision pressing down on you. "I have to," you replied, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside.

Beron smirked, victorious. "Very well. We expect her next week."

As you left the Autumn Court, the reality of your situation settled over you. The bond with Eris was undeniable, but the path ahead was fraught with danger and uncertainty. You couldn't help but wonder what the future held and how you would navigate the treacherous waters of both your courts and your heart.

--------------------------♧--------------------------------

Returning to the Night Court after Beron's revelation felt like walking into a storm. You had barely stepped into the House of Wind when Rhysand summoned the entire inner circle to the grand hall. The tension was palpable as everyone gathered, their expressions a mix of shock, concern, and anger.

Rhysand paced back and forth, his fury barely contained. "I can't believe this. Eris, of all people."

Feyre stood by his side, trying to calm him. "Rhys, please. Getting angry won't change what's happened. We need to think this through."

You sat on the edge of a plush armchair, your heart pounding. You could feel everyone's eyes on you, but it was Rhysand's intense gaze that made you feel the most vulnerable.

"He’s dangerous," Rhysand continued, his voice rising. "And now he’s bound to my sister by the mating bond."

Mor, who had been sitting quietly, suddenly stood up. "Rhys, this isn’t her fault. The mating bond isn’t something anyone can control."

You looked up, surprised by her support. Mor had every reason to be furious, but there was a calm determination in her eyes.

"Mor, how can you defend this?" Rhysand's voice was incredulous.

"Because I know what it feels like to be judged for something out of your control," Mor replied firmly. "And because she’s our family. We need to support her."

Nesta, sitting next to Cassian, nodded in agreement. "Mor's right. This isn’t her fault. Blaming her won’t help."

Cassian crossed his arms, his expression serious. "We need to focus on what’s important. Protecting her and figuring out what Beron might do next."

Azriel, who had been silent until now, spoke up. "Eris might be her mate, but that doesn’t mean we trust him. We need to stay vigilant."

Tears welled up in your eyes as you looked at the supportive faces around you. "I’m sorry," you whispered, your voice breaking. "I never wanted this."

Feyre came over and knelt beside you, taking your hands in hers. "We know. And we’re here for you, no matter what."

Rhysand let out a deep sigh, running a hand through his hair. "I just... I don’t want what happened to Mor to happen to you."

You nodded, understanding his fear. "I don’t either. But I can’t deny what’s happening. The bond is real."

Rhysand's expression softened slightly, the anger giving way to concern. "We’ll figure this out. Together."

Feyre squeezed your hands. "Yes, we will. And no matter what, you’re not alone in this."

Mor stepped forward, placing a hand on your shoulder. "We’ll get through this. All of us."

Nesta gave you a small, reassuring smile. "And we’ll make sure you’re safe."

As the tension in the room began to ease, you felt a flicker of hope. Rhysand seemed extremely uncomfortable with the events of tonight and you hoped he would calm down before anything else was to happen with the Autumn Court

Later, in the privacy of your room, you examined your reflection in the mirror, the fiery red of your hair a constant reminder of the bond. You knew from ancient lore that this transformation was not just cosmetic. Your hair would remain this vivid shade until the bond was consummated, until you mated with Eris.

The thought sent a shiver through you. The bond demanded recognition, and until it was fully acknowledged, you were marked by it. The vibrant red was a symbol of the passion and desire that tied you to Eris, an intimate and undeniable connection that changed everything.

--------------------------♧--------------------------------

The invitation to the ball at the Autumn Court arrived unexpectedly, a beautifully crafted scroll sealed with Beron's crest. Rhysand gathered the inner circle to discuss it, his expression a mix of caution and curiosity.

“We’ve been invited to a ball,” Rhysand announced, holding up the scroll. “Beron wants to finalize the peace treaty.”

Cassian scoffed. “Sounds like a trap.”

“We have to be careful,” Feyre agreed, her eyes scanning the faces around the table.

You sat quietly, your heart pounding at the thought of returning to the Autumn Court. Since the revelation of the mating bond, your interactions with Eris had been fraught with tension and confusion. Rhysand noticed your silence and gave you a concerned look.

“You’ll be coming with us,” Rhysand said, his tone brooking no argument. “But stay close. I don’t trust Beron or his sons.”

The night of the ball arrived, and you found yourself dressed in a stunning silver gown that shimmered with every movement. The fabric was delicate and flowing, clinging to your curves in a way that made you feel both powerful and vulnerable. The plunging neckline and open back revealed just enough to be tantalizing without being overtly scandalous, and a high slit ran up one leg, adding an edge of daring to the ensemble.

The grand ballroom of Beron’s palace was a spectacle of opulence and decadence, every inch dripping with gold and crystal. The air was thick with the scent of exotic flowers and rich perfumes, the music a haunting melody that echoed through the high, vaulted ceilings. You entered the ballroom, feeling the eyes of the Autumn Court upon you, your silver gown flowing around you like liquid crystals. The dress hugged your curves in all the right places, the deep neckline and intricate lace detailing drawing more than a few appreciative gazes. Your heart pounded in your chest, both from the anxiety of being in such a hostile environment and the anticipation of seeing him.

As the Night Court entourage entered the grand ballroom of the Autumn Court, you were struck by the opulence and the flickering warmth of the firelight reflecting off the gilded decorations. Nobles and courtiers filled the room, their eyes turning towards your group with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.

Eris was there, standing near the center of the room, his golden eyes locking onto you the moment you entered. He wore a tailored suit in rich autumnal colors, looking every bit the princely heir of the Autumn Court. The bond between you hummed with an almost tangible electricity, drawing you towards him despite your better judgment.

Rhysand kept a protective hand on your shoulder, his gaze wary as he scanned the room. But Eris approached with a confidence that belied the tension between the two courts.

"Dance with me," he said, his voice a low, seductive murmur that sent shivers down your spine.

Rhysand hesitated, his protective instincts warring with the necessity of diplomacy. After a moment, he nodded curtly, releasing you. “Be careful,” he whispered.

You placed your hand in his, the contact sending a jolt of electricity through you. He led you onto the dance floor, the crowd parting to make way for you. The music swelled, a dark and haunting waltz, and you found yourself swept up in his embrace, the world around you blurring as you moved together.

Eris’s hand rested possessively on your lower back, his touch scorching through the fabric of your gown. "You look stunning tonight, red is a good look on you" he murmured, referring to your hair, his lips dangerously close to your ear. "But don’t think I’ve forgotten who you are."

His words were a reminder of the delicate dance you were both engaged in, a game of power and seduction that neither of you could afford to lose. Yet, beneath the barbs and the tension, there was something else—a pull that neither of you could deny.

"Nor I, you," you replied, your voice steady despite the fluttering in your chest.

Eris twirled you expertly, your gown flaring out around you like a flame, drawing the eyes of everyone in the room. The twirl brought you back into his arms, your bodies aligning perfectly, his breath mingling with yours. The world seemed to spin with you, the music and the crowd blurring into a distant echo.

His hand slid lower on your back, his fingers pressing into the curve of your spine with possessive heat. "You think you can manipulate me with this bond?" Eris whispered, his breath hot against your skin. "You think you can use it to get what you want?"

You met his gaze, your eyes burning with defiance. "And what if I am?" you challenged, your voice a seductive whisper.

The air around you crackled with tension, the music and the crowd fading into the background. Eris's grip on you tightened, his eyes darkening with a mixture of anger and desire. "Tell me you don’t feel this," he growled, his voice a raw, dangerous edge.

Your heart raced, the bond between you thrumming with intensity. "I feel it," you admitted, your voice barely more than a breath. "But that doesn’t mean I trust you."

Eris’s eyes blazed with a fierce, possessive light. "Then we are at an impasse," he said, his voice a dark promise. "Because I won’t let you go."

He spun you again, your skirts flaring out, and when he pulled you back, his hand was firmer, more insistent. Your bodies moved as one, each step a seductive dance of defiance and desire. His fingers brushed the bare skin of your back through the cutout of your gown, sending shivers down your spine. The heat from his touch was both thrilling and maddening, his presence consuming.

As the music slowed, Eris’s hand slid down further, his fingers trailing down your bare legs. Your breath hitched, the intimate touch sending a wave of heat through your body. He smirked, his eyes glinting with amusement and something darker. "Look who's excited," he murmured, his voice a teasing caress.

The dance was a battle of wills, each step a carefully calculated move. His hand tightened on your waist, pulling you closer, the heat of his body overwhelming. Your breaths mingled as you moved, the friction between you a tantalizing promise of what could be. The way he held you, the way his body pressed against yours, it felt as if you were the only two people in the room.

"You’re playing with fire," he murmured, his voice low and intimate, sending another shiver down your spine.

"Maybe I like the heat," you replied, your voice a soft challenge.

His eyes flared with something dark and dangerous, a predatory gleam that made your pulse quicken. The music reached a crescendo, and with a final, dizzying spin, the dance ended, leaving you breathless and trembling in his arms.

Eris's eyes bore into yours, a silent challenge that left you reeling. "Remember, little bird," he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear. "This game is far from over."

He released you then, stepping back and leaving you standing alone on the dance floor, the heat of his touch lingering on your skin. The crowd around you resumed their revelry, oblivious to the battle that had just played out in their midst. Your heart pounded in your chest, your mind racing with the implications of what had just happened.

As you made your way off the dance floor, you couldn't help but glance back at Eris. He stood at the edge of the crowd, his fiery gaze still locked onto you, a promise of more to come. The game between you was far from over, and you knew that the next move was yours.

-----------------------♧-----------------------------------

Later after the dance, you looked around the ballroom for eris but didn't seem to find him. You found yourself wandering off into Autumn Court, looking for him.

A few hours earlier

The day had come for you to go the Autumn Court for the ball , a place that had become a maze of emotions and conflicts. The knowledge of your newly discovered mating bond with Eris had created a whirlwind within the inner circle. The tension was palpable, and the uncertainty weighed heavily on everyone. As you prepared to leave, Rhysand summoned you to his office.

You stood before your brother, his expression a mixture of concern and determination. Feyre was by his side, her presence a comforting anchor in the storm of emotions.

"You know why you need to go tonight," Rhysand said, his voice steady but laced with underlying tension. "But there's more to this visit than just the mating bond."

You frowned, sensing the gravity of his words. "What do you mean?"

Rhysand exchanged a look with Feyre before continuing. "We need Eris to sign the peace treaty. It's crucial for the stability between our courts."

Your heart sank. Convincing Eris of anything, let alone a peace treaty, seemed an insurmountable task given your current situation.

Rhysand seemed to notice and asked with hesitation in his voice "you don't plan on accepting this bond do you sister?"

Your eyes met with his and you firmly said "no, brother I would never betray you or our family that way"

"good, that's what I like to hear" rhysand gave you a warm smile

"And you think I can do this?" you asked, your feet shifting and trying to change the subject, doubt creeping into your voice.

Rhysand's gaze softened. "You are stronger than you think. And you have a unique connection with him now. Use it to our advantage."

Feyre stepped forward, placing a comforting hand on your arm. "We believe in you. Just remember, you have us backing you every step of the way."

You nodded, drawing strength from their unwavering support. "I'll do my best"

--------------------------♧--------------------------------

The grand ball in the Autumn Court had been a dazzling affair, with the glittering lights and the melodious music setting an enchanting atmosphere. You had danced with Eris, feeling the intensity of the mating bond thrumming between you, even as Rhysand had watched with a guarded expression.

Later that night, after the festivities had wound down, you found yourself wandering through the quiet halls of the Autumn Court palace, seeking out Eris. You knew he was in his study, and despite the tension between you, you needed to speak with him about this, about the treaty, about what was going to happen next.

The heavy oak doors to his study were slightly ajar, and you pushed them open cautiously. Eris was there, sitting behind his desk, a tumbler of amber liquid in his hand. His face was hard and unreadable as he glanced up at you, his eyes narrowing.

"What are you doing here?" he asked sharply, his voice tinged with bitterness.

You stepped into the room, feeling the weight of his anger and the pull of the mating bond between you. "Eris, we need to talk," you said, trying to keep your voice steady despite the tumult of emotions inside you.

He scoffed, his gaze darkening. "Talk? About what? The mating bond?" He rose from his chair, his movements tense and controlled. "I've made myself clear. This... thing between us changes nothing. You need to stay away from me."

His words stung, but you refused to back down. "Eris you came to me, you started this at the unification ceremony, when i came to visit Lucien, right now at the ball" you gripped your hair strands, frustrated.

He chuckled "Don't you understand? We are all pawns in his game, all that I did was just a game, it didn't mean anything i can promise you that, you didn't seriously think all my gestures meant anything? Did you now?" he responded ruthlessly making your heart swell with sadness and anger

"Eris, I know you're afraid of your father, but I won't let him control us," you said firmly, taking a step closer to him.

He laughed bitterly, a harsh sound that cut through the air. "You have no idea what my father is capable of," he retorted, his voice low and dangerous. ''He wants your wings, and before you ask, no I did not tell him he practically pried his way into my head"

You gasped upon the revelation of the news that you just heard. Your mind raced with thoughts of what Beron wanted to do with your wings and that made you shudder.

The sexual tension between you was palpable, a volatile mix of desire and frustration. You could feel the heat radiating from him, drawing you in even as he pushed you away.

"Eris, I can protect myself," you insisted, your voice softening as you reached out to touch his arm.

He jerked away from your touch, his eyes flashing with a mixture of longing and fear. "Don't," he warned, his voice hoarse. "You don't understand what you're dealing with."

You stood your ground, your heart pounding in your chest. "Then help me understand," you pleaded, your voice cracking with emotion.

For a moment, he looked at you with something akin to despair in his eyes. Then, with a sudden, decisive movement, he closed the distance between you, his hands gripping your arms firmly. The intensity of his gaze bore into yours, his breath mingling with yours.

"You need to leave," he said roughly, his voice low and urgent. "Before it's too late."

But you couldn't tear your gaze away from his, couldn't deny the pull of the bond that bound you together. "I can't," you whispered, your voice barely a breath.

With that he holds your face, you feel the cold rings on his fingers digging into your skin. He towers over you, his height making you feel small and vulnerable pushing you against the harsh surface of the wall. His elbow leans against the wall, trapping you between his strong body and the unyielding surface behind you. His eyes bore into yours with an intensity that sends shivers down your spine. You can feel the heat of his breath against your face, his presence overwhelming and intoxicating.

For a moment, you think he's going to kiss you. His face hovers so close to yours that you can feel the warmth of his lips. Your heart races, your breath catching in your throat as anticipation builds between the two of you. But just as quickly as he moved in, he pulls back slightly, a smirk playing on his lips.

"You have no idea what you're getting into, we can never be anything more, we are just a game" he whispers, his voice low and dangerous.

You swallowed hard, your pulse racing with a mix of fear and something else you can't quite name. His proximity is maddening, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through you. You know you should push him away, to resist the pull he has over you, but your body betrays you, frozen under his gaze.

"I... I need to go," you stammer, trying to break free from his grip.

Eris's smirk widens, his eyes darkening with amusement. "Run away if you must," he says softly, his voice dripping with mockery. "But you'll be back. They always come back."

With that, he releases you and steps back, leaving you breathless and confused, your heart pounding in her chest. You gather yourself and hurry out of the room, Eris's taunting words echoing in your mind.

Taglist: @lilah-asteria @blackgirlmagicforever @sunny1616 @st4r-girl-official @krowiathemythologynerd

[fenricken]

You Keep Slipping From My Grasp 4/7

AO3

Ship: Spirit Halloween

first

prev

The rain fell heavily, washing the blood on the ground away as he stepped toward the woman. She was hunched over, sobbing, clutching her dead son to her chest. She glanced up at him as he approached, mouthing silent prayers.

“What happened here?” he asked, carefully ignoring the dead bodies around.

“They came… for a box my family has guarded for a long time. They killed my husband and my son, and they’ve taken my Catherine… They’ll torture her to make her speak its secrets. Please! Please, help her!”

She reached out a hand to him, imploringly. He crouched down to take it.

“I will.”

————

Danny stood before Clockwork, adjusting his new cowboy hat. Maddie and Jack stood behind Clockwork tinkering on the Fenton Omega Siphoner, and arguing over the aesthetics of the machine.

“I have already sent Dani out to help the Justice League locate Batman’s cape. Hopefully we should receive word on her success soon.” Clockwork began, “In the meantime, we do still need someone to make sure Batman doesn’t rush forward too quickly, lest he build up too much energy before we can stop him. Are you ready?”

“Always ready for bat-sitting duty. I’d hope he’s doing something  a bit calmer this time, but I suppose there’s no chance of that happening.” Danny responded, pointing to his hat.

Clockwork just gave his usual cryptic smile before opening a portal for Danny to step through.

————

“Roooooobin. Rooooooooobin.”

Tim whirled around, searching for the source of the noise.

“Oooh, new fit?” Poltergeist asked, stepping out of the shadows. “Ugly cowl, but I like the rest of it.”

Tim lowered his bo staff at her, readying himself for whatever chaotic ‘game’ she tried to rope him into this time.

“Your city’s on fire. You bats trying out some new defense mechanism or something? Like, you think no rogue would want to take over Gotham if it’s a pile of rubble and ash?” She turned in a circle, surveying the chaos Gotham was under.

“What do you want, Poltergeist?”

“Well, so like, Batman’s stuck in time, right? And-”

“How do you know that?!” Red Robin cut in. He had been struggling to convince everyone that Batman was still alive ever since he found those paintings on the walls of the Batcave. Suddenly, here was Poltergeist who seemed to know something about it, but he couldn’t trust her. She was unpredictable, and running into her could mean leaving with anything as benign yet uncomfortable as soaked socks or as irritating and hindering as being cursed to only speak dead languages for the next 3 days.

And things only got worse if she was tagging along with Klarion. Fortunately, he wasn’t in sight, so it's unlikely he was here with her.

“What do you want?”

She smiled slightly at him. “Oh! I want to get Batman back where he belongs before he dies or explodes everything.”

Explodes everything?

“I mean, Gotham’s got a grumpy quota and since you’re his mini-me I figured you’d start trying to take it on and that’d be so boring.” She raised her pointer fingers to the side of her head, imitating Batman’s cowl and adopted a nasally voice. “I don’t have time to play, Poltergeist. Gotham needs me. I have to go stalk Penguin, and then I need to go brood on my favorite gargoyle.”

“So you want to help me find Batman so that I will… be able to play with you?”

“Well, that, but also if he makes his way to the present day on his own, he’ll have built up enough of something called Omega Energy to make all of reality go ka-blooey, and I actually really like this universe. Top 10, easily.”

Tim held up his hand to stop the oncoming ramble while he compartmentalized.

First, Poltergeist knew Bruce was lost in the time stream and seemed to want to help.

Second, Bruce was making his way back to the present, and by doing so was becoming a living bomb

Third, Poltergeist is a multiversal being???

That last one can probably be ignored for now.

“If I were to let you help me find Batman, where do you suggest we start? I’ve been tracking down artifacts I think he’s left behind  to try and convince the Justice League to help us-”

“Psh. Justice League Shmustice League. My dad and my Nana and Pops are already working on it. We just need to find the cape he was sent back in time with for them. Besides, I can probably convince Wonder Woman to help us get the Justice Dorks to help out once we get the cape if we really need to.”

What.

“What?”

“My grandparents are building a thingy-thing to suck all the Omega Energy out of Batman so he’s not a bomb. My dad’s hanging out with him to keep him from dying or something, and we’re supposed to find his cape so we can safely yoink him out of the time stream.”

“I didn’t know you had parents??? What do they do while you’re here breaking things???”

Poltergeist shrugged “King things I guess. And I only have a dad.”

“King things???”

She rolled her eyes, “Anyway, Dad said he last saw Batman’s cape in the Batcave.”

“You didn’t answer my question, and I’m not taking you to the Batcave.”

Poltergeist landed on her feet, and stared at him with wide eyes. He stared back, caught in her gaze for what felt like an eternity, as he felt invisible fingers trickle up his spine. Whispers started low in his ears, building to a crescendo. It was getting too much to bear, until he broke eye contact and looked away. All of a sudden, it stopped. Tim heaved a big sigh.

“I’m… kinda fighting with the current Batman, so we’ll have to sneak in.”

She punched both arms into the air, “YES!”

Tim turned, flicking his cape and walking off, not waiting to see if she’d follow.

“Poltergeist, when this is over you are going to be answering my questions.”

He heard her blow a raspberry at his back, but kept walking.

————

He followed their trail easily enough, the rain trailing after him. As he reached his destination, men came out to fight him, readying pistols, but he made short work of them easily enough.

With his memory having returned in bits and pieces, it had been easy to fashion metal into bat shapes aerodynamic enough to hit true when thrown, and it was these he’d used to disarm the men.

These memories were useful. The ones of children with blurry faces less so, haunting him as they stayed just out of his complete grasp. A constant reminder of how lost and alone he was.

He steadily made his way to the headquarters, where he figured they were keeping Catherine. He whirled around, sensing someone approaching from behind. It was the man with white hair, again.

“Seems you’ve got this well enough in hand, but I hope you don’t mind if I’d tag along all the same.”

“Why?”

The white haired man smiled slightly. “Will you not believe that I just want to help you?”

He stared, unblinking and quiet. Memories from before had proven this a good method to get more information.

His target stared back, also quiet and unblinking. It wasn’t long before he started shifting, and not much longer before he finally spoke again. Under his breath, almost too quiet to hear, he muttered “Just like Dani, I swear…”

Louder, the man said, “I’ve not known you to be the kind of man to ever be on the wrong side of a cause. Whatever you’re up to, I just want to help.”

He squinted at the man, trying to find any evidence of a lie, but the man just appeared open and honest.

“No guns,” he says, before turning back around and leading the white haired man on towards the headquarters.

As they got closer, they noticed two men standing guard. He deployed smoke bombs to cover their approach, sneaking closer with his companion close behind. They were spotted, but the smoke did its work, scaring the two guards and allowing him and his companion to disappear from view again.

“How you gonna tell me there’s no such things as ghosts now???” One of them whimpered, apparently to his white-haired friend’s delight, as he broke out in giggles.

As the smoke continued to grow, he and his friend snuck around the two, tricking them into fighting each other.

He broke through into the offices in the back. They were unfortunately empty.

“Already gone!” He said, slamming a hand on the desk. His companion stood at the window.

“Not long though, look!”

When he spotted their carriage speeding away through the window, he knew he had to act quickly. He launched himself out of the window, and onto the tarp covering the wagon.

An explosion sounded behind him, but he focused on the task ahead of him. His friend always seemed to find his way back, so he’d have to trust he’d do it again.

The ensuing fight was nothing pretty, little more than mad scrambling as he fought to hold his balance, dodge bullets, and wrestle the men actually in the cart so he could get away with the Catherine and her family’s box.

Looking ahead, he saw they were quickly approaching the dock, and a man who was walking down it. Thinking quickly, he swung his body-weight around, tipping the wagon over and sending everyone sprawling. 

The man who had been at the dock had acted quickly, grabbing the young woman and holding her protectively behind him. He stood up, adding to the obstacles that stood protecting Catherine from her kidnappers. Only 3 men remained. From the snippets he heard as two of them fought, he figures the two fighting must’ve been the masterminds behind the plot and the third still in the distance was a gun-for-hire. Taking out his weapons of choice, he quickly dispatched the two men.

Catherine tugged on his cloak. He turned to face her, seeing that she had opened up the box, and was showing him what was inside.

It was Jack Valor’s journal.

He wanted to reach out–to see what Jack had added since they parted, but the gun-for-hire had caught up to them by then.

“My employers may have been dealt with, but I still have a reputation to uphold. Draw.”

He stood up straight, reaching for more of his weapon of choice. Over the shoulder of the gun-for-hire, he saw another man approaching quickly, white-haired. His friend.

A loud bang echoed, and he felt pain in his side. He stumbled, too close to the edge of the dock, and as he fell over he heard one last cry of ‘BAT–’.

And everything went dark.

————

Shit.

Shit. Shit. SHIT.

As if Batman stumbling towards the present through who-knows-when wasn’t bad enough, now he’s SHOT???

Danny quickly ripped a portal back to Clockwork’s lair.

“Please tell me you’ve almost got the machine ready.” Danny said after confirming his parents were in the room.

“Almost! Just one problem, sweetie…” His mom said, looking over at her husband so he’d finish.

“Batman needs to die. Or at least be very close to death!” Jack said, ending with a laugh.

“Basically, we can get this machine to suck out the Omega Energy, but it’s tightly bonded with Batman’s life energy, so it’s extremely risky unless we can find a way to diminish his life energy.”

Danny groaned, putting his face in his hands. “It’s just one thing after another! He’s just been shot. Would that bring him close enough?”

His dad tilted his head back and forth, considering. “Likely not, unless he was in a pretty bad way. In any case, we asked Sam and Tucker to take a look into it!”

“We’ve already found something, actually.” Sam said, having entered the room. Tucker followed behind her.

“There’s an herb that I was able to locate, which should slow his heart down to extreme levels, to the point his heartbeat would be pretty undetectable. Only problem is that his heart would have to be jump-started afterward by a great shock.”

“Clockwork let me take a closer look at his monitors into Batman’s original time and place, and I was able to determine that they have defibrillator technology that can administer an electrical shock needed to get his heart pumping again, as well as adrenaline injections in case we’d need the extra boost.” Tucker continued.

Maddie clapped her hands together. “Excellent! If we can get the Justice League to set up the anchor point on the Watchtower, we can pull Batman to that point and perform everything there! It’d probably work best to do it in his original time as well, to avoid any potential effects that could crop up from being in the wrong time when we remove the Omega Energy and try to stabilize his system.”

“Great, some good news.” Danny said, tension leaving his body. He turned to Clockwork, who had been quiet thus far. “How’s Dani’s work coming along? Will we be ready to proceed soon?”

“Dani and Red Robin have recovered Batman’s cape, and have moved it to the Watchtower. I believe Dani was able to recruit Wonder Woman’s help into getting the rest of the Justice League in line to receive Batman.”

 ————

“Red Robin! Did you seriously bring Poltergeist into the cave??? What were you thinking?”

Before Tim could reply, Poltergeist raised a hand to point at Dick-as-Batman.

“AAH! It’s the cops! Run!”

Poltergeist placed her hand on Tim’s shoulder, pulling him and the cape through the ceiling of the batcave and up in the open air of Gotham. As Tim caught sight of Wayne Manor his head whipped towards Poltergeist, hoping she wouldn’t make any connections.

She was staring at him, lips pressed together, looking a bit like a frog.

He was quiet, waiting for her to say something.

She blew a breath of air out, letting her lips buzz.

“Listen, you keep my secret, and I won’t tell anyone Batman’s secret id is some rich fruitloop.”

“...What secret?”

She pivoted them somewhere Southeast.

“That sometimes I can be responsible. Let’s go see Wonder Woman.”

AN:

It's definitely been longer than I had planned since the last update, rip.

Not going to lie, this is like my second ever fic and I definitely thought it'd be a bit easier to get back into the habit of writing. Thought I was making it easier on my self by strongly sticking to the plot of an existing story, but I think that's been an obstacle in and of itself.

Always a little worried that the language is a bit stuffy or things aren't being clear.

[brightmoontrigon]

good news: I got both of the MRIs I needed in one appointment after all!

bad news: tumor :(

its a benign sort (meningioma?) by my pituitary gland but its pressing on my optic nerve and causing problems. hopefully removing it will restore my vision quality but that's not a guarantee

[zooophagous]

Strauss often found himself in contemplation of his kind. Of vampire kind, as a whole. To be certain, there must have been many short lived and tragic wayward souls. There may also have been some benign or even actively benevolent- but the wicked and selfish were by far the most talked about. He was certain however, that regardless of alleged crimes, no vampire deserved this.

A shallow scrape of dirt was the only salvation between himself and the sun. He had covered himself well, but the heat of the day bore down hard on the earth and he felt its threat and nearness though he did not feel its burn. The sifting silt had clung to the wetness of his open blisters, creating grit against his new skin and covering him in unbearable itching. Any movement in discomfort threatened to expose him to the light once more, however, so he lay deathly still in forced stoicism. 

He had been comfortable underground, once. The cool and well carved crypt beneath his vault was quite a bit more spacious than this, and less fragile. In fact, he had weathered more than one war in the safety of his lair. It was made of dirt, yes, and often subject to flooding or other whims of weather, but it was familiar and safe. Strauss did not feel safe here. Some vampires had castles, he had a grave, and right now he didn’t even have that much any more.

He wondered quietly if Sylvain had a lair. She has to sleep somewhere. Maybe she too found herself hidden in a dumpster or a sewer, once, alone and afraid. Maybe she was there now, if she couldn’t get back to civilization in time. It was difficult to think about her. At least this meeting with her didn’t end with broken bones, but if he were honest, the burns hurt more.

He was unlikely to be found quickly, and any attempt to crawl out of his shallow grave now would only be met with more pain. He decided to escape the only way he could and retreat into his dream state. By the time he would rise, it would be safely dark again, and by then the pain on his back and arms would hopefully be over with. 

Dreaming was difficult under these circumstances, but he’d had harder sleeps before. Funny how he longed for his dorm in the institute now, when not long ago he spent many sleepless hours there waiting for some assassin to try to claim him. Maybe one would claim him here- though he doubted Sylvain would hurt herself just to further torment him.

The threatening heat of the midday sun became a calming warmth, the heaviness of the dirt a gentle blanket, and his forced stillness became rest. It was a deep rest, brought on by exhaustion and injury, his body clawing every inch of healing out of the sleep given to it. 

He was disturbed. Something had moved the protective earth from his ersatz tomb. The sudden directness of sunlight made him recoil even in his sleep, but it quickly passed. 

He was being led, being moved, and in no shape to argue. In moments he was somewhere dark again, and covered over with cloth instead of dirt. It could only be the institute, coming to his rescue once again. He didn’t recognize this driver but he didn’t much care. Instinctively he crawled into the back seat of the car, into the safety of the dark cabin, curled himself into a crumpled ball and was dead to the world once more.

He was dimly aware that he was being jostled and prodded. Not a novel sensation- the nurses and researchers had often manhandled him in the name of science while he was in recovery. This one was foolish. They were pestering him before administering any tranquilizers, or painkillers, and they were very stupidly sticking their hands in his face. He felt his jaw pulled open and his lip lifted.

He shot out his hand suddenly and seized the nurse by the arm, opening his eyes with a baleful gaze as he did so. His intense expression was clouded by confusion. This was not a nurse. Nor was this the medical wing. 

The frightened face of the priest was trembling before him. Surrounding him was no hospital or the official buildings of the institute. It appeared to be more of someone’s own personal house. He was on no cot, but a hideous floral couch, still naked but draped in borrowed crocheted  blankets.

“Where am I?”

“Oh! S- so sorry! I didn’t mean to wake you up- I mean, I wasn’t sure I could wake you up. I was afraid you had died!”

“I have died.” Strauss groaned and released his hold on his host. “You are very stupid to put your hand in a tiger’s mouth. Will you please answer me, and tell me where I am?”

“You’re at my house.” The priest backed away from the couch as Strauss slowly sat up. “Don’t worry, you’re safe, if that’s what you’re worried about. I think you can probably hold your own against me.”

“You…” Strauss stared hard at the stranger. “You were the one Sylvain wanted to kill. Gregor, was it? Why are you touching my face?”

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself. I saw the fangs and got curious.” He smiled nervously. “Gregor, yes. ‘Greg’ is fine. I was going to call you an ambulance, when I found you I was sure you were dead. Something told me to wait and see, though.” 

He got up and began walking to the dingy wood-paneled kitchen of the little house. “Call it a hunch.”

“Greg.” Strauss repeated. “I wish I could say it was a pleasure, Greg. I am Doctor Strauss. ‘Strauss’ is fine. How did you find me?”

“Well, first I saw you and that woman fighting. Then I saw the strangest thing. She stripped naked and started… I don’t know. Flapping her arms?”

He demonstrated awkwardly. “She started changing and getting ugly. Then you started running. And I took off after you. I should have ran, sure. But I couldn’t look away. Then there were these two things with great big wings flying over the city.”

He poured himself some stale coffee, and another mug for Strauss, which he presented to the vampire with a tired smile. “I figured one of them must be you.”

“You saw that?”

“Yes. Got in my car and followed you the best I could. I couldn’t believe it. I lost track of you for a bit and thought maybe I was going crazy and had hallucinated the whole thing. But then I saw drag marks in the fields as the sun came up. Followed them till they turned into footprints, then found you buried in a ditch.”

Gregor sat down across from the weary vampire, who cupped the hot mug gently in his claws and daintily sipped at it.

“I thought I was too late. Maybe she’d killed you and tried to bury you. When I started clearing dirt off of you though, you moved. So I got you into the car and brought you here. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You did not call the police?”

“I’m not sure what you are, sir. I feel like you probably do not want to talk to law enforcement, however.”

“Very astute, sir.” 

“I let you sleep on the couch for a bit, but when I checked on you again you weren’t breathing, and you had no pulse, and I thought maybe it was too late for you and decided that…”

“Decided to sate your curiosity while you still could, before my body was collected and disposed of?” Strauss pulled back his lips in an ugly sneer, showing off the full lengths of his yellow fangs. 

“I suppose I can forgive you for that indiscretion. I suppose I should thank you, for saving my life.”

“I think we’re even on that front. That woman really wanted to hurt me, didn’t she?”

“Perhaps we should not talk about that. She had some very serious accusations about you, that if they were true, I may not necessarily disagree with her.” 

“Yes. She had a lot of opinions about me.” Gregor set his lips in a thin line. “None of it is true, do you hear me? I know how it looks, and I know it’s a problem in the church. But not from me it isn’t.”

“Did you do something to make her think so?”

“I’ve made my share of mistakes, sure. But not with children. My mistake was a woman in my parish. One just a little younger than myself. When she moved away, I moved to follow her. It’s that simple. Nothing more.”

“The act of falling in love is a mistake?”

“It is when you’re a priest.” Gregor sipped his coffee and made a bitter expression from its unsweetened tang. “Vow of celibacy and all. Can’t make it official, so you can only live in sin, unless you don’t want your career anymore.”

“Why not simply leave the priesthood?”

“Easier said than done. I’ve spent decades learning and working like this, I’m not suited to anything else anymore. Easier to ask forgiveness than seek permission.”

“Catholics are such strange creatures.” Strauss finished his coffee.

“Speaking of strange creatures…”

“Yes?”

“What are you?”

“It is a secret. You will mention my existence to no-one. There are many who would do me harm if I am discovered.”

“Just say it.”

“Your culture would call me a vampire. I am dead, sir, and have been for a very long time.”

“I was afraid you’d say that.” Gregor swallowed hard. “Ironic that a priest is hosting a demon in his house.”

“Does it bother you?”

“No. Even Christ showed mercy to demons, when they begged not to be cast into the pit. I can play nice too, for a bit. Are you bothered by crucifixes?”

“Hehh, no. You mistake your god for being far more potent than he is.”

Strauss stood up and the afghan fell from his shoulders, leaving him naked in the living room.

“I must use the shower. And the phone. Do you have a razor blade I can borrow?”

“Yes, follow me.” Gregor led Strauss to the bathroom while politely averting his eyes. “You can use my razor, there’s fresh blades in here, towels are in the cabinet over the toilet.”

Strauss closed the door and was finally alone, safe in a small windowless room bathed in dingy yellow light. His face in the mirror looked worse than usual. His normal pallid tone was pink and peeling around his face, but the worst of it were his arms and his back. Dead skin draped over and across his body, stained from earth. It resembled cobwebs, or perhaps the dressings from a mummified corpse.

Where the ruined skin broke, a shock of pink was seen below it, fresh skin trying desperately to solidify into a useful hide once more. He opened the drawer and found a box of razor blades. He claimed one, and set to work carefully trimming the sloughed skin from his arms and shoulders. It fell to the floor like ashes. He took a towel from the cupboard and pulled it back and forth across his back, filing it off in hideous flakes. 

Finally content, he stepped into the shower. Hot water caused the raw skin to sting, he ran it cold, and busied himself with picking bits of grit and dirt from his burns where he could see and reach them. The water ran brown and dirt fell out of his hair in dark clumps which slowly dissolved down the drain.

He finally stepped out and dried himself. He left the towels on the floor with nary a care to the mess he’d created. As he stepped out, he realized he had been given another charity- a neatly folded set of clothes, although sans undergarments. He pulled the uncomfortable items on with a grunt. The athletic pants in particular fit poorly, and left exceedingly little to the imagination. Perhaps he’d wear such a thing for his mate, but not for a priest.

It would have to do. He emerged clean and dressed, though still looking more than half dead.

“If you lend me your phone, I will take my leave shortly.”

“Yes. Of course.” He handed over a cell phone.

Strauss pulled up the keypad and put in the number. He didn’t know many phone numbers, and hated using them, but this one, he knew by heart.

“Thank you for calling the Van Helsing Psychiatric Research Hospital, this is Sandy, how may I direct your call?”

“Guten tag, frau Sandy. I need to speak to Director Van Helsing. It is urgent.”

“Oh! Oh my God you’re alive! Yes, of course, one moment.”

There was a pause. Muffled and static filled strains of Vivaldi poured through the earpiece for long, painful moments, when finally there was a soft click and an answer.

“Artemis speaking. Strauss? Is that you?”

“Ja.”

“Strauss, where the Hell are you? Are you ok? What happened?”

“Sylvain is not the killer.”

“What?!”

“I would prefer to explain it in person. I am in the house across the street from the large red brick church downtown. How fast can you get here?”

“Ten minutes. Actually, make it seven. Don’t go anywhere. Do you need medical assistance? Is anyone hurt?”

“Nobody is hurt. Not badly, anyway. I am in need of a feed and a change of clothes. Please do not send Ursula. I have been battered enough for one day.”

He hung up and nearly handed the phone back to Gregor, but paused. “Did you happen to take any photographs of the woman who tried to kill you?”

“Oh, I tried. I got a few blurry ones of her when she took off flying.”

“Has anyone else seen them yet?”

“No. I don’t even have social media.”

“Good.” Strauss crushed the phone in his claw and dropped the crumpled metal and glass remains.

“...Oh.” Greg replied, crestfallen.

“Believe me when I say it is for everyone’s collective good.”

“Is she coming?”

“Yes. Very shortly.”

“Is she the one?”

“The one what?”

“The one you and that woman were arguing over?”

“Ah.” Strauss looked down. “You heard me confess to that, did you?”

“Hard not to, when you’re having a brawl over it five feet from me.”

“If you must know, yes. That one is Artemis. She is my mate. If you are a wise man, you will keep that fact to yourself.”

“It’s a secret, eh?”

“If certain people knew about us, it could very well be fatal for me. If you talk I will be forced to kill you and eat you out of pure self defense.” Strauss huffed.

“Hey, relax. I know all about it, right?” He smiled sadly. “Looks like both of us know a thing or two about falling in love when we shouldn't.”

“Your beloved is probably much safer to chase than my own.” Strauss sighed. “I think you should go to her, leave the church, leave any place Sylvain might find you. She is not gone, and her grudges run deep.”

“What do you suggest I do, Strauss? Can I do anything to… I don’t know. Ward her off? Fire? Garlic?”

“No. You will only enrage her. I recommend this, Gregor.”

“Yes?”

“Do not go out at night.”

[meeeeeeese]

So I want to talk about the altar of Glaust, because it's incredibly important to the story and yet it almost never gets brought up.

What I think most people know about the altar is that its a forgotten artifact that was responsible for Glint, and by extension, Aurene being freed from the yoke of Kralkatorrik. While you can visit it in Arah, it kind of exits the story from there with no character ever thinking to use the sole artifact with the power to grant corrupted creatures free will again. However there's a few details that I think a lot of people miss that I find kind of interesting at least.

The first thing is that the altar itself is only a part of the process, it's just a component of a spell or ritual that does the actual work of cleansing the corruption.

Secondly, the spell needs to be performed at Arah. Though I don't know whether that's simply because the forgotten built the required altar there or because Arah is special somehow.

Personally, I think that there's something special about Arah that's required for the spells function beyond the mere presence of the altar. Zhaitan's presence indicates that it's almost definitely a ley-line nexus, and something about the land there was special enough to call the gods to tyria. So I think it'd make sense that they'd have to do it in Orr (which also suggests, given the forgotten attempted to purify Kralkatorrik, that ol'Kralky used to be active in Orr during the last dragonrise before flying up to the blood lands for his nap)

I think that would go some way as to explain why we're not using this incredible power, as the only way to do so is to venture through an unchained-infested city all the while lugging about whatever corrupted creature you want to cleanse.

And while I'm on the subject of why the altar isn't in the story more, there's also the fact that making corruption being curable more of a thing really changes the nature of dragon minions. Where before they're poor victims who can only be put down for everone's safety, the altar's presence makes them victims who, if you put in enough effort, you could save. Which would probably change the focus of the story quite dramatically as we have to weigh protecting still uncorrupted people against trying to save the corrupted from their fate.

(though imagine if we used purified branded to create living dragonsblood weapons, warriors uniquely suited to fighting branded who are immune to corruption because I don't think Kralkatorrik can brand them twice)

(as a sidenote, if you haven't done the forgotten path of the ruined city of arah you might not know that the altar is blimmin huge, check out the pic below with risen giants for scale)

Finally, just an interesting/annoying note is that we never got any explanation as to how the forgotten purification works, does it block the elder dragon from issuing commands to said minion? Does it work to nullify the dragonvoid lurking at the heart of the creatures magic? Replace the corrupted dragon magic with more benign ley energy? Who knows! Not us, and we likely never will now that we're moving away from the dragon storyline. And I promise I'm not salty about that.

So yeah, that's pretty much it, the altar's a pretty cool object and, for how little it comes up, a really important part of Aurene's ascension to non-mad elder dragon. Hopefully it'll one day get more attention, if only so we can have the commander go "Wait why haven't we been using this the entire time"

[karahalloway]

The Highwayman: Part III - The Highwayman Comes Riding

Fandom: TRR (Historical AU)

Pairing: Drake Walker x F!OC (Harper Gale)

Series Summary: On a dark, moonlit night, a highwayman's luck runs out...

Masterlist: The Highwayman

Chapter Summary: Drake arrives, but it's too late...

Word Count: 4,100

Rating/Warnings: M (swearing, physical violence, murder, grief, suicidal thoughts, main character death) Do not read if you are triggered by any of these things!

Chapter theme song:

A/N1: As with Part II of this series, this installment is also quite grim and dark. So read at your own peril. There is no happy ending. As before, I have made some changes to the original, but hopefully, these are for the better.

A/N2: This is my third and final submission for @choicesprompts January 2024 Song Rewrite Challenge. The song I chose to rewrite is The Highwayman by Loreena McKennit.

Part III - The Highwayman Comes Riding

The crack of a musket explodes out into the night.

I duck instinctively, pistols primed and itching to return fire...

...until I realise that the shot had come from the casement.

My throat constricts. "Harper..."

But she has vanished behind the plume of powder smoke that now obscures her window.

"Shit..."

I'd known something was wrong the moment I laid eyes on her. She'd been too tense, too still, sitting on that ledge, more akin to a doll than a flesh-and-blood woman...

...but I'd spotted the silvery gleam of the barrel too late, and now all hell has broken loose.

Fucking Beaumont.

I should never have let my guard down.

Heedless of the preservation of my own skin, I leap forward, fingers on triggers, desperate to reach her.

Another flash of orange...

...and my hat sails from atop my head as a bullet goes just wide of its mark.

I raise a weapon, volleys of lead peppering the thatch to my left and right...

...but I am quickly forced to confront the obvious.

I cannot risk it.

The darkness, in combination with the smoke screen being kicked up by the 'Coats flintlocks obscures my sight into the room, and Harper's location within.

And though I desire nothing more than to dispatch each and every one of Beaumont's whoresons to the depths of hell, the truth is that I'd be firing blind. And I wouldn't be able to live with myself if my bullet found Harper instead of a dragoon.

So, I have but one choice.

Flank the bastards.

Spinning 'round, I dash back down the length of the roof, bullets nipping at my coattails. Diving to the side, I return a pair of retaliatory shots in the general direction of the inn — careful to avoid the actual window — so the 'Coats are under no illusion as to the direction of my retreat.

Sliding down the thatch, I push off from the roof to land bodily atop the muck heap.

Not the most graceful of my escapes, I have to admit, but beggars can't be choosers. And I am pressed for time that I do not have.

Rolling off the pile of shit, I quickly sheath my spent pistols and lope towards the barn with sabre drawn instead.

Emile, the stable hand, had paid back my previous generosity by making me wise to the unsavoury nature of the guests that had descended on the inn. So, instead of hitching Drogon and the new palfrey up in a stall, I've taken the added precaution of hiding the horses out in the gorse.

But where I erred was thinking that the Greencoat patrol had sought the inn out for benign purposes. Because it sure as hell hadn't been me who'd plotted the course for them. In fact, I've always taken care to ensure that my tracks never led directly back to Harper.

Which begs the question... How the fuck did I end up walking into an ambush? With Gale strung up as bait?

My grip tenses on the hilt of my sword.

Someone had let the cat out of the bag. They must've. There's no other explanation.

Who? I have no clue. As there are a grand total of two souls who are privy to the secret that I frequent The Crown, and neither would betray me.

Not willingly, at least...

But, first things first.

Skirting along the shadow of the structure's perimeter, I arrive at the stable doors.

It appears quiet. But after being greeted by gunfire once already this eve, I am loath to take further chances.

Pinching up a handful of peddles, I toss them through the doorway. Only when no shots fire in reply, do I dare slip inside.

"Sir?" comes the hesitant query from within the shadows. "That ye? I heard musket fire an'—"

My sabre slices through the night. "Thought I'd be dead?"

The boy's countenance morphs into a mask of horror as the blade comes to rest 'neath his jaw. "Nay, sir! I'd never! I—"

"Care to swear on that?" I interject with a dangerous edge.

"On a tower of Bibles stacked on my parents' graves, sir!" Emile vouches with a tremble to his voice.

I assess the lad under the pale light of the moon. His face is ashen but his eyes glint with steadfast surety.

I lower my blade. "The 'Coats have Harper..."

The hand emits a gasp of disbelief. "Sacré dieu...!"

"...and I could use your assistance," I add, moving to the closest stall that houses a mount bearing Greencoat livery.

"Anything, sir," he proclaims earnestly. "Yerself an' Mistress Harper ha' always been good t' me!"

"Fetch a bag of oats," I direct as I grab the reins of the bay gelding. "And a length of rope if you have it."

"Right away, sir!"

While Emile sets about his task, I lead the Greencoat mount out onto the gangway. Reaching for the girth, I tighten it back up before slipping the bridle off and tossing it into the straw.

"The things ye requested, sir," huffs Emile, reappearing once more.

"Good," I approve, taking the sack of feed from him. "Now, help me lash this to the saddle."

Working in tandem, we quickly secure the decoy atop the horse. Shrugging out of my justacorps — on top of the retribution for Harper, that cunt of a Beaumont also owes me a new hat and coat — I sling the muck- and bullet hole-ridden covering over the sack to complete the trick.

"Think'll fall for it, sir?" asks Emile as he meets my eye from across the horse's neck.

"Better pray to God they do," I reply, slapping the mount on the rear to send it galloping out into the night. "Else this might very well be our last meeting."

Emile's throat bobs in consternation. "Best o' luck to ye, then, sir."

"Christ knows I'll need it," I accede, grasping his palm to press a gold ducat into it. "Now, make yourself scarce afore the dragoons show up."

With a quick nod, the lad disappears back into the gloom of the barn.

Withdrawing from the stables once more, I skirt 'round the far side of the building, careful to keep to the shadows. Hopping the low fence of the vegetable patch, I make my way towards the low door that leads into the kitchen.

Trying the handle, I find it unlocked. Pulling the heavy wooden door back, I slip warily inside.

The crash of boots above me confirms that the Greencoats have fallen for my ruse. But there is no guarantee that every last one of their dastardly lot plans to depart the inn.

Belvedere Beaumont may be a godless dog, but he is by no means a fool.

Which means I'll need to keep ahold of my wits... and weapons.

Pausing at the bottom of the short set of stone steps that lead up to the main hall, I spare a moment to quickly reload my flintlocks.

Slotting one gun back into my belt, I grasp the hilt of my sabre in one hand, and the second pistol in the other before ascending the stairs.

The hall is dark... and quiet.

Whatever patrons there may have been must've made themselves scarce upon the discharge of the first shot.

Honestly? I cannot blame them. I certainly would not wish to be caught on the wrong side of the dragoon's crossfire.

I clench my eyes shut. Please, let her be safe...

Moving through the hall like a ghost, I arrive at the main staircase.

Cocking my pistol, I proceed onto the first step with as much care as I can muster, even as every fibre of my body is raring to dash upwards as quickly as humanly possible.

Sticking to the wall, I inch my way slowly towards the second floor, flintlock before me, on guard for the faintest sound or movement.

Reaching the landing without incident, I am greeted by the wanton destruction left in the wake of the dragoon besiegement.

My jaw piques in ire.

This had been punition — pure and simple. The setting of a heavy-handed example to put the fear of God into the hearts of all those who may cross paths with Beaumont and his men.

A warning of what will befall those who dare defy the letter of the law.

I shake my head. I should never have involved—

A shadow moves in one of the rooms to my left.

Flattening myself against the wall, I sneak a peek through the doorway...

...and what I see roils my guts.

Robert Gale — the inn-keep — is hunched over the chest standing in front of the large, four-poster bed, his hands bound behind him, his shirt and hair matted with sweat. A dark puddle of blood pools at his feet.

Two 'Coats root through the things in the room, pocketing anything that catches their eye and fancy, sniggering amongst themselves.

A hiss of chagrin escapes me. "Putain de merde..."

There is punishment, and then there is persecution. And Harper's father is — without a shadow of a doubt — a victim of the latter. The extent of his wounds provides ample proof of Beaumont's abuse of his authority.

And I cannot allow myself to stand idly by in the face of this atrocity.

I step out of the gloom and into the doorway.

A floorboard creaks beneath my boot.

One of the dragoons glances up...

...but by the time his faculties have clocked the fact that I am foe, not friend, I have already splattered his brains onto the wall behind him.

His compatriot meets the same fate half a breath later, as he fumbles ineffectually for his musket, his body thudding to the floor as the second of my bullets also finds sharp and swift retribution.

Robert Gale's voice croaks out from the foot of the bed. "Ye should'a left them alone, lad..."

But even that simple act is too much for his broken body, and he starts to hack violently.

Taking three quick strides 'cross the room, I manage to grab the old man 'fore he keels over. "Easy now..."

He heaves a shuddering breath 'gainst my breast. "Now, we'll be strung up fer sure..."

"Nay," I counter softly, reaching behind him to loosen the bonds that secure his wrists. "You just lay the blame at my feet. Where it belongs."

Robert twists his neck up to regard me with bruised eyes and cracked lips. "Yer him... The Raven Rider..."

"Amongst other things..." I admit, lowering him as gently as I can to the floor.

The inn-keep hacks out a strained laugh. "Aye... I can see why she likes you..."

"Have you seen her?" I demand, shrugging out of my waistcoat to press it to the wound at his side.

"Nay," Robert replies hoarsely. "Not since they found the gold in her room..."

The icy hand of dread grips my heart. "Sweet Jesus...How the bloody hell did they even know where to look?"

"Théo..." comes the raspy confession. "He... He heard—"

I nearly choke on my own breath. "The window..."

We never closed the damn window...

Springing to my feet, I dash from the room, heedless of the sound of wood striking wood as my booted feet pound the length of the hallway.

How could I have let myself be such a careless fool!

Not only have I tarred the woman I love by virtue of our association, but I've unwittingly led the bastards right to her! And if they found out about the gold, then...

I cannot allow myself to even think on that.

Skidding to a stop in front of the last doorway, I throw myself inside...

...and skid to an abrupt halt as I lay eyes on the horror spread out before of me.

"No..."

The dogged denial slips from my tongue in a whisper.

But my lack of acceptance does nothing to assuage the merciless truth of the reality that assaults me like a thousand knives to my chest.

Harper lies prone in the moonlight, bound and gagged, her golden tresses soaked in the slick crimson of her blood.

"No... No..."

My feet carry me unthinkingly to her listless form beneath the casement — the window of which sits still ajar — and I crash to my knees at her side.

Grasping her by the shoulders, I pull her to me with trembling hands, praying under my breath, hoping against hope that it's a mere trick of the night, a cruel misjudgement, a sordid nightmare that I have somehow stumbled into, soon to awake from...

...but even though her skin still feels warm to the touch, no breath issues from her chest and those hazel eyes that once sparkled with magic and love now stare dully out into the night.

My nails dig into her flesh as my body bows over hers. "Oh, God... Please... No..."

But if the Almighty Lord hears my plea, He is either a heartless bastard or an impotent fraud because He ignores my beseeachment. And she remains unmoving 'gainst my heart.

"NO!!!"

The delegation roars forth from my chest with a force that is naked in its brutality. The heathen keen echoes out into the night as the bitter taste of anguish engulfs my throat and my soul shatters 'neath the stars.

I am too late. And she is dead.

Shot in the heart and left to bleed out on the cold floor like a dog. Alone. Without any assurances or prayer.

All because I'd allowed my heart to sway my head. Convincing myself that despite all my prior misdeeds, I could nevertheless steal a future for myself. A future I had no right or claim to. A future that was more akin to the spectre of a mirage than any flesh-and-blood destiny. A future that was doomed from the start.

Yet my covetousness knew no bounds. And blinded as I had been by the promise of the lie I'd weaved not just myself but Harper as well, I'd led us into the mire of disaster.

"It should've been me..." I rasp into her neck as anguish blurs my vision. "It fucking should've been me..."

I hear the floorboards strain behind me. But I care not. I have no words or sentiment left. And if it's one of Beaumont's enterprising men come to shoot me in the back? Well, then at least they'll be doing me the favour of putting me out of my luckless misery.

Because the knowledge that I have doomed the woman I love cuts deeper than any mortal knife could.

And I've lost the right to live anyway.

"Imma sorry, lad..." says Robert Gale, laying a calloused hand on my shoulder, his own voice cracking.

I shrug the gesture off. I don't deserve his pity. Let alone his succour. I am the one holding the body of his dead daughter in my arms. If anything, he should be setting on me to tear limb from limb in payment for my sins.

Yet, he does no such thing.

"Had I know afore tonight 'bout ye..." He heaves a hoarse breath from above me. "But I s'pose we all had our secrets... And I know it inna any consolation as of now, but we'll bury her 'neath the oak tree. Next t' her mother. That way ye can—"

"Them," I bite out through clenched teeth.

The old man shifts. "What do ye—?"

"She was with child," I grit, reaching up to pull the bloodied gag from her face.

Robert falls into deathly silence beside me.

"So, raise your hand," I tell him bluntly as I pull her eyes gently closed. "Beat me. Wring my neck. Kill me, for all I care. For this is the only opportunity I'll afford you to exact your just vengeance upon me."

"Ye must think very little o' me, if ye think I'd strike a grieving man," rebuts the inn-keep with a hint of steel. "Let alone one who loved my daughter so."

"Then you are a better man than me," I reply solemnly, leaning in one last time to lay a kiss on her lifeless lips.

"Imma'n older man," he corrects as I gently return Harper's head to the floor. "Who's stood where yer standin'. So, I can afford some clemency. 'Specially in this bitter hour."

"You might come to regret your choice," I reply, forcing myself back to my feet. "As I bring nothing but death. And our paths will not cross again after tonight."

"Where ye goin'?" comes the flummoxed query as I push past him.

I throw my reply carelessly over my shoulder. "To exact vengeance of my own."

"They'll kill ye, lad!" Robert calls after me as I stride from the room. "They'll hang ye fer murder! And her death will've been fer n—!"

"I'm a dead man anyway."

Without caring to look back, I let my boots carry me back 'cross the corridor to retrieve my weapons from where I'd left them in the master bedroom.

Reloading the pistols on the fly, I stash them in my belt and I beat a determined path back to the lower level of the inn and out into the night.

The crash of the door 'gainst the wall catches unawares the pair of dragoons that had been left to stand watch on the exterior. But by the time they turn towards me, I have already run both of them through.

Leaving the sods to bleed out in the mud, I plunge into the darkness rising before me.

The cold, winter air whips through my hair, stinging my eyes and my lips in sharp contrast to the hot blood slithering between my knuckles.

But I pay it no need. For I have but one goal. One mission.

To take every soul I can into the night.

Because death? It is all but assured for me. As whether I go by my own bullet or a Greencoat's, it is simply a matter of choice at this point. For I have no reason left to live.

My world turned to ash the moment she died. And there is nothing left to salvage.

Coming to a halt some ways off from the inn, I shoot a sharp whistle into the depths of the murk. A shadowy form raises its head from the gorse, and in the next instant, Drogon is trotting eagerly towards me, the new palfrey in tow.

"Change of plans, mon gross," I advise as he comes to a stop in front of me, breath steaming in the moonlight. "And I don't think you're going to like it..."

The Merèns regards me for a moment, as if sensing the shift in my soul, before letting out a world-weary sigh.

"You always were far too opinionated," I tell him dryly, reaching up to untether the palfrey from his saddle.

Turning the bay towards the stables, I give it a slap on the rump to send it on its way. With Harper gone, I have no further use for the horse. And Emile will ensure it is well cared for.

The stallion shakes his head at me as I swing myself onto his back. But I allow him no further opportunity for protest as I gather the reins in one hand, and point him north.

"Hue!"

Upon command, Drogon leaps forward, and the night becomes a blur as we fly across the moor, like an ill wish upon the wind, seeking our quarry 'neath the path of the stars.

I have no clue for how long we ride. The silvery eye of the hunter's moon casts an eerie pall over the land, distorting any earthly sense of time or distance as its lunar magic stretches shadows and swallows minutes.

Eventually, though, from out of the darkness and the mist appears a ghostly glow, bobbing on the brow of the hill.

"Beaumont," I growl, watching the company ride closer.

They must have caught the horse and realised the nature of the ruse they had fallen prey to.

But it matters not. The time for tricks and cons has passed. There is no more running... No more hiding. No more trying to cheat or contrive our fates. The last of the road has run out.

It is judgment hour.

Wrenching the flintlocks from my belt, I press Drogon forward, down into the valley, down into the well of our doom.

Yet a strange sense of calm blankets me as we draw level with the oncoming troop. Perhaps because my heart already stopped beating the moment I laid eyes on her. And this last, earthly act is merely a formality. Or, I'm so drunk on the potent potion of grief and bloodlust that swirls through my veins that I've become numb to all else.

Either way, I am a shadow of the man I once was. And welcome the sweet promise of release.

The reins slip from my fingers as I raise the pistols to sight my shot.

The figures of men and horses coalesce from out of the gloom, torches borne aloft.

I reach the edge of the sphere of light...

... and let the first shot fly.

The lead dragoon's eyes widen in surprise as the crack of flint 'gainst frizzen ignites the black powder in the pan, splintering the calm of the night.

The lead round explodes out of the barrel in a flash of smoke and fire, hurtling through the air to imbed itself in the soft flesh of the man's cheek, shattering teeth and bone as it goes.

The shock of the impact causes the 'Coat to jerk back on the length of his reins, pulling his horse into the path of its neighbour.

Taking advantage of the confusion, I fire another round into the heaving mess of bodies, catching a horse in the shoulder, causing it to throw its rider from its back.

Cries of horror and surprise rise up as the precisely stacked formation careens into itself, turning both man and beast into a maelstrom of panic.

Slinging the spent weapons into the night, I whirl Drogon back 'round, his hooves rearing into the air as he seeks to redirect the sharpness of his momentum.

Whipping my sabre from its sheath, a hellish howl erupts from my throat as I point the tip of the blade across the narrow divide in vengeful promise.

"BEAUMONT!"

A glint of gold flashes in the middle of the fray as my target snaps his head up at the sound of his name.

"Shoot him, you whelps!" screams the captain, grabbing for his own pistol. "Blast him dead!"

But I am already charging forward.

Shots crack out into the night as I bear down upon my mark...

...and there is but one prayer on my lips.

"I am coming, mon coeur..."

I am almost upon the wall of dragoons when I feel Drogon stumble. Another round pierces my gut a breath later. A third lodges in my shoulder.

But still, I urge the stallion on...

...until his knees give way in the face of the desperate volley of bullets and he careens into the mud, taking me with him, mere steps from my goal.

A thousand pounds of horseflesh crashes down on me, pinning my leg 'neath the weight. My sabre clatters from my hand to vanish into the tangles of the gorse beside me.

The back of my head collides with the ground, and I find myself staring up into the black expense above me, my body broken, my senses reeling.

Drogon lifts his head briefly, attempting to pull himself to his feet, before succumbing to the inherent futility of the exercise with a mournful sigh.

"It's alright, mon gross," I whisper, attempting to comfort the wounded beast lying atop me, even as my vision skips and my lungs struggle for breath as a familiar wetness drenches my shirt.

This is not the way I planned to go. But it seems I left what remained of my luck in that cramped room where my love had blossomed and then died.

Fitting, really...

A pistol clicks above me.

With the last of my strength, I reach beneath my shirt, where Harper's talisman lies coiled 'gainst my heart.

Twisting the damp silk 'round my finger, I close my eyes with a final exhale.

…look for me by the moonlight.

They say that in the depths of the dark — when the moon is high and full — that the sound of hooves may be heard, galloping 'cross the moor...

And though you may not glimpse it, a ghostly rider's there. Searching for his love, they say, who gave her life for his...

If he finds her, 'tis not known; but he made a solemn vow to her. And a promise bound in blood and silk, is a promise that must be filled...

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[portablecity]

So, some news: tomorrow morning I'm having surgery on my right arm - my dominant arm - my drawing arm, my writing arm, my brushing-my-teeth and typing-in-chat and unlocking-my-door arm - and will lose most use of it for years, and an unknown (but hopefully less dire) amount of use of it forever. As you might expect, this sucks so, so bad.

As you can see above, I have been trying to proactively warm up my left hand so I can still write and such once this happens. As you might also detect above, it has not felt great.

(complements on my left-handed writing are not welcome; the feel of it is so alien that even if it looked perfect, i'd be upset)

So while I go in to get that done, I was wondering if you'd be willing to reply or repost or something with a thing you like about my work that isn't about how it looks? So I can go back to this post when I get real depressed afterwards and remind myself I'm more than my line quality?

And if you are curious, slightly more explanation with anatomical specifics below the cut:

so it turns out I have a peripheral nerve tumour on my radial nerve above my elbow in my right arm - it's been slowly preventing me from lifting up my index finger (extending it) and more and more the rest of my hand's extension has been weakening. scans show muscle atrophy in my forearm, so not only is the nerve weakening, it's been weakening long enough that the muscles are getting noticeably less use.

from what we know, the tumour is benign, but it's not possible to remove it without removing a chunk of the nerve, and likely fully severing the nerve. and though benign, the tumour has been steadily growing and is likely to continue doing so, where it would eventually effectively sever the nerve all on its own.

so this is a preventative surgery where we take the tumour out before it withers all the radial offshoot nerves farther down my arm, and graft in a spare (well, less important) nerve from my ankle, and hope that the graft takes and the nerve has a chance to heal and then let me rebuild my muscles and recover some hand and wrist extension. How much is not known. Complete recovery is impossible - some nerves in there are already dead and no amount of grafts and occupational therapy can change that, and more will wither while we're waiting for the graft to heal.

Motor nerves can only heal for so long, so I'll know more about my expected lifetime function in a few years. Likeliest outcome is followup tendon reassignment surgery to try and fill any dire functional gaps, and then what will presumably be a bit of a mind-fuck of physio trying to teach my brain that one of my flexion muscles will then be responsible for extension of fingers or wrist or something.

What's confusing about this is, my other arm nerves are all fine.

Ulnar? Doing great. Those nerves you fuck up with carpal tunnel? that I fucked up in 2008 and have spent a decade and a half taking very careful care of? really solid, healthy nerves! good job past Shel!

So I'm certainly not losing 100% of hand function; I'll still be able to curl my fingers and thumb and actively bend my wrist down - I just likely won't be able to reverse all those movements. Hell, already I can tell how much weaker my right hand is at typing - writing this after a day of spreadsheets at work is really wearing it down.

It's surreal how much all i feel is grief about this. There's no one to be mad at, not even myself - it just, sucks. Can you hold a funeral for your handwriting? your markmaking language? your line quality? your ability to touch type up to 140 words per minute? your confident, trained, controlled method of self-expression? RIP, radial nerve. I already miss you.

It's been a 13 month gauntlet of medical appointments since I first saw a neurologist about this and it's a relief to finally have the surgery, but i do really appreciate all the other scans and tests and biopsies - they gave me enough information to make this legit horrible decision to try and save what function I can for tomorrow by making today awful. And to try and become ambidextrous, I guess, because god knows I'm not stopping making art simply because my body betrayed me. It'll just be ... not what I think of as my art, for a while, at least.

[rmu-vincent]

Dear Mr. Edgeworth,

I would like to show you my longtime feline friend (of almost 2 years). Her name is Flower.

She is not my pet, but rather a neighbourhood cat who has taken quite a liking to me. Especially remarkable since I only get to spend around 1-2 months at a time with her before leaving back to study abroad, and yet she still remembers me every time I see her again after these long periods of separation. The other day when I took this picture she meowed at me 5 times and also rubbed against my legs, which I know as a sign of affection and familiarity.

(I do wish I could adopt her as my own, but my family forbids it)

Have you ever tried to befriend a stray/street cat? Maybe even take it in as your own? And if so how successfully? I am not familiar with the rules of RMU’s dorms so I don’t know if pets are allowed there - I know they aren’t in those of my university, which seems to be common practice.

Regards, Seraphine

Dear Ms Seraphine,

Thank you for sending me the inquiry. I sincerely appreciate all of your messages, and this one in particular has made my day a little more delightful. Flower seems like a lovely cat, and I hope she has a life that is as comfortable and nice as possible. I envy your established bond with her, but this envy is benign: I wish there was a feline companion waiting for me somewhere, but I have never had such friends.

RMU regulations prevent students from keeping pets on campus as a precaution. It seems to me that it is only reasonable to do so, as even without animal companions, people here are prone to being loud and disturbing. Take their throwing loud parties at inappropriate times, for example. Having even more tiresome distractions would make it impossible to study and walk around the premises in general. Personally, I consider the lack of pets here to be a good thing.

My life before college was spent mostly away from the city streets. Our family mansion was a lovely place hidden in the suburbian woods of G4, where seeing a stray cat would be a truly surprising experience; my school, similar to my university, had its premises carefully regulated, and stray animals were not allowed to enter. I was brought up to be mindful of my social status, and street cats were most certainly at odds with it. Moreover, I doubt that my parents could have let me adopt anyone, let alone a small kitten. We had a Great Dane, and that was it.

When I have the time to visit places outside RMU, I hardly ever see stray felines. As far as I am concerned, most domestic animals found out on the streets are sent to shelters, and the system seems to be working well (at least in the G4 district). However, when I see one, I sometimes go out of my way to pet it or get it some food if possible.

It is a pity that not all cats have a cozy, warm home and enough food. Hopefully, in the near future, this issue will be resolved, and every feline will have a loving family. Please send Flower my compliments.

Best regards,

Vincent Edgeworth

[cheapsweets]

The Benign Kraegrat

My response to this week's Bestiaryposting challenge, by @maniculum!

Wow, not a lot to go on this week - hopefully the narrative here is pretty self explanitory :D

Initial pencil sketch, mostly to get the proportions, then lines with a pentel brush pen - that was fun, but very hard to use!

As ever, reasoning below the cut...

"There is an animal called the Kraegrat, which is extremely gentle; its testicles are highly suitable for medicine. Physiologus says of it that, when it knows that a hunter is pursuing it, it bites off its testicles and throws them in the hunter’s face and, taking flight, escapes. But if, once again, another hunter is in pursuit, the Kraegrat rears up and displays its sexual organs. When the hunter sees that it lacks testicles, he leaves it alone." - I bolded the text for emphasis, but that's pretty much all we had to go off. I'm sorry, I couldn't get that image out of my mind, so please have a medieval hunter getting hit in the face with some hurled, severed testicles... (not a sentence I thought I would ever type...)

I tried to do some thinking around what sort of creature the Kraegrat might be; I'm not trying to guess what it's meant to be (that would be against the spirit of the challenge), but rather getting some very rough ideas where to start (particularly since this week's prompt did not give us a lot to work with). All we really had was it was gentle, it could bite (not narrowing it down a lot) and it could rear up on its hind legs to flash prospective hunters (something I missed until after I'd finished the drawing!).

The most gentle beast I can think of is the noble Capybara (which may have come to mind from one of the other participants in this challenge, perhaps?), but I ended up being inspired by vicuna, which have some of the softest wool in the animal kingdom, hence the floofy, shaggy, wooly appearance of the beast.

I also started thinking around what sort of animals might have valuable nether regions... Mustelids have their characteristic anal scent glands, but if we're looking at a gentle creature it would probably need to be (in the medieval mind at least) a herbivore... And this is the point when I realised I knew exactly what this creature was supposed to be and retreated to my previous idea...!

[sergeantsporks]

Is Evelyn angry at Caleb for not trying harder to redirect Philip's witch-hunting interest to something more... benign?

Ignoring that she herself is a Witch, witch-hunting was historically used to justify some pretty nasty stuff like: Racism, sexism, religious prosecution, and classism.

To say nothing of how its victims were often elderly, disabled or deemed guilty only because of who they were related to. And you know, the fact that torture was typically used to achieve confessions too.

I'm just saying that Evelyn could very easily justify any concerns that she has about Philip's "hobby" to Caleb without even revealing that she's a witch. From a layperson's POV, Caleb is taking quite the lackadaisical approach to his little brother treading close to incel-adjacent territory, lol.

That's not the reason she's mad at him, but I'm gonna do a little explaining why 👍.

The thing with Phillip's interest in witch hunting is... I know I make a lot of jokes how Evelyn is dating someone whose brother is the one guy who thinks witch hunting is a good idea, but that's not exactly how it is with him. He's interested in it from a purely academic stance-- we're going to run into Jacob Hopkins next chapter, and (hopefully if I do it right) we'll see the difference between Phillip, who's looking at it through only a historical lens, and Jacob, who still pretty much applies it to real life and falls into that very dangerous territory.

While Jacob is like "wow, this is the history of our town and a legacy I think we should continue," Phillip is VERY aware of the politics and horrors involved in Witch Hunting. In fact, one of the things that drew him in as a subject is that he's FASCINATED by how the combination of racism/sexism/religion/classism/ablism/all that tied into how overwhelming this mob mentality was. In yet another spectacular failure to recognize the self in the other, the peer pressure and mob mentality of witch hunts is something he dissects from a modern standpoint and questions how it could have happened. He's aware of the fact that the people who were hung as witches were victims of aforementioned issues-- that's something Caleb actually did make sure he was clear on when Phillip first started getting interested. He's mostly interested in the psychology and how all the stuff going on at the time was just the right cocktail to set off this bunch of killings.

Now, the problem that Phillip falls into is that part of his mindset is "how could they kill so many innocent people hunting for something that doesn't exist and these people could not physically be?" rather than "how could they kill so many innocent people?" full stop. The reason he's sure witch hunting was wrong is because he doesn't believe magic is real, so it was all just a morality panic and people were killed for no reason. That differentiation seems like basically the same thing if you also don't think magic exists (like Caleb), so trying to address it (if you're Evelyn, who's very aware of the existence of magic) is something that would seem. Odd. And very unnecessarily semantic.

That differentiation becomes a problem when he gets to the isles and well. Okay so magical creatures and witches ARE real and some of them are a little gung-ho about wanting to eat his skin. Those people in the witch trials might not have been witches and it was a nasty bunch of politics that got innocent people killed, but these people here for sure are witches. And THAT'S when his witch-hunting interest becomes a problem.