#i kin error for more reasons than one

[yeoldenews]

While we’re on the subject of names, is there an explanation for how traditional nicknames came about that are seemingly unrelated to, or have little in common with, the original name?

ie- John/Jack, Richard/Dick, Henry/Harry/Hank, Charles/Chuck, Margaret/Peggy/Daisy, Sarah/Sally, Mary/Molly, Anne/Nan, etc

I am actually over a week into researching a huge follow-up post (probably more than one if I’m being honest) about the history of nickname usage, so I will be going into this in much, much more detail at a hopefully not-so-later date - if I have not lost my mind. (Two days ago I spent three hours chasing down a source lead that turned out to be a typographical error from 1727 that was then quoted in source after source for the next 150 years.)

As a preview though, here’s some info about the names you mentioned:

The origins of a good portion of common English nicknames come down to the simple fact that people really, really like rhyming things. Will 🠞Bill, Rob🠞Bob, Rick🠞Dick, Meg🠞Peg.

It may seem like a weird reason, but how many of you have known an Anna/Hannah-Banana? I exclusively refer to my Mom’s cat as Toes even though her name is Moe (Moesie-Toesies 🠞 Toesies 🠞 Toes).

Jack likely evolved from the use of the Middle English diminutive suffix “-chen” - pronounced (and often spelled) “-kyn” or “kin”. The use of -chen as a diminutive suffix still endures in modern German - as in “liebchen” = sweetheart (lieb “love” + -chen).

John (Jan) 🠞 Jankin 🠞 Jackin 🠞 Jack.

Hank was also originally a nickname for John from the same source. I and J were not distinct letters in English until the 17th Century. “Iankin” would have been nearly indistinguishable in pronunciation from “Hankin” due to H-dropping. It’s believed to have switched over to being a nickname for Henry in early Colonial America due to the English being exposed to the Dutch nickname for Henrik - “Henk”.

Harry is thought to be a remnant of how Henry was pronounced up until the early modern era. The name was introduced to England during the Norman conquest as the French Henri (On-REE). The already muted nasal n was dropped in the English pronunciation. With a lack of standardized spelling, the two names were used interchangeably in records throughout the middle ages. So all the early English King Henrys would have written their name Henry and pronounced it Harry.

Sally and Molly likely developed simply because little kids can’t say R’s or L’s. Mary 🠞 Mawy 🠞 Molly. Sary 🠞 Sawy 🠞 Sally.

Daisy became a nickname for Margaret because in French garden daisies are called marguerites.

Nan for Anne is an example of a very cool linguistic process called rebracketing, where two words that are often said/written together transfer letters/morphemes over time. The English use of “an” instead of “a” before words beginning with vowels is a common cause of rebracketing. For example: the Middle English “an eute” became “a newt”, and “a napron” became “an apron”. In the case of nicknames the use of the archaic possessive “mine” is often the culprit. “Mine Anne” over time became “My Nan” as “mine” fell out of use. Ned and Nell have the same origin.

Oddly enough the word “nickname” is itself a result of rebracketing, from the Middle English “an eke (meaning additional) name”.

I realized earlier this week that my cat (Toe’s sister) also has a rebracketing nickname. Her name is Mina, but I call her Nom Nom - formed by me being very annoying and saying her name a bunch of time in a row - miNAMiNAMiNAM.

Chuck is a very modern (20th century) nickname which I’ll have to get back to you on as I started my research in the 16th century and am only up to the 1810s so far lol.

[mesetacadre]

The Romanov children probably did not have to be killed to win the Russian Civil War (unless someone presents clear evidence the Whites having first-degree relatives to rally around versus more distant kin would have changed a thing), so I don’t think it’s a kill baby Hitler moment, but it’s not hugely meaningful that they died, nor nearly the greatest atrocity committed (although every human life lost is worse than the alternative, generally, relishing in suffering alienates you from the fellow masses of Man—not merely a moral consideration but a strategic one).

Communists should probably tailor their response to the death of the Romanov children to their audience and minor tactical edges in messaging, since it’s mostly meaningless either way, but I think in the specific case most people are willing to tolerate and accept the dehumanisation of royalty, so it’s likely fine, if not advantageous, to build mass/public consensus against excessive moralising concerning their deaths.

I do think it is underdiscussed how a key mode of moral judgement and analysis that remains undercultivated in self-proclaimed communists is something being a mistake (strategically or morally), but not discrediting of the broader movement. All too often, in response to bourgeois moralising, auto-communists will lay claim to the entirety of a strategy or set of acts, atrocity and trade-off and consequence alike. It would benefit such movements to practice ceding ground on historic/past/previous mistakes or even atrocities without losing their entire footing, both for reasons of actual learning from the past instead of reifying victory and error alike (it is notable that the previous attempt at communism lost, was defeated, did not work—self-evidently, so, and so something must change if we are to actually triumph next time) and because biting huge atrocity-shaped and sized bullets alienates building a class-conscious international proletariat.

First I'll reply to your last, broader point about admitting mistakes

When talking about the violence that is exerted during and after a revolution I don't think communists lack self-critique. What some do lack, perhaps, is a less-abrasive approach to communicating the idea, that being that wholesale "all murder is bad" arguments lack any merit and an understanding of how any change under any circumstances is effected. Violence is not ontologically bad, it's a tool whose character can change, and that's what ultimately matters when evaluating violence.

This being said, is revelling in suffering something that's not conducive to creating sympathy for socialism? sure. But I think you're assuming that the tone of a half-serious tumblr post is the same one we use when communicating with non-organized people, and it isn't. I think people forget that these are personal blogs, including mine. Almost nobody here is all of the time expressing their actual opinions about everything with nuance and a level head. Sometimes people like to joke around and maybe exaggerate or simplify their positions for the hell of it. Tumblr is not a platform for organizing anything, and nobody here is like actually actively representing their org/party.

The attitudes you may see, the "Stalin's only mistake was that he didn't kill more people" type of positions, are in the vast majority of cases a mix of Doing A Bit and frustration over hearing the same anti-communist arguments over and over and over again. No communist who has the platform to actually reach non-organized people and get them to join the party will actually express that kind of position when doing actual organizing work. The romanov children are also a topic that do not turn up when you're doing union work, most people don't really care about the specifics of the ussr and bolshevik revolution.

Onto the romanovs. The actual plan of the bolsheviks with the romanovs was probably to to try just the King and Queen and either execute them (which they would have deserved) or send them to reeducation along with the children, much like the CPC did with Puyi. Otherwise, why would they not only hold them prisoner but also move them at least once when the front approached? If the plan was to kill the whole family, why not just do it upon capture and save themselves the trouble?. Like the post I reblogged said, the decision to execute the entire family was done by the local soviet tasked with guarding them, it was not approved by the regional or central committee because it was a decision that had to be taken hastily, given the approaching frontline and logistical issues with postage.

I don't think it's very fantastical to assume that the soviet contemplated moving them again before execution, and that the decision to execute them was not taken lightly, especially without asking the Central Committee. The possibility of the Romanov family being recaptured by the whites was too great and they decided the best course of action was executing all of them to prevent a stronger restoration movement and have the actual Tsar being paraded around as the True Leader of Russia or something, and also give legitimacy to a possible exile government if they won. Was executing the whole family the best thing to do or necessary to win the war? I don't think so and I'd wager most communists believe this too, once you get past sarcasm or The Bit. And again, we're talking about a 150 note tumblr post, this is not a reflection of how the communists on here engage seriously with topics like this one.

[jadelotusflower]

Stargate rewatch: 1x12 Fire and Water

This episode doesn’t count as a Daniel death, but it does count as a Daniel fake out death, which is also pretty prevalent!

It’s kind of amusing comparing everyone being absolutely destroyed over Daniel’s apparent death here, to the later seasons where everyone shrugs and just assumes he’ll turn up somehow.

By this time the US Airforce was consulting in the show, and they sent along actual officers to conduct the funeral ceremony.

Do non-military personnel get military funerals?

“Daniel Jackson made this place happen. As a member of SG-1, he was our voice, our conscience. He was a very courageous man…he was a good man. For those of us lucky enough to have known him, he was also a friend.” 😭

Teal’c being handed the flag as the closest thing to a next of kin is very sweet.

“We commend Daniel Jackson’s spirit to the universe he opened up for us.” 😭 😭

Another Katharyn Powers episode, this is actually one of my favourites.

Where do we think they send the wreath? I would assume the planet where he died, but I suppose it could be Abydos if the gate is buried in such a way that they’re able to establish a wormhole.

Is this standard SGC funeral procedure? We don’t see them send a wreath for Janet even though she dies offworld, but I actually really love the concept.

Nice continuity on Jack’s house from CotG, he walks in carrying the biggest bowl of vegetables I’ve ever seen.

It’s interesting that Jack recounts the story of Sha’re kissing Daniel on Abydos rather than an anecdote from the first mission (getting dragged by the mastadge comes to mind) or from his time on SG-1 - perhaps he wanted to share an amusing memory from a time Daniel was truly happy, but also perhaps Sha’re isn’t far from Jack’s mind, because if Daniel’s gone, who else is going to remember/search for her?

Or maybe it’s also that Jack doesn’t really believe that Daniel really is gone - it almost feels like he’s ribbing a friend for a PDA with his wife like he’s there and not just retelling a story.

A cute outfit for Sam! Teal’c too.

Jack smashing a car window and contemplating retirement because of Daniel’s death 🥺

We see Jack start to backslide into grief like he did after Charlie which is a neat parallel - Daniel was part of the reason why Jack was able to heal from his son’s death, and with Daniel gone he regresses.

Great performance by RDA this episode.

In the false memory and the later flashback, Daniel is wearing his helmet - guess we aren’t quite done with them yet!

In the debrief Jack also says that Daniel cried out “Colonel, help me,” but in the triggered memory he says “Jack, help.” Perhaps a continuity error, but also perhaps the conditioned response altering/escalating. The beer reminds Jack of the bubbles in Nem’s lab, triggering the vision of Daniel’s in order to distract him - the more emotionally inflicting the memory, the less likely Jack is to question its authenticity.

But it actually has the opposite effect - Nem underestimated the bond between the team, as they cannot accept that Daniel is dead.

Daniel’s missing his glasses, so gets up real close to the cuneiform despite it being quite large.

I realise they had to go with the illogical everyone speaks English because this is a tv show, but I do enjoy when there is a language barrier or attempt to explain the lack of one - like the Nox, Nem’s race are advanced enough to learn English after short exposure.

It’s implied the Nox speaking English were an extension of their telepathic abilities, here Nem makes Daniel translate a Babylonian legal system to learn his language, which is neat.

Kind of swish apartment Daniel has! I’ve read some commentary over on reddit surmising that as an expert civilian contractor he’d actually be on a pretty good salary.

Also that’s a lot of stuff for someone who in the film it’s said that everything he had in the world was in two bags. He probably had stuff in storage inherited from his parents that he got out once he started getting that sweet government money.

“I’ll never get paid” is a nice movie callback.

Daniel has what looks like a painting of Bassin d’Apollon (Apollo’s Basin) at Versailles. The fountain depicts Apollo rising from the sea in a horse-drawn chariot. Apollo is of course the Greek god of light/the sun, keeping in the Fire and Water theme for this episode. Daniel will also rise from the sea at the end of the episode.

Jack is looking at the photo of Daniel in Egypt - this will later end up on the desk in Daniel’s lab at the SGC, together with the photo of Sha’re (which we haven’t seen yet).

The excerpt Sam reads from Daniel’s journal (“Sha’re is gone”) is in the middle of some random notes on Egyptian games. Obviously this show was made before it was expected that fans would pause and take screenshots, but I also kind of like the idea that Daniel writes in a stream of consciousness way, recording his thoughts even when they stray from something he’s working on to the personal.

I love the idea of Teal’c and Daniel having game nights.

“I lost my wife - my mate - because of the Goa’uld. They took her from me and I despise them for that.” This episode is probably the most Sha’re has been mentioned so far - between this and Thor’s Hammer I wonder if it was a Katharyn Powers choice or just that it fit into these particular stories.

Why does Nem believe so strongly that Daniel knows what fate Omoroca? Just because Daniel can read cuneiform doesn’t mean he knows all of Babylonian history.

But his distrust of Daniel being rooted in his belief that Earth is still under Goa’uld control because of Teal’c is neatly done.

“It is the fate of humans - that Omoroca could not prevent.” I like that even though Nem has learned English his speech is still a bit stilted. This is a really well crafted episode, imo.

Nem is played by Gerard Plunkett aka Tuplo from The Broca Divide. He does well acting through the prosthetics.

“I don’t have four thousand years. Maybe you can afford to search all that time but I can’t.” It’s interesting how often Daniel has a mirror character - in Torment of Tantalus it was Ernest, in this episode it’s Nem, but while the former was Daniel learning not to be so consumed by his thirst for knowledge that he’s blind to what really matters, here it’s the reinforcement of his convictions to risk his life if necessary to achieve his goals. They’re almost contradictory lessons, but not quite, because of the differing circumstances.

Here Nem is a cautionary tale - Daniel must be active in his search for Sha’re or he’ll end up like Nem, who out of fear and passivity waited for news of his mate’s death rather than trying to find her himself.

This episode was directed by Allan Eastman, his only Stargate effort. But he knew what’s what!

There’s good continuity on Daniel’s growing stubble too.

Eastman would however go on to direct several episodes of Andromeda, including the one guest starring Michael Shanks and Christopher Judge.

Dr Mackenzie appears for the first time since autopsying the dead Jaffa in CotG.

We get three versions of the false memory - Sam’s was “help, help” while Teal’c’s is a drawn out cry of agony - perhaps because Teal’c has seen so many more brutal things his memory needed to be more visceral to trigger the same reaction.

There is nothing Daniel loves more than drawing in the sand.

“And in time Daniel, you will find what fate Sha’re.” A not so pleasant glimpse into Daniel’s future there.

It’s too bad we never see Nem again, not even when the show gets into other memory searching/creating technology.

“Tell us about it over sushi.” You can tell this was an RDA lib because he, Shanks, and Tapping almost break character.

[deaith]

to the gyryth, magic is considered the very life-blood from which all things exist. they themselves are cast by it, their souls burned and moulded on the forge of death and divination. it is a thing to devour, a thing to be nourished by, a thing which furthers their very existence, and it is sought with all the intrigue of a starving wolf searching listlessly for its next meal. it is a never-ending cycle, one caught between revere and hunger. to exist is to crave the blood and the flesh and the soul of that which created you, and oh, do the gyryth crave.

rýsir is clever and cunning. a beast that appreciates the hunt almost as much as the feeding, who minds his step and is watchful of his quarry. well-fed is the gyryth who understands the nature of survival, the necessities of it, and well-fed he is. but even he is not without error, as all breathing beings are capable of error, grave or otherwise; when it is istar's trail he follows, when it is the smell of her magic which draws him in, all he smells is food. it is not until he is faced with his quarry that the mistake is recognized.

" don't do anything hasty, now. "

a sound between a growl and a hiss trembles in the creature's throat. tongue flicks out, peeks from between lips, like a snake tasting the air, and he is gauging the exact threat that stands before him. it is not often he is at the mercy of unease, and though he will not go so far as to say that it is fear which keeps him frozen, rýsir can admit when the circumstances would benefit from his inaction. he has not survived this long by being reckless, by attacking just anybody without forethought. he is not as desperate as most of his kin, is not so stupid as to barrel forward simply at the promise of a good and hearty meal.

he has a feeling that, were he to try, @feminurge would make quick and simple work of tearing into him quicker than his own teeth could even hope to reach her.

it is not just raw power which drives the stake of wariness through him, but a strange and distasteful hum of familiarity - nothing personal, for rýsir was certain that ishtar's face was not one he had stared into at any point before. no, the familiarity lay in the magic itself. a crawling and nauseating thing, threatening to burst at the seams, contained and wielded by a vessel who was more than capable of using it, being it. he had tasted the smoke of it on scorched earth, had heard its song ringing in the air in the distance, had seen the glimmering cinders of it left in the wake of her.

formidable. powerful. rýsir's tail curls at the prospect of what she might taste like, how her blood may feel in his mouth, her magic rotting in his chest.

he is, unfortunately, not a fool. not enough of one to give in to curiosity and cast aside caution.

" i will not. " istar has no reason to trust him, to believe a single rasped word that rolls from his tongue and leaves his mouth. still does the fact hold true: rýsir is not particularly fond of lying. " you - a curious thing. i have confused you with quarry, which, as it appears, you are not. "

[katlover14]

Is this love? (An Ink x Y/N Oneshot)

(I’ve never written oneshots before, so sorry if what I wrote technically isn’t one. Why did I write it about Ink? Because I kin Ink and because I couldn’t think of anyone else to write it about. Here ya go, Ink simps!)

(P.S: I’m NOT an Ink simp. I would choose Fell, Classic, or Horror over Ink any day.)

Ink perked up when he heard that familiar sound of the most beautiful laughter he’d ever heard. It was… intoxicating? That sounds like the right word. He couldn’t help but laugh along with you. A strange, warm feeling rose in his chest. It felt so fuzzy.

What is this feeling? Ink wondered as he looked over to see what was making you laugh.

A cat video. Of course. What else could he expect to make you smile so much? Ink rolled his eyelights, though he was a tad bit jealous that a video of cat’s failing to jump onto high places could make you laugh more than he could. He decided he needed a distraction from your infectious laughter.

As he started drawing, his mind wandered to the first time you two had met. He doesn’t know how he remembers that day. He should’ve forgotten it by now, but yet he hasn’t for some reason.

~Wooo, flashback, wooo~

Ink panted as Error cackled in glee somewhere close by. His vision was blurry and his bones ached. He knew he wouldn’t last much longer if he continued to fight. He had no choice. Ink held on tight to Broomie before melting into a puddle of ink. He collapsed in whatever AU he’d teleported to, his vision fading in and out.

As he was about to pass out, he heard the most soothing voice he’s probably ever heard. Not that he would remember hearing a more soothing voice. “Are you alright?” That was the first thing he’d ever heard you say. But, of course, he passed out before he could respond. When he came to his senses, he was in an unfamiliar place.

Ink shifted around in the blanket that was covering him. His bones cried out in pain and he winced, stopping the movement immediately. “Error really wanted to kill me this time. It feels like these wounds are going to take a long time to heal.” He muttered with a groan. He wanted to move into a more comfortable position, but his aching bones reminded him why he shouldn’t move.

As he was about to close his eyeless sockets to try and get some rest (mostly so he wouldn’t be forced to acknowledge his bones hurting), he heard the door open. Forgetting about how much his bones hurt, he shot up and immediately felt an immense amount of pain all over. He cried out in agony, barely hearing the footsteps that quickly ran to his side.

“Don’t move! You’ll make it worse!” Your voice rang through his head as gentle hands quickly moved to lie him back down. Ink coughed, the pain so unbearable that it was even affecting his nonexistent lungs. He felt something cold and sticky touch one of his wounds and the pain lessened ever so slightly.

You were quick to apply the salve to his bones. After about five minutes, Ink’s pain was gone and he could breathe easy again. “W-where am I?” He asked, not recognizing the AU he was in at all.

“KoiTale. Don’t worry, you’re safe here.” You spoke so gently to him. He was a stranger, and yet… you weren’t trying to hurt him.

Ink: “I’ve never heard of KoiTale. Must be a new AU. What’s it about?”

As you went on about the symbolic meaning of the popular Japanese fish and how it correlates to this AU, Ink listened intently. He found it interesting, to say the least. He was so immersed in your description of this place that he didn’t notice you bandaging his wounds. When you finished talking, the ache in his bones was minuscule.

“Hey, um, what’s your name? I just realized I never asked.” Ink questioned, looking at you as much as he could without moving his body too much.

You: “(Insert name).”

Ink: “That’s a nice name. Mine’s Ink. Pleased to meet you.”

Ink: “Oh, and thanks for patching me up. You really didn’t have to do that.”

~Wooo, flashback end, wooo~

Ink still doesn’t know what sparked in him that day. But he didn’t mind the feeling since it wasn’t doing any harm. Though he did get very jealous the first time he met your S/O; he still doesn’t know why he was jealous. He perked up again when he heard your laugh, his cheekbones warming up slightly.

Putting down his pencil, he stood from his art desk and went over to the living room. As he sat beside you, he felt you curl up against him. He smiled and wrapped an arm around your shoulders while the two of you watched cat videos on the tv.

This must be a normal thing friends do if you haven’t pushed my arm off yet! He thought as he giggled when a kitten fell off a dresser.

Ink inevitably forgot about the feeling he got around you, chalking it up to be unimportant. Though later he had indeed wondered if that’s what love feels like…

(Koi fish represent: love, affection, friendship, strength of character, perseverance, accomplishment, courage, good fortune, success, prosperity and ambition. I was mainly focused on the first three representations.)

[arthursaus]

Error’s really fucking tired and he just wants a nap and a million chocolate bars.

Poor thing. Yes, I kin Error, yes, I simp for Error, so don’t be surprised when I talk about Error softly. He deserves the world.

Also, speaking of Error, I’ve been thinking about something on and off for the past few weeks. Is it really that hard for people to respect other’s boundaries? Like, it’s so easy to just. NOT touch someone. Or to not crowd someone.

And this isn’t just about Error, this is also a personal thing for me. I don’t have haphephobia or anything, but I am sensitive to touch due to a sensory processing disorder. And it’s just. Why? Is it really so hard?

Honestly I think I brought this up while talking about Error because when it comes to Error that stuff infuriates me. When it’s me, I’m very uncomfortable and I hate it but I’ll get through it, but when it’s Error I just get really angry.

I don’t know how it feels for people with haphephobia, but I hate it when it happens to me. I have to be in the right mood and mindset for physical touch.

If not… everything feels wrong. Like, inherently, basely, unexplainable wrong. Nothing is right, nothing is as it should be.

It feels like my mind sort of partially separates from my body. Not in the form of having an out of body experience, and I’m not sure if it counts as dissociation either, but my mind’s connection to my body dulls significantly. I can still control it, but I have to seek it out first.

My mind separates from my body while simultaneously drawing further into it. Or into itself? Everything dulls. I can’t think. My head is silent. It shouldn’t be silent. I can’t function. I feel…. Cold? Not cold as in the temperature, but cold as in numbness. Numbness toward the world around me. I feel numb. What am I? Where am I? I feel disconnected from the world around me. I feel… not small, and not insignificant either, but also insignificant at the same time? Something similar?

I just don’t get why people can’t keep their hands to themselves. I get it, my hair is pretty, and you wanna play with it, but 1: you don’t have my permission, and 2: you’re screwing me up. Like, fucking me up. In the right circumstances, a single unwanted touch can throw me off for the rest of the day. I almost feel like… IDK, like a stranger in my own body? No, not really that, I feel like my body isn’t mine to control. Not that it’s not mine, but rather that though it is mine, it is not mine to control.

It’s awful. Sorry, just had to rant. Probably will reblog this to my side blog and/or main blog too.

[jinxhallows]

Uninvited [ Part X ]

Uninvited. a short-ish series ft. Felix, Chan and Hyunjin (& a sprinkle of Jisung for a little razzle dazzle)

cw: 100% AU, afab reader, blood and gore descriptions, ritual self-bloodletting, supernatural creature themes/tropes, vampire theme/tropes, hybrid theme/tropes.

word count: 4.4k

part one -> click here

part two -> click here

part three (explicit content) -> click here

part four -> click here

part five (explicit content) -> click here

part six -> click here

part seven -> click here

part eight -> click here

part nine -> click here

-----

**taglist <3 (If I missed anyone let me know! it wasnt on purpose i tried to comb all my posts and make sure )

@planetdemon ; @a-person-with-void ; @haleyms ; @wonhottcakes ; @hydroyaksha ; @just-randomm-stuff ; @sooinvu ; @ninjaleeknow ; @thegoddessharmony ; @kittycatkrissa ; @ominous-crow ;

——–

Part Ten

Little witch… 

Little witch… 

A cramp in your stomach causes your body to lurch forward with a gasp. 

Jisung is beside you, holding a makeshift torch in his hand.  You look around, beyond where you sat, and you can see nothing but surrounding vast, dark woods. Albeit, vibrantly.

The only source of light is from Jisung’s flame. 

“I didn’t think you’d make it here.” He finally speaks breathlessly, a look of deep concern settling into his round features.  Jisung stands to his feet and offers you his hand, helping you back up to your feet once more. 

“Make it—where?” You look around, still grimacing from the cramps.   

Were you doomed to this kind of pain in the afterlife too? 

The afterlife. 

Everything sweeps over you, and you look Jisung up and down in disbelief. 

“He did the spell...I-I died…in Felix’s arms, why—why are you here?” 

Jisung shrugs apathetically.  “Ancient magick is unstable, and we don’t have any elders left to show us how to do things the right way all the time.” He holds up his torch in the darkness, surveying the surroundings you two were stranded in.   

Jisung had been in these strange and complex pockets of alternate dimensions on more than one unfortunate occasion.  Life and Death was nothing to toy around with.  He learned at a young age how fragile the glass was between these worlds, and jumping back and forth between them could send a nasty crack spiraling open.  It took great skill, great patience and resourcefulness to bring yourself back to full form, without any errors.  Jisung’s parents called it “playing God”, and it could be done, but not without a great sacrifice.  When his ancestors passed in their old age, they refused to return, instead, lending their ancient power to the next of kin. 

Once it funneled down into Jisung, he found himself wielding a power beyond his wildest expectation.  He was sick for nearly a year in a coma the moment he set foot into his teenage years.  When he finally came to in the Intensive Care Unit, he knew how to conjure things the old Jisung could not wrap his mind around– and he could manifest his magick in ways that astonished his parents. 

Jisung had to learn to remain in control of himself every waking moment and ended up spending more of his childhood on discipline than being a normal teenager.

It was something in his childhood that he held in common with Chan, and was a reason why they had become such good friends throughout working alongside one another.

So, yeah, he could bring himself back from death with little to spare; but bringing himself and another? Without clear-cut help from the other side? For the first time, Jisung felt sincere…doubt. 

He wasn’t ready to die.  Not yet.  Not like this. 

“Edith was already resurrected, I guess we were too late…it took two sacrifices, and I don’t even know if it worked.” Jisung sighs. “I was doing well, going on 90 years death free.  Fuckin’ bitch.” 

He notices you as you stumble against a nearby tree, feeling more pain, unable to focus on anything he was rambling on about. 

“Little witch? Whoa whoa—“he catches you, helping you to stabilize once more. “What’s wrong?” 

You take in a deep, painful breath.  “My stomach is like…killing me Jisung.  I can barely see straight.” The ache gets worse, making you fall to your knees and start to dry heave. 

“Shit.” He mutters.  Jisung thinks quickly, setting the torch between the nook of the low set branches in the nearby tree before he drops down beside you. His touch is not comforting for reasons you don't seem to understand, and you look over at him, trying to manage a way to express it. 

Jisung falls back from you once your eyes meet…crawling away slowly as he holds his hand up. 

“Stay there, little witch, don’t move— “ 

You don’t know what he’s talking about, you’re in pain and now growing alarmed at his sudden yield. You crawl towards him, but Jisung shakes his head, gives you a soft ‘i'm sorry’ before he speaks words in a foreign tongue and you blackout. 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------   

“You can’t seriously trust this girl?” 

“I don’t but do you have any other witches on hand before time runs out? If we don’t consecrate them by Dawn, we will lose every chance at bringing them back.” Felix explains to his brother.

Chan was being understandably difficult.  He didn’t want to consecrate your body; he didn’t want to accept you were even gone. 

Surely it was his fault.   

He knew this.   

He allowed himself to develop a weakness for you that he never saw coming. Here, he had allowed history to indeed, repeat itself once more.

If he had not become consumed with bloodlust; he could have stopped the spell from happening.  Edith would have been back, sure, but Chan always could figure out a solution, and he would have found a way to kill her for eternity and do so while his brothers and you both remained alive. 

Jisung would’ve remained alive. 

Chan’s body had gone through cycles of tears that made his throat ache; and pure, silent disassociation throughout the night prior when they first brought you and Jisung's bodies back to the estate.

Chan proceeded to not sleep at all during the following day, rendering him weaker than usual, and when night fell once more, the time to consecrate drew near, and he feared having to face another dark reality. 

Chan was all cleaned up; twice over now. He was dressed in a black short sleeved shirt, fitted to his handsome figure and tucked into his black slacks which were secured by an awfully expensive belt with a square gold buckle. A black leather watch with a gold face perfectly wraps around his right wrist, and a collection of black rings decorate his left hand.   Chan doesn’t care much about his dark indigo hair, clean but lazily blown out and styled, he fingers through it to push it over to the side how you had seemed to like it.  If he was going to see you one last time, for an exceedingly long time, he was going to look his very best for you.    Felix steps into the living room alongside the blonde-haired witch from the shop, Emily. Chan spots them in the mirror he’s positioned in front of. Disapproving eyes scan the girl in the mirror and his expression hasn’t a hint of compassion in it. 

Quite different from the flirtatious gentleman that had graced her during his attempted infiltration. 

Chan looks down and sighs before he turns around and directs his eye contact to his snow haired younger brother. 

“Shall we begin?” He says, walking past the two hastily, making his way outside to where Hyunjin stood with the two bodies, wrapped in cloth and both resting on wooden tables outside in the fields.

Chan wordlessly ducks under the plum tree before he stands in front of the body, both of his hands clasped together in front of his torso, expression unreadable and blank. 

Hyunjin carefully observes his brother’s attempt at holding it together for a few brief seconds before he decides to speak up. 

“We’re going to bring them back brother.  And it won’t take a millennium.” He says confidently. 

Chan’s eyes flit up from the bodies to Hyunjin.  He watches the flame that burns on the fire dance in his scarlet haired brother’s eyes. 

“The fire in your eyes…it’s from the flame we’ve set tonight brother but—the flame that’s been in your eyes since you were born, that’s what I see when I look at you Hyunjin.” Chan looks back down at the fire yet again. He believes his younger brother's words. 

“You survived a hell I’ve never known, and you have a resilience I’ll never comprehend, so brother,” He tilts his head, focusing on the flames, 

“I know we will.” 

Felix and Emily join the elder brothers outside.  Chan doesn’t move much, in fact, he remains eerily still; his brown eyes, like those of a predator, begin shifting to olive, and to amber as he keeps steady watch on Emily while she whispers foreign tongues over Jisung’s body, and then yours, while anointing you both with herbs steeped in oils that spill from a golden goblet. It's engraved with intricate depictions of war and resurrection.  Her pale fingers cover most of it, but Chan had lived long enough to understand hieroglyphic-like imagery. 

He’s waiting to hear her heartbeat spike before she tries anything, he’s listening to the way blood moves through her circulatory system, he’s preparing to smell the fear increase in her.   

Why would the witch who had led him into a trap so he could be killed by her family, suddenly decide she wanted to be helpful?   

What did she gain from this? 

“Felix, could you, maybe help me out?” Emily turns to the freckled vampire, her blonde hair falling over her shoulder.  Felix had been quiet for some time now.  He joins her side as they stand over your body.  His hand rests on the small of her back as they speak in hushed whispers. 

Chan crosses his arms as he rolls his eyes, looking over at Hyunjin, who meets it with a similar sentiment before the red-haired vampire draws his lower lip in between his teeth to stop from smiling. 

“Something wrong?” Felix quietly asks Emily, noticing her hesitation over your body, the uncertainty in her eyes. Unfortunately, there was no time for such a pause.  He speaks again, “You know we have to get this done soon. If we’re to have any chance at bringing them back–” 

“That’s just it, Felix.” Emily shifts uncomfortably, looking down at her goblet.  Her voice is barely above a whisper.  “I can practically feel your brother waiting to kill me if I mess up and…something's wrong, and I don’t know what to do.  They’re both not…gone.  Not yet.  There's something...tethering them–” 

“'Something’s wrong?' What do you mean 'something’s wrong?'” Chan’s hybrid hearing doesn’t let anything slip past, and he’s approaching your body, splitting up Felix and Emily by merging between them. 

There would be no secrets held here tonight. 

--------------------------------------------------------------

You don’t even realize you’ve blacked out until you see the world above you fade back into focus. 

Your head feels heavy, as if you were knocked out. Were you knocked out? Had Jisung hexed you?  You don’t feel any more pain, instead, your stomach just grumbles a little. 

You realize you’re on the cold ground as you dust your hands off and come up to your feet.  Its the same spot where Jisung left you earlier.  He looked…panicked.  Where could he have gone in these woods?  It was dark all around you, and no stars in the sky above. 

In fact, it was so dark, you weren’t sure how you were still able to make out the shapes of the trees and their intricate branches. 

“JISUNG!” You call out, looking around you at the endless darkness.  You breathe heavily, waiting to hear a reply. 

“JISUNG!” You yell again, beginning to feel uneasy.   

As if someone is holding the scent right under your nose, a sweet, floral and berry smell wafts by.  You move so quick, too quick, to turn around; and you stumble over your feet from a thick chain that’s been lasso’d around your throat.  You're yanked down onto your back, your head slams against the dirt.  Your vision hazes in and out as someone hovers over you. 

When you realize it's not Jisung, you try to sit up, but are instead violently pulled down once more.  Frustration fills you until you feel an object, hard and sharp pierce the skin of your chest, causing you great pain. 

“Hey.  Don’t kill her.” 

“You said she was turning, didn’t you?” 

Jisung’s voice helps you to concentrate a little more on what’s going on.  You manage to lift your head enough to see him, holding the torch that was providing the illumination around you.  He stands a few feet away, looking between you and the woman above you. 

“No, I said I don’t know what’s going on and she could be turning.” He replies sharply.  “Take the fucking stake out of her chest, Amelia.  I won’t ask twice.” 

You weren't used to hearing such hostility in Jisung's tone. It nearly rendered his voice unrecognizable.

“Ame–lia?” You choke out.  The pressure and sharp pain is lifted from your chest, and you cough, sitting up and feeling the rusted iron chain around your neck; you curl your fingers around it as you lift it so you can take in a deep breath. 

“Jisung.  Explain.  Now.” You pant, looking at him with a fierce gaze.  He takes a step, hesitates, and then decides to come over and kneel beside you.  Amelia, with a thick, long crown of curly haired and smudged blood and dirt over her ripped shirt and pants, stands over you two, keeping a watchful eye, fingers wrapped tightly around the wooden stake in her hand.  Her dark brows are furrowed, but she also looks concerned. 

“Earlier, you, didn’t look like yourself…when you looked at me, your eyes…they reminded me of Chan right before he…turns.” Jisung’s eyes bounce over you, down your body and back up to your eyes.  “But now…” his voice trails as he shakes his head in disbelief. 

“You look…normal, I don’t–I don’t understand.” His hand lays on your shoulder.  Silence passes between you two as you look at one another, lost for words. 

“I do.” Amelia’s voice breaks the silence as she holds the stake to the bloodied hole in your shirt where she nearly pierced you moments earlier. You hold your breath, expecting another pinch, when instead, she pulls the hole open more to expose the wound.

Or rather, the lack of one.

The sinewy fibers of muscle and skin were slowly beginning to weave themselves together again. It was gradual, but happening in front of your own eyes.

You and Jisung look up to her.  Amelia sets the stake down on the ground gently, and you notice her eyes wellling with tears.  She sniffs and wipes her cheek with the back of her hand as she crouches next to you. 

“She’s pregnant.” 

----------------------------------------------------------

  “Christophe, stop–” 

Chan’s fingers release Emily’s throat and she falls to the ground, gasping for air. 

“Brother, a minute, please?” Hyunjin asks in a strained voice as he jerks his head to the treeline of the forest before disappearing into it.  Chan’s fist curls at his side as his jaw flexes in barely contained hostility.  He turns to Felix as he points to Emily. 

“Finish the ceremony or I will hang her skin from your bed frame.”  

His nostrils flare briefly, and he turns on his heels and is gone in a blur after Hyunjin.  Chan catches up with his younger brother amongst the maple and pine trees.  Hyunjin is leaning his back against a thick tree trunk, arms crossed over his chest.  He wears a white V-neck and dark jeans.  His silken, cherry hair is pulled into a ponytail, with wild ruby strands framing his beautiful porcelain face.  He looks vastly different from the savage Hyunjin that was trapped in purgatory for a millenia. 

“The pretty witch was an anomaly, you know this Christophe, what if–what if Emily’s right?” 

Chan is pacing, albeit slowly between two large trees. 

“She’s fucking lying brother.  She’s lying  Little witch, she’s a–threat to Emily’s entire family for siding with us and bringing you back.  They probably told her to say this–” 

“But what if…she’s right?” Hyunjin calmly repeats, voice airy and soft. Chan’s pacing takes pause, but he doesn’t look up, not yet. 

“What if we move too hastily and actually kill her? If there is a chance she’s alive, like I was, then she’s in there fighting for her life right now to get back here, to get back to you.  And there’s a good chance Jisung is right alongside her…which means, he’s not gone yet either.” 

Hyunjin’s logic is sound, and his experience speaks volumes over it. Usually, Felix was the voice of reason, but in most cases, Hyunjin was always the one that could get through to Chan the quickest. 

“There’s no pulse in either one of them.” Chan says, and for the first time, Hyunjin finally hears just how broken he truly was. 

“I know.” Hyunjin’s voice settles over Chan like a warm blanket. Hyunjin doesn’t provide answers he isn’t certain of, but he actively acknowledges the pain his brother was experiencing.  Hyunjin pushes himself from the tree and rests his large hands on the shoulders of his elder brother. Chan stares off to the left, trying, once more, to hold it together. 

“There’s…no...pulse…” Chan repeats, as thick tears stir in his eyes and spill over the edges. Saying it aloud is breaking his heart all over again. When his chest begins to take staggered sobs that he holds firmly onto, Hyunjin pulls him into a deep embrace, hugging his brother tight. 

“It’s okay to not be okay, brother.” The younger vampire speaks delicately to Chan’s brokenness. He pulls back from the hug, and their foreheads press together. Chan’s face is streaked with the tears of his mourning; Hyunjin’s eyes shine with tears of his own, held back. He was better at disguising his emotion than Chan. Hyunjin's hands cup around the back of Chan’s neck as he sniffs back any further weeps, his gaze growing darker, more deviant, unhinged. 

“But it is not okay to let that cloud your sensibility. I want to kill the witch too, you see, but we hear her out first.  She’s more useful to us alive, especially if her family comes looking for her. Be patient, brother. You will have your revenge.” 

“But Felix–” Chan stares back at his brother, tempted by the malice in his tone. It was something Chan had grown to hate about himself. Somewhere, inside of him, there lay at rest, a monster. Something rooted deep within him loved the idea of bringing harm to others who had wronged him.  It felt too good afterwards. But he forced himself to let it go, to create as much peace as he could gather, to become a leader not by fear, but by true admiration of character.  

Chan had grown to put that part of himself away for many, many years, but now that Hyunjin was back…well...the younger sibling knew just how to bring it back out of him. 

“Felix let Amelia die in your arms so he could sire her for his own use.” Hyunjin steps back, allowing his words to take effect. 

Chan shakes his head. “What he did was, it was a mistake but–that’s our brother-” 

“That’s the truth, Christophe.” 

Emily and Felix are soon reunited with the other brothers as they emerge from the tree line. Chan strides over to Emily and squats down in front of her, his hands held together, elbow resting on his thigh. She stares at him, ready to flinch, to react, anything. 

Then, the sapphire haired hybrid finally breaks the ominous silence as he extends his hand to help her stand to her feet.  

“Tell me exactly what you need to bring my little witch and my bestfriend back.” 

-----------------------------------------------------------------   

Jisung sits in front of you on the ground. His hand rests over his mouth as he leans on his thigh and stares off into the wilderness. His brain is calculating, thinking, and processing. He looks focused, dark hair falling over his creased brows. There isn’t a hint of lightheartedness about him in this moment and you realize—this was an ultimate test of Jisung's strength. 

“How long has it been since you’ve died?” You ask, breaking his focus as he glances up at you. His expression softens and his eyes drop back down to his lap as he sighs. 

“90 years.” He murmurs, rubbing tiny pebbles from the ground between his fingertips. “It’s tough...ya’know? Humans are so...fragile.” 

“So... why haven’t you ever asked Felix or Chan to turn you?” 

He answers you with a light chuckle, a brief puff of air leaving his nose as he draws the corner of his mouth up into a crooked smile. 

“Because I am a Han.” He picks up a lone pebble and tosses it into the darkness. “My blood, it can’t take the transformation. Too much...” he waits to find the right word, “...power. And really if I’m bein’ honest--” Jisung takes a deep breath in before blowing it out. 

“Every time I come back; I feel myself getting weaker. Those hybrids and witches back at the warehouse? 90 years ago, they wouldn’t have made it past the doorframe.” He meddles with the soil in front of him once more, the curtains of his satin, ebony locks drawing the conversation to a close. 

You don’t speak for a long while, a few minutes that feel like hours. 

“I felt weird at the graveyard, like I could feel my body almost...vibrating when danger was close. Then…when I…went into the tomb I could…feel him, I could feel Chan down there even though I had no idea where he was. That wasn’t me…was it?” You finally break your long, fixed stare from the ground and look at Amelia, who was now seated on a nearby fallen tree log. It was chilly, dark, and wet, and Jisung had managed to start a fire, which was also a good sign–he still had some ability to conjure.  

“It’s not like that…you’re still–you but enhanced.” Amelia explains, her right knee hugged to her chest as her left leg hangs loosely over the edge of the log.   

She lay her cheek on her kneecap as she fixes her eyes onto the fire. 

“So, I’m not a vampire then?” You ask. 

Amelia sighs. “Not vampire, wolf, nor hybrid or witch. Until you give birth, you will carry the traits of all four. It will change the way you conjure; you will have fainting spells and grow dangerously weak if you do not feed when the moon is full.” She tosses a stray branch into the fire, and it licks higher to the sky.   

“Tis no simple task for a woman to bear, being impregnated by a hybrid and carrying his unborn to full term.” 

Jisung turns over a smooth rock in his fingers.  “But you did it.” He adds in your defense, looking across the fire to Amelia. 

“I was murdered by my own people for it. They knew I carried a child with extraordinary gifts. This will make you a target. It was irresponsible of Christophe to even allow this to happen again.” She lets out a deep breath before dropping her knee, finally leaning closer to the fire.

“You are of my bloodline; we cannot allow something like this to happen again;. Being here too long will do us more harm than good. We are no longer the only ones who know of this.” 

“What do you mean? Who else is here?” Jisung quips aloud. 

“Are you a fool?! My mother was cast back here when Hyunjin was split from her, I sent her back with my own hands. A witch of the Pavo coven birthing a hybrid is a beacon in here, I’ve told you this!” 

You feel your eyebrows drawing together as you look over at her.  “If this baby is tethering me to the real world, then how do we get out of here?” 

Amelia shakes her head, “We are not getting out of anything.  With great luck, maybe you can, and with even greater luck, Jisung can hitch a ride, but I am dead, and I have been dead for a long while. My soul will shred if I pass back over.” 

“Is this where you came in?” Amelia asks, getting to her feet and looking up at the skies above the trees that eternally stretched upwards. 

Jisung stands up and dusts himself off as he nods.  “We’ll need a few things.” 

“I have a cabin a couple of miles away; it should have everything you need.” 

A howl pierces the dead of night around you, and the three of you freeze.

You feel the hairs on the back of your neck begin to rise. 

“Go, go, now!” Amelia breaks off into a run in the direction of her cabin.  Jisung follows close behind and so do you, until you feel like you are approaching danger. 

“Stop!” You yell, breathing heavy.  “Not that way!” 

Amelia nods in understanding of your warning, but before you can reroute, Jisung is taken down by a snapping, snarling blur of black fur. Amelia’s arm extends in front of you to prevent your reflexive foolishness from jumping in without warning, and with a curl of her fingers into a tight fist, the bones of the wolf crack as it gives one, single yelp and collapses. 

Face blown with shock, Jisung sits up, touching his intact chest and neck before looking at the scratches and blood on his hands. 

A chorus of wolf yodels and calls begin to sound off, and there is no longer any more time to waste. You look around, whipping your head back and forth, focusing on which direction smelled the clearest. 

“Eucalyptus...” You take in a big breath. “I don’t understand--” 

Amelia takes a step forward with certainty as she declares, 

“My garden! Follow it!”  

---------------------------------------------------------------- 

“So you want me to believe, that an elementary witch, can open a makeshift gate to the afterlife? But to do it, all three of us have to be totally incapacitated so she can channel our power?” Chan grows more frustrated by the minute.

Before, he would’ve done anything to prolong having to give you your final farewell; but now it was late in the night, going on 3 in the morning, and within a couple of hours, Dawn would soon approach, and the opportunity would be gone. 

“As far as I know from mother’s works, it sounds like the only option we have right now.” Felix explains, “Unless you have something better?” 

Chan wants to speak but bites his tongue as he lifts a pointer finger to Felix, saying everything with the ferocity of the silence in his pissed off expression before he turns around and exhales, fingers gliding through wisps of his hair. 

“I don’t care for this method either, no matter the accuracy.” Hyunjin adds, finger to his lips as he thinks. 

“Try with Christophe and Felix, I’ll just standby.” 

Felix shakes his head in immediate protest. “Hyunjin there are four points to the gate,” he proceeds to point to himself before he goes to each person standing around, “One, Two, Three, Four.” 

“Damn it!” Chan shouts.  

The eldest brother rarely does this, and the bass in his chest causes the other two to recoil from their debate.

Chan intertwines his fingers in a nest atop his sea of hair as he brings himself back from the edge of insanity before he walks up face to face with Emily.

Breath heavy with mixed emotion, the hybrid brings his wrist up to his mouth and breaks the skin with needlepoint canines, spilling his blood as he holds his wrist out and wipes the excess from his lips with the fingers of his free hand. 

Emily scrambles to tear a piece of the cloth from around your body and Jisung's. Chan watches the baby witch as she kneels under his extended arm, catching the precious blood on the white cloth. It soaks into the fibers of the fabric instantly. She nods for Felix to approach next. He looks at Chan and they share an exchange of wordless eye contact that called for conversations to be held at a later time. 

Felix gently punctures his wrist, a lot neater, perhaps due to the thinner build of his pureblood vampire teeth. Licking his lips, he clenches his fist, soaking the cloth with his own blood before he gives Emily a small, supportive smile and steps back. 

“There is no witch worth my life.” Hyunjin speaks aloud, quite adamantly in fact.

He then takes a step forward.

“But I owe Jisung many a favor, I’ll consider this one of them.” 

Hyunjin bites into the edge of his palm and holds it over the cloth innocently, but he jerks it back into his grip, sending Emily stumbling forward, just inches away from his face. Hyunjin's ice blue eyes could be both beautiful, and terrifying.

“I am not my brothers. Do keep this in mind, useless witch.” 

[jackalspine]

taglist (dm to add or remove yourself)

@gremlin-bot @duncte123 @ghosttrolls @moonfoxgazer @nymanders @3motionally3xhausted @sailor-toni @creoastra @paxopalotls @fandom-gremlin-1987 @spirits-of-kin @jaymonsterthecanaryprince @the-ranch-mann2 @anartscrow @camphorcapstan @averagecostumedfreak @ghospos @fanish-hoard @nimfadora115 @gayfairyroyalty @catstar91 @46-reasonable-hamsters @postit-nope @baphospectra @faeriekit @impteas @ghospectr

if you're not taggable, its either an error on my part, tumblr being weird, or you have to change your tumbr mention settings.

that's about 26 interested, if you're thinking of buying more than one dm me before the end of this month (February 29th)

I'll round up from the amount of people in the tag list so that I can insure they get one when I drop them on Etsy :)

dm for questions

Eheheho the double sided danno acrylic charm designs are done! Lemme tally up the interested parties and I’ll tag m in a reblog.

[amora-ledezma]

Obey Me! Characters meeting Twisted Wonderland Characters

Request commented and made by @r4yyyyy

Hope it’s up to your standard<(^-^<)

May contain spelling errors. Maybe a bit OOC but eh.

Ace and Mammon

Riddle, Trey, and Lucifer already feel an headache coming-

At first they didn’t like each other all too much because both of them were glaring at each other every time the other interacted with Yuu or Yuki.

After confirming that no, the other isn’t trying to flirt with your best friend/human, they started to talk while Yuu and Yuki had to do something

And soon enough, Mammon was already asking Ace if he wanted to rob a bank.

And Ace being, well, Ace

Actually agreed to it, despite Deuce telling him that no, he shouldn’t do that unless they want both of their heads taken off by Riddle.

But Mammon persuaded Ace by telling him he, a demon, can easily defend both of them from Riddle, “just a human with magic” in his words.

Well, uh…

Not only did they fail to even get inside the bank, turns out Riddle’s collars affected demons way worst than humans.

Since demons don’t have a medium where magic flows out(ex. the magical pens NRC and probably RSA have) I’m going to take a guess that their magic circulates all over their body.

I’d compare their magic to like blood circulation or mana, so collaring Mammon would stop the magic from flowing into his head like blood would, making him light headed.

Now poor Ace has to deal with Riddle and Yuu’s anger.

In conclusion; chaos duo.

(Can be “chaos trio” but Deuce would probably refrain from interacting with those menaces)

Lucifer and Malleus

I’ve never heard silence quite this loud…

But once one of them decide to break the silence(probably by Malleus asking a question about something in Devildom that interested him) they’d probably exchange knowledge about their respective worlds.

“Overblots?” Lucifer would ask.

“Ah yes, I can see why someone would take interest in that, but first I should probably explain what exactly is ‘blot’.”

(Satan was interested too, he was probably eavesdropping)

The next time Yuu and Yuki see them both they’d be talking animatedly.

“Ohmygoshmyheart— why are they so handsome when they smile?!?!” Yuu and Yuki would collectively gush.

Sebek and Belphie

“Do you hate humans too?”

“Very much.”

And that sums up pretty much all their interactions.

But that’s because it’s the only thing they have in common.

If Sebek shouts and wakes up Belphie from his nap, hope to whatever deity they believe in the Valley of Thorns that Sebek gets back to Twisted Wonderland alive-

Someone get Beel and Silver to keep their brothers’ at bay.

Trey meeting Barbatos&Luke

Trey and Luke would get along immediately because of their interests in baking.

Barbatos was introduced to modern kitchen equipment and is absolutely fascinated.

Like Trey would show him a mixer and he’d be like “Dear Diavolo! You’re telling me I have been mixing things by hand when this contraption exists?!” and yes his eyes are indeed sparkling.

The fact that Devildom is actually behind modern technology is so hilarious to me-

All of them would exchange recipes.

Trey may or may not unofficially adopt/take Luke under his wing to teach him more about the recipes;)

Satan and Deuce

You’re just a little bit too much like me~

They both have a side to themselves that they want to hide from other people.

And the fact that both are related to their tempers is just— they pretty much kin each other ig.

Since Satan doesn’t really have a reason to dislike Deuce, he tolerates him.

Satan thought he and Deuce wouldn’t be that close.

*Satan’s older brother mode activated*

But he pretty much treats Deuce as if he’s his little brother.

Probably teaches and helps Deuce with his grades.

Would give Deuce books he has read and liked.

Satan probably teaches Deuce metaphors and euphemisms he had picked up over the years.

“Wait so washing feet can mean…?!”

“Hahaha, that would be the case.”

And by extension, Asmo would probably treat Deuce as if he’s his brother.

Asmo and Vil

Ahahaha, *Yuki and Epel nervously sweating*

Gosh if Vil even tries to point out something he thinks is “wrong” about Asmo’s skin or outfit?

He’d get it back 10 fold.

“Now that’s not how you wear a scarf you potato-”

“That should not be coming from someone whose colored hair tips look absolutely fried.”

“They look so damaged that it might even rival the way you part your hair and that ridiculous crown accessory you have.”

So Vil would either explode from anger or actually cry.

And Epel is just amazed. Like sparkles in his eyes amazed.

Rook is now walking eggshells around the both of them.

Asmo would probably call out Vil for his unnecessarily harsh insults/“advice” he gives to his dorm mates.

Asmo can and will annoy Vil by hypnotizing Rook and make him do whatever he wants to annoy Vil.

[blessedburden]

The older I've gotten, the more Father's Day has affected me. I grew up in an extremely racist, homophobic, HIGHLY abusive, southern pentecostal household. I was beaten regularly, went to school at one point telling people that I was in a car wreck because my eyes were both blackened by my dad. I became very violent in my small hometown, fighting people non stop, even hospitalizing some, literally. I became "That emo dude you don't fuck with because he'll fuck you up" and I took such pride in it, but I hate it now. I always hated hurting people unless they hurt someone I cared for. I was never allowed to be friends with gays or black people, but i did anyways because in a sense, i related heavily to then, being the black sheep of my family, silenced, ridiculed, and oppressed by my own family. Hell, I once got a blow job on a school bus by a black girl back in my teen years. It was videoed, sent around the school, to my youth leaders, and to my father. He found it, and me being a 5'5 sophomore in high school and him being a 6'5 300 pound muscle giant, I tried to fight back, even busted his nose, but I was beaten within an inch of my liHe'll, sought solace in my friends and made them my family, rebuking everything that my family had tried to teach me. Many were blessed enough to be raised on love and hope. I was raised on spite, rage, hatred, and survival, but I always made this promise, and I've said it since i was a teenager, "I'll never let them take my heart" so I've still got that after so many years. Anyways, I graduated high school in 09, I didn't go to college, and I didn't do anything that he would've done. Instead, I moved away, lived homeless, lived in a tent, lived on a park bench, literally at some points had to fight for my food, did a couple of jail stints, never addicted to drugs, just highly violent, suicidal, and a bit of an alcoholic. At one point, I had my neck slit, I was stabbed in the left side of the stomach, and stabbed in the left ear. I survived, maybe from pure spite alone, I don't know. What I do know is that I get so jealous seeing so many people my age, out with their dad's, having a bond, a close relationship, and seeing them smile with their kin. I'm not used to envy, but as I sit here at this burger joint alone, watching guys my age have fun with their old man, it makes me smile for them, but it makes me hurt so fucking bad. Like, why should I give a fuck? Why should I care? Why can't I just be happy in seeing others happy in what I don't have. I've always said, "Until it's my turn, for others I will support" but I'll never have my turn because half the time I don't want it. Other times, I get jealous of those that never knew their dad's because they could've been like mine. A gift and a curse kind of thing. Unfortunately, I don't know why, but I love that dude. I long to have my dad in my life, even though he's so fucked up and evil and prideful and hateful and violent. I love him so much and I despise that about me. Why do I want to forgive? Why do I want those who don't want me? I haven't spoken to him in 10 years. I have children of my own now. A 5 year old little boy and an eleven year old little girl and I do everything opposite of my father, but I see some things I hate of him in myself. No, I will never lay a hand on my children, nor will I stifle their dreams, nor will I make them ever believe that I won't back them 100 percent of the way, but I look just like the guy. My anger makes me walk away rather than explain things the way I need to. I'm very critical and I expect nothing but excellence leaving no room for error, believing that they have to be the absolute best at whatever they do. I'm also harshly critical on myself, but for good reason I believe. I don't know why this day is so hard for me. I hate that it is. I hate that I love despite the hatred and rage I've been shown. I'll just sit right here, have my beer, another shot, and wish everyone a happy Father's Day.

[bumblerhizal]

Still upset about that conversation at the beginning of the Cadash Thaig segment of Witch Hunt when Finn says he needs the blood of the kin of the elves who lived in the thaig and Ariane only suggests using the Warden’s blood instead of hers if they’re Dalish

The Cadash Thaig elves arrived there shortly after the fall of Arlathan, so they should be firmly pre-Dalish/city elf split. While I get that the Dalish are the keepers of the lost lore, the other elven origins are still equally elven

That part, I can see it from the perspective of Ariane not considering the non-Mahariel elves “elfy” enough (although imo it feels more like a writers’ error than that), but where it becomes weird is when Finn then says “You share the same blood as the Arlathan elves. So you’re the only one this enchantment might recognize.”

For a Mahariel, he has a line before in response to Ariane’s saying he can’t use the Warden’s because of Warden reasons. It’s then still awkwardly worded to account for other (human and dwarven) origins, but it works. But I first placed Witch Hunt as a Tabris, so I was without that context. For the elven origins who don’t get that line explaining why Warden blood can’t be used, it just sounds like being written off as discount elves which is something my Tabris at least is sensitive about, and it’s a shame there wasn’t something to acknowledge why Tabris/Surana/Andras can’t use their blood

Idk I just think that initial exchange could’ve been adjusted somewhere to better account for all elf pcs.

[apatheticcinaroll]

PUTTING MY PREDICTIONS BC I’VE SPENT WAAAAAY TOO MUCH TIME IN THIS FANDOM!

we already know that classic won the first battle against the meme lord, but here’s what i’m thinking for everyone else.

swapfell red vs killer: killer’s gonna win, no doubt in my mind. he’s just more popular and people kin and simp for him more than i see anyone with sfg

nightmare vs shattered: I think nightmare’s gonna win just bc he’s been around longer and he’s a bit more popular, but i also think that it’s going to be reeeeeally close bc they’re both edgy emo bois

fatal error vs dream: this one is going to come down to whether the people want edgy or soft to continue. for this matchup, i think dream is going to win based on popularity and simping.

fell vs geno: based solely off of last year with fell making it to the final round, i think he’s going to win this round. sorry geno

ccino vs dust: it’s the same as f!error vs dream, but because dust is way more well known, i think that he’s going to come out on top. (i’m still voting for ccino tho)

swapfell gold vs horror: horror. same reason as sfg vs killer.

reaper vs swap: this is the only one that i have no clue. it’s an goth birb boi vs sunshine and summer personified (ofc i know it’s more popular than that, but still) i have no idea how this one will turn out.

AND WITH THAT, happy voting :)

Hey Guys

So we know that Sans lost to Cecil on this year's Tumblr Sexyman Rematch. So to make up for it, to the Undertale fans, I give you... Drumroll please!

..Very funny, Classic. Anyway, I give you..

Tumblr Sexyman Rematch: Sans AU Edition!

Here's how it works: Every day at 3 PM on my Tumblr, until the final round, there will be a poll for two Sanses that will last a day each. Most votes wins the round!

However, for simplicity's sake, I only chose 16 Sanses, because there are way too many to put in one list.

Round 1 Matchups

(1/31): Classic vs Epic (Closed)

(2/1): Swapfell Red vs Killer

(2/2) Nightmare vs Shattered Dream

[anakinisvaderisanakin]

Introductions (AU; the government are introduced to the Emperor’s right hand man)

Emperor Palpatine sat at the helm of the table, his expensive ornate satin cloak pulled up to cover his deformed features. He had made a rare exception to the never appearing in public rule, if only to summon his little group of closely affiliated followers for a less than chummy supper. The Coruscant sun had already begun to set, its pinkish rays disappearing behind the skyscrapers visible from the large single viewport of the Emperor’s dining hall. Two months had passed since the fall of the Republic. Two months since the war came to an end, two months since the Jedi were declared traitors and executed en masse. Two months since Palpatine declared himself dictator, since his regulations had begun being pushed onto all known systems. Two months, and Governor Tarkin had thought himself to be lucky with his role.

A few faces, he recognized. Former admiral Wullf Yularen was a welcome addition despite being a bit below the required rank, fighting the just fight against outliers and naysayers. Orn Free Taa was a more unfortunate case (he had likely invited himself by flattery and empty promises), while Vizier Mas Amedda was an obvious presence. Sate Pestage, Janus Greejatus, Ars Dangor, Kren Blista-Vanee and Verge’s smug faces had Tarkin fighting the urge to roll his eyes at their insipid subservience. Artist Eveli Charis was, Tarkin figured, the most surprising member of the meeting - serving as the only female face of the small crowd. Her aside, and finance minister Gagh rounded off the gathering. 

These people were - each in different ways - the most influential people of the new Empire.

“I have not gathered you simply for the sake of sharing a dinner in the wake of our victory. Indeed, I have been wishing to relay to you my plans for the grand future of our Galaxy,” said Palpatine suddenly, his voice gravelly and his gnarly hands reminiscent of claws where they rested against the table cloth.

Tarkin thought he could see a pair of golden eyes gleaming beneath the shrouded darkness of Palpatine’s hood, but chalked it up to a trick of the light. Instead, he focused on the hand stitched embroidery of the Emperor’s burgundy robes. The man had always had an affinity for fancy dress.

“It is clear that you shall provide eyes and ears for me, and I trust you to fulfill your duties towards the Empire, and subsequently to me. However, I’m afraid I must offer you a small surprise.”

“Another, Your Highness?” Tarkin said with an amused smile, and he couldn’t help but feel triumphant when Palpatine let out a pleased cackle in response.

“I’m afraid so, Governor. Surely, you shall all take this little revelation in stride. Are we not in dire need of powerful allies?” he responded, gesturing with one clawed hand towards the Vizier who stood poised by the doorway.

On each side of the hydraulic sliding doors themselves, a royal guard clad in crimson stood at a patient salute. The Emperor’s personal bodyguards, their faces cloaked and hidden from view much like Palpatine himself. Their presence was an odd mixture of reassuring and oppressive, Tarkin had decided. But he saw no reason to fear them, given his own standing with the Emperor. If anything, he benefited from their presence as protectors.

“Will you reveal to us this secret, Your Highness?” asked Charis, her expression curious and incredulous at once.

“My child, have you not been taught the virtue of patience?” was Palpatine’s response; a thinly veiled insult that put her in her place, as she shrank back in shame and lowered her head in an obedient bow.

“Forgive me my insolence, Your Highness,” she offered, apologetic and the Emperor simply shrugged her words off.

“Think nothing of it. You are correct, it appears to me that I have unfairly omitted mentioning this to either of you. Alas, it is time I remedy this arrogance.”

Tarkin noted how the Emperor turned his head briefly, giving the Vizier a barely perceptible nod and the man stepped back. On cue, the guards uncrossed their electro-staffs and parted to the sides. Confusion seemed to overtake most of the party’s faces, as the doorway slid open with ease - only to reveal a man. Clad in black armour with red and silver accents; broad shouldered, tall and visibly disdainful towards his company. He stalked wordlessly up to Palpatine’s right hand side, where he lingered - gloved hands folded in front of his hips, legs wide apart. His eyes were glowing, an amber shade to their irises, a bloodshot sclera. The man’s face was scarred, rugged; and the only visible emotions seemed to be anger and resentment. One single dark blonde curl fell over his creased forehead.

But that wasn’t the oddity. Someone in the company - Tarkin suspected it to be Yularen, judging by the tone - gasped.

Indeed, it was difficult not to recognize the young man by the Emperor's side - the Emperor, whose features had twisted into a toothy grin. The man said nothing, taller than Tarkin remembered him. Something warped and cruel and twisted distorting his rather handsome features into something unrecognizable, all charm vanquished. He was pale, peering in distaste down at the dining party as if they were beneath him. It didn’t sit right with Tarkin, given that they all knew who he was and what his past profession up until about two months ago would have been.

Jedi Knight Anakin Skywalker had joined them for supper.

“May I introduce to you Lord Vader,” said Palpatine, breaking the eerie silence. “Some of you may believe you are familiar with this man. I assure you, you are mistaken. The man whom you may recall is long gone. Lord Vader has seen the error of his ways, and accepted the Jedi traitors for what they are. He came to my aid during the assassination attempt ordered by master Windu.”

Tarkin listened closely, but he was not the only one who seemed unable to tear his gaze from Skywalk-- Vader’s stern features. He looked so much older than his age, as if he had seen a million lifetimes of suffering pass him by. His hollow eyes seemed haunted, but their inherent glow was more reminiscent of a predator locked in a cage. Simply biding his time, waiting for the opportune moment to pounce. Still, he made no move and did not utter a single word.

“Lord Vader has turned out to be, much like you, one of my most trusted advisors. He is my right hand man, and while I have neglected to provide him with an official rank - he outranks every single one of you. It is my belief that only he has the means to do what needs to be done,” the Emperor continued.

Yularen seemed to shift uneasily in his seat, his eyes wide and a blunt disbelief etched into his aging features.

“You wish to speak, Colonel?”

Tarkin heard himself say; wondering if they were the only ones present - apart from the Emperor himself - who had maintained some sort of personal relationship to the man Palpatine had renamed and retooled so viciously.

“No, Governor. I--” he began, but was immediately cut off by Palpatine.

“You are wondering how the man you knew as a Jedi could turn on his own kind, is that not so? You are surprised to see that his loyalty towards the Empire could outweigh his loyalty towards his kin. Am I correct, Colonel?”

Yularen seemed to pause a bit longer than required, but gave a curt nod as he found the voice to speak up.

“Yes, Your Highness. I am merely… surprised, as you put it,” he said as a manner of surrender.

“It is understandable that you would be shocked. Should you like to speak of your own decision, Lord Vader?” the Emperor drawled, his voice menacing and sing-songy at once as he gestured to offer Vader the opportunity to speak.

“No,” the young man simply said, standing so still that his lips barely even seemed to be moving; his gleaming eyes scanning each and every person present before it landed on Tarkin - the only man who’s amusement outweighed the concerns. “I believe my actions will speak for themselves, as will your evident trust in me, my master.”

The voice was a bit deeper and gruffer than Tarkin recalled it - but that could be maturity - but its monotone quality was new. Vader spoke as if the words held no meaning to him, as if whatever he said was pointless and a waste of breath. As if his words were unbefitting of anyone but the Emperor. Yet, at the same time, he was matter of fact and to the point. A quality Tarkin had enjoyed in the past, and one he presumed Yularen had as well.

“Oh, I implore you to amuse this unspoken inquiry, Lord Vader,” Palpatine pressed, and as much as it came off as if being in good faith, it was an obvious demand no loyal servant could ignore.

“As you wish, my master,” Vader simply obeyed, his burning eyes still holding Tarkin’s in a cold, disgruntled stare. “I was the single man to commandeer the troops as they marched on the Jedi temple. I surveyed the situation, and I made sure not a single soul present escaped their fate. I am prepared to do whatever it takes to serve my Emperor, and I will not be frowned upon by the likes of you.”

The last word was delivered with such pure, unbridled loathing that it seemed to lower the temperature of the room by several degrees by proxy of mere intent. Vader nonchalantly folded his arms over his chest, lips drawn into a thin line and the perpetual scowl of his forehead had already begun to carve out fine lines in their wake. Palpatine was still sneering, grimy teeth bared in a ferocious grin.

“As you can see, Lord Vader’s conviction is admirable and undeniable. He has proved himself worthy of my trust, and so, I expect you to follow my example accordingly. I expect you to show him the reverence he requires,” the Emperor concluded, that odd glow to Vader’s eyes mirrored by his as he briefly peered up from beneath his hood - this time, it could be no trick of the light.

“I trust your infallible judgment, Your Highness,” Tarkin finally said, being the first to accept the new norm. “I may not be completely assured of Lord Vader’s motives as of yet, but he shall gain my respect when he has proved himself worthy of it.”

“My friend, you need not fear. However, I understand your concerns, and I have no doubt that you will come around quite soon,” said Palpatine, and while there was malice to the tone, he was also unusually honest and benevolent.

Tarkin suspected that was entirely on him, and their long history as colleagues and friends. He nodded, glancing over at Vader whose eyes regarded him still. Their gaze was arduous, and heavy, and vile - but that seemed to be their natural state, rather than any personal vendetta.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” was Tarkin’s only reply, and he shot a defiant glare back at Vader. “You are much too gracious.”

“Will you cease your repulsive display?” Vader snapped, and while Tarkin at first almost expected Palpatine to defend him; he found that the Emperor seemed humored enough by the obvious insult to allow the man to finish his trail of thought. “The Emperor will offer you no favours based on your fawning. You embarrass yourself, Governor.”

“Now, now, Lord Vader. I believe such childish bickering belongs elsewhere,” he finally shushed, as Vader relented like an obedient school boy fearing punishment. “However, I must agree. It would serve you well to evolve your attempts at flattery into a less… tacky matter.”

That triggered a reaction from Vader, as one corner of his lips twitched briefly upwards in a mocking, superior half smirk. He said nothing, but the triumph in those golden eyes spoke for itself.

“Now, with this out of the way, I wish to return to the matters at hand - but there is one more thing I wish to clarify. Lord Vader will not tolerate any mentions of the man you might recall him to be. He is no longer the naive child of yesterday. There will be a penalty for such insolence - no matter whom it may derive from. Lord Vader is a reinvented man. You shall address him only as such, and by no other name. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” was the singular response - and a brief hint of delight, and perhaps relief, crossed Vader’s scornful face.

“Very good,” said the Emperor with a cackle.

__________

I am not generally a fan of suitless Vader, but this idea came to me and it kinda required that so I went with it for once. Enjoy!

Ao3 link below:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/32029582

[proudfreakmetarusonikku]

Dream hcs?

Ahaha oh boy do I. Heads up though, there’s some dark stuff in here. Most of the tws are obvious relating to Dream, but there’s also a very brief reference to implied rape in bullet points 6 and 8.

Dream is a god of no particular domain, nor interest in gaining one. He’s absolutely no interest in gaining power in the godly plane, instead preferring to get power in the mortal realm. As such, his only real Godly power is agelessness

He’s one of the oldest beings on the server, vaguely around the age of Philza Minecraft (so several billions of years old).

He, DreamXD, and Drista are “siblings”- gods can’t have siblings since they spawn from nothing, but they see each other as siblings, Drista and DreamXD choose to appear like Dream, and the three of them often share power, information, ect. when they can.

Very soon after he and his siblings spawned, when they barely had any power at all, they were captured by slavers who wanted the prestige of having actual Gods under their heel.

Dream basically immediately agreed to do whatever if he could keep Drista and DreamXD safe. Later on in life, he’d call it pragmatic. Anyone else would say it was anything but.

Dream ended up on display as a caged god, for passerby’s to gawp at and be impressed by. Most only did that. Once guards found out he wouldn’t fight back, terrified for the consequences for his siblings… well, let’s just say that the prison isn’t Dream's first experience with torture.

DreamXD and Drista were also kept in captivity too, in more comfortable conditions and not harmed at all, as leverage. They were still shown off though.

Dream was kept like this for long enough to see generations grow (which he absolutely did- it’s a way to keep the time bored out of your mind. He tried to ignore the ones who resembled him too much). Oh, he could have escaped, but he’d go through anything for kin, and he couldn’t risk them getting hurt.

Of course, when the city was involved with a severe war and burnt down around him, he quickly got the hell out of dodge, brother and sister in hand.

While Drista and DreamXD went off to found cults and religions of their own, Dream solely looked for power in the mortal realm. Be it as a ruler, or something behind the scenes, he didn’t care. He just wanted- needed- power. He’d learnt that without it all that’s assured is pain.

Dream was petrified of anyone learning what he was for a while, constantly switching identities and going into hiding whenever he thought anyone figured out that he was a god. Even after his paranoia subsided somewhat, he retained this habit, and has gone through millions of different identities.

Dream's mask is part of his body- though he can summon and desummon it, it’s made of flesh and bone and hurts to break. He's taken his mask off around only his siblings, and eventually Tommy.

Dream met Techno when Techno was still young, barely even a champion of the Blood God. Both would claim the other started the fight, and both would claim they were the one who won. What they’re both clear on is that they enjoyed it, and they quickly became rivals, usually friendly, sometimes not depending on the war being fought on that day.

It was within the last few hundred years that Dream met BadBoyHalo and Skeppy. Dream found them interesting and stuck around, and eventually developed a friendship, while BadBoyHalo taught Dream the concept of morality (though he never quite grasped it.)

Dream was pretty much considered an adoptive member of the family, and when BadBoyHalo brought back and officially adopted an infant dragon-hybrid and blaze-hybrid, they grew up basically seeing Dream as a brother.

Dream met George in an assassination attempt gone terribly wrong. Not that George was an incompetent assassin- it’s just he didn’t have the advantage of thousands of years avoiding assassination Dream had. He thought the strange human was interesting, and spared his life in exchange for his friendship.

It was not long after this that the idea of the manhunts started. Dream was always reckless, and he and George sparring quickly turned into fighting to the (non-canon) death turned to George hunting Dream down for sport and Dream killing him until he gave up. As Sapnap grew up and his blaze instincts to set things ablaze started, he joined in on the bizarre game, and then news started to spread about the crazy fucker who spends every weekend getting hunted down for sport by his friends.

This was when the rules solidified- Dream would find an untouched server, and look to find the closest ender portal (since the end can’t be entered in Dream SMP, he couldn’t kill the dragon as an end state). If the hunters killed him before, they won. It was a safe, not harmful way to fuel his desire for power- if he had the upper hand he had the power to wipe the floor with everyone else, and even if he wasn’t he had the complete power to end the game the second it stopped being fun.

Dream started filming them, just for fun, and they quickly blew up- sure, it was non-canon deaths, but without the safety measures set up in Hypixel, any death that was too narratively satisfying could become canon.

Quickly, Dream found himself being referred to as “Dream, from the manhunts,” and he loved it. He thrived on the attention he got. He took advantage of this, and became a fairly well known and popular celebrity for his Manhunt sport. A few brave souls would even try the game themselves.

Dream met Antfrost during a game of Manhunt, after BadBoyHalo had joined their games. Dream was hiding in the middle of the forest, when he spotted a strange, two tailed cat, and he only had more questions when the cat turned into a humanoid form and immediately asked for autographs. Turns out the strange nekomata was a skilled magician and a huge fan of the Manhunts. The game immediately stopped for conversation, and Dream found him quite interesting indeed.

Dream found the server that would become the Dream SMP during one of his Manhunts. He didn’t think much of it at the time, but his mind drifted back to it a few times, and he decided to move there. After all, as the benevolent dictator of a small server he could have ultimate power and not hurt anyone (not that he cared much if he hurt anyone, but BadBoyHalo probably wouldn’t like it if he did it without provocation and BadBoyHalo was interesting enough Dream would rather not push him away).

Dream's obsession with Tommy started pretty much as soon as the disc wars did, and honestly it was a huge motivator for all his actions following.

When Dream said he felt villainised in his letter to Tommy in that one line c!Dream apologists obsess over for some reason, he was telling the truth. Why, he was just having fun! If everyone else cared about being ruthlessly slaughtered, well, they’re just spoilsports.

Everyone on the server was personally invited by Dream with a letter (even those after he went in prison- he handed Ranboo the letters and he delivered them). He handpicked who would be the most interesting people to befriend/toy with. The members who are on the server who weren’t are Tubbo (who he let stay because he knew Tommy would find a way to leave if Tubbo was kicked out), JSchlatt initially (who was kicked out until Tommy convinced Dream to let him back in, Ranboo (who Dream let stay because of their very obvious family resemblance), and Slimecicle (who Dream is unaware of the existence of).

Even in the beginning, Dream specifically built the protections of the server to be more focused on keeping everyone in than keeping out intruders- after all, Dream had ways of removing any wanderer and killing any threat. It’s easy to leave the server to visit elsewhere, but if you try and stay out, you’ll eventually just wake up in your bed in the server. Dream pretends it was an error he doesn’t know how to

[iminye]

A life saved

A Feanor lives AU... more or less. No he's not a ghost in this one. English is not my first language and a large portion of this text was translated from my mother tongue German into English so if some things like metaphors seem weird to you that might be why. I also aplogise for any errors.

There was nobody welcoming them when Nolofinwe and his followers arrived on the northern side of Lake Mithrim. Not that they should have expected this much from Feanáro to begin with. Instead of wasting time waiting for those too proud to come they started setting up their camp and began restocking their food and water supplies as best as they could with their limited resources.

But when the third and fourth day had come to pass without a single word from the camp on the other side of the lake it was not only Nolofinwe who grew tense. When he made his rounds through the rows of tents to look after the injured or to speak with the few scouts they could spare he could hear the people mutter the same things that were going through his own head.

Shouldn’t the Feanorians have noticed them by now? Was it not enough that they had abandoned them in the first place? Left them to fend for themselves? To take on the risk of crossing the grinding ice? Did they have to ignore them even now? Or was the king perhaps absent, so that it was unclear whether they should be approached at all? But even then, Maitimo was not the sort of person who would act like this.

The fifth day had to begin before there was any change to their situation and it was Irisse who brought it upon them in her usual stubborn manner. Nolofinwe watched her drag Tyelkormo of all people from the west side of their camp all the way to where he was standing, watching Isil rise. Huan was trotting after them leisurely, a stark contrast to his master who was complaining loudly about the way he was being treated.

Irisse ignored him and only pulled harder in his arm, her face very much like her mothers when she was angry. For all the noise he was making Tyelkomro was surprisingly tame and went with his cousin rather willingly. He did not even try to bolt when they stopped in front of Nolofinwe and Irisse let go of his arm.

‘Now talk,’ she said and left them to their own devices. Both Tyelkomo and Nolofinwe watched her as she vanished between the tents, her white dress stained with grass and dirt. As Nolofinwe turned his head to look at Tyelkomo he noticed that his nephew's clothes were similarly looking. He did not even need to ask how Irisse had gotten him here.

When it became very clear that she would not return, Tyelkormo turned his head and looked up into his half uncle's face with a look of great discomfort.

‘And?’ he asked, less sharp than normal, ‘What is it that you want to know?’

'Answers for a start,' Nolofinwe found himself replying. Upon closer observation of his nephew’s face he noticed a faint scar above his left eye that had not been there when they had last seen each other.

‘Well they were too frail,’ was all that Tyelkormo said as if the answer was enough in his mind. It was not for Nolofinwe, a fact that the other one quickly realised. He seemed even more uncomfortable than before and only when Huan laid his head on Tyelkormo’s shoulder and nuzzled the right side of his face he replied reculantly: ‘The boats. They were too frail to cross the sea, technically. It’s a miracle we made it work but they wouldn’t have survived another journey. You don’t have to believe me but I can tell you from what I have seen that you would have been lucky to catch a glimpse of them on the far horizon before they would have fallen apart.’

‘The Teleri are… were very well known to keep their ships in good shape. why then should they let boats like this rest in their havens?’

He was aware that Tylekormo, who never had been overly fond of boating, was the last person who could know the answer to this question. Yet Nolofinwe felt the need to ask anyway. Arafinwe would have known surely but Arafinwe was not here with him but on the other side, in Tirion. Instead of an answer all Tylekormo was able to do was flinch when his uncle mentioned the Teleri and bite his lower lip.

Then after they had stood in silence for a while and that silence became uncomfortable he lifted his shoulders and with a defeated tone in his voice he said: ‘What do I know? All I can tell you is what I already have said. They were too frail. One of them nearly sank to the bottom of the ocean during the journey here because it started falling apart. If Aiwë.. Curvo's wife hadn't been there, we wouldn't have been able to fix it in time.'

Ñolofinwë refrained from asking why Curufinwës Telerin wife had decided to accompany her husband even though he had been part of the slaughtering of her kin. He could see that Tyelkormo's patience was running thin. A question like this could end their conversation in a very short amount of time.

'And how did your father expect us to follow him?' he asked instead.

'Not at all,’ Tyelkormo said. ‘Father mentioned something like this but I wasn’t really paying attention.’

It was very much like Tyelkormo to not pay attention and that was not what surprised Nolofinwe. It was the fact that Feanáro had expected him to turn back. Had he not told his brother that he would follow him?

"He wanted us to turn back?"

"Turn back, return home, well whatever. You hardly had any part in... what happened. They probably would have forgiven you."

We didn’t participate. They will forgive us, Nolo.

Arafinwe's voice rang clear in his head and Nolofinwe could barely hold back a flinch on his own. For once his brothers seemed to have thought alike and he could not disagree more with their notions. He was here for a reason and because of a promise he made. He could not just turn back.

It was then that Huan, who had been quiet the entire time and had been resting his chin on Tyelkormo’s shoulder, made a small noise, which Nolofinwe could not quite identify. Tyelkormo petted his head and nodded as if he had understood what his companion wanted to tell him. The uncomfortable look on his face vanished for a moment.

‘I know, Káno wanted us to be back yesterday…,’ he said, then he smiled a little. ‘You just want to see Tyelpe again, don’t you?’

Once again Huan made a noise and this time it sounded like agreement to Nolofinwe.

'You could come with me,' Tyelkormo then addressed Nolofinwe again and he looked like he thought this was a very good idea, 'if you want to talk to someone who is more informed than me.'

Preferably he would have liked the Feanorians to come, for then it would not have looked as if Nolofinwe would give in, but it seemed to him that this would take days perhaps even weeks and he simply did not have the time for this.

'I want to inform Findekáno before we leave.'

'Mhm,' was all his nephew replied and proceeded to scratch Huan behind the ear.

Soon enough they were on their way around the lake to the Feanorian camp. Neither Findekáno nor Turukáno had been particularly happy about Nolofinwe’s announcement but for different reasons as it seemed. Findekáno most certainly had hoped to accompany his father so that he could have a word with Maitimo but Nolofinwe had been clear that he needed his eldest son here to aid his aunt. Turukáno on the other hand had looked like somebody had served him a cup of sour milk as soon as the name Tyelkormo had left his fathers mouth. He was still grieving and full of hatred.

It was Findaráto who made them agree in the end as he promised to go along with Nolofinwe as a representative of the House Arafinwe. If he would have been able to have things his way Nolofinwe would have told this one of his nephews to remain behind but alas Findaráto could be just as stubborn as any of their family when he wanted to. Besides he also had inherited his mothers ability to become menacingly scary when he really wanted to bring a point across in an argument. Nolofinwe did not want this to happen.

‘I did know that grandfather was reluctant to use the ships,’ Findaráto remarked once Tyelkormo was done telling him what he had told Nolofinwe before. ‘They were treated like holy artifacts by many of the older generation, so it would make sense to have them on display and not use them. They fell apart, yes? I guess the wood here on these shores is not made to last forever like it did at home…’

Nolofinwe remained silent. He was vibrating with tension. The anger at his brother, though somewhat mitigated by Tyelkormo's words, was still boiling under his skin and he had to prepare himself not to explode the moment he saw him. He could just be as fiery as his brother if the occasion arose. Many would have doubted this because he put a lot of effort in his calm and put-together appearance. It was a trait both of them had inherited from their father although Finwe had been very good at turning his temperament into passion.

Nolofinwe bit his lower lip. No, it was still too early to think about father.

Carnistir was the one waiting for them once they reached the outskirts of the Feanorian camp. Nolofinwe noticed almost immediately that many of the buildings were in fact made from wood or stone. There were only a few tents left standing. The pathway they set foot onto was also made with stone. His brother’s people had not been idle in the last years.

‘You’re late,’ Carnistir greeted Tyelkomo unimpressed and with his arms folded in front of his chest.

His trademark frown was not missing either, yet there was something off about him but it took Nolofinwe a few seconds to realise that Carnistir had cut off a large chunk of his hair. Automatically he looked over to Tyelkormo and noticed the same thing. Both men's hair barely reached their shoulders now. He wondered what had caused this drastic decision, for it was very un-Noldorin to cut off one's own hair unless it got burned or otherwise stained in an accident. Neither Tyelkomo nor Carnistir looked like they had been in an accident recently but Nolofinwe did not know what had happened in the past years.

‘I would have been back earlier if Irisse hadn’t found me and decided to drag me all the way back to her father, so that I could have the conversation with him all of you are refusing to have,’ Tyelkomo replied.

Carnistir only sighed.

‘Discuss this with Káno if you wish to complain.’

This made Tyelkormo go silent within a split second. Findaráto and Nolofinwe exchanged confused glances. Neither of them could make anything of the conversation that was happening in front of them.

‘I see, well if you don’t have anything more to say,’ Carnistir turned to them and bowed formally. ‘Uncle, cousin, please follow me. He would like to speak with you in person.’

He started moving almost immediately and at a fast pace at that. They followed him as best as they could with Tyelkormo and Huan behind them. The way they were led through the settlement - because upon further inspection and observation Nolofinwe opted that it was in fact more a settlement than a camp - made them visible and unable to ignore for many eyes. Their presence was not met with hostility or any form of annoyance but rather with curiosity and calm acceptance. Nolofinwe did not know whether he prefered their rather passive behaviour.

‘Where are you bringing us?” Findaráto asked and caught up to Carnistir.

‘The community hall… well it is supposed to be the community hall but these days it serves as an infirmary.’

‘Neither of us is wounded…’ Findaráto said and Nolofinwe could hear the irritation in his voice.

‘Well that’s good for you,’ Carnistir acknowledged. ‘But this is also where he wants to meet you. His study is in one of the spare rooms.’

They were led through a side entrance of one of the larger buildings near the town centre. It was nowhere near as impressive as the buildings Nolofinwe had seen and grown up in all his life but it was rather admirable what had been accomplished with the recousers given to them. He should have expected nothing else from his brother. The room they entered was some sort of dining space with a large wooden table right in the middle surrounded by what looked like ten chairs. One for each member of the house Feanor, including Curufinwes wife and child.

‘Where is he?’, Carnister asked one of the guards hiding in the shadows next to the door. The man made a step forwards into the light and Nolofinwe recognised him as Makalaures confidant Erestor.

‘His study,’ the man replied in his usual stoic manner. ‘A report came in this morning regarding enemy movements in the north-west. He wanted to look into what he can do to keep the residents safe.’

The residents, Nolofinwe realised, were his people. They were the only ones living in the north-west - as far as he was aware. If there was enemy movement he should probably also keep his people prepared no matter what his brother planned to do to keep them safe. It seemed like a miracle to him that Feanáro was even considering this given that he had wanted Nolofinwe and his people to turn back and had ignored them for the better part of the past week.

Carbistir just nodded.

'I see,' he noted the news and turned to the others, 'Come. And Tyelko if you want to tag along, you'll have to leave the fleabag here.'

'You know Huan doesn't like it when you call him that, Moryo.'

'He's just a dog. He doesn't care about what I call him. He cares about what I feed him.'

'Say that when he starts chewing on your shoes again.'

Nonetheless he told Huan to go and lay down on a large rug on the north side of the hall where a small fire burned in a chimney, while Carnistir led them through a door on the opposite side of the hall.

The study they entered then was… a mess if Nolofinwe was completely honest. It was a battlefield of papers, documents, books and various other objects buried underneath them. There was not one empty chair, not one empty spot of floor aside from a small area by the door. The dark wooden desk in the centre of the room was no exception to this. Nolofinw had seen massive amounts of paperwork in his fathers study all the time but Finwe despite his faults had been a very tidy person and had kept them all neatly organised. Feanáro on the other hand had never seemed like someone who would keep things tidy - not the Nolofinwe would know this, he had not been allowed to set his foot into his older brother's study ever in his life.

But this was not Feanáro’s study. On the floor in front of them, bent over an especially important looking paper sat not Nolofinwe’s brother but his second eldest nephew instead. Makalure was dressed in heavy looking robes of red and gold but they fitted him ill for they seemed like they had originally belonged to his father and Feanáro was not only taller than Makalaure but also broader. Loosley they hang from his shoulders and Nolofinwe could not get out of his way to notice that his nephew was thin and boney underneath.

‘You own a table, Káno,’ Tyelkomo commented on his older brother’s app and waved his hand in the general direction of said object. Makalure looked up then with an unimpressed expression on his face.

‘Well in theory you are correct but as you may be able to see, it is not in a state where I could use it.’

‘You could if you would keep things tidy and organised,’ Carnistir then said and started picking up some of the papers close to them. ‘Didn’t the Ambarussar volunteer to craft you some shelves from the wood that was left from building the watchtower in the south?’

Makalaure nodded.

‘Yes they did such a splendid job that I thought it a shame to waste such craftsmanship on me. I ordered Narendil to make sure that they’re brought to the infirmary so that the healers would have a safe place to store their medicine. I think Curvo got one as well for his tools. You know that he leaves them lying around everywhere otherwise,’ Makalure said and then he turned towards Nolofinwe and Findaráto who had listened to their exchange in silence. ‘Uncle, Findaráto, if you’d like to sit down I can only offer you the chairs by the window. You might want to remove the papers from them though…’

They did no such thing.

Makalaure looked back and forth between them and his brothers for a moment. Carnistir had proceeded to pick up some more papers from the floor, quietly fussing over how such important documents were left to fly around. Tyelkormo had stepped up to one of the windows and pulled open the curtains, allowing natural light to reach the small room.

When they had all not spoken for a while and the silence was beginning to get a little uncomfortable, Findaráto spoke for the first time:

‘Káno... where is...?’

‘Father?’ Makalaure interrupted him instantly, ‘you were expecting him here, weren't you?’

‘To be honest, yes…’, Nolofinwe pressed out. Carnistir and Tyelkormo paused in their work, exchanging meaningful glances. Makalaure sighed.

‘Well..’ he said, looking him in the eye, ‘then I'm sorry to disappoint you. Father is not available at the moment.’

‘Is he absent?’ asked Nolofinwe with a little more emphasis. Didn't they say they were going to take them to the king? Was he being made a fool of?

‘You could say that, yes.’

‘And Maitimo?’

This time Makalure remained silent for a long while. He had closed his eyes and Nolofinwe could see how the hand holding onto the papers was slightly shaking. When Findaráto looked questioningly at Carnistir and Tyelkormo both of them avoided his gaze. In the end Makalure slowly came to his feet. He handed his papers to Carnistir and then proceeded to fix his clothing so that it looked less ill-fit but still a little big on him.

As he then stood face to face with his uncle Nolofinwe could not help but notice that Makalaure was not only thinner than before but he looked tired, too tired. Whatever had happened had drained Makalaure to a point where it seemed like a miracle that he was still able to stand upright.

'Maitimo is also not available at the moment…’

‘Is he dead?’ Nolofinwe came straight to the point.

Makalaure swallowed but then he shook his head avoiding his uncle's eyes.

‘We don’t know. It… it was shortly after our arrival that we received a message from the enemy which said that he would be open to negotiate. I do not know the details, Maitimo kept them for himself but he rode out to meet with an envoy… and did not return. It was many days later that a messenger came telling us that everyone is dead and he brought a bloodied strand of Maitomos hair as evidence. I would have gone after him but he made me swear to remain behind and take care of our people.’

‘So you do not believe him dead?’

‘I would have felt it, uncle,’ Makalure answered. ‘Just like with grandfather… I didn’t feel anything like this this time around. It must mean that he still lives.’

And I am unable to help him.

He did not say this out loud but Nolofinwe could see it in his eyes. The oath Makalaure had to swear seemed to only increase the guilt he must have been feeling.

‘Káno… perhaps you should,’ Carnistir said as he balanced another stack of papers on the desk.

‘No self-pity I know,’ Makalaure answered but it did not seem like this was what Carnistr had wanted to say. Yet he straightened his back and put on a brave face. He even smiled a bit at his uncle and Findaráto, ‘If there is anything you need please tell me, I will make sure that we will spare what we can and have it delivered to your side of the lake. In the same manner I wish to apologise for not reaching out earlier. The last few days were rather troublesome…’

‘I would have to look at Turukáno's lists of supplies…’ Findaráto said and looked past Tylekormo out of the window.

‘Medicines,’ Nolofinwe said, thinking of Lalwende, who desperately needed something for her leg if she didn't want to lose it, ‘and bandages.’

Makalaure looked at Carnistir.

‘Come, cousin,’ he said to Findaráto without being prompted any further, ‘I am in charge of our supplies. We will see how best to manage the matter. Tyelko can help too. He knows about the best hunting grounds in the area and will surely be able to give you some advice.’

Makalaure watched them silently as they departed from the room and when the door closed behind Tyelkormo he turned to Nolofinwe.

'Do not apologise for your father's deeds,' Nolofinwe said before his nephew even had the opportunity to open his mouth. 'I have heard why you didn't send back the ships. I wish to hear what your father has to say in his defense and whether he feels sorry for it or not.'

'Then you will probably never get an answer,' Makalaure said gravely. He pressed his lips into a thin line and turned to the second door in this room, left to where he was standing 'Come, uncle I will show you something. Maybe then you will hear my apology.'

Nolofinw was not sure what he should expect when he followed his nephew through the door and into a barely lit hallway. The voices of Carnisti, Tyelkormo and Findaráto could be heard from down the hall, where somebody had left a door slightly ajar. Makalaure did not lead him in that direction but the opposite one and up to the next floor. Like the one downstairs this one was only sparsely lit but at least there was a window on the far end of the hallway from where silver light shone onto dark wooden planks. They made creaking noises even under the light elven footsteps. Nolofinwe flinched the first time he heard that noise.

Makalaure walked down the corridor at a quick pace, unmoved by the creaking wooden floorboards. He seemed determined to waste no time to get to their destination. Nolofinwe followed him in a similar manner once he had gotten used to the unsettling noise from below his feet.

Once they reached the window Makalaure halted and looked outside. Nolofinwe glanced over his shoulder and saw Curufinwe training with his son in the courtyard. Tyelperinquar had grown quite a bit since Nolofinwe had last seen him but even though he and Itarille were around the same age the boy looked less mature than Nolofinwe’s granddaughter. It seemed as if his childhood innocence had somehow been preserved in these wild lands.

It made jealousy boil inside him but he was quick to suppress it. Tyelperinquar had no fault in what had happened. It was a good thing that at least one child of their family was still child enough to smile and fool around. Maybe one day Itarille would find the strength and happiness to smile once more.

‘You did not bring me here only to watch your nephew train,’ it was not a question or at least it did not sound like one as the words left Nolofinwe’s mouth. He was not quite sure himself whether he had wanted the words to sound as impatient and stern as they did but they seemed to bring Makalaure out of some kind of trance he had drifted into.

‘No… of course not, uncle,’ he answered and stepped past Nolofinwe in front of the last door in this hallway.

He turned the door knob around and pushed the door open. Nolofinwe followed him inside what seemed like a private sleeping chamber. It was better lit than any other room he had seen so far in this house including Makalaure’s study, which was mostly because the curtains had been drawn back and the windows opened to let fresh air inside. Aside from a wardrobe on the left side of the door the room contained a cupboard underneath the windows, an unused desk to Nolofinwe’s right and a bed, half hidden behind a set of curtains, which Makalaure was pulling back.

Nolofinwe did not need to ask why his nephew had brought him here. He could not make out the patients face but the way Makalure sat down on their bedside and took one of the heavily bandaged hands into his with utmost care and started to stroke it gently with index and middle finger was enough to tell Nolofinwe that this was not just somebody.

‘I’m here…’ Makalaure said quietly, almost in a whisper. ‘Please forgive that I could not make it this morning. I heard that Ambarussar came to spend time with you.’

Nolofinwe carefully stepped closer to the bed until he was half behind Makalaure and could look over his nephew’s shoulder at the patient. It took him longer than it should have to realise whom he was looking at. The man's entire body, save for a few bits here and there, seemed to be wrapped in bandages and what little skin was left visible was burned and bruised and scarred. Half his face was hidden underneath some kind of paste and his eyes closed.

‘Feanáro…’ Nolofinwe whispered in shock once his voice had returned to him. Makalaure turned his head with a sad smile.

‘Father is unavailable at the moment, uncle,’ his nephew told him quietly. ‘It’s not as bad as it was at the beginning and he is slowly, ever so slowly getting better but it will take some time until he will open his eyes again. But even if he does there is no guarantee he will ever fully recover.’

Feanáro’s hand twitched in Makalaure’s hold. Makalaure turned to his father again and lowered his head ever so slightly.

‘It was only a few days ago, when you and your people arrived that he moved… it was just a twitch of his fingers no stronger than now but he moved. There… There was finally some sign of progress.’

‘How? When? Did the enemy?’

Makalaure gave him no answer but continued to absently stroke Feanáro’s hand. Nolofinwe did not press him. It seemed like this was not an easy talk to have and given the circumstances Nolofinwe was willing to accept this.

‘It was the enemy…’ Makalaure said after a while, his voice void of any emotion. ‘They had planned an ambush and even though we were able to fight them back there were many losses and many more who were gravely injured. Father had been at the front fighting against so many of them at the same time. He slew a large number of the Valaraukar - as Maitimo called them - but their commander was too strong for him. He landed a fatal blow mere minutes before we chased them off for good. At first it seemed like that monster had killed father but he kept fighting and breathing long enough for us to bring him to safety. He has been in this state ever since.’

Nolofinwe had to look away at that. He had no words, he who always knew what to say, who was known for his way with words, had none. All the anger, all the hatred that had been driving him the entire time was gone. The words he had prepared years ago, that he had memorized like a mantra, felt hollow now that there was essentially no one to address them at. He could tell them Feanáro but what use would they have? His brother could not hear him. He could not answer him or give him one of the awfully arrogant smiles.

As a child Nolofinwe had done everything to earn one of these. As a young adult he had learned to despise them. But now? Now, he would be lucky to receive a slight twitch of Feanaŕos hand. That was much more cruel than anything his brother could have said to him. It didn't compare to what his brother had done, of course, but it was pretty close.

'Do… Do you want me to pity him?'

Makalaure shock his head

'Believe me uncle I do not. He wouldn't want your pity and you know that. I wanted you to understand that the only apology you will probably ever get is my own. Will you accept it?'

'Your father wouldn't have wanted you to apologise,' Nolofinwe replied. Makalure made a low chuckling noise.

'But I want to apologise. It will not bring back the dead, it will not heal the wounded, it will not rewind the years you and your people spend on the grinding ice and it will not undo what has been done but maybe an apology can help to bring our people back together ever so slightly. We're all strangers in a strange land and as such we have no choice but to stick together. You don't have to accept me as prince regent and I will not demand to lead your people, all I want is a basis on which we can work on the way forward.'

'Very well,' Nolofinwe replied. 'I shall accept your apology… for now.'

'This is more than I would have asked for, uncle.'

They both remained at Feanáro's bedside for a while longer in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Nolofinwe avoided looking at his brother or his nephew and held his gaze fixed on the window.

A basis to work on the way forward. Makalaure had not specified what this way would look like and Nolofinwe was not sure himself. His people were bitter. They felt betrayed and abandoned and he could not blame them. He felt very much the same even after learning this truth.

All he could hope for was that his nephew's words had not been all empty. Makalaure was an excellent talker and sometimes it was hard to differentiate between honest words and acting. He did not believe that his nephew had acted but he knew that he should remain observant.

'Don't tell anyone of what I have shown you today, uncle,' Makalure asked him when they finally left the room.

'For what reason?'

'Father is in a bad state and I feel it would only worsen if he was confronted with the anger of all your people. I will bear this burden until the day of his awakening. Besides… I have reason to believe that the enemy thinks him dead and I would like for it to remain that way for as long as possible.'

'I see," Nolofinwe remarked. 'I will do as you ask but only if you inform me immediately should he wake.'

Makalure nodded seriously.

When Nolofinwe returned to his camp late in the evening to eat and maybe get some rest, still very much thinking about his brother's fate and his nephew's wish for cooperation, he was greeted with even more unsettling news.

Apparently Findekáno had vanished without a trace and only his harp in tow after being told about Maitimo's fate from Finderáto. All he had left them was a note telling them not to worry and that he would be back soon.

Nolofinwe thought of what had happened to Arakáno and prayed that his eldest son would return safely to him.

[tacetnix]

---- If there was anything that Mary doubted, it was that she would have loathed the boisterous, insufferable optimism that Heysel wrought with every step. Her dour demeanor had nary an opportunity but to be unabashed in her presence. And, maybe, just perhaps, that was one of the reasons that she felt so assured in the face of this woman. This person that, above all else she considered as friend.

How did one even try to express, that against her picking and prodding nature, the willingness to turn anything and everything into a jest, that Mary could not afford to be anything but sure of herself?

And that, mayhaps, Heysel's presence, companionship, and camaraderie had tempered the ill-mannered scholar, ensuring that nothing resembling self-doubt had remained. For while she may not have believed that gods were nary more than things to be consumed by the worms... she had naught but faith in her fellows.

---- "Where do I begin? That there is no 'before Yharnam' for myself? That I am an orphan with a speech impediment, who failed at every turn to earn kinship with those of fairer skin and finer hair? Outcast, left to study and to steal, as many did? That some old misers offered me their library in exchange for a child to defeat in chess and checkers? Perhaps that I learned to pull my punches, so they could feel better about themselves, so I could continue to peruse their shelves... Yes, that should do for us. Where I filled my head of knowledge that was woefully beyond me, and nary the foundations to make use of it. But it was enough to get me a sponsor when schooling was offered. And with it, was opportunity."

Mary shrugs, and tries to continue spinning a (to her) perfectly mundane story into something worthy of confession. It is awkward, and she is not certain what to add or what not to. But she tries.

"Eventually, my steps lead me to the School of Mensis. I begin to study with them, and through them, I learn much about the Cosmos above. Of the stars and the Great Ones that inhabit them. I learn invocations, rites, and other such things that would get me crucified as a witch by the people of Yharnam, so I distance myself. I consider myself 'other', I try to train the accent from my breath. The city gifted me nothing, so I gave not a thing back. I -- do tell me if I ramble too much, my friend..." She had been bid to confess. But what was there to?

---- "I studied, I learned that the rituals we were aiming to conduct were going to put the students at great risk, and so I instead began to look elsewhere. My lineage can be traced to the Tombs of the Gods, and so I began to study the Pthumerian people more. It then made sense to, potentially escape my fellows, and to learn more of where I came from, to join the Prospectors hired by the Church. Which -- as I'd mentioned prior -- was why I was never one for the superstitions held by our cadre. As much as I survived our expeditions, and learned to thrive in the depths as my ancestors did... I will always be a Scholar, first and foremost. Of Pthumerian Blood, but never of any god or Great One."

A pause. There was a point she could confess. There was no room for doubt. There never had been, with Heysel. So, Mary would trust in her as she always had, and lay bare her secrets.

"In the Tombs, I drained my kin of their blood, and transfused it into my own body. Through trial and error, learning to starve and subsist as they did. I tested my limits, and now, I'm as you see before you. Longer of life, free of the Beastly Scourge, and able to toil for who knows how long, 'ere my natural life comes to its conclusion? We have seen the Pthumerian Elders. We have seen the magics and arcane geometry they wield. Maybe one day I will be a decrepit old crone, still capable of fighting a hunter on more than equal footing? I have my entire life ahead of me to learn and fail. To flounder and to succeed. And, in a way, I am happy. And too, along the way, did I find certain agreeable comrades, for whom I would kill and for whom I would lay my life down. For it with with them that I found my first family. To be taken, as most things in Yharnam are, but mine all the same."

---- "One of whom, in particular, I never thought I would see again. So imagine my surprise, when a certain smiling, beaming, bloodied woman graced me with her brilliance once more." She trails off, happy to leave at least a tiny mote of playfulness in her confession.

"Ah, but to answer your question; 'I do what I do, because I can. And anyone who would stop me has either died, or has yet to be killed. For I am free to pursue as I wish, and neither the Church nor the School of Mensis will pull my strings any longer~'" A playful smile is written on the scholar's face, as she looks over to Heysel. Contented that when sleep took them both, that she would wake to her comrade's presence.

She had no idea how much she had yearned for that kind of stability again. For something as simple as 'waking up beside someone you could trust' to be such a distant dream.

tacetnix​:

—- Hearing Heysel speak in contradiction caused a sharpness to return to the albino’s gaze. Was she really about to entertain her with matters of debate and semantic? To trigger the memories of long years in halls and forums, speaking feverishly and tearing down the hypotheses of others to stand lofty above them all on a pedestal of being more correct.

It was an instinct not unlike the hound seeing bared teeth or hearing a bark. And so it was that she was already formulating ways to assail Heysel’s points of persuasion. That the notion of what was Godly and what was not would have to be defined before they could reach a consensus. That if such a thing could be bled and killed that it did not deserve to be her God.

But Heysel, lovely, mischievous Heysel, let her joke be laid bare. Her savior whipped her head back aside, to hide the embarrassed scowl now featured on her lips.

—- “…Shut up. You got me. You’d have made a fine scholar. Too good of one, even. Were you my classmate… perhaps I would never have left.” Whether that was a positive or negative thing, Mary herself didn’t quite know. But… More was to be said. From the corner of her eye, she listens to Heysel further. Hearing an apology that… helped, in a way. Reminding her that the mere act of surviving the circumstances was in of itself something worth celebrating.

The prospector did not respond. Did not say it was okay. Did not say that it was not Heysel’s fault. It would have been the only thing truly useless.

Her companion then complies. With the context known, she begins to weave the tapestry of the stars. Recalling memories of gazing out beneath the night sky and being transfixed by its majesty.

Mary’s eyes closed, and she listened to her spin the story. Just as she so often had beneath the Earth. Below the city where the secrets were theirs to plunder. The story turned to her, and she could not help but feel her arms around Heysel tense, turning into the hold and looking down at the woman with that fiendish glint in her eye and that chaos in her grin. A mote of distaste flicked in her brows, as Heysel offered her gun. “I won’t patch that one up.” she mumbles, still collecting her thoughts.

—- “Your presence here is everything to me, Heysel. Right here. Right this night. You could not promise to stay forever – I noticed. – But. You are here. Now. And you will be here when next I wake.” A plea hidden beneath a command. 

“…Ask away. I am not sure how much I have to confess, but my knowledge is yours, Heysel. Anything, for my only friend in the world tonight. I’m yours.”

“You would have loathed me, Mary, if my university years are something to base statements upon. I was insufferable, and oh yes, way more than I am now,” Heysel smiled, consigning the steel back to its leather holster, shifting lightly, and again she could do nothing but accept her friend’s candor- the undeserved beauty of it, the unearned trust. Blade-bare she proffered herself. Grasp and wield me. I’m yours. Heavens and stars unknown, the impossible  strength to say such thing. God might have been a perfect absence within this woman but what was this if not utter faith in another and the bright purity of it could have wounded worse than the bullet that had grazed her. Could she do the same? Or was she too bent towards the center of herself, too compactly curled and grown nautilus-shell inward- yes, too afraid- to ever hope to concede wholesale unraveling and not have her heart stop?

She swallowed. Worried her lower lip. Exhaled, guilty, guilty, as she voiced what she’d tried to not speak herself.

“I…I refuse to tell falsities to you. Even I have a limit to the injustice I can create and I do believe I’ve been cruel enough towards you. You deserve better than an oath I might break. You have meaning to me.” Her tone, low and soft. Her clawed hand, reaching for the back of her friend’s, resting there. “I promise that when you’ll open your eyes it shall be me and not the lack of me that you’ll behold. That much- I swear. I do.”

A slithering many-limbed part of her sighed in relief at the opportunity of retreat that now presented itself before her. She wanted the history of Mary exposed to her, of course she did, because she cherished her, cared for her, worried about her, and all of this translated into a desire to better understand her and to learn her, but it would have been one of those lies she could have not spoken into being if she’d said this desire didn’t walk hand in hand with, in small measure, a wish to also not speak about herself anymore- to not even circulate around the subject of her and all it contained. No more scrutiny of her, gods, no more. No more interpretation of her unwellness, no more attempts at plucking even a string of her thoughts from its nautilus shell. Tiredness and pain had left her raw-bruised, and perhaps, under the light of a dimming sky she only could see as studded with the light of stars, exhaustion was beginning to make itself visible across her face too. Hours had not passed yet. But it felt like they’d both done nothing but endure for months.

“Tell me of yourself, then. It is a shame for us to have worked together so long and for me to know so little about you, and I won’t tolerate such situation further.” Not, she didn’t say, with how everything seems to precipitating towards something comet fast-

“Who were you before Yharnam? Why did you choose to do what you do, here? I won’t inquire upon the exact why you reached this place in the first place. Volunteer this information if you so wish, but I won’t pry.”

Dread disease bound their steps all. Only the name changed.

“Go on, miss Stermann. If you are mine, then I am thy confessor. Offer.”