#magic the gathering creature forge

[mtg-cards-hourly]

Purphoros, God of the Forge

Artist: Anato Finnstark TCG Player Link Scryfall Link EDHREC Link

[ducksido]

Hi duckyboo 💗 (/j) i came back from my grave

As always, Rook Hunt, cause i luv him.

Rook with a Will Solace!male reader/yuu who, after going on a hunting trip (they somehow got permision by Crowley), realized that reader may or may not be more magically (or just useful) useful that what everyone thought.

(Gotta love our countryboy doctor who can kill or impale a non human by just understanding it's anatomy)

Hii arleboo 💖(/j) Chat every time I write for Rook I have to scratch my brain for my French Duolingo lessons

The moment you asked Crowley for permission to go on a hunting trip, Rook was already intrigued.

Of course he followed you. (Surprise surveillance is a love language.)

He expected to see you admire the woods, maybe set a few traps, or—if he was lucky—gather herbs with your charmingly clinical focus. What he didn’t expect was you casually taking down a magically enhanced boar-creature by stabbing it through the sternum and muttering, “That’s where the secondary heart is. Too bad.”

When you drag the monster’s corpse out of the thicket with blood on your sleeves, sweat on your brow, and a boyish smile as if you didn’t just perform a murder with surgical precision—Rook genuinely short-circuits.

“Mon dieu...! Yuu, mon cher! Quelle magnificence!”

He dashes to your side, breathless in admiration. You think he's mad at you for wandering too far, but instead he grabs your hands, eyes wide with awe.

“To know the rhythm of a creature's body—its heart, its bones, its hidden weaknesses—and to act with such unerring precision... c’est vraiment un don du ciel!”

You're awkward, wiping monster blood off on your jeans. “Uhh... I just know anatomy? It’s not that big a deal.”

“Non, non, non! It is the greatest of deals! You are the perfect combination of healer and hunter, light and lethality! Like Apollo himself forged you in a moment of divine indulgence!”

He starts reciting a poem about your hands. You interrupt to remind him you need to cauterize the wound on your arm first.

Once the others find out, thanks to Rook’s lyrical bragging and a very graphic photo in the group chat, everyone starts realizing just how useful you are.

Vil asks for you on wilderness assignments now. “If anything goes wrong, we have our golden boy executioner.”

Idia is both terrified and fascinated. “Bro... you’re like... a support character with assassin DLC.”

As for Rook:

He’s enamored. Not just because you’re deadly—though he adores that part—but because you do it with purpose. You don’t kill for thrill. You do it to protect others. To heal those who come after.

He watches you patch up Grim after a blast, sunlight on your hair and blood on your fingers, and he falls a little more in love.

“You are poetry in motion, mon soleil—both scalpel and salve.”

You: “Rook please I’m just trying to get this splinter out—”

“Let me serenade you as you perform your sacred work.”

And so you’re stuck with a devoted hunter boyfriend who writes you poetry about your anatomical knowledge and brags about your field surgery skills like they’re heroic feats—which, to him, they are.

[memento-morianon]

New worldbuilding post for @creators-club

I don't think I talk about my pixies enough.

They're large insects in the same family as bees and wasps, and visually they have very similar body types to their smaller cousins.

Pixies have only been legally defined as people for a couple centuries, as the vertebrate people around them took a while to truly realize how intelligent they were.

Much to their chagrin, the pixies accepted their new legal personhood with the announcement that they had also been observing the vertebrate folk and trying to decide if they were civilized and sapient enough to define as people by pixie standards.

Before all this, pixies had been viewed as rather dangerous insects to be avoided for fear of their venomous sting. The goblins used to eat them, and only increased their pixie consumption during the goblin revolution to get pixie venom into their skin mucus as a form of biological weapon.

The vertebrate folks apologized profusely for the way they used to treat pixies, and the pixies accepted the apology. You see, pixies are actually quite advanced in their technological skills, and much like the crews of star trek, they had been practicing observation without interference for centuries. They watched the vertebrate people and took note of their advancing development but never interfered or gave them access to more advanced technology, and accepted their attacks on pixies as a hazard of the job, the unfortunate casualty of performing close observations on dangerous creatures.

Pixies do not view death the same way other people might view it. Their hive population have a collective connected memory, so every individual who dies still leaves their memories in the hive, absorbed into the collective like a ghost. Their individual life may be mourned, but their body was merely a vessel and extension of the greater hive population. Pixies have fairly short lives as it is, though they live much longer than most insects. The average pixie might live up to 10 years in ideal conditions. Their egg layers live longer, up to 50 years if they're lucky. It's the drones who have the shortest life, only surviving for 6 months if they never mate with an egg layer, and less than that if they do, because the mating process inevitably kills them.

Drones, the only "males" of the species, are viewed almost as sacred beings, carrying their own hives memories over to an ally hive and then giving their lives to ensure the next generation can be born. They are protected and treated with a great amount of ceremony by their birth hive and the hive who will receive them.

Pixies have a hard time understanding individualism. They have individual personalities of their own, of course. But they're so intrinsically connected to their hive, instinctively and actively doing what's best for the collective, that the concept of individualism simply confuses them. It seems so inefficient.

Pixies are very organized workers. They have two main biological castes; hive workers and scouts. Hive workers remain in or near the hive, doing construction work, keeping the hive clean, caring for eggs and larvae, managing food storage, etc. Scouts work outside the hive, performing scientific observations, protecting the hive, and gathering food. They are also messengers.

Most pixie technology is only useful for pixies. They make what they need, to solve problems and make their lives more comfortable. Technology to better protect the hive from weather changes, to reinforce the structure of the hive, or to store food better. Their pupation silk is capable of conducting energy, which they have used to great effect within their hives, much like electrical wiring. Through the use of magic, silk wiring, and carefully constructed devices, they have also found ways to temper their wax and create new forms of it with unique properties.

Pixies rarely use metal, since thye have no way to forge it without causing serious danger to themselves and their hive, but when they can find it in small pieces that are easier to shape, they use it in their most important technology, such as simple radios and telegraphs. They have also shared this technology with the vertebrate people, and worked alongside them to create larger devices. Pixies have become a staple of every community, thanks to their communications technology.

The single most interesting bit of tech the pixies have created is a device that allows them to communicate with the vertebrate people. The vertebrate people are so limited in their communication, after all, they can't use pheromones or connect with a hive mind. So the pixies have crafted small devices that produce sound when vibrated. Only the most skilled scout pixies can use them to full effect, altering the vibrations of their own bodies to produce a wide variety of sounds rapidly enough to synthesize a spoken voice.

The sound of this synthesized voice is very similar to the robotic monotone of early computer speech, so it can be difficult to understand, but people have gotten used to it.

Pixies continue to perform scientific studies on the vertebrate people, who perform studies on the pixies in return. Now that they are working with each other in a more mutual way, their studies have greatly improved.

While they have no need for names or even pronouns within the hive, scout pixies like to pick names for themselves when they interact with the vettebrate people. They typically pick a name by stealing a random word or phrase they have overheard, one which pleases them and suits their personality in some way.

Example names:

Toss-a-Log. Bundle-Up. Dozen. Drunk-Bastard. Get-Back-Here. Bless. Fresh. What-is-That.

Pixies also avoid using pronouns and filler words when they're using their vibration devices to speak to vertebrate people. They prefer to be as direct and clear as possible.

Pixie coloration varies by region, and each caste of pixie has a different pattern to their coloration.

So far I've only come up with one color variety.

(Image description: the first image shows pixies with blank outlines, comparing the sizes of their different castes. Drones are the smallest, at three inches, and have no stinger. Scouts are five inches and have a large stinger as well as fuzz on their legs and abdomen. Hive workers are six inches and have a much smaller stinger. Egg layers are eight inches and have a very large abdomen. The second image shows them all in color, with a black and yellow striped pattern. The drone and egg layer also have blue iridescence on their abdomens, and the scout and hive worker have slightly different stripe patterns. End description.)

[the-pen-pot]

One More Day

The sun gleamed gold, spilling its wealth upon Camelot. Crimson banners flew high, splashing their declarations across a clear, summer sky. The streets heaved with people, all of them in festive cheer. It had been a long, cold winter, full of grief and uncertainty. Now, as the year turned towards its zenith, the time had come to crown their new king.

Some would argue that it was nothing but pomp and ceremony. Personally, Merlin would agree. After all, Arthur had been confirmed as the new ruler the moment Uther perished on the battlefield, but – according to every lord of the realm – a coronation had to be done properly, and such things took time. Technically, Arthur had been reigning for months: king in all but name. Today, however, it became official.

'This cloak is ridiculous,' Arthur muttered, and Merlin hid a smirk as the tailor barely managed to stifle his dark look of disapproval. 'I can barely move.'

'Hundreds of tiny creatures died to give you all that fur. You could at least appreciate their sacrifice,' Merlin teased, grinning when Arthur glared. He didn't envy him. Today was far too important to leave dressing Arthur in Merlin's notoriously clumsy hands. There had been a special bath, anointing oil, an hour of silent contemplation at dawn... Merlin personally suspected the councillors had made half of it up, just to see if they could get Arthur to balk. Now, he stood motionless as three men made the final adjustments to the regal ensemble.

Honestly? It looked less comfortable than wet armour: heavy and resplendent. Arthur appeared every inch the king, right down to the scowl gathering upon his brow. Merlin could admit he had been remarkably patient. Preparation had begun before dawn and noon was fast approaching. People would be gathering in the throne room, waiting for Arthur to take his vows, and right now, the last thing he needed was people fussing with his appearance until the last moment.

Someone needed to tend the man within, and that job had always fallen to Merlin.

'You're done,' he told the tailor, raising an eyebrow at the man's indignant squawk. 'Anything you've not finished will have to stay that way. Go.' He gestured to the door, watching the man gape like a landed fish. His brown eyes slid to Arthur, but he clearly found no support there. In fact, whatever he witnessed was enough for him to grab his tools and flee the room, his attendants in his wake.

'Thank you.'

'Yeah, well. It'd be a bit bad for you to murder someone on your coronation day. You might get blood on that nice white trim.'

Arthur groaned, stepping down from the dressing platform, his shoulders relaxing as Merlin reached out, straightening the collar of the sumptuous tunic. 'I cannot wait for today to be over. It's pointless.'

'It's not for you. It's for the kingdom and the people. One more day, Arthur.'

'One more day.' He repeated it like a mantra, his eyes drifting shut as he took a moment to collect himself. When they opened again, Merlin grinned, seeing right there the man who would forge a path of change through all of Camelot and beyond. 'Then we begin setting things right.'

Merlin snorted at that, because Arthur had been distancing himself from his father's rule since the moment he'd emerged from the vigil at his tomb-side. Inch-by-inch, he had peeled away the sharpest restrictions on magic and laid the foundations for the laws to be rewritten. He had taken his time, building the base he needed to make something unbreakable: to bring Camelot back to its former glory.

'One more day, and you need never hide what you are again.' Arthur's hand rested against Merlin's jaw, his brow pressing to Merlin's own. It was a moment of peace, the two of them sharing breath and space. Merlin could almost pretend it was just another morning, one where he had awoken at Arthur's side and the world was soft and new in the dawn, made for them alone.

'Some of your lords are going to hate it,' he pointed out. 'Bad enough that I'm your lover, but a sorcerer? I can already hear the rumours.'

'And we will be ready to face them,' Arthur promised. 'I'm not letting anyone take this away from us: not the restoration of magic to Camelot nor what we share. They can bray about anything they please, from me being ensorcelled to my need for a queen. They'll get nowhere, and there's nothing they can do or say to change my mind.'

Arthur's lips were warm against his own, sealing his promise, soft and tender. Merlin surrendered happily, barely remembering not to grip Arthur's hips too tight lest he crush the velvet.

It had been a long road to reach this point, one that had taken them through Arthur's anger at Merlin's confession of sorcery and led them through towards acceptance. Then, ever onwards, as those warm feelings oft-ignored flourished and strengthened. Something that started as the desperate rut of hips and cries of pleasure bloomed into the kind of love that never faltered: incandescent.

A knock on the door echoed through the room, and Merlin pulled back with a little gasp, shooting a glare at the threshold. It was Leon's voice that told them, quiet and calm, that the kingdom awaited Arthur's presence.

'Are you ready?' Merlin asked, grinning to see Arthur flushed and relaxed: a man as well as a king.

'Ready.'

And side-by-side, they walked into their future. 

One more day, and all the rest thereafter.

[faerouzia]

Kingdom: At Grim's End

Aurora united: X

Pairing: prince!seonghwa x darkfae!fem!reader

Au: strangers to lovers | third age au

Genre: fantasy, horror

Warnings: +21 (MDNI), gory scenes, disturbing depictions of creatures, angst, fluff, SMUT, mentions of dark magic, death,suggestive themes, betrayal, slow burn, fear

Summary: The land of Aurora, split into several kingdoms, after a war that raged for over 400 years, falls weary of the dark reigns bestowed by the Evil Queen of Darconia, Morana. With half the kingdoms bound to her will, the last rivalling kingdoms join forces in hopes to end the queen’s exploitation of ancient magic and the plan of using dark arts and the blood of the most powerful king’s and creatures to solidify her power. In the midst of unforgiving circumstances, Prince seonghwa of Halazia and the last of her kind, a decent of the phoenix fae fall in love, but at a great cost.

Chapter playlist

Word count: 10k

Series master list

In the calm aftermath of the Grim’s war, three months had passed since Aurora’s battlefield fell silent, yet the kingdom bore the stubborn scars of a devastating conflict. The once-vibrant lands lay in ruins, cities reduced to shattered remnants, and villages abandoned under the weight of destruction. Among the hardest hit was Halazia, its proud structures now but broken stones and smoldering ashes, a grim testament to the fury that had raged across the realm.

Where grand towers once pierced the sky and bustling streets thrived with life, only rubble remained—silent witnesses to the battles that had nearly torn the kingdom apart. The spirit of Halazia was far from extinguished, however, as efforts had begun to rebuild from the ground up.

Craftsmen and laborers, both weary and determined, moved tirelessly amid the ruins, gathering timber and stone, striving to restore the city’s former glory. But until the walls were raised anew, the people of Halazia remained scattered and vulnerable, seeking shelter beyond its devastated borders.

In this dark hour, the survivors—those fortunate enough to escape the war’s merciless grasp—found refuge within the ancient halls of the elven palace. Nestled deep within whispering forests, the palace’s ethereal beauty stood in stark contrast to the ruin that lay beyond.

 Its towering spires and delicate arches seemed untouched by time, a sanctuary preserved by the magic and grace of the elven kind.

Within the palace’s expansive chambers and serene gardens, refugees gathered in tentative peace. They brought with them stories of loss and endurance, faces etched with exhaustion yet flickering with hope. Yeosang and his remaining guards welcomed them with open arms, their timeless wisdom offering comfort and protection from the unsettled world outside.

Though the war had ended, the echoes of its devastation lingered in every corner of Aurora. The journey to healing was only beginning, one fraught with uncertainty and challenges. But within the shelter of the elven palace, surrounded by new allies and old magic, the survivors dared to dream once more of a future where light would finally conquer shadow.

Beneath the surface of the kingdom, the Underland had irrevocably changed; it had become the dominion of the hobgoblins and the enigmatic iron fairies. The hobgoblins, with their playful and hardy nature, carved out new strongholds amidst the twisting caverns and shadowed hollows, while the iron fairies—creatures of myth forged from metal and magic—flitted through the labyrinthine tunnels, their metallic wings glinting with a ghostly light. This strange alliance reshaped the civilisation of Underland, creating a realm both mischievous and mesmerizing, where the echoes of ancient power still whispered through the stone.

Far above, the Dark Forest thrived with an intoxicating vibrancy, a paradox of life and peril interwoven beneath its dense canopy. Enchanted creatures—ethereal wisps, luminous sprites, and majestic shadow stags—thrived alongside more sinister denizens whose fangs and claws mirrored the forest’s untamed, dangerous heart. The trees themselves seemed alive, their gnarled branches pulsating with arcane energy, sheltering both friend and foe in a delicate balance between light and shadow. Here, magic infused every leaf and stone, creating a realm where beauty and danger danced in perpetual twilight, a sanctuary through which Hendores guarded with his fellow spriggans. 

And then, there was the Dark Kingdom of Darconia—once a realm shadowed by despair and peril—now transformed into the Fae’s new home. From its somber ruins, fae of all kinds united to reshape and rebuild the land to their liking, breathing life and magic into every corner. The tundra fae, whose powers were tied to the cold and enduring strength of frost and stone, coaxed towering trees to grow across the kingdom’s expanse, their branches heavy with fruit of exquisite delight, nourishing both body and spirit.The air thrummed with the joyful hum of life, flowers bloomed with vibrant colors unknown to mortal eyes, and the songs of fae filled the gentle breeze like a sacred hymn. I was crowned Queen of the Fae amidst my people, a title heavy with honor and responsibility. In this role, I stand not only as a ruler but as a guardian of the delicate harmony between the realms.

The crown is both my burden and my blessing, a symbol of the resilience and unity that now define us. With my subjects beside me, we nurture the land, mend the wounds of the past, and look steadfastly toward a future bathed in light.

⥤⥤⥤⥤⥤⥤⥤⥤⥤⥤⥤⥤⥤⥤⥤⥢⥢⥢⥢⥢⥢⥢⥢⥢⥢⥢⥢⥢⥢

The tranquil halls of the elven palace, bathed in soft moonlight filtering through stained-glass windows, seemed alive with a rare, joyous energy. In one of the spacious chambers, Mr. Kim and Hongjoong found themselves embroiled in a lively bickering match over the festival decorations that were being readied for the upcoming celebration.

“You twat! Left, I said left! You bollocks!” Mr. Kim exclaimed, frustration bubbling over as he pointed emphatically toward the far side of the room, where colorful banners and lanterns hung unevenly.

Mrs. Kim, perched nearby with a delicate vase in hand, promptly raised her hand and delivered a gentle slap to her husband’s head. “Oh, stop calling your own son a bollocks!” she chided, her voice light but firm, her eyes twinkling with amusement.

Around them stood Hongjoong’s nine siblings, their varied expressions ranging from amusement to playful exasperation. At one end, the youngest, bubbly Min-ju, bounced excitedly on her toes, while at the other, the eldest, stoic Jae-hyun, leaned casually against a pillar, watching the scene unfold with a bemused smile.

“Honestly, Father,” Jae-hyun began in his distinctly calm tone, “if you spent half as much time directing the decorations as you do shouting at Hongjoong, this festival would’ve been ready yesterday.”

“With respect, Jae-hyun,” Mr. Kim retorted, “Hongjoong here has a knack for ignoring instructions. You’d think he had a one-track mind—and that track is ‘how to annoy Father.’”

Hongjoong rolled his eyes, grinning. “Oi, that’s unfair. I’m strategically selective.”

Min-ju giggled, tugging at her elder brother’s sleeve. “I think he’s just your favorite target, Father! Right, everyone?”

A chorus of laughter rippled through the siblings. Jae-hyun smirked and added, “Selective or not, Hongjoong, you’d better get those banners straight before Mother turns this into a gardening festival.”

Mrs. Kim, who had just discreetly dusted off Mr. Kim’s shoulder after her playful slap, smiled warmly. “Enough of this squabbling. Let’s focus on making this festival the most memorable. And Hongjoong, dear, no more arguing with Father—at least not before the feast.”

“Too late for that,” Hongjoong muttered, shooting a mock glare at his father, who winked in return. “But I’ll try.”

Yeosang and Seonghwa, standing just a few steps away, couldn’t help but giggle at the sight—their laughter bright and carefree, untouched by the shadows of past fears.

Yeosang, from nearby, quipped, “Seems like the Kims are the perfect storm. I wouldn’t change a thing about this family.”

Seonghwa nodded in agreement, his smile gentle. “It’s good to see such happiness. We’ve earned it.”

The youngest two Kims, Min-ju and her slightly older sister, chuckled together. “Let’s just hope the decorations hold up during the festivities!” Min-ju added with a playful wink aiming it towards the handsome prince that stood at a fair distance before them. 

Yeosang caught the playful wink and grinned mischievously. “Ah, Min-ju’s got eyes for someone special, doesn’t she?” he teased, casting a sly glance at Seonghwa.

Seonghwa, caught off guard, glanced over at Min-ju, then quickly pointed to himself, mouthing the word, “Me?”

Min-ju’s cheeks flushed a delicate shade of pink as she nodded nervously, avoiding eye contact but unable to hide a shy smile.

Yeosang laughed heartily. “Well, well, Prince Seonghwa, it seems you’ve got a young admirer already. Better start preparing, or you’ll have the whole palace chasing after you!”

Seonghwa rolled his eyes playfully but smiled softly. “I’m touched, truly. But my heart is elsewhere... someone who’s been through so much. My thoughts—and my heart—belong to Y/N.”

The siblings chuckled at the lighthearted moment, the teasing laughter weaving seamlessly into the joyous atmosphere that now filled the elven palace.

Yeosang nudged Seonghwa gently in the ribs, a teasing glint in his eye. “So, then, what about inviting Y/N to the festival? And don’t forget the other fae as well. It wouldn’t be a true celebration without her presence—and all those who fought alongside us.”

Seonghwa paused, thoughtful, the earlier mirth giving way to a quieter contemplation. The idea of sharing this moment of peace and joy with me—and the fae—stirred a warmth deep within him, mingled with the memories of battles fought and bonds forged in fire.

After a moment, he nodded softly. “You’re right. She deserves to celebrate this victory with us, to see the life we’re rebuilding.”

⥤⥤⥤⥤⥤⥤⥤⥤⥤⥤⥤⥤⥤⥤⥤⥢⥢⥢⥢⥢⥢⥢⥢⥢⥢⥢⥢⥢⥢

As the sun began its slow descent, casting golden hues over the Fae Lands, I found myself perched on the edge of a cliff, where a slanted oak tree grew, its branches reaching out like welcoming arms. The view before me was breathtaking; the skies were alive with fae soaring magnificently, their wings shimmering in the fading light, creating strong winds that sent small waves dancing across the ocean below.

In that moment, I let my thoughts drift, reflecting on the war that had tested us all and the growth I had experienced through it. I had emerged not just as a leader but as a guardian of our realm, and the weight of that responsibility felt both heavy and liberating.

Suddenly, I sensed a familiar energy behind me, pulling me from my reverie. I turned to see Dracarys approaching, and a sigh of relief escaped my lips.

“Don’t worry, I won’t kill you,” he joked, a playful smirk dancing on his lips.

I couldn’t help but laugh at his lightheartedness. “You’ve done well,” I replied, my heart swelling with gratitude for his unwavering support.

Dracarys settled beside me, our shoulders brushing as I turned to meet his gaze. His canary-yellow eyes sparkled with warmth, reminiscent of my mother’s, and I felt a wave of comfort wash over me. “Your mother would be proud,” he added softly, his voice carrying a weight of sincerity that resonated deep within me.

As we sat together, watching the fae flourish in the twilight, I felt a sense of peace enveloping us. The laughter of my kin echoed through the air, mingling with the gentle rustle of leaves and the rhythmic sound of waves crashing against the shore. It was a moment of pure beauty, a reminder of what we had fought for and the life we were rebuilding.

As we sat side by side on the cliff’s edge, watching the fae dance gracefully through the golden sky, Dracarys broke the comfortable silence with a hopeful smile. “You know, I’ve been thinking about the future,” he began thoughtfully, his canary eyes reflecting the fading light. “A future where kingdoms reunite, where the wounds of war are finally healed, and peace isn’t just a fleeting dream but a lasting reality.”

I nodded, captivated by his vision. “And the fae, growing in number, flourishing like never before,” I added.

Dracarys chuckled softly. “Yes, the fae population swelling, our magic weaving ever deeper into the fabric of the world. I imagine a land where forests sing with life, where even the darkest shadows give way to light.”

He glanced sideways at me with a sly grin. “And, hopefully, a land where love has no restrictions—where hearts can choose freely, unburdened by old prejudices or ancient rules.”

I giggled at that, the idea both whimsical and liberating. Dracarys raised an eyebrow, curiosity flickering in his gaze. “Did I say something funny?”

I smiled warmly, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Oh, no. Just that there will always be one who irks at the very thought of it.”

He laughed, a rich, genuine sound that blended seamlessly with the symphony of evening winds and distant fae laughter. “Well, then,” he said, nudging me lightly, “we’ll just have to be the ones who prove them wrong.”

As the last rays of sunlight bathed the Fae Lands in a soft amber glow, a gentle murmur rose from the gathering of fae behind us. The delicate whispers and rustling wings carried a tangible weight—something stirring amidst the peaceful crowd. Dracarys’s sharp canary eyes immediately flicked toward the source.

Dracarys nudged my attention toward a figure approaching in the distance, dressed in a long-sleeve cotton blouse and black trousers. “Looks like we have company,” he remarked, his tone light yet curious.

I turned to meet the figure’s gaze, and a smile blessed on my face as our eyes locked. Seonghwa had come. The warmth of the moment enveloped me, and I felt a sense of a connection so deep, no amount of water would extinguish the fire this man ignites within me. 

Dracarys spread his expansive, shimmering wings, the canary-yellow feathers catching the last rays of the setting sun as he gracefully lifted off the ground. I followed suit, my own wings unfurling and catching the gentle evening breeze. Together, we soared toward where Seonghwa stood, the soft rustling of wings blending with the whispering winds of the Fae Lands.

As we approached, Dracarys lowered himself smoothly until he hovered just before Seonghwa, his gaze sharp yet courteous. “Seonghwa,” Dracarys began with a respectful nod, “what brings you here at this hour?”

Seonghwa’s normally confident demeanor wavered slightly; a nervous flush colored his cheeks as he bowed deeply toward Dracarys. “Forgive my abruptness,” he stammered, “but I come bearing a message.” He paused, gathering his composure before continuing with earnest sincerity. “We wish to extend an invitation to all the fae — every kind, from the smallest sprite to the elder guardians — to join the festival. It’s a celebration of peace, renewal, and unity. Your presence would bring great honor and joy.”

I watched the genuine hope in Seonghwa’s eyes, feeling a surge of pride that despite all we’d endured, the bonds between our peoples were growing ever stronger. Dracarys nodded thoughtfully, a small smile spreading across his face. “Your message will be conveyed with the respect it deserves. The festival will be all the richer for their presence.”

Together, we began our descent, ready to carry the invitation far and wide across the Fae Lands — a herald of new beginnings and the promise of light after darkness.

Before Seonghwa took his leave, our eyes locked in a silent glance that felt like an eternity. The dark pools of his eyes danced against the rays of the setting sun, reflecting a depth of emotion that was both captivating and profound. In that moment, he was… beautiful beyond measure, a vision of strength and vulnerability intertwined.

For what seemed like eons, we remained lost in each other’s gaze, the world around us fading into a soft blur. Just as I felt the warmth of a smile tugging at my lips, Dracarys cleared his throat, snapping us out of our daze. The sound echoed in the stillness, a gentle reminder of the present.

Seonghwa blinked, a hint of color rising to his cheeks as he regained his composure. With a graceful bow, he acknowledged Dracarys before turning back to me, his expression softening. “See you tonight, Y/N,” he said, his voice warm and inviting.

As he mounted his horse, the creature’s coat gleaming in the twilight, I felt a flutter of anticipation in my chest. The promise of the festival loomed ahead, a night filled with laughter, music, and the chance to celebrate our hard-won peace.

“See you tonight, Seonghwa,” I replied, my heart racing as he rode away, the sound of hooves echoing softly against the earth.

Dracarys watched him go, a knowing smile on his face. “You two have quite the connection,” he remarked, his tone teasing yet affectionate.

I rolled my eyes playfully, a smile breaking across my face. “It’s just a friendship, Dracarys.”

“Just a friendship?” he echoed, raising an eyebrow. “I think there’s more to it than that.”

Dracarys was indeed right; what sort of friendship involves two individuals indulging in acts of reproduction? None whatsoever, unless it existed in a world of chaos and toxic standards. The thought lingered in my mind, a bittersweet reminder of the complexities of our relationship.

As I watched Seonghwa ride away, I couldn’t help but reflect on the depth of our connection. It was more than mere friendship; it was a bond forged through shared experiences, battles fought side by side, and the unspoken understanding that had grown between us. 

Dracarys, sensing my contemplation, nudged me gently. “You’re thinking too hard about it, Y/N. Just let things unfold naturally. The heart knows what it wants, even if the mind tries to complicate it.”

I sighed, a mix of frustration and longing swirling within me. “It’s not that simple, Dracarys. There are expectations, responsibilities… and the fear of what could happen if we let our feelings take the lead.”

He regarded me with a knowing look, his canary eyes softening. “True, but love—real love—transcends those fears. It’s about finding joy in each other, supporting one another, and building something beautiful together. You’ve fought for this peace; don’t let fear hold you back from experiencing it fully.”

His words resonated deeply, stirring something within me. Perhaps it was time to embrace the possibilities rather than shy away from them. The festival was approaching, a celebration of life and love, and I could feel the energy of the fae around me, urging me to take that leap.

As we prepared to spread the invitation to the fae, I couldn’t shake the warmth of Seonghwa’s gaze from my mind. The night ahead promised to be magical, and I felt a sense of hope blooming within me, ready to embrace whatever the future held.

As we took to the skies once more, the wind rushing beneath our wings, I felt a sense of liberation. The night ahead was filled with potential, and I was ready to face it—heart open, ready to explore the depths of my connection with Seonghwa and the vibrant world of the fae.

⥤⥤⥤⥤⥤⥤⥤⥤⥤⥤⥤⥤⥤⥤⥤⥢⥢⥢⥢⥢⥢⥢⥢⥢⥢⥢⥢⥢⥢

The festival at the elven palace blossomed into a mesmerizing tapestry of light, color, and music that transcended the grand halls, spilling gracefully into the lush surrounding gardens. Lanterns hung delicately from ancient branches, casting a warm, golden glow upon the winding pathways adorned with blooming flowers, their fragrances mingling in the cool night air. Crystal-clear fountains sparkled under the moonlight, their gentle murmur adding a serene melody to the lively hum of celebration.

The air filled with laughter, the sound of mingling voices, and the rhythmic beat of drums and flutes as fae and guests alike revealed in the momentous occasion. Vibrant tapestries swayed gently in the breeze, and tables groaned under the weight of sumptuous feasts crafted from the finest ingredients of both mortal and magical realms.

Amidst the enchanting chaos, Mr. Kim fussed nervously with his bow tie, his brows furrowed in concentration. “I told you, left side... no, the other side!” he muttered under his breath.

Mrs. Kim, ever the perfectionist, tightened the bow with an amused yet exasperated sigh, whispering sharply, “If you spent as much time in practice as you do complaining, you wouldn’t look like a nervous hedgehog.”

The old banter between them brought smiles to those nearby, including Yeosang and Seonghwa, who exchanged glances and softly chuckled at the familiar scene of familial warmth and lighthearted discord.However, as the laughter echoed around them, Seonghwa’s gaze drifted toward a shadowed corner of the garden, where Mingi stood apart from the festivities, his posture tense and his expression clouded with shame.

Mingi’s shoulders were hunched, as if he were trying to shrink away from the world around him. The vibrant colors of the festival seemed to fade in his presence, the laughter and music a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing within him. He had been a part of the chaos that had threatened our peace, and the weight of his past actions hung heavily on him.

Seonghwa’s heart ached at the sight. With a deep breath, he excused himself from Yeosang and made his way toward Mingi, determination guiding his steps.

“Mingi,” Seonghwa called softly as he approached, his voice barely rising above the distant music. “You shouldn’t be hiding away like this.”

Mingi looked up, his eyes filled with a mixture of regret and sorrow. “I didn’t think I could face anyone tonight,” he admitted, his voice heavy with guilt. “Not after everything that happened.”

Seonghwa stepped closer, his expression earnest. “We all make mistakes, Mingi. What matters is how we choose to move forward. You can’t let shame keep you from being part of this celebration. We need you here.”

Mingi shook his head, his fists clenching at his sides. “You don’t understand. I was part of the chaos that nearly tore us apart. I don’t deserve to be here, celebrating with everyone.”

“Everyone deserves a second chance,” Seonghwa replied firmly, his gaze unwavering. “You’ve fought for our peace, and you’ve shown remorse. That counts for something. You can’t let your past define you.”

The tension in Mingi’s shoulders began to ease, but doubt still lingered in his eyes. “What if they can’t forgive me? What if they see me as a reminder of what we lost?”

Seonghwa stepped closer, lowering his voice to a comforting whisper. “Then show them you’ve changed. Be the friend and ally we all know you can be. Tonight is about unity, and we can’t achieve that without you.”

After a moment of silence, Mingi’s expression softened, the flicker of hope igniting within him. “You really think they’ll accept me?”

“I know they will,” Seonghwa assured him, a small smile breaking through the tension. “But you have to take that first step. Come on, let’s face this together.”

With a hesitant nod, Mingi straightened, the weight of his shame still present but now accompanied by a glimmer of resolve. Together, they stepped back into the vibrant heart of the festival, the music and laughter wrapping around them like a warm embrace.

As they rejoined the celebration, the atmosphere shifted, the air thick with the promise of forgiveness and the possibility of new beginnings. The night was still young, and the festival awaited, ready to weave its magic around all who dared to embrace it.

As the festivities hummed with life, the grand entrance of the fae commenced. They arrived in elegant procession, their fine garments tailored exquisitely to suit each unique build — flowing silks that captured moonbeams, shimmering fabrics that reflected the mysterious hues of their wings, and delicate embroidery that whispered tales of their ancient heritage. Their presence was regal, mesmerizing, a living embodiment of the magic that coursed through their veins.

Yet amid the dazzling procession, one figure stood apart unmistakably — I, Y/N. Draped in a gown spun from threads of starlight and woven with the colors of fiery embers and deep amber, my form radiated a quiet, fierce light. My wings, vast and majestic, shimmered with a brilliance that outshone even the moon above, casting soft, dancing shadows across the gardens.

Amongst the crowd, Seonghwa’s breath caught, and he froze, his dark eyes locked onto me in silent wonder and admiration. His heartbeat echoed in his ears as the golden light surrounded me like a divine aura.

From a distance, King Park watched with quiet pride, a gentle smile gracing his features. His heart lifted, and in a soft, wistful murmur, he whispered, “How I wish He-Ra were here to see this.”

The festival had fully blossomed into a radiant celebration beneath the starlit sky, with laughter and music weaving through the fragrant gardens of the elven palace. Lanterns flickered softly, casting playful shadows on the faces of revelers clad in their finest garb, while the air hummed with the joyous mingling of magic and mirth.

Yet amidst the lively spectacle, a delicate tension wove between Seonghwa and me. Not a single word passed between us throughout the night; only stolen glances—the briefest flickers of mutual recognition—served as silent threads connecting our hearts in the midst of the crowd. His dark eyes met mine across the sea of faces more times than I could count, each time sending a flutter of nervousness through me, an unfamiliar emotion that was somehow thrilling and unnerving all at once.

In a moment seemingly trivial—a pause between dances and the soft murmur of distant conversation—I summoned the courage to speak, to bridge the heavy silence that clung to us. I opened my mouth, the words trembling on my lips, when suddenly a familiar voice cut through my thoughts.

“It’s time for our dance,” Dracarys said gently, stepping beside me with an encouraging smile.

Startled, I turned to find his steady gaze calm and inviting, yet my heart sank as I glanced back toward the crowd. Seonghwa’s figure was already slipping away, disappearing amongst the swirling faces and shifting lights. A fleeting wave of frustration washed over me, the words I had clung to melting away like mist.

Seonghwa’s POV:

As I walked away from the vibrant heart of the festival, the tension between Y/N and me hung heavily in the air, a palpable weight that pressed down on my chest. We hadn’t spoken a word to each other all night, and the silence felt like a chasm that grew wider with each stolen glance. Each time our eyes met, a rush of emotions surged through me—longing, confusion, and an aching desire that I struggled to comprehend. I needed a moment to breathe, to gather my thoughts, so I made my way toward the refreshment table, hoping a drink would ease the knot of anxiety tightening within me.

“Hey, Seonghwa!” Yunho called out, his voice cutting through the din of laughter and music. He was leaning against the table, a playful grin on his face as he handed me a cup filled with a sparkling, effervescent drink. “You look troubled. Everything alright?”

I forced a smile, taking a sip of the drink to buy myself a moment, but the sweetness of the beverage did little to mask the bitterness of my turmoil. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I replied, though the words felt hollow, echoing in the vast emptiness of my heart. I could feel the weight of my unspoken feelings pressing down on me, the uncertainty of what lay between Y/N and me gnawing at my insides like a relentless tide.

Yunho raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “You sure? You’ve been a bit distant tonight. Is it about Y/N?”

The mere mention of her name sent a jolt through me, the air thickening with unspoken words and unresolved emotions. I hesitated, the name hanging in the air like a spell, a reminder of the connection I yearned for yet felt so far from grasping. “I—” I began, but the words caught in my throat, tangled in the web of my thoughts.

Before I could dwell on it further, a voice rang out across the garden, loud enough to capture the attention of everyone present. “Attention, everyone! We are honored to present a special performance from the fae as a gift to celebrate this night of unity and joy!”

The crowd quieted, anticipation buzzing in the air like electricity as twelve fae stepped forward, their movements graceful and fluid. They formed a perfect circle, their garments shimmering like the night sky, and began to dance in unison, a mesmerizing display of elegance and magic. The music shifted, a hauntingly beautiful melody that resonated deep within my heart, stirring emotions I had tried to suppress. Then the drums banged, a collision of power that rhythmically pulsed through our hearts, igniting a fire within me.

As the dance unfolded, I realized with a jolt that Y/N was not just a spectator; she was a part of the performance, her movements seamlessly integrated into the routine. My heart raced as I watched her every move, captivated by the way her onyx wings swayed gracefully with each turn, catching the light and casting shimmering shadows on the ground.

Every time she threw her head back, exposing the delicate curve of her neck, I felt a rush of admiration wash over me, a wave of longing that threatened to drown me. It was as if the world around us faded, and all that remained was the enchanting rhythm of her dance. Awe scraped only at the surface of my emotions; something deeper stirred within me, a primal instinct that resonated with the very essence of our beings.

In that moment, it felt as if she were the male bird, dancing with all her might to impress me, the female bird. The air crackled with an unspoken connection, a magnetic pull that drew our gazes together. When our eyes met, the world around us blurred, and time seemed to stand still. I could see the spark of recognition in her eyes, a flicker of understanding that mirrored my own feelings.

Yet, beneath the surface of my admiration lay a tumult of emotions—fear, uncertainty, and a gnawing jealousy that threatened to consume me. What if she didn’t feel the same? What if this was all just a fleeting moment, a spark that would fizzle out as quickly as it ignited? The thought twisted in my gut, a dark shadow that loomed over the brightness of the night.

As the dance continued, I felt a desperate urge to bridge the silence that had grown between us, to reach out and grasp the connection that felt so tantalizingly close yet impossibly distant. I wanted to shout her name, to break the spell of silence that bound us, but the words remained trapped in my throat, suffocated by my own insecurities.

The performance reached its crescendo, and I could feel the energy of the crowd swell, but all I could focus on was Y/N. She was radiant, a vision of strength and beauty, and I felt an overwhelming urge to join her, to share in the magic of the moment. But as the final notes of the music echoed through the garden, I was left standing on the sidelines, a spectator in my own heart.

With a deep breath, I steeled myself, determined to confront the silence that had lingered too long between us. I had to find a way to express what I felt, to let her know that she was more than just a fleeting thought in my mind. Tonight, I would not let fear hold me back any longer.

The dance continued, the other fae moving in perfect harmony, their bodies weaving a tapestry of grace and elegance. Yet, my focus remained solely on Y/N. She was radiant, a vision of strength and beauty that captivated my every thought. Each twirl of her onyx wings sent a shiver down my spine, and I felt an overwhelming urge to join her, to bridge the widening gap that had formed between us. The performance was a celebration, yet it felt incomplete without our voices mingling in the melody of the night, without the connection that had begun to blossom between us.

As the final notes of the music echoed through the garden, I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what I knew I had to do. My heart pounded in my chest, a relentless drumbeat urging me forward as I pushed through the crowd, determined to reach her before the moment slipped away. Each step felt like a battle against the tide of uncertainty that threatened to pull me under.

But just as I was about to call out her name, I caught sight of another fae stepping forward, a confident smile gracing his features as he extended his hand toward her. My heart sank, frustration bubbling within me like a storm ready to break. I watched helplessly as he led her away, the distance between us growing once more, stretching the fragile thread of connection that had begun to weave itself between our hearts.

I clenched my fists, the weight of unspoken words pressing heavily on my chest, a suffocating reminder of my own inadequacies. I had to act, to reclaim the connection that felt so tantalizingly close yet impossibly far. With renewed determination, I followed them, ready to confront the silence that had lingered too long between us. Tonight, I would not let fear hold me back any longer.

Stepping away from the vibrant chaos of the festival, I found solace outside, the cool night air wrapping around me like a comforting embrace. I gazed up at the star-studded sky, my thoughts drifting to Y/N. Oh, how I wished I were a fae like her—perhaps then I could soar freely, unburdened by the weight of my emotions. Maybe then I could express what lay heavy on my heart without fear of rejection, without the gnawing anxiety that clawed at my insides.

My reverie was abruptly interrupted by a familiar voice behind me. “You’d what?”

I turned around, my breath catching in my throat as I met Y/N’s gaze. She stood at the doorway, her attire transformed into a stunning black gown that opened at the back, elegantly framing her wings and exposing her shoulders. The sight of her took my breath away, and for a moment, I was lost in the beauty of her presence, the way the moonlight danced upon her skin, illuminating every curve and contour.

“How did you—” I began, but she cut me off with a soft chuckle, her laughter a soothing balm to my frayed nerves.

“It seems reading minds is one of my new powers,” she teased, stepping closer, her playful demeanor easing the tension that had gripped me. Yet, as she approached, I noticed a shift in her expression, a flicker of concern crossing her features. “What’s the matter?” she asked, her voice gentle yet probing, as if she could sense the storm brewing within me.

I hesitated, the turmoil within me battling against the urge to confide in her. “I’m okay,” I replied, but the words felt inadequate, a flimsy shield against the tempest of emotions raging inside. Jealousy simmered beneath the surface, a dark cloud that threatened to overshadow the joy of the evening, and I could feel it clawing at my heart, demanding to be acknowledged.

Y/N laughed lightly, steering the conversation away from my sorrowful thoughts. “You really think I have feelings for him?” she said, her tone teasing, yet there was an undercurrent of sincerity that made my heart race. “Oh no, Seonghwa... my heart belongs to someone else.”

A mix of hope and fear flooded my senses, a dizzying cocktail of emotions that left me breathless. I looked directly into her eyes, my expression demanding yet vulnerable, as if I were standing on the precipice of something monumental. Was that night just a fleeting moment, a spark that would fizzle out? “Who has your heart then?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, the weight of my question hanging in the air like a fragile promise.

Y/N’s gaze held mine, her eyes gleaming with an amber hue that ignited a fire within me, a flicker of something deeper that sent my heart racing. A wide smile spread across her face, revealing her sharpened fangs, and she answered, “You.”

A rush of warmth surged through me, stirring something deep within my heart, a feeling that had been simmering just beneath the surface. The tension between us thickened, electric and palpable, as if the very air around us crackled with unspoken desire. I reached for her cheek, my fingers brushing against her skin, yearning to close the distance between us, to finally bridge the gap that had felt insurmountable for so long.

Our lips hovered just a breath apart, the world around us fading into a blur of colors and sounds, but before I could lean in, she pulled back, her eyes filled with a desire that mirrored my own, yet tinged with uncertainty. The moment hung between us, suspended in time, a slow burn that ignited every nerve ending in my body. I could feel the heat radiating from her, a magnetic pull that drew me closer, yet held me at bay, a tantalizing dance of longing and hesitation.

In that charged silence, I realized that this was more than just a fleeting moment; it was the beginning of something profound, a connection that had the power to change everything. The world around us faded, leaving only the two of us, caught in a web of emotions that threatened to unravel at any moment. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, each beat echoing the unspoken words that lingered between us, waiting for the right moment to break free.

“Have you flown before?” she asked, her voice a mix of curiosity and excitement, sending a thrill through me that I couldn’t ignore.

Caught off guard, I blinked, momentarily lost in her radiant gaze. “No, I haven’t,” I admitted, my heart still pounding from the near kiss, the memory blazing fresh and vivid.

“Then let me show you,” she said with a widening smile, stepping back gracefully. Her majestic wings unfurled behind her, vast and shimmering like woven starlight, casting ethereal hues across the night.

Before I could respond, she reached out and gently took me into her arms. The warmth of her hold was immediate and grounding despite the exhilaration coursing through me. “I’ll carry you,” she said softly, her eyes sparkling with determination. “It’s time you experienced the freedom of flight.”

My breath caught as she lifted off the ground effortlessly, the world below shrinking with every powerful beat of her wings. The cool night air rushed past us, carrying the scent of blooming flowers and the distant melody of the festival. Held securely against her, I felt both weightless and protected, my heart racing in tandem with the rhythm of her flight.

Above the treetops, the landscape stretched endlessly, bathed in silver moonlight and sprinkled with twinkling stars. I tried to focus on the beauty unfolding beneath us—the shimmering rivers, the swaying forests—but all I could see was her. The way her wings moved, strong and graceful; how her presence encapsulated both power and gentleness. I tightened my hold lightly on her shoulders, reluctant to let go of this moment.

She glanced back at me with a playful smile, sensing the storm of emotions inside. “How does it feel?” she asked.

“Like I’m flying for the first time not just in body, but in spirit,” I said honestly, my voice hushed with wonder.

She laughed softly, a sound that mingled with the night breeze. “Good. We’re just getting started.”

As we soared higher, the world expanded beneath us—limitless, vibrant, and alive. And for the first time, I truly felt free.

As we soared above the treetops, the cool night air enveloped us like a tender embrace, and the moonlight illuminated our path with a silvery glow. Y/N's laughter rang out like a melodious symphony, a sound that filled the night with warmth and unrestrained joy as she held my wingless form securely in her arms. I couldn't help but mirror her movements, my arms outstretched beneath her as if I could touch the stars themselves, each twinkling light a distant promise.

"Where are we going?" I finally asked, my voice barely above a whisper, carried away by the wind's gentle caress.

Y/N glanced back at me, her eyes sparkling with mischief and wonder, a captivating blend of emotions that made my heart race. "Just trust me," she replied, her smile infectious and radiant. With that, she led us higher, gliding effortlessly above a series of trees that seemed to stretch endlessly beneath us, their silhouettes dark against the luminous sky.

As we approached a familiar sight, I felt my heart quicken, anticipation coursing through my veins. "The enchanted forest," I whispered, awe washing over me like a tidal wave. Memories flooded back—the night she had transformed, the pain etched on her face, and the moment I realized I had fallen for her, a complete stranger who had captivated my very soul.

Before I could gather my thoughts, Y/N beckoned me to follow her deeper into the forest. The thrill of adventure surged within me, mingling with a hint of trepidation. This was more than just a flight; it was a journey into the heart of our shared past, a chance to confront the emotions that had blossomed between us like wildflowers in spring.

With a nod, I peered forward, my heart racing as I urged her to take flight. The trees below danced in the moonlight, their leaves whispering secrets of old. As we descended into the forest, the air grew thick with magic, and I could feel the pulse of the earth beneath us, alive and vibrant, resonating with the energy of our connection.

Y/N landed gracefully on a soft patch of moss, and I followed suit, my feet barely making a sound. She turned to me, her expression a captivating mix of excitement and nostalgia. "Do you remember the first time we were here?" she asked, her voice soft yet imbued with an undeniable strength.

I nodded, the memory vivid in my mind. "How could I forget? It was the night everything changed."

Her gaze held mine, and in that moment, the world around us faded away. The stars above twinkled like diamonds scattered across velvet, and the moon cast a silvery glow on her face, illuminating the breathtaking beauty that had captivated me from the very beginning.

As we stepped deeper into the enchanted forest, the air thickened with magic—and something electric that passed silently between us. Y/N’s eyes caught mine, aglow with a fire that seemed to mirror the restless beat of my own heart. "Tonight, let's make new memories," she said, her voice a soft, barely-there invitation that sent shivers cascading down my spine.

Her words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken longing—a desire that transcended mere companionship. The subtle curve of her lips, the slow, deliberate way she stepped closer, each breath she took fragrant with promise—all of it fanned a burning ache inside me I could no longer hide.

I felt my hands tremble with yearning as I reached for her, drawn by a magnetic pull deeper than the forest shadows. Every beat of my chest was louder, syncing with the rapid thrum of hers—a silent drum calling us toward an undeniable, primal connection. Lust and tenderness tangled in that moment, blurring the lines where one ended and the other began.

The distant moonlight painted her skin in ethereal silver hues, making her appear almost otherworldly, and yet I longed to touch, to hold, to lose myself completely in the ache I felt for her. The world slipped away—only her presence remained, intoxicating and alive—and I knew, without a doubt, that tonight we would rewrite the story of us in the most passionate of ways.

Her steps glided toward me with a grace that held me captive. She lifted her hands ever so slightly, her warmth embracing me without a single touch. And there it was, that look in her eyes, one drawing me in like a siren calling to a pirate. The moment her fingers teased at my left cheek, my skin shivered with delight, and an unexpected sigh escaped my lips, a sound of longing and desire that echoed in the stillness of the enchanted night.

Our faces were only a nail apart as she moved closer, the intoxicating warmth radiating from her body enveloping me like a soft, inviting blanket. My hands draped over the sides of her waist, every muscle beneath her garment a tantalizing reminder of her exquisite form. I trembled gently, overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of this wondrous creature before me, a being of such absolute allure that it felt almost otherworldly. A part of me wanted to resist, to pull back from the edge of this intoxicating precipice, yet the thought of losing her lingered like a haunting melody in my mind. I could not let that happen again, not now, and certainly not ever. I could not allow such a fiery connection to slip through my very fingers again, even though I had not yet claimed her as my own.

In this moment, I hoped that an act so profound would send a message—an unspoken declaration of feelings that no mortal or celestial being could ever encapsulate in a single sentence. Our lips hovered tantalizingly above one another, breaths warm and inviting, mingling in the space between us. She was dangerous, a peril so intoxicating that even the most skilled of criminals would find themselves at a loss.

“Tell me…” she moaned in a sigh, a sound that was different from that fateful night, filled with a longing that resonated deep within me. “Do you rage for me, like I do for you?”

My heart raced, each pulse echoing through my neck as if it were a drum heralding the arrival of something monumental. My lips quivered at the sight of her plump, inviting mouth, and I could barely manage to whisper, “Yes.”

Suddenly, her tongue graced my bottom lip, a bold and tantalizing gesture that sent shockwaves of desire coursing through my veins. I had never witnessed such a provocative display unfold before me in such a sensual manner, and she asked once again, her voice a honeyed cello that wrapped around my senses, “Do you ache for me, like I do for you?”

Oh, darling, you have no idea. Those words sent a warmth cascading down to my aching center, its tip vibrating with an urgency that left me breathless. My mouth opened, but no words came forth; I was rendered speechless by the intensity of the moment. Yet, she had ulterior motives, her hand trailing down to where I needed it most. Her fingers soothed the ache gently, causing a strangled plea to escape my lips. “Yes—yes, I do, Y/N, please,” I gasped, the desperation in my voice palpable.

She snickered, a giggle laced with mischief that sent a thrill through me, her fangs glinting in the dim light as they pierced through her smile. “Does your heart burn for me like mine does for you?” she asked, her hand moving in a circular motion that sent waves of pleasure coursing through my body.

I had no words left, and so I nodded like a child pleading for a sweet treat, my eyes wide with longing and desire. At that moment, our lips collided, igniting a fiery connection that felt both exhilarating and consuming. It was a sloppy battle of dominance, our heads turning feverishly as our tongues clashed against one another, each movement a dance of passion and urgency.

A moan escaped her lips as our mouths danced together, and I furrowed my eyebrows in delight, reveling in the sensation of her swollen lips, tender from stolen bites and rough nibbles. My hands cradled her back, tracing the deep curve in the center and then caressing her wings, each feather a testament to her growth and evolution. The raging desire that filled me was profound, a yearning that transcended the physical and delved into the very essence of our beings.

As we kissed, the world around us faded into oblivion, leaving only the intoxicating connection we shared. The air crackled with electricity, a palpable tension that heightened every sensation, every touch. I could feel the heat radiating from her body, mingling with my own, creating a whirlwind of emotions that threatened to consume us both.

Her hands explored my body with a fervor that ignited a fire within me, each caress sending shivers down my spine. I could feel the urgency in her movements, a desperate need that mirrored my own. The way she pressed against me, her body fitting perfectly against mine, made it clear that we were two halves of a whole, destined to collide in this moment of passion.

Time seemed to stand still as we lost ourselves in each other, the outside world forgotten. The rhythm of our hearts synchronized, beating in time with the fervor of our kisses. I could feel the weight of her desire, a tangible force that enveloped us, drawing us deeper into the abyss of our shared longing.

With each passing second, the intensity of our connection grew, a slow burn that ignited every nerve ending in my body. I wanted to explore every inch of her, to uncover the depths of her soul and the secrets hidden within her heart. The thought of losing this moment, of letting it slip away, was unbearable.

As our lips finally parted, breathless and panting, I gazed into her eyes, searching for the truth behind her playful demeanor. “Y/N,” I whispered, my voice thick with emotion, “you have no idea what you do to me.”

She smiled, a knowing glint in her eyes that sent my heart racing once more. “Oh, but I think I do,” she replied, her voice sultry and inviting. “And I intend to make you feel every bit of it.”

In that moment, I knew that this was just the beginning of our journey together, a path filled with passion, desire, and the promise of something extraordinary. The fire between us was undeniable, and I was ready to embrace it fully, to surrender to the intoxicating connection that had ignited our souls. Together, we would explore the depths of our desires, unearthing the beauty of our shared experience, and I couldn’t wait to see where this exhilarating adventure would lead us.

As we broke the kiss, my lips trembled from the lingering warmth I had so desperately craved, now leaving me hollow in the cavernous depths of despair. A groan escaped my throat, raw and aching, reverberating through my body as a physical testament to the overwhelming emotions I harbored for her. My back ached—not from any injury, but from the invisible weight of longing and vulnerability that settled heavily upon me, a poignant reminder of the love that stirred fiercely within my soul.

Suddenly, she lowered herself gracefully toward the ground, her knees gently gracing the soft earth of the forest. The sight took my breath away—my cheeks, once pale and subdued, now flushed with a warm tint of rose at the daring vulnerability before me. It was a vision so profound and intimate that it awakened a different, deeper side of me—a side stirred by yearning and reverence. Her face lifted upward, eyes glowing with intricate hues of amber that shimmered like molten gold, reflecting the raw intensity of the moment and beckoning me closer into the depths of her gaze.

Her hands caressed the sides of my thighs with tender yet purposeful strokes. My muscles tensed instinctively at the electrifying contact; every gentle rub, every deliberate squeeze unraveled me further, shattering the walls I had carefully built around my heart. The sensation was both intoxicating and overwhelming, breaking me down into vulnerable fragments woven with desire and longing.

Her hands traced slowly upward, fingertips teasing the waistband of my trousers with featherlight touches that ignited sparks along my skin. Her mouth hovered just above the hardening cock of my desire, the mere proximity sending shivers cascading down my spine like electric currents. Overwhelmed by the intensity coursing through me, a tear slipped silently from my cheek, its iridescent trail searing into my skin—a testament to the electrifying sensation that overwhelmed my senses, causing me to groan involuntarily as waves of pleasure and vulnerability surged within me.

Her voice broke the charged silence at last, soft yet commanding, as her hands moved with tender precision to unbutton the barrier that separated a lewd experience from a vulnerability she had known but once before. “Hold me down,” she murmured, the words heavy with longing and trust, a fragile invitation into a shared surrender unlike any we had ever dared before.

Softly, slowly, and agonizingly so, the barrier between us began to crumble, dissolving beneath the weight of our shared vulnerability. The waistband of my trousers slipped down to rest around my ankles, a tangible symbol of the walls falling away, leaving us exposed to the raw intensity of the moment and the profound connection that bound us together.

Her eyes glistened vividly as my cock sprang free, raw and sensitive, the tip swelling into a delicate pink hue. A cascade of shivers rippled down my spine, accompanied by a warm stream of delight that escaped from the peak. Every vein pulsed rhythmically, like the steady beat of a heart, drawing her ever closer to the arousing wand that stood tall before her, a silent invitation charged with anticipation.

Her lips enveloped me like a tender, warm embrace, gently sucking at the tip of my cock with a rhythm both enticing and commanding. My hands came to rest atop her head, guiding her every movement with a mixture of urgency and reverence. Her scalp was warm beneath my fingers as they traced soothing patterns through every strand of hair, igniting a cascade of sensations that sent shivers racing through my body.

With a sudden, satisfying pop, I threw my head back, releasing a strangled groan that barely escaped my lips. “Y/N—” I began, but she pressed on, unwavering and fierce in her devotion, determined to claim every inch with undiminished passion.

Her tongue swirled around me in rapid, circular motions, a tantalizing dance that sent waves of pleasure coursing through my body. Then, with deliberate slowness, she shifted to a patterned tease that she clearly relished, drawing out the moment with exquisite precision. I quivered uncontrollably, each sigh escaping my lips a testament to the overwhelming satisfaction that enveloped me, a symphony of sensations that left me breathless and yearning for more. 

I ached even more for her touch, and to my satisfaction, a pair of warm hands roughly gripped my rear. And so, I moaned once more, my voice breaking the silence yet unable to form coherent words—utterly overwhelmed and lost in a state that felt nothing short of heavenly bliss. Every sensation coursing through my body heightened the overwhelming ecstasy that gripped me completely. She was eager and passionate, tender and gentle in her approach, yet most importantly, she was fiercely hungry for the feast before her—a hunger both primal and insatiable that ignited an intense fire within us both, setting ablaze the depths of desire and connecting us in a dance as ancient as time itself.

Her throat, a pervious canal, moistened further as she sucked harder. Lewd noises filled the air, a melody of wet sounds so disturbing no creature dared to disturb this…intricate moment. “Ah ngh” I groaned from the depths of my diaphragm at her sudden push. And then she parted from my cock, her lips glistening with saliva and my precum as she spoke, “are you…alright?” Oh yes darling, why ask such an obvious question? I thought. I opened my mouth slightly to answer but she took me in once again.This time, her fangs grazed the sides of my shaft, subtly piercing through the delicate skin overlying my veins. The sharp sting electrified my senses, heightening my arousal to an intense peak. A low hiss escaped my lips, a mixture of pain and exquisite satisfaction reverberating through my body, fueling the fire that burned ever hotter within me. “how-” and she took me in even deeper, strangling herself from the inside as she deep throated my girth beyond measure, cutting my words off immediately. Her head bobbed with delicate precision, and for the very first time tonight she finally groaned. Her hands tracing upwards as she caressed my thighs and then I felt a gentle squeeze. A section so sensitive, so delicate.

The combination itself drove my high even closer. Then her tongue teased my opening, tracing around the tip then poking the delicate opening of my cock. I hissed and groaned with excruciating pleasure. Her movements were bewitching, our moans collided in unison, a lustful incantation. My abdomen tensed as my peak neared, my grip in her scalp tightened as she grunted against me, almost choking. 

I huffed and puffed profusely, my nostrils flared as she sucked the life out of me. 

“I-nghh ah im close” I grunted, my voice raspy as she continued with determination.

She breathed heavily, lips smacking against the shaft of my cock. I could not take anymore of it, and so I locked my hands behind her head guiding her as the pace quickened and selfishly so I thrusted gently, earning a hum from her. She liked it, no she loved it. Another thrust and she moaned, and another, and another and another. The tip of my swollen cock hitting the back of her throat and pushing against her uvula and further back into her pervious canal. 

One more thrust sent me into oblivion, my broken screams filled the air as I climaxed. My cum filled her mouth to the brim, like a chalice filled with wine on a fine dining night in the palace. But she didn't stop, instead she hollowed her cheeks as she sucked me off, completely drying me out of life, humorously so i had no idea whether i’d have enough to breed her, to fill her with a kingdom of my heirs. 

At the last suck she released me with a pop of satisfaction. Her eyes glossy with tears, her mouth, PLASTERED with a mixture of saliva and my creamy delicacy. The sight was so daunting, dauntingly provocative, dauntingly…seductive. 

“Was that to your liking?” she asked, her tone a soft whisper that aroused me once more. She stood up as her gaze remained on me. My hair stuck onto my forehead, my eyes lowered in exhaustion so liberating that even satisfaction was an understatement to what she’d done to me. And then she asked once more her tone teasing as she held my cheeks in her hands, our foreheads touching and our lips a follicle apart, “hmm, was it, my king?” “fuck, the things you do to me,” i huffed in response. Her hands traced downward, feeling at my hardening cock once more as she hummed in a velvety tone. How she rubbed taunted me with horror, a horror so arousing that the heavens turned their backs at the sight. "fuck? what is that?" she asked her tone dripping with curiosity. I didn't even know where such a word had come from. 'Fuck' such a foreign word etched with profanity. 'fuck', that word held a weight so heavy that only wild thoughts filled my mind at the thought of it.

“Did you like it?” she asked once more, nibbling gently at my bottom lip. I nodded and answered, “uh-huh”. “Oh yes?” she teased, rubbing me harder, “good, that my king, was just the beginning.” 

Spring: XI

𝑇𝑎𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡:

@velvetdolor @k1tashin @egirlbyeol @mulloey @anxietyspacestart @twancingyunhao @akl99 @roseartemis93 @dea-nimus @downbadpandora @frenchkisstheabyss @krispydinasourrunaway @himeiromai @londonbridges01 @ateezmakemeweep @a-tiny-thing @justconniez @blueginz @mlrem88 @bruhmoonlight @hwasstxr @ewok7attack @powerpuff-girls4l @anoooon13 @noone356097 @matzrionette @not4maddy @ninjakitty15 @xhaliemax @reverienymphslibrary @instantbananadaze @spacemonsterrr @stxrswrld @cutejaeyunie @angy2875 @mingiswow @life-is-a-game-of-thrones @guest8002 @manu2004 @channiesjagi @lunaphantomvoyager @klarinda-klabisom @writers-thoughts09 @deafeningpandareview @debexo @fixx0nn @justareader000 @jensthwa

[spiel-mit-mir-ein-spiel]

HEADCANON: Rammstein as Vampires.

Notes: I was watching the Lost Boys and that was how i came up with this head canon. Enjoy!

In the heart of Berlin, where the streets hold secrets older than the stones themselves, a shadowy mansion sat behind wrought iron gates. No one dared enter. Locals whispered of screams in the night, of flickering lights in the windows long abandoned. But the truth was far more terrifying than rumor.

They were six.

Six immortal creatures, forged in fire, bonded by blood. Vampires—not the elegant, glittering kind of folklore, but beasts of the old world. Predators, cursed by eternity and driven by something more primal than thirst: passion.

---

Till Lindemann was their leader. A brooding, poetic figure with eyes like embers and a voice that could shake the dead. He once walked among humans as a lyricist, a performer, a seducer of crowds. Now he prowled the rooftops of Berlin at night, his coat billowing like smoke. He drank only from those who begged for his attention—artists, lovers, the broken.

Richard Kruspe was flame and fury, a warrior with a guitar in hand and vengeance in his heart. He embraced the hunt with savage grace, his blade always close. He roamed the clubs, cloaked in shadows, feeding on the shallow and the shameless. His victims never screamed—only danced, until they fell limp in his arms.

Paul Landers was the trickster. Charming, sly, always with a wicked grin curling his lips. He was the spider at the center of their web, luring prey with laughter before sinking in his fangs. He adored the nightlife, blending in as a quirky human, his true nature masked behind layers of sarcasm and smirks.

Oliver Riedel moved like mist, quiet and deadly. He stalked the undercity, the forgotten tunnels beneath Berlin, where rats weren’t the only things that squeaked in terror. He spoke little, but his presence was undeniable—an ancient force that kept their bond unbroken.

Christoph Schneider, the guardian, the relentless heartbeat of their circle. His eyes betrayed centuries of discipline, and his strikes were thunder. He kept the others in line when their urges grew too wild. His word was law beneath Till’s poetry, his hands stained by centuries of keeping their secret safe.

Flake Lorenz, the mad scientist. Eternally curious, eternally eccentric, he toyed with humanity like a cat with string. A master of alchemy and ancient blood magic, he experimented with ways to refine their thirst, to reach new levels of power. Some nights, he simply played his haunted melodies to the moon, and the wolves gathered outside the gates.

---

They fed under the guise of decadence and performance. Their shows—when they chose to appear—were cult rituals, pyrotechnic blood rites that bewitched crowds. The audience never knew who would return home… and who would vanish with the echo of guitar and flame 🔥🔥

[darsynia]

Dragonfly (Steve/Reader fantasy AU)

MCU MASTERLIST | STEVE ROGERS MASTERLIST | Ro Roll

Summary:  Evil has prevailed. Your mentor’s dead, home destroyed, family scattered--you’re all that is left. At the last second, a stranger is called by magic to save your life. Can the two of you defeat the villain before he reaches the pinnacle of power?

Words/Warnings: 4,700 | canon-typical violence

draGONfly is 3/7 of my birthday gift set for @ronearoundblindly and is an action/adventure, angst with a happy ending story set after the blip. I know right now is a hugely busy week for you, Ro, and there's no pressure to respond right now, they'll all be here when you have time!

NOTE: it's MCU Steve in here! 'Worlds Collide'

Excerpt:

“You’re afraid,” Steve says from only feet away.

You close your eyes. “Yes.”

“Sometimes fear is a friend. It was definitely that in the army. Kept us sharp. You could tell when a soldier lost his fear because he was suddenly very brave. Problem was, we needed the brave ones sometimes.” 

He falls silent, and you can’t help but look at him. The bleak look in his eyes is clear, despite the distance between you, and in that moment you decide to trust him. If he’s another monster construct, if Micht can understand you that well, then the villain deserves the win, and all is lost.

Dragonfly

You’ve been on the run for ten days, with no safe haven to look forward to. The magic hunting you is relentless, fueled by hatred of your now-dead mentor and everything the two of you stood for. Your only reprieve is sleep; your enemy wants to witness the horror on your face in your moment of death.

All you can do is forge a path deeper into the forest, away from any innocent who could be harmed by Jovann Micht’s conjured creatures. As if watching Bram die hadn’t been torture enough, it seems you’re destined to die in the wilderness, alone.

You lean back on a tree and risk a pause to drink from your flask. Deep inside you feel your magic tremble; rest, food, and hydration is needed to stay powerful, but that is the point of Micht’s pursuit. Eventually you’ll falter, and he’ll achieve the last of his goals.

Does he know you bear the vial of his destruction? Those few teaspoonfuls are a potent culmination of your mentor’s study of the arcane, a life’s work of gathering and refining the most dangerous, mystical ingredients and combining them to make a weapon. You’d been able to see just two of the substances interact before being sealed into the final mixture, and the light they’d emitted had lingered in your vision for almost an hour afterwards.

There are three ways this can end: ideally, you’ll pour the vial into the glacial source of the valley’s drinking water and let the power propagate amongst the population Jovann Micht means to control. If that fails, you might be forced to break the vial with your dying strength, spilling its beautiful potential into the ground rather than empower one of Micht’s monsters-- or Micht himself.

The worst, most horrible option is for you to drink it yourself and spend the rest of your life battling to control the power Bram Ersk warned you about.

Heavy buzzing nearby sends your adrenaline racing, but it’s only a dragonfly angling its way past you toward the stream you've been following up to the mountains. They’re your favorite insect, brightly colored and free, with wide wings that decorate tree branches too delicate for a human’s weight.

You tuck away your canteen and check to see that your weapons are ready. The bow and arrows had only served to slow you down, so you’d sent them towards the plains with a burst of precious magic, a misdirection that hadn’t worked. Bram’s sword is cumbersome but necessary, and the daggers scattered through your clothing are a last resort.

Seconds later your preparedness pays off. The barest rustling of the leaves above your head has you crouching down with one leg stretched out for leverage if you need to run. You draw a dagger from its sheath at your back and watch in fascinated horror as your newest attacker reveals itself.

It’s a huge snake, fast and menacing. It strikes out and you dodge sideways, performing a half-roll to distance yourself, dagger still at the ready. Smoke rises from a splash of venom on your padded trousers, and a stab of fear strikes your gut. The snake can spit, likely with magic-enhanced distance. Is this how you finally die? Worn down with nowhere to hide from this acid toxin, then slain once exhaustion drops you?

You curl into a protective stance and tighten your grip on the dagger, drawing the creature in. Once it’s close, you spin up from the ground in a flurry of slashing blades. One dagger connects, but it’s glancing, enough to send the snake into retreat, but not enough to kill.

That only makes things worse. Your field of danger has increased to include the entire forest canopy.

There may only be a few minutes before the next showdown. You wipe your dagger on the nearby moss and place it back in its sheath for now. The forest around you is new growth, full of brambles and other scutgrass that tear at your armor, with a hundred branches arching over your head. You fight your way through to the stream with fear choking your throat, worried that you’ll have to expend more of your depleted magical energy to save yourself. If you need to use magic to survive his enchanted attackers from this point on, there won't be anything left. 

You’ve kept that power in reserve for some kind of final showdown, but there's at least a day left before you get where you're going.

Despair hits, and you scrabble at your neck, suddenly furious at the friend and mentor whose plans have brought you to such misery. The locket he’d given you has always been a talisman, a symbol of hope, but now you look at its silver concentric circles and feel nothing but betrayal.

Movement catches your eye, and you swing out blindly, the locket flying from your grip. As it spins, a blinding golden light spills out, growing larger and brighter until finally a figure steps forth--just as Micht’s devil-snake launches directly at you.

“Down!” a voice commands, and you drop, watching in shock as the glowing figure hurls a disk through the magical snake. The horrid thing lands in pieces that immediately shrivel and writhe. They melt into the ground, leaving only a low-lying, putrid fog behind.

The man stalks towards you, still obscured by the now-fading golden light. Instead of finishing you off, he strides past and pulls his disc-- his shield-- free from the tree it had sliced into. When he turns back your way, the man tucks something into a pouch on his chest, and the glowing light diminishes enough to see him. He looks you over, brows furrowed not in anger, but obvious confusion.

“Are you all right?”

“Thank you,” you say, struck near-dumb by the imposing presence of the man. He’s tall and broad, handsomely clad in padded armor with leather accents, but it’s his shield that has your attention. Its concentric circles and inner star look just like Bram’s locket, but in color.

He seems self-conscious about it, spinning the shield around and attaching it to his armor at his back. “Was that-- did I interrupt some kind of re-enactment?” your savior asks, curiously examining the last remnants of the toxic fog. He turns to look at you with the same studious intensity, but your head is spinning. Did Bram conjure this man with some sort of latent magic? “You should sit down,” he declares, thrusting out his hand with the confidence of a commander. The man clearly wants you to take it, but your hesitation prompts him to give up and walk over to a cluster of rocks. “Here. Do you have something to eat?”

Bemused, you pick your way toward him, deflecting your ‘I usually have to forage for something to eat’ answer with a question of your own. “What’s your name, hero?”

The word turns up a shy little smile that flies like a joy-tipped arrow right through your chest armor. “Steve. Yours?”

“Well, Steve, you’ve shown up for a battle, but I’m still fighting a war.” There’s no more time for niceties. You walk past the rocks he’d suggested you rest on, and pick up a sturdy-looking walking stick. It’s safer to stay close to the stream, and you’ll need the stability. “You’re welcome to come?”

There’s a chance that this summoned savior will disappear soon. You only have so much physical strength left, and you can’t spend it like this.

Steve turns in a circle, taking in the trees, the stream, and you, then nods, squaring his shoulders. “All right.” He certainly doesn’t seem at ease here, and you wonder if he’s real, whether he was somewhere fighting with that shield of his before Bram’s magic plucked him away.

Truthfully, you’re afraid to ask, as if naming the magic will destroy its cohesion.

Instead you lead the way along the uneven stones and brush that edge the stream, and he follows in clearly baffled silence. Sometimes you pause to adjust your armor or fill up your canteen and catch his brow furrow as he looks around at your surroundings. Once, he lunged forward to steady your steps on a slippery stretch of rocks. The warmth of his hand through your many layers was enough to bring rare tears to your eyes.

It's been so long since you’ve been touched in comfort.

Steve sees the tears but can’t know their context. You’re not willing to tell him, so you speed your pace, and he remains silent. If he’s been summoned as support, you question what triggers the magic might use to determine you’re no longer in need. If it’s words shared, you’ll hold yours in reserve. If it’s help provided, you’ll labor beside him with every ounce of your remaining strength until you finally ask for that help. If it’s distance traveled… well, you can’t think about that now.

Countless birdcalls and shared silence later, the landscape starts angling up more, and the trees thin out.

“Oh,” Steve says. His stunned tone makes you stop and look back at him. “I came to the forest--a forest to retrace my steps, looking for the echoes of what we lost. I didn’t want to. I didn’t know what I’d do if I found that the dust of my lost friends had fertilized plants that their shadows never--” he faltered, and you make your way to him, powerless to help, desperate to try. 

You recognize this grief. It's the hopeless kind, where a person just stands desolate in the aftermath and looks for the signs of their own death.

“Steve--” 

“It’s not the same forest,” he interrupts, a catch in his voice. “That’s a mountain.” He tears his eyes from the now-revealed peak in the distance and looks at you, concern and an odd sort of exhilaration in his eyes. “I kept walking because I thought we’d eventually get where you’re going, but we won’t, will we? Not today. Where am I? When am I?”

“‘When’ is easy: my waking nightmare. ‘Where’ is tricky. Who’s to know you won’t be pulled back where you came from if I tell you?” You can’t keep the bitter fear from your voice.

Steve steps forward to look down at you with gentle kindness. He’s so handsome you can’t help but feel self-conscious, clad as you are in shapeless armor, sweating with the exertion of carrying Bram’s sword (actually heavy) and Bram’s vial (metaphorically heavy)-- but you drift closer to your unexpected savior, catching the earthy scent of his sweat. You can see the sheen of it on his forehead, and you lift your hand to draw a finger across and feel the moisture of it.

“You’re real,” you breathe, surprised despite the snake, despite his steady presence behind you for this stretch of your journey.

He moves his hand to touch the drops of freshwater that have spilled from your canteen, going as far as to taste the tip of his finger. “So are you.” As though realizing that’s an intimacy the two of you haven’t agreed on, he steps back and squares his shoulders, the picture of a warrior again, despite his lack of weapon. Perhaps he is the weapon. “So what’s the plan? Camp for the night?”

You sway on your feet at the thought (both that he’d put aside his own situation and at the idea of rest), but shake your head. “Micht will send something else soon. I must reach the base of the stream. Everything relies on that.”

He looks askance at the darkening sky, then back at you. “What would make you willing to camp?”

A promise that you won’t leave me! you scream in your mind. A look of determination crosses his face, and you realize you may not have spoken the words aloud, but your body language has done that for you. You pull in a breath to prevaricate, but he brushes past you, headed into the forest.

“There’s a clearing,” he calls out, a minute later.

“Steve, I can’t--”

“You can.”

A terrible, insidious, horrid thought crosses your mind: that Steve is not from Bram at all, but an illusion with the same purpose as all the others that Jovann Micht has sent you. That his attack is formed from trust this time, rather than fear.

The shape of Bram’s locket is the only thing you can think of to refute your fears, but couldn’t Micht have torn that knowledge from Bram before killing him?

“You’re afraid,” Steve says from only feet away.

You close your eyes. “Yes.”

“Sometimes fear is a friend. It was definitely that in the army. Kept us sharp. You could tell when a soldier lost his fear because he was suddenly very brave. Problem was, we needed the brave ones sometimes.” 

He falls silent, and you can’t help but look at him. The bleak look in his eyes is clear, despite the distance between you, and in that moment you decide to trust him. If he’s another monster construct, if Micht can understand you that well, then the villain deserves the win, and all is lost.

Steve can hold a lot of supplies in his ‘tek’ suit, as he calls it. He gives you a few dense grain bread things, full of dried fruit and nuts that revitalize you. While you eat he lights a fire for the two of you, meaning you can save your newly bolstered energy rather than using it for warmth-- and best of all, he has a strange silver blanket that seems to hold heat so much better than anything you’ve used at night, even the homemade blankets from your cabin. Despite all this, you find it hard to relax, and Steve can tell. You are reluctant to explain and thus relive the trauma that sent you into the forest, and he doesn’t elaborate on his own.

He seems surprised when you want to sleep right away. That surprise morphs to a quiet, concerned anger when you explain the thin agreement you have with your aggressor, that he’ll only kill you when you’re awake.

“That won’t happen,” he declares, and you believe him. Just like a parent who promises they’ll always protect you, his words have an unspoken caveat; ‘for as long as I’m here to stop it.’

It’s enough.

You wake with the light, finding to your surprise that Steve has slept at your side, his broad back acting as a wall between you and the dangers of the woods. It’s been a week since you’ve been able to lay still in the morning, but your respite is marred by a large worry: why hasn’t Micht sent something else? Had he sent his most fearsome conjurations early on in your journey because you’d been stronger? It would be like him to conserve his energy and insult you at the same time. If you die to something more mundane, that would just add to his narrative, after all. The alternative is that he knows about Steve, and his new plan is to create something fearsome enough to destroy them both.

“You’re barely breathing,” Steve rumbles.

Selfishly, you want him to turn over. You want a memory to cherish when he’s gone. Just once, you'd had someone lying beside you whose sole purpose was to ensure your safety.

He does roll over. He’s no less real for it, and that thought lets you release everything you’d held back since Bram, since the village, since the slain, tortured lamb that was the harbinger of all the horrors that followed.

Wordlessly, Steve pulls you to his chest and lets you cry.

The next attack comes within sight of the glacial moraine. You were right. Micht had sent his worst to finish you. 

Steve pulls his shield from his back as soon as you pass through a group of boulders and see the creature. It’s twice as tall as he is, a four-legged monstrosity with the same number of snarling heads. Each serpent-like head is riddled with teeth, and like snakes, they bob and weave easily, able to turn and react with lightning swiftness.

“Your sword, please,” Steve says grimly.

“It’s armored--”

“So am I.”

Adrenaline mixes with the magic surging inside you. “Listen. I have a thing to do. It’s all that matters,” you tell him breathlessly. “After that, I don’t care what happens. Do you hear me?”

He’s looking at the creature, and you can see his soldier’s mind. You watch the fear dwindle, replaced by bravery, and you cannot let that happen.

“Steve!” you beg-- and he looks at you, still alert and ready to fight. “This was always going to end one way, okay? I just need you to--” The thing screeches with many voices, each wielding a knife that slices away some of your resolve.

You swallow hard and start taking off any extra weight, dropping your canteen, the sheathed dagger at your back, even the heavy brigandine leather that covers your blouse. It isn’t a match for a hydra’s teeth and claws anyway, and you must be fast.  

“I need to get to the base of the stream. That monster is here to stop me.” It probably isn’t. If Micht knew you bear this potion, he’d have long ago crushed you into paste and taken it for himself. “Don’t you dare lose your fear!”

Steve laughs ruefully. “I wondered if you would remember that.”

“Something sent you to me, and this is why. If there’s any justice, it should send you back, once I succeed.” The words stick in your throat, but you get them out.

“It’s a hydra,” Steve says with a hatred in his voice you didn’t think he was capable of. “I was created for this.”

You both turn to face the horrible creature. Steve lifts the sword and you ready yourself to run.

“Wait,” Steve says, a manic happiness in his eyes. He steps close and dips his head, kissing you. It’s awkward, with the sword and shield held wide at his sides, but that just makes it more real. “Go get him.”

Then he charges toward the beast.

You’d planned to wait until the two were fully focused on each other, but every fragment of magic in your body is screaming for you to help Steve. You tamp that down and hold still, certain that the hydra will only focus on Steve if bloodlust blinds it to your existence.

That’s even harder when there are multiple sets of eyes to look for you.

Steve makes first contact, roaring up and smashing his shield against the first head that lunges toward him. The thing reels back in obvious surprise, the injured head lolling to the side. The other heads rear up, and you take the moment to run far to the side, sticking to the treeline, even though it means farther to run. You weave between trees, catching glimpses of the battle but always hearing it. Screech follows screech follows the smash of metal against armored skin, over and over and over.

Just as you’re forced to cross into the rockfield, the hydra lets out an agonized scream, and you risk a look over. Steve’s holding his shield protectively above himself as he hacks at the two heads he’d sliced from the hydra. He’s panting from exertion, and as you watch, magic bubbles at the sliced necks, growing two new snarling heads from each stump. They sink down to the body of the beast and then stretch back out as individual, fully-realized necks right in front of your eyes.

You can’t send any power to Steve, not yet. Instead, you send it to your own legs, and the burst of resulting speed tears through the remaining distance. You reach into your shirt--

“You could have given it to me right away, foolish child.”

“Liar!” you spit at your enemy, furious and fragile. “You wanted this.” Of course he’d known. Micht had always loved theatrics.

“You’re right. That’s quite a guardian you’ve found for yourself,” Jovann Micht muses, leaning casually back against a large boulder. He’s standing between you and the stream.

You’re done with this. One way or another.

“Move.”

“I don’t think so.” He moves towards you, confident, commanding. “Hand it over.”

Behind you, the screeching gets louder, and oddly, Micht stumbles sideways, hissing. You risk a look over your shoulder and see that Steve’s sliced off more of the creature-- a leg this time. It brings the deadly heads closer to him, and you can’t watch.

Micht has conjured a walking stick that he’s now leaning on with a vicious look of delight on his face. “I prefer an intelligent adversary.”

He doesn’t mean you.

He’s always underestimated you. Everyone does.

Your fingers close around a vial, and you pull it free. It’s been shaken up by your headlong run, as evidenced by the blue glowing light.

“If you want this, you have to catch me.”

Your burst of speed still sings in your veins, and you start to run-- toward the hydra, not the stream. Gathering up all of your magic, you hurl it toward the back legs of the hydra, meaning to destroy them and hopefully disable Micht, if your hunch about the connection between them is correct.

The fireball hits home. The ground shakes as the terrible beast falls sideways, all seven heads turning to assess the damage. One catches fire, its agonized scream piercing your ears even at this distance. You can’t see Steve, but the desperate flailing of the inflamed head soon spreads the fire. 

You hook around, satisfied. Micht is in a heap not far from where you’d left him, recognizable by his signature blood-red suit. All that’s left is to get as close to the headwaters as you can. Bram had confided in you about the rip current that swirls right at its base, sucking the water down into a secondary stream that he’d helped the village tap into.

It serves as the drinking water for the whole valley, surfacing down past your former home and bubbling down to the sea, or so it’s said.

If you can get even half of Bram’s concoction into there--

A powerful blow knocks you to your feet, and you lose your grip on the vial. Dazed, you struggle to your knees, watching as a hand curls around the vial.

Get up! You have to be convincing! UP!

You’re unsteady as hell, but you lean into that, begging with a suddenly raw throat for Micht to stop. Your magic is almost gone again, but you grit your teeth and start for the vial. Behind it is your goal, the origin of the stream. Just ten strides, and he’ll think you’re giving up and throwing yourself in instead. Eight strides…

A rough hand curls around your neck and pulls the true vial from your bodice before shoving you to the ground.

“Ahhhhhhhhhh!” Steve roars. Through tears, you can see him running toward the two of you. He swings his arm, releasing his shield. 

Micht stands triumphant with the vial, unstoppering it in preparation to drink. It’s all of your worst fears realized, and the moment seems to hang in time, more misery for you to experience right before he kills you face to face, just as he’s always wanted.

Steve’s shield smashes into Micht’s midsection, knocking him backwards. The vial flies up, its contents fanning out in a glowing blue rain over Jovann Micht. Everywhere it lands, white lightning and red flames erupt. He’s screaming, you’re screaming, thunder and agony crashes all around you, until finally, he’s gone.

The silence is oppressive. It’s as though your blood’s stopped pumping, the air’s trapped in your lungs, and your muscles are frozen solid. The pressure builds until Steve stabs the bloody sword into the ground beside you and slumps over to rest his hands on his knees.

“We won.”

Your body's working again, but you don’t know whether to feel happiness or horror. “Yeah.”

Both of you are exhausted, the kind of bone-weary that isn’t possible without having experienced something unspeakable. The smell of burnt hydra is horrendous though, so Steve pushes to get as far away as you can before collapsing beside the placid stream. You let your hands dangle in the frigid glacial meltwater, needing to feel something bad that isn’t horrible.

“Don’t fall in. I’m too wiped to go back for the rest of your armor, and that’s a white shirt.”

He’s speaking in riddles, and honestly it's the first regular thing Steve’s said to you since… all of that. “What?”

“The water makes it transpar-- Never mind.” Embarrassment drips from his words, and it’s enough to make you scooch around so you can see him.

Steve’s black armor hides most of the blood, but he’s almost drenched in it. He’s got his legs stretched out in front of him, and he’s wrapping a once-pristine white bandage around a gash on his leg, pausing every few revolutions to rest. Noticing your scrutiny, he offers you a weak smile.

“That fireball was something.”

“So’s your swordsmanship.” You search your resources and make a decision. “Want me to heal that?”

“What?” he says, then laughs, the sound genuinely joyful, though astonished. “I just fought a real hydra. Did you know that’s the second bad guy that’s disintegrated right in front of me? Of course you can heal. This place is… this place is something.”

His voice breaks on ‘something.’ You don’t know him very well, but the trauma you’ve shared tells you he needs a moment. Avoiding eye contact, you reach out, sending your magic in a gentle golden trickle across the ground between you. It slides smoothly over his boots and up the fabric of his trousers, finally sinking into his wound. You send a little extra, too, even though it makes your chest ache with warning. It’ll soothe his mind, and that���s worth it.

That done, you turn back to the water, staring past your fractured reflection into the stream’s shallow depths. Across the stretch of rocks and bubbling froth a dragonfly twists and dips, reacting to shifts in the air too subtle for you to notice. It’s a reminder that not everything’s been affected by the life or death struggle you’d just experienced. It helps, so much so that you don’t notice that Steve’s come to sit beside you until he speaks.

“Did you know that dragonflies are a symbol of grief and rebirth?” He doesn’t wait for your answer. “Part of their life cycle is underwater, I guess, and the story goes that each one reaches a point where they need to surface. They each promise they’ll come back and tell the others what they find up there, but--”

“--but they can’t. They’re trapped either side,” you breathe.

“Trapped, yeah, but not dead.” The word is ragged, and you look up at him, even though it hurts your neck. “I lost friends in my forest. They turned to dust. We lost.”

Your hand is freezing, but his armor is thick. You reach out and squeeze his leg, and Steve stays still, clearly moved to quiet reflection.

“There’s a second life, is the moral. I don’t know if this is mine, but I wouldn’t mind if it was.”

You don’t dare hope, but you pour yes please into your expression. He smiles and pats his chest.

“There’s a pocket here. When I first showed up, you threw a locket--” he shakes his head curtly, enough to stop you from speaking. “I only caught a glimpse, but it looks like my shield.”

You squeeze his ankle, and determination hardens his expression.

“I think you might-- I think this place might need me. Do you have enough magic to, I don’t know… freeze it? Put it in stasis so it doesn’t send me back? I know just where I’d like to put it.”

You feel brave, but it’s not due to a lack of hope this time. This time, you have an abundance of hope.

“I’d like that very much.”

[again-and-then]

A Breakdown of Angelic Weapons

Because Vivzie hasn't made and likely won't make a concrete magic system and I read too many high fantasy books. My personal thoughts and headcanons about Angelic weapons, written mostly for my own fanfiction: Pride, Envy, Wrath, but anyone can use the ideas.

Angelic weapons are the primary tools of Heaven's armies and are valued due to  the following properties:

the ability to rend the souls of immortal beings (passed on mortal souls such and Winners or Sinners, Demons and Angels) and bring about final death**

The ability to bypass most basic forms of magical defenses such as the invulnerability that Exorcists normally possess against attacks from Sinners. 

The fact that any wound left by an angelic blade takes significantly longer to heal, even for beings with advanced regenerative abilities.

The abilities of angelic weapons come from the fact that wherever they cut the body, the weapon leaves an equivalent wound on the soul and causes damage far greater than mere flesh wounds. This is also believed to be the reason that such wounds leave scars that take years or decades to fade even on creatures with naturally potent Regeneration.

**While these weapons seem to deal final death to angels and demons, it seems that the natural willpower of human souls allows them to partially persist after ‘final death’. However, only fragments of the soul remain with little to no consciousness behind it. It is believed these broken souls have infused into the rings of Hell and are the cause of the many watching eyes seen throughout Hell. There is currently no known way for a soul to be restored after this fate.

How are these effects achieved: The ability to damage a living soul directly is due to the weapon being infused with holy energy at the time of its forging, this being drawn from the ambient energy given off an Angel's soul. Being infused with the nature of a soul at creation effectively allows it to become a weaponized extension of the soul to its user.

Drawbacks of Angelic Weaponry: While angelic weapons are typically superior to conventional weaponry in most respects, there are some slight drawbacks to their use:

They are not indestructible. Many people who get their hands on an angelic blade think they have found an unbreakable super weapon and become overconfident, leading to their own demise. While more durable, even the finest blessed steel will dull and lose its edge after extended use, needing to be sharpened and maintained like any other weapon.

This is the reason Exorcists drop weapons during exterminations, as the weapon tends to start losing its edge after a few dozen kills and becomes little more than a blunt instrument. Adam, being lazy, reasoned that carrying damaged weapons back to heaven would be dead weight, thus it would be better to leave them behind so Sinners can use them to kill each other… This logic backfired.

Due to the nature of the weapon, it draws a very small amount of energy from the user’s soul over the period of its use in combat. Very small, but notable. A person fighting with an angelic blade might exhaust themselves 3-5% faster than a person fighting with a mundane sword of the same design. This can vary due to the innate power of a person’s soul. For more powerful individuals such as Overlords and higher order Angels and Demons this drain is so small as to be negligible.

Availability and cost. While these weapons are easy to make and stockpile in Heaven, they are not so easy to  procure in Hell and virtually unheard of in the mortal realm (it is theorized that legendary weapons of myth were merely angelic weapons that somehow made their way to mortal hands.) There are no ways for demons to make their own and the infernal magic given off by demon souls cannot recreate the soul rending effects of holy magic. Even with the supply to be found after Exterminations, Carmilla Carmine has cornered the market on the gathering and selling of holy arms which she tends to keep at prohibitively expensive prices.

Melee vs Ranged Weaponry:

The majority of angelic weapons to be found will be melee weapons simply due to the fact that they are easier to produce and the simple fact that they are the preferred tools of the Exorcist army. Exterminations have long been seen as an entertaining sport by the Exorcists and flying down to stab people is generally more fun than picking them off at range.

Ranged angelic weapons can exist and are used frequently but they have additional drawbacks. Primarily, the fact that for bows and guns both the ammunition and the items themselves need to be made using angelic steel. The reasons are unclear, but trying to pair angelic and mundane items tends to backfire. For example, an angelic arrow being strung on a mundane bow might cause the string to snap or an angelic gun trying to fire mundane bullets will misfire. This tends to press their use heavily against the previously discussed cost and availability drawback. While Exorcists can afford to waste a bunch of arrows, even Overlords wouldn’t dare waste holy bullets.

The topic of ‘Power’:

Not all angelic weapons are created equal and in the next section we will discuss the variations of their make and how each type varies in power. Before we do, one should clarify what ‘power’ means in this context, as it can be a nebulous concept without context. While the standard issue angelic weapon is only marginally sharper and more durable than mundane steel aside, more magically infused variants manifest further benefits. Primarily, increases in power result in greater strike force, penetrative ability vs both mundane and magical protections, and greater damage to the soul. To visualize that last point, imagine an angelic blade cutting a person and therefore their soul as a sharp knife cutting into a sheet of fabric. Now, to visualize a more powerful angelic weapon cutting into the soul, think of the effects on the fabric if the blade had been heated until it was glowing red. Greater heat will burn the fabric and cause far more damage than the mere cut itself. 

Types of Angelic weapons: The varieties of Angelic weapons can be most easily broken down by their method of creation and the material being used. The most common varieties are the following:

Blessed Steel: the most common variation one may encounter and the primary tool of the Exorcist army. Made using an alloy of Steel and Silver that requires holy magic to create. Their appearance is usually Silver or white with a soft glow and generally feels cold to the touch. These are to be considered the most basic, standard weapons.

Holy Aurum: a much rarer variation made from an alloy of Silver, Steel, and Gold. Aurum angelic weapons are much more magically dense and offer both greater power and lower energy drain, being generally superior to Blessed Steel in all categories. Unfortunately, the process required to create and infuse the alloy is far longer and more taxing, thus Aurum weapons are generally only made on rare occasions to denote positions of authority, such as Lute’s sword. It is incredibly rare that any of these make it into Hell and royal Demon houses will typically trade fortunes in order to secure them as status symbols. They have a fully gold appearance, a brighter glow, and are often described as giving off a slight warmth.

Carmine Pattern: The Overlord Carmilla Carmine has found a rather unique method of melting down holy weapons and reforging them into improved versions. They can be identified by the glowing silvery patterns that cover their surface, which while this seems to be decorative, the designs serve an important function. The glowing designs help to circulate holy energy throughout the weapon more effectively, increasing the natural power of the weapon by a small degree. They are unfortunately not as effective as Aurum weapons but a noted improvement over standard blessed steel. Carmine also seems to be able to imbue the holy metal into many varieties of objects to create unique weapons such as Husk's playing cards or her own Angelic ballet shoes.

Relic Weapons: Do note that this is pure fanfiction territory, more so than anything else so far which is more or less canon+creative license but Relic Weapons are a concept I created for my own story that you can use in your own writing if you feel inspired.

Relic weapons are the ultimate form of angelic weaponry, greater than all other variations by orders of magnitude. The difference between a standard angelic weapon and an angelic relic is the difference between a butter knife and a high powered chainsaw. The name was given to them due to the fact that the majority of relic weapons were made thousands of years ago, used in the war started by Lucifer’s Fall (if there was an angelic rebellion in you fic, if not then they are just fucking old). Relic weapons are vanishingly rare, likely only held by the Archangels and possibly Lucifer and the other Sins, with any others being locked away tightly in the deepest parts of Heaven’s armory, but its possible that a handful of others could be floating around. All Angelic relics are made of Holy Aurum, though their creation takes far longer, much more magic and very specific rituals. The resulting weapons are not only far more powerful, but manifest several unique features:

Relic weapons form a unique bond with their user that allows the wielder to summon and dismiss the weapon at will, recall it from any distance, and sense the direction of the weapon if it has been separated from them. Due to the ability to recall the weapon at will, they are virtually impossible to steal. The only way to break someone’s bond to an angelic relic is to kill them or through very long rituals where the user must willingly part with the weapon.

Near weightlessness. Angelic relics, when held by their bonded user, weigh next to nothing, making them very easy to use. Even massive and impractical weapons are as light as any dagger. When touched by someone not bonded to them, they become as heavy as a normal weapon of their size if not slightly denser.

External force generation. The bond allows the user to tap into their own soul and draw energy that the weapon can amplify massively and direct outwards. A relic bow might be able to create arrows of pure light, or a blade will be able to make sweeping arcs of holy energy as it is cut through the air. Doing this does tend to be rather draining, especially if the user is not already blessed with a powerful soul such as an Overlord, Royal Demon, or High Ranking Angel and can result in exhaustion if not used carefully.

Enchantments. Relic weapons can be inscribed with enchantments during their creation that allow for additional abilities or even the ability to recreate magical spells. An example of this would be Adam’s guitar which has the ability to alter its form (changing from a guitar to an axe) and its size at the will of the user.

It should be noted that Angelic relics also possess an additional property that is much harder to understand. While the weapons are not sentient, they do tend to possess a kind of… will. Its not as if the weapon will fly off and do its own thing or talk to you, but Relics do have a habit of subtly acting in ways that no normal weapon should. This can manifest in the surface temperature of the weapon seeming to change in response to its bonded user’s emotions or attempts to bond with the weapon failing seemingly because the weapon ‘rejects’ the person. Sometimes a relic can even cause rituals to break the bond to fail. In extremely rare cases, if the user tries to use the weapon in a way that is extremely antithetical to the purpose of the relic’s creation, then it can become as heavy as lead and practically unmovable but this is probably about the most extreme example of the weapon’s will and almost never happens.

…

And… yeah, that's my thoughts on Holy Weapons. Did I need to do this? No. not even a little. Use the ideas or don’t, rewrite everything if you feel like it, I’m not your dad.

[lysenfeu]

Devil in the Details •Part 2•

Captain John Prices makes a desperate decision and takes a huge risk to try and resolve his grief.

Rating: Mature

Eventual John Price x Reader

850k words, Slow Burn, Drabble/Short Form Writing

CW: Dark themes, Mentions of death, Grief, Supernatural events, Occultism, Demons, Corruption

(Part 1)

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Price wastes no time, the moment he's home he lays the book out flat on his desk and studies the circle intently. His fingers trace over the black marks on the page, eyes poring over every splash of ink, no matter how small or smudged. Each line and symbol burning into his mind.

By the time he bothers to read the warning printed boldly beneath it, the words are meaningless. A hindrance only to someone who has something left to lose. It does nothing to quell his determination, this is no longer a choice he's making but an obligation. A duty he's been forced to accept by his own pride.

He gathers his supplies, the list is rather short but specific. Red chalk, a red candle, a small knife and a small red dish. He shoves his desk out of the way and rolls up the corner of the area rug, making room on the hardwood floor for his work.

He forces the small tremor out of his hands as he carefully marks out the symbols onto the floor with the chalk. There is no room for error in this, each stroke of the chalk must be exact. He must create the perfect replica of the sketch in the grimoire. He lights the candle and places a dab of hot, melted wax on each of the twelve star points. Careful not to disturb the chalk, he places the dish in the dead center of the circle. His nerves thrum in anticipation as he anxiously completes the last step, pricking the tip of his index finger with the knife, allowing a few drops of blood to splash down beneath him.

Finally, it's finished.

The circle crackles and hisses to life, the red outline illuminating itself as a cloud of smoke quickly rises from the centre.

He steps back, eyes wide with awe.

It worked.

~*~

It takes you a moment to recognize the tug behind your navel and the tickle at the back of your mind. It's been at least a decade or two since someone initiated your summoning ritual, you were starting to forget what it felt like. But now you can feel the magic pulling at you, beckoning to you through the newly forged connection. You let it carry you, twisting and turning your form through time and space as you have no choice but to answer the call.

Dark wisps of smoke curl out and flood the space before you as you rise from the centre of your circle. Small blue flames dance along the edges, lighting you with a flickering, dim glow as they spin and swirl in haphazard patterns.

As the haze slowly clears, you're able to take a better look at your surroundings. The room is a decent size, filled with dark wood furniture and leather accents. Small half-full bookshelves run along the wall, facing a large, well-worn leather sofa. An unusually tidy mahogany desk sits between them, shoved further back than usual based on the imprints left on the plush, wool area rug underneath. Not a single skull or a shred of velvet in the whole place.

Hm.

Not necessarily a worrisome sign, but odd nonetheless. The type who usually summon you tended to be more … overt in their interest in the occult, if not downright predictable. The kind of person who always used to break out the Ouija board at sleepovers and then grew up to spend too much time antiquing, looking for just the right candle holder. More crystals than sense, the lot of them.

You weren't especially fearsome, your abilities were far more subtle than most. You weren’t really suited for great acts of revenge or rampant bloodshed, anyone looking for an imposing or dreadful creature would be sorely disappointed with you. To be honest, you were more of a party trick. Your summoners really just wanted you to put on a show. So you would dazzle them with billowing pillars of brightly coloured smoke, making licks of fire dance before their eyes, a truly theatrical production. It was a simple routine: make a grand entrance, flash a little horn and tail, accept the offering, grant the favour, done.

Simple.

Quick.

Easy.

On the face of it at least.

Really though, that was the true fun of it.

They never suspected a thing.

With the smoke cleared, you take a moment and study the reason you're here, forcibly called to this time and place. A man stands before you, tense but still on the other side of your circle. He’s tall and broad, handsome in a rugged and weathered way. You note that he’s well-groomed in a utilitarian fashion, showing no hint of the usual flamboyance or flair you expect from your usual patrons. Interesting. Oh well.

Showtime.

“Tell me why I'm here, human.”

The man takes a deep breath before squaring his shoulders and meeting your eyes with a steady, even gaze.

“I need to make a deal.”

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(Part 3)

A/N: Surpriiiise! *You're* the demon ehehe 😈

[raayllum]

i'm gonna break down the poster later but for now I wanna talk about the poem

As others have noticed the first letter of each line, read bottom to top, spell out "The Red Wedding" which is likely the episode title, so I'm not going to speculate too much on that.

Like we know at this point hardly anything is accidental in TDP especially when there's blatant opportunities to hide clues, so with that in mind, I want to look at stanza by stanza to the best of my ability.

Gnash your teeth, O Dragon Fierce! Night’s not far away

"Gnash" is an aggressive reference to teeth, which makes me think of "ivory draconic" for the Nova Blade, but also of scenes yet explained (the arc 1 intro of human warriors gathered on one side of the border, and Thunder's display of power). However, I think it's likely that what the poem is referring to is even farther back in history, given that "night" might refer to a time period (i.e. the stars leaving) happening soon.

In the sky that watchful eye Does weep and stare and pierce

"White as the star's heart it pierced" and we see eyes in reference to dragons' ire against Elarion. That said, this "watchful eye" could belong to a long ago Startouch elf (Aaravos, Laurelion, Leola?) who cared about what was happening, hence being 'watchful.' Pierce has a less peaceful connotation, but this section of the poem definitely reads as "in the past to me" (I say, preparing to eat my words in the future)

Dance away, O Golden Queen! Eternal fiery flame While shadows jeer into your ear Don’t forge a blade from shame

This, meanwhile, feels like a pretty straightforward reference to Janai in present day. She is both queen and the Golden Knight of Lux Aurea. Dancing is a part of Sunfire proposals, she has fire powers, and she's planning a wedding. "Shadows" could be references to her nightmares from Aaravos and the shadow monster creatures Karim's army is probably going to accidentally turn into thanks to Pharos' lingering corruption. She wields a Sunforge blade, of course, and has doubt/shame surrounding her choices and status as queen as it moves back and forth... so maybe "don't make a harsh choice out of shame/fear of unworthiness?" But we shall have to see.

Now onto what's probably my favourite stanza:

Eight in a line, O Chosen Mine! Ready for a war Endlessly burning Hopefully yearning That love will triumph once more!

"Eight in a line" makes me lose my mind because there's 8 pieces across the board in chess (2 rooks, 2 knights, 2 bishops make 6, + 1 king and queen make 8; as well as 8 pawns, of course). "O Chosen Mine" also makes it sound like Aaravos is the speaker of the poem, which given that he's someone poetry has been written about up until now, is deliciously meta.

"Ready for a war" might apply most straightforwardly to the Sunfire elves, but I don't think we even have eight named Sunfire characters in show, so it must encompass more main players. Perhaps unrest in the Pentarchy, and of course, the Dragang taking steps to try to go to war against and defeat Aaravos.

"Endlessly burning" has a couple different meanings, given that 1) fire cannot burn forever, 2) it seems humans were gifted sun magic first way back when, and 3) fire/burning has a more positive association with light. "Hopefully yearning" has a positive connotation, even if people on both sides can have hope for various reasons ("There is one weird hope" from Claudia in 4x01 vs Ezran's "There is a hope" in 3x03, etc). To yearn for something is to have "a strong feeling of wishing for something, especially something that you cannot have or get easily" and we know that wishes and wants are something that can go from good to bad in TDP's world, especially when it comes to Aaravos.

The characters are hoping/working/wishing that "Love will triumph once more," the way it did for them in 3x09. This reflects back into love > control, narrative of love > narrative of power, etc. It also caps off this stanza of "eight in the line" having the game motif, and then triumphing also indicates winning the game.

But, of course, they can't. Not in S6, anyway.  😈

[forged-in-paper]

I've always enjoyed kobolds quite a bit, regardless of whether they're of the dog- or lizard-faced varieties. Something about their presentation in D&D and WoW has ingrained them in my mind as staples that really deserve their place in the pantheon of classic fantasy critters, but somehow I don't feel like they're ever done justice in any of their appearances. The stuff with Kurtulmak always struck me the wrong way (probably because a whole lot of the D&D cosmology strikes me the wrong way), so I've completely ignored it and leaned 100% into their relationship with dragons which is much more interesting imo.

Main talking points incoming!

These are dragon lads through-and-through. Having a choice of which draconic bloodline they descend from is their main gimmick and gives them a lot of flexibility.

Kobolds as trap-smiths is a classic trope that I just can't get enough of, so much so that I made a RANGER SUB-CLASS inspired by the idea for 5e back in the day. In this incarnation of that particular theme, they get an open-ended bonus that lets them set traps faster and makes them less likely to spring traps they happen to miss because I like the idea of them being smart enough to know they're small and that preparation is as much a weapon as a sword.

Less important to the species itself, but you can see here how I'm approaching creature classification. Rather than D&D's singular types (undead, humanoid, fiend, etc.) I'm taking a page from the book of one of their other popular properties, namely magic the gathering and giving creatures as many types as they need to properly describe what they are. I'll definitely have mechanics that affect specific creature types in specific ways, so I need the system to be a little more granular than a single creature type allows for.

And that's really all there is to these lil' dudes. I hope you like them as much as I do, and if you've got any question or comments feel free to leave them. As always, happy gaming! - Forge

[probablyevilrpgideas]

Rust monsters are cool and all, but consider-

Atogs

Atogs are a creature from Magic the Gathering, starting with the standard Atog all the way back in Antiquities (IE, almost as old as a card can get, the second expansion set, and the first expansion set that takes place in a setting entirely of WotC's creation). It's a small creature that gets bigger when you sacrifice an artifact card to it (in flavor- it eats magic items and gets stronger, notably, its name was created by just jumbling the letters in "goat"):

The original Atog, a classic "weird little guy"

Gradually, it was joined by other atog-typed creatures:

Foratog, in Mirage, which eats Forests

Chronatog, in Visions, which eats time (ie, your turns)

Necratog, in Weatherlight, which eats carrion (creature cards in your discard)

and Auratog, in Tempest, which eats magic (enchantment cards.

They have a general shared visual aesthetic, and a unifying mechanic which shows some fun variation by being tailored to what each color cares about and generally has a lot of- forests, corpses, enchantments. Chronatog eating time is mostly just thematic, but blue does have some ways to get around its downside.

Odyssey gave us some fun dual-colored atogs-

Lithatog, RG, which eats lands and artifacts

Phantatog, WU, which eats enchantments and cards from your hand

Psychatog, BU, which eats cards in your graveyard or hand*

Sarcatog, BR, which eats artifacts and cards in your graveyard*

Thaumatog, WG, which eats lands and enchantements

*special note- Sarcatog and Psychatog are especially good because when you discard a card from your hand or sacrifice an artifact, it goes to your graveyard, so they actually get two meals

And also Atogatog, which eats other atogs, and gets their full power as a buff to its power and toughness:

There's also Megatog in Mirrodin, which is just a bigger atog:

Rust monsters are fun, sure. But they're very limited, only consuming metal, and just making it rust. Atogs, even the standard atog, can eat any manufactured item, literally taking bites out of it. And (at least more recently) they're implied to be sapient, given that some are shown wearing clothes or having piercings. They're kinda like goblins who respond to crusaders wading in to wipe them out by taking a huge bite out of the crusaders' shields.

Atogs can just literally eat the adventurers' equipment. Auratog can eat spells, foratog can be the center of an adventure where elves ask the party to take out the infestation that's chowing down on trees, or necratogs are digging up graves and need to be dealt with. Admittedly, I don't know how to translate chronatog into D&D well.

But also, because they're sapient, they can be reasoned with, the PCs can negotiate with them instead of just cutting them down like animals. Maybe a dwarf forge has an atog employee who serves as a convenient way to get rid of slag or other waste materials from forging.

And then, there can also be a scene where the party meets the King Atog, who chows down on a subject in the middle of conversaton.

[caxycreations]

Sanguis Auri (Teaser for Lore of Gold: Book One)

What would you do to protect your freedom? Fight? Die?

Who would you be willing to fight? Who would you be willing to kill?

For the sake of your free will, what master would you serve?

My name is Aurum Verilin, a hybrid of shark and jackal, and I was forced to answer these questions time and time again. I served for eight years as a soldier in Sen, fighting against the Ferusian military in an effort to conquer their land and claim it as ours. The rich mineral deposits and precious metals would have been enough cause for my country to invade, and yet they were not the justification we gave.

No, that would be 'preemptive action', a claim by the Shogun often paired with stories of Ferus mustering forces to attack our homeland. The truth could not be further away. We weren't fighting to stop some planned attack, or to protect our way of life. This was an unprovoked assault, a genocide. One I'd decided I would take no part in.

An order disobeyed, a superior killed, and my brothers-in-arms wiped out for my refusal. But when ordered to turn my magic on Tangkorak, those creatures most closely in tune with the world, most attached to nature, I could not bring myself to do so, and had said as much.

I stood there, staring at the man I'd grown to trust with my life. Our Satakintaro let out a huff, flames beginning to swirl around his hand, denser and denser, forging a gauntlet of powerful heat.

"Kor tont eralla, Mortesh!?"

I stared at him, terrified, hands raised as my chest tightened, muscles tensing as I felt the world around me slow down. I could see the flames building, condensing, second by second. Feel the heat emanating from his magic.

"What was that, Scrapper!?"

I blinked, shocked. Something wasn't right. He hadn't spoken Ferusian, he had spoke-

"What was that, Sir?"

I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, I saw a young woman holding a cigarette, standing across the counter from me. She waved her hand, the small flame over her palm dissipating as she did, her cigarette freshly lit and smoking. I was in my store, not the battlefield. I was safe. I was okay.

My breathing was heavy, chest as tight as it could be, like the world itself sat upon my breast. I could see the embers fizzling in the air, remnants of her magic. Time felt so slow that I could count the embers as they faded, like houseflies buzzing in the air. I looked around, counting items on the shelves, mentally recounting their prices, their Ferusian names, and what they were used for.

The woman looked me over, concern growing on her face. I needed to say something, and soon, but I needed to be sure I knew what to say, how to say it. It had taken me months to learn Ferusian, and I still found myself slipping up more often than I would like. I nodded, taking in a deep breath and shaking my head, clearing my thoughts.

She had placed a small package on my counter, a prepared bundle of travel foods. Not very tasty, but they were filled with nutrients, designed to last several days. I wondered where she was going, but my life depended on secrets. The last thing I felt right doing was prying into the secrets of others.

"I said..." I thought, trying to recall the price from memory, trying to push myself further into the present, further from the memory, "Four Noll." I said, nodding. "Four Noll, that's the price."

She nodded, opening the coin purse at her hip and setting four copper coins bearing a finely-etched insignia onto my counter. I took the purse, smiling politely at her. She looked at me as if I'd grown a second head, gathering her bundle and leaving. I sighed, relaxing as she did. I stepped back once from the counter. I was okay, I was- I was alright. I-

Pulled my hands inward, swirling them around one another, air rippling between them, around them, sparking with power. My hands flew forward, sending a powerful bolt of lightning from my palms, striking my teacher, my superior, my friend-

I clenched my teeth and shook my head, smacking it against the wall. My brow furrowed and I pounded my fists against the wall, feeling the wood splinter against my fists. I growled, serrated teeth grinding as I tried to focus my thoughts on the present. I opened my eyes, counting the splinters surrounding my fist, breath quickening.

I threw my hand back, turning as I did, shaking off the-

Magic flew from my hand, fizzling away into the air as I began weaving sigils with my fingers, gathering raw power into my fist and throwing it forward, knuckles colliding with one of my fellow soldiers, a young Serval, two years my junior, charging at me with sword raised. I struck him hard, watching as the flesh of his neck tore from the force, severing-

I cried, stumbling from behind the counter and trying to get to the door leading to the storage room, legs giving out, dropping to my knees and falling to sit back against the wall, staring at the nearest shelf. I scanned items with my eyes, reciting each one verbally.

Ferusian name, price, purpose. Milk, two Noll, baking and drinking. Bread, one Noll, dipping and eating. Dozen eggs, five Noll, baking and eating. Pound of flour, five Noll, baki-

The scent of death filled the air, scorched flesh and the smoke of dissipating magic all around me as I drew my falchion from it's scabbard. I raised it just in time to barely deflect a slash from the last member of my squad, the other three lay dead around us, our Satakintaro face-down in the dirt several feet away, a blackened crisp of what used to be. I looked into the eyes of my companion, another man charged with protecting my life, another man I had been charged with protecting.

His blade collided with mine and the metal clanged, only to be brushed aside, narrowly missing my body thanks to the split-second contact. I felt tears run down my cheeks. I never wanted this. It was meant to be us or them. But these people were not our enemies. They were not helping our allies. Why-

Why?

Why did we-

Why?

Why were we-

Why?

"Why were we ordered to kill them?" I cried out, burying my face in my hands, knowing no answer would come.

Why had my Satakintaro acted so suddenly?

"Why did he-"

Why had the rest of my friends turned so easily?

"What did I-"

"What did I do-"

"To deserve this...?"

I sat there with my back to the wall, crying into my palms for what felt like hours. I was lucky nobody came into the store, I wouldn't have been able to stop. I finally did manage to calm down, and returned to my place behind the counter...

Tagging @verba-writing cause I mentioned it to her, and @thetruearchmagos because I like hearing what he has to say about...honestly, anything even remotely military adjacent, however small that connection may be

[lostboytold]

kj apa, homosexual, male + he/him → isn’t that peter pangborne? i hear that they're peter pan from peter pan. i hear their age is unknown but they look to be 23. they seem to be adventurous & cunning, but also reckless & manipulative. their aesthetics include gold glitter sprinkled on youthful toned arms, a broken compass that's endlessly spinning, the shadows of pure lust and intimacy of various people from a campfire.

BASIC INFO

full name — peter pangborne known as — peter pan age — forever twenty-three (neverland's first immortal) gender — cis male, (he/ him/ his pronouns) orientation — homosexual fairy tale connection — peter pan clothing style — forest color palettes, tight pants, high-waisted shorts, sleeveless shirts... leaves

PHYSICAL INFO

face claim — kj apa hair — auburn red / eyes — hazel height — five foot & eight inches build — athletic toned scars — none tattoos — n/a piercings — ears special characteristics — ears are unusually pointy but not quite to the degree of an elf

PERSONALITY

positive traits — daring, clever, vivacious, determined negative traits — impulsive, jealous, selfish, possessive hobbies — flying, dancing, mischief making, singing, flirting

MEDICAL INFO

mental — undiagnosed adhd, forgetfulness physical — active and healthy, neverland magic keeps him eternally youthful phobias — being abandoned, solitude eyesight — 20/20(left eye), 20/20 right eye dominant hand — ambidextrous alcohol use — yes, social drinker diet — anything that can be hunted and gathered in neverland, slight sweet tooth

SPICY INFO

sexual preference — versatile, bottom leaning kinks — romance, public play, exhibitionism, breeding, scents, hair pulling, rough, edging, oral fixations (his own), body worship, praise anti-kinks — gore/scat, blood play, infantilization, feminization

BACKGROUND

birthplace — london, england parents — unknown mother (deceased) & unknown father (deceased) siblings — none notable skills — adept audio mimicry, shadow teleportation, flyer (through pixie dust), exceptional gymnastic skills

BIO

Once a normal boy who grew up in the streets of London, England during the early Victorian era — Peter Pan took it upon himself to remain eternally youthful and escape the responsibilities of adulthood. He never excelled too well in academics at school, and was therefore destined for a life in the factories like his father. One night after turning to the ripe age of eighteen, Peter wished to runaway and be taken somewhere he would never have to grow up.

From the darkness, his shadow animated into a sentient being with a mind of its own. The dark figure beckoned Peter to follow it and led him to an alley where another peculiar tiny creature with dragonfly wings greeted them. A healthy sprinkle of pixie dust later, and Peter gained the ability to fly. Feet magically lifting off the ground, Peter soared high in the sky and away from the house he once called home. The trio of now best friends continued flying through the night and across the vast sea until they saw an island in the distance.

There, Peter remained for months. With his shadow and pixie companion's help, he not only survived — but thrived in the island. Still, he couldn't help but feel lonely and miss his parents. Not only that, he craved friends to hangout and forge strong bonds with. So, he left Neverland in what felt like an eternity to find those willing to be a part of his adventures. He'd travel back to London and frequent locale universities to invite young men who also want an escape to join him. Peter didn't discriminate, either. He happily welcomed older and more mature chaps in need of a good time away from the obligations of daily life.

Eventually, Peter assembled a solid retinue of men of different ages to be his 'lost boys'. Together, they reveled in the freedom and much needed respite provided in abundance by the island. So long as they stayed within the borders of Neverland, none of them aged a bit. It was an eternal adventure of flirting with mermaids, fighting pirates, and finding magical treasures.

Over the years, some of his lost boys began to yearn for home. They missed their old lives and families, which Peter often had a hard time understanding. Nevertheless, he didn't forbid them from leaving and frequently had to depart from the island to find a replacement. This carried on for decades. Sometimes, Peter is away for months in search for the perfect candidate or distracted trying to recruit a particular man into joining his motley crew. Alas, Peter's immortality is suppressed whenever he's in the outside world. This prolonged absence from Neverland caused him to age until he was in his early twenties.

Now with easier access to so many more New Worlds both magical and mundane thanks to Jack's enchanted beans, Peter is more determined than ever to bring together the perfect group of lost boys.

HEADCANONS

after spending years in and out of neverland, peter is approximately twenty-three years old. biologically speaking however, he's over a hundred in terms of age.

peter definitely fears someday being completely alone in neverland, without even his shadow or tinkerbell to turn to.

with his love for flying, peter has developed an addiction to pixie dust to the point he has the substance stored in bottles. he refuses to touch the ground unless in bed. more often than not, he can be seen levitating or floating casually.

through his shadow teleportation magic, peter has visited numerous amounts of realms. he's recruited lost boys from the likes of oz, wonderland, and much more.

[blazing-butterfly]

Unlearning shame by infodumping about my oldest and arguably cringest blorbo:

Way back in late middle & early high school, I took my basic knowledge of Magic the Gathering lore and created Ikeru Shikabane the Ronin Wraith, my planeswalker OC, a multiverse-wandering cyborg zombie samurai wizard.

He was first reborn on Mirrodin (living metal world) as a mindless but powerful undead slave of a necromancer, but regained his free will when the necromancer was killed, and the shock of that ignited his long-dormant planeswalker spark (special multiverse-traveling power). Desperate to avoid being re-killed by the warriors who killed the necromancer, he instinctively planeswalked away and found himself in Kamigawa (feudal-Japan-themed world).

There, he was taken in by a daimyo who gave him his name (which according to google translate is literally just "living corpse" in Japanese), taught him the ways of a samurai and encouraged him to hone his talent for magic. Ikeru was grateful, but never sure whether the daimyo saw him as just a weapon or as an adopted son. And before he could settle the matter, the daimyo was killed in war.

Having lost two masters in a row, he became a ronin, wandering first Kamigawa and then the multiverse, hiring out his services to those in need. On a visit to Mirrodin, he got curious about his past life, and found evidence that he wasn't native to that plane. This gave him a new purpose in his wandering, searching for any leads to who he was before dying. So far all he knows is that he was a planeswalker back then too, and that he had powerful enemies...

His speech and behavior is cold and blunt, but his actions show a kind heart, and he's a very "screw the rules, I'm doing what's right" kind of character with zombie ruthlessness tempered by samurai honor. To reflect this, he uses both black and white mana, and his magical specialty is working with ghosts, especially channeling them to gain their power. Not sure what a thematic deck for him would be like, but I figure relatively few creatures with a lot of spell support.

And if I were still following the game's plot I'm sure he'd have strong opinions about Mirrodin becoming the new Phyrexia (body horror cyborg world) and whatever they're doing with Kamigawa now (I hear it's cyberpunk?), but I haven't paid attention to Magic for years now ever since I realized the parts of it I like are subservient to the parts that bore me.

Anyway here's some Hero Forge minis, not exactly how I envision him but pretty close, and you can use the links to see them from other angles (you don't need an account or anything):

Fighting: https://www.heroforge.com/load_config%3D52045277/

At peace: https://www.heroforge.com/load_config%3D52050029/

[play-me-a-durge]

Head Like a Hole Ep 32

Visitor Has Left the Chat

Hey chat...

The sky is pale blue verging on lavender, though you cannot tell if the rocks floating around you a likewise blue or only reflecting this strange light. You are in the dream again, if it is a dream. The visitor stands, back to you but speaking, knowing you are there and aware.

"I promised I'd be back."

You glance around, the world feeling nothing like those of your other dreams. Very little red, for starters.

"Don't worry - I have things under control. For now." The visitor turns to you at last. "I see some of your party have been using the powers the tadpole gives you - good."

So, Astarion went through with it, then. You have no right to pry but you are deeply curious - if he offers an opening you will ask about it. Untroubled by your silence, your mysterious companion forges on.

"But things haven't gone as you expected. You hoped a druid as powerful as Halsin might be able to remove your tadpole. But he couldn't."

"Glad we're all on the same page but I don't need my thoughts narrated."

"You're desperate to be rid of it. Understandable, but you're looking for solutions in the wrong places."

They're the only places you have to look. "Tell me who you are."

Without giving any real answers the visitor sidesteps the question and speaks more of the parasite. A sense of irritation is growing, you can feel it just behind your eye - or is that the parasite? It feels strange here, different.

"How do you know so much about these tadpoles?"

While the question again goes unanswered you do finally get some tangible information, though little of it feels entirely new. The infection gives this 'Absolute' control over those infected, who hear its voice and call it a god. They obey in part through this belief, in part through force. You recall all too well that mind that nearly broke your own.

But the last piece of information is the most chilling.

"When the order to transform is given, it will not be a matter of days - they will be mind flayers in an instant. Were it not for my protection, so would you."

"How is it that you protect us. Why?"

"I have powers of my own, unique powers. I have been trying to escape from this evil for a long time. Once, I almost succeeded."

That sounds less comforting that it was likely intended. If they are not yet escaped, can you trust them? Perhaps you can go where they cannot, but you still do not know who is guiding your path. They may not be part of this Absolute cult, but the enemy of your enemy is not always an ally.

"Hells. They need me. I have to go."

Your eyes follow to a distant disturbance. "What is going on over there?"

"The power I use to protect you, I stole it from someone. They want it back."

Did they steal it from the cult? From the mind flayers?

"You must discover the source of the magic that controls the parasite before that happens. The cultists are gathering at Moonrise Towers. Infiltrate them, find the source. Our freedom depends on it."

When you open your eyes you are back in the ruined temple, your companions also just beginning to wake. You all glance around, silent understanding of what passed.

Lae'zel is the first to speak. "Anther dream, another order from that dubious visitor."

"Whoever's reaching out to us truly does seem opposed to the Absolute," Shadowheart says. "But wants us to embrace the tadpoles? Venture right into the heart of the cult?"

"She even offered me greater powers," Gale notes.

"Yes. A persuasive creature," Lae'zel says, voice dripping with hostility. "It tempts us with power, expresses its admiration, its adoration. Avert your eyes and do not avail yourselves of this new power, no matter how tempting."

You agree. "The whole thing feels like a trap."

"On the one hand, you're right," Astarion says, then adds with unnecessary snark, "On the other, don't be so wet behind the ears."

"Given the magnitude of what we're up against, I see no harm in considering the benefits this offer might afford us." As soon as Gale says it, though, he seems to reconsider. "Though we still see only part of the picture."

"You've no idea what damage it could do to us, how far into illithid madness it could drag us!" Lae'zel snaps.

"I can't help but recall the words of my father," Wyll says. "'The best plan is the one that works'."

"Battles are won with swords," Lae'zel says, "not mind-games born of brain-worms."

"A good general will not discard any weapon or strategy carelessly," Wyll counters. "If we are embattled by mind-games, we should at least consider battling with them."

"Perhaps we truly have a secret protector," Shadowheart says, and you wonder if she does so more to antagonize Lae'zel than to speak her true thoughts, "and we have been protected so far. It might be a trap, but we should at least explore it. With caution, of course."

"I had assumed our parasites served a ghaik Elder," Lae'zel says, pointedly ignoring her. "But I believe they serve a greater master still."

"The Absolute," you muse.

"Yes," Lae'zel agrees. "Either the master of it, or the pseudonym behind which this 'master' hides."

You look around the group. Karlach alone has been quiet though she looks like she's got the hamsters turning full speed in that head. "Karlach?"

"It said we'll get the answers we need at Moonrise," she says. "If it was anything like this place, it seems our tadpoles pull some weight."

"Yes," Lae'zel agrees cautiously. "Whatever this voice, whomever this master, it dominates dreams and unites minds."

It's a lot to consider, and more unknowns than not. You don't know that you trust the visitor, but Halsin himself said the parasite was being controlled by very powerful magics.

"Well, none of us have sprouted tentacles yet," you say. "And we have a lot more goblins to kill before we can be assured of a safe road forward. Let's focus on what's before us. We have time to plan yet."

The discussion ends with nobody quite happy about the outcome, but at least no actual fights broke out. You'll take that win.

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[AO3]