#i just like the idea of the one mass that is fear being feasted upon by other entities

[patroclus-rex]

i’m really enjoying all of the spooky ocean imagery in protocol!!! i wonder if they will do anything with the idea of a whale fall, maybe with the fears?

[fortune-fool02]

Painting in His Mind

Robert E.O Speedwagon x female reader

Requested by: anonymous 

A creepy Lovecraftian story of a character of your choice featuring a slow transformation into a non human or half human being and the reader trying to help them cope.

Lovecraftian AU

I love this idea! Throwing out all cuteness and fluff, we are losing sanity like adults! This is a bit long. Please enjoy!

There was only so much that the human mind could comprehend. Only some beliefs that could allow them to live happy, simple lives; oblivious to truths beyond their capability of understanding. Things impossible outside of stories and myths. Things that melted reality and belief together into one absurd painting of mass dark greens. 

The painting was something that was so strange and abstract that it captivated Speedwagon from the moment he laid eyes on it. He had found it during a robbery of some abandoned mansion that had been left to rot after the owners had died in an accident. Carriage rode right off the cliff and down into the rocks below from what he heard. No one survived and they barely found enough to bury. A collection of things had already been taken by anyone who could get their hands on it and yet the paintings were left untouched. 

Speedwagon had gone in one night, searching for something to take when he stumbled upon the cloth covered canvases, tucked away in the studio that was once a supply room or storage room. Curious, he had removed a sheet and saw the painting. 

Dark shadows merging with the blackness behind it, distorting and shifting into the light to be seen. Gaping maws inside gaping maws, lines of white stained red, both fresh and dried. Something stirring deep within him, a primal sense of fear that had never been felt before, not when he was held at gunpoint nor when he was in inches of his life. Hollow orbs blacker than the ocean’s darkness with twisting shapes and empty sockets staring out into his coffee brown eyes, piercing pass them and worming their way into his mind like a parasitic worm feasting of a fresh, ripe host. Something silently cried in his mind, as if the painting itself was speaking through a veil of water, muffled and distorted but there. Whispers, whining and whimpering, aching to be heard by ears not for them. 

He did not know why but he had to take that painting back home with him. He wanted it. He had to have it. The need and hunger for money was all but forgotten to Speedwagon when he returned to his home and practically stripped down an entire wall in his room for that painting. It didn’t deserve a simple spot, no, it deserved the entire wall. Shelves ripped from their place and cast aside, forgotten, replaced. All in favour of that painting. 

Every day, Speedwagon sat and admired the painting. Tracing his fingers over every brush streak, every melt of the colours, over the maw and teeth. Something deep within him was drawn to this painting, a tugging in his core like a string, no, not a string, stronger. A thread, a rope, a chain. A chain to a boulder dropped in the ocean, pulling him down with it. Sometimes, he could hear the whispering, soft singing below water; deep in his mind, faint but there, wanting to be heard, to be louder. He wanted to hear it. 

His friends came by to check on him and he reassured them he was fine. His friends swallowed his answers after some convincing and left him be but [Name] was kinder than that, more concerned, and thus remained with him. Wanting to make sure he really was alright. She was always so kind in his eyes, always so sweet and generous, thinking of those before herself. That was why he showed her the painting. He had expected her to be awestruck by it but, instead, she was unsettled by it, she even took some steps away from it. 

Then again, they did have different tastes in preferences and art so that could just be it. But her face, she looked so concerned for him. She even questioned him as to why he had such a thing. He told her how he felt about the painting, how he found it oddly captivating. 

“Robert, you have never once been interested in something like this style before. It’s not right at all, it’s....unsettling.” the [Hair colour] woman told him, her eyes glowing with honesty and concern for him. Speedwagon sighed at those eyes, such beautiful eyes. Sighing, he told her everything. The odd dreams that plagued his nights since he got the painting, the images of something reaching out of the inky blackness to him, dragging him down deeper into the darkness. His lungs filled with water whenever he tried to scream or call out in these dreams. Her expression painted into many different layers of concern for him and tried to think of some way to help him. 

No matter what advice he took, Speedwagon could not shake this painting. Couldn’t shake the pull he felt towards it. His dreams would spill past his eyes and into his vision, seeing the twisted things crawl towards him in his own home, no longer bound to his dreams alone anymore. His growing need to be with some kind of water. First starting off as drinking more, and more, until it was no longer enough and the blonde man would lay in the bath for hours. Even after the water had gone cold. [Name] recalled coming to see him one time and finding him trying to strangle himself while trying to call out for help then saying that something had wrapped around his throat, refusing to believe it was his own hand. 

That was when [Name] decided enough was enough. 

The sun had long set when she arrived at Speedwagon’s house unannounced. She knew that this would be foolish but she was doing this for Robert. Her pick-locks soon allowed her entrance to his house and was greeted by a breeze of coldness. It had been a few days since she last saw Speedwagon and, by the looks of his house, whatever has happened has only gotten worse with the thrown about furniture and broken objects. Especially with the lit candles all over the place and drawings. 

Slowly making her way upstairs, [Name] peeked into Speedwagon’s room to see the bedroom in almost perfect condition. Clean, well-kept, well-lit, the only room in such way. In the centre of the room, Speedwagon laid, bowing to the painting and praising it as one would the Holy Spirit or Christ. Robert Speedwagon was not a religious man so this was something unsettling for her to witness. The door creaking caught his attention, making him smile. 

“[Name]. My wonderful darling, please, come in, come in.” His tone sounded so...at peace. Like he was welcoming an old friend in who he hasn’t seen in many years. The second she got a better look at him, she knew something was off. His coffee brown eyes were hazy, glossed over with a bleakness to them, like his mind wasn’t there. 

“Robert? What....What’s going on?” He only smiled more at her words. 

“Nothin’. I’m just enjoyin’ the beauty of it. Can you see it, [Name]?” He asked, motioning to the painting again. Uncertainty flooded her, mixing with the concern for his odd behaviours. The man’s skin looked paler, drained of colour almost, like he was sick and only sparked more concern. 

“Robert, are you feeling well? You look dreadful.” [Name] spoke, taking a step closer to him only to have him smile more. 

“I’m fine. I have never been better.” Refusing to accept his answers anymore, [Name] shook her head, 

“No, you’re not. You’re sick and I’m taking you to a hospital. Now.” She said, reaching to him to lift him up. As cruel as this seemed, she was doing this for his benefit. Robert refused to leave, squirming out of her hold and remaining in place. 

“No! I’m stayin’ here! I need to watch this paintin’! Protect it!” He spat out at her, something he had never done since they knew one another. [Name], infuriated, grabbed a knife from her pocket and went over to the painting, ready to drive the blade through the canvas and destroy the damn thing. That did not sit well with Speedwagon as the man screamed in a rage, tackling her down and striking her across the face. His expression and eyes wild with rage. 

“Don’t you dare touch it! You’re not worthy to touch it! How dare you try to destroy it!” He screamed at her, grabbing her [Hair colour] hair and smacking her head against the floor with force. Her cries of pain and pleas fell on deaf ears as he continued to do this before tightly yanking her head up again and glaring into her [Eye colour] eyes.

“Robert, please! Please, I-I’m sorry!” She cried out, trying to move her hands to protect her head and curl up more, though his iron grip prevented that. 

“Not good enough! Not good enough....” He kept his grip, his hand reaching to the side for something and pulling it back into view. The candle-light glimmered against the blade in his hand. Cold panic flooded through her at the sight of it, squirming more under his grip, 

“No! No, Robert! Please!” Again, her pleas were ignored as he straddled her, holding her in place as he brought the blade higher up. 

“Lä. Lä. Cthulhu fhtagn...” he spoke softly, the words foreign and unknown to her as the blade remained still for a moment. Then brought down. 

“Speedwagon pleas-!”  

[drabbles-ofthe-gluttonouskind]

The Hero Named Avalanche.

Prompt:  A warrior of the adventurer's guild is nicknamed "Avalanche" for obvious reasons. But what exactly happened on that they they earned that title?

Admittedly, I tweaked this a little to work the idea I had from it. So it is more... a hero in the guild is believed to have the name Avalanche though it isn’t fully clear. But they certainly earned a more fitting title....

Anyways: Fatness, Hyper-Ass, Big Butt, Furniture Crushing, Destruction (light)

Words: 1707

More under Read More 

-----

Weiss Schnee – Avalanche.

It made sense that was her nickname. The legendary heiress of the Schnee family; a family of both warriors and business folk. An odd union but an adaptive one nonetheless. The family itself had always been noted for the chilly nature. Mainly through their cold manner in the realms of business and efficiency. As warriors, it came from their icy magicks and cold-as-ice brutality. Professionals through and through in the eyes of many. Seeing that name alone upon the roster of guild Adventurers certainly gave quite the impression. Such reputation and prestige behind that name bolstered anything. In the guild itself, there was murmurs about her, about Weiss. Various things, mumblings over her cool nature, her cold and sharp mannerisms that placed her into the role of an Ice Queen to many that knew her.

Yet, there was a notably lack of descriptions for the girl in looks. Weiss was strangely unspoken about despite being such a big name. Her reputation preceded her, many of the older adventurers refusing to speak about that heiress. The Guild itself would only mention of the supposed skill and the pride of having a Schnee on the roaster, not exactly the nature of who she was. It didn't matter to them of course, the name helped draw people in to either join up or use their service. It was in the later evening however that she would arrive to the Guild.

In the large feasting hall of the Guild's Main Complex; a meeting and eating place for those contracted by the Guild for work or commissions, a small number of such people would relax here. The scent of roasted meats and honeyed ales lingered upon the airs of mirth and merriment. To the light chatter was the crackling of the inviting fireplace that blazed brightly at the far right of the hall, providing a a degree of warmth in both the souls of the men and women within and the room itself. It was a comfortable place.

THUMP!

The large double doors were pushed open, a breeze of chill carrying in from the motion and the colder air outside.

In the threshold was the seemingly mythical women herself; Weiss Schnee. The so-called 'Avalanche'. White-haired as were all Schnees, it was quite easy to figure out whom she was but.... to see her.... One was to be shocked. Standing a little over five-foot, she was a plush with fatness. It lingered over her features. From rounded cheeks, a second chin, a pot belly that pushed against the fabric of her dress. Not an inch was spared the softening, though some had taken bigger hits than others. Mainly those hips, thighs and tummy. Dressed in a short if tight-looking white dress, a combat dress as she dubbed it, she seemed oddly elegant how the icy blues of the dress combated the paleness of her skin and the sheer white-as-snow hair. But, the longer one looked at her for that moment, they might be curious over the large mass behind her.

Was it the body of a great ogre? Dragged her to be shown off for her abilities? Perhaps it was bags of treasure, found in a desolate horde that she had dragged back to prove her worth? If it was any of those things, why would she come here with those?

A longer lingering look towards the hips would clear that up. She was as wide as the threshold of the door! Hip-to-hip the lightly they meet the threshold of the door, a five-foot width, it would dawn quick that those towering orbs behind her were no treasures but her truest asset.

Literally.

Effortlessly pushing herself in, hips rolling as the plump and broader heiress lumbered herself in. Heeled steps clacked and cracked the stone flooring as the tree-truck legs, seemingly as smooth as flawless porcelain yet more like the strong marble pillars that supported the grand bodily temple of her mass. Not an inch of her seemed to not move. Something jostled or meatily slapped into another. From there, more motions would crash together. Not an inch nor pound of flesh seemed spared form this. Thickened calves to those doughy cheeks, the motions vibrated through her mass. A few eyes would roam her way, mainly those of the newly commissioned who had never seen this before. Awe, disgust, surprise, fear. All common as eyes gazed on. The older, more aware sorts merely grumbled and returned to their drinks. It was just a typical arrival which often meant the night would get a little colder. Weiss herself held her head high while her body shuffled along. She adored the looks, a sense of pride of her spurring her on as she slowly lumbered more of herself into the place. The more she came in, the more of her ass was able to be seen. The girl was literally more ass than she was body! The shelf of it, or rather the platform for it was so big and expansive one could comfortably rest there to slumber, was covered by the skirt of her dress. It seemed almost useless against her girth. The pale ice blue fabric of her panties were stretched over the sheer girthy depths of her rump, showing a degree of modesty was taken. Even if it was loosing the battle to hold against the tide- that relentless force of her booty.

The cheeks of this rump were almost flawless in how they held together. Rounded with supporting dimpled rolls towards the lower edge where those broad pillar-like thighs sat. There was a shape to the boulders Weiss had as an ass, a sort of stretched and lightly sagging oval. Broad yet plump to a degree one might ponder how the girl managed. It was her genes, she would boast. Her natural gift, bolstered by her training. It was something she was quite proud of.. They overshadowed her however, towering above and around the plump heiress-warrior. It seemed almost silly to witness as she shuffled, effectively dragging her immense rump along the floor. It was like watching a horse dragging a carriage though the carriage was overloaded and immense, forcing the horse to take it slow and struggle, if the sweat on Weiss' brow meant anything.

There was a ruckus from her motions, aside from that of her creaking dress as the fabric tried to hold on. Not only from the cracking of the stone flooring via her heavy steps but the heavy rolling and swaying of her hips bumped the various chairs, tables and benches. No-one did anything about it as the scraping of the wood upon stone cried out like a dying harpy and the bottles and dishes left by prior parties crashed together to the floor. Destruction was some common thanks to her rear, Weiss drowned them out without a mere thought as she carved a path to... somewhere. No-one got in her way as the hips enforced the need for space with aggressive wobbling rocking.

The place shook once Weiss had picked her spot to settle. The crying creaking of the fabric of her attire was drowned out by the wails of the oaken bench she had settled upon. Somehow it held but the sounds of splintering echoed out. Even the aged wood knew best to serve the Schnee it seemed. Then again, even the most sturdiness of foes had buckled to this ass, the ass that was said to have smothered a great beast on more than three separate occasions. What was a pathetic bench to measure up to that?

The ass itself was so immense, so heavy that it smothered the bench. At a glance, it was easy not to think of Weiss as being seated upon anything but the floor. Only a careful look would reveal the mark of her sitting down on something. That was how she seemed to be floating an inch off the floor. Though the smothering and sagging ass did much to mask that. Yet, there she was, somehow suspended over the floor via this aged and slowly breaking bench. It would succumb eventually. It was just a question of when. Settling against her 'throne'; her thick back against the twin pillows of her expansive yet soft rear, made her smile. Comfort at last! Casually wiping the sweat from her brow, she leaned her head back. Time to eat.

She cleared her throat.

“Roasted boar, Lamb stew, the special and.... Ah! A gallon of red wine!” The voice would order out, a demand to the chefs carried by an entitled bellow.

There was a flurry of action behind the serving station of the feasting hall as they broke from their stares and got to work. All seemed to settle back to normal as the awe and ambivalence towards the immense heiress faded back into the merry nature of the hall. It felt colder however, the merry nature shifting thanks to large ice-cube that seemed to have settled within the once merry drink of atmosphere. Chatter returned, the clattering of cooking and the masked and muffled creaking and cracking of wood as Weiss shifted and rocked her hips, her ass wobbling and pressing more against that aged oaken bench...

Crashing! Clattering! Splintering!

A crash as mighty as the quake range out in parallel to the cracking of wooden.

It seemed the bench had shattered. Without the support, the once seemingly floating ass had fallen. The immense rear had impacted upon the hard-stone. The weight had pushed out a violent sense of animation across the room with everything in the grand hall from chairs, tables, people, cups and more seemed to shift and bounce, clattering as they settled in the aftermath. This violent animation caused a moment of silence as it burned away, the impact seeming to settle as everyone else in the hall seemed to get over the surprise.

Weiss hardly seemed to notice or care as her mass had fallen like snow from a rooftop, impacting the ground and making her ass-throne seem like a mountain of snow with the uncaring Ice Queen seated comfortably, above all.....

The nickname wasn't avalanche.

It was Assalanche.

[bookburnt]

a primer course on T.MA for my mutuals who followed me from other blogs and would like to know what the fuck i’m talking about!  (hi, guys.  love you.)  GONNA BE SPOILER-HEAVY IN HERE.

First off, big ups to the T.MA wiki, which you can consult on anything here, but this post is intended to serve as a very basic overview of the concepts relevant to this blog without forcing y'all to go into wiki levels of detail.  The first part of this post is some general TMA terms and concepts, and the second part is some characters who have been relevant to Gerry's story specifically.  If you're here for a better understanding of Gerry’s arc and don't care so much about the worldbuilding, scroll down to where I start talking about “who’s...?” and that should help you out.

what’s a “Leitner?”  A Leitner is a book but spooky.  They make bad things happen and, optionally, give you weird powers.  They're usually tied to one of the fourteen(ish) Entities, which I will get into in a bit.  Gerard hates these goddamn books, and has a knack for finding them and destroying them.  His mother, Mary Keay, ran an antique bookstore that did serious business in them.

what’s an “avatar?” An avatar is a (former?) human working closely with one of the Entities. Over time, the influence of their Entity changes them, often granting them certain powers in exchange for a psychological and physiological need to serve their Entity.

what are these “Entities?” / what’s this “Hunt?”  Put as simply as possible, the Entities are, like... fear elementals.  There are roughly 14 different entities, though the boundaries between them aren’t clearly drawn in all circumstances.  As follows, a quick overview:

The Eye. Fear of being surveiled.  The need to know the answers to questions that may destroy you.  The Eye is tied to the Magnus Institute. Its avatars can have the ability to magically Know things, understand all languages, and compel others to answer any questions they ask.  Gerry was tied to the Eye and had some capacity for Knowing stuff, but wasn’t fully its avatar - or if he was, he refused to feed it, which must have hastened his death.

The Desolation.  Fire, but without the warm fuzzy bits.  Pure unhinged destruction.  Desolation avatars can and will set you on fire with their minds.  Gerry’s extensive burn scars are the result of fucking around with a Desolation cultist and finding out.   (The cultist also fucked around with Gerry and found out.  He’s not around anymore.)  

The Hunt.  Being tracked by something that won't stop until it kills you.  The thrill of the chase.  Hunt avatars are capable of killing other avatars, even those who would otherwise be unkillable.  The possibility of Gerry being tied to the Hunt is never discussed in canon, but I’ve got my theories.  (That last phrase is a link to a post discussing those theories, it just isn't showing up like a link on desktop for some reason.)

The End.  Death and dying.  Manifestations of the End often involve disruptions of the natural processes of life and death.  For instance, the fucked-up necromancy book that Gerry got trapped in after dying was an outcropping of the End.

The Corruption.  Bugs, disease, rot, etc.  The Corruption's avatars may spread disease wherever they go, or they might just be chock full of worms.  Potential of controlling a worm army.

The Flesh.  The inherent weirdness of existing in a body.  Cannibalism. Flesh avatars may be hulking, twisted parodies of the human form.  They might steal your bones, turn you inside out, eat you, or all of the above.

The Distortion.  The inherent weirdness of existing in a mind.  Doors that shouldn't be there.  Getting lost.  Being unable to trust your own thoughts.  Distortion avatars look, well, distorted when seen in reflections or through glass.  Will probably try to get you to go through a door that wasn't there before.  You won't like what's on the other side.

The Slaughter.  War.  Violence.  Man's inhumanity to man.  The Slaughter often manifests in groups as well as in individuals, so you could get an episode of mass hysteria where an entire small town turns to butchering one another, or you could get an office assistant who just aches to do murder.

The Web.  Spiders.  Being controlled by external forces.  Can operate in extremely subtle ways.  Can also just be an unkillable spider who wants you to have a bad time.

The Vast.  Really big things.  Heights.  Your own terrifying insignificance on the cosmic scale.

The Buried.  Claustrophobia.  Being buried alive.

The Lonely.  Being completely alone.  Like, completely alone, and never coming back.

The Dark. What it says on the tin.

The Stranger.  Something that's not quite right.  A joke that you're not in on.  Clowns and/or mannequins that might kill you and take your skin.

BONUS: The Extinction. While the other 14 fears have been established for a while (the most recent is the Flesh, which only really came into its own with the advent of mass meat farming), the Extinction is a nascent entity born of anxiety around the idea of the human race destroying itself, and/or being replaced by something else. The boundaries of what constitutes an Extinction manifestation, rather than just a warping of one of the other fears, are unclear.

what’s a “ritual?”  Rituals are ways the Entities’ followers and avatars try to influence the world, usually with the end goal of making our world somewhere their Entity can live and feast full-time instead of just sporadically popping in.

what’s the “fearpocalypse?”  The only successful ritual to date, as of the end of S4.  Possibly the only successful ritual ever, given that it ended the world as we know it and let all 14 fears fully through the gate to fuck everything all the way up.  The sky is full of eyeballs now and that's not even the biggest problem.  This happened a while after Gerry’s death, but I have a verse where, due to his previous ties to the End and the general befuckening, Gerry is brought back to have a bad time with everyone else.

who’s Mary Keay?  Gerard's mother, founder and proprietor of Pinhole Books.  Had ambitions of starting a dynasty of supernatural power, starting with her only son Gerard, who ended up having other ideas.  Flayed herself in a ritual to make herself “beyond death” via the fucked-up necromancy book mentioned earlier.  Gerard was primed to take the fall for her seeming murder, but was let go after the book disappeared from evidence and several key witnesses retracted their testimony.  Despite the ritual being incomplete, Mary remained tethered to the world of the living for five years before Gertrude Robinson finally wrapped that up.

who’s Gertrude Robinson?  Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, and a stone-cold BAMF with a habit of sacrificing those close to her for (her idea of) the greater good.  The late Eric Delano asked her to look after his son Gerry, so naturally she let him live in torment with his abuser’s revenant for five fucking years, then swooped in when he was truly desperate.  She got rid of Mary Keay for good, and got Gerard to travel the world with her attempting to prevent various apocalyptic rituals.  The two would often pose as mother and son to strangers.         Being tied to the Eye, Gertrude seemed to be aware of Gerard’s impending death.  After he passed away, she bound him into that fucked-up necromancy book and left him behind.  (More on that here.) Gertrude was shot to death about a year later while trying to burn the Magnus Institute down and thereby prevent its head, Elias Bouchard, from doing anything apocalyptic.  (Tragically, she did not succeed.  SEE:  “fearpocalypse.”)

who’s Eric Delano?  Gerry’s father.  Died too early to ever really get to know Gerry, despite the sacrifices he made to restructure his life for fatherhood.  (We don’t need to go into the why of it here, but he did have to gouge his eyes out to try to be a stay-at-home dad.  And he did it.  We stan.)  Unfortunately, he’d fallen in love with Mary Keay, who used him to produce an heir for her planned empire, then murdered him with a pair of garden shears and bound him into that fucked-up necromancy book.  She later passed his page off to Gertrude Robinson, who spoke with him.  In that conversation, he asked her to look after Gerry and begged her to burn his page, as being bound into the book was a world of suffering. 

who’s Jurgen Leitner?  A rich, reclusive Norwegian who thought it would be cool and smart to start a library explicitly for corralling forces beyond human comprehension.  (He was wrong, and also stupid.)  Collected spooky books and put his name in them, giving them their common name.  Gerard hates this guy, associating him with the books that dominated his mother’s mind and indirectly ruined his life.  He hunted Leitner down and nearly beat him to death for personal reasons.  Upon meeting Leitner, he came away with the impression that this was just a scared old man, and couldn’t possibly be actually responsible for Jurgen Leitner’s library.  Ultimately, he chose to spare Leitner's life.  Unless we're talking about my canon-divergent Hunter!Gerry au, in which case he did not.

        Anyways, hope this has been helpful.  There's... a lot going on in TMA, but hopefully I've hit the parts that are most relevant to my writing here.  If you have any questions about canon, please feel free to ask!

[empress-of-xerxes]

Homecoming (Pt. 1)

The Immure pressed from the warp like a fist, shattering reality like glass with tendrils of cascading warp fire echoing out from the center of its re-entry. It was brutalistic, blocky and massive as any modified iconoclast destroyer could be counted to be with endless portals along its hull for modified gun platforms. It shuddered as if breathing in from a long time spent beneath the currents and thrusted forward, not waiting for the rest of the fleet fluttering in behind it. The Immure tasted prey and it's Commander would grant it a feast.

---

Braggart Hal, Arteshtaran of the Perfekt Entropy and Champion of Adrian the Beautiful, stood upon the command dias of the Immure bloated with withheld rage and venting steam from the rents in his armor that bled etheric light. His armor barely contained his soul now and he breathed out a sigh that made reality tremble as his fury became a palpable, mist of red fog billowing around his armored frame. The power field of his fists cackled and spasmed as he flexed its fingers and allowed his rage to burn bright within the weapons machine spirit. Braggart had always been a brute, even in youth. Amongst his Legion he was an outcast for foregoing the beauty and art of combat for more blunt and devastating methods. His enemies were broken not by fanciful sword play but with brutality. Break. Shatter. Ruin. The words echoed in his mind constantly like some echoed mimicry of the World Eaters mantra. He did not wish for blood. Nor skulls. Just ruination in it’s entirety.

"We... are here..." Braggart whispered but the sound came out in threat filled syllables. His chest rumbled in a throaty laugh and he breathed in deep with anticipation. "I will break... the King of Ashes."

He grinned beneath a helm he could never remove as the first alert chimes of weapons and auger lock began to sound out. "Xurok... is mine..."

--- 

"Confirm again." Xurok ordered but already he knew just what had burst forth from that torturous reality into Xerxian space. He had been waiting for it. For several months he and the Vanguard fleet patrolled the edges of the system and maintained key cordons around the Mandeville points in and out of Xerxes. It had been tedious work and all the while he had begun to put together the message left for him by his... lost son. That message had lead him here and it was here that he readied the first line. Twelve ships of the Xerxian Royal Navy waited for the first of the Perfekt Entropy to arrive in system and all twelve reported the same numerical and idents marking the newly arrived iconoclast as none other than the Immure.

"Confirmed Hazarbad! Every ship confirms. That is the Immure." Reported a deckhand attached to ship to ship communications.

Xurok growled, grip tightening around the haft of his axe as he witnessed the long distance renderings of the long lost Xerxian ship. "It's blighted." The Immure was long past it's original design and was bloated with weapon arrays and arcane technology. A true destroyer that even it's smaller size couldn't mask. Pylons stretched from it's prow and along it's spine and ejected jaggedly from it's back. Arcs of ethereal light danced between the harness points and the destroyer seemed to feast on the residual warp ichor that clung to it's hull from re-entry. Xurok could swear the ship was laughing as he saw that hull lurch and spasm.

"Weapons lock and engage. Now! Full spread." He announced and began the tedious work of commanding a void battle. All around the command deck the Ram personnel began their calculations as more splinters of blighted ships began to cough out of the warp tear made by the Immure. There were twenty now. All old Xerxian patterns and designations.

"Fire at will! Target the lighters first but hammer the Immure with everything else!" Xurok ordered and the Immure answered with a flare of engine discharge as it roared forward.

---

The Epigram burned silently in the void with its hull ruined and torn asunder. It was a victim to the onslaught unleashed by the warp-bloated weaponry employed by the Immure and its death marked the first of many as the iconoclast surged towards Xurok's Mayra. Lance beams, solid sabot rounds, mass accelerated tungsten, and a whole litany of other weapons were filling the void with constant flashes of void shield flares and the occasional trickle or sickly pop as a ship's voids shivered out of existence and the metal of its hull taste the sting of munitions. 

Braggart flexed the fingers of his gauntlet, making a fist and squeezing hard to the groaning of servos. His attention was fading. Vision swimming red with hate. Before him was the weakness of his species laid bare. Complacency and fear, tethered to remain bound to a single system when they could have taken the stars. 

"Adrian's Perfekt... we cull the weak... prepare to board..." He growled across the ship wide vox and echoing out the same transmission to the rest of the fleet. The Perfekt Entropy aboard were already awaiting this moment, weapons primed and combat stimulants awaiting the first sign of neural activation. 

 Three of their ships had fallen to the initial wave of attack from the Xerxian Vanguard but plenty remained and order was remade. They spiraled and danced among the first line of defense, bleeding and setting a path for the Immure to meet with the Mayra. A duel of the strongest of Xerxes' sons. 

"Burn engines at... max... Cleave our path forward..." Braggart hissed as he began to retreat from the command deck. He would reach his prey. He would break Xurok. He would open the way for his brother. He had sworn this to him and if Adrian had simply asked... Braggart would have razed the galaxy in his name.

---

"You will not have to worry about finding him." Said an unusually calm and monotone voice from behind Xurok. The Immortalis commander turned about and his eyes narrowed at the turncoat named Helotes. The former apothecary wore no smug smile, no sneer of arrogance. It was strange to even consider this man once one of sons of Fulgrim when all the mirth and pride was absent and in its place neutrality and bitterness thrived. Helotes wasnt a schemer but there was no denying the man was capable of webbing ideas as fluidly as the rest of the degenerated Emperor's Children. What his true motive was... for the time being... is unclear. 

Helotes' brow raised and he returned Xurok look with the tired, aged gaze of his own. The ashen grey smudges still splotted over his eyelids and the wrinkles and deep frown always set upon his face really spoke to the man's age. But there was still a deeply hidden youthfulness there, glinting in eyes undeserving of the color grey. Stolen, Xurok once pondered, but had since given up wondering on. 

"What is he now?" Xurok ventured. 

 "Divinity." Helotes grumbled sardonically, "Or as close to reaching it as any one can be. I helped him on the path at Adri- I mean the Beautiful's request. We were to guide him and contain his being until the very end. A conduit for the range in his soul. A prison." Helotes rubbed his chin and the Mayra rumbled as its guns unleashed another salvo. 

"It was cruelty to indulge him, but there was no better drug to sate the beast. Sarn devised the numerology. I carved the frame. He whispered as He always did. Soothed the beast as he soothed us all." 

The edge of Xurok's lip twitched and he looked away from the apothecary. He remembered Braggart as a brute but Helotes made him sound like so much more now. A slaughterer. A pawn. A tool. 

"Can we kill him?" Xurok asked with a bite to the intonation.

Helotes thought on this as if it was the first time he'd ever been asked. He rubbed the back of his shaven scalp and shrugged to the groan of armor servos. "Theoretical: Sunder and delay, break apart piece by piece. That would be the best course of action. But Practical..." He snorted, "Nothing short of tossing him into the sun would do the trick." 

Theoretical? Practical? The words had been intoned and Xurok took note of their meaning. He could not remember their use prior to now but they were a familiar rhythm. Pre-Heresy... but did they remain Post? A question for another time.

"Xerxian plasma burns three times as hot as any sun." Xurok growled and Helotes almost smiled then.

"So there is a plan then?" Helotes crossed his arms and the honor guard of the Immortalis Primus shifted with agitation. Xurok nodded but remained silent for a while. He needed to see what Braggart was before he could break him. He needed to know if the path into the mountain crest he had taken and the pain he had endured there would prove enough now. There was only so much the scales of the Shahmaran could do against the degeneracy of the warp but Xurok knew in the fire of his soul that it would have to be enough. Against dev and fae, against even the Thrones themselves, his weapons and his being had proven themselves capable. It was all about balancing the cost of power permitted. 

"He is coming for me, yes?" Xurok asked and Helotes need not confirm. "Then let him. We grant him a path straight to me, slow him only slightly, enough to make sure the rest of his fleet burns in the cinders of his hubris. Once he is on board we must goad him at every turn. Promise him failure." 

Helotes clicked his tongue, "Making him angry isnt what I would suggest..." 

 "But it's what we must do. We have to let him burn himself out. Let him unleash the worst of his rage so that we get that moment to strike. If he is as you say, Divinity climbing, then that is when he is most vulnerable. At the apex of his ascension." 

Helotes chuckled dryly, "You want him to ascend? That can not end the way you see it..." 

"I want him to become the pawn, not for Adrian, but for the things that echo in the Windsong. That is when he loses Adrian's favor and with it his protection." 

Helotes did not understand, not fully and Xurok could not blame him for such. This insight was only possible through the knowledge that mother Xerxes could provide. Through the whispers of the Scales and the burden of blood. 

[lemonietrinket]

King and Lionheart ||| King!Jungwoo x RoyalKnight!Reader

Part One

Genres: Fantasy, some Fluff, Angst but has a happy ending! Word Count: 2533 Warnings: Grisly ideas with a lot of death but no severe descriptions of it Theme Song: King and Lionheart - Of Monsters and Men

AN: Based kind of closely to the lyrics of the song? It’s really good! And I didn’t intend for this to be a two-parter, but yeah it turned out that way and I’m really sorry. Hopefully, it won’t be too long until Part Two is up. Thanks for reading!

~~~

The sky was an oil painting, vast brushstrokes of emerald steadily cloaking the azure-tinted clouds that graced the night. Stars speckled the deep blue silk as if a thousand ghosts were peering down at the horror that had unfurled at the foot of the fear-stacked mountains—thistle hued rock gashes in the snow.

The streets were crowded with translucent spirits, their bodies chained in silver to their spots. Their eyes were piercing, staring into the souls of those still attached to the mortal plane, filled with sorrow and the ferocity of dry anger.

But though it should have been, their fury was not aimed at you.

The two of you picked your way through the street. Jungwoo stumbled, his eyes meeting those of the lost, the slow tears refusing to halt. A neverending cascade, striking trails across his mottled cheeks. Trembling lips were silent, the only exception being his hushed breaths that collided with the air and froze.

You watched him carefully as you stepped over rubble from the ceremonial grounds, eyes never leaving his wavering features. Golden flags were torn and muddied with charred remains at his feet, as he came to a stop at a mother’s spirit hovering at the lengths of her restraints. A fragile, swallowed whimper left his body. It felt as if it carried his whole body behind it, yet was so quiet you almost missed it.

You took to his side, standing between him and the wayward figure. Your hand cradled his shoulder, leading him away from the remnants and into the middle of the abandoned street.

You had aimed only to talk to him, but he broke, pressing his head into the furs at your neck and crying openly.  His sobs remained to be the worst sound you had heard, and you had heard many things.

Creatures built like towers made of scales fashioned of the carcasses they feasted upon, whose screams grasped at the depths of your heart. Abominations crafted of salt that tore at their own injuries as they battled, forcing bloodcurdling roars so grating that you could not believe they could emanate from something that was once human.  The guttural clicks from the bone crusted maws of a beast you never did fully lay eyes upon, and you praise the deities above that made that so, daily.

None of it compared to the wound his sadness inflicted. 

And there he was, his eyes as warm as summer nights where a blanket was no longer needed, his voice as sweet and smooth as butternut, his smile as bright and beautiful as the moon... he was the kindest soul. He greeted magpies no matter their number, and left food grown in the royal gardens for the deer of the forest. 

He was your King, and you were his lionheart. You’d fight whatever came his way—and it wasn’t simply because of the job anymore, it had moved beyond that level a long time ago—and you’d protect him no matter the cost.

.

You held is larger frame in your arms, a thick glove easing his hood rimmed with ermine, pure and speckled with onyx, over his light hair. As he trembled, you felt your heart twist.

None of this was his fault. If you had not opened the gate, after hearing his ‘voice’, had thought rationally about the logistics of the height of the wall and how, in the spontaneous game, he could have gotten over to the other side to call your name, everything would have been fine.

You had a hand in the disaster, meanwhile, he played no part. And yet he blamed himself.

“Don’t look at them, Woo,” you whispered reassuringly, “they may be angry, but it is not aimed at you—it never will be.”

He whined, clutching at your padded coat as he clung even closer to you.

It was a lie. It was aimed at him. Though not rightly.

.

He’d inherited a tumultuous throne that he hadn’t been raised for, had faced three onslaughts and the threat of war at least once, all of which caused by bad decisions on the behalf of his predecessor, his childless, wreckless cousin. The people were angry before the fourth invasion arrived, though they had mostly kept it to themselves.

It wouldn’t have a chance to outpour, at least when they were alive. Now their spirits inhabited the streets linked to their chains, and they had the chance to show their anger in their cursed form of the afterlife. 

It wasn’t his fault.

Even a country with the strongest army and all the resources of the world and preparation time leaking into months could not have withstood what had massacred the city.

They called themselves the Jotun but it was foul play to call themselves by that name, as even a true Jotun would not have been able to do what they did. Their attacks left people in pain long after death, as they stole everything, including the bodies of the people left unguarded.

It was fair to say there were no survivors, besides the two of you.

Just the King and Lionheart, heading south to seek help.

.

.

.

Your eyes scoured the busy streets, every stall, every face, every shadow, every crevice. You saw no danger, but you could not find him anywhere. You jumped in a poor attempt to see over the heads of the masses. But his bunny smile and his long white coat were nowhere to be seen.

You’d left for the best part of an hour, waiting to see the King of the realm of Aldworth. After attempting to be granted an audience with the three previous dominions that you had passed through to no avail, the King—a lady nearly as tall as the doors she had built with her own hands—had given you the opportunity to speak.

Your King had been left outside. You knew it would have been better for him to be the one that performed the speech—the plea for aid and forces to relinquish his kingdom from the control of the Jotun—but as soon as the words had come to your lips you recognised the dimmed glow his eyes and changed your mind.

The King had let you leave as she worked with her advisors to decide, but now, yours was missing. 

Crowds of people scurried from left and right, then round and round and back again. Their bodies melded and waned, shades of brown to black, like the warm earth of ice-moult. Their lungs made weak clouds, that amalgamated into one thin mist, their voices carrying like the war cry of a long-slumbered deity of thunder, and their smiles narrowed into deceit.

And then a weight smashed into your back, very nearly knocking you off-guard.

Your hand flicked upwards out of instinct, to find no hilt. 

It was then you realised that the arms at your neck were not malicious, and fit snugly at your collarbones, as a certain pair had always done.

“I’m sorry!” the man exclaimed, but there was the familiar lilt of mischief in his voice. 

You gazed back, feeling your back unfurl and tendons relax, to see a huge grin on his face. “Jungwoo! Where were—? What did you do?”

“Nothing!” he cried, just as he always did whenever he had something to hide. 

You sighed. “Your Majesty, I’ve known you since we were children, I think I know when you’re lying to me. Now—”

He suddenly let go, swinging round to look at you, face to face. 

That was something you could never quite face confidently, his intense stare. Deep irises of earth, when the ice-melt had washed away and left the ground umber in the place of pristine. Everything else you showed no fear, but with him, you felt your iron shell melt. He’d gotten them from his mother. 

“I hid, because I wondered what you would do if I didn’t turn up,” he admitted, rocking back and forth on his heels with his hands entwined behind his back, “but then I felt too bad, and I was scared you’d throw a man into the ocean again, so I came straight back.”

“Is that all?” You frowned, ignoring the subtle dig.

He nodded enthusiastically, whispering an apology in a tone a thread away from serious.

You rolled your eyes, exhaling. “Honestly, Your Majesty—”

“Woo! You always call me Woo, why aren’t you calling me Woo now?” he interjected, forcing his lip to quiver.

You pursed your own. “Because we are in public and it is not etiquette to refer to a monarch by nickname, and you know that, Your Majesty, now please—”

“But I like being called Woo!” he exclaimed. A few merchants sent the two of you a few unnerved glances as they passed. You responded with a glare, and it had the desired effect, as they scuttled off towards the docks.

Jungwoo seemed to go into deep thought for a brief moment, eyes wandering about somewhat vacantly before he managed to reach a conclusion. “Wait! If I order you to call me Woo, doesn’t that mean you have to?”

You opened your mouth to begin, before you halted yourself. Though it was an unexpected conclusion, Jungwoo wasn’t exactly wrong. And with his beautiful eyes glittering in the knowledge that he’d won, you had half a mind to give in. Luckily rationality kicked in, and you swiftly decided it was safer to attempt to move on. 

“As I was saying, Your Majesty, I expected so much worse than you merely hiding, and so please refrain from minor tricks—”

“Oh!”

You huffed. Being held by hierarchical convention really did take the pinch of salt sometimes.

Jungwoo smiled that radiant grin that rivalled the sun as he continued. “And I bought this with the savings money!” 

You were about to request as calmly as you could manage to let you finish when he unclasped his hands from behind his back to reveal a hulking great sword gripped feebly between his fingers.

It had a hilt made of what looked to be pure gold, engraved with a series of runes and pictographs, telling something of a great hero slaying an ineffable beast from the oceans. Its edge was so clear and gleaming that even you had no idea what it was fashioned of—only that it could perhaps cleave bone in two, and that it had the appearance of costing the entire lot of your savings.

Words tumbled from your tongue, quivering and broken. “What is—? Jungwoo?!”

“Look it’s alright! You needed a new one after your old one broke and this one is pretty and the seller said it was magic so—”

“Jungwoo!”

“Y/N!” he said mock-sternly, though his expression seemed to be tinted with a seriousness you rarely got to see. “You are my holy, royal, sacred, personal knight! I can’t allow you to be under-resourced. That would make me a bad king, right?” He paused, and you originally expected that it was in an effort to await your affirmation. However, it dawned on you quickly that it was worse than that. His face fell, the smile that had the power to turn even the strongest hearts to putty dissipating on his features, until you were left with only an expression of emptiness before you. 

“Who am I kidding, Y/N... I’m already a bad king,” he sighed, swallowing thickly as he tried to hold the threads of his voice together, “and not giving you a sword to help you do your job—the job that I gave you, that you didn’t ask for... that would make me the worst king known.”

His words left you stunned, a condition you hadn’t felt in so long that you couldn’t place the last time you had experienced the loss of words, the swimming of your thoughts, the lack of clarity and solutions. 

When you remained unbudged, lips agape and eyes wide and concerned, he continued, “You’ve gotten me through so much, Y/N. You’re my best advisor, my oldest and closest friend, my... my only friend... you’re the last survivor of my kingdom, besides myself. You deserve much more than this, but... this is all I can give you.”

You felt your throat tighten, breath staggered. You knew you should accept the sword, but your hands stuck by your side.

The wind slowly picked up, toying with the crimson flags of the street as the people of the marketplace seemed to fade into alleyways and nowhere.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice nearly so low the breeze almost carried it away, his lip trembling as his gentle face crumpled.

It was at his unnecessary words that something snapped in your brain.

“No apologies,” you stated bluntly, swinging into gear after buffering and taking the sword swiftly in one hand, “not to me at least. We will get the kingdom back, your people back, we’ll get everything back—no matter the cost.” You weighed the weapon in your palms, scarred from numerous grapples and close encounters with the old acquaintance of Death, and raised the blade where you could see the reflections of the sky, watery and pale. “When this sword and I are done, there will not be a single Jotun left.”

“Promise me...” he began.

You lowered the sword, to meet the gaze of his watery eyes, only to find his head still bowed. “Your Majesty?”

There was a wavering exhale, as he worked up the effort to speak rather carefully, “Promise me that the cost will not be you.”

You paused. Even if you’d known him for as long as your memory allowed you to know, this man was always full of surprises. Or perhaps your ignorance had stunted your awareness to see this one coming. 

“Is that what you would prefer?” you enquired clearly, turning your head to try and get a better view of his expression. “Over your sacred duties to the throne and the guilt of losing the people?”

Jungwoo didn’t move. He remained still for the longest time, beyond the point that you began to worry. You could almost hear the thoughts, whistling through his mind at the speeds of a gale, crashing like an avalanche through a village against the walls of his mind.

You were about to call his name when he finally lifted his head. His features were stone, firm-set yet saddened.

He nodded once, and you were left stunned.

“Even if the cost of my life was the only way to bring them all...?” 

He nodded again, with more clarity, a determination in his eyes that you knew would not fade, no matter the words you spent. You’d only seen it once before, on the day that he asked you to be his knight, his guard for his life. You had been completely unable to turn his words down then too, if you had even wanted to.

“Well,” you cleared your throat, “you are my King, Woo.” You divulged in a final glance of your reflection in the blade, before adjusting the old sheath that had remained upon your back. “And so, your word shall be done.”

The sword slotted into the leather as if it destiny was made in those pure seconds alone. 

~~~

Part Two - coming soon

Masterlist

[edited: 2/04/2020] 

[toxic-gorgon]

Village Treasures: Kuronue x Reader

Another Ao3 only that I’m sharing with ya’ll. Kuronue (in my opinion) doesn’t get enough love and he only appears for three minutes in the movie, but dammit as far as I’m concerned, he’s a prominent character. 

You’ve heard stories of demons coming to human villages in the night, robbing them of their belongings and innocence, only to feast upon their flesh until none was left. Stories are generally sprinkled with bits of fact, or in this case, news from a neighboring village. Every man, woman, and child in your village barricades any possible entry with whatever they had. Your village was next. What the demons wanted, you hadn’t the foggiest, but once thing for certain, if your village was next, well, buck up or die.

 Somberly, you helped your family put up wards from the local monks. It plagues your thoughts, what the outcome would be if the neighboring village had them too. Or, what if they had? Humans are helpless against demons; perhaps someday a barrier will keep the two worlds apart, or maybe demons will live in harmony with humans. Until then, humans will have to survive, and if they can survive, they can thrive. That’s all you could do.

 So, after the whole village scrambled about to get ready for the incoming invasion, your village’s elder emerges, and as always, ready to calm the masses. “My people, demon activity has increased, but we will not give in! Those vile creatures will not drain our recourses, or our existance! We we will emerge victorious!” While most of the villagers cheered, you on the other hand remain somber about the idea.

 You see, rumor had it that these were no ordinary demons. The ordinary demons, usually attack humans to feed upon their flesh or for sadistic reasons. These ones however, seem to be looking for something, some sort of treasure. Remaining positive is one thing, being blind to the real issue is another. Was the elder prepared to sacrifice your people, just to keep some stupid object in his possession? Apparently so.

 As night begins to approach, your village hushed down for the evening like usual, with five of your bravest and strongest men were awake and walked through the streets on patrol. A heavy fog of unspeakable tension enveloped your home, as everyone would have to wait out the nights, as long as it took for this to end. You walked into your hut, to see your mother doubling over in pain, as she attempted to get back onto her feet. Quickly, you rushed to her side and hoisted her up.

 “Mother, are you ok? What happened?” you sit her up, allowing her to put her weight onto your shoulder. She coughs into her palm, shaking her head.

 “I-I’m fine. I was getting some water.” Your eyes soften, but once you looked into her bloodstained palm from where she just coughed, you give her hard look.

 “You are not fine! You should’ve waited until I got back, or sent someone for me.” Your mother forces a smile, as she reaches to cup your cheek with her non-bloodied palm.

 “Please, don’t chastise me for what little independence I have. Besides, I’m not that helpless.” she says weakly. As if your heart couldn’t shatter anymore than it had. Fighting back tears, you help your mother back into bed, and tucked her back in. You hated it, you absolutely whole heartedly hated it with every fiber in your being. Out of everyone in the village, your mother was the one who contracted a deadly disease. The town monk gave her less than a year, and with medicines to ease her pain became harder and harder to find, she had even less.

 Sitting at her bed side, you looked over and shook your head, as all the water in your home has been spilled onto the floor. Getting up, you used a dirty cloth to wipe it up, then tossing it back to the corner. “I’ll get you some water mother, please stay put.” You mother sits up.

 “But it’s late, there are demons lurking around this region. You need to stay-“she abruptly coughs again, more blood splattering into her palm. Pushing your tears back, you hoped up and made your way out of your hut.

 “I’ll be fine! You just need to be focused on getting better, ok?” you call back, before leaving your hut with a bucket next to the door.

 Walking through the forest’s thicket at night was a death wish for humans, as only the brave and stupid would think this was a good idea. Your determination was stronger than the fear that made your knees buckle with every step. Luckily, the stream was just on the outskirts of the village and only thirty minutes away by foot. Over on the other side of a steep hill and past four giant boulders that made a makeshift shrine to the local spirits, and there it was, glistening in the full moon’s glow.

 The chirping crickets and howls from wolves miles away filled the night, creating one of nature’s most peaceful songs. You crouch over, scooping some water in your wooden bucket, as chills ran down your spine from the cool wind. Your eyes dart up, as if you were expecting a monster to be looming over you, ready to devour your body and soul. You see nothing, but the ominous wind refuses to yield. With a soft hum, you stand up, careful not to drop the heavy bucket.

 When you turn around, a sickle of someone’s kusarigama zips past you, causing you to drop the water, and breaking the bucket. Cursing, you look over to see the blade stuck in a tree, while the chain leads into the forest’s thicket. Shit! Bandits! Backing away silently, your legs struggle to take off, the chain blocking your path. A tall figure emerges, his leathery wings stretch and retract back once he’s fully out of the woods.

 A demon! You stayed put when he approaches closer, as it would be foolish to run.. His indigo hues catching yours, rendering it impossible to look away. A creature so beautiful, that it’s unbearable. Alarm bells rang in your ears, you knew better than this, as you heard stories of demons changing their appearance, pleasing he human gaze just to lull them into false security. But, this demon has already caught you, and you were at his mercy regardless.

 “Isn’t it late for a human to be walking through a forest so carelessly?” his smooth but deep voice made the hairs of your neck stand up. In the pit of your stomach, you could feel your impending death hurling towards you fast. As the bat demon approaches, he walks past you and yanks his blade out of the tree. He smirks at your trembling form, too scared to move. “Well? Don’t you at least have a name?”

 With a heavy and visible gulp, you stutter. “I-It’s ____.” Your voice soft, drenched in fear, enough to awaken any demon’s apatite. However, this demon chuckles, putting away his weapon, then steps forward until he towers over you. His silky long black hair sways gently in the night’s breeze, as his soft yet masculine features radiated in the moon. He was even more stunning up close.

 “Relax, I won’t harm you. Not unless you give me a reason to.” His voice soothing to your senses, as you nod in understanding. If you run or fight, he’ll most likely to kill you. It’s best to humor him, then think of a way out when the time is right. As if the demon could read your mind, he grabs onto your wrist, forcing you to wince, as he applies enough pressure for it to ache as a warning. If you were to move, surely he could snap it with little trouble at all. “Tell me, where’s your village?”

 Your shaky free hand points to south, you didn’t bother looking that away. You couldn’t look away. The demon nods, seeming pleased with your compliance. But, you couldn’t disregard the aching feeling of betrayal in your gut, as it was obvious your village was a possible target. You scrambled to remember the various weapons and defense mechanisms, lining your village. The demon let’s go of your wrist and turns away. You shout after him.

 “Wait!” He stops and looks behind you, a smirk playing on his lips. He faces you again, arching a brow. “Y-You don’t want to go there!” you plea. The demon chuckles at your sudden outburst.

 “Why not? Out with it human.” his gruff voice sent shivers down your spine and chilled you to your bones.

 “W-We have weapons….a lot of them! If you’re looking for something to steal, you won’t get far.” The demon frowns, his indigo hues giving you a steely glare.

 “Do you take me for a fool, human? As if humans are able to match a demon’s strength.” he chuckles. “How amusing.” You glare in response, growling.

 “Look, whatever it is you’re seeking, I can get it. Only if you spare my village though.” What the hell am I doing? With your people on the line, you willingly threw yourself at the danger, mostly to protect your sick and vulnerable mother. They gave her at least another year, two at the most. You didn’t want to lose her so soon.

 The demon’s puzzled features falter slightly, before he picks it back up into a cocky smirk. “Oh? You’ll willingly bring me your village treasure? How thoughtful.” You kept a stone-cold glare to the demon, his beauty can’t shatter your resolve, not now.

 “It’s not being thoughtful, it’s having common sense. If our village treasure is what you want, then I’ll hand it to you. In exchange, not only will you keep out of my village, but you will bring me medicine from a certain plant. A bulk of it.” The demon, now towering over you again, bends down to whisper in your ear.

 “What if I refuse? You’re not fooling anyone human, what makes you think I’ll go along with your request?” You stand tall, with your back straight. Human or not, he’s not going to push you around.

 “Because, you don’t know what kind of weapons my village has and I won’t tell you. If you kill me here or let me go, you won’t know until you make the mistake of robbing my village. That is, if you want to risk your death, or you can let me deliver the treasure to you first hand and guarantee your safety. The choice is yours, demon.” Your mother being on the line gave you that extra dose of badassary this eve, and the demon seemed to catch on too. Placing his hands on his hips, he grins.

 “I see. Suppose you have your reasons for the medicine, which is why you’re putting on such a ridiculous display. Fine, I’ll humor you and wait your village’s prized possession tomorrow night. If you run, I’ll find you and end you. If you don’t present it, the same will happen. Do you understand?” You nod swiftly.

 “Y-Yes, we’re clear. T-Thank you.” you said, your spurt of confidence running out. The demon smirks, he saw right through you. You weren’t sure if he was honestly that concerned for his own life, or if he wanted to see where this went. The fact is you got what you wanted, so you supposed it was good enough.

 Before the demon runs back into the darkness from where he came, he turns and looks over his shoulder. “Kuronue, that is my name.” You forced a wearily smile.

 “Alright…Kuronue. I won’t run, as long as you bring my demands.” The demon known as Kuronue, playfully scoffs. In a blink of an eye, he was gone, and you fall to your knees, letting out a silent sob. Your life was in that demon’s hands, leaving a sickly feeling in your gut.

    As promised, you managed to break away from your village without anyone noticing you. The guards patrolling the empty streets weren’t the wiser, but then again, you grew not to expect much from them. Your bluff has worked against Kuronue, but deep down you knew if he really wanted to, he can go back on his word. The weapons you went on about, were only makeshift barricades and sutras blessed by the town monk. If the demon found out, he would easily wipe your village clean from this realm. No, you couldn’t think like this. You’re giving him what he wants, but demons aren’t exactly known for their honor were they. Of course not.

 Getting the necklace was tricky. It was protected by one of the most experienced guards in your village. This necklace was said to once belong to one of the royal families, as it was blessed to bring those who possess it power and luck. That was a bunch of hocus pocus, as it was nothing more than an expensive necklace. Nothing special and nothing more than a fine statement for one’s neck. But, if the demon wanted it for historical value, far be it for you to stand in his way.

 So, you formulated a crafty plan, which you were quite pleased with. It wasn’t anything complicated, just quick wit on your part. You distracted the guard by…throwing a large pebble as far from the hut, which the necklace hid in as you could. Hey, a plan doesn’t have to be fancy, just effective, and this plan was effective. You took your chance, slipping into the hut and grabbed the necklace; right after the guard has left his post. None were the wiser and best of all, no one got hurt.

 Cautiously, you made your way back to the same river as the previous night, forcing through the forest thicket. The necklace was safely tucked away in your sleeve, as you jump on the other side and to the clearing with the stream. As expected, the bat demon was waiting for you, arms crossed, and smirking arrogantly. Brushing off leaves and twigs from your yukata, you approach the man, digging the necklace out of your sleeve, and showing it off. The gold glistens in the moonlight, with the red stone catching the demon’s eye.

 “Good, now hand it over it.” Kuronue says, beckoning you closer. You get closer to, but you don’t hand it over just yet. The demon frowns, an irritated look cascading his features, but you don’t give in.

 “Not yet. Hand me the medicine first, then this will be yours.” Kuronue tosses a tightly closed back to your feet.

 “It’s there, at least a years worth of dosage. Enough to slow down whatever disease ails your companion. You’re fortunate a friend of mine is able to grow this over night.” he chuckles, holding out his claws. “Now, the treasure.” You nod, handing him the necklace. He snatches it from you, and you bend down to pick up the satchel, but a tight hold on your wrist holds you. You look up, confused, tugging your wrist away from him.

 “What is-“ you were cut off by the demon’s growl.

 “Is this a joke to you, girl? There’s nothing emulating from this necklace. It’s ordinary.” You stand up, tilting your head.

 “It’s the village most prized treasure. It’s an ordinary necklace, yes, but the historical value is great. It’s said once belong to the royal-“ you were cut off again, the demon tightening his grip on you and squeezing the necklace in his palm.

 “I didn’t come all this way for historical value.” You shake your head, successfully pulling your wrist away.

 “What did you expect? We’re a poor but humble village. I’m sorry, but if you wanted something special, but it doesn’t exist there.” you explained, but that didn’t seem to ease Kuronue. You stood your ground and it became visible that Kuronue was processing this new information. With a huff, he puts the necklace on and glares down at you. When the puzzle pieces of his thoughts finally come together, he grins, reaching out for your wrist again and pulling you flush against his broad chest.

 “I’ve decided I won’t kill you, but instead take a compensation prize from you. You’re going to indulge me, then I’ll let you go.” he whispers gruffly in your ear. Feeling the heat rise to your face, you place your hands on his chest, trying to push him away. Kuronue just tightens his hold on you and laughs. “How disappointing that little spark of fight has left you.” Your face grew redder, as you closed your eyes to compose yourself.

 “Trust me, i-it didn’t leave. I have to indulge you, I’ll do so. For the sake of my village.” you said, with false conviction. Kuronue stands up and looks down into your hesitant eyes. The confident bat takes the lead, like he had during most of his encounters, and leans down to capture your lips in his own. Sighing, you were pleasantly surprised at how soft and warm they were, but you also never kissed a demon before. Your heart races when his tongue slithers against yours, as you instinctively deepen the kiss.

 His grip looses, but drifts down to the knot holding your thin yukata together, and expertly unties it, slipping the material past your shoulders. Shivering in the night air, you hold yourself closer to him for heat, nipping at his bottom lip. Kuronue smirks against your lips, his long claws trailing lightly down your soft and sensitive curves, resting on your hips. Breaking the kiss with a thin line of saliva connecting between you both, you gain some confidence and brush your fingertips against his tattered vest.

 Biting your bottom lip, your gaze softens towards his, asking for permission to thoroughly appreciate his impressive physique. As if reading your mind, Kuronue leans away from you, allowing your nimble fingers to untie his vest, revealing his smooth and perfect chest. Wasting no time, your fingers dance along his bare skin. How long as it been since you’ve felt a man? Too damn long, you cringe at the thought.

 You held the bat’s interest, because how long has it been since he had a human? Judging by his stance, he’s had his share of humans before. What he did after mating with a human, you just hope he keeps his word. At least for now, you can relish in it, being close and touched by such a lovely creature as before you, normally a human isn’t so lucky, especially one who offers a useless trinket to a well known demon thief.

 Pretending to have confidence, your soft lips explored the demon’s chest slowly, but precisely. No, you didn’t know exactly what would please him, but this pleased you. Being slow and intimate with a beautiful man, what better demise than this? Kuronue gave a chortled laugh in his throat; oh he noticed your actions. His claws brush against your bare ass, his palms roughly gripping and kneading the plump and tender flesh.

 You let out a sharp gasp, your hips pressing closer to his, and you shudder feeling his hardening girth twitch. Did he notice how out of practice you were? The demon licks his lips, just like a predator to let their pray have fun. But, he indulged his pray long enough, and it was time to pay up. Yanking the yukata off, it falls helplessly onto the ground, and you were quickly positioned to join it. Face down, hips up, with your legs spread wide.

 Kuronue sits on his knees behind you, his clawed index finger swipes between your soaked folds and teases your core. Your nails dig into the dirt, your eyes closed, and your hips shaking for more contact. He growls under his breath and removes his digit, and slips down his bottoms, allowing his hardened cock to spring out. The demon looms over you, as his warm breath caresses your ear, his length rubbing between your folds.

 “What a needy human you are. If I didn’t know any better, I would think you enjoy being taken advantage of by a demon. What would your village say, if they saw you like this?” He couldn’t hide his husky words that were dripping with deadly lust. Your core pulsates from his words alone, but with his cock lubricating itself against your core; all you could do was whimper a shaky yes. Fuck, you knew this was wrong, allowing a demon to defile your humanity in this way. But, it was down right too depraved to enjoy it.

 Yes somehow, you managed to enjoy being roughly handled by the attractive demon. You especially enjoyed it when the blunt head of his cock stretched you, even slightly painfully, when he pushes himself in. Your nails dig into the soft earth below you, as you hiked your ass up higher. Kuronue wasn’t even halfway in, and you were already weeping like a horny bitch in heat. He chuckles under his breath, as his hips bump against your ass. He was finally sheathed fully.

 The demon picks up speed almost immediately, your tight cunt accepting his cock and surprisingly, accommodates it. Fuck, it’s been too long! You forgot what this felt like, as hot passion spreads to your every nerve. His blunt head brushes against that spot, which made you see stars, and drool dripping from your open mouth. Your head slumps forward, as your shoulders settle against the cold ground, as you mumble nonsense into the night’s breeze.

 “What’s wrong human? Ah…you’re practically…speechless.” Kuronue pants softly, his pace increasingly brutal. With each thrust, the skin on skin wet sound provided a background tempo to your lustful symphony, your moans being the main chorus. You chant a string of swears under your breath, as you use your palms to push into the dirt and back against the demon’s sturdy stance. Your pussy clenches, practically screaming for it’s release. You wanted it, you needed it, you craved it.

 Kuronue shifts your position, as he grabs hold of your wrists roughly, and pulls you up, with his hips angled under yours. You, having zero control over what he did to you, rendering you utterly but tantalizingly helpless. He was using your body for his pleasure, gyrating your body to meet his, his cock curving just so fucking right into your depths deeper, making you feel full. His tip knocks against your cervix, sending electricity through your core.

 Your throat was soar from moaning, your thoughts blank of nothing but this bat demon’s cock. With his hips sputtering and his raspy grunts turning more animalistic in nature, he was nearing his end. Kuronue growls in your ear and leans down to take a big bite into your shoulder, small droplets of blood running down your otherwise perfect flesh. His throbbing cock beats against your cervix with an erotic rhythm, and his left hand slips down between your thighs to expertly grinding against your clit.

 White passion shoves you over the edge, as you tilt your head back onto the male’s shoulder. Gasping and making animalistic sighs and sobs of your own, you ride out your high, with Kuronue not far behind. His own internal coil snaps, as he pumps your womb full of thick cum. Riding out his high, he pushes into you a few times, before jerking himself out of your pussy’s tight hold, his cum gushing out. Kuronue exhales, releasing you, but instead of letting you drop, he sets you down on the ground gently.

 Pulling up his pants and situates his leathery vest; his bat wings stretch and retract lazily. “Not bad, for a human.” He stands up and looks at your cheap trinket again. Suppose it’s not too gaudy. He slips it around his neck and bends down in front of you. “You’ll bare my scent for a while, so no weak demons will attack. However, I wouldn’t loiter around much longer, unless you wish to take that chance.”

 You could barely pick up your head, let alone your upper torso to stare at the beautiful creature, before he gives you one last dashing smirk and left you alone in your once meeting spot. You never did see him again after that.

[ranjxtul]

Church of Scars ||Aragon

song shot based upon ‘Hallowed Ground’ by Bishop Briggs. I have no idea why it’s Christmas, but enjoy soft Aragon.

Catherine of Aragon sat outside in the biting winter air. The chill of the falling snow lost on her, her eyes only vaguely registering the darkening sky which illuminated the warm Christmas lights beginning to shine in the growing dusk. A long cold mug of tea sat on the ground beside her chair, its contents forgotten for contemplation and peace.

The porch of the queens’ home provided minimal shelter from the winter winds and Aragon meager sweater, track pants, and socks did little to insulate her body, but she didn’t care. For the first time since the Christmas season had begun she found a moment of peace. From shows to festivities (which she willingly had a hand in) peace and quiet moments were few and far in between. For once, she didn’t mind it though.

Her first Christmas back with the queens she’d made so many memories she wouldn’t trade for anything: decorating the tree with Katherine, baking Christmas cookies with Jane, carol sing-alongs in the dressing room with Cleves and Boleyn. These new memories, however, caused her to think back to the Christmases she’d celebrated with Mary.

Of course the holiday festivities were much different now and therefore nearly incomparable, but the emotions evoked were similar. She wondered if Mary would enjoy Christmas as it was now, if she’d find as much joy in it as Aragon did.

With that thought, an unmistakable melancholy washed over her bones. While she wouldn’t trade any of the memories she had with the queens, she missed Mary and missed making memories with her. Mary was her little girl, and she’d been so mistreated by her father throughout her life and in the end separated from Catherine.

Following that train of thought, Mary’s life came to mind next accompanied by a feeling she couldn’t name which consisted of her gut twisting and her heart feeling as if it were aching. Abruptly, the woman shut her eyes so as to stop the intrusive thoughts from flooding her mind and instead dropped her head to say a prayer for her daughter.

She moved her lips, the words ghosting gently across her lips, “Dear Lord, I don’t understand what control you might have in the situation of who gets a second chance, but my Mary deserves it. She deserves to have a chance to experience this world, a world without him. I want to make memories with her and I just… miss her. I pray you forgive her, or well at this point I suppose have forgiven her for… everything,” she paused as her new family came to mind before she spoke again, “and I pray for the queens. They’re the best family I could have upon having a second chance. Sometimes, I wonder if I’ll lose them, and I’m not sure I could handle that, not when I’ve grown to love them… I guess, what I mean by that is please guide them and protect them, Lord.” An unspoken plea of needing her new family and the omnipresent fear that she’d somehow lose them traveled to the forefront of her mind.  “Amen,” Aragon finally finished with a quiet sigh.

Praying helped bring her peace; it always had. Her religion was a constant, and if one thing could be said of Catherine of Aragon, it was that she loved her God. The lord was the reason for the holiday she loved so much after all. That wasn’t all she loved about it though, she loved the hope and the atmosphere. She’d never consider herself an optimist, but something about Christmas seemed to awaken her own hope for the future in regards to herself and those around her.

She supposed that hope lay buried for the rest of the year, but she wouldn’t allow herself to feel it without an extenuating factor. She suppressed it from the first moment she’d met the queens. Disregarding any bad blood she had with Anne, they had all clicked relatively quickly. That frightened Aragon if she was honest with herself, and that fear is what drove her to play so heavily into her calm, cool persona. The less she showed vulnerability and let others in, the less she’d have to lose if she lost them or they tossed her aside.

While she preferred not to dwell on either of those fears, somewhere in her subconscious they thrived and in her weak moments they leapt out for an attack. That being said, each time she’d found herself letting the queens in she fought the urge to withdraw and close back up, but slowly and surely Aragon found herself trusting the queens around her more and more.

In moments of stress, she wondered if that was a wise decision. The queens were people after all, and people could be volatile. Catherine still found herself walking on eggshells in some ways despite how far she’d come on being comfortable around the queens. Though, there were plenty of moments she didn’t regret letting the queens in. They were her new family.  

The sound of the door clicking open alerted Aragon to someone joining her. Soon enough, Jane came into her field of vision. “Love, it’s sort of cold out here. You looked peaceful though, thought I might bring you this blanket.” Jane nodded toward the blanket draped over her arm.

Catherine blinked a few times, finally registering the cold and the chill that had found its way to her bones, “Yeah, thanks, Jane,” she nodded reaching to take the blanket from Jane who turned to leave. “You want to stay?” she asked in a moment of spontaneity.

Jane turned on the spot, “Sure,” she made her way to sit by Aragon on the swing and pulled the blanket over her legs before letting the silence fall again. The silence was comfortable and Aragon would have left it be if she’d been more alert, but something about the serenity of the situation left her remaining defenses and filters lower than normal. “I’m grateful for you all, you know. And I pray for you all every night,” she spoke with a short nod.

Jane, shocked at the candor of the confession turned her head. She’d known Aragon a little under a year, and she knew it was rare for her to be so open, even in such a small way as directly admitting she was grateful for the queens. Jane had grown accustomed to Aragon showing her emotions through small gestures rather than vocalizing them, but she wasn’t going to stop the queen beside her. She observed her serene face for a moment more before responding, “I can speak for us all when I say it’s appreciated, and so are you.”

Aragon flashed Jane a small smile, but in her head she dissected Jane’s statement. She could detect the sincerity easily, but a small part of Aragon was still hesitant to believe it. She should, logically, and a large part of her did, but the small voice that told her not to, that told her to shut up and build her walls again didn’t. Thankfully, that voice was so minute she could tune it out in that moment. “I was just thinking,” she forged ahead cautiously. “About how Christmas so far has just been… spectacular.” She settled on spectacular, unable to properly voice her sentiments in that moment.

The blonde queen nodded, taking in the emotion behind Catherine’s words. An unmistakable vulnerability and genuine love glowed underneath the hesitant delivery. “I wouldn’t trade these memories for anything,” Aragon continued after a moment. “It does make me miss the Christmases I’d have with Mary.”

Jane couldn’t relate exactly, seeing as she’d never had a Christmas with Eddie, but she did understand the longing. Catherine had been a wonderful mother who loved her daughter fiercely; if one thing could be said about her, that would be it. Finally, Jane replied, “What were they like?” Asking about her memories could go one of two ways. Aragon could shut down, or maybe if she continued like she had been she could get it off of her chest.

“So joyous,” Aragon started softly, startling even herself. “She loved the reason behind it all. We would go to mass and celebrate the Lord. Then we’d celebrate with a feast. I remember it vividly,” she said allowing herself to float off in the memories until Jane’s voice pulled her back.

“It sounds like a splendid time.”

Catherine nodded, “It was… really,” she gave a small smile in Jane’s direction. “I think she’d like it this here with us, to see everyone so at peace.”

Jane simply nodded, allowing Aragon to have her memories and her moment. The conversation fell back into comfortable silence as Aragon got lost in her thoughts once more. Her heart ached at the thought of her daughter, but she couldn’t deny the overall sense of peace that had fallen over her that night. Maybe it was the season, or perhaps Catherine was healing in some way. She had her family now, and even if she wondered whether or not she wouldn’t have them one day, she had them now. In that moment, Catherine was satisfied with that.

[pamphletstoinspire]

Walk With Mary in the New Year

A new year, a new decade.

(Or, if you’re being all technical, the end of a decade, since the new decade actually starts in 2021.)

There’s all sorts of possibility ahead of us. There’s opportunity everywhere, with exclamation marks and wide swaths of bright color.

But the cynic in me can’t help but respond that there’s also disappointment looming. There will be heartache and sorrow and fear. We’re sure to find a dead end at least once and to find ourselves crushed in some way.

I know it’s not just me. It happens every year.

Call me an old hand at this. It tends to look something like this:

December 31: Goodbye, Old Year! Begone! See ya!

January 1: Hello, New Year! I love you! We’re going to do so many wonderful things together!

January 5: Reality sets in. Laundry. Deadlines. Dishes. Routine.

January 8: Someone gets sick.

January 10: I’ll make a resolution! It will make everything better!

January 15: Nothing is better. It’s still me on the other side of the mirror.

And yet, in her wisdom, the Church has set me up not for failure, but for success. December 25, that day of much anticipation and planning, comes and heralds a season with it. We celebrate and plop back on the couch for multi-nap days. Time slows a bit for two weeks, as the year winds to a close and the chaos of the preceding six weeks wafts away.

A mere week later, we’re ushering in a new year and — glory, glory — a holy day of obligation. My kids roll their eyes (but know better than to protest) and we head off to Mass before we celebrate with dropping balls and confetti and junk food galore.

That January 1 holy day is in honor of Mary, Mother of God. It’s one that I’ve always loved, and one that has become notable for me in the last 15 years.

It was 15 years ago that I gave birth to my oldest child on January 1.

Suddenly, motherhood was upon me, no longer a squirming mass beneath my heart, an idea that was contained within my body. And — no joke — it was sudden. Being delightfully clueless (despite being so well-read) and stubborn (despite the admonitions), we didn’t get to the hospital for delivery until she was nearly out.

Holding that child in my arms, the one who would make Mary so much more than a remote statue in church, I faced a new year and a new life of sorts.

Nothing would ever be the same.

In the mess of childbirth and in the mess of motherhood, I find Mary a compatriot of the most understanding sort. She’s not looking down her perfectly shaped nose at me, but walking beside me and laughing with me at the things I find in the dryer. She’s not rolling her eyes from the other end of having had the perfect son, but commiserating with my struggles to instill virtue and concern and hygiene in these souls entrusted to my care.

I kick off the New Year without resolutions these days, but I do turn to Mary. Every year. Whether I want to or not. Something about having a kid born on her feast day makes it inevitable.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

SARAH REINHARD

[fae-fucker]

Zenith: Chapter 45-48

Chapter 45

Nor is floating in a super sci-fi space carriage over the last remaining “wealthy” city on Xen Ptera, which is apparently so garbage only a few people have roofs over their heads. She thinks about how much she loves her people and how she’s doing this for them, except she purposefully floats just out of reach of their poor-people hands and throws food and “med kits” at them so they’ll follow. 

Darai is very confused by this, because Shinsay desperately need Nor to seem complex and intelligent. She compares her people to an [incidental space animal] she got from her father as a child.

“I fed it,” she explained. “Give a pet food, Darai, and it will do anything to stay by your side. Starve it or beat it, and it will begin to fear your very existence, only coming out of hiding in the moments when you have something to give and it to take.” 

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

[...]

“The people of Xen Ptera are my responsibility now. But more than that, they are my soldiers, and I wish for them to follow me always. No matter how dark the path I choose to walk upon.”

Yes, this makes so much sense. First you let your people starve and get radiation poisoning, but then you throw scraps at their feet and obviously peasants are food-motivated like kittens and will absolutely do as you say. 

Except this doesn’t make any fucking sense for many, many reasons. 

1) Darai complains about the fact that these rations are used for scientists and soldiers. Which he’s right about. If Nor has an army and scientists, those people tend to be far more useful in, say, a war, than a bunch of mutated and starving peasants. 

2) I dunno if Shinsay have read any history ever, but when large masses of people get hungry, they don’t just sit there, they turn on the few people in power who still have food and resources. These peasants would turn on Nor the moment someone else provided better food. I’m just saying that Nor’s neck accessory wouldn’t be a spiked collar but a guillotine.

3) Don’t you have that Zenith stuff? The stuff that can make people into brainwashed robots with a single drop? Release that shit into the atmosphere and save your food and “med kits” for the few actually crucial people who need it.

3.5) If you’re only going to use it on enemies to convert them, why bother with your people in the first place? Despite what Nor is claiming, her “love” for her people is token at best and her priority lies in revenge, not recovery.

4) Also it’s so transparent that they only wrote this to make Nor look smart, because they purposefully made Darai into an idiot who doesn’t understand basic concepts when he previously was written as an older, intelligent advisor.

Nor arrives at the old palace ruins and it’s all very sad and angsty, complete with special Backstory Flowers that used to Bloom but Don’t Anymore because the Environment got Too Tragic, and flashbacks to that time her hand and also her dad were crushed under rubble. We find out that the crowd gathered here are just “thousands” of people, and Nor refers to them as her “army.” Okay. 

Nor gets stage fright when the crowd is silent and doesn’t instantly love her because she has the confidence of a highschooler asking someone out to prom, and decides to snap her golden hand off to prove to her people that she’s “their equal,” which works for some reason even though the narration acknowledges it as a lie. 

Obviously starving people seeing this LITERALLY GOLDEN woman who just shat out a bunch of free food from her floating carriage will definitely 100% swallow her little speech about how they have to take revenge. Even the mothers holding up their starving infants! We all know people who are starving want revenge before a sandwich. The blood of my enemies? I call it vengeance ketchup.

She shows Zenith to the crowd which they totally understand what it is right away from afar and how it works and what it has to do with literally anything.

“Remember, Xen Pterrans, and never forget, that even the stars can bleed!”

The royal entourage pack up and Nor says she wants a crown forged for herself because “every queen needs one” and: 

“I want to wear it while we feast on the galaxy’s bones.”

Cool. 

Chapter 46

We’re in Lira’s POV while she’s doing what she does best: moping off on her own. I guess she’s not very special in that regard. She’s thinking about how she loves to fly because the sky has no limits and the ground is confusing. Aight.

The gang seems to have gotten off without any punishment for crashing into a village and are now staying at the very center of power of Adhira, this mountain palace called Rhymore. It’s very pretty and yadda yadda, I skipped 90% of the description because literally whomst careth. 

One important detail to keep in mind is that we find out varillium, the glass-like substance that the Marauder is made of is, like M. Night Shyamalan’s movie starring Bruce Willis, unbreakable. You know, which is why they need those metal shields around the damn thing. Thanks guys, this makes total sense.

Lira looks into an “eyeglass” and sees literally all of Adhira like a tiny map. Either Shinsay are confused about what a telescope does, or they’re flat-earthers. And yeah, she literally sees cities, waterfalls, rainforests, deserts ... This is after we’ve established she’s in a mountainous area.

All the descriptions read like screensavers and are just as relevant to the story so I’ll just skip them. 

Lira is ambushed by her twin brother Lon, who is the owner of that sarcastic soul we’ve heard so much about. 

He was at least a head taller than her now, his pale blue arms rippling with muscle, spreading up into a thick neck and strong shoulders.

This description bothers me and I don’t know why. 

The conversation quickly turns all mopey and Lon says Lira has abandoned her people and himself, to which she replies she was only protecting him from WHAT SHE’S BECOME (wake me up inside). We then get a random infodump about how the Adhiran queen is super great and loving and a perfect leader. Not perfect enough to abdicate the throne but I don’t think Shinsay thought that far. Monarchy good if monarchs good, obviously.

Lon is all “ur still my sister until the mountain falls uwu” and Lira is like “omg stop guilt-tripping meee” and we’re informed there’s gonna be a “peace festival” soon that celebrates the end of the war against Xen Ptera. How convenient that their ship would randomly malfunction right before this event. :)

Lira says she wants to tell him only the good stuff of what’s happened while she was away and says that she’s been using Moon Chew, which is Bad for Reasons, and she knows Lon uses it too but keeps it a secret from the queen aka their aunt. Lon asks about what “led” Lira to using it and I’m just baffled by the fact that we still don’t know what the fuck Moon Chew is or what it does, and why, if it’s something so terrible that one must be “led” to using it, they’re talking about it like it’s some unhealthy fast food their aunt frowns upon and not, say, a drug? 

Anyway, Lira tells him of their adventures and it sounds way more interesting than anything we’ve read so far. Then we get this:

Lon always knew that Lira harbored a darkness in her soul. A little tug, a tiny whisper at the back of her mind, that led her to go above and beyond the pranks that Lon had always pulled while they were growing up here. 

She’d fallen, not for a lover, but for the skies. For adventure. 

She’d found a ship full of girls with their own affinity for darkness to mirror her own.

So I recently found out that there’s supposedly an “asexual” alien in the crew of the Marauder, and that member is apparently Lira. I think this idea is reinforced by the “fallen but not for a lover” line.

Framing her wanting to explore the world on her own and go her own way, comparing it to falling in love but not with another person but with a concept, as a darkness in her soul? 

Not a good look.

Anyway, Lon decides after all this time that apparently Lira was always meant to fly and tells her that her aunt wants to see her.

This is plot?

Chapter 47

We’re in Valen’s POV. He wakes up and is in pain but not enough to avoid noticing that he’s in a fluffy bed and outside there is [insert generic description of pretty place here] and it’s so pretty he could never paint it, because he’s a painter and he can’t relate anything in his life to anything but painting.

The Adhiran queen is there and she’s very pretty. She asks him about the last thing he remembers, which is Nor, and it sends him into a ... flashback? Basically he starts freaking out that this isn’t real and they sedate him again and the last thing he sees is

[...] Androma Racella leaning forward from the shadows across the room, half of her face aglow as sunlight spilled across her skin like paint.

You know, because he’s a painter!

Chapter 48

We’re back with Lira, who starts the second chapter like she started the previous one, complaining about how being planetside is the worst. Yep, we get it. It’s the worst. Cuz she’s a pilot. 

Painters be painting. Pilots be piloting. If your characters don’t constantly refer back to their one defining characteristic, how will be able to tell them apart? 

Anywho, Lira finally gets to the queen.

Alara was beautiful in every sense of the word, inside and out. She had a lithe frame, perfectly proportioned, and no scales on her skin.

PERFECTLY PROPORTIONED

What in the everloving fuck does that even mean? :’) Probably just means she’s skinny.

And of course she has no scales, only evil people and/or “morally grey” people can have imperfections. How do we know someone is good unless they have flawless skin?

Lira had always admired Alara’s beauty, but it paled in comparison to the woman’s intelligence.

Shinsay, slapping us all with a big purple dildo: THIS IS FEMINISM. 

“She’s absolutely good and perfect and INTELLIGENT because women don’t have to be pretty to be smart and we totes value things other than beauty, but let us constantly describe how absolutely fucking DICK-OUT-HOT this Generic Good Queen is, in case you ever doubted it.”

👌👌👌👌👌👌👌👌

And, yeah, Nor is also described as hot, but like, evil hot. Sexualized and sexual and dangerous and GASP OMG SHE HAS A GOLD HAND. GGQ straight up glows, that’s how good she is.

Generic Good Queen addresses Lira as “Lirana” which, yeah, ok, and we get this:

“I’ve just had a rather unfortunate conversation with Valen Cortas, the poor, tortured soul, so spare me whatever dramatic greeting you must have prepared.”

You know what? Maybe Generic Good Queen ain’t so bad after all. 

YOU TELL HER, GGQ. 

[snatcherwes]

OCtober 3rd: Feast

OCtober Challenge by @oc-growth-and-development!

Author’s notes: So this ended up being way longer than I intended but I didn’t feel happy with the set up until I fleshed it way out like I did so that’s how we ended up with 2,414 words. I’m actually not super upset with this one either even though I know it’s kinda rushed. I don’t love the ending but I needed to get it done and it’s not completely awful so /shrug. Anyway, here’s another Vitale and Luke piece. It’s much darker than the previous one and has a handful of warnings coming along with it. I take a lot of how I do my vampires from VTMB and Vampyr because they’re two of my all time favorite games so if you’ve played them, some things might seem familiar.

Warnings: There are mentions of blood and semi-detailed torture and death in this. It’s not too bad but it is about a vampire so proceed with caution if you’re easily squeamish!

Word count: 2,414

When Vitale finally came through, it was to a rush of cold water being poured over his head and a throaty chuckle ringing through his ears. He desperately gasped, shaking his head vigorously in an attempt to throw off the wash of cold clinging to him. Doing so gave him an intense bout of vertigo as his head began to throb. When he made the move to push back his sopping wet hair, he found that his arms were secured tightly behind his back with thick, heavy chains. The vampire frantically squirmed, achieving nothing but heavy nausea and throbbing aches. He defeatedly settled, allowing his eyes to finally adjust to the dimly lit view before him.

He was sat on the stone floor of what appeared to be a basement. His bindings were connected to a thick hook that had been drilled into the brick wall behind him. Beside him on either side were vacant sections of wall that served the same purpose as the one keeping him tethered. He tried to see further into the darkness of the basement but his exhaustion and nausea were doing a number on his vision and ability to focus on any more than his immediate surroundings. He could do little more than glance up at the man that he assumed was his captor.

“Wakey wakey, little tick,” the man spat, gripping Vitale by the chin with a calloused hand in order to lift the vampire’s head. “Have a good nap, did ya’?”

The man was somewhere around six feet tall and built like a brick wall. His broad shoulders and wide chest conveyed the strength that he had been using to all but crush Vitale’s jaw. He was littered in scars from head to toe and had appeared to have an improperly healed broken nose at one point in time. His appearance gave little indication as to what his abilities were, appearing outwardly like a human—albeit a strong one. That fact unsettled Vitale for he had no idea what he was up against.

When Vitale didn’t give an answer to the mocking question, the man shoved the vampire’s face down with a snarl, gruffly laughing when his prisoner struggled to right himself.

“C’mon, I know ya’ can speak,” the man said, roughly nudging VItale in the side with a heavy boot. 

Again, the vampire remained quiet, trying to call upon any memories that would shine light on where he was and why. He vaguely remembered gearing up and preparing for something that night, failing to remember what exactly it was. There was an agitating feeling of anxiety attached to a specific factor that he couldn’t quite recall, something he knew he needed to remember above all else. 

With a harsher kick to his side delivered by his captor, Vitale felt a searing pain that traveled up his spine to the nape of his neck, causing him to cry out and double over. 

“Aw, did that hurt?” The man let out another throaty chuckle, kneeling down to mockingly pat Vitale on the shoulder. “Amazing what a silver-tipped stake to the back can do to a little tick like yourself.” Vitale shivered, attempting to right himself once more and squirm away from the man’s heavy hand. Silver-tipped stake? 

With that, his memories began to return. He had been out on what was supposed to be a simple recon mission of a recently developed Resistance outpost. There was supposed to only be a small presence of guards and the surveillance was to be done at a distance. Vitale had positioned himself at the southern side of the outpost, observing a handful of guards file in and out of the building, unloading various supplies from vehicles parked just outside the gate. This went on for almost three hours with no issue whatsoever and he was ready to call it a night, return to base, and begin formulating a future course of action. However, as he stood from his concealed position, he remembered feeling an intensely sharp pain ripping through his spine and a rough hand quickly covering his mouth, silencing his scream. He wished that he had the foresight to bite the hand, but it would not have made much difference considering that the pain had caused him to pass out shortly after. 

Without warning, the man suddenly yanked Vitale to his feet by the chain binding his arms. He appeared to have unhooked the vampire from the fastener on the wall and intended to move him. With a shove, he lead Vitale through the basement and towards a set of stairs, up through a door and out into a yard. He tried to count just how many different guards he passed on his way out, but it became increasingly difficult with each step. 

Being forced to walk led Vitale to realize just how exhausted he was. He had no way to tell how long he’d been held captive; therefore, he had no way to tell just how much time had passed since he last fed. Clearly, it was enough to render him close to useless considering how his eyelids felt impossibly heavy and he needed to be up-righted several times on the journey up the stairs and out to the yard. 

“Since ya’ don’t wanna’ talk and I’ve got little patience tonight,” the man spoke, bringing Vitale around the building to a smaller portion of the yard serving as an alleyway. “I’ve got another idea.”

Vitale vaguely noticed a motionless mass laying in the dirt before him, surrounded by a handful of guards, but before he could figure out just what it was, a swift kick to the back of his knees sent him down onto the dirt. He could do little but lift his head, willing his eyes to focus on the mass before him. 

It looked as though a large, dirty blanket had been draped over the figure’s body, completely stretched out on the sides and pinned into the dirt with spikes. He could faintly hear labored breathing that matched the rhythm of the figure’s visibly shallow breaths. 

It became very clear all too fast just exactly who the figure was when Vitale’s captor gripped the mop of filthy blond hair atop its head and yanked upwards. “Look familiar?” 

Vitale met painfully familiar honey-colored eyes, his focus sharpening immediately as he recognized the figure to be Luke. He was on his stomach, his arms barely visible beneath the blanket. His face was bruised and beat, his left eye swollen and his lips speckled with blood. He looked absolutely filthy, as if he had been left in the dirt for days. A strained whimper fell from Luke’s lips as the hand gripping his hair yanked again before letting his head fall back to the ground. 

“Unlucky for him, he woke up first,” the man explained, standing up and circling the blanket atop Luke. When he began to drive one of the spikes deeper into the dirt, Luke let out a pained shout and Vitale quickly realized that it wasn’t a blanket covering his friend. Those were his wings. 

Vitale started to thrash at the realization, trying and failing to free himself from the chains binding him. Trying to free himself so that he could free Luke. Trying to do anything to make it possible to help his friend. “Stop!”

Turning his head to glance at the vampire, the man laughed. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? And to think, we had to pin this one here like a bug to even get a sound from ‘im.” 

“Please, stop,” Vitale pleaded, keeping his gaze glued to his friend. He could feel desperation swelling up inside of him, his gut burning from having not fed and anger for his tortured friend. His teeth chattered and he swallowed hard, his throat painfully dry as he croaked, “What do you want?”

“Oh, now ya’ wanna’ play, huh?” The man smirked, reaching down to pluck a feather from Luke’s wings. The Shape Shifter flinched as he felt the man’s fingers grip the quill and tug. “I think I’m having more fun with this.”

Again, the man knelt down further to Luke’s level, placing his hand atop the spike he recently pushed deeper. Vitale started to thrash again, struggling even harder to free himself, causing one of the lingering guards to hold the chains secure. 

“Aw, ain’t that cute,” the man snickered, directing the question to Luke as he knelt further to meet his eyes. When Luke responded by weakly spitting blood in his direction, the man growled, straightened up and roughly yanked the spike, causing it to tear further through the wing. 

Luke let out a terrible scream and it was becoming increasingly difficult for the guard restraining Vitale to still him. Their captor took notice, abandoning his torture of Luke to momentarily assist the guard. With a swift kick to the side of his head, Vitale went down hard and stilled completely, appearing to be knocked unconscious by the blow. 

Luke gasped, immediately starting to visibly panic but being able to do little more than weakly flail in the dirt. The man chuckled at his handiwork, turning his attention back to Luke. “Well, that’s that.”

When the fear and panic in Luke’s face was quickly replaced with confusion, the man mirrored it and followed his line of sight back to the vampire. “Still with us then?”

Vitale began to stir and tremble, almost convulsing in the dirt as the man that had been previously holding him readied to grab the chains once more. The vampire’s eyes shot open and there was little time for anyone to react before he snarled loudly, bearing a mouth full of shark-like teeth and snapped the chains binding him with little more than a stretch of his arms. He quickly got to his feet and wasted little time in tearing the terrifyingly sharp claws that once were his hands through the stomach of the man who attempted to restrain him. 

He turned his attention onto the main captor with frightening speed, his previously normal black irises replaced with blood red, the pitch black sclera unsettlingly highlighting them. The number of teeth in his mouth seemed impossible, all sharpened to a dangerous point. The blood of the man writhing at his feet dripped from his claws onto the dirt and the smell of it plus the fear in the air was driving him further into his frenzy.

“You’re fucked,” Luke mumbled with a pained laugh. Before their captor could even bark out a command to his men, Vitale was at his throat, burying his fangs into skin and pinning him still with claws deep in his arms. As he drained the man, Vitale payed little mind to the bullets that began pelting him as the remaining men covered him with panicked gunfire. 

The blood pleasantly coursed through him, and when he could feel the man’s heart settle almost to a complete stop, he tore himself from his throat and watched his unfocused eyes shift into panic as the last of his energy withered away. Dropping the limp body to the dirt, he turned his attention towards the closet guard and repeated the monstrous process.

Vitale tore through the small militia with ease, his heightened senses and drive for blood making him virtually unstoppable. If he was of the mind to laugh, he would have as the remaining guards pumped out bullet after bullet, trying and failing to do as much as slow him down. However, it was impossible. A frenzied vampire was an incredibly fast, extremely strong, and immeasurably dangerous creature, ferocious and merciless. Not only had the lack of blood driven Vitale over the edge, but the fear and helplessness of seeing his friend tortured plus having taken his own beatings eventually awoken the sleeping beast inside him. 

It wasn’t long until the entire yard was littered with the bloodless bodies of numerous Resistance guards. Vitale could feel himself winding down from his ravenous feast, slowly regaining his control as he ripped the throat out of the final guard attempting to stop him. Some had managed to flee the massacre and the outpost entirely and lucky for them, the vampire’s main concern was his still-pinned friend. They could be found later.

“Remind me not to piss you off,” were Luke’s first words to his friend as he knelt down to the first wing. Vitale didn’t respond, quickly meeting Luke’s gaze as he gently gripped the spike. The Shape Shifter nodded and braced himself for the pain, hissing loudly as the metal was pulled free. Instinctively, Luke drew his wing closer to his body, moaning in pain as it refused to fold properly.

“I’m sorry,” Vitale mumbled quietly, dropping the bloodied spike before moving along to the other wing. This one posed a bigger challenge due to how deep it was driven into the dirt but after a moment, the vampire finally tore it free, wincing at Luke’s pained shout. He apologized again as he tried to help fold the wing back. It wouldn’t budge and Luke’s grunts of pain sounded too awful to his ears to continue any further. Instead, Vitale helped Luke to his feet, holding him steady as his torn wings threatened to tilt him over like dead weight. “I’m so sorry for all of this, I—”

“Stop, just...” Luke interrupted, sighing and shaking his head as he trailed off. He then suddenly pulled Vitale into a weak but undeniably emotional hug, not caring about the blood or dirt caking them both. He squeezed the vampire as tight as he could, resting his head on Vitale’s shoulder. “Just get us home, Vitti.”

And that he could do. There was a lot to be said between the two, unnecessary apologies and tears shed over just how worried they had both felt, but all of that would be saved for after they were cleaned and patched up. That didn’t stop the both of them from worrying over each other profusely on the way back, Vitale insisting he carry Luke after having to stop to rest several times along the journey back and Luke declined each time, citing that Vitale had taken a harsh beating himself and needed to keep what little strength he had left. 

“I will have plenty of time to regain my strength once we get back because I can guarantee you that Terion will not let either of us set foot outside the base for at least a month.”

[thebifrostgiant]

If You Know Where to Look - Part 14

Summary: in which you don’t have to fear for your life, you have a pleasant supper, and are briefly flirted with

Part 1 / Previous

Read on Ao3

Word Count: 3,049

Rating: T (for now)

Pairing: Loki/Reader

*

Chapter 14: Shadows Fall Behind

Loki lets his gaze rest on In-Hvassa, as it’s been doing so often as of late. His earlier confusion has mellowed into a temperate sort of curiosity, the uncertainty, the worry trickling away like a purulent sore that has been lanced and allowed to drain. Granted, there is still much he does not understand, so many facets to her, fickle and shifting like a reflection caught in a ripple of water. She is scared, he knows she is, but she is upright in the wake of it, trying to be brave as much as Loki himself is trying. But she is not scared of him.

He watches, unknown to her, as she sits in the chair she has established her claim on, hair tied back and up out of her face save for a few messy and loose stands, bare feet pulled up under her as she squints at the text of a book in the lamp light. He watches her hand creep up, almost unconsciously, frowning as her fingertips gently slide against her face, against the prominent scar there, feeling along the length of it. He looks away, his own hands clenching against the book he himself holds.

It isn’t the first time he’s seen her do that. Often, when she was deep in thought, distracted, or upset, her fingers would find the mar and rub at it like it was a smudge of dirt she could wipe away, or like it hurt and she was trying to soothe it, always with that frown, until she seemed to realize what she was doing and pull her hand back down like she’d been burnt. This time is no different.

Loki can’t quite swallow down the sharp taste of guilt each time she does it. And it is guilt he hasn’t earned. He realizes as much, rationally. But he cannot stop the feeling that he is to blame for it, that though he did not force her hand, he is at fault for the pain and the necessity of it. It is easier to rue the one tangible reminder than it is to reconcile an entire list of misdeeds. Cruelty is a trait as intrinsic in his very self as the blood in his veins, and while it has its place, is beneficial for some things, for his dealing with those who would harm him, would harm others, those like Einvald and Bǫlverkr, it is not something she had ever truly deserved from him. He had given it regardless.

And yet she has laid her life neither at his feet, for him to take sole responsibility for, nor firmly out of his hands, untrusting and reclusive, but at his side, steadfastly working with him to figure this out, to navigate the world they are in and balance on the line they walk. An ally. A voice to break through his thoughts and offer ideas, suggestions, things he would not have thought of on his own. A bolstering presence as dedicated to getting the fuck out of here as Loki is, relieving in the very fact that she shares this with him — not that he wants her to, not that he wants anyone to, but, he thinks privately, selfishly, it is better than being alone. More and more lately, a friend even.

She throws the book onto the windowsill with a clatter that pulls Loki from his musings, and lets out a miffed sigh, glaring at it like she could make it give her the answers she is looking by the heat of her gaze alone.

“Any luck?” he asks, just because he knows she’s had none.

She turns that glare at him, aware that he’s being a nuisance on purpose. He grins back, a bit toothily, and she relents with another huff of breath.

“No,” she says accusingly toward the useless book, and then glances at the rest of the stack she’s set aside to search through, looking weary. There are still so many, but there are fewer books in that stack than in the ‘hopelessly uninformative’ pile she’d already been through. “Please tell me you’ve found something?”

“Sorry.” Loki shrugs, because he hasn’t, in part because he’s not been paying full attention to his reading. “There just doesn’t seem much to find.”

“No. Midgard is not a very good repository for magical knowledge, is it? All I’m finding is card tricks and guides to dream interpretation, and a few of what seem to be children’s books.” She picks up another book with clear reluctance, and turns it so she can see the spine. “A Thrifty Wiccan’s Guide to Frugal and Benevolent Witchcraft,” she reads aloud, the color of distaste in her tone. “By Lyrica Nightshade. Do I even have to look at this one? I’m not even sure this is a real book.”

She rubs at her temples, looking about as miserable with the task as Loki feels.

“There’s only a few minutes until dinner time. It’s not worth it to get started on another book just yet. Let’s just get ready to go downstairs.”

Loki swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands and stretches out his back, carefully, mindful of his ribs. It still hurts when Loki moves the wrong way, when he stretches too far or makes any sudden shifts in his body, but now he can breathe in nearly all the way without choking on the pain, and he’s stopped needing to wear the bandage. It’s a relief to be rid of it, to be able to move his chest freely, without it chaffing and constricting and collecting sweat and dirt.

Oddly, though, he finds himself missing having In-Hvassa help him with it. He hadn’t thought he actually liked her fussing over him until she’d stopped needing to, and realized he’d sort of gotten used to the quiet care and concern for him. It was nice. She didn’t have to do it, but she did, and Loki is grateful, because he must have done something right to be rewarded by her genuine compassion. Somehow, somewhere along the way, she’d decided that he was worth being kind to, and much as he couldn’t wrap his head around it, couldn’t seem to fathom why, when she’d at first been so determined to lash out with icy words that stung as much as she’d meant them to, it gives him a new light to look at her in, and, he thinks, it’s a rather warm light.

He rolls the tension out of his shoulders, tips his neck side to side. Several popping noises ensue, and In-Hvassa looks up at him, brows furrowed.

“Maybe you should take the chair next time,” she offers. Then she adds, “you sound like an old man.”

Loki snorts.

“And you sound like my mother,” he returns good-naturedly. Funny, how he had demanded her respect when her flippancy is much more entertaining.

She purses her lips in a way that Loki knows means she can’t find a response to say to that, and he relishes the victory.

He makes his way to the door, where he’d set aside his boots upon entering and slides his feet into the familiar and comfortable black leather, stooping gingerly to do up his laces.

“Come get your shoes,” he calls, catching her eye over his shoulder. She still hasn’t gotten up from the chair.

“‘You sound like my mother,’” she mocks under her breath, loud enough for Loki to hear, not quite able to keep her mouth from twitching with a dawning smile. She heaves herself to her feet anyway, though.

Loki begins picking up the discarded books and placing them carefully into his shoulder bag, a sturdy thing of some stiff grey-green fabric with leather accents that Loki is actually quite fond of. The plasticky coatings on the books crackle as they shift and settle when he hefts the bag over his arm, and by the time he’s finished, In-Hvassa has done up the buckles on her own pair of boots, still new and crisp and obviously much preferable to the slippers she’d had before, if her lack of limping is any sign.

“Ready?”

She nods, and he follows her out the door and down the winding stairs, to the colorful and chaotic dinning room filled with mismatched bric-a-brac and an eclectic, changing assortment of people ever in transit.

***

You feel kind of bad for making Loki carry the whole mass of books when he is, still, injured, but he had insisted on it. The one time you’d offered to carry them for him, he’d told you no in no uncertain terms, with a stare so hard you hadn’t been particularly inclined to try again. You weren’t sure if it was pride or some misguided attempt at courtesy, the vestiges of his princeliness still in full force. But he seems to be handling it well, so you doubt the bandage will be making its return any time soon.

You sit next to Loki at the table, even though you’re among the first to arrive and there are many empty chairs. Loki has been, well, nice to you in the last few days, and being able to relax a bit in his company is something you’re glad of. You’re not adverse to all the strangers, all the people staying for various points of time and communing at the table, but you’re starting to know Loki in a way that all the changing faces don’t match up to. It’s become sort of a habit to have him around, and, well, that’s nice too.

All the food at this inn is typically served in big pots and platters filled up with an assortment of dishes, with each guest able to serve themselves what they desired from the feast. While the foods would vary from day to day, some things were staples of the evening meal, like baskets of fresh baked bread rolls, bowls of tossed greens, a mixture of vegetables cooked in butter, and some pale purple iced drink in a pitcher that seems to be a famous Primitive Raven special. You like it. It’s fruity and floral, and it has a bubbly sweetness that you can’t quite place. Loki refuses to touch it though, which you really think is his loss.

Today there are plates of some type of poultry that has been glazed and roasted, potatoes that have been mashed smooth with lots of cream and garlic, and long skinny green pods of beans in a tangy sauce. You fill your plate as the other guests start trickling in, solitary, or in groups of twos, or in one case, a family of five.

As you eat, you try to recollect anything helpful you might have read in the past few days, any trace of something that could be of aid, of transportation charms or cursed objects. There had been pitifully few even remotely helpful bits, and most of what seemed like it could have turned up something useful inevitably fell flat. You and Loki had checked his clothes for any talismans or inscribed runes that might have been drawn or stuck on there by Bǫlverkr, checked your own too, just in case, but every inch had been examined and re-examined with nothing to show for it. Which meant that it was probably a spell of some sort, and that may have been where Lyngvir came into the picture. Loki had mentioned before that Álfar magic was a tricky sort, one not understood well even by Aesir mages. Which meant that Midgard didn’t stand much chance at all, in hindsight, since there seems to be almost nothing even approaching true magic on this planet. Of all the realms you could have ended up on, it had to be the one that would be hardest to get back from. Well, at least it’s not Svartálfheim.

You push a bite of potatoes around the plate with your fork, distractedly wondering how long it would take to comb through the entire library’s worth of books, because, tempting as it is to give up and just let the assumption that the endeavor is doomed dictate your actions, to start afresh and come up with some new avenue to venture down and hope to come up with something, you can’t rule out even the slightest chance of there being some lead amongst the shelves of Midgardian literature. Even if you’d rather walk a mile in your old, terrible shoes than read another word.

Beside you, Loki sets his fork down and shifts his chair ever so slightly closer to yours, and you look up at him in question. He tips his head down so his mouth is level with your ear. It’s hardly the best approximation of privacy, but he whispers softly enough that you’re confident no one else has heard.

“The man three seats down on the other side of the table has been staring at you this entire time.” It’s a warning tone, concern and mistrust therein.

You smile, laugh a little bit, like Loki has said something delightful to you. Discreetly, you tilt your eyes to where, sure enough, a man who must be the one Loki means is in fact watching you with something that goes beyond curiosity. You’re not sure what it is, but you don’t like it one bit.

“What? I don’t have something on my face, do I?” you whisper back, trying to impart a little bit of humor to keep from letting that unsettled feeling take hold. But then the amusement falters and dies, because you remember that, yes, you do have something on your face. You very much do.

Your hand instinctively rises, intent on touching the scar, to hide it, even as useless as that would be at this point. Loki catches it in his own, fast as a blink, before you can lift it beyond chest height, stopping you from doing what would be something quite stupid indeed. Then he freezes, seems to realize that grabbing you like that, just on this side of violently, though you know that he had not meant it as such, could not possibly look good, would look, actually, quite appalling. Instead, he shifts his fingers around your own until he is simply holding your hand, a resemblance of tenderness.

You turn toward him, without letting your smile fall, because you don’t want anyone to think that he is actually hurting you when, you recognize, he is trying to do the opposite, trying, in his way, to protect you. And since you are facing him, you clearly see the impish idea light up his eyes as it fills his head, and you have but a moment to anticipate his next move, whether with dread or with eagerness, you don’t know.

Before you can decide if you should pull your hand back or not, he lifts it to his quirking mouth, the traces of a smile of his own, at his own mischief, lingering as he kisses your knuckles just like Brian had, just like you’d seen Loki do to Kathy, and Thor to Ülle. It’s almost sweet, somehow, the light brush of his lips on your skin, the little puff of air as Loki tries not to laugh, and you don’t even have to pretend to blush, just a little, and you’re sure that, to any outside perspective, you must truly look like a smitten couple quite taken with each other. And Loki must be having a bad influence on you, because you sort of enjoy the little performance, the illusion you’re creating, a bit of a lie, a bit of convivial wickedness.

Another secret glance reveals that the man is still watching you, still raptly studying the game you and Loki play, with an intensity that burns and a glare that’s even hotter.

Loki maintains his hold of your hand even as he lets it lower, lets it fall beneath the table. You don’t pull it away as you go back to eating, even though no one can see it, even though it’s not necessary for the act. His hand is cool, and surprisingly soft, in your own, and it’s... reassuring. It makes you feel less alone. You’ve got someone literally looking out for you, and you’ve seen just how formidable Loki can be. You still can recall in vivid detail — a marvel, considering your state at the time — Einvald’s face as the prince laid into him, the vicious, satiated feeling of watching the vile man stutter and cower, drained of blood and gall something that will likely stay with you all your life. You’d also been target of Loki’s rancor, though you’ve still not been able to figure out what had put you in that place to begin with, what had made you the object of his venom. But now... now he is not spitting at you or laying some web to entangle you.

Something warm presses against your palm, something smooth in parts and edgy in others, and after a moment, you recognize the feel of the little dagger, Loki’s little dagger, as he slides it into your grasp. You take it, wondering, hardly sure what to say.

Loki leans close to you again, close enough for his hair to tickle your face, for his urgency to be felt like a physical presence.

“Keep it with you, at least until that man isn’t staying here any longer.”

You nod, strangely earnest. You clutch the handle tightly as you swallow around the sudden gratitude warming your chest.

“I will,” you say out loud, because no one would know of what you spoke anyway.

“If he, or anyone, tries to hurt you,” Loki says, merciless, and you can almost feel the sharpness of his grim smile, “stick them with it.” He pauses, then, with a ghost of a laugh, adds, “In-Hvassa.”

You frown at that. You don’t like the name, don’t like not knowing what he means by it. It feels like an insult, like a reminder, and it makes shame squirm in your insides.

But he had sounded almost fond, and you finish your dinner knowing that, whatever else Loki had been in the past, you sit side by side with a friend.

Part 15 __________________________________________

*feel free to ask to tag/untag*

@steve-rogcrs @ps-ghost

[sepublic]

Venom’s Symbiote Homeworld...

I’m honestly really intrigued by the idea of Venom’s home- The Symbiote Homeworld, as one might call it. From what little pieces of information we can glance, among my own personal ideas, I’ve decided to post some speculative headcanons on the nature of the Symbiote Homeworld, how the Symbiotes came to be, and what their society may have been like.

I imagine that in this continuity, the Symbiotes weren’t specifically made bio-weapons designed to kill space gods, unlike the comics. And I honestly hope not, because I prefer the take of them being alien monsters whose freakish abilities were a natural result of having to survive in some horrific environment, rather than what was mentioned. And seeing as how this Sony Spiderverse probably won’t include Celestials, seeing as how the MCU has taken them, this might be the case.

Anyhow, so onto my little headcanon on the Symbiote Homeworld. Imagine a very harsh, hostile environment, teeming with vicious predators that you can only imagine of in the nightmares and acid trips, and worse. The ancestors to the Symbiotes were actually pretty low on the food chain, all things considered- They were probably unevolved masses of slime, some kind of amoeba creatures, that invaded a host’s body and fed off of them.

In other words, they were basically gelatinous parasites. But, somewhere along the way, their preferred hosts were beginning to die out. Perhaps the predators of their hosts were getting too strong, or the environment too hostile. The Symbiote ancestors’ livelihood is being threatened, and in order to survive, they evolve over time to help defend their food source by strengthening it, turning the relationship from parasitism, to commensalism, and finally mutualism.

This is all so that their preferred hosts can survive better and defend themselves and reproduce into a self-sustainable food source. Time goes on, and evolution proves that a Symbiote ancestor that can provide its host greater strength, also gets a host that can feed itself more reliably- And thus, a host with more nutrition to provide.

So then comes the next few stages of this evolutionary pathway, as the Symbiotes evolve to become more pronounced in the ways they influence and upgrade their hosts. Along the way, the Symbiotes evolve to be more adaptable, to be able to infect an even wider multitude of organisms- And soon, they evolve to learn from a host’s memory, even control them if they so desire.

This made the Symbiotes particularly dangerous and unruly, so naturally the ecosystem produced a natural predator or two to curb the population. Probably something that could emit a loud, intense noise around 440 Hz frequency. Perhaps an elephant-like creature with a trunk to produce a powerful sound? Regardless, it wasn’t enough. The Symbiotes were too adaptable, and soon they grew to be the top predator in the entire planet’s food chain, like humans.

And also like us humans, their appetite was too voracious, and they began to devour everything else until the planet was mostly barren. There was still some life to feed off of, the occasional trace that Symbiotes would then pounce on and devour. The weaker Symbiotes would only get the table scraps, if anything- And Venom was one of them.

Venom described himself as a loser. Chances were, he was a runt-of-the-litter symbiote- one too weak, too slow, and overall not ruthless enough to eat. Always the last in line for the meal, chewing on the Symbiotes’ leftovers, trying to push past his eating brethren but never getting a bite of the meal. Venom was definitely looked down upon for being small and weak, and a comparatively gentle soul among the Symbiotes.

And, with dwindling food, it makes sense that as losers and outcasts emerge, so do champions and leaders. Riot is what one would call an Alpha of the pack, the kind of male Lion that takes control of the pride and proves himself by providing meat to the table. One way or another, the Symbiote species comes to the unanimous conclusion that if they want to keep themselves full, they need to find new planets- And drain those dry.

Riot is described by Venom as a team leader, and it shows. Already well-regarded, and well-feared, by his fellow Symbiotes, Riot sees this as a chance to build an even bigger pack, an opportunity to prove himself as the strongest Symbiote of all. And to do so, he needs to win the others’ loyalty, and most importantly, their stomachs.

Riot in this scenario would be like a male lion who leads a few of his own to find food in a dying desert, in the hopes of not only feeding himself, but also making himself the new leader that everyone follows in the process. He who feeds, calls most of the shots.

So while the entire Symbiote species is competing with one another to find other planets full of food, and maybe gain some glory along the way, Riot announces his own campaign and asks who will come to help him. The Yellow and Blue symbiotes were likely fellow respected pack-mates and trusted lieutenants of sorts, who volunteered.

And Venom... well, Venom was the special case who raised his hand to come along. He was mostly just in it for the food, and maybe the hopes of getting some respect from his fellow Symbiotes. Of course Venom was laughed at for volunteering, but Riot was in a good mood, and he figured his team could use some expendable cannon fodder. Venom was like that guy who was kept on the team, only to be shot in the leg so the others could get away while HE got eaten.

Venom knew this, but it was... fine, mostly. He was used to it, anyway.

Riot leads his strike-team of Symbiote colonists onto an asteroid, and they get caught by our human astronauts, led by John Jameson. Riot is particularly powerful and manages to latch onto a human, enough to understand the mechanics of their ship, and other data on human life, before letting said human go and letting himself be captured.

If Riot’s mercy seemed suspicious, the astronauts had no choice. I mean, he was alien life- They just HAD to take him with them! And so they did, and as they reentered Earth’s atmosphere, Riot used his special weapon-manifesting abilities to break free and sabotage the space craft. And as it careened into oblivion, he latched onto John Jameson with a plan to escape and scout out this new, abundant planet of food and resources. 

The fact that the other three Symbiotes were captured didn’t matter too much to Riot, as he always thought highly of himself anyway. To him, everyone else was usually dumb and needed a leader to guide him, and who better than Riot? Riot would scout out Earth. He’d deem it as exactly what the Symbiotes needed, and then make his way back to the Homeworld to invite everyone to a huge feast, gaining lots of support, favor, and loyalty among his kind. 

As for the others... Perhaps it was fate that Riot didn’t succeed in launching his desired Symbiote invasion. It does seem like fate, after all, that the only Symbiote who could sympathize with the humans, Venom, was the one to be paired with Maria- Maria, who had memories of the kindness of Eddie, who would later infiltrate the Life Foundation. Eddie, who Venom likely deduced from her memories, was a former top dog who had fallen, but instead of being bitter about it, just tried to survive, and even sympathized with and made friends with the other losers. This was likely a very profound and moving realization to Venom, and likely part of the reason why he didn’t just devour Eddie and move on to the next host, like Riot.

Because he saw from Maria’s experience, that Eddie was like him. He saw that this planet had plenty of people like him, and that compared to his ‘home’, the losers of society had a chance of sticking with one another and surviving. And that was the catalyst to Riot’s downfall.

[wokeastroke]

The sick, disgusting scent of rotten meat hung about the temple in a foreboding, malevolent miasma. A corpse alone does not lead to such an assault on the senses, this Woke knew. There was a distinct differences between the nearly-masked scent of the Ebonsworn, no matter how taken-care-of they boasted to be, and the overpowering smells he traveled through.

 Only his experience with the dead and their aromas gave him the strength to press on. Or, perhaps his senses had already been ravaged to the point that he did not care. Either or. After checking his plates and their straps for the umpteenth time, he lurched towards the center of the darkness, where the scents seemed their strongest. That was usually the best idea when dealing with the damned. And damned they were, he mused as the steps before the church grew nearer. To be denied such a final rest was the only thing the Lance feared. Let death come, let life cease, but God’s above do not bring him back.

 The stains of dried gore and various other bodily fluids, long since dried to the stone, well-crafted steps was an ominous sign of Woke knew one. However, they were directed outward. Rather than the flowing of captives being dragged to their fate, these were the splatters of unlucky escapees. He spat in disgust. That was most definitely a full liver that had shriveled in the air and sun. Vile.Upon his back, trusted and true, was his lance. The weapon he’d chosen for this ordeal, this cursed mission of his. At his hip was a blade, beaten and battered from well-use. It’s scabbard clacked and clicked against his thigh as he ascended and drew near the door. Finally there was his shield, however this was upon his right arm already. Better to be safe than caught unawares and mangled. He hated being mangled. With a swallow, and a resolute intake of breath, he kicked outward. 

The door was strong, but the boot was stronger. A firm plant of its base caused the wood to crumple inward and split, releasing an oppressive and violent stench. Enough to activate what little he had in the way of senses immediately. Enough to draw a loud curse from his lips before he could bite his tongue.

 “What the everloving fuck..?”

 The darkness swallowed the daylight that streamed in, as if the sunbeams themselves dared not to tread too far into the rot within. And rotten it was. Corpses piled in corners, meat mixed with fluids, with metals, all collecting on the ground in an inch-thick puddle that had already begun its escape down the steps. Insects buzzed about this domain, their domain, feasting and fucking and dying and birthing in the feast they’d been blessed with. Had he a weaker stomach, Woke would’ve added his own bile to the pile.In the center of this profane testament to decay was a figure, a skeletal mass that remained full. Where the corpses around him were disfigured, dismembered, and ruined, this one looked as if it had starved. The fluttering thought perverted Woke’s mind for but a second before he cursed himself. How do you starve to death with all of this meat? 

He squelched into the room further, elves eyes training on the bodies as he searched for his quarry. He had expected the man, Bull, to be larger than life, angry, and prepared to battle. What he had not expected was the strained voice that spoke up, that coughed through blood and phlegm. 

“How long it has been...” The rasps caused the warrior to swing around, back towards the emancipated body upon the floor. Only now did he realize it’s blind, large eyes were wide open, it’s nose flaring, it’s limbs twitching. It was trying to rise.

“A decade. At least, wasn’it? Since that fuckin’ dead sack of flesh jumped me while I was mashin’ the other one.” The voice spoke out again. It’s words were split by rattling coughs and the smacking of lips. Woke stepped closer to the corpse, squinting through the darkness. Faintly, he’d see it. The same lance tattoo he held upon his cheek. There was his man. Naked, rotten, skeletal and broken. Still it attempted to rise, speaking through its difficulty.

 “Say somethin’. Never shut your fuckin’ mouth before, why’s this any different? You’n I both know dead things ain’t fuckin’ scary. How can you be afraid of somethin’ stupid enough to die once already, right?” A pained laugh followed as the thing dragged itself through the sludge and to a wall. Woke steppes forward and answered, taking the thing by its arm and sliding it up against the wall.

 “Fuck you. I came in here expecting one of them, but I found you. I know a fuckin’ skeleton stronger-lookin’ than you, Bull.”

 “Eat me. Rather, don’t. You and I both see what happens when ya eat dead man meat. Glad you’ve at least got your tongue. That and your stupid baby-face’s about the only features worth a da-“ Bull coughed, interrupted by a hunk of gunk flying from his mouth. “-fu-hu-huck. That was a bit of the lung. Fuck.”

Woke looked out for the bit, as if he could simply put it back in. Bull waved a weak hand. “Forget it. I won’t be needin’ it, if I know what you’re here for. S’why I did all this, y’know?” 

“Did what? Mulch a ton of our boys to lay around in? Look at this fuckin’ place. I’ve seen less Lance-goo at those parties Chain said he wasn’t throwing.” Both shared a disgusted chuckle. Fuckin’ Chain. Bull shook his head, his lung rattling as he inhaled again. 

“S’why I left the clues. The steps. To get ya here, to help ya. I can’t see ya, but I can feel ya. You’re worse off’n me, and that’s sayin’ somethin’ ain’t it? Problem with you, Woke’m’boy, is that you run from shit. Ya don’t run fast but ya run reeeeaaaalll long. Don’t ya?”

The more living of the two winced in pain. Embarrassment. It was true, after all. He hadn’t even been around for the burial. He’s been halfway to Kalimdor by then, his face hidden and his armor in a sack. Running. Fleeing.

 “But it’s fine. Prolly would’a done the same. Don’t blame you. And I don’t think any of them do either.” He murmured as a hand, missing its thumb and index finger, gestures limply to the fallen in the room.

 “How could we, eh? Family messes up sometimes, don’t it? And ya forgive family. I think the two words share at least one letter. So I brought ya here. Through her. Fucked as she is, anyway.” Bull coughed our a bitter laugh. 

“Y’know, I tried my hardest. I did. But they’re all men, and she was just a girl. Not enough tit-meat there, not enough pretty face-meat. No womanly fingers. Nothin’ that would’a put Mother back t’gether right. But fuck if I didn’t try.”

There was a sob caught in Bull’s throat. Oh how he’d done his best. Melding the flesh and stitching the muscle together, searching his fallen comrades for the softest of hands. But they were all soldiers, hardened by battle. Their bodies would never be right. Woke shook his head, despite how useless it might have been. 

“You did what you could. She’s beautiful. Just like how I remember her. How we all knew her. What I don’t understand, though... is why? Why bring her back? You and I both know how fucked it is to live again. Why put her through it?” 

The corpse slumped a touch, its smile fading as it searched for the words. “Out of us all, she deserved it. A second chance. A new start. Each of us had our lives and we gave’m up for metal toys and some fightin’. But her? Well... you know what Mother was. Nothin’ filled me with more sorrow than knowin’ she’d been cut down before experiencing life outside’a war. So I gave her the chance. We all agreed on it, anyway.” He pointed to each corpse in turn. Woke blinked hard, swearing for a moment that there was a shimmer in the air over each. A remnant of the Blue Lance.

When he turned back to the deader, Bull had already slumped back down again. The rattling of his breathing has quieted, the energy he had had expended in this reunion, disgusting and melancholy as it’d been. 

“Well. Was a good choice, then. When you meet’em, let ‘em know I’m glad they were able to all agree on something. Even if it was in death. Where do you want it?” Woke stood and drew his blade, the sound of metal on metal silencing the flies for a moment. As if they understood what the pregnant silence entailed. He leveled the blade at his friend, his mentor, who he’d watched and copied until he’d formed into his own brand of Lance. 

“In the head, you pretty fool. You know nothin’ else works. Get it over with.” Bull rasped out. Fighting until the very end. Besides the meaty sound of skull giving way to steel, there was nothing else from the two. The flies resumed their meal, the room continued to stink, and Woke trudged out. It was the end of an era, of twenty years of family. The next death of the Blue Lance. Now there only lay the next. But he wouldn’t be the one to do that part, no. There were two Lances out and about. Mother would be the one to finish the job. 

[mourne]

From the Archives- The Battle of Falconwing Square

(( From 2012, formerly posted on the old Wyrmrestaccord.net forums. A multi-guild storyline called “The Hour Of Judgement”, with a theme of fighting cultists.))

((Part 1)) Assault on Falconwing Square

Mourne had little idea what was happening. As of late his days had been more concerned with baking sales for the Children's Week rush. Things had been quiet since he retired from the priesthood after the campaign of the terrible north, newer duties falling short in comparison. Just the night before, right when he was plotting just how to wheedle cookies from Kirei nearby- the priestess Lacryma and her goblin companion had stopped him. A request. Phoenix Guard needed. Fairbreeze, under attack- a line to be held while re-enforcements were on their way. At first he thought Alliance- but the goblin mentioned cultists. Undead. Faceless. A Lightbreaker.  Only a vague title of others had spoken of with fear, or pain, or hate. Little meaning for him. Now his undead horse rumbled across the glittering stones of Silvermoon - racing to the battle serenaded by the sounds of alarm.  Rather foolish to run off and fight, simply at someone's word. He grinned, thoughts drifting to just how he fell into this. Only once had he gone to this group's meeting, this Phoenix Guard, clad in his habitual garb of a priest. He had not even been initiated, just a curious seeker looking for more to do in his now-quiet life. Unexpected to see members of the Argents there, fascinated to realize they were friends- Jadoth and Rheg, amused to discover they did not even know he was a blood knight. Had been, all along. Perhaps I have played at the humble baker too long.  Even now, he had set aside the black and red armor of a knight- his set was only ornamental, after all. No, he was clad in plate of blue and skulls covered with a worn Dawn tabard, carrying a sword that bore hints of old madness buried in the earth. Played long enough, most have forgotten what I am. And what I was. Eversong Forest, of fair skies and curling golden boughs- but he could feel it. Closer, closer, the feeling of sheer -wrongness- grew nagging. Spirits of the dead twisted and gibbered around him, their words for once not easily ignored. Fairbreeze has fallen? In the distance was the Square - smothered in chaos and death. Lumbering blasphemies of the Old Gods, wave upon wave of undead- one brilliantly red barrier holding out against that dark tide. Shadow swirling among it all, crooning to him like the old lover it once was. Crooning sweetly, beckoning with forgiveness and adoration for return. It mingled with the whispers of the dead, the howls of the newly fallen joining them. Only a scant few years ago he would have fought on the other side... but he was different then. Different world, different names- he had been of the shadows, after all. Had spoken what never should have been whispered. Piled up corpse-offerings at altars slumbering in the earth. Even now the light-punished runes were healing scars upon his flesh. It changed that day when he chose the dawn instead. Yet as he drew closer, the ruby barrier shattered, mingling cries of victory and terror. The old lust, the old ways crept into mind and heart. There would be no need for mercy with this enemy. No need to keep the leash on self tied back, not in such defense of homeland.  At last. At long last. The Light swirled around him, heeding his call, bright and glorious. With a great cry that dissolved into laughter, he charged. "Sow in sorrow, reap in exaltation!"

((Part 2)) When the Quiet Fell

Life became as long as the next swing. Afterwards, as always, the madness and the glory would be akin to a hazy dream. Flickering impressions, to be strung together like beads of memories. A Faceless, flesh boiling under a mage's spellflames. Sharp smells of death, of rot, of burning. Allies thrown into the air, sounds of lifeblood gurgling from wounds too great, death-film overtaking too many green eyes. The spray of red and black mingling in the torn grasses and muds, insolently clinging to footsteps. Some grand, metallic arcane machine stomping through the lines. The Light, in arcs of sword-swings, ribbons of healing, shields of protection- lashing out against those that dared strike. Above it all, jarring clashes of metal, keening cries of victory and terror, howls of the dead, whimpers of the dying. Only when he saw the dead risen against their once allies, did he shudder and slow- memories of the cruel campaigns of the Citadel threatened. I will not falter I will not falter the world must break upon me I will not- The sound of a horn. Another answering. Re-enforcements, the battle had turned, grasping blood-bought victory. Then the quiet fell. Unsteady, Mourne picked his steps carefully through the field. At some point he had lost his warped greatsword, but the closeness of battle demanded his switch to shield and axe. Helm hung by a strap at his waist, next to a well-coated axe, once blue armor splattered black and purple. The grinning, crowned skulls wrought upon his plate shoulders were streaked with red and black blood from their mouths- giving the terrible impression that they too had feasted. Shield slung crookedly on his back, left arm hanging limply at his side. His blind side had not proven kind. Most of his injuries befallen there, dented in plate and more- time to time his fingertips glowed, pressing his right hand to his side. Mentally he assessed his wounds- dislocated shield arm, fingers not moving easily on that hand- some bleeding. Dented in plate at his torso, one worry he never had as a priest. Broken ribs and a concussion, he knew a few people who would be angry he was that careless again- he considered it victory enough he was breathing as he walked, however tottering. Dimmed gaze swept the jumbled piles of gore. He could see other survivors in the distance- the lady commander and her sleek stone cat, perhaps the priestess, the fellow who bounded on false legs, that magus who always cast that brilliance spell on him in the Wyvern's Tail. Exhausted clerics moved from body to body of the elves, moving those that could be saved, the soft drone of last rites for those that had salvation elsewhere. Form to form he strode, at one he would sink down to sit or kneel beside it- gaze unfocused. First an attempt at raising, though many could not, or would not return. An observer would have noticed he was speaking - sometimes a gesture to go with it, fingertips glowing with Light- others, perhaps it was a trick of the eyes that shadows wavered. Last rites, of many kinds- yet he seemed to cease and speak to each body before doing so. And then, the most curious thing, after. A tiny notebook, a simple pencil, a few words jotted down. Simple words, almost a list. Names, and a request next to it. To tell a brother of bravery. To tell a cherished spouse they were loved, one last time. To ask, or to offer forgiveness of wrongs caused in life. Reassurances, longing regrets, requests for rites, for prayers, for remembrance. All was written down carefully, and would soon be scattered across the world in neatly penned, unsigned letters. Yes, the veil 'twixt life and death was thin in the quiet after, as he watched the spirits pass on. Some went to flicker through a dream, or a haunting- some faded to those regions beyond any calling back. Some with their regrets clinging like chains, others with a but a lingering backwards glance. Terrible to see the confused, the lost- ones where the realization was slow. A rare few hurtled joyfully forward in a great burst of light. He wondered where he would go, when his time came, a thought he usually dared not entertain. Worthy? He felt it would not be his place to decide, anyways, not after all his deeds. Yet a tiny, tiny part still hoped he was salvageable enough for the Light, he could almost glimpse -something-, like a strain of music or memory of a lost love's laugh. He could almost reach out an- "Mourne." It took him a few moments, blinking in the sunlight before he realized his false name was called... a few moments longer to realize no one was around. Even the spirits seemed to have focused elsewhere. Shaking his head, he took ponderous steps through the field- at last finding his sword half-sheathed in some mass he chose not to think further upon. In the distance the bodies were carried to be laid out, a few other elves striding through with fury and purpose- likely off to plan the response. Rumor was the true threat had escaped, perhaps some captives. Distant, for the time being, apart from where he was. The sky seemed brilliant above the shimmering walls of Silvermoon City- still standing, still proud- just as the one who watched it in that moment. Mourne smiled, grateful that it was so, and idly gripped his hearthstone. There was baking to do in the morning, after all.

[bestfriendforhire]

Entry 393

 November came.  We had a memorial for Raine’s mother, Eliza, on the fourth, since Raine wanted to do something for it, not that she actually managed to ask.  She had always known that her mother feared her, which was part of the reason she feared herself, but they’d had a few wonderful times as well.

 Raine told us of her fondest memories, such as when they spent an entire day roaming the city as cats.  When Raine was three, her mother had thrown her a princess party, inviting all of the other werecats from the area.  At eight, Raine received her first computer and was introduced to MMO RPGs, which became a shared interest for the two of them.

 Sadly, all of the events after Raine’s fourth birthday were overshadowed by her mother’s fear.  Raine didn’t say anything of the sort, but I could read between the lines and had extra information.  Raine didn’t really celebrate birthdays after turning four until she turned eight.  Unlike most of us, Raine remembered being born and every day since in clarity that would make people with an eidetic memory envious.  She remembered those years of her mother jumping at Raine’s approach, the fear in Eliza’s eyes, and the smell of terror.

 Aaliyah had told me of Eliza’s struggles, trying to win the battle over her fear.  She still loved Raine, but her daughter had made a nightmarish scene of their attackers that Eliza just couldn’t forget.  Raine knew, of course, in the way of a brilliant child who could hear her mother’s conversations clear across the city couldn’t help knowing.  I was thankful that Aaliyah would eventually let them talk again, after they both were ready.  Eliza would be proud of her daughter.

 The day after the memorial was Cosette’s birthday.  She wanted a small celebration again, so we gave her that, making sure everyone was free to attend.  Vito, Papak, Zachary, and Ariadne made an appearance as well, a great honor for any vampire.  Surprisingly for most, there were token gifts sent from part of the Slayer family as well.  I was warned in advance, so I didn’t search them all for traps.

 On the eleventh, Alma, our unborn child, and I jumped out of space and time with Regina’s spirit to celebrate my departed friend’s birthday.  My wife didn’t approve of how Regina clung to me, but neither of us said anything.  Regina’s memories weren’t intact, and Aaliyah was not about to break her agreement with Regina.  As much as I disapproved of Regina’s choice, I would respect her wish.  I appreciated the protection she granted my home and felt spending a day’s worth of time with her each year for eternity was the least I could do.

 When Thanksgiving arrived, Best Friend For Hire, the Intergalactic House of Awesome Sauce, and Global Princess Entertainment hosted a charity event for anyone who wanted a free meal out of a block’s worth of buildings we purchased and renovated for this and future similar occasions.  Best Friend For Hire provided some of the staff, though we enlisted volunteers as well.  The Intergalactic House of Awesome Sauce provided enough food for tens of thousands of people, which most would find impressive, not knowing what a miniscule fraction of the daily output that was.

 Global Princess Entertainment made the entire ordering and delivery process automated, mass-producing the electronic waiters designed by Aurora, Mila, Jarod, and Maxine.  Aaliyah’s company also provided streaming movies, games, and other types of entertainment throughout the buildings, leaving my team and the volunteers with only cleaning to handle, which was largely restricted to the garbage which made its way outdoors.  The automated waiters handled clearing tables and cleaning floors within the buildings.

The feast upon returning home was even bigger than last year.  Of course, there were more people in my company to feed, but I was certain that Marco didn’t want to be outdone, even though the rest of us had been given opportunities to eat on breaks earlier.  My parents, who had volunteered at the earlier event, also came to the feast at my home, taking plenty of leftovers when they left.

 November thirtieth found me pacing in the morning.  There was nothing special happening on that day, but there were many December birthdays to consider.  Mick, my father, Maple, and Noelle were all born in December.  I knew those weren’t the birthdays that had me pacing.  In December—thirty-one days at most, I’d have a second child.  Well… thirty-one days for other people.  An irritating thought in the back of my head wouldn’t let me ignore the fact that there’d probably be numerous months for me still, out on business throughout time and space.  This child would be the first of my blood, possibly even bearing my name.  

 “James, you’re pacing.” stated Alma as she walked into the office, her pregnancy showing beneath the elegant gown she wore.

 “Going somewhere?” I questioned.

 “Oh, no.  Dani wanted me to join her, Cosette, Heloise, Emma, Iris, and Aaliyah in playing princess later.  Dressing up is apparently a requirement, even though we’ll be using the VR set to have an in-depth experience of being a princess during times of war.” she explained.

 “She convinced Iris to dress up as a princess?” I asked, feeling amused by the idea.  Iris was more of a tomboy, rarely wearing anything distinctly girly, and she typically wasn’t inclined to play video games.

 “The whole scenario is to start off with our parents being slaughtered at a meeting of the crowns.  Each of our characters will have reason to believe one of the others is the culprit, so there’s going to be a tremendous amount of action involved.  Besides, you know what turning down our daughter is like.”

 I nodded, still smiling.

 “So why are you pacing?  Get more bad news?”

 Stepping over to her, I twirled her around, hugging her as I kissed her head.  Without me needing to say a word, Mila provided music for us to dance.

 “We’re having a child soon.  Unlike you, I don’t know the gender and am not speaking frequently with him or her yet.”

 “You do every night.” she interjected.  She was wonderful at letting me share in the fey-like communication.   She even convinced my parents to try, after revealing that our child had already spoken a few words.

 “Still isn’t nearly as much as you.” I insisted.  “I’m anxious.  I’ve managed to avoid knowing too much, so I don’t know what to expect!  This is exciting and somewhat frightening to me.  Our child might walk on his or her first day!  Even you can’t say what sort of magic our child might have, though some ability with heat would make sense.  We’ll have to be on guard for at least a month… Only a month?  I know you spent your life accustomed to the idea that your child would be superhuman, but the idea still excites me… and worries me.  There’s so much restraint required in interacting with other beings.  Will it be tough for our child?”

 Alma shrugged “Our child will learn.  We’ll be there to keep everyone safe, and Aaliyah has assured us both that things will go well.  What more do you want?”

 I shrugged and then kissed her as the song ended.  “Best be off before Dani declares you late.” I told her.

 She hugged me and said, “Relax, my love.  I know you can’t grow physically ill, but you shouldn’t let your anxieties get in the way of our joy.”

 “I won’t.” I promised, waving when she left.  Soon, we’d be raising a second child.