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insane-control-room · 6 months ago

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catalyst

Transformation can be a wonderful thing. It can be a terrible thing. There must, however, be a basis.

ink demonth - exhibit

Base Game - during chapter 4 Rated: T Warnings: Non-consensual body modification, non consensual surgery AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58527871 Length: 1500

To be transformed is, generally, a mixed bag. Some individuals yearn for change, for shifting into something new, to match who they are within their soul. Others fear such a shift, a holistic destroying of what was before, never to rise again. And then, there are those who seek to enhance others, to cause that anatomical rebirth, forging something anew from the old.

There is an innate bond between the creator and the creation.

A vulnerability, the whispering knowledge that there is one that will forever know you better than yourself. The animator knew that well, the discomfort of his craft assuaged by the fact, or what should have been the fact, that their creation would never live in a way to be aware of its miniscule place in the world; of its sheer pointlessness - a cartoon.

No, it would never be aware, sentient of the futility to carve out for itself a new meaning.

That was how it was supposed to be, at least.

However, regardless if the creature was truly a doodle come to life, there were... other people irreversibly changed in this gaping abyss. The obsession with change and perfection made Henry uncomfortable, certainly, though as long as he was left alone, he was content. As content as a man in a personal Hell could be.

The prophet - seeking to change himself for the Demon, for his Lord. Eviscerated by his own ambition, comprehending his own desires too late.

The angel - seeking to change herself for herself, to become Perfection and thus destroy everything. Already thrice dead from her relentless pursuit of her own reincarnation, she continued with tools of iron and bleeding ink.

And the park maker...

The architect...

The octopus....

There was an unnerving, disquieting aspect to that silent ride as Henry entered the room.

Silent and overbearing.

The obvious trap was almost humorous what with how transparent it was, like a thin sheet of paper illuminated by a light table. Yet there was no way but forward, onward into oblivion. With a soft breath, a whispering wind in and out, Henry approached the slumbering giant. His hand reached for the audio player on the table (such a clear, unmistakable snare) and waited.

No, he felt no serious desire to actually touch it. On second thought, why bother? There was no need - he had his ax, the blade honed and sharpened to cut through metal. With ease, he could simply break through the door sealing him in this tomb. Resolved, Henry turned his back to the still sleeping hulk of metal and made his way towards the exit.

A nigh silent creak behind him had Henry gradually turn back toward the ride. There was not a single sign of any motion, however, not even a puff of dust. Apprehensive, Henry continued to edge his way to the door.

Faster than a viper, a leg of the mechanism shot forwards, whipping Henry in the back. It was sheer luck alone which kept him from slicing off his own hand. Breathless, and knocked to the floor, the old man was incapacitated swiftly, ax flung out of his grip. It embedded itself in a cart across the room, and Henry grimaced as he prepared to retrieve it. Now that the fight was inevitable, he had to defend himself or die.

Ended up being a pipe dream- or even, a dream for a pipe with which to fend off the arms that assailed him. Instantaneously, he was swarmed, an uncomfortable grip that lifted him clear off the ground. Eventually, he found himself tumbling into one of the seats, nauseated and off kilter. The brass bar kept him in place as he was dizzyingly pitched forward to the front of the ride.

The doors hiding that waterlogged face swung forward to greet him, Henry lurching back as it felt as though they were eager to crack open his skull.

"If it isn't Henry!" the hulking mass cried, the bloated head staring at him unblinkingly. "I'm so very glad to see you, old friend. Dear me, you look worse for wear!"

Henry did not reply, only stared silently back at Bertrum. The bodiless man's smile, that of an electrocuted man, did not fade.

"It's been some time since I've worked on an upgrade," the rideman mused, bringing Henry closer for inspection. "I doubt that I've gotten rusty, though. Let's give it a shot, eh?"

The arm holding Henry spun around rapidly, then twisted to the side- all the way upside down. It deposited him atop Bertrum's tape player as he tumbled out, knocking the device to the ground as he tried to scramble away and escape. To prevent that, the bars on two carts cinched tight over his wrists, nearly cutting off the circulation. A quiet grunt of pain escaped him, converted into a huff of air as he was slammed back onto the table. A screeching, creaking groan followed the table being dragged across the room towards Bertrum. The man smiled down at him, with that empty, blown-eyed gaze.

"My, time has been kind to you, hasn't it?" Bertrum murmured, a sort of delighted lilt to his tone. Henry kicked and tried to use his legs as leverage to escape, but the bars pressed tighter, pain lancing up the center of his wrist, skyrocketing up his arm to the nerves in his elbow. A half-choked whimper of pain, and he went limp (yet uncomfortable) in the pinching grip. "Your muscle structure appears to be in remarkable shape, and your stamina is rather unyielding from what I've seen. Yes, you would make a fine basis for a roboticized specimen."

Henry decided that he very much did not like what Bertrum was suggesting.

With a renewed effort, he attempted to break free vigorously, only to gasp with the sharp pain of one of his wrists fracturing under the pressure of metal winches. Horrified, his head swiveled to face the limb, seeing red oozing into his flesh- the burst vein seeping through his body. The nausea from before resurfaced violently, swallowing down the need to retch.

“It’s been quite some time since I’ve done this,” Bertrum hummed, raising another limb- and to Henry’s rapidly increasing horror, he saw the ax tucked between two carts. Without thinking, Henry desperately tried to escape once more. A cart pressed on his chest, pushing him back down, gradually winding him as it crushed his lungs. He gasped, feeling his ribs creaking under the force of pressure. “If you would stop squirming, Henry, it would be much easier for the both of us, you know.”

He tried to reply, but the cart pressed down once more and winded him. Then, he held his breath unwittingly as the ax pressed to his sternum, directly above his solar plexus. Oh, hell no. If there was one thing worse than a non consensual surgery without anesthetics, it was non consensual surgery without anesthetics by a man turned octopus ride with an extremely limited range of motion and practically no precision at all.

The ax cut surprisingly straight for those facts, tearing through fabric, skin, bone, and flesh with ease- just as Henry knew it could. Blood welled up in the cavity, spilling out over his side. It was both hot and cold at the same instant, the chills of blood loss shock hitting him- especially with his broken hand; and the lava-like warmth of his ichor. Henry ceased any and all attempts at escaping, understanding now that it was futile.

Bertrum used a corner of one of the carts to spread open the wound left, the bulky mass pressing now directly on Henry’s lung. It was electrified ice along his exposed veins.

A giant hydraulic made itself visible, gripped to the point of cracking between another pair of carts. Henry stared at it, unable to even muster any horror as the cloudy shock took over. The hydraulic was carefully placed at the space made in Henry’s chest, not quite a cavity- yet. The pressure of the metal entering his body was unbearable, forcing a space for a huge, heavy cylinder that did not belong in his flesh.

Bertrum, losing patience, slammed the cart onto the hydraulic. Henry’s vision went black as it jammed fully within his corpus. The ringing in his ears only slightly faded as the ax pressed against his arm. Henry was far too delirious in pain to fight as Bertrum slowly tore into each of his limbs, replacing the bones with those massive hydraulics. Blood splattered along the ground, pooling around the table. Henry could only hear the crack of his bones, the dripping of blood, his own heartbeat in his ears, his groans of pain, and Bertrum’s quiet humming.

Cut, open, hydraulic. Cut, open, hydraulic.

Eventually, each and every bone in Henry’s body was replaced. Against his will, he stood.

“Behold!” Bertrum announced to the void. “The animating automaton!”

The husk of Henry stood, without paper nor pen to draw with, a silent and unmoving exhibit forevermore.

#batim chapter 4 #bendy and the ink machine #control art #control draws #batim #henry stein #traditional art #bertrum piedmont #non consensual body modification #non consensual surgery #surgery #fiction

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tvkissercentral · 8 months ago

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I totally agree, but I wanna hear your personal defense of A/dam.

To be honest, I think Adam got so much hate because he was paired against someone like C/harlie, and I think it's very easy to want to side with C/harlie because of what she represents. C/harlie represents child like hope, optimism, and wonder, and, against her, I think it's easy to see A/dam, even with his boyish charm, as representing adult like cynicism. (Plus C/harlie defending the fan favorites).

But, it really isn't that way if you look at it from A/dam's perspective. Imagine you've been doing exterminations because you love the people in Heaven and you've been led to believe the people in Hell are like, the worst of the worst and are threatening Heaven's safety. Like yeah, if I thought everyone was pretty much all like V/alentino down there who were now whining about getting their just desserts, I'd also be singing Hell Is Forever and calling exterminations entertainment! I think it's unreasonable to expect A/dam to have that perspective changed by a few doodles, especially when C/harlie never gives the context of what her people are really like, just that they're her people, so of course she'll defend them.

To be fair to C/harlie, pushing her explanation off until the last minute could lead to pressure that doesn't make people good at explaining things (unintentional on A/dam's part), but she could have been bonding with A/dam that whole time instead of making annoyed faces at him, which probably would have helped A/dam understand her perspective more. C/harlie being impatient is her biggest character flaw, and I'll be interested to see how they address that in s2.

Plus, I think it's worth mentioning that C/harlie didn't present that well in court either (to be very clear, I adore C/harlie as a character, I think she has a great heart and means no harm, I just think, again, she often puts the cart before the horse). My biggest critique is that she picked A/ngel D/ust, but she never informed the court of the situation A/ngel D/ust is in, which stopped them from sympathizing with A/ngel the same way she or us the audience have. Even when A/dam and L/ute were making comments about A/ngel's career, C/harlie didn't give them the context of overlords or the fact V/al is an abusive piece of crap specifically that overpowers A/ngel.

Like yes, C/harlie doesn't know the full extent of it, but she saw enough at the studio that day to argue A/ngel is in a state of duress. Yes, the court did see A/ngel's conversation with V/al at the club but, without the context of how Hell works, to them it probably just sounded like two sinners having a power dispute, and they could have just thought the chain was a part of V/al's powers rather than an overlord thing.

It's ironic A/dam and V/ox ended up being such good friends in my and my friend's AU, because I feel like they both get hated on in the fandom for similar reasons. Mostly that people overly side with one character and refuse to see either of their sides of the story.

For example, I feel like people are so protective of A/ngel D/ust that any support for him outside of just outright "I love you and I hate V/al" is ignored and diminished. So people see V/ox putting on an act around V/al and, instead of noticing V/ox protecting A/ngel, people just latch onto the fact that V/ox wasn't yelling at V/al like "HOW DARE YOU HURT MY BOI, I HATE YOU V/AL!" to paint him as just as terrible as V/al. They also then ignore V/ox's obvious annoyance at V/al, and V/al literally throwing a glass at V/ox and breaking his phone, showing V/ox isn't safe from V/al's wrath either, nor is he in a great situation. Yet he risked his ass to calm V/al down anyway.

I think a lot of people forget killing sinners for those in Hell isn't that simple, and in V/ox's situation, even with angelic steel he'd have to make a plan so it couldn't be traced back to him (I doubt V/alentino is the only overlord he'd have to worry about in that scenario). So yeah no, V/ox isn't going to directly oppose V/al's actions for his own safety and he's not going to beat the jerk to a pulp or willy nilly decide to kill him because, if he does and it doesn't work, he's putting himself and A/ngel in way more danger than it's worth.

Sorry, I got very passionate there lol. My point is I tend to write things as less black and white, especially concerning those two characters, because I think putting yourself in their shoes makes a lot of their behavior make sense. Which isn't saying the exterminations were the right thing to do because I see people swing things all the way back around that way, but that A/dam's viewpoints on it were understandable if we dissect why he hates Hell and it's people in the first place. Which is why in my AU he's given a chance to see the truth and, when he does, it's a very quick turn around.

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mars-ipan · 2 years ago

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let’s be honest it was only a matter of time before i babygirlified an old man

closeups and (many) design notes under the cut :)

ok design notes time (these r mainly for the narrator bc. well. stanley has an actual physical appearance):

- while thinking of how to design the narrator i got the idea that he took one of the models in the audience for the ending where stanley gives a speech and edited it to make his “human” form

- because of this i wanted to include a bunch of little things that he “got wrong” during the process of mimicking a human. most of them get ironed out when stanley points out how weird they are but some of them stay

- to name a couple, his teeth are all flat- no canines or molars. also his little headset + glasses have nothing that actually attach them to his head. they just Are There. not to mention his interesting fashion sense of tie + turtleneck + blazer (he defends this choice no matter how much stanley laughs at him). he’s just weird enough to be slightly uncanny- it’s an imitation, not the real thing

- since i’m indecisive as hell he’s a bit of a shapeshifter. he actually doesn’t use his physical model in-game a lot and tends to just show up in things. shadows, reflective surfaces, screens, etc. even more often than that he’s just his voice

- bc he plays the guitar in the out of bounds ending i am now convinced that he can play many instruments. that little piano in the memory zone before the first review? yeah he’s there playing that in-game he’s just not visible to you

- designing his hair was SO DIFFICULT i literally went searching thru the tag for inspo and i liked so many different things. after a struggle (you can see a slicked-back attempt in the shadow idea doodle) i eventually decided on the style shown in his main drawing. every time i draw it i fight so hard to make it distinct from miles edgeworth. to make this easier the cowlicks aren’t too pronounced and the larger bang is more of a fringe. it still sometimes looks like miles edgeworth whoops

- some of my favorite fanon design things are the Line™ tie the square glasses and the little gay ass highlight so i knew i had to include them. those were my only definite choices going into this

- once again bc i’m indecisive the narrator can scale his model up or down as he pleases. he prefers to be bigger than stanley but stanley complains that it “makes his proportions weird” because he’s “short-coded” so sometimes he goes to a more human size.

- the narrator being stout just makes sense to me it’s correct in my soul (i actually think i drew him too skinny in most of these. i just didn’t wanna redraw shit bc i am tired but if/when i draw him again he will be less skinny)

- i wanted to work with shape language a lot because the narrator’s whole character is a voice- i wanted to make sure i captured the vibe of some stuffy old writer who has an undeniable silly streak. so he is squares and circles (his tie is the only triangle save for maybe the hair)

- for similar reasons stanley is squares and triangles. felt right

- speaking of stanley his soul patch is a goatee now bc i hate soul patches with a boiling passion. so now it’s a goatee

- i also gave him a little beauty mark by his right eye. i don’t know why i just knew in my heart that it was correct

- stanley uses asl and not bsl because i want to learn asl sososososo bad and this just might be the thing to get me to actually do it. he can project his thoughts to the narrator but he doesn’t like it so he almost always signs

#martzipan #the stanley parable #should i tag stannarrator. i probably should #stannarrator #fun fact this file is saved in my art folder as 'old man yaoi.png'#oh also i'm not fully decided on the colors i chose so these r more indicative of value than hue #ANYWAYS. hyperfixation go brrrrrrrrrr #i've drawn so many things for the first time in this. asl. a chin grab (it was so difficult to pose that btw i still wanna fix it). wrinkles #tbh still don't fully know how wrinkles work but i think i got it.#besides it would not be a human narrator design to me if it didn't have wrinkles #anywho. what if you and the narrative doomed... each other?#this was inevitable i am a sucker for mutually assured destruction #i deffo have fav doodles in here btw. those being the tbh the catboys and 'you wanna fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid'#what are they if not silly

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briarvalleyarchives · 2 years ago

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ʜᴇᴀʀᴛꜱʟᴀʙʏᴜʟ | part 2

╰┈➤ ❝ the realm of the queen of hearts; a world of wonder; often seen by those foreign to these lands as a place of madness. the queen who rules with an iron fist may pride herself on finding order within the chaos and purpose within a lack of sense. ❞

as things pre-school students have said

ᴀᴄᴇ ᴛʀᴀᴘᴘᴏʟᴀ

accidentally ignoring him [hc]

almost forgetting your birthday [hc]

feral!mc ready to defend their man [hc]

finding out you got brutally rejected

ghost bride!reader x survivor!ace [os | a.]

having a crush [hc]

sharing news of your grades with him [hc]

ᴅᴇᴜᴄᴇ ꜱᴘᴀᴅᴇ

adopting a baby chick together [hc]

falling into his arms [hc]

hitchhiker ghost!reader x civilian!deuce [os | a.]

when he accidentally kabe-dons you [hc]

ᴄᴀᴛᴇʀ ᴅɪᴀᴍᴏɴᴅ

because every artist needs a muse [hc]

feral!mc ready to defend their man [hc]

finding doodles of him in his crush's notebook [hc]

finding out you got brutally rejected

imposter!cater x skeptic!reader [os | horror]

leaving a kiss mark on him...and how long it takes him to realize [hc]

under the mistletoe with him [hc]

ᴛʀᴇʏ ᴄʟᴏᴠᴇʀ

almost forgetting your birthday [hc]

finding doodles of him in his crush's notebook [hc]

ʀɪᴅᴅʟᴇ ʀᴏꜱᴇʜᴇᴀʀᴛꜱ

being re-incarnated into a new world as the bad guy [s.] [part 2] [part 3] [side story]

frankenstein monster!riddle x assistant!reader [halloween series | a. | os]

his proposal to you [os]

ignoring him to take care of grim [hc]

with an mc who can mimic voices [hc]

with an s/o that blends perfectly into any shadow [hc]

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daintyduck99 · 2 years ago

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Aaaaah too many good prompts!!

"none of what you said made any sense, i can't believe they have you this flustered." for rulie? because honestly I could see that being either of them.

Reggie is so screwed.

Hell, he only knows about the quiz because Kayla tipped him off, and he doesn't need to flip through his notes to know that they're basically useless, obscured by doodles of a curly-haired angel with a gap-toothed grin. He racks his brain, but he can't remember what they've been covering. Some new kind of verb?

He only remembers the way Julie's fingers had brushed against his when she handed him his pencil, the soft glow of her eyes in the afternoon sun and the violent case of butterflies she'd set off in his stomach.

Reggie groans at his lunch.

"I'm gonna fail Spanish."

Luke pats his cheek. "That's ironic, buddy."

"What—why are you misquoting Avatar The Last Airbender at me?"

Bobby snorts as he peels his orange, glancing at Reggie with a quirked eyebrow.

"Maybe because the girl you're half in love with is effortlessly fluent. Just a thought."

He blushes, letting out an undignified little noise that some might call a squeak.

"I'm not in love with her!"

"Not yet," Alex says with a shrug, "but she's also the reason you can't focus. You have to admit that it's pretty ironic, Reg."

Luke claps his shoulder before Reggie can protest any further, smirking heavily.

"Don't look now, bro. She's coming."

"What?!"

He whips his head around, cursing himself when they make eye contact. Of course he chose to look the one time Luke wasn't bluffing. She simply smiles and waves, increasing her pace ever so slightly.

He's still trying to decide if it would be weird to turn back around or not when she's standing right in front of him, hugging some notebooks to her chest and looking downright radiant in her yellow dress. There's a matching ribbon that's been braided into her hair, and her smile only serves to soften her impossibly warm eyes. She literally seems heaven sent.

He gapes at her like an idiot as she shines on him expectantly, and Luke thumps him on the back. He clears his throat.

"Sorry, um. What was that?"

Julie giggles. "I asked you if you were ready for Spanish. I heard that Mrs. Cutright is springing a quiz on us."

"Yeah—I mean, no—um—necessitas—shit—necess—ito—usar—uh—"

She rescues him with a shake of her head and a sweet smile as she gently says, "Necessitas mis notas?"

"Yes!" He angles his body to look at her better, nodding rapidly. "Si, no se—shit—se no hago—fuck it—you're an actual angel, I owe you—my firstborn, whatever you want."

She smiles at the ground and slowly looks at him again, peeking through her lashes.

His heart is bound to burst.

"Gracias, Reggie. Pero empecemos con una cita. Noes niños. Bueno?"

He nods dumbly again even though he has no idea what she just said beyond his name. His stomach flutters at the way her tongue had curled around the letters. He wishes he could say her name half as prettily, but if he could he probably wouldn't be worried about failing.

She laughs again, bright as bells, and offers him one of her notebooks. Their fingers meet, effectively gluing his tongue to the roof of his mouth, but she's unbothered, tossing out what he's mostly certain is a cheerful goodbye before she starts to walk away.

"Me llames!" she calls over her shoulder, then she disappears into the throng of students, leaving him clutching her notebook and what little sanity he still has.

Bobby's the first to break the silence.

"Wow. None of what you said made any sense. I can't believe they have you this flustered. You've known her since we were what, seven? Eight?"

"I always get this flustered!" Reggie defends. "Resident disaster bi, remember?"

Luke hums, swiping a fry from Reggie’s tray. "He has a point, B. I'm sure the whole half in love with her thing only makes it worse, though. Or the boner for romantic languages. Actually, now that I think about it, he was doomed from the start."

Reggie squawks. "I do not have—"

Luke cups his face and locks eyes with him, crooning quietly in French.

Fuck.

Thankfully, Luke has mercy on him and releases him without any more teasing, letting him shove his tray away and press his face into the cool metal of the table.

"Yeah, speaking of which, do you have any idea what Julie said to you, Reg?" Alex asks. "Because if she always talks to you like that, no wonder you're such a wreck."

Luke agrees. "She was definitely flirting with him. I only told him my omelet order."

Fuck!

Reggie lifts his head to look at Alex.

"What did she say to me?"

"Okay, well, you definitely said something about how you were going to give her a child in one way or another—after butchering some basic Spanish—and she was teasing you, saying you should start with a date."

Reggie groans, but Alex keeps talking.

"I mean, she also told you to call her. So I think you're fine. She's obviously into your whole disaster bi thing."

Oh. Oh!

"Maybe just look at her notes before it fails you," Bobby adds, effectively bringing him crashing back down from cloud nine.

That's okay, though. He scrapes by.

He's much more fluent by the time that first baby arrives.

#crush prompts #sorry if the Spanish has any inaccuracies I'm a bit rusty myself #rulie #reggie x julie #ficlets with ash #julie and the phantoms

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tolstoys-nemesis · 2 years ago

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today's hot take of tiktok, "if you think about the iron throne as a sentient being ... the iron throne is the real villain" that's the point that's the whole point that's the entire point what are you talking about

it's # the symbol. of power. it's not a sentient being and you shouldn't think about it that way. (unless you want to make it explicitly horny, because everyone loves it when moral concepts and phallic things are turned into sexy people, and the iron throne is both of these so knock yourself out. make Daddy Sigmund proud). but Power (tm) is clearly represented as having a life of its own, in so far as it eludes any single person's control. everyone has to tiptoe around it (i.e. everyone has to tiptoe around everyone who isn't them) to make their share of it as large as possible. power kills but only when multiple people are involved. if no one is there, power can't exist; if one person is there, that person is omnipotent; if two people are there... ask Hegel. the more people you have, the more volatile power is. forget the social contract; that's a child doodling a square and a triangle and calling it a house. no one in the asoiaf-verse can walk away from power (no one else will agree to do the same, much less keep their word, they'll run you down), no one can hold onto their power without defending it (no one else will respect it, they'll run you down). everyone is fighting tooth and nail to get more power, because being top dog is the only way to ensure their own survival.

#asoiaf #game of thrones #house of the dragon

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dailycharacteroption · 3 years ago

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Defender of the True World (Druid Archetype)

(art by PeterPrime on DeviantArt)

Under normal circumstances, the fey are assumed to be an otherworldly part of the natural world, beings of the wild.

To the subjects of today’s entry, however, this is not the case.

In the Golarion setting, the fey originate from a rough draft/cosmic doodle board called the First World, where all manner of things that did and did not make the final cut into normal reality were experimented with until something resembling a consensus was reached, and the gods then painted the material plane metaphysically on top of the First World, leaving this otherworldly wonderland hidden aside from secret ways in and out of it.

While many druids accept the First World and it’s denizens as a part of nature that sometimes leaks or emigrates over to the material world, there are those that view the fey as a threat. Some may view the fey as too dangerous and tricky to allow to wreck mischief unchallenged, while others may consider such beings against the natural order. Only the most cruel or hateful would claim that the fey do not deserve to exist since the gods abandoned them for their finished world, but all agree that the fey should not be allows to do what they wish when it comes to the material.

These defenders of the true world may be on a one-person crusade against all things fey, or they may simply keep an ear to the ground for fey plots and mischief, using their training to deal with the fey socially or in combat.

Desiring no influence of the fey realms at all in their lives, these mystics do not call forth fey creatures with their summoning spells.

They do, however, have deep knowledge into the behavior of such beings, making them easier to influence.

Prepared always to combat the fey, they train their animal companions and infuse their summoned creatures with animosity against the fey, making them that much more deadly against them.

Most druids are resistant to both fey and plants, but these defenders are more specialized, forgoing any protection against plants to empower their natural weapons with cold iron and their magic to better pierce the magical resistance of the fey.

Rather than protection against poison, they instead ward themselves against the mental effects of fey creatures.

Finally, these druids can take on a minor fey disguise in addition to humanoid ones to better infiltrate the fey.

Interested in an anti-fey druid? This archetype certain promises exactly that, combining the powers of this archetype with the mixed combat and spellcasting of a druid to create a character able to match and counter the fey on all fronts. With that in mind, I’d recommend a mix of fey-targeting options and more general stuff too, all the better to answer questions posed by other creature types, both independent and in the thrall of the fey.

There are many reasons why a druid might wish to focus on the fey. For some, it may be a philosophical thing, less personal and more about doing what they see is their duty to curate the natural world and keep things in the worlds they belong in. However, others might have a more personal vendetta, such as revenge, driving them to fight against the fey.

Utterly fed up with the fey courts and wanting revenge, Kailiana the gathlain has embarked on an unlikely path, that which seeks to defend the material world from the fey realms, though in her case, it is clear she wishes to use these powers to hound and hinder the fey court she left behind at every turn, bringing it down from without.

Tasked with escorting a strange young lad across the border, the party is accosted by defenders of the true world, who claim the young man is in fact a royal from another age that spend fifty years in a timeless fey realm, only to have returned now. The druids believe that he has become something other than mortal in the meantime, and they do not with to take any chances.

Recent rumors of attacks in the dead of winter night have the Circle of the World mobilizing to hunt down some winter fey. However, while there is a fey involved, the source of the rumors is the large band of wikkawak bugbears that the ancient fey has dominated.

#pathfinder #archetype #druid #defender of the true world #gathlain #fey #wikkawak #Monster Hunter's Handbook

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irondefendersart · 2 years ago

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His name is pronounced 'By(e)-Law', Roulxs 🔁 Jevil swap, belongs to a friend.

He's getting smooched bc he deserves it.

#deltarune #doodle #iron defender draws things

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stylistiquements · 4 years ago

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The Sorcerer pt. 1

Corpse Husband x gn!reader

Reincarnation AU | Summary :

The same candle lights up on Corpse’s desk every time you are reborn and turn 23. He has been looking for you during centuries but this time you might be closer than anticipated. {Playlist}

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏 : 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞

You’re about to blow your 23rd candles and Corpse is about to experience the consequences of it. Somehow, something about your rebirth is different this time.

☾ Words : 6009.

☾ Warnings : angst, mention of death (only suggested and not specific), grieving, swearing

Masterlist | Next

What does it mean to be a sorcerer in 2021? Corpse wonders as he chooses an outfit for his black bean character, lightly tapping his fingers in a crafted rhythm against his dark wooden desk. Nothing, really. The modern days turned his kind into a groundless concept, legendary creatures at best and it’s truly a shame when you think about it.

“Alright, are you ready?” Corpse asks as he moves his mouse above the “start” button and projects everyone into a new round.

“I won’t forgive you like I did last round,” Karl warns Corpse, dash of amusement in his tone.

“Sure,” he scoffs and the devious ghost of a smile shines on his lips when the bloody word “imposter” appears above his virtual pink cat hat.

Sorcerers used to be the rulers of this world and the most famous of well-hidden secrets; no one talked about it yet everyone knew. You just had to be here, respect and adoration followed their every move. People from all horizons went out of their way to meet them in hope of witnessing a miracle.

Oh, how the tables have turned now. They didn’t have to hide their face back then and it all went the harmonious way until a certain day when their fate met a tragic outcome. The day when life took a turn for the hidden.

Corpse is somehow retired now. Maybe that’s why he started doing youtube in the first place; because the craving of being needed had to be fulfilled one way or another. Or maybe because the thrill of life has been gone for so long he had to try everything to fill the void in hope of feeling a drip of something again. The weariness of a mere life stiffened in his rib cage from time to time, preventing a proper breathing.

He could have still been able to practice his magic facelessly -he wouldn’t be the first one to do so after all- but it seems crazy, surreal even, for him to picture being so public about such a heavy little secret nowadays. He found comfort in the concealed, in the invisible so long ago.

See, that’s the most important reason why Corpse is who he is today but stopping the explanations there would be neglecting the truth. Corpse would, but I'm more honest than he is.

Somehow, he believes a little too seriously that a kid’s app was designed to ruin his life. He feels this rotting taste that burns his tongue every time he thinks about it, he always talks about it with great passion; as if one minute videos could compete against the thundering energy that travels from his veins to the tip of his fingers. Witchcraft tiktok got the last bit of his ancestral pride and that’s a damn shame.

His character ambles around the hostile corridors dipped in yellow light, looking for a prey to slice in half. He doesn’t have a plan yet but he sure knows how to improvise by now. Corpse deems that he’s rather good at it. He meets Tina in O2. She’s wandering around, running like a headless chicken. What if he took that expression a little too seriously? Alas, he can’t wrap his mind around the idea of the unforgivable and she escapes his reach. Corpse’s nose wrinkles, better luck next time.

His fictional blood thirst gets stronger when he hops inside a vent and observes Rae’s red character doing her tasks. Corpse knows what comes next, it’s inevitable. A hint of excitement and nervousness hatch on his chest.

At the same time on the other side of the country, the ones you love are carrying a big cake to your table. It seems so silly and it leaves you slightly embarrassed that people are celebrating the fact that you were born but, somehow, you can’t forbid that smile to reach your ears.

When you look at the cake, a snort escapes your control. Your friends drew a glazed picture of you but you find yourself hoping that there isn’t much resemblance between that Picasso-ish designed cake and your actual face. I mean, except for that particularity your face displays; eyes that don’t match in colors, one green and one hazel, it really just looks like a kid's doodle.

23, what a weird number. It doesn’t sit quite right with you for some reason. 22 is fine, same goes for 24 but 23 … Somehow, it feels like something is either missing or too much. You’re not too sure which one it could be.

The warmth that emanates from the candles is sweet and tickles your chin softly and everyone is singing along the most disastrous birthday wishes. You’re preparing for your wish. What could you need more? You’re a faceless horror narrator on youtube and life is just about good. I mean, there really isn’t much to complain about and that should be enough.

Your mind drifts off for a second, contemplating what the dream life could be about while one of your friends is already complaining about wax getting all over your glazed face. You could wish for material things but they come and go and their meaning is only ephemeral, maybe 23 is about getting more than that.

Ah, found it. You close your eyes. May I find the place where I truly belong. 23 candles are blown in one breath, not a bad performance.

That’s when the candle on Corpse’s desk starts shining a delicate and orange shade.

Corpse doesn’t notice it at first, too impregnated by his hunt, but when the unusual warmth finally informs him of the merry event, he wrestles to keep his mind into the game. His virtual character stands motionless for a second as he mutes his mic and takes his headphones off.

Fuck, not now please.

Somewhere, a new version of the love of his life turned 23. His mind drifts off, wandering near this idea as his eyes meet the flame.

It’s been hundreds of years and that fucking candle kept you hostage of his mind. Because Corpse couldn’t forget about you, he built those walls to provide you from slipping away, from invading too much of his busy mind. It was a compromise he made with himself so he couldn’t reach you entirely and, therefore, miss you completely. Yet, your rebirth leaks through the pores of his brain and past the fences no matter how hard he tries.

Corpse battles to breathe, he tries to get his mind back on the game but somehow his throat is already filling with a dangerously acidic concoction. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t notice immediately the way his fingers start shaking at a painstaking rhythm.

He moves his character around. Left and right. It’s mechanical and meaningless, nothing but a lost cause. Corpse clenches his grip around the mouse, hoping that the unsteadiness would pity him. How much longer can he carry that feeling? It sits on his shoulders and his chest. It tests out his patience, his own resistance to pain.

“Corpse!” Rae shouts wholeheartedly, rooting him out of his spiral. “Where are you?!”

Fuck; he has no ounce of idea of what is happening in real life, too busy going down this familiar and intimate loop once more. He swallows it all, praying that you would spare him some earned mercy. You’re always so cruel, unabashedly sneaking in and taking over his space despite all his efforts.

“I-huh- I’m in medbay, I have scan," he bluffs, hoping that no one would notice the way his voice cracks at the end.

Because if anyone did, he would have to admit that he’s not okay, that he never was and doubts that he ever will be. Just as if conceding the facts would’ve allowed him to feel how flourishing his despair was. There’s this knot inside his throat. It’s painful and he’s so tired. How many times was he left crawling on his bathroom’s floor when his heart fractured a little deeper? He misses you every fucking day but each rebirth brings back more and more longing.

He would love to abandon himself to the aching pleasure of this unsolicited reminiscence but he knows that if he did, you would possess him wholly and never give him back. You plague his mind like a mist that grows thicker and thicker on his lungs. It diffuses everywhere and intoxicates what’s left of him.

“Sure sleepy but that’s bullshit,” Tina whines. “We know it’s Corpse. He’s been sus’ the entire round!”

“He said he had scan, right?” Sean interferes, believing that Corpse is the jester. “Why don’t you give him the benefit of the doubt?”

They’re all waiting for Corpse to step in, to defend himself but he’s no longer here, too busy trying to swallow the emotions that are leaking all over the place. It gnaws him alive, piece by piece and it hurts so fucking much. Will it ever stop?

Silence is convenient, “I voted” badges get pinned on everyone’s chest. His black character falls into the lava, what an ironic metaphor.

“Sorry guys, something came up and I gotta go.” He finally says, hurry in his voice. He doesn’t try to hide it. In fact, he can’t.

“Are you s…” Rae’s voice gets cut abruptly when Corpse quits the call without further notice.

Corpse knows what’s next, when his head gets overcrowded by feelings and his heart too empty. It’s ugly, it’s messy and oh how he wishes it would be different this time.

The room is spinning from the crumbs of your sweet face and the trickle of your voice that drips through his ears as if you were still here. He clings onto that distorted and stained picture as if it was the ultimate proof that you were real. Were you even real once ? Remembering feels like repeating a word over and over again: with time, it loses its meaning. It wasn’t you he remembered, Corpse figured it out a long time ago. You weren’t there anymore.

The thought of it drives him crazy. He wishes he could get rid of that fucking candle, constant reminder of your rebirth away from him, constant reminder of the defeat he has to endure every time you turn 23 and you’re still not by his side. He has been looking for you everywhere for hundreds of years, from the biggest capitals to the most secluded parts of this world, without a single hint of your existence. You’re his greatest failure and he can’t, he won’t stand that.

Corpse grabs the candle and it collides with the floor with a thud that tangles with his raw voice. His chest moves heavily. It's scattered and in discord and there is this distorted gaze on his face when he remembers that the candle cannot be shattered. It’s this unsolicited spark of self-awareness that brings him closer to reality. Fuck. What the fuck is he doing? Corpse finally lost his damn mind. His hands wander uncontrollably in his hair and he looks around frantically for a second, trying to remember how to survive.

Corpse’s head is pressuring him, rushing him to turn off his computer and spill the words that are stuck on the back of his tongue on a piece of paper. That grip is unforgivable and unclear but he starts writing as if it was the only thing left to do, maybe it is. It feels like survival instinct at this point, it feels like the last attempt to collect the pieces of himself you left behind.

Dear you,

Happy birthday, wherever you are in this world. Another letter is about to join the pile. How many are there already? I wouldn’t know. I stopped counting since it made me sick.

As every time, I hope it’s the best birthday you have ever had. I remember the twenty-third birthday we spent together as if it were yesterday. I can no longer recall the way your eyes wrinkled under your bright smile or the sound of your echoing laughter but I do remember that warm feeling inside my chest, the pain in my cheeks from laughing with all my heart. How pleasant was it to be able to live it all with you? To be able to embrace you, to breathe you, to see you. Forgive me, my love, for I am no longer capable of picturing anything of you. I wish I could. I wish I could be haunted by a proper ghost, at least, and not just a glimpse of the range of emotions that animated me when you were by my side. All I can remember now is that you felt like a firework and that my eyes never met a prettier human. It’s so truly unfair to think about the fact that no one matters as much as you still do.

I am drifting off, am I? I always tend to do that in those letters. I hope you’re doing well, I really do. Did you spend your birthday with the ones who love you? I hope you’re happy and healthy. It’s the only important thing, or at least that’s what I have learned so far.

I hate those letters, they make me realize how lonely I am. Somehow, it feels like I’m expecting an answer that is never going to arrive.

Fuck. My skin aches from the lack of your touch. I miss you so fucking much. Just tell me what to do. I tried everything and you’re still stuck inside my brain. I’m a sorcerer for fuck’s sake, one of the most powerful beings to have ever existed and yet the concept of one single human defeats me day after day, rebirth after rebirth. I’m a fucking shame for my kind. I hate you. I love you so very much. Happy birthday.

Yours truly, Corpse Husband

The paper is stained by the storm that has been building up in Corpse's mind for hours. The letters are deformed now. Look at the mess you just made. He throws the letters away, where he can no longer see it and brings his knees to his chest, resting his head between his legs. He feels like screaming one more time but he’s choking. Sweet and sore agony grips his throat as his veins are burning with thick poison.

Don’t be fooled, Corpse would have been able to cast a spell or two to forget about your existence and spare himself a bit. Yet, it would only erase the last proof he had of you, not his feelings. He would have to bear the burden of a quest he could no longer figure out. He would be left longing for something that no longer existed. As if it wasn’t the case already. He wishes he could sleep, life would be so fucking easier if he could just fall asleep.

A few days have passed since your birthday. The thread between days and nights is thin and confusing and the candle on Corpse’s desk is still radiating with as much energy as the first day.

Corpse’s head is heavy, aching, he wonders if he could still carry it on his shoulders if he wasn’t lying on his bed. That sore body feels like it has been drained from an eagerness that has been growing for too long. Corpse groans, trying to figure out what’s sheets and blankets and what’s limbs, living up to the name he chose for himself.

Every ray of the sun is burning his skin. It leaves his body smelling like heat, he doesn't like that smell. Now, he could just get up and draw the curtains but that laziness is as weary as infiltrated. If only it could rain, maybe it would soothe his nerves and his growing migraine.

After a few minutes of silent fulminations, Corpse finally unlocks his phone and opens his texts one by one just to ignore them. He’s curled up on himself, as if a compressed version of his darkness could help in order to block the light. Sorcerers are supposed to be tied with nature, with every ray of the moon and the sun. His bond with the sun is molded, if not completely doomed to grow untie. Corpse is a sorcerer like no others and that goes without saying.

One text captures his breath and his attention, bringing back some interest into the numbness. It’s coming from you, y/n. Or at least, the “you” from this present life. The “you” who isn’t aware of the past and the “you” Corpse doesn’t know is the one he has been looking for during eternity.

In this life, the two of you aren’t close enough to be friends -and he would never let you take that role- but, by the time of your first Twitter interaction -which consisted of you tweeting emo Sykkuno with tattoo pictures and Corpse replying with a meme that said "If life is a simulation please turn it off", Corpse knew you should be near him at all time. Not too close for you to actually be able to touch him but definitely not too far. It’s peculiar but something that has to be felt, not explained; a primitive hunch so loud it couldn’t be unheard.

His mind is awake again. The plan for today, which consisted of him rotting in his bed, seems compromised right now. Corpse turns to lay on the left side of the bed, where the sheets are cooler. His brows furrow and he sighs heavily as he rubs his eyes with his thumbs.

Corpse really doesn’t know why he’d feel that way in the first place for someone like you. You always seem so organic, radiating, so free in the way you choose to exist. He envies you for being so authentic when all he can afford to do is remain hidden, where no light can really reach him if not to draw a faint shape of his being. No harsh feelings though, it’s just the way he feels about anyone who doesn’t sound fake. There is still a bit of remaining endearment in the way Corpse’s words are thrown at you, you just have to know what to look for.

Now, Corpse trades his horror narrator's advices against some social media help. Those things are bigger than him, he’s too old for that anyway. You think the way he still uses symbols as emojis is charming -no one does that anymore- but Corpse just can’t keep up with today’s slang and way of showing emotions via texts. Kids these days are just too creative with the way they express themselves.

[Hello, Mr Sorcerer, hope you’re doing good. I need your help on something.]

Huh.

He meets your words and his mind gets coated in sweat, frozen blood preventing the next heartbeat from happening. Who told you?

Corpse can’t wrap his mind around the fact that his most precious secret is being exposed with that much negligence. He can count on his fingers the number of people who are aware of his true nature, half of them are actually other magical beings of some sort. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

His head is hammered by thoughts. He thinks he’s screwed, that everyone will know. He can already foresee what is about to come. That’s why there is a bit of fear in the way his eyebrows are arching. His alerted mind screams for him to just throw his phone across the room but his fingers, covered in panic, are faster. The first text he sends is not directed to you, but to Sykkuno, his familiar.

Familiars are to sorcerers what assistants are to magicians. In short -but not limited to- a massive help.

Corpse’s link with Sykkuno transcends the law of words and thoughts. They just understand each other and the way they do, without even having to see each other, is just something that has to be witnessed once in a lifetime. It’s a sort of energy that travels through space, a special connection. It's light and invisible but leaves a warm trail on its way.

However, what doesn’t transcend their bond is the concept of time zone -which Corpse forgot about for a second. Sykkuno is probably asleep right now. Corpse’s panic takes back its race once he realizes he’s on his own and he types:

[Haha, very funny. You know, if you wanted to talk, you just had to say hi :)]

Denial, that will do the trick, right? You can’t be that persistent. Or at least that’s what Corpse hopes when he leaves his phone on an unstable balance on his forehead, waiting for an answer he hopes would spare his mind from yet another issue he has to take care of.

[I knew you’d say that but don’t worry, I promise I won’t snitch,] you reply, lips twitching under a sly smile. [I’m way too afraid of you cursing me or something.]

[Who told you shit like that anyway?]

[I just know someone.]

His expression hardens, that head keeps throbbing harder and harder by the minute. You’re so impetuous and it turns him into an impatient and choleric fog. The topic is too important, crucial and it shows how you truly have no idea what you’re talking about when you act as recklessly as you do.

[Some crazy folk told you about magic and you believed them, huh? Thought you were smarter than that.]

[Dream would be pretty upset if he knew you called him “some crazy folk”.]

Corpse stares numbly at his screen before sitting back on his bed, pulling away from his vision the curly strands that fell down. He throws a bunch of silent curses at the sun which is still attacking him, if not even more now. He types a few words but erases them in a snap, repeating the process once or twice more. Now he has to send another text, this one is for Dream : “we need to talk.”

What a weird day.

Questions, Corpse has so many of them but he can’t stop shaking his head with confusion. He had no idea you knew Dream. Why would Dream reveal something so critical as Corpse’s identity? Why would another sorcerer send you his way? That’s not how things are done unless it’s something they deem they wouldn’t be able to handle and there’s really a few things Dream wouldn’t be able to do. Corpse hesitates for second, fingers fidgeting in the air. He doubts that he would ever be capable of doing something Dream can’t do but does it really matter when, right now, you’re holding information you should never be holding in the first place?

[Feeling like trading secrets under the full moon?] You outbid. It’s always so tempting to tease Corpse when he sounds like a grumpy old man.

[A sincere fuck you.]

[That’s very rude, Mr Sorcerer.]

The way you avoid providing any sort of explanation grows in his mind like weeds that need to be ripped off. Really, from all the good timing in the world, you had to choose the worst one. But there’s the faintest hint of a smile on his lips when he does the math and realizes that, if you wanted to use that secret to your advantage, you would have done it by now. A slow relief that softens his headache. Also, Corpse is well aware that, as annoying as you can get, he can’t refuse you a thing.

[Fine, tell me what you need.]

[So I keep seeing the same number again and again and your name keeps appearing in my head at random times. Still don’t get the correlation but I know there is one. I wanna know the number’s meaning and how I can get rid of you.]

Corpse huffs, he’d like to know that himself. He’s about to laugh it off when he reads the text one more time. Something about it is mysterious enough to pique his curiosity. You mentioned his name, it bothers him. Not that he doesn’t appreciate you thinking about him but because it sounds odd enough to be something related to magic in one way or another. There’s this mix of excitement and apprehension that fills the pit of his stomach and now half of a smile is embellishing his lips. This buzzing sound in his brain, maybe it’s the final signal that he should start practicing magic again, the final signal his life will feel thrilling again.

[Call you in 5. This is a consultation by the way, I’m not doing this for free.]

[Fine, you rat.] You answer with a victorious smile.

Corpse’s words linger in the air. It’s smooth like velvet -you could almost touch it if you pictured it hard enough- and it’s soothing in some way. It’s deep mumbles and bits of light chuckles and a little magic. You’re spinning slowly on your chair, playing with strands of your hair. There’s a different tone in Corpse’s voice. He sounds tired and it’s mixed with something else you can’t really pinpoint. For the best or the worst, that, has yet to be determined.

“So.” Corpse says, bringing you back to reality. “What’s that number you were talking about?”

“Right. So, I keep seeing the number 5 everywhere. I wake up at 5:55 every morning. When my eyes are looking at the clock, it’s 5:55PM and it extends to absolutely everything.” You faintly slap your palm against your thighs in exasperation.

Corpse is silent for a moment as he tries to collect the bits of knowledge that are still hanging here and there inside his mind. As he expected, the pressure below his left eyebrow makes it hard to think. He really doesn’t get why Dream wouldn’t be able to take care of a matter that sounds so frivolous. It feels like the most important piece of the puzzle is missing , the one that makes the whole picture makes sense.

“Okay, this is not really my specialty but the number 5 is an interesting angel number.” Corpse hums. The word “specialty” echoes. Dream talked about that once and somehow, that’s how you finally realized that Corpse was, indeed, a sorcerer. Not that you wouldn’t believe the information in the first place but there’s a remarkable difference between learning and experiencing. What would be his specialty then?

Dream introduced you to this new veil a couple of months ago and you never fully believed in it before getting involved. Maybe that’s why you never talked about it to anyone. Even now, your skeptical nature always finds its way back to you. He said all sorcerers had specialties and that his was clairvoyance. You don’t really know what that means but you wouldn’t ask too much. Knowledge seems like a curse in that field, or at least that’s what you have learned from Dream’s distressed tone when he talked about the past. He always sounded like a broken record, a little out of tune, as if his soul was still partially stuck back there and maybe that’s why Corpse always sounded that way too.

“Do you believe in guardian angels?” You raise an eyebrow, high voice brimming with confusion.

“Do you?” Corpse pauses, you’re silent for a couple of seconds and he realizes that he won’t get an answer to that. “The number 5 is your guardian angel trying to tell you that things are about to change in your life. In fact, it means that the process already started.”

“You’re kinda scaring me though,” you say as you readjust your sit, nose wrinkling under an almost grimace. You don’t like it, you don’t like their world. It’s not yours, you’re only a human with a mere life and an almost mere job. Sometimes, you hate Dream for letting you on this secret you were now forced to keep. It always felt so two faced.

“You don’t have to be scared, the change is only gonna benefit you.” Corpse’s voice is soft and the way you can tell he believes in the words he is speaking is almost as surprising as reassuring. You can’t help it, you don’t like change. The unknown is called that way for a reason and maybe this reason is the explanation for why it needs to remain that way.

“Sure,” you coy. “What do I do about you? That’s what really interests me.”

He scoffs. Trust me, that’s what interests him the most as well. Yet Corpse knows no answer to that. He hesitates for a second and his eyes wander into the void. Should he let you know that he doesn’t have a clue, that it somehow scares him as much as it intrigues you? It feels like his broken sorcerer ego would crack even more if he did. Maybe he just had to find out before letting you know.

“Are you obsessed with me, y/n?” Corpse winces. Why would he have to travel through sarcasmland(™) to escape the question? His eyes go wide for a second, flickering on corners of his empty room. It’s only fair that he would tease you like you tease him, right?

“You’re just being annoying now,” you mumble, cheeks flushing in a vivid tint of pink and Corpse snorts.

Corpse almost forgot about himself for a second, about that damn candle, but it hits him once the conversation fades away and the static silence is the only thing left. So he gets up, grunts in complaint rooted out by sore muscles, turns his computer on and plays some rain sounds. The melody of droplets hitting the ground is reminding him how to breathe.

“Rain sounds, huh,” you whisper. “You like those.”

Corpse hums and the two of you are left listening to the rain. It tickles your ears pleasantly, so you close your eyes and relax in the back of your chair for a moment. It’s a beautiful disharmony if you really pay attention, just like Corpse is. You feel like the conversation is about to end, you don’t want him to hang up just yet.

“Corpse?” Your voice trails for a second and Corpse hums again. “Why did you decide to be faceless?”

“What did Dream answer to that question?” His tone is interesting, a bit higher than it probably should have been. What came up as conversation modalities turns into a piqued interest.

“He never answered me," you mumble.

“So people like you can’t take advantage of our nature in real life too,” he lies and you can tell by the half chuckle that travels with the answer.

You know you won’t get more from him, way less than you wish you did. Those faceless sorcerers always leave you hanging. They let you in on their little Hannah Montana life but never bear the consequence that is this endless and flowing well of questions. The rain rings heavily through your ears. It’s time for the call to end.

"Goodbye, Mr Sorcerer,” you sing before hanging up.

When the darkness finally surrounds Corpse, he slips into a strange place that greets him with a familiar smell; vanilla and freshly cut grass. The birds are singing. He takes a long inspiration, his body knows before he does. Corpse looks around, trying to let the image of the surrounding setting sink in.

That place seems oddly familiar, yet totally new; a kitchen made of golden wooden walls. It's decorated with an old and distinguished taste. The wooden table is dressed with a pretty blue and red tablecloth. Vases of fresh flowers displayed on parts of the kitchen, dried herbs hanging above the sink in front of the window. It’s dipped in sunlight, too bright to be real. The rays of light are swaying with the shadows of branches which are dancing outside with the wind. Corpse doesn’t mind the light for once, he even closes his eyes for a second to let every pore of his body get soaked in it. God, did he miss that place.

“Honey, I was waiting for you.”

Corpse’s heart jumps a little before clutching harder. He knows who’s here, he knows it’s his unforgettable love and the idea makes him almost want to never open his eyes again. He can feel it, the profound kindness and sweet smiles that are surrounding you like it always have and it makes his eyes burn with tears that are ready to trail down his cheek, sobs jostling inside his throat. Corpse wishes he could just cover you in embraces and kisses but he can’t, he can never do that in those dreams.

Corpse tries his hardest not to let the frustration immerse him in bitterness by controlling his breathing which could get carried away at any moment now. He finally swallows it all to look at you. There’s a significant disappointment on his face when he realizes yours is as blurry as always. He wishes he could just witness this beauty one more time. He doesn’t remember what your face looks like, you’re not real. It’s nothing but a dream and you’re not here.

“I made some cookies for you.” The ghost of you says as it points out a chair that seems to have appeared out of nowhere, inviting him to take a seat as it does the same. “Those are your favorite, remember?”

With a voice sweeter than honey, so bewitching, Corpse’s body works on its own and mimics your gestures. His eyes are frozen on your silhouette. He tries to remember the shades and colors that were once painted on your face. If only he could remember.

“Did you redecorate our kitchen?” Corpse asks as he takes a bite of the cookie.

“Did I?” Your past self wonders out loud. “It’s been so long, I can’t tell.”

The treat tastes as good as it always has, Corpse takes another bite. The silence in the kitchen is delicate, contemplative. Outside, the weather is lovely; white clouds floating above the endless and bright green meadows. Corpse tries to take everything he can from that dream, from the peacefulness he feels now deep inside, and the perfume of your skin, to the sweet voice that caresses his ears. If Corpse could stay here forever, he would.

“Why are you here, my love?” You suddenly ask, forcing Corpse’s attention which he refuses by looking away.

“I wonder if the wind is warm or cool outside, maybe I should check.”

Corpse knows what happens every time you visit his dreams : you end up asking this question, he answers and suddenly he’s alone and you vanished into thin air. The response is always the same; because I miss you. It leaves him feeling lonelier than ever, craving a presence he can no longer be blessed with. Just a little bit longer, please. He blinks rapidly to expel the few tears that are forming in his eyes, so the knot inside his throat wouldn’t become more unbearable than it already is. Corpse is left feeling so desperate and helpless.

In a precipitation he almost can't control, he gets up and walks towards the door. He just wants to feel the wind on his skin. Please, just a bit longer. Corpse is almost at the door when his eyes deform with stupor under the pressure of a hand that grabs his sleeve. His heart stops, he was never able to touch you in a dream before. What changed? There’s a moment of hesitation before his eyes travel from your hand, to your arm, to your neck, to your face and he can no longer swallow his emotions when he dives into your eyes. Your eyes, he can see them.

When Corpse wakes up, wiped out of his dream, his breath is short and sweat pearls down his forehead. He’s in a rush, he remembers something about your face, something important. He knows what to look for now; your eyes, your irises. They don’t match in color. The left is green, the right has a pretty hazel color.

☾ A/N : Welcome on this new AU my friends I’m so excited to have you here with me on this new journey! I hope you liked the first chapter. A big thank you to @moontwinkles for beta reading the chapter and being a big help 💗 How are we feeling about this? Faceless leo men being sorcerers and familiar Sykkuno??? Idk I’m a little too passionate about it. Don’t worry the next chapter won’t be as angsty as this one but I needed to express my thrist for angst lmao anyway let me know what you think! Until next time (ɔˆ ³(ˆ⌣ˆc)

☾ 𝑻𝑨𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻 *OPEN* : @open-minded-chip-101 ; @lochness-butmakeitsexy ; @bizarrebibitch ; @bellomi-clarke ; @ladybismuth ; @katyasrussianaccent ; @satanhauntedourcats ; @owl-llie ; @teenloves ; @notannis ; @mcntsee ; @rottenroyalebooks ; @peachdoppi ; @mirahg ; @foxxtrot-116 ; @koi-soi ; @lupinpetersclearwaterodairparker ; @butterfly-skinnylegend ; @fanworrior ; @stickystrawberrysyrup ;

#corpse husband #corpse #corpse x reader #corpse x y/n #corpse x you #corpse husband x reader #corpse husband x you #corpse husband x y/n #corpse husband imagine #corpse husband fic #corpse husband AU #the sorcerer #platonic!dream

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onelonecritter · 4 years ago

Photo

I was gonna wait until I did a couple more doodles of the common ghosts who work in the courthouse, but I ran out of patience. Besides, the most important bits are done.

The top drawing:

Judge Etherea Tomb/ Judge Tomb (LM3 OC)

A ghost judge with supernatural powers that focus on finding truth, dictating proper judgement, punishing the guilty, and restitution. She typically takes on the Criminal cases, but will take on Civil cases if they aren’t resolved within a certain amount of trials.

Primary tool is a pair of enchanted scales that shift based on whether the person called to the stand is telling the truth or not.

The scales are able to levitate on their own, and produce two glowing stars that take on the soul color of the person being questioned at the stand. The left scale is for truth while the right scale is for lies.

Her gavel can become a massive warhammer that she uses for defense, and/or punishing the ones who are sentenced to being put into the holding cells, but resist arrest. Any ghost that is defeated by the warhammer is not only temporarily eliminated, but will automatically reappear in a holding cell after 24-hours of being destroyed.

In life, she had a job as a construction worker alongside her education to become a judge before becoming an attorney for a while to get her Judicial Doctorate. She used to be a big DnD player, and had a character of her own that her spiritual powers are based on.

The character she created was a Cleric judge whose main weapon was a magical hammer that could shrink to the size of a normal gavel, and expand into a war hammer.

Her cause of death was from being killed by a suspect in court, the officer that was supposed to protect her was corrupt, and had a hand in letting the suspect inflict a fatal blow. This also played a part in her passion for justice even beyond the grave.

Under the cut: A bunch of information about how the courthouse operates.

DISCLAIMER:

This fictional courthouse, along with its rules aren’t going to be enforced/treated as canon unless it is agreed between anyone who wishes to partake in interactions with the courthouse and its associated residents/employees, and the creator of Judge Tomb and the courthouse. These “rules” are honestly just to establish the system in which the court operates, and to kind of put a bit of logical reasoning behind certain scenarios. Of course, this is a creation that may or may not be subject to changes in the future, and mostly made for fun without being overly serious.

The bottom drawing:

The Court of Spectral Justice:

Located between the area where The Last Resort, and Evershade Valley are.

Generic “enemy” ghosts work there, and pose as the jury.

Common employees consist of:

Clerks (Support for the Judges) (Greenies, and Goobs dressed in various office costumes and accessories)

Lawyers/Attorneys

Other Judges (Poltergeists, and a few other regular ghosts dressed in judge robes, powdered wigs, and have their own gavels)

Bailiffs (Slinkers, and Creepers; sometimes Slammer and Hammers for less civil debt collecting)

Security Officers (Mostly Slammer, Creeper, Gobber and Hammer ghosts in uniform shirts and badges)

Court Reporters

Corrections

Interpreters

Paralegals (support for the Lawyers)

There is also a designated containment area where ghosts who are charged for their crimes are kept until they are deemed ready to be let out, or just stay there.

These cells are also used to detain suspects who are taken into custody (all officers require a warrant for the arrests) before/after their trial.

The holding cells were constructed by ghosts specifically to contain evil spirits that commit crimes against innocent humans, or other ghosts. The cell is constructed of layers of iron and silver; the iron has magic runes carved into it that cast a spell to prevent ghosts leaving the cell unless they are let out, and ghosts can’t enter without physically opening the cell door. The walls, ceiling, and floor are constructed for maximum containment.

The structure of the courtrooms are built similarly to the holding cells to avoid letting defendants/suspects escape during trial/recess. The rest of the building isn’t as structurally restricting to the ghosts.

There are different judges for various cases:

Civil

Criminal

Family

The overall structure of court law that technically applies to most of the land surrounding Evershade Valley, and the region The Last Resort is established are likely based on a mix of International Law with other laws that include ghosts (even the generic ones without much of a human identity) to provide more rights for the dead. Surprisingly, you can actually sue a dead person in real life, but mostly for closure if that person is proven guilty of a crime they were accused of committing.

Characteristics of the “law” enforced by the court:

Bringing justice for a ghost who may have been wronged during their time alive. Perhaps both sides are dead, or one is still alive. If the ghost who was wronged by the human chooses to murder the human, they can go to court in order to legally be granted a pardon, or they can be pardoned for murdering without a warrant by reason of self-defense.

Maintaining the stance of advocating the rights of the dead (which technically aren’t a real thing in real life), primarily if the case involves:

Ghost-on-Ghost crimes (these cases are sort of treated as if they were human-on-human crimes, but different stuff applies. Like murder; this one is mostly dependent on certain circumstances, and intent).

Ghost-on-Human crimes (the ghost has malicious intent on a human who isn’t doing any harm, and is proven to not be doing it in self-defense or coerced into committing the crime).

Human-on-Ghost crimes (A human captures a ghost, and imprisons them despite the ghost not being a threat. This usually just results in the ghost hunter being ordered to release the captured ghost if the human is proven to be in the wrong).

Enforcing the rights of ghost workers, and ghosts who are in need of therapy for trauma that went untreated in life, and/or other conditions caused by the trauma of death (Treatments may vary based on the impact death itself causes, and/or how the individual died). Basically, international labor laws and regulations meant to maintain a safe and stable environment for the spirits residing/working in a particular place apply.

In the case of The Last Resort, Hellen could very well be taken to court for not keeping the establishment up to code, causing concern among the residents, and intentionally endangering humans who she lured into the hotel with full intention of harming them.

Abuse is obviously a violation of this law, even though ghosts don’t permanently stay dead after being killed. It’s still considered a crime, especially if murder is used as a way to intimidate another ghost into submission.

#luigis mansion 3 #lm3 #[My Art]#lm3 oc #ghost oc #luigis mansion #non-real information #tw fictional law #tw fictional rules #death mention #tw death #tw death mention #tw murder mention

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kyberled · 3 years ago

Text

READ BRAIG’S JOURNAL! || ACCEPTING

@rcvival asked:

13. entry made featuring mention of (sender’s) muse.

note: anything in [square brackets] is a descriptor, and not something literally written on the page.

XX:XX:XX

There’s a popular saying out there that I think applies to my current situation quite well.

‘You jinxed it’. [This is underlined twice.]

That’s what I keep thinking right now. Oh, yes, master, let me go handle the treaty renegotiation. We both know it’s basically already signed. It’s just a formality! What could possibly go wrong? I really, really need to stop saying that sort of thing. The galaxy seems all too eager to rise to the challenge.

I have no idea how I’m going to explain this to anyone back home. Even if they believed me, it won’t go over well. How do I tell Obi-Wan? I don’t think I can. We don’t keep secrets from each other, though, and I can’t lie to him. Other people, sure, if I have to, but not him. He knows me too well. Ironically, he’s the one I want to keep this from the most. I trust him. I do. I just know that this could hurt him. I don’t want that. I never want that.

At the same time, what choice did I have? Not just in the self-preservation sense, but as a Jedi. We exist to protect the balance of the Force and to defend the lives of those who need us. He needed me.

Well, maybe not me, specifically, but he needed somebody. Somebody to get him out of that trash heap. Somebody to show him compassion. I get the feeling I might be the first person to do that. It’s… Kind of sad, honestly. To have lived a life as long as his (I don’t know how old he is, but he’s much older than me) and to have never known kindness - it’s no wonder he felt he had to rely on the dark side. If you let fear and anger and pain and hate control you, the dark will prey upon you. But if nobody’s ever shown you that there’s more to life than those things, so much more, where else do you turn? The masters have taught me that the dark side can make you feel strong, but it is a false strength. It feels like it comes quickly and easily, but it will wear you down and tear you apart to feed itself. But if you’ve been backed into a corner like he seems to have been, a quick and violent strength might feel like exactly what you need to keep yourself safe.

I’m not saying that it’s right. It isn’t. The Sith are cruel and selfish by nature, existing only to do harm and disrupt the balance of existence. I just can’t help but wonder if Maul was ever given the choice to be anything but. If he even knows who he is outside of those confines.

I don’t know if I can really help him answer that question. I’m only a padawan. I don’t want to overestimate my abilities. I just wonder if, at the very least, I can show him there’s more to the galaxy than suffering, maybe it will make a difference.

I might actually get in trouble for this.

On the bright side, at least I’ll get to know what it’s like?

[ There’s a scribbled out line that might, if you squint, appear to read ‘I’m kriffed’, but that can’t be right. He’s a good boy.] [There’s also a small doodle of Master Yoda’s face. This is not scribbled out.]

#rcvival #&& best foot forward; ic #&& as best i can; answers #&& brave new worlds; padawan #&& changing the course; braig and maul #i love writing his journal entries.........#as much as he does i think dfnjgjfgh

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sanders-semantics · 4 years ago

Text

Lies (like fire in my throat)

Also on Ao3!

Tws: self depreciation, food mention, mention of manipulation. Please tell me if you find more!

For Janus, lies came in flavors. Each person had a different flavor. That flavor, just like their name, was a kind of identity: unique and hard to replicate exactly. Small ones could be hard to pick up, but the worst ones were unmistakable.

Virgil’s were a saltiness that burned the roof of his mouth and lips.

Logan’s tasted sour, like they had been left in the heat for too long, festering with no one to notice they were there.

Roman’s were spicy and made him want to cough. They slashed their way into his lungs, clawing at his throat. They hurt physically more than anyone’s.

Patton’s were sickly sweet, like he had used too much sugar to hide the burnt truth.

Remus’ were slightly better than the others, possibly because he rarely lied. They were strong and metallic, something that should never be tasted, yet here they were in Janus’s mouth.

But the worst, even against Roman's, were his own.

One lie at a time wasn’t terrible. It was a twinge of bitterness, always at the tip of his tongue, waiting for an opportunity to escape. Those were white lies. They came easily and without guilt, ready to defend whenever they were needed. He was used to them, and he even welcomed them, especially when he knew that they were only for protection.

Both those were the simple ones.

White lies and sarcasm were shallow, one-off things.

It was always the webs that got him; the messy, uncomfortable traps of mangled truths and desperate lies that made him want to gag. Each word coated his throat in something so vile that it made him want to retch, but he knew he couldn’t. That would ruin the lie, and then it would have all been for nothing.

Janus had always found it ironic that he could barely stomach the biggest lies. Even if his tasted the worst, the others’ still put up one hell of a fight, too, and it could annoy him to no end.

Like at the trial.

Roman had wanted — obviously — to go to the call back. And it wouldn’t have done Thomas any harm. Janus was sure of it. It would have been good for Thomas, good for Roman, good for all of them. There was no use of Roman lying to them all, then, since the lie would have ended badly. And it had.

The burn had started off almost nice. It was so rare that Janus actually had to taste Roman’s lies that it was surprising, but not bad. The burn brought

Roman down to Janus’s level a little, and he privately relished someone actually agreeing with him, even if he knew it was fake.The burn felt good.

The burn meant he was getting his way.

But then it changed.

The verdict was passed, and that little twinge turned into a raging fire. He couldn’t help but scream in frustration because it wasn’t fair. Roman had been agreeing with him, right? Everything was going right, everything was going to turn out fine.

But then that lie.

Roman saying that it would be better to go to the wedding was so wrong and so unnecessary. It wasn’t protecting anyone, except maybe Patton, though it had harmed him in the long run, too.

The pain was for absolutely nothing.

Janus’s pain, for one, but also Roman’s.

It was only hurting them.

Why couldn’t they understand?

Didn’t they see that he was trying to help them? He was self preservation, after all. He was supposed to help. It was his job, his function. It was his purpose.

But then they were all yanked out of the courtroom illusion. Janus let out a strangled scream, partially in anger and partially in agony as he waited for the fire to die down. As soon as he could speak again, he had tried once more to change their minds, once more to make that lie go away because it wasn’t protecting anyone. But Roman had decided, and so had Thomas, so there was no going back now.

He knew that it was going to end badly.

He felt it deep in his bones, deep in his scales. But he could do nothing as the fire roared in his throat, only giving him time to speak when he breathed through it the best he could. And so he waited for it to die down.

All lies eventually lost their taste. The biggest ones took longer, but only because the biggest ones always got brought back up.

So he waited for it to fade.

It never did.

Janus had barely made it to his bed when he collapsed onto his nest of blankets, pillows and plushies. They made a protective bed, a shelter from the cold of the subconscious that seemed to find a way into every nook and cranny of his and Remus’s prison.

Prison.

The others would never call it that, but that’s what it was. Maybe not for Remus, since he also had reign of the imagination, but it was surely Janus’s. And even if he wasn’t physically forced to stay there, he still had his obligations to Remus. Neither of them were welcome on the other side of the mindscape.

Still feeling the burning agony, Janus wondered if he really wanted to be with them, anyway. It was their lies that were tearing him apart, after all. It was their lies that made him writhe, tangling himself up in fabric.

This was their fault.

He had wanted to help, and this was what he got in return?

His mind turned back to not even an hour ago. He had given them his name, something he had never actually expected to do, and they rejected it.

They rejected Janus. A little part of him told him to be logical, that it wasn’t all of them. It was only Roman that had laughed.

Roman, who had, more or less, been on his side just a few videos ago.

Roman, who had always hated him.

Roman, whom Janus had manipulated.

But hadn’t he done it for a good cause?

He had just wanted to help, and that had seemed like the best way to achieve his goal of protecting Thomas. He hadn’t expected for Roman to take it so hard. He truly hadn’t. Janus was simply doing what his instincts told him to do.

So was it really their fault? He had no idea anymore. He just wanted the burning to leave him in peace. He could guess that if Roman would just admit that he regretted not going to the call back, then it would finally fade. But Janus doubted that would quickly— this was Roman he was talking about.

Roman, who was angry.

Roman, who had fallen apart.

Roman, who hated him more than ever.

Janus would not be getting mercy any time soon— no, he had to atone first. He had to pay.

He could almost hear Roman’s voice.

His throat was still burning when a loud pounding came from his door. It was erratic and harsh and unbelievably loud, even if it was muffled by the surrounding fluff. Janus made a low sound that only managed to bring tears to his eyes.

It hurt.

He knew it was Remus from the knock, and he knew that he wouldn’t care if he got a response or not. He would barge in anyway, regardless of the answer.

He was right.

In a matter of seconds Remus was at the foot of the bed, bouncing violently on his heels. Janus didn’t bother to look up.

“What’s up, Snakey-Doodle-Dandy? Your little meeting with the Prudes not go too hot?” he asked, voice rough like he had been crying. If he could see him, he guessed that his eyes would be even redder than usual. It took much of Janus’s willpower not to open his mouth and comfort him. He knew that leaving him even for a little while was risky, but he had still made the choice to go.

Looks like Roman wasn’t the only one making harmful choices.

Looks like he had messed up Remus, too.

He had managed to mess up both Creativities.

He had only been trying to help.

Suddenly, he felt a sob tear through his body, forcing him farther into the nest. He barely repressed a scream at the fire that bounced up worse than ever, which made him cry even harder, which made the pain even worse.

And fore a second he forgot Remus was even there. He let himself fall deeper into his bed, finally giving up what dignity he had left. Then he felt something.

He jumped, not expecting it, but he soon realized it was a hand. Sometimes even Janus forgot how gentle Remus could be when he really wanted to.

It was rare, but not unheard of.

He let Remus rub slow, soft circles between his shoulders and down his back, and he noticed with relief how it never dipped anywhere near his waist. It stayed up, trying to soothe his crying. He heard quiet whispers that he couldn’t process but loved nonetheless. He loved how the bed creaked beside him and how a warm body pressed against his.

He loved how every once in a while a finger would swipe some hair from his face as it plastered to his forehead. He loved how he felt his normal clothes melt away, quickly replaced with a T-shirt and sleeping pants.

Eventually he calmed down, but he couldn’t say how long it took. He doubted Remus would know, either. But he finally found himself lying in the mass of fluff, with Remus curled around him, and he would be lying if he said he wanted to get up.

There was a long time of Janus leaning against him silently. The fire had faded slightly when the sobs quieted, but he knew that one sound would set them off again. So for now he was content with letting Remus card through his hair, and he didn’t have the energy to ask where his hat was.

It was Remus who spoke first.

“So, uh, I’m guessing your throat hurts?”

Janus nodded without opening his eyes. Remus made a low sound. Was it a Roman lie? You said those were kinda’ spicy or something,” he said.

Forcing a deep breath, Janus nodded again.

Remus was quiet while he puffed out his cheeks, and Janus could almost laugh.

Almost.

He didn’t dare to, though,

“Would some honey help? I mean, I can’t really make any. You know anything I conjure turns out pretty shitty, and you can’t really make anything solid, but I could go up and steal some,” Remus suggested. “It’ll be like a secret spy movie! Except the honey’s the spy and I’m the kidnapper, which is way more fun anyway.”

Remus did eventually go get honey, returning with both the food and a myriad of new ideas and stories, some much more gruesome than others. But Janus listened to them all as Remus fed him spoon after spoon, and dreamt of them when he finally fell asleep on his chest.

#sanders sides #janus sanders #remus sanders #sympathetic janus #hurt janus sanders #janus sanders angst #sanders sides fic #manipulation mention #food mention #hurt and comfort #fanfiction

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