#mild death cw

[halemerry]

you know how the instrumental version of the show must go on plays in the background while the metatron orders his coffee right? the first thing it made me think of is the moulin rouge movie where during that song satine prepares herself to go and break christian's heart to protect him from the duke. it fits nicely with the interpretation that azi isn't completely sincere and is doing what he's doing to protect crowley. but I don't know if moulin rouge is something that would inspire neil and co?? do you think it's at all possible or am I just reaching?

Ohh this is a very fun question for so many reasons, but it’s a bit hard to answer directly. I can’t speak for where any of the folks involved in the making of Good Omen’s is coming from beyond what they’ve answered themselves, but If I had to gamble on it, I’d lean toward the assumption that it’s not a direct inspiration like that.

That being said, I’m not sure how much that actually matters because whether or not people on the team making this movie sat down and said ‘oh we can do this like Moulin Rouge does’ or not there is value in looking at commonality.

And in this context especially I actually think it says more about the lexicon of culture the two pieces of media are pulling from than anything else. Because in a lot of ways they're pulling from the same one.

Both the Red Curtain Trilogy and Good Omens had their first installments release at around the same time. Good Omen's was published in 1990 and Strictly Ballroom released in 1992. They're pulling from similar palettes and touchstones which is why you get the Queen overlap. Baz Luhrmann's films, including Moulin Rouge, all lean very heavily on camp aesthetics. (It's worth noting this is partially thanks to Catherine Martin who is his go to production designer who has a heavy hand in the way his films look and is also Luhrmann's wife.) Queen is a natural choice in Moulin Rouge because the band also operates in camp spaces and is arguably the most famous example of camp from the era (which frankly have stuck around and continued to define what camp looks like to this day) and because the movie is wanting to pull big recognizable songs into it's soundtrack. Queen is camp and yet insanely popular and well received.

The joke with Queen in Good Omens also operates as a nod to the popularity of the band. I know a lot of folks that think of Queen in the context of Crowley liking the band but originally anything being left in the Bentley turning into Queen was a joke poking fun at how everyone who has any kind of physical music likely has a Queen's Greatest Hits CD.

I won't go off on a whole tangent trying to define camp here as much as part of me wants to but camp has always been tied to queer culture and queer history. Its campiness is why films like the ones in the Red Curtain trilogy (especially Romeo + Juliet imo) have had the impact they have on queer media. And Good Omens even in its original state was always something queer people looked at and thought that's me. They're both queer adjacent at minimum, they're both pulling from similar cultural touchstones which also happen to be queer and camp.

They also both operate in spaces - as camp often does - more concerned with emotional impact more than realism. And the Show Must Go on is a very emotional song. Even outside the context of the lyrics itself. The album it is on was recorded during the last year of Freddie's life and was a struggle to record both physically and mentally. It's an intense song. It's over the top and unapologetic.

It's a song about soldiering through the tough times with a smile. Of carrying on the performance under pressure even if it's hard on you to do so because it's worth it. Which is basically Aziraphale in a nutshell. It's also what Satine does in the scene you're referencing. And I quite like the idea of it as evidence that Aziraphale is putting on some kind of a performance here, even if I suspect it's less taking inspiration from Moulin Rouge and more the song being well suited to these two stories operating in similar spaces.

[phantasm-echo]

*smiles in an evil manner and runs*

Based on one of my fav paintings of all time <3

[dcartcorner]

That's Not Funny!

i know.

[doobledabbadoo]

woag, ‘nother anthro htf art dump upon ye!

[sad-leon]

That feeling when the passage of time clings to you and drags you down with it

Inspired by @remedyturtles's Death Wish fic that I've been rereading <3

KoFi || Patreon

[hdra77]

When you're close to me ♡

i think i love this ship guys what do you think/silly

Jevin design belongs to my beloved @fishgrinder 💗

[pincushionx]

Watching and Dreaming, Late Redemption AU

I decided to redo this comic not because I don’t like it but because I believe could do better on the art and story telling of this AU now that I have a better grasp of what I want.

Context, this is a late redemption au of Hunter where certain canon events don’t happen. This is shortly after Belos death. Hunter has his possession scars because it played out in a much different way. Sadly this also means very slow burn pittwins siblings.

Once I have a few more posts a master list will be made in timeline order, so like separate tides to post-canon. Though the story will be nonlinear :3

Next part (coming soon)

[havenclangen]

83

2/8

First character death I’m actually sad about. FleetStar 😭

[skele-bunny]

There's No Trespassing signs around the Ministry grounds for a reason.

To protect those on the inside, and those on the outside.

(cw - attempted animal death and medium description of gore)

It doesn't stop those brave few. Specifically, hunters. After all, with all the woodland it's a hot spot seemingly begging the hunters to enter and take a look of what they can find. Their issue is the fence. Brick and metal linings, high up a ladder is required for both sides. Essentially you can call it the last warning to not enter.

Crawling over with their camo and guns, usually a group of two or three. A bag of jerky and a can of water to last them the hours of the hunt.

The moment their feet touch the ground inside, a silent alarm has went off. The earth, their mother, it speaks. It's been joked as a gossiper, a rumor starter, and a tattle tail. It whispers and speaks to those who can listen, with each step is another alarm, another giggle from her sweet tone and promises of loyalty to the caretakers.

A hunt has begun.

The caretakers watch, a much larger pack than the trespassers, hidden all around without anyone ever knowing. Watching and observing as their flora is picked through and harvested, listening to both whines and thanks for the treatment. But they don't do anything. Continuing to observe and letting those who starve take what they must certainly need.

"I have a bad feeling about this place," One will say. "Like we shouldn't be here."

"It's not for long. Just a buck or two."

Even as dusk arrives, their mother quiet, the caretakers still watch. Eyeing the group that rises into their trees who are unsettled by the newest weight — guns laid on their laps. They wait until the soft steps of the fauna approach. A mother and daughter, such a small fawn that she still wobbles, looking up at her mom for guidance as ahe scratches the ground for a patch suitable for them both.

A low rumble follows as a gun is raised, but it's ignored.

It's basically a hum until the trigger is pulled, and a deep roar follows, and the forest goes silent. There's no crickets, no fireflies, no hoot of an owl. It's darker than it's ever seemed to be before. A temporary blindness back into the night. The hunters watching in both terror and confusion as the mother and daughter run away, but a third that's bleeding rises back up.

It keeps growing, keeps standing up. It's bleeding from its thigh and one of them out of fear will turn a flashlight on to it, and freeze as a demon stares back. Hooves stomping on their mother as they stare at seemingly a biblical Satan. Hooves and ram horns, the torso of a human, and the eyes of hell. Tail flicking and irritation growing.

One of them will be so shocked they'll fall from the tree, scrambling back away from the one that's lit up; unaware of a second and third right behind them. Hitting more hooves and looking up, unable to scream as they're raised up by their head, and a sickening crack follows. Their split body being thrown at the other two, one who will raise their gun again.

Four, five, and six. Seven grabs ahold of a barrel, ignoring the burning pain of hot metal as it's thrown into their home; the hunters arm grabbed and yanked with such force the muscle, bone, and skin tears directly off.

One lones gun will be left as they run away from the sound of death, screaming, lungs burning from adrenaline as they try to remember where to go. Where that ladder was that brought them to their fates, hearing stomps and growls every corner. The hunter can pray, beg for forgiveness as they reach the wall but no ladder in sight.

The caretakers pray, too.

Watching as the last survivor turns, crying, yelling for Satan's spawn to stay back, more prayer and desperate panting. They may reach a point where there's moss upon the wall, touching and grabbing frantically to see if there's any leverage.

But as they pull again, a growl will follow. Water hitting the Hunter's head as they look up and see one of the beast staring back down, angry it had been pulled on. As they turn to run, they'll find themselves surrounded by that pack, almost as if they were wolves to a rabbit.

They won't move, however. The caretakers know this one. This one wanted to leave. Watching as they beg, lowering their head and praying, shaking with fear. Their eyes are closed, forehead to the dirt for more frantic prayers.

But nothing will come.

This one did not raise a gun.

They'll eventually raise their head and see the circle of hell has left, and the ladder is back where it once was. There's a broken gun laying in front of them, but they won't attempt to grab it as they turn and frantically climb up to leave, gasping as the moment they get on the wall the one from inside is thrown into the darkness by an unseen force.

The ghouls wait in hiding until the trespasser is gone, turning to their wounded and assisting them to the ministry's hospital where a quintessence will take the careful time to remove the shotgun shell, whispering thanks to the caretaker for serving them all once more.

So please,

Do not trespass.

[loudclan-clangen]

do you think Fiercestripe tried to clean Mothtree like she always did before, but this time off blood and dirt and grit? even though there was too much blood and it kept flowing, despite the injuries closing on their own over time (im not a corpse expert, but generally that's how that works). she hopelessly tries to rouse Moth to wake up as she keeps going, futilely believing that maybe she will wake up and complain like she always did and they will have a laugh about it. but Moth doesn't wake up and other cats wonder when will be the best time to get Fierce away from the body so they can bury it.

or is it just me

Hi anon, this imagery was great, you’re absolutely right, please accept this slightly more happy interpretation cause we’ve been focusing only sad stuff too much recently:

Grouping these two together cause I’m trying to get done with the Moon 18 related asks to move onto bigger and better things. Fierce is… Okay. She’s not doing well, obviously, but she has a very loving mate, at least one healthy daughter, and enough life experience to keep her from completely spiraling. Grief and stress are taking their toll but Fiercestripe is not the kind of cat to just lay down and give up, ya know? Sure, she’s probably a little overprotective of Rosehipkit, and maybe she doesn’t get much sleep because she’s busy listening to make sure that Rosehipkit doesn’t stop breathing, but that’s all expected given the situation. While she doesn’t know about the rosehip omen (Wildfirecry didn’t have the heart to tell her) she knows her mate well enough to understand that he doesn’t have much hope for their daughter, and she is trying her best to stay strong, knowing that Dogwoodkit will need her regardless of what happens to Rosehipkit while not emotionally isolating herself from Rose. In the end, she’s staying strong in the face of everything. It’s the only thing she knows how to do.

[sleep-deprived-mf]

"𝙽𝚘𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎…"

reblogs > likes

[tallclan]

Moon 6 - Fall

⚠️ CONTENT WARNING: ANIMAL DEATH + MILD EYESTRAIN ⚠️

Despite Mulberrystripe’s best efforts, the infection was just too much for her patient and the she-cat, whose name will be never known to the clan, passes away.

Although she wasn’t a part of the clan for long, Icystar didn’t think it would be right of them to bury her in an unmarked grave outside of clan territory. She deserved better than that.

Daydream is thinking about Bonebracken…

CLIMB DOWN|CLIMB UP

———

I like to think that Daydream was holding out hope that Ant would survive, but now that she’s dead, she can’t help but feel that Bonebracken died for nothing :,) Anyway, this is the last moon you’ll see from me in a while as I’ll be working on finishing the last of TallClan’s lore for the Lore Masterpost and I’ll be working on Moon 0!

[cervianthr0py]

to celebrate both the @tf2occontest and Winter Storm Blair, which kept me home from work, take a Snowy Deerhunter and a tiny Drabble (under cut) (also mild gore in the drabble, but this is @cervianthr0py so that's expected. Also a flip flop from 3rd to 2nd person)

< "Holy crap...he's...he's something unnatural. Like those folktales, where a monster would disguise themselves as an animal to lure humans into a trap. He's...God damn it, he's something other..." >

-------

Snow crunches under the sharp, cloven hooves of the Deerhunter, feeling over the soft and icy textures that are so, so sensitive to the slightest weight. Even for the nimble Deerhunter, the slightest pressure causes them to snap down with a jolt, six inches down.

In some places, they can slide over the thick layers of ice, but these are few, and far between.

They get around all this better than any other mercenary. Better than the best. Better than a human. Better than the poor deer back there.

You couldn't even wait for it to die before you started eating.

Oh, Carnos, you're still covered in the stuff. It's warm. It sticks to your face and coats your teeth. So warm, rich in iron and everything else. You relished in having your teeth wrapped around it's neck, knife dug in it's stomach to keep it still. It split open so beautifully, ribs torn out, small intestine wrapped around your claws as you put your face in it, and ate.

And ate

And ate

And ate more. You're never satisfied. Never sated. Never not hungry.

You're still starving. Perhaps you should have brought leftovers with you.

Lungs. Liver. Intestines. Heart. Stomach.

Carnos's stomach growls.

Years ago, they wouldn't be able to stand this cold. But they can't feel the cold. Not anymore.

Is it because you're dead, Deerhunter? Is it because you came back? How many deaths have you experienced since the first one?

Can't remember, can you?

It's quite alright. Maybe you shouldn't.

--------

also a alternate coloring because I'm indecisive

[officialbruciewayne]

Drowning as a metaphor; survival as a sinking ship

Artist: Percy1839

[cheerycherrycandy-resurrected]

What You've Done, You Cannot Undo (Medieval AU)

Chapter 3

Dew feels guilty, Rain screws up.

Rating: M now, to be safe Content: side character death, minor descriptions of violence, flashbacks, peril Words: 2253

Link to all chapters with associated tags: Tumblr | AO3

hi hi @revengeghoulette here's your alert! and @everybodyshusband you seemed very keen haha!

Read below, or on AO3!

Dew stomped along the path surrounding their fields. The warm sun overhead taunted him, it's rays full of promise and life while he felt only cold and empty inside. He knew he'd been too harsh on Rain, deep down, but he'd have to be threatened with banishment to the pit to admit that. Dewdrop refused to allow himself to feel guilty; that was a slippery slope of self-hatred he knew he wouldn't be able to crawl back up from. He knew he could be short-tempered, and he harboured enough resentment of his own that it was bound to overflow into his actions.

Rain seemed to have had things so much easier than him though, it wasn't fair. From the day he arrived he had bonded with the others in a way Dew had struggled to. They would chitter and purr at Rain for the slightest thing, whereas they had remained suspicious of him for ages. Dew was self-aware enough however to realize that he hadn't helped his case by hissing and growling at his packmates for the smallest thing.

That didn't mean it didn't hurt. Rain got a lot of leeway for being young, the others quick to write off his transgressions as ignorance rather than malice, but they forgot Dew was young too. Despite presenting himself as world-wise and experienced, he was closer in age to Rain than he was to any of the rest of his packmates. He'd worked hard to rewrite his time before Aether and Mountain found him, both the most difficult and most sheltered parts, but he couldn't erase their impact.

He continued his mission uphill, to the base of a large oak tree that overlooked their whole farm and surrounding area. Smoke curled from the chimneys of houses in the village in the distance, and a multicoloured patchwork of fields spread out around them. Following the path in the opposite direction, Dew could just make out the dark speck of Rain walking to Farmer Wilkins’. He was stubborn, not taking Dew's constant snipes to heart, Dew had to grudgingly respect that. He watched until Rain turned a corner and was lost from sight.

~~~~~~~

On the walk over, Rain was also enjoying the warm weather as he followed the stream. There was barely a cloud in the sky, the open blue expanse painted with faint white wisps reached as far as the eye could see. Rain could see why his help was needed: the summer had stretched on for several glorious months, and the ground beneath his feet was showing signs of cracking from lack of rainfall. A gentle breeze worked to sweep the cobwebs that still clung tightly to his dream and Dew's comments from his mind.

Arriving at the farm with sweat beginning to bead on his forehead from the heat, Rain was greeted by Farmer Wilkins, sat out on his porch. He was a jovial man, round and ruddy faced, with a vigour for life that defied his advancing age. Rain didn't know him well, but he was a regular down at the village tavern and always had a spare word or smile for Swiss when he passed by.

“Good mornin’, Rain! I didn’t expect to see you so soon, please, sit down. My daughter Marina’s preparing some elderflower cordial against this hot weather. We can wait ‘til you’re rested to begin!”

Rain awkwardly accepted the proffered seat on the porch bench, glad for the shaded spot after the heat of his walk. He heard light footsteps approaching, and looked up to see a young woman emerge from the cottage holding a tray of glasses and a jug of pale liquid.

Her dark hair fluttered around her pretty face in the breeze, and Rain gasped feeling as though he’d been shot in the chest: she was the spitting image of his childhood sweetheart. From the gentle wave in her ebony hair to the asymmetric dimples in her cheeks as she smiled at him in greeting, they could have been twins if not for her obvious humanity.

Noticing Rain’s slack-jawed stare, the farmer chuckled good-naturedly.

“Quite a looker, ain’t she Son! Don’t be getting any funny ideas, she’s engaged to the lad down the road. Childhood sweethearts, they were!”

Rain was struck by the similarities to his own previous life. In another world, his water ghoulette’s father could have spoken of him like that. Instead, Rain had the distinct impression that he had been glad to see Rain leave.

Feeling as though he was watching himself behind glass, Rain accepted a drink with shaky hands. Marina rolled her eyes at his stuttered thanks, but smiled kindly at him as she headed back inside. Luckily, the farmer seemed happy to keep the conversation moving all by himself, leaving Rain to nod in what he hoped were the appropriate places. He sipped his drink in an attempt to replace the moisture in his mouth, which was now as dry as sand. Moving his limbs to raise the glass, Rain felt like he was pulling at the strings of a marionette puppet.

Once Farmer Wilkins had exhausted his supply of one-sided small talk, the pair headed out to the fields, beginning with the one closest behind the house. Here, the corn grew luscious and tall: Mountain did a stellar job encouraging the crop earlier in the season. Rain had tagged along that day, watching as Mountain pressed his palms to the ground to imbue it with his own magical energy.

Now Rain stood in the field without the earth ghoul by his shoulder, feeling alone and detached. He sensed the eager eyes of the farmer watching him, the intense interest making Rain’s knees begin to tremble anxiously. He took a deep breath, and copied what he had done before with Mountain, what he had seen and heard Aether do a hundred times.

Raising his arms out in front of him, palms to the sky, Rain closed his eyes and called out,

“Ancient Spirits! Bless this land, that it be free from drought and pestilence.” he swept his arms around a bit, then turned his palms to the ground. “Gracious Earth, protect these bountiful crops so they may feed us another year.”

Rain winced at how fake it all felt, like he was just going through the motions, and the flowery language rang false in his ears. He cracked his eyes open and saw the farmer – along with half a dozen or so curious farmhands who had downed tools to stare – watching in barely concealed fascination. He squeezed his eyes shut again, waved his arms around a final time in what he hoped was a convincing manner, and went silent as he tried to connect with his element. Rain knew the others could control their power while talking and moving, but he still struggled without devoting his complete concentration to it.

He felt the motion of the water in the stream at the foot of the field, the weight of the droplets in the few scraps of cloud overhead. Flexing his fingers, Rain imagined drawing them in, encouraging them towards the field. He sensed the flowing rivulets of water from the creek begin to channel through the ground, moistening the dry soil around the roots of the crops. The clouds above thickened imperceptibly with the promise of future raindrops.

As Rain felt the water begin to do his bidding, he opened his eyes again to ensure that none of his changes were visible to the small audience of humans. From day one, Aether had instilled the value of plausible deniability into Rain. He insisted it was the most important part of using their elemental connections outside of ghoulish colonies, that they should never give the humans too much evidence of their power and should always leave them with a rational explanation.

As the light flooded his retinas, he saw her standing there: Marina was hovering behind her father's shoulder, watching Rain work with a curious smile and her uncannily familiar dimples. Rain choked on his breath as the sharp stab of longing for his lost future caused him to double over. The pain coursed through his veins and as it did so, Rain felt it cross over with his call to the water. Unbidden, he felt the shock and subsequent rush of emotions transfer into the water he was drawing in, reacting to the ache he had taught himself to supress.

The wisps of feathery clouds he had been coaxing to coalesce now slammed into each other as though pulled by a magnetic force. More water joined from seemingly nowhere, until the clouds hung dark grey and pregnant above the field. Unable to stop the flow of emotionally charged elemental power, Rain watched in horror as the water from the creek rose up, bursting its banks and rushing uphill in an unstoppable tidal wave of water. It reached higher than the stalks of corn, barrelling towards the assembled crowd and flattening the crops indiscriminately. He tried frantically to cut the connection and stop the flow, but with no success.

Rain's panic began to grow, only adding to the ferocity of the water, and the clouds took this as their sign to drop their contents onto those gathered below. The deluge of raindrops hit at the same time as the towering wall of water did, knocking Rain to his feet as he screamed out for the flood of both water and emotions to stop assaulting his body and mind. As the water covered his face, he felt his gills burst free and his glamour dissolve. Rain fought against the water as it dragged him further up the field and back towards the cottage.

To his horror, he saw a flash of dark hair dragged past him. The currents of his own creation slammed the girl against the stone wall of the farmhouse and pinned her there, suspended in a grotesque position, until eventually releasing her to crumple limply into the churning water below. Rain barely had time to process what he was seeing, before he heard a shattering of glass as another farmhand, a boy from the village who could barely have been fifteen, was thrown through the glass roof of a greenhouse. The rain that was still pouring down on them did nothing to dilute the obvious red of the blood spreading through the water.

The tidal wave finally retreated down the field, revealing the destruction left in its wake as it did so. The body of another farmhand emerged from the frothing stream, lifeless without the swirling of the water to animate it. Those remaining staggered to their feet, screaming out in terror. At seeing the carnage and bodies scattered across the field, they turned their anger on Rain. Feeling all the eyes on him, Rain took off running with no heed for where he was heading. Farmer Wilkins let out a howl of anguish as he cradled his daughter's mangled corpse, turning into a roar of anger directed at Rain. The farmhands left alive scrabbled for their abandoned tools scattered by the currents and gave chase, baying for Rain's blood.

As Rain hurled himself down the road, he realised too late that he was heading straight for the centre of town. The noise of the men chasing him attracted the attention of the occupants of the houses he fled past until a small mob was following him, figurative and literal pitchforks raised. Half-crazed, with fear threatening to paralyse him if he paused, Rain kept on running. Lungs burning, he kept pumping his legs as fast as they would go. His feet were now fully unglamoured and the excess webbing between his toes made his shoes feel too small. Every step was agony and yet he knew if he stopped, he was as good as dead.

Rain's mind started to swim, his actions and their consequences catching up with him making him feel dizzy and nauseous. With his tail now caught in his trousers, his balance was almost entirely gone. He felt his foot catch on a loose stone and as he went flying, he knew it was all over. Rain hit the sandy ground hard, all the breath knocked out of him. His eyes frantically swivelled left and right as he scrabbled backwards. Seeing double, Rain stared through the cloud of dust he had kicked up at the crowd bearing down on him. He registered the approaching shovel only as it slammed into the side of his head, stars flashing across his vision before everything went black.

~~~~~~~

From his seat under the tree, Dew was close to dozing off when something caught his attention. He watched in confusion as dark clouds appeared and raced across the sky, before combining together over one field. The air underneath them rippled with falling waves of the torriential rain falling from them. Dewdrop realised a few things simultaneously: firstly, those clouds weren't natural. Dew knew enough about elemental magic to recognise it when he saw it. Secondly, that amount of rain was dangerous and sure to catch the attention of the townsfolk, especially given the recent stretch of warm weather. Lastly, he realised in horror that the clouds were centred directly over the very field Rain had gone to that morning.

Dew leapt to his feet and took off running back to the farmhouse. This was it; all of their worst fears come to life. Their cover was well and truly blown and Dew had to get to the others.

[celosiaceo]

“You Shall Not Murder”

Characters: Leander, Hyacinth (Unnamed MC)

Word count: 3000-4000 words

Tags: blood, descriptions of violence, mild gore, death

Scratching at the muscular hand clasped over their mouth, Hyacinth tried to scream for help, knowing none would come. Dragged down the cold damp stairs by the hair, they stumbled against the grip. Once they tried to bite the strong hand that almost strangled them, Hyacinth got thrown into the opposite wall of the cellar. Leander approached slowly while they heaved for air, coughing as they tried to scrape themself off the floor.

“All bark no bite. For someone with the gall to carve all those spells on my door, you go down easily, Hyacinth.” Leander clapped the dust off his gloves, watching as flakes of dust descended from the walls and onto the fallen priest. “Much too easily. I could humor your audacity again, I had for way too fucking long, but everyone’s patience runs out eventually.” He loomed over Hyacinth’s crumpled figure, his eyes glowing in the shadow of his frame over the orange lamp.

Hyacinth was almost certain they heard a crack or two when their back and shoulder hit the wall, but they were too disoriented to know for certain or feel much pain. At the moment of the collision, their vision snapped to white, and now was blurry while they tried to scoop themself back up.

While making pitiful attempts to return the air knocked out of their lungs, Hyacinth stared up at Leander with half-open eyes. They could only discern the green glow that his eyes emitted even in the darkness, his words only being half intelligible past the ringing in their ears. Hyacinth tried to say something in return, but could only wheeze and let out a choked cough while pushing themself up by the arm.

“You seem just so insistent on fucking up my every plan, squirming in the way like a pathetic goddamn animal. Look at yourself. One kick could end you. And that’d still be overkill.” Leander growled, his expression staying void of emotion despite the clear rage in his voice and how the leather of his gloves stretched over his clenched fists. Hyacinth managed to sit, and were now taking heavy breaths with their chest and shoulders moving in wide frantic motions to cover for their greedy need for air. “Come on. Get up, you little freak. There’s no more miracles left to keep your miserable ass alive.”

Hyacinth stumbled up while leaning their side on the wall. They stared into Leander’s eyes with horrified desperation, clinging onto hope with delusional determination. “You… Blas…phemer…” Hyacinth croaked, wobbling while they tried to stand on their own.

Leander only chuckled. “Best start praying now, priest.” With a firm step forward, he crushed Hyacinth into the wall with his forearm pressing into their chest with his elbow and fist pinning the priest’s arms in place and rendering them immobile. They gasped for air just before Leander’s other hand would clasp around their neck. It’d barely take him any effort to snap Hyacinth’s neck into two if he wanted to, but no, he wanted their death to be slow. He wanted the priest to try to plead to be forgiven for everything they’ve ever done to foil his plans and destroy his ambitions. He wanted to watch life drain from their eyes. But not even this detrimental and thoroughly hopeless situation dissuaded Hyacinth from fighting for their life.

As much as they could, Hyacinth thrashed against the much stronger arms. Tears streamed down their face, the priest was getting dizzy and their limbs felt like they were being stabbed with thousands of invisible needles, their vision blurred into static with colored shapes floating across it. Leander only scrutinized their suffering as if it were an entertaining display, like a spider watching a moth thrash in its net.

“Give up now, priest. Didn’t you yourself say you deserve a slow death? Why’re you struggling?” Leander questioned with venomous amusement. His eyes hadn’t shifted from staring into Hyacinth with an overwhelming power. Hyacinth stared up at the ceiling, tears soaking their face while they kept wriggling beneath Leander’s arms.

“Not by… a sinner’s… hand…” The priest croaked, digging their nails into Leander’s forearm, since that’s as high as their hands could reach. Hyacinth could barely feel their legs while flailing them around as much as possible. Despite not believing that they’ll be saved, Hyacinth tried to fight for their life. Just so the Gods won’t judge them for sinfully becoming willing to give up their life in their last moments.

“Beggars can’t be choosers. And wouldn’t a sinner deserve to die by fellow sinners? Isn’t that what you are? Do you think you’re suddenly better than me? Don’t flatter yourself. We’re cut from the same cloth.” Leander mocked, making Hyacinth’s back sear against the wall as he raised them off the ground by the neck. They cried out, eyes squeezing shut. A tremor broke out throughout Hyacinth’s body, limbs trembling as if they were outside in the middle of a blizzard. The static clouding Hyacinth’s eyesight broke out into stars and flickering specks of white.

“I’m… so… much… weaker” They wheezed, kicking their legs in the air while feverishly gasping against the crushing pressure over their neck.

Leander laughed biliously, otherwise not moving a muscle. “So? It is what it is. The world’s unfair. Woe is you. Are those your last words? Shitty choice.”

“No… chivalry… in killing… the weak… fraud…” Hyacinth prayed to the Gods that Leander’s ego was the right button to push to keep them alive. It was the only button of his that the priest knew, since it was precisely what put Hyacinth in danger with Leander specifically. Everything was going dark, Hyacinth’s whole body felt numb, as if their soul was beginning to depart from their body.

Leander’s expression twitched with anger, his eye gave a dangerous glint. Is this where he tightens his grip and Hyacinth dies to the crunch of their vertebrae?

Suddenly, Leander pulled his hands away and Hyacinth fell back to the moist floor. They coughed for breath violently, ragged breathing desperate to come back to normalcy as their body starved for air, hot blood rushing back to frozen limbs.

“You want this to be a fair game? You know what? Fine. Go ahead. Show me what you’ve got.” He stepped away and stared Hyacinth down with infuriated amusement while parting his arms almost as if to offer an embrace. The glow in his eyes flickered like a prideful flame. Hyacinth figured that by playing with his food Leander could delude himself into feeling charitable.

Hyacinth’s body shook in resemblance of a seizure, but they tried to fight the convulsions to get up. After a minute of silence and hungry breaths, the priest pulled themself with their side leaning against the damn wall. They still couldn’t look into the green eyes, feeling like Leander could devour their soul if they dared to challenge a glance.

“I’m waiting. I have no doubt that you have what it takes to even us out.” He smirked with a smug air around him. Leander’s wide frame stood in the sickly orange light of the lamp now, blocking the only way out of the cellar. Hyacinth had no choice but to try something that’d most likely end up a pathetic display.

Suddenly, the dimming light was snuffed out, undoubtedly by Leander’s magic. Only the two cold emeralds glowed in the dark aside from a few cracks in the ceiling. The air burned through Hyacinth’s lungs while they tried to calm down their raging heartbeat and come up with anything remotely rational as their head was beginning to get swarmed with darker thoughts. The priest could barely think in the first place, frozen in place with only the thoughts of somehow running out of the dark cellar. Hyacinth couldn’t fight Leander if they tried, completely hopeless against the much more muscular man who was also tremendously more versed in the battle-adapted magic than Hyacinth could hope to be.

Was this the end of it, then..? Was this a dead end? Did Hyacinth have no way out of this except maybe making an embarrassing display of themself before embracing death? Were they just buying time for their last prayers before they’d stand before the gods’ Divine Judgement..? On second thought, maybe this was a fitting end for Hyacinth after all, no matter how much they wanted to disagree with Leander. Maybe the priest didn’t deserve a chance to cure themself and absolve their sins as much as that would be possible. Perhaps it was finally time to come to terms with their inevitable death and succumb to the cruel serpent eyes of a blasphemer. For him killing someone so weak, especially an obstacle in his hubristic plans, was nothing. Maybe if Hyacinth gave up, death would come quicker than they deserved.

But then, in a moment of clarity, Hyacinth had a realization. Alas, there was one other option. Leander seemed to fail to notice the ritual knife that was well hidden in the barely visible pockets of Hyacinth’s thick robe. And he couldn’t possibly notice it now in the darkness. Their thoughts began to immediately go to the crude blade that was their ritual knife, and immediately Hyacinth went pale. No. They couldn’t deface the very knife that was forged for them, the knife that they consecrated in extensive rituals with their own blood, the knife that signified their connection with the divine through magic… Murder in itself was one of the greatest sins one could commit, but committing such with a sacred knife? The gods would send them straight to hell for such an insult upon them. If in the past Hyacinth was possessed by rage and never directly got blood on their hands or their knife, but it would all be different this time. This time, they’d be coming to the decision themself, there’d be no one else to blame. Hyacinth gulped, their knees wobbled in terror. A whole life could be used as an incredibly powerful catalyst to a spell, which would turn the killing into an offering to the gods. But would it not be just as insulting to present them with such a rotten soul for their past blessings?

They must’ve begun to space out due to indecisiveness, eyes welling with tears of horror, as Leander angrily sighed and stepped closer. “Well? I’m waiting. Don’t test my patience. Go on or tell me you were wasting my fucking time again.” His voice was firm, his patience was clearly running thin. Hyacinth gasped for air even though they were no longer choked, torn between the priestly urge for a deservedly slow death and the human instinct of self-preservation despite the weight of unabsolved sins on their shoulders. “Useless fucking bastard. All this time you were wasting my time and money, but I kept forgiving you. I was being kind of you and this is how you fucking repay me? Wasting your second chance to make your death less pitiful?” They remained still, breathing faster while contemplating. Hyacinth could die and end up paying for all their sins in hell for the rest of eternity. Or they could persist and live, only to carry such a heavy sin if not an entire insult to the very gods they’re worshiping until they die, and end up with even more sins weighing their soul down into the nether.

“Why’re you even here, huh? You killed someone with that curse of yours and made a run for it not to face the consequences? And what for? Just to stalk and beg the doctor for forgiveness instead of praying to your gods? I bet they’re disappointed in you. One shitty priest you are, Hyacinth.” Sarcasm kept pouring past Leander’s lips with pure venom dripping from his voice. Hyacinth's hands began to shake with anger. He now stood so close that Hyacinth could hear Leander’s breathing.

The glow in his eye flared in a hubristic certainty of their failure. Leander provoked them and, in doing so, felt invincible. He was always the one in power. He always prevailed. He always got what he wanted. He always walked out of the water dry. He was immune to consequence. Immune to guilt. Immune to satiation. Immune to divine punishment.

Hyacinth’s eyes darted up to his, an eldritch rage began to rise like a flood of fire in the yellow-red eyes. Leander further opened his arms while a near demonic grin twisted his lips, the expression for once reaching his eyes.

“О Пресвятые ангелы, О великие Боги, О Богоматерь, я надеюсь ВЫ сможете простить мой грех…”

“Saying your last prayers? Good. Let’s get this shit over with, you’ve taken up enough of my precious time with your nuisance of an existence—”

The thick high-quality fabric of Leander’s shirt bloomed with blood as it got pierced by the crude, almost dull ritual knife. It blindly squirmed through the muscular with a struggle, but Hyacinth barely felt the strain on their bony arms now. Leander’s eyes for once widened with shock, a pained cry ripping its way out of his throat.

“What— what the fuck are you doing—” Leander growled and swung an arm at Hyacinth in the dark, only for them to lunge just beneath the hit and rip the knife out of his stomach. Leander inhaled sharply, staring at Hyacinth’s silhouette with disbelief and shock, except this time their eyes mirrored the prior blankness of his instead of the typical fear. Just as he stepped back and gripped at the bleeding wound, Hyacinth swung from below and into his shoulder, the momentum easing the blade in just below his collarbone. Leander keeled over as Hyacinth wriggled the blade out, his breathing choked when he began to frantically cough for air. His glowing emerald eyes acted as beacons, not letting Hyacinth lose their target. Leander made clumsy attempts to knock Hyacinth off, but the darkness aided the priest in avoiding most of his attempts even in the narrow space. “What the fuck has gotten into you?” Leander mumbled in irritation laced with fear and stumbled back, only to trip over the stairs and fall over the cold stone. Hyacinth stood over him, silent. The priest’s grip on the knife whitened their knuckles while their face was tense in blank rage. Like the day their curse was revealed, an incomprehensibly deep fury took over their whole entire conscious being.

Just as the first hints of blood sprouted onto Leander’s lips, Hyacinth fell over him, stabbing the knife into his chest. He gripped their throat again. “You can’t kill me.” He croaked, and tightened his grip over the priest’s neck. Hyacinth coughed and heaved, struggling with pulling the knife out again. Once the metal parted room his skin, Leander made a hurt bloodied wheeze, and put all their effort into stabbing his arm instead.

“Молчать, богохульник.” Hyacinth mumbled against Leander’s scream, their voice devoid of its usual stutter and quietness. Blood spilled like a fountain from his pierced arm, spraying most of their face with the crimson that matched Hyacinth’s robe. Leander, blinded with pain, writhed and attempted to punch them again or kick his legs and get them off, now dizzied with blood loss, only for Hyacinth to take the weakened punches and not reduce their violent vigour at all, the pain not registering. They stabbed into Leander’s chest, the knife nestled somewhere below his collarbone.

Leander’s eyes became hazy, the absinthe greenness infusing with death like with dissolved sugar. The spark of the emeralds began to fade out in its entirety, the ubiquitous glow of the poisonous orbs was dying out. And Leander himself felt it too. “Please… we can… talk…” Leander coughed, only more blood dripping down his chin while he tied to collect himself. Hyacinth ignored his pleas and kept stomping out the fire by planting more and more stab wounds into Leander’s chest over and over, until they couldn’t feel their arms. By then the begging and foolish self-preservation attempts and any noise from the mage had long died out, but the light of the lamp slowly came to life again, only to reveal Leander’s lifeless body.

Hyacinth stood up at long last, their posture somewhat shaky from exhaustion. Their shoulders rose and fell with ferally deep breathing. Hyacinth’s knife, robes, arms and face were all soaked with Leander’s blood. The puddle of dark red flowed over the cellar's wooden floor from under the body. The soles of the priest’s wooden sandals became submerged into it too, and yet all Hyacinth could do was stare. Observe the lifeless mangled body of the blasphemer with his eyes glassy like tumbled gems, but never truly take it in. Their yellow-red eyes seemed dull, blank, dead like Leander’s despite the seething rage that was still somewhat searing their flesh from the inside.

Reaching into their robes, Hyacinth got out a small crude wooden tablet, and carved a sigil into it — a dianthus, a baptisia, a hyacinth and a lily within an 8-pointed star. The scratches in the wood were laced with the red, an offering to the Gods. After engraving the divine forgiveness and protection spell into the wood with reddened lines, the priest dipped the tablet into the blood, the lines of the engraving soon getting filled with the vital catalyst. After wiping off the excess blood, Hyacinth stuck the tablet back into their pocket along with the knife, and stepped over the limp corpse to get out of the basement. Hyacinth’s expression didn’t even twitch all the while like it was an unpainted mask, which depicted neither the outrageous tragedy of the murder nor the gleeful comedy of the weak winning against the strong despite all odds.

The priest took off their sandals after making their way up the stairs, now they were in the back room of the Wick. The party was still loud, Hyacinth could hear the music and laughter even louder now than before. Without a second thought, they slipped out of the tavern through the back door. The priest washed the blood off the soles of their shoes in a puddle and slid the sandals on again, deciding not to do anything about the soaked robes since blood stopped dripping off of them. Hyacinth quickly wiped their face, the feeling of dried blood cracking over their skin reminding them of its presence. The small alley in front of them split off, a distant turn to the left just before the alley’s dead end, and a nearer turn to the right. Hyacinth didn’t particularly care where to go, all they knew was that the stench of alcohol was making them sick, as was the smell of rust all over them, so they needed to leave.

[Head for the closer turn]

[Head for the further turn]