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kingfakey · 3 years ago

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THE PINK SERIES - CHAPTER 2, PART 2. THE FOG.

Trigger warnings for: murder, violence, suicidal thoughts & implication. Reader discretion advised. Wordcount: 1500.

He smokes the cigarette clean to the filter, even past it, and tosses it away with a careless flick of the wrist. Ivan pushes to his feet. His five minutes of contemplation has left him with a to-do list in his head, one he’s keen to get to work on.

Step one: Borrow some money.

Though still squeamish, he doesn’t hesitate like before when he searches his pockets for all he’s got. Ivan pillages his wallet for any bills. His ID, though, needs to stay. Likewise, so should his cellphone. The white lighter stays, for reasons far too blunt to be allegorical.

In total, he’s not left with much money; maybe enough for a bottle of cheap vodka, a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

Fortunate, he thinks. "Guess The Universe isn’t working completely against me."

Shoving bills and change into the pockets of his jacket, Ivan takes one last moment to look it over. It's identical to the one worn by the body on the alley floor.

He can’t decide if he should show sentimental value to it or not– “it.” His body. Has he already lost attachment to his former self? After all, he’s already got a body, one that from the looks of it works just fine. Well, with only a few minor technical difficulties.

How much are his woes supposed to weigh? By no means do they feel light, but heavy? Not a chance. If anything he feels too light, wanting nothing more than to lift off and run, but it’s obligation that holds him back.

Ivan ought to be sentimental; he ought to stay and cry and mourn. He ought to run back the way he came towards the flat he and Edgar share. But does he? He can’t bear the thought of it. If he had the wherewithal, he’d run, but he hasn’t, so he stares and looms over his corpse like a ghost in the fast-fading fog.

One last thing, he thinks, as he bends forward and reaches grime-tinted fingers out to close his eyes. His touch is gentle as can be and featherlight. It's tender, even. He could almost be asleep, and it was true what they said. That peacefulness on his face was unsettling.

Step two: Get to the phone booth at the mouth of the alley.

Ivan stiffens his jaw, sucking up a lungful of air to mute a sob. The noise, at least; there’s no use stopping those tears as they burst from his eyes, heavy and hot. He wastes no more time in turning his back on himself and marching down towards the entrance of the alley.

Feet drag like heavy lead weights through splattered blood, rain water, and oil slicks. Ivan's steps rake up gravel (and God knows what else). Light as he may have been, he hasn’t the energy to do more than shuffle down the alley to get to the phone booth.

His hands wring at the lapel of his jacket, balled up into tiny, white-knuckled fists. If he keeps his eyes set dead ahead on the booth, he can almost ignore the ringing in his ears. No– more like screaming, like a choir of sirens going off at four in the morning.

He shoves the entirety of his weight into the door of the booth to push it open. The air trapped within greets him like an old friend and eagerly, greedily reaches to draw him inside. It's tight and dirty, with a sticky floor, and a mangled phonebook. Stickers and graffiti cover the windows. Compared to the alley, it’s a godsend. It’s safe, and there’s no body staring back at him. The stench of mildew is a thousand times better than the acrid smell of blood. It almost feels warm, like a grimy little cocoon.

Thoughts about staying there until he wakes up and bursts out anew are pushed to the darkest depths of his head. The bright white glow of hope clashes with the horrific filth of his reality. Ivan doesn't dare linger on it too long. Right now, there are more important things to be concerned with.

Phone snug between his shoulder and ear, Ivan punches in the numbers and chews at his lip until the call picks up.

“Nine-one-one operator. What is your emergency?”

“I–” Words catch in his throat, which is quickly cleared with a cough. To be honest, he hasn’t thought quite this far ahead. He knows to call, but what now? This all goes against protocol, he's sure of it. “I’m not sure if it… I don’t know if it counts as an emergency–” His fingers tap at the phone in his hand, both hands curled tight around it. “I didn’t know the number for the police…”

“Sir, could you please tell me what exactly is going on?” The voice on the phone rings with a subtle whiff of frustration.

Ivan looks towards the alley out the greasy window, teeth sinking into his bottom lip for a moment. Now’s not the time to be self conscious about what some phone operator thinks, is it? “There’s a body.” No, self-conscious has gone out the window. To hell with diction and not sounding like an idiot, he’ll stammer and stutter and slur as much as he damn pleases. “It’s not– Dead. It’s a dead body. I just… Found it. Somebody should come get it.” He rolls his eyes, curses himself under his breath, but presses on. “It’s on Jackson, down that alley with the weird octopus graffiti– you might want to hurry before it gets busy. Chinatown, yanno?" Looking out the people lingering outside, Ivan's teeth beaver away at his bottom lip. "S’gonna be real bad for tourism. You’ll know it when you see it– it’s not pretty.”

The woman on the other end of the line has been trying to speak and interrupt. The boy needs to stop talking so damn fast. She’s left with the address and a dozen questions. “You’re going to need to slow down and tell me what exactly happ–”

“Please be good to him.” He’s not sure why he says it. Hell, he’s not sure he’s said it until the words are hanging stagnant in the air. Swallowing thick, he presses on. “Whatever happened, it… I dunno. Shouldn’t’ve–" It takes all he has in him to keep going. "It's fucked up. I’ve seen some shit, but this is just plain damn fucked up. Make sure he gets home safe, that’s all.”

“Sir, can you stay on the line, please? I’m sending word to the police but they’re going to want to talk–”

Once again, Ivan cuts her off. His lip curls back in a disgusted sneer as he hangs the phone up. “Oh, as if.”

That would get messy fast.

Speaking of fast: how soon before the police arrive? He knows he ought to leave, but a good part of him wants to hang around and stay with himself. Somebody's got to make sure nobody picks his pockets. If someone stole his wallet, it would rob him of his chances of getting home safe. Hanging around is impossible though; it was damn right absurd. How on Earth was he going to explain that?

Not that Ivan ever much cared to explain himself. Usually, he would shrug his shoulders and carry on, because that’s his cover-all. It was an explanation and an apology all in one. Not a very good one, but it was better than what he had. This time he can’t manage a shrug, there isn’t enough time. He leans against the wall of the booth, chewing at his lip in worry while he stalls, delaying the inevitable.

Staying isn’t an option.

Ivan forces a sigh from useless lungs and straightens his spine. He runs his fingers through inky black curls. He’s not sure where he’s going, what he’s doing, or even what there is to do. “At least I know I’m not a ghost,” he murmurs as he pushes his way from the booth with an obligatory tug of his hood onto his head.

The streets are, indeed, far busier, but the alley’s gone undisturbed. His body is safe, a miniscule comfort. Any lingering left on his mind is cut short at the glimpse of a cop car coming down the street. Quickly, he shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, bows his head, and shuffles as quick as he can to flee the scene.

#ts4 story #thepinksrs #tw blood #it's late so it's early this week

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patrick-hockstutter · 5 years ago

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Modern!Bowers Gang:

Patrick:

Really into cinematography and photography of the unsettling

Never captions his Instagram posts

Goes live on Instagram a lot, even though people really wished he wouldn’t

Makes art out of dead animals or animal bones he finds

Think Banksy, but with roadkill

He’ll take some (somehow) tasteful photos of them, post them, then leave the scene there for some unexpecting bystander to find

Has a nosering (fight me)

Never uses incognito mode

If someone happens to stumble upon his search history, he’s not paying their therapy bill

He likes reading smut more than he likes watching porn

A ps4 guy

Loves spooky games like Resident Evil, Silent Hill, Until Dawn and Death Stranding

He’s not really into school, but he surprisingly reads a lot when he’s alone in his room

Only about things he likes though

Abnormal psych, criminal psych, and sometimes some zoology (u kno y)

Watches serial killer documentaries like he’s paid to

Listens to grunge, nu metal, and 80s alt

Won’t admit it, but sometimes listens to Joji

He’s not super into emo music, but he’s the only one who will listen to it with Victor (he fckn vibes to Brand New)

Ironically uses a Zune

Has an Android but lowkey wishes he had an iPhone

Doesn’t have a computer, just jailbreaks/hacks the school issued laptop

Has a black line tattooed around some of his fingers, one of his wrists, and the shell of his ear

Has a foot tattoo

Has a fucking Juul

Watches LeafyIsHere on YouTube (tell me I’m wrong)

Spends too much time on Reddit

Wears flannels, skinny jeans, and Vans (a beanie if he’s cold)

Mostly cycles through the same three or four outfits

Wears the same pair of Vans every single day

Victor:

Big into aromatherapy

He uses lavender soaps and has an essential oil diffuser in his room

Uses incognito mode to watch Vampire Diaries

A Nintendo ass b i t c h

He has the gray Switch Lite

He brings his Switch with him everywhere (yes he’s that guy)

But what else are you gonna do when you wanna ignore Patrick?

Watches conspiracy theories about ghosts, cryptids, and aliens

Also big into podcasts (mostly true crime and conspiracy ones)

He listens to them on his headphones while he takes walks or draws

Posts his drawings on Tumblr

Does art streams on Twitch when he gets really bored

Has an eyebrow piercing (but it’s a small stud one, not a ring)

Has little tattoos on his hands

Wears bomber jackets, skinny jeans, joggers, army jackets, converse, and combat boots

The boy has style okay

Had an emo phase but still listens to the music (especially Tiny Moving Parts)

The emo phase was pretty short because Henry made fun of him so much

He just fucking liked MCR and Taking Back Sunday a lot, okay?

And Pierce The Veil and Sleeping With Sirens, but he doesn’t readily admit that

Now mostly listens to new wave, synth pop, and lofi hiphop

His favorite bands are Drab Majesty and Choir Boy (look up their new album btw)

Has a black iPhone and a space gray MacBook Pro

Uses Apple Music

Vapes, but only fruity flavors

Watches BoJack Horseman

Doesn’t really eat fast food but never passes up an M&M McFlurry

Paints his (and Patrick’s) nails black

One time Patrick caught him doing a facemask, so Patrick put one on and started chasing him around screaming as a joke

Cue: hmm… this feels kinda good tho

So now Victor and Patrick have secret mini spa days

Drives a Subaru

Belch:

Makes Spotify playlists like he’s paid to

He’s just really good at putting songs together

He tried to get into music theory, but he wasn’t one for actually making his own songs

Really into metal (obvi) but also likes some classic rock and punk stuff

Has records hung up side by side all around his room where the wall meets the ceiling

Still buys CDs

His Instagram feed is full of vintage cars and custom import cars

Fast and Furious is his favorite movie series

His favorite shows are Sons of Anarchy and The Walking Dead

But he also loves early 2000s comedies

Has a mini projector to watch movies on his room wall

Wears band tees, flannels, jean jackets, Carhartt stuff, d a d h a t s

Really wants a tattoo but always gets nervous

Uses incognito mode to watch porn and buy some of his band tees from Hot Topic

Only one in the gang that uses Facebook (Mama Huggins made him so he could keep in contact with family)

Follows a few meme pages but also some cooking ones so he can send his mom any cool recipes he finds

Victor lowkey makes fun of him for actually using the Facebook page

Invests money in really good headphones and car speakers

Has a black iPhone

It’s always at 20% battery cause it’s always connected to his headphones, Bluetooth speaker, or car stereo

Him and Victor FaceTime when they’re bored

Sometimes they won’t even say much, they just like the over the phone company

Doesn’t smoke, but sometimes hits Vic’s vape

A social vaper if you will

Watches Idubbbz and Filthy Frank on YouTube

His favorite fast food place is Wendy’s

Not really into video games but fucking slays at Guitar Hero

And when Rock Band came out nobody saw him for like two weeks

Has a black Hydroflask with band stickers on it

Henry:

He plays a lot of Xbox

Mostly Halo, COD, Destiny, any first-person shooter really

Baits people on Xbox Live cause he thinks it’s hilarious

He’s also a fucking cyberbully but we all expected that

Has Victor’s old iPhone

Never fucking charges it

He’ll text you back in 3-5 business days (if at all)

And if you try to call him he’ll block your number

Plays iMessage games like cup pong and 8 ball with Belch

The only social media he uses is Snapchat and Tinder to look at girls

In one of his Tinder photos he’s holding a fish (srrynotsrry)

Doesn’t really listen to too much music

He doesn’t dislike music, just usually prefers to do things in silence

His mind is chaotic enough, he doesn’t need background noise

But he will listen to Cigarettes After Sex and TV Girl on a really low volume when he goes to sleep

Uses incognito mode to pick and choose random soft or angsty songs that he likes to put into a bedtime playlist

Otherwise just listens to whatever Belch listens to

Has a tattoo on his wrist

Takes a lot of drives into the countryside/national forests/mountains with Belch

Takes a lot of scenery photos, but never posts them anywhere or shows anyone except Victor

Still smokes cigarettes (he thinks vaping is douchey)

Watches South Park and American Dad

If he’s willing to spend money to go see a movie, he’s going to an IMAX theater

Sometimes he likes 3D, but most of the time it just hurts his eyes after a while

Longboards everywhere

Needs prescription glasses but refuses to wear them

They’re mostly for reading, which he doesn’t do anyway

But he does listen to audiobooks sometimes

Likes Frappuccinos but will kill you before you find out

He orders them through Uber Eats under a fake name so nobody will find out

BONUS: all four!

Victor still has his childhood GameCube that they play Mario Party, Mario Kart, and Melee on

Henry is banned from playing Mario Party after breaking a controller while beating Patrick with it

Patrick only ever picks Waluigi in Mario Kart and everyone is sick of it

When they play Rock Band Patrick is on bass, Henry plays guitar, Belch absolutely slays the drums, and Vicky boy sings his lil heart out

One night a week they order a shit ton of Dominos and make a drinking game out of watching Vine compilations

Victor does everyone’s birth charts

They collectively made a fake Tinder account on Patrick’s phone and catfish guys with it

They all try to one up each other doing vape tricks yikes

They buy bags of chips and candy from Costco and lounge around eating them on weekends

They’re banned from the city metro busses because Belch’s car was in the shop for a week and that week was hell for every bus driver in the city

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dafukdidiwatch · 5 years ago

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As Above So Below

This somehow both scared and bored me at the same time

Overview

: After years of searching, Treasure Hunter Scarlet finds a clue that would lead her to the fabled Philosopher's Stone somewhere in Paris. She gathers together a crew to find the stone in the catacombs of Paris, but there are other things that lurk down below.

I would consider myself a big time movie/tv person. Have I seen everything? No. Do I like watching anything? Yeah, I'll give it a chance. I like most genres.

Horror though, I have mixed feelings.

Now, I'm gonna be honest, it was hard trying to go into this movie open minded. I have a love/hate relationship with the Horror genre of movies. Older classics like John Carpenter's Thing, Alien, even Scream are movies I adore. But...modern horror movies are a pain to me. I hate how they use shortcuts to try and scare me with random ass Jump-scare for no purpose other than to scare me. It's ridiculous! I can call out when the jump-scares happen, and they Still scare me because of the freaking sound track!

Anyway. I felt it would be unfair for me to say how much I like/dislike the movie without mentioning my preferences. If you like the newer horror movies, awesome, you do you, but for me, its like one of those gatchapon machines where theres a 50/50,chance you'll like it or not.

With that out of the way, lets Actually start talking about the movie.

The movie is shot in Found Footage style and that already added a tally against it in the 1st minute. I am not a fan of found footage. I know that it's popular to make it cheap and personal, but it makes it so hard to follow what is going on. When they are being chased or attacked, I don't know whats happening! Its too dark to tell, the camera is jostling around making me slightly nauseous, and if it does show something, its only for like 5 seconds unless it is stupidly close! There were parts that felt more like watching a Let's Play of a 1st person horror game. Run Run Run, Punch Monster, Run.

It is due to this 1st Person view that, not gonna lie, I barely followed how they got into the catacombs in the first place. Scarlett was in Iran...then she went to France, then...a church to pick up a reverse vandalizer, club, tunnel, catacombs. I can remember the place order, but like hell can I remember what exactly they were saying. All of that took 30 minutes and I was bored out of my mind. And the things that I do remember, they just sort of randomly popped up? Like, they were discussing on whether to jump into the hole

There are parts of the movie that I think was their attempts to build atmosphere, but sort of came out of left field. They say a pale woman walk away from a club: ok. They see her...directing the creepy ass ghost choir?? No idea what that was about. Then They ran into statues that just....came to life to bite at them??? This,was Never Mentioned as potential threats anywhere, it was as if the movie decided it needs random encounters to fill the climax, which is a shame because the tension in this in the middle was really good.

In the middle, when they are Finally going underground to when things got fucked, had a good tense build up. Showing landmarkers that shouldn't be on their route later on. Local lore of "don’t go down the cursed tunnel" (PSA: If the locals say don't do something, don't do it). They get trapped trying to crawl through a pile of bones. Now that part wasn't scary, but was Very Uncomfortable, especially if you have claustrophobia. They have just...random ass things appear like a Piano and Phone which, these people are dumbasses for thinking those things are natural to be there, but does add a good "what the hell" moment that just pikes on. I thought they might go the whole "vague supernatural tunnel turning tricks and getting them to turn on each other" route instead of "slowing pick one off one by one" type. And maybe that’s what they were trying to have, but it was still random monsters popping out to attack so... c'est la vie.

Another thing I take issue with is part of the lore they use for the Philosophers stone. First, they use the legends and work of alchemists. And that’s pretty cool. Like mystical National Treasure, unlock secret symbols and solve chemical problems. There was a part where they had to figure out the number of celestial planets in the sky based on what century the stone came from since it kept changing over the years, that part was pretty clever. I didn’t know the information, but i appreciated the history.

But they just add random bits from around the world to be like "ooh they connected" like, ok. They have alchemist lore, 14th century Flamel. Makes sense. Then they add a mummy of a crusades guy. I don't know which crusades, but it doesn't matter since he was used more as a prop than plot device. Hell it might be Flamel himself, I don’t know. Then they throw...Ancient Egypt....Sure. Why not. Alchemists could go to Egypt to learn then stick hieroglyphics and traps in the french catacombs. Given how I don't know anything about alchemists history, I'll go with it.

What I WONT accept is them calling Dante's Inferno Mythology! That is Bullshit! I call BullShit! That! Is where I DRAW THE LINE!!

Because they carved "abandon all hope he who enter here" into the tunnel wall when things turned batshit and thats where i gave up on the lore.

Dante's Divine Comedy is not a myth! It is a poem! A poem written by Dante about Christain ideology of what heaven and hell is like! But the movie doesn't give a shit. The line just sounds cool to have as they go deeper into the tunnels!

If they just went with Dante references and alchemist lore, I would have been fine there. The main reason I got angry at that part with Scarrlet saying about "Dantes myth" is that she knows like 5 languages + 2 dead ones, all this backstory and alchemist stuff, and she doesn't know that inferno was a poem? Yes, part of that is semantics and technicalities, but it sort of pulled me out of the world a bit. Because at that point, it felt like they were picking and choosing lore to fit in because it sounded cool. Have an egyptian trap! Why? Because it was cool! Have hieroglyphic puzzle to find the stone? Sure, don’t know why it’s in France but whatever! I dont know. It threw me off because it felt like they were adding too much, which is a shame because some of the Dante references like traveling through a pool of blood was really good.

I don't get the visions. I really don't. Like...random pianos and telephones just appear on level one of their journey, that calls out to their memory. Which is...bizzare. Especially since they actually touch the freaking things. Like, don't touch the childhood piano! It will make things worse! Seriously! White people!

You later learn that the visions come from their sins (like the one and only tormented sin they got) and it is only when I googled the end of the movie did I learn that they have to acknowledge their sins or die. Which if you have to google the movie to understand the message, the message didn't go through. And opens up to more questions.

Because there were other people that died that didn't get to see their sin visions. George and Scarlett got taunted with pianos and objects since the 1st floor. What about Benji? He was followed by the creepy ghost choir and fell down a hole. Tell me what sin that means. Do They....all have sins, or did the vague demons here have to kill off the innocent ones first before putting the focus on the true targets?

And Scarlett finding out that the power was in her all along? What? Did she...consume the power? Was it transferred? Did she have it since she was born? Does she still have it? It felt like a bad moment to throw in a self esteem psa in this movie.

I will give the movie credit though, i liked how they were forced to go down to get out. When everything turns to shit and they have to do the same things they did but in reverse order, but still forced to go down, that was good. It adds to the tension of "holy fuck how are they gonna get out is this even the right path?" And that last scene with the manhole, gorgeous. Really truly gorgeous. It just shakes you to the core with what you are seeing.

But Overall.....yeah did not like this movie. Wasn't a fan of shakey cam. Wasn’t a fan of the "gotcha" jump scares. The movie felt a little more uncomfortable than scary to me with the claustrophobia. There were a bunch of times where I had to check how long was left in the movie because I was really bored with what was happening. I did like the use of alchemist lore, the Egyptian trap scene, and the end scene, but just wished they stuck to one part than try to mash up different myths to fit.

And if they wanted to stick with Dante, fine. Apparently this entire movie was an allegory of Dantes inferno. (Thanks google) But while i can appreciate looking back on it in hindsight, it doesn't change the fact that I really didn't "get" the symbolic nature of what they were trying to do in the initial watch. Maybe if I rewatch it I would appreciate it more, but I would just skip like half the movie to the actual cave exploring part because I am not sitting through the full thing again.

If you like horror movies with historic flair, this might be for you. But its not my cup of gatorade.

#dafuking films #as above so below #as above so below movie #week 6 movie #dafukblog

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hovercraft79 · 6 years ago

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Winter Song

Ch 25 Carol of the Bells

Chapters: 25/31 Word Count: 5,228 Fandom: The Worst Witch (TV 2017) Rating: Teen Warnings: mentions alcoholism, bitterness, death. It’s based on A Christmas Carol, there’s some darkness there, y’all.

Summary: Hecate lets her fears and temper get the best of her, throwing her whole reconciliation with Pippa into jeopardy. Her father, and three spirits, help her set things right.

Notes: Write about a holiday myth or legend, you say? Plagiarize Charles Dickens, I say! Sorry about all the angst that comes with that.

While not exactly a myth or legend, once this idea took hold, I couldn’t shake it. Certainly, a great debt is owed to the original – but an even greater debt is owed to the Palazzo young reader’s edition of A Christmas Carol that was abridged by Juliet Stanley. It’s well done and beautifully illustrated if you’ve got a young reader of your very own and would like to start a new tradition.

Trans-Siberian Orchestra does my all-time favorite version of this song.

Sparky returns from her holiday travels today. We can all rejoice.

This particular fic was written over a 24-hour time period – like, I haven’t slept in a hideous length of time, even for me. Please, if you spot any errors, be forgiving, but let me know. Thanks!

Hecate stared at her reflection in the mirror. The connection was dead, and she knew it. She’d cut the call herself and she wasn’t sad about that. She didn’t want to see any more of Pippa’s hurt, angry expression.

Their connection was dead, and she knew that, too. Dead by her own hand. Again. Exhaustion and worry had turned into cross words, a scolding for being so careless, a rejected invitation. Her own fears of losing Pippa morphed into a rigid silence guaranteed to push Pippa away. Again. This time, her own anger met with an equally angry Pippa. She would not allow herself to be sad about that.

Let their friendship be dead.

Just as it had been for most of the last thirty years.

It hurt less that way.

Hecate knew she was a difficult, uncompromising, and unsocial witch. She’d been described as cold many times in her life - was neither the first, nor likely the last. There was so much cold inside her it nipped her nose, hollowed her cheeks, stiffened her walk, made her lips purse and her voice icy. She knew the day the Founding Stone failed was not the only day she’d been frozen.

Nobody ever stopped her in the street to say, ‘Hello, Miss Hardbroom! How are you?’ No children asked her to tuck them in at night and no one ever asked Hecate to their birthday celebrations. But Hecate cared nothing about what others thought of her.

Hecate stood and moved to the window. It was a freezing, foggy Christmas Eve and she had work to do. She’d idled enough time away pretending she could be anything that made Pippa Pentangle’s life better. It was dark already, even though it was only a little after three o’clock. The fog was so dense that the trees of the forest looked like ghosts.

She needed to inventory the contents of her ingredient cupboard. Today seemed as good a time as any. She chose to walk instead of transfer, in the hopes that she would burn off some restless energy. She hoped the corridors would be empty. She did not get her wish.

“Merry Christmas, HB!” cried Dimity Drill, cheerfully falling into step beside Hecate. She’d obviously just flown in from somewhere – the frosty flight had given her a healthy, warm glow.

“What right do you have to be merry?” Hecate huffed. “You’re here.”

“What right do you have to be miserable?” Dimity grinned. “I’m only here for a bit.”

Hecate couldn’t come up with an answer, so she said, “Bats! And humbugs.”

“Don’t be cross, Hecate! It’s Christmas!”

“What else can I be,” returned Hecate, “when I live in such a stupid world. What’s Christmas when the Craft is in decline? When you have no fr—when you find yourself another year older but no better for it? If I had my way, I’d hex everyone who wished me a Merry Christmas.” She stopped and turned to face Dimity. “What good has Christmas ever done you?”

Dimity started to respond with a cutting, sarcastic remark, but the haunted look in Hecate’s eyes gave her pause. Something’s happened, she thought, and she’d bet her best broom that whatever it was, it involved a certain witch with a penchant for pink. “It’s the only time I know of when people seem to open up their hearts. So, Hecate, although it has never put money in my pocket, or a trophy on my mantel, I believe that it has done me good, and it will always do me good.” She placed a firm hand on Hecate’s elbow. “I don’t know what’s wrong, Hecate, but don’t be angry. Come and have dinner with us tomorrow.”

“Goodbye, Miss Drill,” Hecate said, pulling away.

“Please come? Mum would love to see you. She still natters on about you helping to make all those cookies.”

“Goodbye,” said Hecate.

“Very well,” said Dimity, relenting. “Goodbye, Hecate, and Merry Christmas.”

Hecate transferred the rest of the way to her potions lab.

****

Hours later and Hecate’s mood had only darkened. Somehow, she’d allowed her potions stores to become recklessly low – even to the point of not being able to make commonly used remedies. Clearly, she had allowed Pippa Pentangle to become a distraction. Well, no more. Back to business as usual.

She flicked her wrist and the door to the ingredient cupboard closed and locked behind her. Flipping open her pocket watch, Hecate decided a quick bite from the kitchens would be her best option for the evening meal. Making her way to the door of the potions lab, she reached for the knob, drawing back sharply when she saw her father’s face.

Startled, Hecate cast an illumination spell, looking closely, however, she saw nothing but the normal knob. No face, no shadows…just a regular doorknob. Shaking her head, Hecate dismissed it as the result of being overemotional and overtired. She transferred to the kitchens and made a cold sandwich from some leftover roast and heated a bowl of nettle soup.

Once she finished, Hecate decided to make the long walk back to her rooms, hoping the empty corridors would provide some soothing familiarity for her jangled nerves. Unable to help herself, she checked each doorknob she passed. Every knob seemed its usual configuration. “Bats!” she spat, as she made her way to her rooms.

Arriving in her quarters, she closed the door with a bang. Remembering her father’s face on the doorknob, Hecate checked her rooms. She went through the sitting room. Nobody was under the table or the sofa. She inspected the bedroom. No one was in the cupboard, under the bed, or in her dressing gown.

Satisfied, Hecate got ready for bed and sat in front of the fire to read. She couldn’t concentrate, though, and found herself gazing absently into the flames, Pippa refusing to leave her thoughts. As Hecate stared, each tile around her fireplace filled with her dead father’s face. Almost at once, she heard the tinkling of a bell, much like the one she used to call time during lessons. Soon, bells all over Cackle’s were ringing.

Hecate had no idea how long the ringing lasted, but it felt like forever. Then it stopped. In the silence, Hecate heard a clanking noise coming from the old dungeons. It sounded as though someone was dragging a heavy chain across the stone floor. She could hear the noise getting closer and closer, until it sounded as though it was right outside her door.

“Bats and humbugs!” She said. “It’s just my imagination.”

Her color changed, though, when the door to her room flew open and in walked her father’s ghost. The room took on a chill, despite the roaring fire.

“W-who are you?” Hecate stammered.

“You know who I am, Daughter. Why do you doubt your senses?”

“Because,” said Hecate, “a stomach upset affects them. You may be an undigested bit of beef, or a piece of undercooked potato. You’re more gravy than grave, I think.” Hecate may have sounded brave, but she was trying to control her terror. The spirit of her father disturbed her down to her bones.

“Why are you here? Father?” Hecate asked.

Her father’s ghost stepped closer. “Anyone who does not share their spirit in life is doomed to wander through the world in death and witness what they might have shared on earth and turned into happiness.”

“But… the chains?”

“I wear the chain I made for myself in life, Daughter. You are making your own chains now.”

Hecate glanced down at her dressing gown, expecting to see chains, but none were there.

“Every withheld kindness, every rejected opportunity to connect with another… My spirit never left the confines of books and the Code and now… a weary journey lies before me. I would spare you that journey.”

“I’ve always followed the Code. I –”

“You will be haunted,” her father’s ghost interrupted, “by three spirits. Without their visits, you cannot avoid the same fate as mine. Expect the first one soon. For your own sake, Daughter, remember what I have said.”

Then, the ghost moved towards the window and it opened wide. Hecate followed. She heard confused noises in the air – the sounds of sadness, regret and pain. The ghost joined the choir and floated out into the night.

Hecate slammed the window shut and hurried to her bed. She magicked every light on and crawled under the blankets, falling asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow.

****

When Hecate awoke, the room was so dark she could hardly see. The clock chimed midnight, though she knew it had been later than that when she went to bed. She felt groggy, knowing she couldn’t have slept through an entire day and into another night. She tried to remember the visit from her father’s ghost. It couldn’t have been real, could it?

When a bell struck one, the lights flashed on and off again and her bedroom door flew open. Hecate found herself face to face with another spirit.

Long, white hair framed a youthful face. A girl, Hecate thought, looking closer. Her arms and legs were bare, and she wore a tunic the color of her old Amulet’s Academy uniform. In one hand she held a fresh, green holly branch, in the other, a bundle of fresh herbs.

“Are you the spirit Father warned me about?” asked Hecate.

“I am,” the ghost replied, sounding very far away. “I am the Ghost of Christmas Past.” The ghost was holding a witch’s hat, but it was a crushed, moth-eaten thing, worse than Mildred Hubble’s hat ever was. “You don’t care for my hat? It was made by the behavior of people like you. I’m forced to wear it year after year.”

“I’m sorry,” Hecate whispered. “Why are you here?”

“To save you from yourself, of course,” she said, clasping Hecate’s arm gently. “Come with me.”

Hecate found herself transferred to the middle of a snow-filled courtyard. To their left, Hecate could see a group of girls in high spirits, laughing and playing together. Her muscles tensed. She recognized them at once: Agnes Monkshood, Piety Pendragon, Rosalyn Thornspike and the rest of her form.

“It’s end of term, though the school is not quite deserted,” said the ghost. “A lonely child, neglected by the others, is still there.”

“I know,” Hecate said, scrubbing a tear from her face. They walked to the school, entering a door in the back. There, in a long, bare room filled with desks, sat a lone girl with long, dark hair, reading. Hecate stiffened at the sight of her poor, forgotten self.

Suddenly, a vivacious blonde girl wearing a pink coat over her uniform, burst into the room. “That’s Pippa!” Hecate called out happily. “She was my friend.” Hecate smiled broadly as she watched her younger self be pulled out into the courtyard to join in with the others, Pippa’s hand never letting go.

“Let’s see another Christmas,” the ghost said, smiling.

Hecate’s former self grew larger, but there she was, alone again, when all the other girls had gone home for the holidays. She wasn’t reading now but looking nervously out of the window. Again, the door burst open. This time, a teenaged Pippa Pentangle darted in, flung her arms around her neck and kissed her on the cheek.

“If he doesn’t come, you really must come home with me, Hiccup! We can be together for Solstice and Yule and Christmas and we’ll have the happiest time in the world.” Pippa twirled around the room. “It will be fabulous!”

“She’s always had a large heart,” Hecate said fondly. She remembered their quarrel earlier today? Or yesterday? Shaking her head, Hecate murmured, “I’ll never understand what she saw in me.”

“Time grows short,” observed the spirit. “Come quickly!” Suddenly, they were in the Great Hall at Amulet’s Academy. Dozens of trees dripping with fairy lights lined the walls. The night sky twinkled against the ceiling while magical snow flurries filled the air. Hecate recognized it at once: The Winter Ball of her final year at Amulet’s.

Soon, music filled the room and the girls began streaming in to the celebration. They talked and hugged and danced and laughed. There was cake, cold roast, mince pies and plenty of hibiscus punch. Hecate watched as the girls enjoyed themselves, looking for a familiar flash of golden hair.

There! Hecate spotted them, in the prime of life. Pippa was beyond radiant. Her own face lacked the rigid lines that appeared over the years, but she already showed signs of worry and stress. In an instant, they were closer, and Hecate could see the hurt in Pippa’s eyes.

“But… Hiccup? We’re already here? You look beautiful, darling. Who cares what those other girls think?” Pippa frowned at the girls behind them. “Will you at least dance with me once? We’ve been practicing all term.”

“Pippa…I can’t…” Hecate watched her younger self, willing her to change history. To be brave for Pippa. “You don’t understand…”

“I don’t. I’m here. Those other girls don’t matter to me. At all. I don’t understand why they matter to you.” She stepped closer. “I’ve always been happy with you, Hiccup.” A crowd of girls spotted them and began calling Pippa’s name. She waved them off and stepped closer to Hecate. “I’m here with you, Hiccup. You.”

“That’s just it, Pipsqueak. You should be here with them.”

“But…” Pippa trailed off as Hecate exercised her new-found skill at transferring. “But I love you, Hiccup.”

Hecate clapped her hands over her mouth, stifling a gasp. Pippa had loved her. Months before she’d derailed their lives by abandoning her at the broomstick waterski display, Pippa had loved her. “Spirit!” said Hecate in a broken voice. “Remove me from this place.”

Hecate found herself alone in her bedroom once again, every light ablaze. Sobbing, she flung herself into bed, soon sinking into a deep sleep.

****

When Hecate awoke, it was nearly one o’clock. She opened her bedroom door this time, so she wouldn’t be taken by surprise. Then she waited. And waited. Her stomach twisted in on itself as nothing happened. She turned and opened the window, leaning out into the cold air, still seeing no one.

Turning back into the room, Hecate noticed a strange light coming from the next room and a strange voice was calling her name. She stepped into her living room and saw that the walls and ceiling were covered in winter greenery and a mighty fire roared in the hearth. Her sofa and chairs were gone. In their place stood a large table, laden with a rich feast of meats, cakes, fruits and steaming bowls of wine. At the head of the table sat a jolly giant of a man. The man wore a loose green robe trimmed in white fur; on his head rested a crown of holly. His feet were bare and, in his hand, he carried a glowing torch.

“Well met, Spirit,” Hecate said, hand on her forehead.

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Present,” smiled the spirit. “Touch my robe!”

Hecate did as she was told. Everything disappeared, and they stood on the snow-filled city street on Christmas morning. It was still cold and gloomy, but the people bustling about were cheerful, calling out to one another as they hurried to their destinations.

The spirit led Hecate through the city and straight to Mildred Hubble’s flat. Hecate could see that Julie Hubble had followed her instructions to the letter. A slim Yule tree stood in front of the patio door, a handful of presents arranged underneath. The candles danced brightly from their place in the Yule log. An evergreen wreath hung on the door.

Mildred sat on the floor, working on her potions notebook. Hecate frowned. On Christmas Day? Why wasn’t she opening packages?

“Millie!” Julie placed a platter of pancakes in the center of the table. “Put your schoolwork away, love. It’s Christmas.”

“But, Mum… I have to get caught up. I’m tired of being the worst witch at Cackle’s.”

“Worst witch? How can you say that, love? You’ve saved that school more times… And you are from a witching family. You’re nowhere near the worst witch.”

“I wish Miss Hardbroom thought so.”

“Don’t you worry about what old lady Hardbroom thinks about you, love. She’s not as perfect as she thinks she is.”

“But –”

“No buts, love.” Julie tapped the back of the chair with her spatula. “Now come get your pancakes before they get cold.”

Mildred sighed and closed her notebook. Flopping into her chair, she picked up the bay leaf that sat in the middle of her plate. “What’s this for?”

“It’s a tradition of some witching families.” She pulled out a marker and handed it to Mildred. “We write a wish on the leaf and then burn it to release the wish. I thought it sounded like a lovely tradition.”

Mildred took the marker, thought for a moment and then carefully wrote her wish on the leaf. Julie took the marker and did the same.

“Can I light it?” Mildred asked, pointing at the bowl Julie put between them.

“Certainly.” She started to hand Mildred a lighter but put it down when she saw her daughter casting a spell. In seconds, both leaves were burning, filling the kitchen with fragrance. “What was your wish, Millie-Bear?”

Mildred shrugged and started spreading butter on her pancake. “I wished that Miss Hardbroom didn’t hate me so much.”

“I don’t hate you, Mildred!” Hecate dropped to her knees next to Mildred’s chair. “I’ve never hated you.” Hecate turned to look at the spirit. “Does she truly believe I hate her, Spirit?”

“Unless something changes, the child will carry the feelings of isolation and inadequacy for all her days,” replied the ghost. “The Craft is in decline.”

Hecate winced upon hearing her own words turned back on to Mildred. “You are not the worst witch, Mildred Hubble. You are clever and resourceful and kind…” Everything she’d always considered Pippa Pentangle to be, she realized.

The spirit stepped closer, holding out an arm. Hecate nodded and climbed to her feet, clutching at his robe.

They appeared on the porch of a stone cottage. Warm light glowed through the windows, flooding into the garden along with the sounds of music and laughter. One laugh carried over the rest and Hecate recognized it immediately.

“She said she’d hex anybody that wished her Merry Christmas, if she could!” cried Dimity Drill, “and I think she would, too.”

A young man Hecate recognized as Dimity’s brother handed her a mug of wassail. “I don’t know how you put up with her, Dim-bulb.”

“Oi!” Dimity playfully punched him in the arm. “Actually, I like the old crone. A lot. I feel sorry for her, though. I couldn’t be angry with her if I tried.” Her brother scoffed at the idea. “S’true! She’s the one who suffers the most because of her attitude. That’s why I will always give her the same chance every year, whether she likes it or not. I just wish she’d pull the broomstick out of her arse long enough to realize she has friends – and a beautiful woman that’s head over heels for her.”

“Sounds like that woman is you, Sis!” her brother teased.

“You’re who needs a bloody hexing,” Dimity muttered, flicking a blob of magic into his wassail and causing it to splash all over his holiday sweater. “But I reckon if HB doesn’t figure things out soon, she’s gonna lose Pentangle all over again.”

“Wait!” Dimity’s brother shook his head. “They were dating? The glamor girl and Mistress of the Night?”

“Don’t call her that,” Dimity said, punching him again. “I don’t know what they were, but they were definitely something. And neither one of them ever got over it.”

After dinner, the spirit took Hecate to visit sick beds, and foreign lands, struggling people and poverty-stricken families – and all these places were rich with hope, friendliness, patience and love. Their last stop found Hecate standing in very familiar territory: Pippa’s rooms at Pentangle’s. She expected to find Pippa with her family, or singing along to modern Christmas music, or at the very least enjoying a quiet evening with friends.

She didn’t expect to see Pippa curled in a chair, wearing the purple sweater Hecate had loaned her weeks ago, her tear-streaked face glistening in the firelight. Hecate stepped closer. “Pipsqueak?” A tumbler of Witch’s Brew rested on her knee. Hecate tried to pry it from her grip, but her own fingers passed right through it. “Please don’t cry. I’m sorry I was cross.” She looked around Pippa’s living room. Everything was a tasteful mix of pinks and blacks. Hecate saw her name embroidered on one of the stockings hanging from the mantel. Why couldn’t she just say ‘yes’ when Pippa had asked her to come for Christmas? “I’m sorry I was so me, Pipsqueak. You’ve always deserved more than I’ve given you.” She glanced down, seeing her signature prominently displayed on Pippa’s cast. It was still the only one there. “Please, Pippa… I’ll make it up…” She couldn’t even finish the thought. How do you make up skipping your first Christmas together in over thirty years? Hecate scrambled backwards as Pippa shoved herself to her feet.

“Merry Christmas, Hiccup. Maybe next year.” Pippa took a long gulp from the tumbler then threw what was left into the fireplace, unflinching in the face of the flareup. Without another word, she summoned her crutches and made her way to her bedroom.

“I didn’t…” Hecate turned to the spirit.

“Shall I wait while you hex her?”

A bell began to chime.

****

Hecate hardly had a chance to get her bearings before another phantom slowly and silently approached. She could see no face, no features. Everything was hidden under a black cloak, save one outstretched hand. The spirit’s mere presence filled Hecate with dread.

“W-well met, Spirit. Are you the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Be?” Hecate pressed her hands against her thighs. “You are the spectre I fear above all others.”

The spirit said nothing. Its hand pointed straight out in front of them, but Hecate understood.

“Lead on, then,” Hecate said, resolutely determined to see tonight through.

The village seemed to spring up around them, the same but also different. Hecate found herself standing among a cluster of wizards and witches.

“No,” said a great fat wizard with a massive chin, “I don’t know much about it. I only know that she’s dead.”

“When did she die?” asked another.

“Last night, I think,” said another. “The funeral rites ought to be interesting.”

The crowd strolled away, and while Hecate hoped the spirit would explain, the spirit only pointed at two women. Hecate knew these women.

“Do you think she finally drank herself to death?” Dimity asked. “I don’t know how she lasted as long as she did.”

Marigold Mould shook her head. “I hope not. Do you think she knows yet?” Dimity shrugged her shoulders and hurried on through the cold.

They left the busy scene and went to a part of town Hecate had never been before. She knew it by reputation, though. The narrow streets were filled with crime and misery. As they watched, a lorry pulled up, boxes stacked haphazardly in the back. A dark-haired wizard came out of one of the shops.

“I didn’t think you’d be back with the goods this soon!”

“Well, when you don’t have any heirs fighting over yer ev’ry last button, it don’t take too long.”

The dark-haired wizard opened one of the boxes and had a look at what was inside. He offered a small sum of money for the lot.

Hecate shuddered. “Is the dead witch me, Spirit?” Suddenly, she was standing in a morgue, a sheet-covered body on a table before her. Hecate glanced at the phantom. Its steady hand pointed to the body. Hecate could easily have pulled the sheet away, revealing the face. But she couldn’t do it. “Please, can we leave this horrible place? Surely, someone is affected by this woman’s death.”

The phantom spread its dark robe and Hecate found herself in the middle of a launderette. Puzzled, Hecate studied the people inside. Who spent Christmas Day in a launderette? No one looked familiar, in fact, everyone seemed to be Ordinary. She was beginning to wonder if the spirit had made a mistake when she felt a slight prickle of magic on the back of her neck. She spun around and came face to face with Mildred Hubble.

Sort of.

Mildred stood outside the launderette, paintbrush in hand, as she repaired the painted window murals. Hecate couldn’t help but smile, even if she didn’t understand why Mildred was here, of all places. She found herself on the other side of the glass, examining the woman that Mildred had grown into.

Her clothes were well-worn, barely above ragged. In her thirties, Hecate guessed. She looked angry, her expression bitter and pinched. In the space of a heartbeat, Maud Spellbody appeared by her side.

“Millie! Your mum told me you’d be here.” Maud waited for Mildred to respond in some way. When she continued painting a snowman, Maud doggedly kept on talking. “Have you heard?”

“I’ve heard. Mum told me.” She finally dropped the brush to her side and looked at Maud. “What’s that got to do with me? You know I left the magic world. I do this now.”

“NO!” Hecate looked from Maud to Mildred and back again. “Left? How on earth did that happen?”

“I know. But I know you have to feel something, Millie. Even if it’s been a while.”

“It hasn’t been long enough,” Mildred snorted, taking up her paintbrush again. “You know I was never really a part of that world. HB told us all often enough.” She stepped up on a stool so that she could reach the top of the painting. “I have to work, Maud.”

“She left.” Hecate said, confused. “Why did you leave, Mildred Hubble? WHY?” Of course, Mildred didn’t answer.

Hecate turned to the spirit and found herself standing in the middle of a churchyard. The spirit pointed to one of the graves.

Dozens of witches and wizards in formal robes crowded around the grave. “Oh! See Spirit? People remembered. I was mourned!” Hecate pressed through the crowd, trying to see who had come. It didn’t take her long to realize that she didn’t recognize anyone.

“It’s a shame, isn’t it?” an older witch said. “She died all alone, heartbroken.”

“No heirs, no living family at all,” said another. “I heard she spent her entire life pining away for some mysterious lost love.”

“Pathetic.”

“It wasn’t pathetic!” Hecate shouted. “I never stopped loving her…” Hecate pushed through the crowd, still trying to hear everything being said about the woman in the grave.

“Drunk herself to death is what I heard, not that you could ever tell.” A sorrowful young wizard shook his head. “I never would have guessed it at school.”

Hecate froze. She every cell in her body turned to ice – it burned far more than it did when the Founding Stone died. Cackle’s didn’t allow boys. Hecate staggered to the front of the crowd, finally breaking through, the phantom back at her side.

The ghost said nothing and only pointed down at the grave. Following the finger, Hecate looked down at the headstone and read the inscription: PIPPA PENTANGLE.

“No… NO…” Hecate dropped to her knees, stomach churning. “Spirit, are these shadows of things that will be, or of things that only may be?” She clutched at the phantom’s robe. “I swear, I am not the witch I was before… I can change… I will change… I-I will value my friends, Spirit. I will tell her how I feel. I swear I will live a better life!”

But as Hecate clung to the phantom’s cloak, it shrank, collapsed, and dwindled down into a pillow.

****

Hecate saw that the pillow was her own. That the bed she was in was her own. In her own room. She scrambled out of bed. “I promise I will change,” she rasped. She was so hot and aflutter with good intention, and she had been sobbing so much as she had pleaded with the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Be, that her broken voice could barely make a sound.

She raced through her quarters, eyes darting everywhere. Her things were still there. Her books still sat on the shelves. Her tea set still sat on the table. She spun around. Pippa’s snow globe still sat on the mantel.

Pippa.

Hecate ran back to her bedroom. As she hurried to dress, Hecate laughed and cried to herself. She turned her clothes inside out, then put them on back to front, forgetting she could simply magic herself dressed.

“No matter,” she said, rapping on her vanity mirror with her knuckles. “Dimity! Dimity Drill! Are you there?” She knocked impatiently until a half-asleep sports witch appeared on the other side.

“Bloody hell, HB, what do you want?”

Hecate sat up, suddenly afraid she was too late. “What day is it?”

“Are you kidding me? It’s Christmas Day, you batty old crone! What do you want?” Dimity tried opening her eyes wide, but she just couldn’t keep them that way.

“I’m not too late, then. May I still come for Christmas?”

“What?” That jarred Dimity into wakefulness. “Why?”

“I want to celebrate with my friends. Please, may I come? I’ll bring food.”

“Yeah, yeah, you can come,” Dimity said, rubbing her eyes. “Why the sudden change of heart?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Hecate bit her lip, working up the nerve to ask her next question. Dimity noticed.

“What else do you want?” she asked.

“Is it all right if I bring a guest?” Hecate waited, rocking back and forth slightly in her excitement.

“If I say yes, can I go back to sleep?” Dimity waved her hand at the mirror. “Whatever, HB. Yes, bring whoever you want.” And with that she closed the connection.

Hecate stared at her refection in the glass. The connection might be dead, she thought, but all it takes is a moment to make another one. Their connection was not dead.

It hadn’t been, not even over the last thirty years.

Their friendship would survive. Thrive, even.

It hurt too much to think of it any other way.

Hecate took a deep, steadying breath before tapping the glass. “Pippa Pentangle,” she said, clearly and calmly. Faster than she thought, Pippa was there. “Pipsqueak… I’m sorry…”

“Hiccup? Is that you? You look like a jumble sale.”

“That’s the one place I haven’t been tonight, actually,” Hecate grinned. “I wanted to… I know we quarreled, and it was my fault… but I wonder –”

Pippa held her hand up to the glass. “Yes. Whatever it is you’re about to ask, yes.”

Hecate placed her hand on the glass against Pippa’s. “I want to spend Christmas with you, Pipsqueak, if you will.”

Pippa’s response was drowned out by the sound of church bells ringing in the village below, so she nodded. Vigorously. “Happy Christmas!” she said once they stopped.

“Happy Christmas, Pippa, and may the spirits bless us, everyone.”

#ww2018winterfluffevent #alcohol abuse and bitterness warnings #hicsqueak #hecate hardbroom #pippa pentangle #ghosts

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mindfulwrath · 6 years ago

Text

Onward

A BuzzFeed Unsolved Fanfic

A spirit can only move on when it has completed its unfinished business.

Or, it can't, because ghosts aren't real.

Words: 4,922 Warnings: Blood & gore, major character death Additional tags: Angst with a happy ending, character turned into a ghost, platonic Shane & Ryan

AO3 Link

"It's really kinda nice up here, don't you think?" Shane says, looking out over the vast moorlands. Moonlight glimmers off of brackish water, casts soft shadows across lumps of heather and gorse.

"You're insane," Ryan spits.

"What? You don't think it's nice? Just look at this view! It's lovely."

"It's creepy as fuck, aaaaaaand you're crazy."

"Okay, well have fun looking for ghosts while I'm enjoying the beautiful Scottish countryside."

"Yeah, thanks, I will," Ryan says under his breath, shaking his head. He raises his voice and speaks for the cameras. "Okay, so, here we are up on the battlements of Crathes Castle, uh, Shane is admiring the scenery, but we are hopefully gonna see something much more interesting. Now, the curator told us there'd been some restoration ongoing up here, so uh, watch your step, 'cuz . . . oh boy."

"We are pretty high up," says Shane, sticking his neck out to look over the parapet. Far below, there's a pale square of concrete, some outbuilding being redone after falling over. It's about the size of a postage stamp from this perspective.

"And when Shane's saying that, you know it's high."

"Hah-hah, the height jokes! Fruit so low-hanging, even you can reach it."

"Yep, sure, that's about what I expected from you. Anyway, let's see if we can find some ghosts."

"You do that, I'm just gonna hang out here and watch."

"Yeah, good, stay out of my way," says Ryan.

Shane spares a glance over his shoulder at the camera. He shakes his head. As Ryan starts up his customary shouting-at-nothing, Shane puts his elbows up on the parapet and leans back, settling in for the show.

Stone grinds on crumbling masonry. Ryan yelps. Shane flails at empty air.

"Whoah, fuck—"

There's no scream. There's a horrible, plunging sickness, and an instant of perfect clarity.

The second-to-last thing that goes through Shane's head is, Wouldn't it be ironic if—

The last thing is a four-foot piece of rebar.

It isn't surprising that the universe has a cruel sense of humor. That's been made evident since the dawn of time, in things like rosy-lipped batfish and mass-extinctions and the invention of capitalism. The Homers and Ovids of the world, the Shakespeares and Edgar Allen Poes, they might actually have gotten things kind of almost right—at least in that whoever's running things, they're 1. a poet, and 2. a bastard.

It is somewhat surprising to look down at his own dead body.

"Son of a bitch," he says.

His body settles, dripping blood. There's a lot of blood, and a lot of him is broken—shattered, really. A noise draws his attention upward, a shout and clamor. Shane can't make out what it is. The sound is distorted, and now that he's paying attention, everything else is, too. It's like a dreamscape, like someone took dozens of photographs over decades of time, printed them on transparencies and overlaid them. If he concentrates, he can pick out individual images and bring them to the forefront.

Something moves in the doorway. Shane can't quite focus on it. He shakes his head and rubs his eyes. He's not sure, but he thinks he can hear screaming, and it stirs something in him and he doesn't like it. Fortunately, it goes away pretty quickly, and silence falls again.

"Well?" he calls out. "What now?"

The world does not answer.

"Do I have to stay here, or can I, like, go? Can I just go? 'Cuz uh, gotta tell you, I'm not really into the whole ghost-thing!"

Still, nothing. The distant sound of sirens drifts on the breeze. He looks down at his body and folds his arms.

"Oh, shit, I could go to my own funeral," he realizes. "Boy, that'd be a trip, huh?"

All's quiet on the moors, save for the approaching sirens. Shane glances over his shoulder. Out of curiosity, he wanders back to the camera crew. The bright lights leave the world in a haze, illuminating a sea of phantasmal cars, buses, carriages, horses, people. It's hard to focus on the ones that are here now, so much so that it gives Shane a killer headache.

Or maybe that's just the lingering memory of the rebar going through his skull. Could be either.

He finds Ryan huddled up in the back of the equipment van, a blanket around his shoulders and about six people clustered around him. He's shaking like crazy, his eyes wide and wild, and he's . . . he's. . . .

Sobbing.

He's explaining, to the crew, what happened. The words are a jumbled mess. Tears stream down his face. They're trying to comfort him, but they all look just as shell-shocked and sickened and scared. Somebody calls Ryan's girlfriend for him. Somebody else is on the phone with corporate, and someone's still talking to the emergency dispatcher, and Ryan—and Ryan is crying so hard he can't breathe. . . .

Shane backs away, slowly. He goes back to the shattered wreck of his own body, sits down on a chunk of stone that might have been dragged off two hundred years ago. It's less disturbing than the scene back at the van.

"Man, I look like a really fucked-up unicorn," he remarks. "I got brains comin' out the back of my head! That's no good!"

Nobody answers. Blue and red flashing lights crest the hill. Shane sighs and hangs his head.

"And here's me, talking to air again," he mutters. "Okay. So uh—here's what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna leave. I'm gonna go do . . . other stuff. And not watch them take my body outta here, 'cuz that's gonna be gross. Eugh."

And he's not going to attend his own funeral, either, he decides, as he wanders down the hill away from the castle. He'd kind of assumed everybody else would be as cool with him dying as he was, that it would be no big deal, that it would be sad, but overall just another Thing That Happens. He doesn't want to see Ryan cry again. He doesn't want to see any of his other coworkers cry, either, his friends, or—God forbid—his parents. He doesn't want to be mourned.

It occurs to him about an hour later, as he's slogging through a thousand years of Scottish fen.

He is in an absolutely unique position to find out exactly where, and how many times, Ryan was wrong.

It's hard to gauge the passage of time, but it's probably been a few years, and Shane has learned something very important about ghosts: they don't happen where—or to whom—popular opinion had it.

The big places, the asylums and castles and manors, they're quiet, they're empty. Taverns can be a little bit more populous, although they really aren't any fun. Nobody's having a good time in this part of the afterlife, and most people are alone. He almost never sees anyone with a friend, and never a group of more than three. He's really hoping he never runs into anybody he knows, for . . . lots of reasons.

It's the mundane places that are really teeming, the streetcorners and back-alleys, the factories, the wilderness. And it's not the big people, either—not the mobsters and judges and doctors, but the urchins, the servants, the prostitutes, forgotten in life and forgotten in death. He made it back to America eventually, and the horrors that soaked the earth there made him sick. Not a square inch of all that once-beautiful land was free of blood. In places, it's like the earth itself has died. In places, he can see its ghosts, too.

One place he finds Ryan was right about is Salem.

There's an old house, well-kept, slightly more there than most other structures he finds, although he's sure he never saw it when he was alive. He climbs the steps. An old Black woman sits by the fire.

"Are you Tituba?" he asks. It's a stupid thing to say, but he hasn't said much in a long time. Most of the other ghosts don't like talking to him. For a minute, he thinks Tituba won't, either.

"I remember you," she says. "You were very rude."

"I guess I was," says Shane. "Uh . . . sorry."

She rocks her chair. The fire crackles, although it makes no warmth.

"Can I ask you something?" he says.

"If you want to know the answer."

"Why are you still here? Why haven't you gone . . . wherever dead people go?"

"I'm waiting," she says.

"For what?"

A shrug is all he gets.

"Well . . . good luck, I guess," he says. "I hope it comes to you, whatever it is."

He asks around a little more after that, although people who will talk to him are few and far between. Why are some of us here? It's obviously not everyone. Why are you here?

And he gets the same answer.

I'm waiting.

Time has passed. Shane's more well-traveled than he's ever been, but there's still a strange restlessness in him. Something, he feels, needs to be done, but he'll be damned if he knows what it is. It gets so bad that at one point he risks going to visit his own grave.

It's nice. The tombstone is nice. There's no epitaph, which is about what he wanted. Somebody's left flowers, although they're plastic.

"Kitchy," he says to no one. "Get that shit outta here."

"Plastic?"

Shane starts. There's another man, very old, loitering at a nearby grave. It's the first time someone's struck up a conversation with him, instead of the other way around.

"Uh . . . yeah," he says. The old man shakes his head.

"Kind gesture, but it does feel cheap, doesn't it."

"I guess."

"I always told them not to put plastic flowers on my grave, but some damn fool's done it anyway."

"Sucks. I'm sorry."

He shrugs. "No point in getting upset about it now. Say, do you know when the chariots or what-have-you come down?"

"I don't," Shane admits. "I've never seen 'em."

"Ah, what a shame. I'll wait, then. It's not like I have anything else to do."

"Right?" he says, chuckling, shaking his head.

Between one moment and the next, the old man disappears, like smoke, like fog. There's not even a shadow of him left, not in all the layers of history painted across the world.

Even without a choir of angels, or a blast of Hellfire, it's pretty obvious what just happened. Maybe neither of those things exist to happen, and the vanishing is all there is, after this.

Shane looks down at the flowers on his grave. He takes a deep breath.

"Okay," he says. "All right. I get it."

It's going to take a while to get to L.A., but he's got time.

Ryan's actually kind of doing okay. That's a pretty firm marker on how long Shane's been gone. Incredibly, he's still doing Unsolved, even the paranormal stuff. He's got a new guy working with him, too, although they're a little stilted and they have difficulty making each other laugh, even for the cameras. They seem like they're getting along okay, though. Ryan's definitely chilled out a lot since the last time Shane saw him. He's rusty on the ghost hunting.

It takes a while, takes a lot of following and waiting, but eventually Shane gets the chance to tag along on a trip.

"Man, this brings back some memories, huh," he says, meandering along behind Ryan as he creeps through some abandoned, burnt-out warehouse. "Look at you, though! You grew a big ol' spine since the last time I saw you."

Ryan doesn't respond, because of course he doesn't. He's looked right through Shane a dozen times already. Shane's not too bothered by it. Nobody's seen him in years.

The hunt goes like it always goes. Eventually Ryan and the new guy split up. The new guy goes first.

"This is so dumb," he mutters to the camera, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"Right?" says Shane. He shakes his head. "Hey, take a little nap, buddy. It's nice! Nice little break from all the craziness."

The guy waits out his five minutes. Shane hangs out. Ryan comes in, trades some banter with the new guy, and is left alone.

Something about the way he moves makes Shane's mind come into sharper focus. The layered blur of the world grows clear in the darkness when Ryan turns out his flashlight.

"Oh, man," he whispers. "Okay. I'm getting chills already. Shit. Shi-hi-hit. No, I'm okay, I'm okay. I'm a big boy. I got my big boy pants on."

"Calm down, big boy, nobody's gonna hurt you," says Shane, rolling his eyes.

But something in him hurts. Something aches. He hasn't felt a damn thing in years, but suddenly, now, it's almost like being alive again. It's almost like he wants something again.

"All right," Ryan says, raising his voice. "So, uh, if there's anybody here with me, uh, my name is Ryan Bergara, I'm a—a paranormal investigator."

"Oh, huh, are you? Is that what you're calling it these days?" says Shane, folding his arms.

"Um . . . if there's anyone here, can you make a noise?"

"No, Ryan, I can't make a noise, because I'm a ghost, and I can't interact with the material world, ya big dummy. I'm made of ectoplasm, or—electromagnetism, or something, I don't actually know. But it doesn't touch stuff! Sometimes if I concentrate real hard, I can walk through walls!"

Ryan just stands and listens. His head swivels back and forth like a radar dish. His eyes are wide and bright. He swallows. He waits, and waits, and waits.

"Okay," he says to himself. "Okay, okay, that's fine, that's okay. Uh—okay, so if there's anybody here, uh, I'm gonna get out this little, uh, this little device. It's called a spirit-box."

"Oh, for crying out loud," Shane sighs, except that the heart he doesn't have anymore is suddenly up in his throat. "It's not gonna tell you anything. It's baloney."

Ryan takes it out and sets it down gingerly on the table, his breaths coming quick and panicky. "And, if you wanna talk to me, you can use this, okay?"

"What—how?" Shane cries. "How am I supposed to do anything with that hokey box?"

"So I'm gonna . . . turn this on, and you should be able to talk to me, through it. Okay, here we go."

The box squeals, then launches into its randomized chirping. Ryan gulps, his eyes flicking around the room. Shane kicks at the table the box sits on. His foot hits something, but Ryan doesn't react, so it probably wasn't the table-as-it-is he kicked, but the shadow of some past version from ten or twenty years ago.

"Okay, so . . . if there's anybody here with me, my name's Ryan. Can you say my name back to me?"

"Of course I can't, the stupid box doesn't do anything."

Ryan stands in silence, listening, listening. A squawk of static comes out of the box.

"What was that?" he says. "Can you say that again?"

"I said your stupid box doesn't do anything."

Choppy white noise, blips of music and talk shows and nothing.

"If there's somebody here with me, can you make a noise?" Ryan asks.

"No! I can't! Because I'm a ghost, you idiot!"

Ost oop it, goes the box. Ryan stiffens.

"What was that? Did you say something?"

"I did, but I didn't say it through your stupid box, which is fuckin' useless!"

Useless.

Ryan pales. His eyes go wide. His breath comes short. "Ohhhh man, okay. Okay. I'm freakin' out a little now. You—Eustice? Is that—is that your name? Eustice?"

Shane's too blind-sided to call him an idiot again. He seizes the spirit box and shakes it. It's like trying to shift a boulder. His voice cracks as he shouts.

"No! No, it's Shane, it's Shane Madej, tell him, tell him it's me!"

Eh ih-ih ee.

"I don't know what that was, I—I'm sorry. Could you repeat that, Eustice?"

"Shane! It's Shane! Ryan, come on, man!"

Chk chk chk chk shh sht cht chk.

"Okay, fuck this, I'm done," says Ryan, reaching for the box. "That's all, bye Eustice, we're done!"

In absolute, idiotic desperation, Shane screams, "Spaghetti!"

Spa-ghet-ti.

Ryan freezes.

"What did you just say?" he whispers.

"Spaghetti! Apple tater!"

Ap-ah t-t-r.

He's shaking so hard his hand blurs over the spirit-box. His breath mists in front of his face. There are tears in his eyes.

"Did you just say . . . apple tater?"

"Yes! I did, yes! Ryan, it's me! Come on, you stupid box, tell him it's me!"

Stih-up-p-p box.

All the blood drains from Ryan's face. He stops breathing. When he blinks, the tears slip out. When he speaks, it barely makes a sound, but Shane feels it, feels it like a punch to the chest, like a struck bell.

Shane?

The only thing he can do is shout, whoop at the top of his lungs and jump in the air. The spirit-box lets out an ungodly wail, and in an instant, Ryan slaps it off the table, screaming.

It smashes on the floor. The room goes silent.

"No," Ryan says, choked up. "Nope, no no no, fuck this, fuck it, I'm out, I'm done! Fuck everything about this!"

He beelines for the door, his knees wobbling. He's just a hair shy of a full-on sprint.

"Where are you going?" Shane demands, hurrying after him. "Hey, no, don't leave! You—you fraidy cat! Ryan! Ryan!"

But he's out of there, back to the noise and bright lights of the camera crew, where the world becomes less real, where Shane's head gets fuzzy and his focus scatters. He retreats back to the shadows, a sudden exhaustion overtaking him.

"Okay," he says to himself. "It's okay. First try's always gonna be . . . messy. And Ryan's an idiot, so—yeah. So yeah. Just gotta keep—keep on keepin' on, Shane. Chin up, buddy. We'll get there."

So of course, because the universe is a poet and a bastard, Ryan does the one thing Shane could never have predicted.

He gives up ghost-hunting.

Quits his job at BuzzFeed, in fact, and moves up north to the Klamaths, and lands a nice little job teaching film and creative writing at a community college. His girlfriend—now wife, apparently—doesn't comment on the fact that they have a night-light in the bedroom. They've probably already talked about it. Shane doesn't like it, the smug little bluebird shitfish, but he leaves it be. Some things are sacred, inviolable.

Anyway, he's got time.

Ryan's daughter first sees him when she turns three.

"Daddy Daddy!" she cries, barreling into his room at ass o'clock in the morning. "Daddy, there's a tall man in my room!"

"What?" he mumbles.

"A tall man, I saw him!"

Ryan comes to check. He turns the lights on. He looks right through Shane a dozen times as he searches the closet and under the bed and behind the lamp and everywhere.

"There's nobody here, sweetie," he says. "Go back to sleep, okay?"

"Okay," she says.

He kisses her head and clicks the light back out. Shane follows him through the door, because—well, it's kind of weird, hanging out in a three-year-old's room. He was just a little spellbound at first, because it was Ryan's kid, and that's a bizarre thought even when he's looking right at it. But staying would be weird, so he doesn't stay.

But he does come back.

It's not like he's haunting Ryan, no, that's not what it's about. He mostly keeps to himself and doesn't bother anyone, but the kid is weirdly good at spotting him, and there's something about being seen that makes him feel . . . good? Important? Less dead and miserable and alone?

Daddy Daddy, the tall man came back. Daddy Daddy, I saw him by my closet. Daddy Daddy, he came to my tea party. Daddy Daddy, he moved my book!

Which, yes, he did, as ludicrous as it was. For lack of anything better to do with his time. If he focuses as hard as he can and pushes with all his might, sometimes, just a little bit, he can move things. Like a child's book, or a doll's hand, or maybe a door if the hinges are well-oiled. He tries not to do it when anybody's home, but he can't always tell. The kid's too good at seeing him, too, but at least she isn't scared. He tries to make sure she knows he's not there to hurt anybody, and although he's pretty sure she can't hear him, she seems to have gotten the message.

Ryan, maybe, didn't.

He gets more jittery. Lights stay on. There's a marked increase in the amount of religious iconography and (likely) holy water. He spends a lot of time on the computer, drinks a lot of coffee, falls behind on his teaching stuff.

One night, the wife and kid go out, and Ryan stays in. This is weird. Shane sticks around.

Ryan goes up to the kid's room, and he settles into the reading chair by her bed, and he turns out all the lights. The blue glow of his phone illuminates his face. He sits still for a long time, just breathing.

"Shane," he says. His voice shakes. "If you're here right now, could you give me a sign?"

The old desperation seizes him. He slaps the window blinds as hard as he can. They manage a faint, whispering sway. Ryan stiffens, takes a deep breath, lets it out again.

"Okay," he says. "Okay. I—I made this for you. I thought maybe it would help, if you're . . . if you're struggling to move on. I hope it helps you, or . . . something. So here it goes."

Another deep breath. Shane waits, pulled taut with anticipation. Ryan adjusts his glasses and looks down at the phone, and he starts to read.

The alien planet of Tomat-0. A rustbucket of an old spaceship sits on a landing pad, engines primed, ready to launch. A pair of plupples, which are alien fruits that are like plums, but cooler, and blue, carry a charismatic box of fries from the future and a sturdy can of good soup up the loading ramp.

"Plup, plup!" says one of the plupples.

"Plup, plup," the other agrees. Plupples are very stupid. However, unfortunately for our heroes, they are not so stupid that they cannot carry out orders from their dark master.

Shane can't believe his ears. He wanders across the room. Even if he had lungs, he wouldn't be able to breathe. He sits down on the bed near Ryan, pulls up his knees and wraps his arms around them. Ryan reads on.

"Wait just one plupping minute, there!" A voice rings out! The plupples halt. There, coming over the horizon of Tomat-0, a witch-hologram of corn riding upon a giant plupple comes charging to the rescue.

"Plup, plup!"

"Plup, plup, plup!"

The hologram corn, Maizey, arrives. "You put those critically-acclaimed and universally-beloved characters down, you Ewok ripoffs!"

"PLUP," the giant plupple plups in agreement.

"Whoah, hey, uh, whoah!" Garce, one of two intelligent plupples, emerges from the ship. "Hey, uh, wow, corn girl, how did you, uh, escape your deadly trial by combat, which you were sentenced to by the great Dr. Goondis, played by Ryan Steven Bergara?"

"I fought the beast and I won, as you can see, because I am riding it into battle with you little blue freaks. Also I ate Dr. Goondis, because we didn't have the time to cut up more VO files for him, so now he's dead."

"That makes perfect narrative sense, uh, but how did you find us?"

A flash of light, a creaky, cackling voice.

"Pam, Pam, kazam, it was me!" A tiny hotdog, about forty percent bigger than Jiminy Cricket, appears in a flash of witch-light on Maizey's corn shoulder. "I'm doing my part to atone for the evil I did before I died, even though it was totally sick and awesome!"

"That's understandable. But uh, what are you both going to do now?"

Maizey draws herself up tall, tall and proud atop the giant plupple. "We're going to take our friends back from you blue goons. We're going to travel back in time and save my witch-hologram wife, stop Pam from killing the hotdog family, the unbelievably rich and compelling characters of Dan, Rebecca, and Brandon, and creating the Gauntlet of Ultimate Power, or G.U.P.—"

"Gup! Gup! Gup!" plup the plupples.

Shane laughs. He puts a hand over his mouth, like Ryan's going to hear him or something, come over bashful and stop reading. Ryan doesn't hear him, though. He keeps going.

And that, dear listeners, esteemed fans of the Hotdaga, that is what they do. Together, Maizey and Pam, along with the un-drugged Gene and Mike Soup, they rout the plupples. They fix the Minestrone, that marvelous spacecraft, and equip it with the Bernoulli Converter to reach the wormhole in the Graxilon quadrant. Dear fans, they travel back in time, and stop the evil Pam from dumping that delicious party of wedding guests into the lava. By having Pam from the future eat herself. It's totally wicked awesome.

Maizey reunites with her witch-hologram french-fry wife, Gebra. Gene gets the Risky Fixin's band back together, for one last smash hit before the happily ever after you've all been waiting for. And here, my dear friends, here it is.

Music plays. It's stupid. It's the stupidest thing Shane has ever heard, and the production value is shit, and Ryan can't sing worth a damn, either.

For the next two minutes and eighteen seconds, he cries like a baby.

"And that's . . . it," says Ryan. He's crying too. "That's the thrilling conclusion to the Hot Dog Saga, or Hotdaga. It's . . . solved. I hope you—I hope you liked it."

"You nailed it, man," Shane says, choked up. "You got it. You nailed it. Shit, Ryan. Thank you."

Ryan sniffles. He wipes his face. He puts his phone down and sits in the dark.

"I don't wanna sound rude or anything, Shane, but . . . now could you please, please leave my family alone? Like, I miss you, but I just—I can't. I can't do this anymore. I'm sorry, man. I'm so fuckin' sorry for what happened."

"What? No, no no no, what are you talking about? Ryan, it wasn't your fault, Jesus!"

Ryan scrubs at his face, puts his head in his hands.

"Just please . . . please let me—just let me move on, too. I can't do this anymore."

"I—yeah," says Shane, shaken right down to his core, in so much pain he can barely hold himself together. "Yeah. Of course. I'm sorry. I didn't even think about . . . yeah. I'll go. I'll go."

He almost puts a hand on Ryan's shoulder, then thinks better of it. He walks out the door.

He doesn't look back.

About four months before Ryan's eightieth birthday, the Universe catches up with him.

Shane isn't sure how he knows, but he knows. He makes his way back to Crescent City, finds the hospital, the bed. It's bad. It's been bad for a long time.

It's not going to get better.

His daughter is with him that night, when the lights are dim and Shane doesn't have to fight so hard to stay present. She's middle-aged now. It's weird how fast five decades can slip by, when you spend them wandering around doing nothing.

Well, nothing except waiting.

"Sweetie, do you remember the Tall Man?" Ryan asks.

"My imaginary friend?" she asks. "Kinda. Why?"

"I think . . . I see him," says Ryan. "The Tall Man was always nice, wasn't he? He was always nice to you?"

"He was, Daddy. You were the only one who was worried about him."

"Good. Good. Because if he ever wasn't, I'm gonna . . . I'll kick his ass."

She laughs. Shane laughs.

They're stupid last words, but it's okay. He dies in his sleep about three hours later, when his daughter is sleeping, too.

Ryan takes a moment. He looks down at his body. He isn't terribly concerned.

"Huh," he says.

"'Bout sums it up, doesn't it."

Ryan turns, and he sees Shane. Shane waves.

"Hey," he says. "So uh . . . turns out you were right."

You were right.

It rings down through fifty years, reverberating, a struck bell, a punch in the chest.

You were right.

The corner of Ryan's old ghost mouth turns up, and then he smiles a big, wrinkly, toothy smile, and Shane knows, in that moment, that this is what he was waiting for.

"Damn right I was," says Ryan.

"So you uh . . . you got anything you wanna do, before . . . whatever's next?" Shane asks.

"Mm, maybe a couple things. Like, y'know, see all the haunted stuff, if it's actually haunted."

"Yeah, that's cool, that's cool. Pretty much what I did. You uh . . . you mind if I tag along?"

"Mind? No. Wouldn't have it any other way."

"The Ghoul Boys ride again," says Shane, smiling, even as he feels something begin to dissolve within him.

"Hell yeah," says Ryan.

He sticks out a hand, old and weathered. Shane shakes it. Ryan pulls him in and hugs him, so tight it threatens to pop him like a bubble.

"I'm sorry, Shane," he whispers. "I'm sorry."

Shane hugs him back.

"It wasn't your fault," he says. "It's okay."

From one moment to the next, with no choir of angels and no Hellfire—

In a flash of white—

They go onward.

#bfu fic #buzzfeed unsolved fanfic #shane & ryan #why yes this is the thing that made me cry #because i'm a big ol baby and i don't understand my own emotions #anyway i hope you like it #and if you don't #you can kiss my apple tater

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stone-man-warrior · 4 years ago

Text

January 31, 2021: 3:43 pm:

==================================================

(This took a couple of hours to decode, so, here ya go ...)

Pope Twitter terror hit order command language decode 1-31-2021 1:59 pm https://twitter.com/Pontifex/status/1355886051248787459 =======================================================================

Tweet See new Tweets Conversation Pope Francis @Pontifex "Grandparents are the uniting link between generations to transmit to the young the experience of life and faith. Therefore, I have decided to institute the World Day of Grandparents and the Elderly which will be held annually on the fourth Sunday of July." =======================================================================

January & February are off to the side, making distraction. -----------------------------------------------------------

J F = Jeff = Jeffe' = The Boss J = a shape = a fish hook

Two J's = JJ = 2(J) = J + J = Two Hooks (fishing pole, string line, bait, boat, (add lunch) all inclusive) = Two J's + lunch = Trinity Rules = J + J + Ghost = J + J + X = The Boss + The Fisherman (Gordon; Fat Boy; Pig) + Jesus on a Cross = Three J's (a barn on Southbound side of Interstate 5 near Gold Hill. Three J Ranch)

F = Eff = E + FF = Power Ligature = Power Legs = 120 + 120 = 240 = Household Laundry Current = The Martinizer

(write this down for future reference: "F = The Martinizer"

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Based on ten month Real Calendar, begins in March w/36 days and April w/37 days, alternating 36 & 37 days each month after. Leap Day (Quantum Day) is last day of every fourth year additional, where December has 38 days in a leap year. March 1st would best be placed as new years day on the day after the spring equinox, and year end of December 37th on the spring equinox day. Such a calendar similar to that arrangement existed before the Christian Pirates tacked January and February onto the beginning of the year, fouling up everything that is intuitive for humans to know about Earth and it’s relationship to the Sun, Time, and growing food.

The Real Calendar does not require that a new years day exists at all. March could begin at either the winter solstice or the spring equinox and still work better than what we are using for timing for the past 2021 years. The benefit of Spring time March is imminently obvious, and I think people would feel more productive on a personal level simply by the arrangement of the calendar year restarting in the spring time, rather than in the dead of winter as we do now.

The only reason to have a new years day, is to make an ongoing tally of years as they progress, for purposes of recording the events of the past years. In absence of interest in making a accurate record of past events, new years day is completely decorative, like wreath on the door of the house, is useless.

Different parts of the world have differing times of a growing season, but everywhere on Earth there is two equinox, and two solstice within a single annual earth orbit/tilt cycle, so, new years day, and a consistent March 1st world wide probably would not be ideal everywhere for everyone. The reason we have the current Global “oneness” of time keeping is a product of a quest for Global Domination by one group of people who started out with taking control of all global time, 2021 years ago, when they tacked January and February onto the beginning of the year, which really satisfies no one on Earth at all. The quest for Global Domination Under the Cross, is what fouled up everything on Earth.

The Christian Pirates use and refer to the Real Ten Month Calendar for their own uses to take over the world, they use the calendar the stole from you and me, so that they can keep us in the dark ages, unable to think on our own.

So, back to the Pope’s mass murder terror tweet, based on a tenth month calendar:

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

36 March 37 A 36 M MAM = Russian Hoax 37 J 36 J JJ = power tubes (”bad ones”, rumored to be substandard)

----

182

Take it apart:

182 = 180 + 2

182 = 180 (play the turn-a-round) + 2 (Swing sword. make the Ell that makes the cut = 1/2 (one divided by two) = 0.5 = $5 per head at the Walmart Service Counter exchange rate.

36 + 36 + 36 + 36 + 36 = 180 (add 2-way) = one cross

36 + 36 = 72 = one virgin

72 + 72 = 144 = 12² = one gross (add one-half of one half gross (36) two parents of one or more virgin children) + one cross (one two-piece) = 182 (the mother becomes a slave, is stowed below deck, the father becomes Jesus on the mast of the boat, on the cross)

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

These are artifacts that show up while decoding:

JJ = Power Tubes (send Amp Guru for bias adjustment, watch for smoke)

MA'M = Female terror Russian Hoax -------------------------------------------------

Mystery yet to solve, w/speculation:

Household electricity current is standardized as two legs, each at 120v, for 240v maximum voltage.

Standard household electric current is often marked as two legs each w/110v and the resulting two-legged current is said to be 220v.

That is the mystery. Appliances are marked with both statements being true some of time.

The speculation is that Amp Guru Music Industry Vatican Choir and One Hour Martinizing Film and Television industry “Hokus Pokus” “Cleaners” are part of that missing 10v per leg.

Use your old See ‘n‘ Say for Farm Animals, to help understand:

Amp Guru says: “Here Kitty Kitty”

The Martinizer says: “Film at Eleven“

Amp Guru runs in stereo, they get two legs differently than does The Martinizer, who is visual based.

The Martinizer will require at least 220v from time to time, so the Laundry Dryer can run without gas.

Amp Guru almost never needs more than 120v while using household current. Amp Guru is perfectly OK with 110v, a Minus Ten situation is nominal for Amp Guru.

Amp Guru tells their friends about their power flexibility with a number of clues left laying around, such as 48v Phantom Power they arrange inside their microphone and recording gear, and the Variac veritable transformer that can be used to “tease” a guitar amplifier into sounding more “Brown“, or have “Higher Gain” resultant of reduced voltage, and high demand for power.

With clues like those, and perhaps others that you know of, the mystery of the Household Power Current Discrepancy can be solved.

Clearly, electricity is not the “Rocket Science” of little tolerance that we have been programmed to believe it is. Fact is, power is sloppy.

Key to solving the mystery of the sometimes missing 10v per leg, is in the fact that we are charged for electricity at a rate of Watts Consumed over time, however, no one has ever drawn a single Watt from a power grid, ever. The appliances and gadgets all draw Ampers, not Watts. So, the key lies in the draw of Amps to our own personal power, while they fake us out with Watts.

When you look at the power details of a electric product, and see that, for instance a lightbulb is 100 Watts, what you are looking at is a measurement of how useful the product is. The Watt is the measure of the work that was done, or the convenience provided as output for you to use.

The Ampers on the other hand, are only contained in small print, hidden on the label that is located on the product, so, they have made it difficult for us to actually know before hand, how much electric power a given product is going to consume. They (the big terror machine) are charging us for the convenience measured by the Watt, while disregarding our need to know about the actual Ampere that is necessary to provide the work that was done by the electric product.

They give us Volts. Standard.

They mesmerize us with Watts.

They baffle us with bullshit, while hiding the truth, that an Amp is what is consumed, not a Watt.

All of that horse shit happens, while the leadership cries foul about electricity consumption, in a world where the same people arrange that we are not able to know how much we are consuming with the products we choose to purchase.

It’s the Ampere that needs to go on the front of the packaging label, along side the Watt.

The mystery of the missing 10v per leg is deep.

If you ask any one to explain electricity to you, all you will ever hear is a bullshit story about water pressure, and the way the water only trickles out of a fat water hose, or will come out fast with a narrow water hose. They will bullshit you all day long about how you need to swap out the size of the water hose in order to get the water to come out with some pressure behind it.

We need to stop going to the Plumber when we need electricity problems solved.

They don‘t want you thinking about Amps, or that missing 10v per leg.

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

now, on with the Pope Mass Murder Hit decode:

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

This is some text from the Pope Tweet:

“Sunday” = Mass = it's a hit order, so, it's Black Mass Murder

“Grandparents” = the mark = Parents of small children, are "Whales" for fishing = Grand Parents

“Experience” = Jimmies Band (plays a right handed guitar, left handed, backwards, and upside down, and is one of the very best guitar players ever) (other reference can be said: “’Squids’ are baby surfers, they all try to ride goofy foot at least once”; See: “Drop in at Third Point Malibu” and “Long boarder’s rule the beach at the Bu” on this account; Squids ride at second point Malibu)

The word “Therefore” is there to help the reader include the “ff ligature” mentioned above, in order to see “Amp Guru” and by extension “Rocky Mountain Power Corporation of Colorado and all five of their sub-utilities” is present in the message.

“Institute” = places like schools and hospitals. Highly controlled, often subsidized environments.

“Grandparents are the uniting link” = as explained above, they are “Whales”, will be fished out, that leaves the children, easy prey, for capturing and training as terror soldiers, thereby “Uniting the children with the terror army through extermination“

“Generations” can go more than one direction to explain, so, that is more “Squids ride second point Malibu” because it breaks left and right often. Generations can refer to Genesis, a endless source of child terror soldiers to train, or, it can refer to the generations of terror family cell members in USA, descendants of many attack infiltration from Canada. In California, the current kindergartners are fifth generation family descendants of the original paratrooper attack there in 1970′s, of which there is no public record available anywhere but on this Tumblr account. Oregon are third generation, going into fourth generation now from a northern march made from California over many years. The kidnapped captured “Squids” are trained as disposable, and do the more dangerous terror activity, while the Generational Family Members are safe from dangerous activity.

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

Complicated Christian Pirate Math starts here:

Elderly = The Swordsmen = Black Knights or Dark Knights = Ell + D + Erly ...

D = a shape = One half annual (play the 180 turn-a-round) = 0.5 (D = 0.5) (it's a concept Jazz blues vinyl album @ 33 1/3 RPM = 33 1/3 = Trinity Rules = Text = Alpha = Side A = one half of the whole = Devil (D = Devil)

Erly = E + R + L + Y = Power + Aarrgghh + Ell + Two Piece = "Primal Power Cut War Cry"

... Ell + D + Erly = Ell + 0.5 + E + R + L + Y = Power + Aarrgghh + Ell + Two Piece = "To Cut in two with Primal Power Cut War Cry” = A Verb = English Language = The Text = The Bible

The Bible = a story of two. One is Up, one is Down. One is white, one is black. One is God, one is the Devil. = A story of division.

---------------------- D = a verb: "To Devil" D = The English Language D = To Cut w/war cry D = One Half D = Music D = The Bible D = The Devil

D = God = a weapon

D = The Fourth = the forth = The March (is covered by January & February on the side making distraction)

=====

D = The Text = ...

The = God

... = T + X + T = Three crosses = Trinity Rules = Two of one, one of another

D = The Text = God + T + X + T = Trinity Rules = God: Two of one, one of another = "With this Book, and two squirrels and an Owl, we could rule the world"

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

The phrase: “With two Squirrels and an Owl, we can rule the world” is insider knowledge, is a statement made by Elisabeth Windsor and Philip Mountbaten I learned in 1970 or there about, from them personally, in California.

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

This is just thinking out loud:

January + February = Two Squirrels

Heroin = one Owl

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

This is based on combination of many years of learning:

Two squirrels and an Owl are Puppets under the Pope

The Pope = House of Lords + Vatican = The Jim Dunlop (Christianity Crusade Crafters), are Puppet Masters aboard The Flying V Pirate Ship

However ... The Pope does a side show gig under the stage name, Jim Dunlop, plays lead Ax through a stack of Marshalls with endless effect peddles available, for signature, custom tonality.

Tonality = the bottom part of the Cross where Jesus feet are nailed through his toes.

The Jim Dunlop plays Lead Ax with his feet, the children of those who parish at the show.

The Pope plays the Alter, a Lyra, to work the Christians with his hands on deck

The Pope works the Puppets, while the Jim Dunlop works the Masses

The Pope = The Jim Dunlop The Jim Dunlop = The Pope

God = The Devil The Devil = God

God is above The Devil is below

The Bible = Above & Below = God and Devil

The Pope = The Bible

The Jim Dunlop = The Bible

The Bible = The Pope and The Jim Dunlop together on the same stage playing the blues

Once the show is recorded, it's a Vinyl record album, plays at 33 1/3 RPM, is Blues Concept Jazz record, keeps going around and around, has a scratch on both sides. Somehow, it's Progressive Rock. FM.

The album always starts on the A side. It sits on the platter, with the A Side showing. Pope says to play the Turn-a-Round, that’s the B Side, the dark side, flip it ... Mormons.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NDfJhRZZOxY

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========================================

9:25 pm:

With Mormon‘s, you get Utah, and Snake River & the Great Salt Lake. It’s not a subject I want to talk about, but you can.

With Mormon‘s and Utah, playing the Turn-a-Round, you get: “Hat U” and “Hate U”.

With “Hat U”, it comes with a graduation ceremony, IV League School.

With that, is the subject we need to think about, because the so called COVID vaccine’s are a “Two-Piece” situation from all of the manufacturers.

The first dose is likely to contain some heroin, make the victim feel very comfortable, and, willing to take the second dose.

There will be lots of “COVID Testing” of the victims.

Those who fail the test that happens between Side A, and Side B, will be given Euthanasia, and the Corona Virus will have taken another victim, at “Hate University”.

I suspect those who pass the COVID Test, and agree to become Christian Terror Pirates, will be given weekly rations of heroin, the way it’s been done in Oregon for more than twenty years. Those people begin to attend “Hat University”, to learn about the dark side of the Pope’s Pointy Hat.

=======================================

10:55 pm:

This here looks like a “heads up call” from Boris to the Kuaui Ranch Amp Guru Vatican Choir “Green’s of Olde Three Ply” terror cell on Kuaui. They are the ones who are really running the Christian terror at the White House,US Congress and all of the US Government, at minimum, leading members include Ann Wilson and Roger Waters at the very top of the Triangular Prism that is Amp Guru HQ.

The read only includes three lines of text in the Boris Tweet. There may be more, but I am not interested in anything other than three specific lines of text.

“Admitted to a hospital“

“Positive for COVID19″

“Hannah x”

It’s all “Justified at Center”

The two top lines, line up nicely.

Hannah is a RADAR word, a Palindrome.

Hanna is a place on Kuaui that very few people ever get to see, even if you visit Kauai, the “Road to Hanna” is legendary, songs are written about the “Road to Hanna”. It takes about seven hours to drive the “Road to Hanna”, top speed, about 20 knots ... it’s a Pirate Only Road, you have to dodge many a “Shaved Ice” vendor to make it to and from Hanna, and the road is lined with dozens of Christian Statues and memorial displays, all of which are contained within the overhead drop of a water fall ... it’s treacherous on many levels. There is much more that could be said, but one thing to say, is I don‘t think you will find any US Citizens who have been to Hanna, and lived to tell about one of the most beautiful places on Earth, certainly there are not many, and there are fewer who have stood at the top ledge of the upper most water fall there, as I have.

Hanna is considered Sacred Ground by what few natives remain on the Islands. and also by the Seventh Day Adventist Canables who took over, and hunt there for victims, “Strap”, and “Kiddie Table”.

Ann Wilson is the Head SDA Cannibal.

I am pretty sure David Gilmour is dead, otherwise I would include him at the top of the Pyramid.

I see a “Heads Up” for terror leaders on Kauai, at Kauai Ranch.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mvD1FbguvKQ

https://twitter.com/BorisJohnson/status/1355937035362697217

=====

2-1-2021: 12:04 am:

https://twitter.com/ReutersUK/status/1356116332530589696

This one may be a tough sell. but:

I suspect the recent Game Stop, Robin Hood, and that other outfit, and, the recent Hydrogen Explosion at the Food Prep Factor, are what is mentioned there in the Tweet from Reuters UK. I further suspect that both incedence of false stories were generated by Google (Twitter) as a way to distract from reality, while maybe making a few Bit Coin at the Canadian run fake nyse, nasdaq, forex, and pink sheets.

So, with that background, and with focus on Google, the Reuters UK story winds up at Amp Guru on Kauai for more “Heads Up”, perhaps in a Google direction rather than an Island Paradise direction.

Shell is in the Oil business, not power trading, not hydrogen power. The inclusion of Hydrogen by Rueters UK (SIS MI6) is suspicious of even more than a heads up.

My read, is one of association to Boris Johnson and the Hannah Island idea, where you already assume that there are some police type folks hovering around at Amp Guru in order to make the connection to Lord of the Flies, where there is a character called Piggy, who finds a giant Conch Shell on the beach, and the Conch becomes very important to the young people trapped on that island where Lord of the Flies took place.

Reuters UK picks up a Conch Shell, points it towards Google, and begins to blow, like a good nun sister should when things are looking down at the Ranch.

They are blowing the call of the Pig, not just any Pig though, it’s an Island Paradise Lord of the Flies pig. A wild boar pig head on a stake, and is sacrilegious. Reuters UK (SIS MI6 nuns) says two messages with a single blow.

The Conch could be pointed at SAG Writers Guild also. They are equally evil, are the people who crafted all of the Time Warp terror, and much more.

========================================

7:04 pm:

now is a good time to mention that dead terror soldier from last night’s walk to the mailbox:

As I gathered my coat, put on my shoes, and got a flashlight (I am starting to use the flashlight when I take a walk, it’s that bad here. Those who know me, know that is really bad), the terror bastards at Chartrands, Chapmans, Monroe’s, and Strong’s terror cells, were listening to the sounds that can be heard with a number of small hidden listening devices they planted in and around my home, and in addition to the implanted microphone transmitter that was installed into my jaw in 2011 by the terror army at a routine dental visit.

They were already in position, as it got dark outside, knowing that I make dinner about that time, and that I will be busy in the kitchen, not watching the front door or windows as I have been doing non stop for about seven, or five years... a long time it’s been that I must stay near the front door to defend against the intruders who get keys to my house from the Josephine County sheriff.

So they heard me getting ready to go get the mail.

I heard the terror soldier as she arrived on the front porch, so, “Siri... Power Down... Android... Power Down“ I said... the sounds I make, all of the words I speak, are received by the local terror army. So, about 30 seconds passed, and then I heard the magic words from the from the front porch while I had my ear to the door... “you turned off my comm” was spoken by the terrorist bitch at the front door.

I opened the door, and standing there was a terror soldier wearing the Pixel Suit electronic camouflage technology. Only her feet and the “Trident” was visible. The Trident is a three bladed sword that straps to the wrist of the terror soldier.

“Freeberg! Your ass is mine...” I said.

I proceeded to defend.

“Ooof” said the terrorist bitch as the Trident was thrust through her head.

“You have to pay extra for the Ooof” I said some more, as I lit my lighter a lot on my front porch.

The terrorist bitch launched away, landed beneath my yard light about 150 feet away.

I walked over there, then decided not to go near her, as the Trident was stuck in her head, and she was rolling around... the terror bastards can kill you even after they are dead. So, I went to check on the frozen heating unit in the backyard, and by then, I had forgotten that anything happened, the nitrous gas with medazolam does that, makes you forget what happened five minutes ago.

I went to the mailbox, and that is when I saw Jay Freeberg’s truck going towards 535 Jackpine, however, it looked as if the truck kept going passed the Freeberg terror cell at 535.

The rest of what happened was written last night with the fake Carpenters Union mail.

Assessment is Jay Freeberg, General of the Terror Air Force, is dead.

Further assessment includes that the Pope terror cell: “Green‘s of Olde Three Ply” at the Vatican Choir HQ at Kauai Ranch in the State of Hawaii, learned that I was killed, when reality is Janice “Jay-Bob” Freeberg was killed. The Vatican Choir needs me dead or otherwise silenced before mass murder terror commands on Twitter can be done, because they all know I can read their command orders they present on Twitter, so, the Pope account thought I was dead, and that triggered that Mass Murder Pope Pirate terror hit to be launched, it’s a repeat, that one has been Tweeted before, I read it the same way before, the terror bastards know that particular Tweet, they know that it’s a command to March on a plan to kill parents, and take children captive for training as terror soldiers of the future, and for use as sex slaves, and the strongest among the children are used as experimental surgery “specimens”, in preparation of the goal, where the terror leaders created slave people surgically customized to perform tasks with ergonomically designed equipment and machinery that they will become “extensions of the machine they operate”.

What I am saying includes that today’s Twitter time line from major news media network “Verified Accounts”, was also triggered to release many pre-recorded Tweets about “Opening the schools” and “Assisted Living Facility” news items was rolled out, among other “Institutional” controlled environment locations where victims will be exterminated like insects in a jar. Many of the women taken as slaves, men all killed or used as “experimental surgery specimens” and the children captured as mentioned.

All because Jay Freeberg was killed in defense on my front porch, while national security was jacking off.

Joe Biden is not going to acknowledge any terrorism in USA. He will stay with the Russian Mother of all Hoaxes story lines, about Iran, Syria, Russian interference and China as the enemy.

The Joe Biden Team works for the Pope, Amp Guru, and the One Hour Martinizer, he is told what to do, when and how to do it, by British House of Lords.

US Congress is not going to help to stop any mass murdering in USA or anywhere, it’s their job to maintain the Pirate Ship, and to make sure that any national security, US Military, or other public safety personnel all wind up in a bottleneck trap, are gassed, captured, tortured, killed and replaced with Canadian look-a-like replacements under direction from SAG leaders under direction of Nancy Sinatra.

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0 notes

thistlepath · 7 years ago

Text

stuff about Aggy

this is for that meme i rebloged a bit ago, i was asked to answer “all of them” for a character of my choice. this is gonna be kinda long.

What is your OC’s favorite color?

Dark purple :3

Does your OC collect anything? What do they collect?

No, he’s not very materialistic and hasn’t had much of a chance to collect anything anyway.

What kind of things is your OC allergic to?

As a Carlec he’s automatically incapable of eating plants or dairy without getting really, really sick if that counts.

What kind of clothing does your OC wear?

Basically pink pygamas and a cape, that’s just how Carlec dress.

What is your OC’s first memory?

A vague memory of some kid being annoying and him scratching their face way back when he was about 7 or 8.

What’s your OC’s favorite animal? Least favorite?

Favorite: their version of turtles, he thinks they’re cute and they like to eat his /least/ favorite animals.

Least favorite: it’s a tie between a type of fish that enjoys trying to eat kids that fall into rivers and a type of beetle that enjoys trying to eat dead, dying, and/or injured unconscious critters and people.

What element would your OC be?

Fire, i think. He can be destructive and horrifying, but also helpful and fun :D

What is your OC’s theme song?

Hmm… there are a lot of them XD

maybe i’ll post a list later.

Do you have a voiceclaim for your OC?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D5m_W31hDeU

He’s jeremy.

What deadly sin would best represent your OC?

Wrath. Definitely wrath.

What are your OC’s hobbies?

He likes to make dye, dance, and rip the legs off of beetles :3

How patient is your OC? How hot-headed are they?

That depends, most of the time he’s /incredibly/ hot-headed, like murderer levels of hot-headed, but if he really, /really/ likes you he’s incredibly patient and understanding.

What is your OC’s gender / sexuality / race / species / etc.?

male. weird Carlec sexuality that most resembles a combo of bisexuality/pollyamory (i don’t know all the different sexualities and such, if there’s a name for that i’d be happy to hear it) but is basically the Carlec version of being straight. mountain/marsh Carlec :3

What foods does your OC like to eat? What are their least favorite foods?

He likes to eat beetles and large, winged insects. If you only count food he can eat safely, his least favorite food is turtle. They’re too cute to eat and he doesn’t like breaking their shells.

If your OC could have any pet, what would they choose? Why?

Probably a turtle, though an Alvean bird would also be pretty cool!

What does your OC smell like?

At the very beginning of the story: dried blood, mildew, and an odd acidic smell that builds up on Carlec when they’re unhealthy.

After a while of being outside and a nice change of clothes: dead leaves, dirt, and just a hint of blood.

How do they make a living? What kind of job do they want / not want? What is their dream job? What do they think of their current job?

Currently he doesn’t, he’s working to get his /freedom/ back, he isn’t getting paid. He wants to be a dye-maker like his mom once all of this is over, it’s been his goal since he was little. He /really/ doesn’t want anything to do with mining, he’s spent long enough trapped without sunlight and warmth, thank you very much. He also doesn’t want to be a hunter.

His current job is basically escorting an idiot and an old lady from point A to point B without them getting murdered, it’s fun when he gets to threaten people or fight wolves, but it’s mostly just walking around (at first.)

What are your OC’s greatest fears? Weaknesses? Strengths?

Hmm. the Carlec have this idea where you basically have to /earn/ having a soul, and doing stuff that makes their deity upset with them starts to slowly destroy their soul. Murder is one of the things that makes her angry, and he keeps getting put in situations where he basically /has/ to kill people. He’s terrified that by the time he dies he’ll be so far gone that he’ll just disappear. It doesn’t help that he’s almost entirely sure that if he /doesn’t/ fade away he’ll end up as some kind of ghost.

He also has a fear of deep, fast water :3

What kind of music do they listen to? Do they have a favorite song?

Carlec music is nothing like any human music i’ve ever heard, so it’s a bit hard to pick out different styles and such. He likes happy music being sung by groups, which sounds a bit like if you crossed a choir, a barbershop quartet, a bunch of purring, mewling cats, and a bunch of little birds together and had them sing pop songs.

If they came from their world to ours (if not already in our’s) how would they react? What would they do?

He’d be absolutely terrified. Our world is incredibly foreign to him and i seriously doubt people would have a very positive reaction to him. Plus, unless he ended up somewhere really warm and humid he’d likely get sick pretty quickly. He’d find some place to hide and then stay there, to scared to come out for anything but food.

What personal problems/issues do they have? Pet peeves?

Well. he just got out of prison and now has to babysit an insensitive, ignorant Alvean and a grumpy old lady, he’s convinced that he’s missing a chunk of his soul, his dad died while he was away and he didn’t have a chance to say goodbye, he’s constantly anxious and lashes out at people violently when startled, he feels incredibly uncomfortable in the center of attention but also feels like he has to be the most intimidating, loud person in a room to feel safe… the list just goes on.

He really doesn’t like being interrupted or asked stupid questions.

What kind of student were they/would they be in high school?

If the teacher was nice he’d be incredibly respectful and work very hard to do well. if they were a jerk (or he saw them as one) he’d be a rebellious little monster, seeming to do everything in his power to either get them fired or get himself kicked out of the class.

What is a random fact about your OC?

He wears his cape over his right shoulder to hide the lack of spines on his upper arm. He’s asymmetrical, something that isn’t too uncommon when Mountain and Marsh Carlec mix, but that’s still incredibly uncommon in the general population. He was teased for it as a kid and is still insecure about it.

What is their outlook on life? What is their philosophy / what do they think in general about living?

He tries to be optimistic, but a life of bad luck and being treated like garbage has kinda made that hard.

What inspired you to create them / how did you create them? Were they originally a fancharacter? What was their personality / design like when you first made them?

I was bored one day and ended up coming up with a scene of a token-evil teammate finding out their mom was super sick and trying to hide their panic and sadness from their team because their merciless, sadistic reputation needs to be upheld, dang it! And i wanted to draw it. I used a random generator to get the basic idea of what the Carlec look like (slender, delicate build..same height as the average human..reddish/grayish brown skin..muted black hair..very large ears..giraffe-like spots on arms and legs..large, brown/red eyes..colorful, modest clothing.) and made a ton of potential designs for him before eventually settling on one that’s very similar to how he looks now, just with smaller ears, more spots, slightly different hair, and a slightly different face shape. I never ended up drawing that scene, but i decided to keep him anyway. His personality started out as a manipulative, sadistic, just about irredeemable monster with the redeeming qualities of “he loves his parents” and “he /eventually/ cares about his teammates.”

Who is the most important person in their life? Why? Who is the least important to them (that still has an impact and why?

His mom. After the events that caused his issues she was the only person who really stuck with him. His village decided he was possessed and thus dangerous, his dad disapproved very vocally of his decision to become a maker instead of continuing his training as a hunter, and his best friend/fiancée eventually betrayed him. His mom never stopped supporting him and believing that he could get better.

Hmm. Aggy’s weird in that once he cares about you he /doesn’t stop caring/ no matter what you do, so i don’t know if his friend can be counted here? If so, then definitely her. She was one of two actually good things in his life, then she had him sent to a human prison for murdering a pair of assassins. That place was absolutely /horrible/ and it was probably the worst thing that could’ve been done for his mental health.

If she doesn’t count, then probably the first prisoner he ended up killing while in prison. That idiot trying to kill him is what set him firmly on the path towards what he is today, if that hadn’t happened the queen probably would have had him released years ago.

What kind of childhood did your character have?

A not very nice one. Way too much being treated like some kind of monster, too much of his parents arguing about him, too many former friends avoiding him, too many injuries, and nowhere near enough support, love and guidance.

What kind of nervous habits do they have? Do they stim? Do they have any kinds of addictions?

When he’s nervous he tends to swish his tail back and forth like an angry cat, and also often bites and chews on things when they’re available.

If those count, then i suppose so? I don’t know a whole lot about the subject.

Not at the moment, but he used to have a bit of one to this special drink the Carlec have at parties. It makes people more energetic and cheerful, then incredibly tired as soon as it wears off. The Carlec have a lot of parties, so most have at least a bit of an addiction to the stuff.

If they could choose their epitaph for their grave, what would they choose?

Hmm. he’d just have somebody else chose it if he could, but if he absolutely had to choose it’d be something along the lines of “i promise i won’t haunt you guys. Probably. I’ll have to think about it.”

Do they want to get married? Why or why not? Would they ever want kids? Do they have kids? Why?

No. he’s pretty much done with romance after what happened with his Ex. there’s a chance that someone could change his mind with enough time, but it’s gonna be difficult.

He’s not sure about having kids, but he doesn’t think there’s much chance of it anyway if he never gets married.

What is their most traumatic memory/experience? What is their favorite memory?

Most traumatic memory: his entire village turning on him and his best friend in the whole world not only not defending him, but making sure he gets punished even more harshly than he would’ve otherwise.

Favorite memory: this one’s more vague, it’s stuff that happened almost every day and kinda blurred together, but it was all equally amazing as far as he’s concerned. Waking up every morning, warm and safe in his comfortable, cozy home. Spending several hours making dye with his mother and laughing with her about how it had somehow gotten all over their hands and faces while his dad went out hunting. All the little things that he had to go without for so long.

If they could have one thing in the world, what would it be?

Freedom, of course.

Would they ever kill someone? What would someone have to do to push them to kill someone? If they would kill someone, why?

Hahahahahahahaha

Aggy’s got this thing, it happens sometimes to Carlec who’ve been through something traumatic, where he’s constantly on edge and automatically reacts to perceived threats with violence. It’s incredibly difficult to keep under control, and even when it is it often just builds up until they eventually snap and get even more violent than they would have otherwise. In serious cases the Carlec will seem more like a feral animal than a person, luckily Aggy doesn’t have it that bad but if things continue the way they have he’s gonna get there within a few years.

What social groups and activities does your character attend? What role do they like to play? What role do they actually play, usually?

He used to love helping with the music for parties, he’d play bells and sing.

How is your character’s imagination? Daydreaming a lot? Worried most of the time? Living in memories?

His imagination is a bit caught up with imagining horrible situations he could end up in, potential escape routes for every room he enters, and stupid nicknames for everyone he meets.

What does your character want most? What do they need really badly, compulsively? What are they willing to do, to sacrifice, to obtain?

To go home and be happy. That’s his main goal at all times, ‘make sure this goes well so i can go home’, ‘save [insert person here] so i can redeem myself so i can be happy’ etc.

He needs to hurt critters and fight people and kill things. He gets super anxious all the time, and that’s the one thing he’s found that helps him calm down.

He’s willing to do a whole lot of things. He won’t hurt anyone he cares about, and he’d prefer not to die, but other than that he’s pretty much gonna do anything to get what he wants.

What’s something that your character does, that other people don’t normally do?

Well.

He eats his food raw. He kills people. He torments small creatures. There’s a lot of stuff he does that most people wouldn’t.

What would your character do with a million dollars?

Use it to try to free one of his old prison-friends and then give him whatever’s left. Carlec don’t really use money.

What is in your characters refrigerator right now? On their bedroom floor? Nightstand? Garbage can?

He’s currently homeless and has no possessions other than the clothes on his back and a knife.

Your character is getting ready for a night out. Where are they going? What do they wear? Who will they be with?

Well, if he’s free to have a night out in the first place he’s probably home, so most likely some kind of party, his party outfit, and either his team or his parents. He doesn’t have many friends :D

What does your character do when they’re angry? Why?

Attack things. Make things hurt. Cause whatever pain he can in whatever made him angry. It makes him feel somewhat better.

Does your character have any scars? Where did they get them from?

Not really, it’s hard to scratch a Carlec through their scales, and it takes a lot of damage for an injury to show through them after it’s healed. If he were human he’d have scars all over from fights, running through dense forest, falling in a river and nearly dying as a kid, etc.

What was the most offensive thing your character had ever said?

Oh, that’s hard. Aggy loves to offend people, it’s one of his favorite hobbies.

How does your character react/ accept criticism?

That depends on both what’s being criticized and how the criticism is given. It could be anything from quickly accepting it and asking for advice to /literally/ killing you.

If your character was given a slice of pineapple pizza and they HAD to eat it (or something bad would happen), how would they react? Do they even LIKE pineapple pizza?

Well. almost literally /nothing/ on pineapple pizza is edible for him, so he’d react pretty badly. Whatever this ‘something bad’ is has to be pretty bad. He’d eat it, but would clearly hate every second of it and would get really, really sick afterwards.

Your character is given a voodoo doll of themself. What do they do with it? Do they see if it actually works?

He would immediately believe it was real and quickly hide it in the safest place he can possibly find.

Can your character draw? What do they like to draw? Do they doodle?

Not really, he could probably make little stick-figures, but that’s about it.

What were their parents like? How has that affected how they are as an adult?

Evr, Aggy’s mom, was very loving, supportive and comforting, she was his mentor and primary source of advice, help and positive social interaction.

Kven, his dad, started out the same. Unfortunately Aggy becoming ‘possessed,’ deciding to be a Maker despite clearly being a natural Hunter (that’s a huge deal to a lot of Carlec), and losing his cheerful, friendly attitude kinda messed up their relationship. He was usually either angry at him or ignoring him.

He doesn’t know Rili or Tin very well, they married his mom about two years after he was kicked out.

Does your character like candy? Do they get sugar rushes? What are they like when they get a rush?

The closest thing to candy the Carlec have is this super sweet nectar that they make into drinks or soak meat in, and it’s literally made to give anybody/anything that drinks it a sugar rush. When Aggy drinks it he gets even more jumpy than usual, but also super giggly so it seems like he’s having fun?

If your character was presented with imminent and unavoidable death/fatality, how would they react? Would they try to avoid death anyways? Would they try to make their last days count?

He’d be horrified and depressed, this means that he won’t get his chance at redemption or see his family again. He’d do everything he could to both prevent/delay his death and get home as soon as possible, desperate to see Evr again and at least say goodbye.

#oc #aggy #character development #answer #ask meme #scouts

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hemsworths-chris · 7 years ago

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i’ve been tagged in a fair amount of these recently, so i’m putting them all under the cut! if i’ve tagged you, you don’t need to do all of them - just the ones you want to do!

tagging: @meraudurs, @snowfawkes, @plantednotes, @jamesmorita, @spideyscnses, @mistletoelily, @ginnyweaslcy, @sasskingpotter, @bisexualbuckys, and anyone else who wants to do these (if you want to do them and weren’t tagged, just say i tagged you)

first off, i was tagged by @spideyscnses + @eddielupin - thanks for tagging me!

Rules: tag nine people with excellent taste

Color(s) I’m currently wearing: um it’s a school uniform so? navy blue and white

Last band t-shirt I bought: i don’t wear band merch, unfortunately

Last band I saw live: tbh? fifth grade, katy perry, but i’d kill to go to a fob concert!

Last song I listened to: arsonist’s lullabye // hozier

Lipstick or Chapstick: chapstick!! for functionality!!

Last movie I watched: captain america: civil war (no surprise)

Last three TV shows I watched: um? the late show with stephen colbert, riverdale, turn

Last three characters I identified with: sam wilson (kinda?), hermione granger (kinda??), um? i don’t really identify with characters tbh

Book I’m currently reading: strange the dreamer, by laini taylor

next! tagged by @bucksies - thanks <3

1ST RULE: tag 9 people you want to get to know better

2ND RULE: BOLD the statements that are true.

APPEARANCE: - I am 5'7 or taller - I wear glasses - I have at least one tattoo - I have at least one piercing - I have blonde hair - I have brown eyes - I have short hair - My abs are at least somewhat defined - I have or had braces

PERSONALITY:- I love meeting new people - People tell me I am funny - Helping others with their problems is a big priority of mine - I enjoy physical challenges - I enjoy mental challenges - I am playfully rude to people I know- I started saying something ironically and now I can’t stop saying it - There is something I would change about my personality

ABILITY: - I can sing well - I can play an instrument - I can do over 30 pushups without stopping - I am a fast runner - I can draw well - I have a good memory - I am good at doing math in my head - I can hold my breath underwater for over a minute - I have beaten at least 2 people arm wrestling - I can make at least 3 recipes from scratch - I know how to throw a proper punch

HOBBIES: - I enjoy sports - I’m on a sports team at my school or somewhere else - I’m in a orchestra or choir at my school or somewhere else - I have learned a new song in the past week - I exercise at least once a week - I have gone for runs at least once a week in warmer months -I have drawn something in the past month - I enjoy writing - Fandoms are my #1 priority - I do some form of Martial arts

EXPERIENCES: - I have had my first kiss - I have had alcohol - I have scored a winning point in a sport - I have watched an entire TV series in one sitting - I have been at an overnight event - I have been in a taxi- I have been in the hospital or ER in the past year - I have beaten a video game in one day - I have visited another country - I have been to one of my favorite bands concerts

MY LIFE: - I have one person that I consider to be my Best Friend - I live close to my school/work - My parents are still together - I have at least one sibling - I live in the United States - There is snow where I live right now - I have hung out with a friend in the past month - I have a smart phone - I own at least 15 CDs - I share my room with someone

RELATIONSHIPS: - I am in a Relationship - I have a crush on a celebrity (kinda?) - I have a crush on someone I know - I’ve been in at least 3 relationships - I have never been in a Relationship - I have admitted my feelings to a crush - I get crushes easily - I have had a crush for over a year - I have been in a relationship for over a year - I have had feelings for a friend

RANDOM: - I have break-danced - I know a person named Jamie - I have had a teacher that has a name that is hard to pronounce - I have dyed my hair - I’m listening to a song on repeat right now - I have punched someone in the past week - I know someone who has gone to jail - I have broken a bone - I have eaten a waffle today - I know what I want to do in life - I speak at least two languages - I have made a new friend in the past year

tagged by @redapplesredpandas for this next one - thanks!

Rules: Using only song titles of one artist/band, cleverly answer the questions and then tag people.

Artist/Band: fall out boy (their song titles are incredible)

What is your gender: she’s my winona

How do you feel: dead on arrival

If you could go anywhere: twin skeletons (hotel in nyc)

Favourite mode of transportation: reinventing the wheel to run myself over

Your best friend: one and only / miss missing you

Favourite time of the day: eternal summer

If your life was a tv show: honorable mention

Relationship status: the patron saint of liars and fakes

Your fear: i've got all this ringing in my ears and none on my fingers

last one - tagged by @weasleytheking, thanks!!

name - sandhya

gender - female

sign - sagittarius

put your itunes on shuffle and name the first five songs that come on

i. feel it still // portugal. the man.

ii. sweater weather // the neighborhood

iii. believer // imagine dragons

iv. for elise // saint motel

v. location // khalid

grab the nearest book and turn to page 23. what’s line 17?

"When he first came to the library, he’d thought surely he would find answers here.” (strange the dreamer, by laini taylor)

ever had a song or poem written about you?

not that i know of

when was the last time you played air guitar?

i don’t think i ever have??

who is your celebrity crush?

gOsh um sebastian stan, chris evans, emma watson, seth numrich

what’s a sound you hate?

metal scraping on metal

do you believe in ghosts? or aliens?

not really?

what is the last book that you read?

kindred by octavia e. butler

do you like the smell of petrol?

i’m relatively neutral to it?

what was the last movie that you saw?

captain america: civil war

what’s the worst injury you’ve ever had?

i fractured a finger once, but that’s the worst i've gotten

do you have any obsessions right now?

marvel!!

do you tend to hold a grudge against anyone whose done you wrong?

i’ve kind of got a 3 strike system? like if you wrong my once, twice i’ll forgive you but if you wrong me one more time i will hold a grudge for the rest of eternity

in a relationship?

does boba count,, yeah it does

#tag game #about me #txt #not hp #personal

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dunmerofskyrim · 7 years ago

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When I ran from the people-eaters in the glassgarden, I had no sense where I was running. Away, to quiet, to solitude. Guts eeling inside me, but I felt eyes from everywhere though I saw no faces, no living souls. Only the shade of a racer or two, hanging above on open motionless wings, too high to see if they saw me. Still it felt like accusal.

I found my way across rooftops of rough-faced clay and into a deep gutter between one building and the next. Overhead the noonday sun in a white and grainy sky, but to either side of me only the shoulder-high guttersides. I was hidden. I threw up in gagged silence. Made myself retch long after my belly was empty of all but bile.

The feeling had me entire, then, body and brain and all. That I needed to be rid of what I’d eaten — what I told myself they’d made me eat. And I told myself I couldn’t have known better. Still I felt I should’ve had some sense: a wrongness, even before it all came clear. But all I’d thought of was my hunger, and the savour of stew and spices. And perhaps the hope that this was other than as cursed a place as it seemed. That maybe there was kindness here, and community. Something like civilisation, or at least settlement, in seed if not in shoot and stem.

I looked at the red mess I’d left in all my retching, though. And some beast and bird part of me still spoke up and said: Waste. It had passed teeth and tongue and throat and known the inside of me. What difference did it really make if I threw it back out after? It had touched me. Was I changed? I was still hungry. Worse even than before. That dark part of me wanted to take it back. It wanted not to have run.

The gutter sloped down a little. All this while I had grit my boots against its sides for purchase. Saltlick stains from rains gone by marked its coarse-tiled channel. Detritus too. Drowned half-rotted racer plumes and scraps of draggled cloth. Twigs unthatched from nests, I supposed, and the small bones of things that had lived and died in these rooftops. But I looked down the way it flowed and saw it fed down into an alley. One of the narrow ratways that made up the understory of Dyer’s End. Black iron staples laddered down the side of the fall.

I followed the gutter’s flow down, and down into the alley, the underbelly, where I searched in the shadows and overhang of Dyer’s End, hungry and hollow as a ghost.

In the days that followed I found glints of luck at the roots and in the branches of that forest of stone, claybrick, crumbling plaster.

Scorching open the rot-warped wood of a cellar hatch, I got inside and set fox-mad among the dusty jars and shelves collapsed long ago from damp. Up in the shop above, a weaver’s, where the cloth had gone to mould and tatters. But below I found a jar of black gram, and another of dried fruitpeel, rich dark halves of dried apricot, a pair of laminate bracers in resin the blue-black glistering colour of wet ink. I gorged myself on the food; strapped on the armour. I had no aketon now, no sword, and any protection was better than none.

Just as well, I found. That day I ducked into a scragged thorny patch of overgrowth to hide as I heard voices. It covered half a square I’d found in the Dyer’s End underbelly, where I knew the old well with its green copper bucket still gave good water. I lay on my belly, knife in one hand, wand in the other. And through the brush I dared a few small glimpses of the mer who came to draw from the well, same as I had.

They were each of them lean and bandy built, but bundled and draped in fabrics. Long shawls, belted at their waists with sashes of faded silk in the blue and green of the ocean, the rabbit’s blood red of black tea. Spurs jutted out from the toes of their low and manytime-mended boots, I reckoned to help them climb. Clever. One wore their hair long and off-black down their back in a tail bunched with ties of fabric every handslength down. The other was Bosmer, with earthenware skin and bugshell-black eyes, and wore a fringed turban wound about his head, a small ragpack on his back. He carried a sickle – the Morrowind rice-farmer’s sort; a shaft and slight-curved blade like a carrionbird’s beak where a hatchet would have its head – while the other had a soot-blacked shortsword, and dishlike buckler hooked to their belt.

They spoke a dialect thinner than the eaters in the glassgarden. Sometimes a turn would come that I couldn’t follow, or else that seemed strange, too far from literal for me to work out. But I caught the greater part of their talking.

Would they have enough, they wondered? Enough for the Lord of the Stilts. Six strides of roughcloth and two of fine. A gull nest; the soupmaking sort. A knife. Fine if you clean off the rust. And the books? Depends what’s in them — might be worth a cup or two, but then again maybe not. It would be enough – so ran their verdict – but not enough for much.

I was left wondering: Much of what?

They turned away and down an alley. The pack on the Bosmer’s back began to squall. It was a baby. What did that omen? That there was hope to be had here? Or only that there was a place more pitiable to be born and be a child than the Grey Quarter of Windhelm?

Next day, I hungered again. I tried to keep from working magic, for fear it would render what meat there was still left on my bones faster than going half-starved. Something will always be eaten. Those were my mother’s words, and perhaps they held with more than just calling fire. So I went unwashed. I suffered the dark after close of day. But when I needed fire – to boil gram, or to light the spitting stinking pine-pitch torch I used to see by while searching buried places – the sparks to kindle the flame I needed came always from inside me. I didn’t know how to make fire with flint and steel or rubbing wood. I had never needed to before. To this day I still haven’t learnt.

Read and understand, I was no great worker of spells in those days. I could call a dim bleak light to see by. Could ask fire from things that would burn; call smoke and heat from air and stone; and shape and strengthen what other flames I found extant. I knew cantrips I’d bought on scraps of paper for coppers from witches in tents in sellsword camps — to clean myself and ask water if it were clean to drink. And, over two weeks, I had muttered and chanted, dry-mouthed, a mantra that perhaps hastened the heal of my wounded side, or at least had dulled the pain from it.

I’ve since learnt healing charms, purgations, and bindings from the libraries of the Indoril. I’ve worked in a siege-choir with a dozen other battlemages to call fire from the sky to sunder walls and topple towers. I’ve learnt wards to weave the air and turn arrows of iron and steel from their flight. I’ve studied the rites of the Temple to name and weigh and rest the dead. And more than that, I’ve turned my ken to harsher arts than would be lawful to admit to or explain here.

But even then, going without magic day after day felt like a dimness at the heart of me. Like I lacked more and more of what before had been bright and keen and clever in me, and was living beastlike and so becoming a beast. And as I killed a rat with a thrown roofslate and was thankful to the point of glee for the spitted meat, it was easy to believe that what I felt and feared was true.

I’d not eaten rat since the Winter of my fourteenth year. A sickness had come over the Quarter. Rockjoint. My father had it and it kept him from work, and kept food from our bowls and fuel from our hearth. My mother, my sister, my father and I — we almost froze and almost starved. And when Soraya was quick enough to catch rat, or cat, from the Rigs or the Gulleybottom of the Quarter, we were grateful and hateful for what had become of us. But we had one another. Who did I have now? The growing savage self I hid from, and the voices and footsteps and strangers’ shapes. I hid from them as well.

#TES #Morrowind #Dunmer #Simra Hishkari #SH Forth and Back #SH New Canon

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cruxius · 7 years ago

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sorry for the pda i need to make a gross friend appreciation post

@cascifers you’re one of my closest friends and being able to meet you was one of the greatest experiences of my life. i know im emotional and probably sometimes really hard to deal with, but youve stuck by me so far and its made me a lot happier than i would be if you werent in my life. what we’ve made together makes me happy, but our friendship means a lot more than that to me. youre attractive, funny, and you need to stop being so hard on yourself. i wish i knew how to effectively help your more negative moods, but until i figure it out, ill be sticking right by you. I love you.

@sketchfirstthendray youve done so much for me and i dont even know if you realize it. from being around to text to being on call with me as i fall asleep to ward away paranoia to giving me gift art doodles for no real reason, youve never failed to make me smile in some way, shape, or form. youre beautiful and god i wish youd send me more selfies, you’re drop dead gorgeous. your girlfriend is extremely lucky and im sure she knows it, sin twin. i hope you continue to stay in my life and you keep bugging me at early hours in the morning. its also really refreshing to speak to someone that wont judge any kink ever lmao-- I love you.

@katamaridamaci ren, we’ve known each other for a long time now and i’m so glad we’ve kept in touch. your stories and your characters are wonderful, and as your style changes little by little, i love seeing you grow. you make me laugh nonstop and your shitposts never get old. your ocs hold a special place in my heart. meeting you was awkward at first, but that was just because i was so nervous. i loved exploring a convention with you while wearing a kigurumi, and the fact that you actually went to my birthday party despite living so far away dumbfounds me. youre adorable with vi, and i wish you two the best. i love you.

@coloredkittykat999 seeing your art improve so quickly is motivational, you have no idea. we havent known each other super duper personally for so long, but getting to know you and your characters better has given me a better understanding of you and ive never been so inspired to be a friend of yours! the things you make are so full of detail, and your ocs are really likable. the times we’ve called before have also been really fun, and i can say for a fact that you’re very attractive! i hope we can talk more, for how long we’ve known each other, you mean a lot to me. i love you.

@ghostcups ghost oh my gooooooood. i wish we could’ve met while you still lived closer, having you move so far away broke my heart. much like kitty, your art has improved drastically over a short period of time and i’m amazed by it! i get really upset when i see youre upset, i know what its like to feel like that at your age and i wish i could take those feelings away from you. youre an amazing person with a wonderful heart and the motivation to keep making wonderful pieces of art. keep creating, i support you 500%. i love you.

@busheti hikaru, you’re the closest person i am to in real life despite us only speaking to each other fairly frequently for less than a year. god, youre the only shit that t o l e r a t e s me. youve provided me comfort and support that i cant give myself, and im forever in your debt. youre talented as hell and it makes me really salty, but i keep wanting to support you actively anyway because your will to draw inspires me. youre extremely handsome and i wish you had more confidence in that. thank you for being there for me, in class, and still now. i love you.

@articulatecreator jay my god. you’re talented, gorgeous, your voice is heavenly, and your talent makes me super envious. despite all of that, instead of just being bitter and trying to avoid you, it’s attracted me to you and im honored to be someone you consider a friend. youre wonderful and emotional like me and im so happy i can connect with someone on so many things, even choir. i love your concepts, your aesthetics, your art, your voice, aaaaagh. i wish i could meet you, dork. thank you for being here for me and getting closer and closer to me. i love you.

@sinful-rainbros sym you mean too much to me for me to forget you. meeting you was a brief thing, but i regret none of it and it was so much fun. youre such a nerd about a few things and its adorable tbh, like how you care about your books so much or how you worry about your horse. i wish i couldve spent more time with you, thanks for the brownies. we’re also similarly bitter in the same ways, like we’re somehow related or connected or some shit. connected at the mind. also youre gorgeous and you cant say otherwise fuck you. i love you.

i love all of my other friends too, if i didnt write you something here, it doesnt mean i care about you any less. this has just all been on my mind and i wanted to share it. its like,,,,,,, 4 am.

#pda #friendos #cro #sketch #ren #kitty #ghost #jay #hikaru #koi speaks #long post #sym

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hoverbun · 7 years ago

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soulstolen

fandom: league of legends character(s): vladimir, elise, karthus, brief appearances of leblanc and katarina ship(s): vladimir/karthus synopsis: After the Harrowing, Vladimir feels haunted. word count: 5394

The mist clings to his lungs, infecting his too-human self with an otherworldly infestation. The ghost of claws rest heavy on his throat. The haunting has stayed, deep within his bones.

The Black Mist is not a single collective hivemind of thought and instinct - it is a mass of shifting souls, rolling from the split seams of the veil shrouding the Blackened Sea and the islands that exist beyond. It knows where its cold hands have not been, roaming the land with a coveting, searching urge in its cold grasp, tainting the untainted with a mystic corruption.

To many mainlanders of Valoran, the Black Mist is a Bilgewater sea legend, cursing the sailors who foolishly trust the ocean and the mysteries it keeps. It does not often crawl over the Empire of Noxus, chokehold presence curling its iron fist over its people. It had been a long time since the Harrowing came to Noxus - to live it is to feel the wind drop cold and to see the coastline grow eerily steady against old docks, still water lapping against pilings.

The sky goes dark, first. Then, the wind picks up.

The capital was split, like a skull over marble’s edge. The poor districts beyond the city walls were gutted, slain corpses left on scratched wood - unwanted by the isles’ savage culling, their souls harvested whilst their bodies were left to rot. Bodies are not needed - corpses mangled and torn by spectral weapons left in streets and homes. Noxus is built upon mountains that never were, and the walls that divide the city from its poorer districts kept the legions at bay.

The skies remember how the mist stained the city black. The following days feel raw and abraded, like the waking period after deeply dreaming. To see Noxus, in all its talk of glory in death and pride found in bloodshed, take pause after a massacre of its own people - it briefly, fleetingly, amuses Vladimir.

He was among the living left standing. The taste of death lingered in his mouth. His veins felt empty, a haunting air drying him of blood, essence, and life. Haunted.

His body felt hollow, like his skin had been cut and nothing bled from within, coursing down his arms and limbs in thick rivers of red. His blood grew thin and chilled his bones - the absence of warmth had never bothered him until the mist had loosened its hold over him and dragged itself away, across the continent and back to the blackened islands it came from.

( He does not dream often when sleep manages to find him, when the night is no longer restless and his thoughts recede for one evening. But now he dreams of long bones for fingers, skeletal palms over his wrists and throat, roaming his body and holding him. Searching for where his life beats within him the loudest. Searching for where it may draw him out. It’s never cruel, and it’s never violent - roaming and searching, a careful touch, a slow caress. )

Documentations regarding the Harrowing and the lands from whence it came are rare to find - there are old texts, though often they are untranslated, as well as belonging to nobility he has chosen to separate himself from, - those nobles of Noxus keep them for novelty reasons, something to brag about, something to fill their libraries and vaults with ( he doesn’t like the people emilie introduces him to. they pry, more than nobility with their own secrets to hide should. but they can't ask about the blood under his nails if they can't see it. ).

There’s a song sung in the back of his mind, something like a melody he wants to memorize, hymnals that have the right kind of wrong threat woven into their fogshrouded promise. It caught him and curled itself into the back of his thoughts, heard in the rumbling horde of the Harrowing.

“Do you hear singing, Emilie?”

Emilie LeBlanc offered him a glance, curiosity cut clear over her sharp features, until her interest waned. She always responded to her true name when it came from him - the matron’s title she had bestowed upon her however many years ago need not to be spoken. “The Kindred cult are in the streets. Do you mean them?”

While there is singing among the followers of Kindred - who walk winding streets as dusk settles over Noxus and sing for those lost, cleansing the streets of the lingering haunt of the Harrowing - the song he hears is more chilling, more slicing . Gouges in the skin that don’t bleed the way they must.

“No. Something else. It’s far away.”

“Then I don't know. You're imagining things, Vlad.”

Of course she wouldn't understand.

( my song is not for her. it is ours. )

The Kindred choir songs are meant to finalize death, close the eyes of the lost and carry their spirits away. Vladimir wonders why they do not revel in the captivating mysticism of the un dead, life beyond life.

He never expected to witness a Harrowing. Either he'd hear of its effects on a neighbouring state - from outlying city states and factions not yet assimilated by the heavy boot of Noxus, to their neighboured kingdom Demacia ( flawed and unpolished as it is, of course it is susceptible to the ravaging spirits from the west ) - or have it kill him before he can breathe its rotten air, tearing his soul from his body like a dissection, swallowing him whole and taking millennia of hemo magic knowledge with it. It was abrupt and sudden, as death often comes.

Vladimir feels a great weight in his bones, exhaustion that feels heavier than the insomnia he is well acquainted with.

“Maybe you're traumatized,” the General’s daughter offers, clicking her tongue like the scrape of her heel on stone, a blade tucked alongside her wrist, cutting the skin, bloodletting the insult. “Scared because you could’ve died.”

“Probably.” He's very curt with the people he's meant to charm. Emilie has told him he blunders through conversations quite often for a man who carries himself the way he does.

“That isn't very Noxian of you, is it?”

He slouches against the stone, looking over the aggregating buildings of Noxus, the fortress’ walls serving as an imposing divider between the recovering city and the untouched beacon of Noxian integrity. A chill ran through the Immortal Bastion, passing through them both like they were stripped of their flesh with exposed flayed bone - curling wisps of wind dancing against exposed marrow.

When it waned, it felt like the fleeting touch of a lover.

He has a single book open, split at the spine over a desk. There is so little to learn. Most accounts of harrowed lands and roaming spectres are tall tales from the shores of Bilgewater, passed along countless tongues and across waters like stones on a lake - finding their home on an empty sheet of paper. Vladimir questions how many sea tales have their merit anymore, if they ever did at all.

( He finds a story of a warlord, a once feared tyrant of a land before Noxus, but he doesn't consider it useful. )

Sleep won't take him. He thinks he's going to die.

It is -

( beautiful. consuming. intoxicating. to feel the caress of death for the first time - )

comforting.

He does not seek council with the High Priestess often.

Elise circles the parlour, her personal finery untouched from the invasion. The walls are tall, silkscreen drapes over wide windows shrouding the ugly Noxian sun. She had acknowledged his entry with a full smile and outstretched arms - when he sat himself without a word, she continued her movements, rigid and held together. She’s anxious as well, but he won’t acknowledge it, for her sake. It’s unbecoming of her.

“All of Valoran is susceptible to the Harrowing,” she states to him in a passing breath (because of course he’s come to discuss it with her, he knows where her pilgrims follow her to, kept in close council with every person who can speak the names of the Black Rose without feeling dread peak in their stomach, breathing in the sinister purpose of the order like they could the once familiar air of Noxus) when her gaze is swept outside an open window, the low breeze harbouring a cold memory casting itself inside. “But I never expected it to come to Noxus.”

“Not while you are in its service?” Vladimir suggests, head lowered, dark eyes on the steel that plates his fingers. Pretending to play Noxus’ courtly games is so tiring. He is so tired. He wants to sleep.

“Its influence has reached Noxus already.” Vladimir does not look at her, but he knows her gaze is on him. “It is not widespread . But it has taken root. Has something angered them? Drawn the attention of the Isles?”

The wind that rolls through the salon grazes his skin with a draining touch, the lingering dread of a stretched horizon etching itself into Vladimir’s bones. Death lingers in the air, from the rising filth in the almshouses turned crematoriums for the countless dead in the capital, to the presence of spirits hanging in the very parlour Noxus’ elite meet in. The memorabilia and religious fixtures Elise had carved from Vilemani skulls seem to rattle and hum with an elegy of the Shadow Isles, carried upon the wind.

He can hear her steps on the marble. She stands to his left, arms curved and crossed over her chest. It is now that Vladimir offers his cold eyes, hollow and bone white with dark rings under swollen lids. His tone is steady and his body stiff. Peaceful sleep has not reached him in years, and he will not show wear of such effect now.

“Maybe they’re questioning you,” Vladimir suggests, tersely. Elise’s stare is cold, and so is his. She speaks slowly, deliberately.

“If She was to question my capability, I can assure you that I would not be standing here.” Elise’s tone carries the haunting echo of a woman who knows what she risks. The price she has put on her life is tremendously high. He respects very few people. A person who knows her death is so easy to reach yet stares it in its eight eyes is one of them.

Between them is a glass table, low to the ground and framed in brass. Elise sits herself across from him, long legs crossed over another, and watches him carefully. Her eyes feel heavy over him, a weighted gaze that looks to split him apart and find his purpose. Skin from bone. He knows that trick too well.

“Has it taken its toll on you?” She asks, watching him through her lashes.

Vladimir looks at the skull behind her. “There's a song.”

“Have you been sleeping recently, Vladimir?” Emilie asks. For a moment, he wants to tell her he doesn’t sleep - apparitions of the Shadow Isles haven’t change this.

He keeps his eyes down, on the silver curled around the tips of his fingers. Emilie clicks her tongue, and leans farther back in her seat, one leg over another. She knows him, and he knows her - as well as she’d ever allow someone to know her, anyway - and because of this, she lets the edge settle back into her voice, and her curt tongue is sharper. “You’ll terrify everyone if you let yourself walk around like that. You look dead.”

Vladimir still doesn’t respond. Emilie drops her hands into her lap. “Vladimir.”

“Yes?”

“Pay attention to what I’m saying.”

“I can hear you fine,” he says, lifting his head and staring at her. His eyes feel heavy and his gaze isn’t steady but this isn’t new , he’s never slept well and he spends many of his nights restless and awake - the exhaustion that has taken over him that is worse than any insomniac episode is what pulls on him, drags his body to the earth and tries to bury him beneath it.

“I want to see it.”

“See what?”

“The Isles.”

She doesn't show the way her thoughts pause and her curiosity piques, or the way her heart beats twice and the light in her eyes is interest over concern. The game Noxian nobility plays is an interesting one - all who participate know that no word spoken is genuine, yet speak to one another with the same heartfelt concern as any other.

“ Why? What purpose do you have there?” There is no back support of the seat she's taken. Elise leans herself back anyway, away from Vladimir, away to watch him.

Vladimir responds by leaning forward, hands curling to loose fists and resting his chin on his flat fingers. He thinks of the empty wind through his windows. He thinks of the way death washed itself over him. He thinks of a song that he has never heard before but can't get out of his head.

“It's calling to me.” He wonders what the shoreline will look like. “When you went, did you have any reason beyond an insatiable curiosity?”

Her silence is consuming, turning over the request in her head like she'd turn a stone in her palm. Nothing subtle, nothing hidden in code or court talk, nothing she can't understand. He lies about many things - who he is, where he came from, who he's killed - but his intentions are always clear, like the hour after a morning fog. “I only deliver disciples of Vilemaw to Her lair. Are you asking to be converted, or are you asking me to deliver you to your burial?”

He smiles. She thinks he wants her God. “I only ask you guide me.”

If she knows he's lying, she's better at hiding it than he is. “I will organize a pilgrimage.”

The air shifts when he breathes in for the first time. The ocean salt fades - familiar and tepid, like the roll of water - and Vladimir can taste death in the air.

The stale rot in the sickly warm air roots itself among the coven of hooded acolytes, rolling dread cast over the shoreline the same way the fog does. Elise carries herself with a determined clarity, too comfortable in the way the wind rolls over her shoulders and the howling silence consumes the island. She is in long dark robes, ceremonial in purpose - dark regalia laced and lined with spider silk hemwork, etching where the cuffs drape down her forearms and curl in the crook of her arms.

He wears a hood to match the mass of acolytes at her heels. The unsteady caution of the isles roll up behind him - skeletal hands that curl like the wisps of fog around his ankles seem to hang over him. He’s urged along.

He’s welcomed inside. He’s awaited.

Vladimir looks to Elise, who smiles to herself as means of routine - the island knows her, and it allows her to walk easy through the mist, bowing to her presence by dissipating. He wonders how it will speak to him. He, too, is willing , as she was, however long ago.

His heels sink into the dirt, damp from a receding tide. Elise turns her head, glancing down at Vladimir, and waits to see his apprehension. She finds none. He knows she’s watching.

“The temple is a means away,” she states, spoken to those who draw their attention to the macabre surroundings of the isles, and also unto Vladimir - he knows what lies within the temple she details. He offers her a look, one that turns her lies over in its hand, considering. She smiles at him, threateningly. Do not jeopardize this. You are not my priority .

Death rolls around them as they embark within the beaten paths of the island, paths framed by flora that hangs between consuming life and peaceful death. The sky is dark, a low moon shrouded by clouds that seem to curl, domed over the mass and its priestess - closing in, winding them tight, crushed between the star-barren sky and the cold, lifeless earth. Flowers that bloom with dried petals hang at their feet. The taste of rot reaches their throats. Vladimir breathes in, and Elise knows that reaction too well.

He steps on something that cracks. Fallen oak branch, or forgotten bone - it’s a sound that resonates an eerie serenity within him. He considers, for a passing moment, he should not find peace.

The song keeps singing to him. It’s louder here.

But it does not come from a spider’s web.

It is then, that Vladimir also considers he is not here to submit himself to the altar of Elise’s sacrifices. It is not in him to stop her, use the knowledge earnt through secondhand gossip passed among the elite of the Black Rose to halt her pilgrimage and spare the lives of her congregation. Even if he cared, found it in him to consider the lives of humans deserving of whatever self-sacrificing mercy he could possibly find within him, they’d die at the hands of the island anyway.

It’s buried into his skull. Death that sounds like a melody. Luring and lulling and pulling him along. Like hands at his sleeves, only nobody is there, clawing at his wrist and taking him where he never feared ( he’s never feared death. it has intrigued him, kept him wondering, but never wanting, never longing. its new hold on him is exhilarating. ).

She knows he steps away when the footsteps over familiar dry earth lose their even rhythm, a pause in the congregation behind her. Elise turns herself around and searches for the dissent, and grits fanged canines when her most interesting catch is gone . One of the women she had brought steps to her left side, passing a glance upward.

“Should we search for him, Your Reverence?” it comes low, and pulls her from her consuming thoughts of budding rage . Elise’s eyes find the ones of her attentive disciple, looking through the fear she tries to bury beneath her skin. The island is cold, and the fog passes through her bones, no matter how she swallows down the anxiety swelling inside her.

Her gaze is sharp. “No.” Elise steps further into the shadows. “The island will claim him soon enough. If it doesn’t, I will find him myself.”

He is filled with the exhilarating feeling of getting away with something he shouldn’t be doing. Every step into the eternal darkness that hangs over the isles, foot over blackened earth, fills him with invigorated excitement. Vladimir does not know where he is running. He hears the sighs of spirits, echoing through the trees and calling for names he cannot recognize, long forgotten by the waning memory of time.

Some sound like his name, but he reasons it's the delirium reaching him, mesmerized by the holy ground he has found, anticipating it awaits his arrival.

He’s breathing deeply, sharply inhaling and exhaling heavily, looking across a horizon that closes in to find the meaning of why he chose to come. Vladimir realizes he hasn’t a single idea what he is meant to do with the death he breathes in, lightheaded on the rot clinging to his lungs and throat. His arms are stiff at his side.

There’s a fog over the islands, not unlike that which had ravaged Noxus, hanging heavy and shrouding the horizon and the lands long beyond it - the water that rolls against the shorelines pull mist from over the ocean, pulling it around him, trapping him with cold air flooding his lungs. There is a wind, and it blows low, close to the ground, passing through the fabric of his clothes. Shapes move within the fog, and the spirits take notice of him.

He’s never been much of a person , but unfortunately, he is alive. Life brought to the Shadow Isles calls upon the attention of the dead.

With a low roll of wind, he comes - a wraith that follows the curling mist, long limbs that hang without use above the rotting earth, eyes alight with the cold glow of a haunted harbour - Vladimir sees no iris nor pupil, nothing within the armoured priest but icy decay. He is unsure if something wills him to stay, or if fear (once thought dead, only dormant) has rooted itself inside his bones. The spirit narrows its glowing eyes, and approaches Vladimir.

Clutched in one hand is a staff. Ceremonial in its own purposes. It resembles nothing of what the spider priestess shares with her coven. He considers running, but the wraith’s free hand is at his throat.

The skeletal hand gripping the frame of his jaw feels like a cold knife, lingering presence of hanging, long dead flesh over the curves of each finger with sharp clawed talons for nails. The wraith has no need to breathe yet exhales vulgar death over Vladimir, eyes void of human spark and lifelingering meaning, leaning in to stare into the white irises of his painfully ( unwillingly ) human shell. He's being watched with an interest that terrifies him. Vladimir feels pulled apart, picked through by death itself, life drawn out of him.

It's instinctive to bring a hand up to the hand clutching him. His own wraps around a thin wrist, and only feels the curve of bone beneath it, wrapped in tattered red cloth. He doesn't push. The spirit pushes his nails into Vladimir’s flesh regardless.

His voice is cold water underneath winter’s ice, lingering on vowels and dragging them through the space between his rotten teeth. It sounds like a voice that didn't die with the rest of its host. “Why are you here?”

The grip doesn’t, can’t tighten. Vladimir knows this. But the tension in the bone feels as if his hand longs to. “I fled a coven, dedicated to one of the spirits on these islands-”

In all of his life, Vladimir is thankful his voice can remain clear when he is lying. He can’t look away from the miraculous sea-green of the priest’s eyes. He fears if he does, he may perish.

“I was drawn here.” The words feel strange around his tongue. He never believed in the common faiths of Noxus - he never found comfort in their words. He doesn’t consider himself faithful now. Following the desires of death doesn’t accredit to any newfound piety, he believes. “Surviving your Harrowing inspired me.”

Death’s grip recedes from him. His talons pull away, leaving pressed lines where they gripped Vladimir’s skin, a cold touch that is not replaced with warmth, but he still misses it. The haunting within Vladimir keeps him still, rooted in the grasp of perfect death. The sea-green is captivating.

There's a slow blink that covers those eyes boring into the bones of Vladimir’s face. The wind howls, and the spirits that hang off him sigh. His feet won't touch the ground, and he continues to stare at Vladimir, whose legs feel rooted and dug into the ground, held down by decaying life. He seems to be considering something.

“It has been a long time since the living have come to meet the dead.” ( He speaks, recalling a memory. ) “For most, your presence is unexpected. Yet…”

He seems to lean leftward, against the sceptre he now holds in both hands. “The presence of a hemomancer - is that what you attempted to do moments before?”

Vladimir nodded. His voice was like a song through a glass hallway - loud and echoing and hollow, a voice of a thousand different lives culled and wound into one. It was captivating. And a little beautiful.

Those eyes, filled with an unholy light, seemed to brighten with anticipation. “So it is you. It was I who left the spirits to sing you my song when I departed your land.”

“Who are you?” a deathsinger was in the old writings he found, but the already little information had even less on this one-

“I am Karthus,” he said, with a smile less sinister, more sharp , with an unknown threat that has Vladimir captivated. “and I have been awaiting you, hemomancer.”

His heartbeat lulls, stilling in his chest - his blood turns to ice when Karthus’ voice rolls through him, a choir wound together in one haunting breath. The voice is familiar in the way the night sky is - ever present, hung over his head with reminders and omens stretched across, holding him hostage in a place he never thought to be. It sounds like a threat, something to scare him - and he's never trusted anyone, and he still doesn't, but maybe there is a way to sate the song in his head.

“Have you,” he tries, flippant, trying to keep as wary of a gaze he can.

“The power present in your nation’s capital could only belong to one person,” Karthus responds, smile as simple as if this is how it was meant to end. “I longed to meet them.”

“You could sense me.”

“Certainly, this capability of mine is not surprising . I knew of men with powers alike to yours in years past - to show an interest in hemomancy’s remaining sole practitioner is a rational desire.”

He is less hackled, posture once more impeccable and hand raised to his own face. He is familiar, but not in manners that Vladimir could name him at any other time - it is the way he is clothed, the insignia across his pauldrons and affixed on his hat. This isn't much different from the robes worn by priests of the Kindred - he recognizes them from Noxus.

“You came once you heard my song,” Karthus speaks again, with a knowing note to his choir of voices, a smile he would not believe residence of these isles to posses. “You are with the coven that passes this island.”

“You know about them,” Vladimir says, and thinks on the fury that must burn through Elise. She can kill another noble, if that's what she wants. He doesn't care, but won't give her the satisfaction either way.

“Their purpose is not a secret here.”

“Their priestess might come looking for me once she's killed them all.” She can try to kill him. “She wouldn't be currying favour with anyone here if she kills your guest.”

Karthus’ laughter is soft, wisps of souls once were curling around air that never was. It has a melody to it Vladimir wants to follow.

“Perhaps I may prevent her from harming you with my purpose of calling you here.”

Vladimir looks at him, directly. The wasting skin, the bones of his face rounded - he has never thought to stare at a lich. “And what is that?”

Karthus touches his throat.

Her mind drifts and her thoughts are distant when she pulls herself from the ritual, venom of the Vilemaw rolling down her curled fingers and over her cupped palm. The hall of the temple is silent once more, with no bones being cracked or silk being pulled, and no whispers of her disciples and final sobs of life. She stands as the final woman above corpses, the offered vials presented to her by the beautiful immortal Goddess she covets life for lined up on an altar bed. Elise does not enjoy this offering.

The vials are placed in a rucksack her last standing apprentice once held. Leather bound and older than the girl who carried it - Elise remembers countless girls before her, and there will be more girls that can replace her. All she can hear is her own breathing. She took no pleasure in this ritual, for a presence remained on the island that she could not account for.

She does not speak to the wraiths, spirits and spectres here. She has no need to. She is certain they are aware of her, and she is certain her favour with the arachnid god buried deep within the islands is what protects her from whatever wrath or curiosity would lead them to her. She never stays for longer than she must. She never searches, never travels farther than the temple she needs to be at.

Her gown is still perfect, silken robes rolling in the cold and gentle breeze that greets her when she steps from the temple’s once sealed doors. Those bodies will keep Her sated for many months to come - wrapped in the webs She has weaved, cocooned in silk. Elise keeps her gaze ahead, steady, narrowed. The wayward spirits that linger in the air like lost whispers croon around her, speaking to themselves in sighs. She is always fulfilled when she leaves, feeling the imperfections of her skin wane and her vision become sharper. She feels alive among the dead.

Vladimir is still at the forefront of her thoughts. She admits this is the most thought she’s ever given about his wellbeing, and saying it like that is far too generous. She knows he has chosen to bury himself within the isles - he wouldn’t be stupid enough to try to escape on the boat they arrived on without her.

Petty, yes.

But not stupid.

He knows he can’t get anywhere.

She can hear the rolling waves against an old dock distantly, water no longer following in a lazy river - and in between the whispering spirits and the dark, murky waters, she can hear something else.

“If you’re going to kill me, you should be quick about it,” she calls into the aether, her long legs coming to a halt. “I do not have time for your dramatics , Vladimir. I am awaited back home.”

The silence remains. She pauses, and then continues walking, head high and without visible care for his antics.

“Are you angry that I tried to kill you?” she asks to nothing, knowing he’s there. “I would apologise, but you should have seen it coming, my dear. At least we have reunited. Walk with me, we will return-”

She stops when he appears. Immediately, it seems to be that he appears from nowhere, but her eyes are sharp once more, and caught the mist sweeping upward from the earth below them, like the trail of fog around her was Vladimir following her. Elise stares and shock strikes her, looking between his lurid and sickly skin and the desecration of the hooded garment she had given him for their pilgrimage. His hands are not particularly human, and the shock turns to fury.

“Where did you go -”

“I didn’t come here for you, don’t give yourself so much credit.” It’s still him, with that agonizingly dry voice and the nasally drawl to every vowel, she knows it - even with the airy tone that echoes his taunt. “You were my method of travel.”

“Who did this to you?” it’s an appalled command more than it is concern, with Elise gritting her fanged teeth in slow boiling rage. “I know who resides here, Vladimir, and I know what they are capable of, as well as how they take lives-”

“He didn’t say.” He’s lying. He’s infuriating. “He offered I join his choir. I enjoyed the idea of necromancy. This is more than what Emilie was trying to encourage in my meditations.”

An eerie realization dawns upon Elise’s face, and the way her eyes widen tells Vladimir just that. She does not darken, only stiffens her resolve. She frowns, and walks towards him, past him.

“Am I to leave you here, or are you going to figure out how you are going to explain this to Emilia’s council as we return?”

He’s quiet. At first, she believes he did not follow, and remained where they stood before. Then she wonders if it was an apparition, the isles toying with her mind as she leaves, prying into her personal concerns and pulling her suspicions forward. But then he speaks, and it sounds as if he is right behind her. Elise doesn’t turn around.

“I’m staying.”

“I will not tell anyone about this. Mostly because I don’t wish to explain where I went.” It was stupid to bring him here. “That Lich is terrible company, I hope you know.”

She turns her head. He stares at her, empty white eyes over wan flesh, the beginning of decay around his eyes where shadows and bruises were but hours ago. His jaw appears set, gritting his teeth that he’s lost his edge over her. Her own smile is insidious.

“I know everything about this place. You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

The wind catches her gown. He hears the distant lap of the ocean.

#league of legends #vladimir #elise #karthus #vladimir/karthus

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herbalzee · 7 years ago

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Get to know me tag!!!

Five Things You’ll Find In My Bag

1. headphones (always!) 2. at least 50 hair ties 3. a full bottle of perfume 4. free pens from like everywhere 5. lots of tissues lmao

Five Things In My Bedroom:

a fish tank! i love my lil fishies

shoe cabinet

a Moriarty (from Sherlock BBC) calendar of him saying “Miss me?”. I love it

a small yellow chair!

a color-coordinated bookshelf!!!

Five Things I’ve Always Wanted To Do In My Life:

learn sign language!

travel all over europe

write my own book

become a therapist

have kids!! and pets!!!

Five Things That Make Me Happy:

hanging with friends!!

listening to music, podcasts and ASMR

watching movies

doing artistic things?? idek what that means but like i love going to operas and theaters and taking aesthetic pictures and being creative, shit like that

talking, ranting, expressing my opinions comfortably, theorizing, brainstorming

Five Things On My To-Do List:

read books

hang with friends

write short stories- or write in general lmao

travel!!!

prepare for uni... i need to seriously do that

Five Things People May Not Know About Me:

i am passionate about psychology

i had an obsession with piercings and tattoos when i was younger

i had the yellow belt in karate when i was in practice

im very old school about silly things yet quite liberal about the serious stuff

im basically in love with malmo, sweden

Name?: zaina

Nicknames?: zee

Zodiac?: sagittarius

Sexual Orientation?: straight

Ethnicity?: middle eastern/ north african

Favorite Fruit?: mango!!!!

Favorite Season?: winter

Favorite Flower?: after a quick flower research, i found the soft pink spray roses and the blue hydrangea the most appealing to me

Favorite Scent?: vanilla! cocoa! banana-scented stuff (or generally fruit-scented stuff). old books!!!

Favorite Animal?: bees!! or just any domesticated animals honestly (that can be kept at homes or farms)

Coffee, Tea, or Hot Chocolate?: tea

Cat or dog?: dogs

Dream Trip?: a boat travelling all around western europe!!!

Number of Followers?: i dont really care about this stuff

What do I post about?: any posts containing message worth-spreading, funny content or aesthetically-pleasing stuff..

Do I get asks on a regular basis?: nope! so famous that i had to close my ask box

Favorite Band?: twentyone pilots, little mix, imagine dragons, coldplay, hey violet, abba (almost forgot them omg)

Aesthetic?: cinematography, animals and nature, books and libraries, literally anything vintage, multicultures, feminism and femininity. i cant think of other stuff but im majorly into art

Fictional Character I’d Date?: john bender from the breakfast club!!!!

Hogwarts House?: ravenclaw

Rules: BOLD the statements that are true for you!

APPEARANCE:

I am 5'7" or taller

I wear glasses

I have at least one tattoo

I have at least one piercing

I have blonde hair

I have brown eyes

I have short hair

My abs are at least somewhat defined

I have or have had braces

PERSONALITY:

I love meeting new people

People tell me that I’m funny

Helping others with their problems is a big priority for me

I enjoy physical challenges

I enjoy mental challenges

I’m playfully rude with people I know well

I started saying something ironically and now I can’t stop saying it

There is something I would change about my personality

ABILITY:

I can sing well

I can play an instrument

I can do over 30 pushups without stopping

I’m a fast runner

I can draw well

I have a good memory

I’m good at doing math in my head

I can hold my breath underwater for under a minute

I have beaten at least 2 people in arm wrestling

I know how to cook at least 3 meals from scratch

I know how to throw a proper punch

HOBBIES:

I enjoy playing sports

I’m on a sports team at my school or somewhere else

I’m in an orchestra or choir at my school or somewhere else

I have learned a new song in the past week

I work out at least once a week

I’ve gone for runs at least once a week in the warmer months

I have drawn something in the past month

I enjoy writing

FANDOMS ARE MY #1 PASSION

I do or have done martial arts

EXPERIENCES:

I have had my first kiss

I have had alcohol

I have scored the winning goal in a sports game

I have watched an entire season of a TV show in one sitting

I have been at an overnight event

I have been in a taxi

I have been in the hospital or ER in the past year

I have beaten a video game in one day

I have visited another country

I have been to one of my favorite band’s concerts

RELATIONSHIPS:

I’m in a relationship

I have a crush on a celebrity

I have a crush on someone I know

I have been in at least 3 relationships

I have never been in a relationship

I have asked someone out or admitted my feelings to them

I get crushes easily

I have had a crush on someone for over a year

I have been in a relationship for at least a year

I have had feelings for a friend

MY LIFE:

I have at least one person I consider a “best friend”

I live close at my school

My parents are still together

I have at least one sibling

I live in the united states

There is snow right now where I live

I have hung out with a friend in the past month

I have a smartphone

I have at least 15 CD’s

I share my room with someone

RANDOM SHIT:

I have breakdanced

I know a person named Jamie

I have had a teacher with a last name that’s hard to pronounce

I have dyed my hair

I’m listening to one song on repeat right now

I have punched someone in the past week

I know someone who has gone to jail

I have broken a bone

I have eaten a waffle today

I know what I want to do with my life

I speak at least 2 languages

I have made a new friend in the past year

Relationship status: single

Favorite color: purple, blue, green

Lipstick or Chapstick: lipstick!!

Last song I listened to: hard times by paramore

Last movie I watched: The Boss Baby

Top three TV shows:

(btw these three tv shows are the only shows ive ever watched and actually finished lmao)

BBC Sherlock

Clique

Yuri! on ice

Top three characters:

These are the ones that came to mind first, not top favorites

Sherlock (Sherlock BBC)

Todd Anderson (Dead poets society)

Savannah Karlsen (Girl, interrupted)

rules: copy/paste and replace my answers with yours and tag people :^)

a - age: 17  b - biggest fear: my actual biggest fear is too personal so im gonna say my second biggest fear: not achieving anything valuable in my life  c - current time: 3 am lmao  d - drink you last had: a peach detox lmao  e - every day starts with: checking phone f - favorite song: of all time or currently? ive never had an all time favorite but right now my favorite song is hard times by paramore (mainly the chorus bc its awesome)  g - ghosts, are they real: only the ones in our heads  h - hometown: a.d.  i - in love with: psychology  j - jealous of: productive people  k - killed someone: ...  l - last time you cried: literally yesterday.. m - middle name: dont have one  n - number of siblings: eins (one)  o - one wish: to be satisfied with who i am and what i have p - person you last called/texted: im talking to my friend on the phone right now as im doing this.. shes the one who so kindly guided me to these fun questions q - questions you’re always asked: “why are you so quiet?” “what major are you getting into and at which university?”  r - reasons to smile: youre very much well and alive!!

s - song last sang: i was having a fetus 1d songs marathon at like 2 am the other day so... definitely the entire up all night album

t - time you woke up: these days.. 12 pm, bc im tired and its my holiday  u - underwear color: ohhhh boi v - vacation destination: anywhere cold filled with warm people  w - worst habit: procrastination  x - x-rays you’ve had: the most recent one i remember is a chest x ray y - your favorite food: pasta  z - zodiac sign: sagittarius

post a screenshot of my lock screen, home screen, and last song played

RULES: Choose any three fandoms (in random order) and answer the questions. Then tag some friends.

I choose:

bbc sherlock

clique

yuri! on ice

The first character you loved:

ohhh, first was sherlock! then john almost 0.001 secs later

im pretty sure it was elizabeth. shes the cutest and i relate to her the most

probably Minako Okukawa, because shes so charming and funny

The character you never expected to love so much:

mrs hudson!!!!

louise!!! shes so smart and gorgeous and the least involved in the drama

yurio!!! i used to dislike him lmao but now hes my son

The character you relate to most:

molly hooper

like i said above, elizabeth!

ohh definitely yuri

The character you’d slap

john because sherlock suffered sooo much for him and opened his heart only to be abandoned because john is a naive idiot who still cant tell sherlock’s NOT a sociopath

SO MANY bc almost all of them did shitty things.. but the ones id slap right on sight are Alistair and the Steiner dude

ohmygod no, theyre all pure!! probably yurio bc that kid needs to love himself (but id immediately hug him right after)

Three favorite characters (these are in order of preference):

sherlock & john (one answer), mrs hudson, WIGGINS

holly, rachel, and fay (elizabeth and jude too)

the obvious trio: yuri, victor and yurio

A character you liked at first but not so much anymore:

mary lmao

alistair. i was a little suspicious of him but i liked him at the beginning bc he was cute and innocent. i HATE him now obviously

i love them all.. theres not a single one i dislike

A character you did not like at first, but they’ve grown on you:

ahahah mycroft

uh georgia

christopher and JJ (but now i love them both so much)

#about me

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rainygalaxynerd · 8 years ago

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Brave New World - Chapter 58

Warnings: Smut, finally.

Summary: The night before the boss fight.

Word count: App 2600

A/N: YES! I sincerely hope this lives up to your expectations. After writing 110.000 words I feel like I owe you some mix between Erica Jong and Shakespeare, but, alas, I am simply Rainy, your friendly Tumblr neighborhood wannabe writer.

This is part of a chapter story. Link to mobile friendly master list here.

Tagging: @jotink78 @fangirling-instead-of-working @kbrand0 @winchesterprincessbride @jencharlan @vibou25 @twenty-onepages @mrsjohnsmith @deandoesthingstome and @littlegreenplasticsoldier even though I know you already read it on AO3 <3

The girls looked at the two men sleeping in the single bed and turned to each other with matching grins.

Minutes later, Sam grumbled at them: “Are you done taking pictures yet?”

Giggling, they returned to their vigil over the elaborate hoax they were running.

Caitlin pursed her lips in thought. Her eyes widened. “You knew exactly what to say to me about the physical response to unwanted touches because you looked it up, didn’t you? You thought that was what broke your resolve and you looked it up and what you read made you think that pride was your problem?”

“Shut up. Just… shut up.” Dean turned the key in the ignition. “Put your seatbelt on,” he added gruffly.

Chapter 58 - First and Last

The Impala rolled into the parking lot. Dean left her running to listen to the final notes of Morrison’s Brown Eyed Girl.

“That song nearly got you killed.” He turned the engine off and leaned back in his seat.

Caitlin jolted at the sound of his voice. There had been no words between them since Dean had told her to put on her seatbelt. “How?”

“The night we met. After I dropped you off, I wanted to hear it. I couldn’t find the cassette. If I hadn’t spent ages looking for it, you would’ve left the building before the ghost got you.”

Caitlin snorted. “Maybe. Or maybe it saved my life. Maybe the ghost would have gotten me anyway and you would’ve been long gone.”

Dean shook a finger at her. “That’s… argumentative. You gotta stop doing that all the time. If I don’t have enough crap to feel guilty about I’ll just float away.”

“You wouldn’t.” Caitlin smiled and ran a hand across the dash. “You’d never leave your baby.”

Dean’s eyes widened. He looked at her with longing and sighed deeply. “Didn’t you get the memo where I left her in Tennessee for 6 months?”

Caitlin’s smile didn’t waver. “And then you came back for her.”

Dean shrugged and broke the awkward silence by opening the door. “We should get some sleep before the big showdown.”

Caitlin followed suit but stopped dead a few yards from their room’s door. “Should I switch with Sam or Charlie? I mean… are you sure you want to share a bed with me?”

Dean’s eyebrows rose almost all the way to his hairline. Then he scowled at her. “I’m not even gonna answer that. If you’ve had enough of my shit just fucking say so.” He swiped the keycard and went inside, not sparing her another glance.

Caitlin frowned, shook her head and followed him inside. “I thought we had established that I’m too smart to let you chase me off for my own good. That doesn’t mean I won’t respect your wishes if you decide you don’t want my company.”

“Whatever.” Dean dug into his duffel and pulled out a clean t-shirt. He pointed to the bathroom. “You wanna go first?”

Caitlin rolled her eyes, shrugged and gestured for him to go on.

After her bathroom business, Caitlin came back to Dean lying on his back close to the middle of the bed, one arm stretched out across her side of the bed in an open invitation. His eyes were closed but a tiny quirk of his lips belied his innocent act.

Sighing happily, she crawled under the covers and snuggled in close to him. Dean wrapped his arm around her shoulders and kissed the top of her head.

“Sweet dreams,” Dean said, hugging her even tighter to him.

“You too.” Caitlin smiled against the soft cotton t-shirt Dean wore, stretching her arm across his stomach, fingers stroking his other side, sliding lightly over his ribs.

Dean laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. That tickles,” he gasped.

“Oh.” She hastily removed her hand. “Sorry.”

“‘S okay. I forgot I was ticklish there.” Dean pressed another kiss into her hair.

Caitlin looked up at him. “That’s not where I want kisses.”

“It isn’t?” Dean raised his eyebrows in mock surprise, returning her timid smile. “Where would you like them, then?”

Wordlessly, she pointed to her lips and raised herself up on her elbow.

“And tomorrow?” The words came out rough and gravelly.

“We fight Roman. Then you tell me goodbye and I tell you to take care and come back if you change your mind.” Caitlin’s voice broke near the end but she held his gaze until he looked away.

“Okay.” Dean framed her head with his hands. “Okay.” He pulled her down for a searing kiss.

She ended up straddling him as he tongue fucked her. Moaning, she rubbed herself against his hardening cock. Heat spread inside her and when the icy ghosts of the past mixed with it, she simply opened her mouth wider and moved her hips faster. You’re not invited this time.

Dean’s hands roamed her body, his touches gentle and warm. He took hold of her hips and pulled her down, the friction between them growing harder. One hand wandered to her butt, gripping tight and encouraging her to keep up the pace. The other found its way under her pajama shirt, skimmed up her stomach and rounded over her breast.

When he rolled a nipple between his fingers, Caitlin gasped, her eyes opening wide.

Through the layers of clothing, Dean felt the tremors in her pussy reverberating against his dick.

“Shit,” she said when she found her voice again. “I… that was… wow…” She looked down at their still clothed bodies. “Gosh. I always thought coming early was a guy thing.”

Dean chuckled. “Don’t worry, it is. When guys do it they’re out for the count. You can go again if you want to.”

A slow smile spread across her face, her eyes lighting up with it. “I want to.”

He pulled her down, licked her lips, nipped at them. Her weight still settled across his hips, her warmth seeping through their clothes and into his dick and he bucked under her. He caught the hem of her shirt and pulled it up and off as she raised her arms compliantly.

Caitlin shivered at the kiss of cool air against her skin. She tugged at Dean’s t-shirt. “You too.”

Dean sat up halfway and pulled off his shirt. He grinned and grabbed her shoulders, twist and a burst of energy, and he hovered over her, her eyes wide in surprise, her hair spread over the pillow like a halo around her face. “Okay?”

She nodded, breathless after the sudden shift in perspective. No memories rushed her, no ghosts of badtouching trailed her skin. Just Dean, his eyes shiny, corners crinkling, white of teeth showing behind smiling, soft lips, all that coiled strength contained in freckles and scars, flush against every part of her.

Dean kissed his way down her body, the taste of her skin a little salty, overlay of the cheap floral scented soap in the motel bathroom. He went straight between her breasts, dipping his tongue teasingly into her navel, his grin widening when she squirmed and giggled. He tugged at her pants and she raised her hips allowing him to slide them down easily.

He slipped his own boxers off before crawling back over her, mouths meshing, a small gasp from her lips as his cock sandwiched between their stomachs, her fingers tightening behind his head, holding him close.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Please.”

“Okay.”

He reached for the bedside lamp, his pants miles away hanging over a chair, condom in the back pocket.

She caught his wrist in a gentle hold. “You don’t need it.”

“Not risking anything.”

“You’re clean, aren’t you? I am.”

“That’s not the only thing to worry abou-”

“-It is. Dean, I swear, it is. No surprise babies will come from this.” Her eyes looked even bigger and more round than usual, begging him to trust her. “I just want to feel you. You.”

Slowly, Dean let his hand travel back to caress her cheek. “If you’re sure?” He watched her blink back wetness as she nodded.

Eyes glued to hers, he reached between them and lined up. He didn’t look away, didn’t blink, as he slowly, so slowly, slid inside her.

She returned his gaze, teeth worrying her lower lip, back arching to meet him. No heavenly light lit up the room, no angel choir sang as Dean filled her completely. It shouldn’t be a surprise that sex was just sex, even with someone she had chosen herself.

Then Dean pressed his lips to hers, so gently, so warm and soft. It didn’t take any outside special effects to announce the feeling of rightgoodperfect lighting her up from the inside.

They moved together in a slow grind, neither willing to draw away from the other, only pushing closer and closer and closer and impossibly closer, breathing in each other’s air.

It wasn’t just sex. It was intimacy, it was closeness. Caitlin closed her eyes and savored the low tingle of arousal, their synchronized movements, skin on skin, feeling of muscles working tandem with hers, hot breath against her mouth, so full inside.

“I’ve got a problem.” Dean rested his weight on one arm so he could smooth her hair back.

She opened her eyes a fraction to see him smile softly, so different from his usual smirk. “Yeah?”

“Mhmh. I kinda wanna do this all night, just this. And I kinda wanna see how many times I can get you off. And I kinda wanna just really go hard, cause I ain’t never done this bare before and fuck, it’s amazing. Or maybe that’s just you, fuck if I know. But then again, I just kinda wanna roll over enough that I don’t crush you and fall asleep like this, inside you.”

Caitlin bit her lip, tiny crease on her forehead. Smiling, she said: “You have no idea how absolutely okay I would be with either one of those things.”

“Shit. I was hoping you could help me choose.” He rested his forehead against hers, their noses rubbing together lightly.”

“What about all of them?” She didn’t smile, couldn’t. After tonight, there were no more chances to any of those things with him.

Dean chuckled. “I’ll see what I can do.” He drew back a few inches only to drive himself back in. “Mmff fuck.” He paused buried balls deep and kissed her, her mouth and tongue all he cared about.

Talking while being kissed to within an inch of her life wasn’t easy, but Caitlin did it. “Dean, move.”

“Nnh. Can’t. I’ll come in ten seconds. It’ll be embarrassing. Worse than my first time. Don’t make me.”

Caitlin laughed and Dean’s breath hitched at the way it tugged at his dick. She kissed him back.

Dean thrust into her again and stopped with a moan, shaking. “So fucking good.”

After another lengthy kiss, Caitlin pushed at his chest. “Let me drive for a while.”

Dean pouted. “Gonna be a short while.”

“I’m sure you can score two against one if you make an effort.” She pushed harder and he rolled with her until she was astride him once again. Grinning, she raised herself up until only his cockhead was still inside, then sank back down slowly, clenching around him. When she couldn’t get him deeper, she ground her clit against his pelvic bone in tiny figure eights.

“Caitie, fuck, Caitie.” Dean’s face was scrunched up with the effort of holding back.

She did it all again, even slower.

Dean busied himself, touching her everywhere. He plucked her nipples, pulled her down to nip and suck each of them in turn. She moaned and gasped and he felt the echo of every one of those touches in her pussy’s grip around his dick. How the fuck am I supposed to last? He put a thumb lightly on her clit, rubbing in time with her movements and felt her tighten and tremble around him.

Dean spluttered and gasped for breath, his cock seizing through his climax.

Caitlin shook uncontrollably from the dual stimulation of Dean’s cock and finger. He came and she felt him harden even more and jolt erratically deep inside her. She followed him into bliss, muscles spasming, heart rate spiking, nothing but the sounds he made and the feeling of him inside her.

They kissed through the aftershocks. Caitlin pulled the covers over them and rested her head on his shoulder. They turned enough for Dean to breathe freely and both fell asleep before Dean softened too much to stay inside her.

Waking up the next morning, bed empty and sounds of Dean in the shower, Caitlin both appreciated and mourned not having felt the loss when he slipped out.

Charlie stretched and yawned and let her head fall sideways to rest on Garcia’s shoulder. “Don’t Roman and his gang ever sleep?”

Garcia raised an eyebrow at her. “Did your closet monsters sleep very often when you were a kid?”

Charlie stuck her tongue out at her. “Do not present me with idle speculations disguised as logic argumentation at this hour, heathen.”

Garcia giggled and put her hand to her mouth in mock surprise. “My gosh! You sound just like the angel with the dreamy blue eyes.”

From the bed, Morgan grunted in annoyance. “Please, ladies. Some of us still need beauty sleep.”

Garcia winked at him. “Jealous, Sweetheart?” She let her eyes roam up and down the vaguely human shape of him lumped under the covers. “And Morgan? Any more beauty sleep for you and even the sheep will jump you wherever you go.” She made a clawing motion at him. “Rrrrrrrarh”

Morgan pulled the blanket completely over his head. “‘m too tired for that shit.”

Sam blinked his eyes open. It was weird how he could still hear some sounds, sometimes even voices, distantly, but hardly ever any distinguishable words. He checked the clock at the nightstand and reached over to shake Morgan’s shoulder. “Wake up. D-day, G-man.”

Morgan clawed himself up to send Sam a betrayed look. “You disappoint me, Sam. That’s the kind of crap I expect from your brother. I really thought you were better than this.”

Sam smirked and shrugged. “I can’t hear you, agent.”

Grumbling to himself, Morgan got up and went to the bathroom, followed by the girls’ laughter.

Dean threw the door to the tiny room wide open, Caitlin a few steps behind him. He looked around, noticing Cas sitting at the edge of the bed, Sam in the process of smoothing back his hair, the girls still hunched over their laptops and Morgan exiting the bathroom.

“So this is it, huh? Team Slay Dick. The Geek Squad,” he nodded at Charlie and Garcia who both watched him with narrowed eyes, “looking hella fine, I might add.” He winked at Morgan. “Our very own black man in black.”

Morgan rubbed a hand across his eyes and looked at Sam. “I forgive you. I forgot how bad Dean’s attempts at humor are.”

Ignoring Morgan, Dean looked at Caitlin. “A real medic.” Finally, he met first Sam’s and then Cas’ eyes. “Seems like the original Team Free Will has grown exponentially in both numbers and talents.”

Dean raised his voice to address them all. “Okay, it’s time to get moving. Does everyone know what to do?”

Charlie and Garcia nodded. Morgan went to stand next to them. “I’ll make sure no one disturbs them.”

“I’ll come with you and Sam,” Cas said.

Dean nodded, had expected nothing less.

“Me too,” said Caitlin.

“What?” Dean spun to glare at her. “No, no, no, fuck no. And we’re not having this discussion again.”

“You’re right. We’re not. I seem to remember you agreeing to let me make my own choices.” Caitlin crossed her arms in front of her and stared at him with stubborn determination. She added, a bit softer: “You know I can hold my own in a fight.”

“And you know that the Leviathans are masters at psychological freak factor fucking fifteen. They’re just gonna mess with your head.”

She scoffed. “Because you’re such a healthy individual, no issues for them to use, right?”

Sam cut through their argument, his voice doing the weird echo thing. “We have to go. If she wants to come, let her come.”

Dean clenched his fists and jaws and swallowed against the horde of swear words threatening to escape his mouth.

Cas placed a gentle hand on Dean’s shoulder, a silent calming gesture as they filed out to the parking lot. “If Sam says she should come, it will be alright.”

#spn fanfic #brave new world #dean winchester #dean winchester / ofc #dean smut

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kog0ruhn · 8 years ago

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The End Pt. VI - Sixth House

The Sixth House had a bad reputation.

It was understandable, he supposed, but in all of his experiences with them it seemed completely unfounded. Every time Mange ventured into their lair, they were far more welcoming than their neighbors and hospitable to a fault. They carried themselves with dignity and poise, honored the etiquette of the old world, and were quite generous with their help. Of course, that was all on top of their rather bizarre behavior in private, settled in an abandoned mine with claustrophobic, black walls that reflected the bright red glow of the thousands of crimson candles that lined every passage, sat upon every outcropping, and adorned every rock. Ragged tapestries emblazoned with a jagged beetle emblem billowed in the cold winds that whipped through the winding corridors. The sound of bells, haunting and deep, made the very ground vibrate.

Red Mountain was the most average of the lot, a stocky Snapper glowing with liquid fire that evaporated as soon as it hit the ground. That one oddity made him a useful guide as he hobbled ahead of Mange, rocks and crystal crunching beneath his feet as he meandered this way and that in the labyrinthine passages. From the darkest corners of the lair, he could hear singing, a beautiful hymn that rang out like an angel choir. Snippets were spoken in a dark, dead language. The bits he understood narrated his arrival right down to every time he stumbled.

“Everyone else safe?” Red Mountain called over his shoulder. Mange snapped back to reality, answering with a dull, “Huh?”

“I asked if everyone else was safe. You said that Goetia’s lair is compromised. Is Bifrons okay? Ophie?”

“Y-yeah. Bifrons is fine. Ophelia’s fine. I hope, at least. When things went south, I sent Shatter to the council hall to deliver the news. Claws crossed that our esteemed high priest has enough common sense to know not to run into a demon’s den.”

“He doesn’t seem dimwitted. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

The further they walked, the warmer it became. Beneath clumps of bloody fur and his thick mane, Mange could feel his skin struggling to breathe, his tongue lolling out of his mouth in a desperate attempt to keep himself cool. The singing grew louder, Red Mountain twisted in what seemed to be a circle, and a soft orange glow bubbled from somewhere in the distance, brighter than any candle. Dancing on the walls, he could see the shadows of long, graceful dragons with massive, torn wings. He heard a flirtatious, girly laugh and knew what lay ahead.

“Lord Dagoth, we have a visitor.”

Red Mountain’s voice was calm, but the silence that followed was eerie. As the narrow tunnel widened into a large, lavishly decorated room covered in bone and silks, Mange felt what seemed like a hundred eyes fall on him. The hymn was now silent, everyone still, Mange trapped in a circle of towering Imperials. He stared at his feet and realized the rock beneath him was covered in vandalistic scrawling, messages of madmen and monsters and sigils he’d never seen.

When he worked up the nerve to look at his audience, he saw Red Mountain shuffling into the middle of their lot. Dagoth was nearly lost in a dark corner, gembond gleaming as bright as his red eyes in the flickering glow of an oozing pool of magma at the center of the room. Beside him, perched on what seemed to be a massive altar and surrounded by troughs of offerings, was his favorite wife, Kogoruhn. Her scales, once brilliant and gold, had begun to fade into sickening, pale colors. Her wings were alive with dozens of ruby red eyes.

She tilted her head and smiled, the least of Dagoth’s wives barely sparing him a glance as she worked to groom her “sister.” Another wife, seemingly drunk off of the bloodwine gripped in her talons, looked up from where she was flopped at their feet.

“Mange of Goetia, here to talk to you about a pressing matter,” Red Mountain continued. “He--”

“The demon.”

Kogoruhn’s voice was strangely even, perfectly calm. She turned to Dagoth and flashed a winning grin.

“The shadow of the priest, she stirs in the darkest night. From Arcanist’s mistake, weaving a tapestry of poison. Sing loud, Lord Dagoth, for she whispers our names on toxic lips. The un-dragon sees beyond sight and moves beyond boundaries.”

Mange blinked. He almost understood that. Judging from the look on Dagoth’s face--satisfied, curious, and smug--the Imperial knew good and well what it meant.

“As long as we’re all on the same page?” Mange offered with a weak smile. “I think?”

“Come for help,” Kogoruhn continued, craning her head down as the dragon grooming her reached for the tufts on her cheek. “Dark against dark, the black-red versus the consuming void. Come as a friend, for which we are honored. Are we not, my lord?”

Dagoth smiled wanly. Mange was still confused.

“Do I get to talk, or does she talk for everyone?” he asked, confused. Kogoruhn chuckled as Dagoth stepped forward.

“My apologies. Most of The Abandoned do not invite themselves into our lair.”

“Er, I-I’m sorry, it’s just--”

“No. No need for apologies. We are not angry. Kogoruhn is true. We are honored by your presence.” With a shake of his head, he nodded the least wife away. “Telasero, drinks for our visitor. If what your sister says is true, then we have a problem most pressing.”

Immediately, she dropped her comb with a clatter and scampered away. Kogoruhn nudged it toward her drunken sister with her tail, though she seemed less than thrilled about the idea of doing anything more than taking a nap. With a flick of her claws, she sent it sailing into the lava. A breathy laugh huffed out of her nose as she settled her head on the ground and shut her eyes.

“Kogoruhn will be quiet now. You’ve come to us as a friend, and friends of the Sixth House will know our mercy and power. What do you need?”

There was no hostility in Dagoth’s voice, but Mange found himself choked.

After Bifrons had left Goetia’s lair, he had heard Flauros as clear as day. She spoke in a language Grimoire had taught him, celebrating her freedom, taunting him that he was alone. Then, she listed the evils she had committed, every painful detail of the abductions, the murders, the possessions. The blasted creature even tried to explain her nature, but it was well beyond his ken. All he could translate is that she was bad, the whole situation extremely bad.

And the rest of Goetia? Gods, the mess. Bifrons and his mate were away and safe--fortunate, to be sure--but the only dragon he could save at the lair was Shatter. The Guardian had always hated Flauros, too dim to understand what exactly she was, so to see she had resisted her temptations was no surprise. Corruption and Azimuth, however? He had always had his suspicions about them, and now everything he feared was confirmed.

Flauros was to be Goetia’s undoing, but wasn’t that their problem? Standing in front of a patient, smiling Dagoth, he couldn’t help but wonder what exactly would come of asking for help. They had been the first ones he had thought of, saturated as they were in dark and forbidden arts. He became convinced mid-stride while fleeing that they, of all dragons, would know how to set things right.

But if he involved them, if they did decide to help, then Flauros...

“Fears unmaking, tongue tied by doubt. A heart of light whispering of branches growing from time, spreading outward toward sun and ash.”

“Huh?” Mange muttered as a bowl of wine was placed at his feet. Telasero bowed deeply before offering her husband a sip of her own.

“Kogoruhn’s calling you out for stalling,” the drunken Imperial on the ground groaned, rolling onto her back. “You’ve got yourself in deep and you’re having second thoughts about asking for help.”

“I, uh...”

“Because you’re concerned,” Dagoth finished, taking a lap of drink. “You’re thinking of how many paths our interference could take, and you worry we’ll be dead by the end of it.”

“Well, it’s about Flauros and--”

“Half-pint ghost dragon with an attitude problem. Yeah, we know her.”

The drunk dragon again. Dagoth scowled, glaring daggers at her as she lounged, snarling, “Falasmaryon, that is enough.”

“I’m just saying. We could take her.”

“No, you can’t,” Mange snapped, and his sudden brashness certainly caught everyone’s attention. “You think you can because every time you’ve seen her, she’s been contained in some way. Bifrons did it before me, and I have her chained with every ounce of magical know-how I have at my disposal. Or at least I did.”

“Did?” Dagoth echoed. Mange’s body tensed.

“Somehow, she’s... free. I-I don’t know how. I was asking Bifrons about it this afternoon, I sent for Grimoire this morning, and by the time dinner rolls around I’m hearing voices in my head and Goetia’s ripped in two. She can disconnect from her body now. She told me what she did. She--”

“Daughter of the warrior,” Kogoruhn began to sing. “Daughter of the matriarch. Gone, gone. Lover of the daughter. Gone. The tender of the gardens. Gone with his savior, erased from the annals of time. Gone is the gatherer, mourning is his wife. Far-traveler, flung from grace and haunted by ghosts, mad with purpose. Flown away, to darkness. Children, children, children. Gone.”

Suddenly, everything seemed uncomfortable. Falasmaryon raised her head, Telasero clasping her paws over her face in horror. Kogoruhn’s eyes looked moist, as though she threatened to cry. The expression on Dagoth’s face was stern, but otherwise unreadable.

“Who else?” he demanded of his wife. She choked and shook her head.

“Who else?”

“Many to come, two and seven by end. Twice dead, master yearning to be free. The one at the end of the one-three-and-three. Cliff-walker, far-seer, the one who draws with light. The one who met her once before, and fire bursting. The air, the energy, the one who gives it life. Oh, sister! Sister, no!”

She broke into sobs and collapsed, hands clasped over her ears. Mange was shaking. Dagoth was silent. Telasero and Falasmaryon eyed each other curiously, worriedly.

“This... is bad,” Telasero offered, her first words of the evening.

“I shouldn’t have come,” Mange replied. “I’m sorry. We should handle our own problems and--”

“From the sounds of it, she’s everyone’s problem now,” Falasymaryon quipped. Dagoth turned his attention to Mange and growled.

“How long?”

“What do you mean?”

“How long has she been awake?”

“A-an afternoon. Why? I didn’t catch a word of what that girl just said, and--”

“You have our aid.”

Mange blinked, Dagoth approaching him with a tentative but brotherly pat on the shoulder. The dragon’s hand was as big as his own head, and he swore he heard his shoulder pop, regardless of how gentle he was trying to be. Searching for some sort of answer, his eyes darted around the room before coming to rest on Red Mountain. The Snapper, equally clueless, only shrugged. What help he was.

“What did she say?” Mange demanded, glancing up at Dagoth and then at the sobbing Kogoruhn.

“That we should help.”

“I... I don’t think that’s what she said. What did she say?”

“That you need to leave,” Falasmaryon barked.

“I find that hard to believe. What did she say?”

“What does it matter? You have our aid,” Dagoth continued.

“But what did she say?”

“Go, Mange,” Telasero offered with a soft, comforting smile. “The Followers are charitable and their den is much more comfortable than our caves. Go to them, but do not go home. Worry not. We have you.”

Falasmaryon nodded.

“Until our dying breath.”

#fr lore #fr #flight rising #the end

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