#magic side effects

[shes-some-other-where]

June of Doom Day 6

“We’re out of time.” | Collapse

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Contains: magic/fantasy whump, restraints, psychological whump, taunting, magic side effects (exhaustion, nosebleed), death wish, verbal threat toward a loved one (not present) vaguely alluding to noncon/SA

WC: 940

Deadness where there had before been life

The door to the seer’s room burst open.

“You’re going to find someone for me.” It was the prince, of course. He slammed the door behind him. “And I’m not feeling especially patient this morning, so you’d better make it quick. I’m not in the mood to have my time wasted.”

The seer rose warily from the pitiful palette they expected him to believe was a bed, watching the prince stride toward him. His foe certainly seemed different: angrier than usual, agitated. What, precisely, was the hurry? He acted like he was running out of time for . . . something. But why?

It seemed . . . wrong. Ominous.

“The northerner you saw before.” The prince flung a gold chain at the seer, forcing him to fumble to catch it. “He severed the magic on this. Find him for me. Now.”

Severed the magic . . .

The seer stared down at the bracelet which had, until recently, adorned his sister’s wrist. So, its curse had been broken.

The northerner you saw before . . .

A cursebreaker?

Frowning, the seer dared a curious glance between the broken bracelet and the prince’s face.

“I’m waiting.”

Hot, pulsing anger, tinged with apprehension, flooded through the seer. His visions had been unreliable of late, and more taxing, and they were only getting worse. Five years of practice should have honed his skills. Instead, the passage of time—and all the anguish it had wrought—seemed now to be taking its toll.

Even so, the seer knew he was powerless to refuse. No matter how much he wanted to fling the useless bracelet into the prince’s face. No matter how much he wanted to demand news of his sister. To know if there had been retribution for this broken curse. If that retribution had fallen disproportionately on her.

He closed his eyes, fingers clutched around the frail gold chain. The other hand, the one missing two digits, unconsciously curled into a tight, malformed fist.

He hated his gift still. After all this time, the dizzying foray into the lives of others, the sickening voyeurism into their memories, their dreams, their most private moments . . .

It tore at his soul.

No matter how many times he put himself through it, he remained convinced that constantly splitting himself into a million shapeless fragments and then stitching himself back together piece by piece would bring about his end.

The vision rushed over him, indistinct and watery at first, then growing clearer. A party. A ball. There’s to be a festival, she’d said during her weekly visit. He recalled, as if from another lifetime, the extravagance and frivolity of the vernal equinox, and the celebration that came with it. But his sister was there—dressed in brilliant, sanguine red. Why? What was this? A dream of hers, or a memory?

Shouldn’t be here.

Wracked with guilt, he flinched, sweat beading on his brow.

Find him. Not her. Him. The one who severed the magic.

There—there. A man approaching, tanned, smiling uncertainly. An awkward, loping gait, a nervous bow. Who? Why? The man. That man. Familiar. Older. Here. Dancing, stumbling, laughing.

The seer’s corporeal body twitched uncomfortably. His sister, she laughed, too. Quietly, gently, but earnestly. Lips brushed against fingers held aloft. Balcony. Stars. Flowers. Alarm. Fear. A kiss. A kiss? The seer balked, but he couldn’t escape, not while lost in the thrall of his vision. He watched, his heart bleeding, as his sister fled with tears in her eyes and the stranger gaped down at a broken piece of metal in his palm.

Find him.

Find him.

Pain surged through him, digging into his body with white-hot spikes, as he forced the vision to shift. Find. Follow. Raised voices and worry. A bitter, metallic taste at the back of his throat. I have to find her. Find her. Find him. The words mingled, nauseating, too loud. Pain in his skull, poison on his tongue. Find her.

A lonesome sunrise. A gold charm. Deadness where there had before been life. Find her. A setting sun, blood-red. A wrought-iron gate, barred. Find him.

“I’m going to find her!”

The seer’s eyes flew open, the vision fading. It felt like dying, like inconsolable loss, like bleeding out with nothing to staunch the flow of blood.

His legs gave out beneath him.

“He’s not far,” he rasped. “He’s looking for a way in. Looking for . . .”

I have to find her.

“Tonight,” he said. “He’ll be outside. South gate. Sunset.”

The prince’s face was pitiless as he stared down at the shaking form on the floor, then wrested the gold bracelet from his grasp. “You’re certain?”

The seer nodded, still trying to catch his breath. A hot trickle down his face told him his nose was bleeding. 

“You grow more pathetic by the day,” the prince said. “The day your usefulness runs out, you know I’ll have you killed, right?”

The seer knew.

If only that day would come a little more swiftly.

“Still,” said the prince, “you’ve turned out to be more valuable than your worthless whore of a sister.”

The seer lurched forward, but the chain on his ankle snapped taut. He opened his mouth to hurl obscenities instead.

His voice was gone.

“Then again, I knew that from the start,” said the prince. “That cursebreaker better be in my possession by tonight, or I’ll give your sister to someone who will find a use for her.”

No voice, no strength, no weapon, no way to launch an attack.

The seer spat at the prince’s feet.

The prince scoffed as he opened the door and made to leave, pausing only to say one thing more before he vanished.

“Oh. That’s right. I already did.”

June of Doom Masterlist

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@juneofdoom

All my writing is original. Feel welcome to interact/comment/reblog. Pls don’t steal or repost.

[crimsonphaquer]

Magical Healing that leaves no scars, but causes the pain to linger far more than it would normally. Mysterious phantom Pains from a decades old injury. Eventually, you start questioning yourself... Were you ever hurt? Is everything you remember just a bad dream? Is the recurring pain just... in your head?

Alternatively, Magical Healing that transfers the wound(s) over to the caster. Healers during times of war taking on tens if not hundreds of wounds a day, saving who knows how many lives in the process, but having their bodies destroyed daily by and for their homeland...

Some of my favorite magic side effects:

-Nosebleeds. Never gets old.

-Coughing up blood. The good ol’ “cough into your hand and pull it back to see blood” also never gets old.

-Headaches. You keep fighting as your head pounds, desperately telling you to take a break. At first they fade within minutes when you stop using magic, but overtime, they become chronic.

-Fatigue. After a big battle, you stand triumphant, and then just fall asleep on the spot.

-In a similar vein, overuse causing you to straight up faint rather than just fall asleep. Darkness begins to overtake your vision in the middle of battle, unconsciousness abruptly looming over you.

-Any of the side effects happening to another person. Maybe two close characters are connected, and whatever side effects character A would normally endure are transferred to character B. When A uses a blast of magic B screams loudly because holy shit that hurt.

-Magic gradually deteriorating your mind. Using it too much eventually caused hallucinations and an inability to retain memories, or even larger scale memory loss. 

Feel free to add more, I’m looking for some to steal

[bigfatbreak]

Question about your changling AU, where did you learn about the ins and outs of Fae and Changling myths? I'm interested in learning too but not sure where to start lol

some of the lore I have for the AU I crafted myself, otherwise I read a lot of old faerie tales growing up and my mom, for some reason, knows an awful lot about shit like that, so some of it is just innate from her. otherwise i just read a lotttttt of books around the concepts of these things when I was younger because I was fascinated with jim henson's worlds

[jeeaark]

Anymore goofy bloopers from failed rolls from either play through? Such as getting killed by Astarion when he first drinks your blood?

Unfortunately (or fortunately for me), Durge practically killed it with his skill checks. But I did have blooper moments because I made the murder lizard a wild magic sorcerer.

Lots of imp summons. Always sicked shovel on them.

Felt bad for killing Wyll's cambion summon.

[mrsthunderkin]

What would you do if you found yourself in a realm of magical beasties and this big burly wizard in a cable-knit sweater pulls up on you with his dumb accent and a grouchy tude.

[tizeline]

in 'Gearing Up part 3' mikey as glowing cracks on his arms like in the movie, is that just his body's natural reaction to him using his powers or did he over-use them/over-reach at some point like in the movie? honestly i'm just curious about his magical experience lol

also i LOVE how unhinged he came off as in that comic, VERY cool

So the meta-answer is that I just thought the cracks look cool so I added them lol ✌

But the in-universe explanation - no they're not really a damaging side-effect of the mystic powers, Draxum was pretty dedicated since day one to making sure Mikey didn't harm himself when using his magic. But also Mikey just has a lot of natural mystic power within him, so I suppose I also decided to include the cracks to show how much power he has access to.

The cracks only appear when he's using magic though, they're not scars, and above all they don't hurt. Mikey very much has the potential to be hurt by his own magic, but again, Draxum was dead-set in making sure that never happens and so he put in a lot of effort into teaching Mikey to know his own limits. Of course, no matter how much training Mikey recieves in self-control, he might still always end up in a situation where he goes over-board with his magic and does end up hurting himself 🤷‍♀️ but it hasn't happened yet (actually, some smaller accidents could definetely have happened in the past before he'd gotten the hang of his powers, but nothing that'd leave permament damage).

But yeah, Mikey was pretty pissed in the last comic update haha, but he still held back! So it would take quite a lot for him to actually lose control of his powers at this point.

[hyunpic]

[whumpster-dumpster]

i’m trying to make my magic whumpee a bit more well rounded, so i was wondering if you had any ideas for whumpy drawbacks for magic overuse, specifically, whumpee’s problem is that he has too much magic in his system and can’t sustain such power in a fragile mortal body

I love me some magical overuse! If there's too much in his system, I can imagine migraines, muscle spasms/tremors, high blood pressure and heart rate, as if the magic is trying to actually pound its way out of his body. Not to mention a deep soreness/stiffness/achiness that makes the user dearly regret ever overusing it, though of course they'll end up doing it again in the future

[drawingducktalesducks]

lena betwixt and between (who she is and who she's been)

[doveshovel]

Long-term side effects of housing a deity in a human body?

[shes-some-other-where]

June of Doom Day 2, 10, 13, 24, 29

“It didn’t have to be this way.” | Made to Watch | “Can you hear me?” | Fear | Adrenaline | Blankets | Delirium

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Contains: gore, death, blood, magic side effects (nosebleed, coughing up blood, collapse), blurred lines between reality and unreality, heavy insinuation of noncon/SA, past character death/minor whump

WC: 870

Threads of sorrow and screams

Dreams took him, but the seer couldn’t tell if they were sleeping or waking visions. It mattered little; they hurt the same. They wove the same horrors, threads of sorrow and screams spun into ghastly tapestries.

He watched, cowering, as the room that was his prison became the dreamscape, bringing with it a figure from his darkest nightmares.

His brother.

No, he thought. Not today. Not when their sister was suffering unknown torments, too. Not after the prince had so gloatingly admitted what he’d done, yet left enough mystery to the details that the seer knew his mind and conscience could never, ever rest.

Please, no, the seer pleaded, but of course, it was just a vision, and of course, he had no voice.

The spectral child—frozen in time within a round, rosy body, eight or nine years old—met his gaze. The seer fell backwards in horror, tripping over his chain. It saw. It knew.

Darkness, darkness, sucking him in deeper, devouring him, his soul, his entire being. Rushing, wailing wind. Seething, heaving breaths. Running footsteps. Shrill screams, the harrowing cries of someone in unimaginable agony.

Stop! he wanted to roar. Stop, please!

It never did, never, never, no matter how he yearned for escape.

His silent pleas became a voice, but the voice was not his.

“Please, stop, please! You don’t have to do this!”

His brother at his side. Older now. Seventeen. Cold, dead. A decaying corpse.

Not his voice.

“Please, please, don’t! Don’t! I—”

The seer clapped his hands over his ears. Loud, too loud. He didn’t want this. He’d never wanted this.

It didn’t have to be this way, said his brother, as wordless as he, yet his meaning dug into the seer like fanged worms, burrowing deep.

Light. Blinding. Piercing. A bed with bloodied blankets.

Red. Silk. A thud, a slap, a groan.

You did this to me. His own thoughts, never spoken. Haunting him, surrounding him, drowning him. You did this to me.

It didn’t have to be this way.

His sister sobbed, and his brother’s throat tore open, gushing blood.

You did this to me. His brother, seventeen and broken and bleeding and dead. His sister, weeping and broken and bleeding and—

The seer turned away, sobs still echoing all around him, but the vision endured. He waded through a scarlet puddle, bare soles burnt as if by acid, by poison. He stumbled, hit the floor, coated his hands in blood.

The man he’d seen before, the northerner. Bested, caught: a fly in a spider’s web, struggling valiantly but in vain against his bonds. Sweat soaked his hair and tunic; his wrists streamed crimson from fraying skin; ropes bound him fast. He called for help, but he, too, was silenced.

Drowned out by those ear-splitting screams.

The man’s struggles intensified. Just as he paused for a gasping, laboured breath, the chair’s balance tipped, and he fell.

The seer reached out his dripping fingers as if he might right the chair or loosen the ropes. As if he might do anything.

The man flinched as if scalded—as if he’d somehow felt the brush of ghostly fingers over his bound hands.

The seer was whisked away again, leaving the northerner to his fate.

You did this. You did this. You did this.

His sister’s cries grew silent.

No.

No—

A window, a roar of frustration, a moonlit night. The seer fell to his knees, despairing. Such a power, such a gift, and when it mattered the most, it was useless.

“Idiot! Sneaking off like that! I’ll have his hide when he gets back!”

The seer staggered toward the glass. A man, unmistakably furious, pacing anxiously. Concern written on his features in strokes of candlelight.

Blood stained the floor within, soaking in the ooze of his brother’s slashed throat. Red footprints, a trail of gore smeared over old wooden floorboards. Tainted. Cursed.

It didn’t have to be this way.

A fresh scream in the night, muffled and terrified. The fleshy slap of skin against skin.

It doesn’t have to be this way.

He’d never wanted this. In all his anger, in all his rage, in all his hatred—he’d never wanted any of this. Sobbing, he slammed his fist against the glass. 

It shattered.

The man inside leapt away from the explosion of glass shards, startled and astonished. The seer gaped down at his hand, bleeding now, littered with cuts.

Did I . . . ?

When he peered inside again, both his brother and the man had their gazes fixed on him.

Did they hear . . . ?

Can they see  . . . ?

Baring red-stained teeth, with blood bubbling over bruised, greying lips, his brother smiled.

The seer gasped awake, sprawled on the floor of his room, chain tangled around both legs as if he’d been writhing violently in his sleep. He coughed, panicking, clawing at his throat with bleeding fingers. Droplets of red sprayed from his mouth with each cough. Heavy wetness flowed from his nose again.

How did I . . . ?

Desperation, adrenaline, imagination, or madness? He didn’t know.

Certain his throat was torn apart, certain he was about to die, the seer let his eyes close and his body fall.

Somewhere beyond his prison, a shrill scream strangled into terrified, deathly silence.

June of Doom Masterlist

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@juneofdoom

All my writing is original. Feel welcome to interact/comment/reblog. Pls don’t steal or repost.

[autisticrosewilson]

Okay okay, but what if- Talia is the doctor that Catherine goes to when she starts getting sick. Maybe Jason is interning at the same hospital Talia works at (she moved to Gotham for Bruce but they're...not working out) when it starts getting bad and so he brings Cathy to the best doctor he knows. Technically, Talia is supposed to do any of these procedures for free. In fact she could get very fired for it, but she's the best damn doctor in Gotham and her work son needs help. So she agrees, and it's a very good thing because without intensive treatment Catherine would certainly suffer until the gruesome end.

Well, they go through with the treatment, and somehow manage to hide it all from the higher ups (likely with bribery), and Talia starts getting to know her patient. Catherine is...a lot. She's sharp and clever and sweet. She used to bring coffee and pastries to share for lunch before she was confined to her bed. She likes braiding Talia's hair since her own is too brittle to touch these days. Sometimes she asks Talia to do her makeup, to make her look a little more alive than she feels.

Talia thinks they both know that the treatment isn't going to work for long, at most Talia can keep her on enough painkillers for it to be painless but time is running out. The most Catherine can hope for is making it to Jason's graduation. Sweet, worried Jason who visits Catherine as often as he can, diligently doing his homework at her bedside as if he can rush his graduation anymore than he already has. Maybe he knows that she doesn't have much longer too. Catherine hopes so, because she can't bear being the one to tell him. Talia thinks it might ruin her as much as Jason if she has to tell him their Cathy has a scant few months left.

Ra's doesn't mind sharing for a good cause, the pit is constantly regenerating itself after all, it's not like he's really losing anything. But Gotham isn't exactly known for birthing people who are pure of heart, he fears what a corrupted soul might do to the pit. He demands to meet the woman Talia is so insistent on saving. He knows better than most that his daughter's heart can be soft, often for people who don't deserve it. It's that same love that stole her away to the cursed land to begin with.

And Jason insists on coming with, naturally. So for the first time in months Catherine is out of bed to go on what might be her last trip if this experimental, vague cure doesn't work. Her last trip as her if it doesn't work as intended. She's nervous, and not just because she's never been on a private jet before. She agrees that Jason can come but she refuses to let him in the room. She doesn't like the sickly green glow beyond the door and she won't risk him getting radiation poisoning,nor worse.

Ra's as it turns out, is far more interested in Jason than Catherine when they get there, which Talia is hardly surprised by. Damian is still a baby, just beginning to toddle around and while he just adores his grandfather, babies aren't the best company. The fact that Jason is a humanities buff and a child prodigy certainly helps. Talia hardly has to convince him of anything, he's ushering them into the basement before the week-long trip has even reached the third day.

He insists he be the one to conduct the procedure, however. Jason and Talia are left to sit on the stairs at the end of the hall as Ra's wheels Catherine into Lazarus room.

Talia has to put her full weight into holding him when Catherine starts screaming.

[bigdreamsandwildthings]

October book stack 📚

[theshadowrealmitself]

Scammers in the magic world would get my ass, they’d be like “here’s an item that will get rid of your sickness with no side effects!” while looking straight up villainous and I’d just be like “thank fucking magic” and inhale it

[kiwibongos]

dunno if anyone has done this but. did a little falin tweak! i feel like her upper half had way more potential to show the dragon bit

[death-himself]

does shadow travel just cause hypoglycemia? Because in the first ToA book, Nico shadow travels and passes out, and Will's response was to give him gatorade, which has a shit ton of sugar in it. And then in another ToA book when Nico shadow travels, I think Will gives him a kitkat bar or something, which again has lots of sugar

symptoms of hypoglycemia/low blood sugar are fast heartbeat, shaking, sweating, anxiety, confusion, hunger, and dizziness, which I feel are some of the things Nico was experiencing during BoO when he was constantly shadow travelling I haven't read BoO in a while tho so I'm not sure

if this is the case, how did he and Will find that out, because I can't imagine Will deciding to do a random blood glucose test on him, and they would probably just assume all those symptoms are just caused by shadow travel or something else Nico was dealing with. But they had to have figured it out at some point because why would the camp doctor just give him gatorade and not actual medicine or anything