#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.

[dcartcorner]

That's Not Funny!

i know.

[stellewriites]

very much inspired by a post i’ll link at the bottom to avoid spoilers

i love putting john price in situations

simon had known price for over a decade, had served under him as his lieutenant for a good portion of it, so he was pretty confident in answering yes when asked if he thought he knew the captain well.

he could acknowledge he wasn’t as close as say laswell may have been, but he knew that price’s wife was not common knowledge around the base either.

he’d pieced it together over the years on missions; catching the odd comment shared over coms; the glint of a ring around his neck; the odd teased mention of her when they sat in the rec room after barely scraping through a tough spot, when price needed the company as well as the silence ghost offered before returning to the real world.

it was how simon knew the sergeants were staying when price let slip about her one day. because he doesn’t let anything slip, wouldn’t, especially about her.

“got anyone at home waiting for you, sir?” gaz asked as he sighed impatiently over the coms, hour three of silently waiting and watching had finally gotten to him.

“i do,” price said simply, not offering any further information. ghost could imagine the amusement tugging at his daft facial hair as price refused to continue without prompting and simon smiled under his mask when he heard johnny scoff next to him before chiming in.

“c’mon sir, give us a wee bit more’n that,” he weedled. “when’d ya meet? is she nice?”

john hummed, the sound low and crackly over the radio in their ears. “met when i moved.”

“oh, a real meet-cute type thing, eh?” gaz teased.

john ignored him. “wouldn’t say she’s nice, soap. she’s more than that. ‘nice’ is your aunt’s new wallpaper; you have permission to shoot me point blank if i start calling her nice.”

“what is she then?” ghost piped up. this was the chattiest john had ever been on the subject and he was going to take advantage.

john went silent for long enough that the three men thought that was it, the end to their sharing session and knowing more about their captain outside of work. simon chewed the inside of his cheek.

“she’s devoted,” john whispered finally before his voice firmed. “heads up, team, movement 2 o’clock. anyone got eyes on the target?”

—

it was months later when she was brought up again, the team thinking. nothing of it until price’s phone pinged in his pocket enough times to pique johnny’s interest as they prepped to leave.

“that the wife, sir?” he asked.

john huffed, didn’t bother checking his phone as he turned and shook his head. “she’s clingy, but she doesn’t bother me when i’m at work.”

“how’d you know?” gaz asked. “could be an emergency.”

“‘n’ how’d you get her to agree tae tha’?” soap followed up quickly, having had issues with his own flings petering out when he was distant and slow to reply.

“been with her long enough now it’s routine,” john said simply. he checked his weapons before heading for the exit. “helo in 5, be air ready.”

—

the mission had gone to shit, and they were stuck hidden in a building that looked like it was 10 seconds away from collapsing under a brisk wind when ghost finally felt his patience snap.

it was no one’s fault, but being stuck in another country with no back up and a target on their backs for an extra three weeks wasn’t ideal and johnny’s insistence on playing cards at every opportunity to keep his idle hands and mind busy combined with gaz’s tinny whistling had made for the perfect scenario to grate on simon’s patience quicker than anything else ever had.

“tell us about her. ya wife,” simon asked, his gaze slipping across to john, watching him pick at his nails. his cuticles were red and raw from four days of agitated fidgeting since they’d ran out of cigars and cigarettes. every so often simon caught him pat his empty pocket before he’d remember and huff heavily through his nose like a bull.

john closed his eyes at the mention of his wife and sighed. he started his description without protest or hesitance. “shes soft spoken. christ, you’d hardly know she was there half the time, she’s so quiet. but she’s firm. stands her ground no matter what,” he chuckled. “don’t think i’ve ever won an argument against her.”

kyle laughed and ghost closed his own eyes, trying to picture what he thought the captain’s wife might look like. pretty certainly, but was she tall, plump, did she have an endearing gap between her front teeth, did she keep her hair short or long?

“she’s a bit of a homebody,” john admitted bashfully, unaware of simon’s drifting thoughts. “but i can’t say i mind it.”

“not wanting to leave the bedroom much when yer back?” johnny joked, hissing when ghost punched his thigh.

john just smiled placidly, eyes still closed. his eyebrows pulled down as he gushed, “god she’s gorgeous in red. wears it every time i come home.”

“lucky bastard,” gaz huffed.

“yeah.” john nodded and finally opened his eyes. “yeah, lucky.”

“you’ll be back with her soon, cap,” gaz reassured him when he saw price swallow thickly.

“thanks, gaz. now who’s taking first watch tonight? soap?”

—

john was quiet on the plane ride home, not unusually so, but ghost noticed the difference all the same.

he was pensive perhaps, worried what his wife would say when he finally got home a month later than scheduled, uncontactable the entire time. ghost could understand to a certain degree that john would have more important things on his mind than what his three subordinates were going to do as soon as they stepped foot on home soil, so he didn’t push when john ignored the few threads of conversation thrown his way by their younger sergeants. instead he nodded when john said a quick goodbye as they all parted ways in the airport.

simon could only assume john was the same all the way home in the cab that dropped him outside of his little three bed house.

he didn’t see however how john hesitated at the door to his home that evening. how he gripped the front door keys tightly in his fist, shook as he stared down at his feet instead of letting his eyes drift and catch on the windows, and felt as though he could crack a tooth from how hard he was clenching his teeth.

he finally opened the door when he thought the neighbours might begin to get worried and stepped inside, flicking on the lights as he went.

it wasn’t until he got to the kitchen that he found her.

stood bare foot, silent, eyes wide and pleading, blood seeping - always seeping. would it ever stop? would the blood ever end? - through her white pyjama top, his top that she’d borrowed for the night, and trickling down her bare legs.

her mouth opened and she visibly struggled for breath, but no sound escaped even as her tongue wagged on the floor of her mouth, lapping at the backs of her teeth as all words escaped her.

he swallowed back bile.

“hello, sweetheart,” he choked out. “sorry i’m late.”

the blood pooled at her feet, the panties she wore were seeped a dark purple from the viscus liquid dying the dark blue material and the shirt stuck to her front. john had remembered loving seeing her like this in a morning, had always thought she looked best in as little clothing as possible.

“i know you hate it when work keeps me busy, but it was unexpected. we were caught—“ a high screech, not dissimilar to that of a whistle that only a dog could hear, pierced through his ears and cut his words short. he curled in and covered his ears, but he knew it would do no good, he should’ve known better than to talk about work around her.

not after what had happened last time he got back late after overtime.

tears prickle at his eyes and the sound abruptly stopped. he’d never questioned why it seemed to be only him that could hear her protests, why his neighbours never mentioned a shrill cry every so often from his home. he had always said she was made for him and that had apparently translated literally into the afterlife.

he looked up at her again - it was best not to ignore her he found. it only made her angry.

“it won’t happen again,” he promised wetly. “i did my best to get back as soon as i could, i promise, sweetheart—“ he choked on his words, biting back a sob. she watched unblinkingly, silent except for the wet squelch of her feet on the laminate.

they both knew he wasn’t apologising for being late this time. he got like this sometimes, when her agonised face and mangled body was too much to bear after a long mission and the guilt bore down like a physical presence.

he couldn’t help but think if he’d gotten home even just an hour earlier he might’ve been able to save her, to have kept her company instead of leaving her on the floor alone and cold, maybe he could have caught the bastards that had hurt her while he was still travelling back from deployment after agreeing to hang back and finish his paperwork there and then instead of emailing it across.

he reached a shaking hand forward and blew out a ragged breath when his hand met nothing but frigid air. but when he brought his hand up to his face he could smell the copper tang of his dead wife’s blood on his skin. the stench unwashable, cloying, but if he concentrated hard enough it ever so faintly smelt like the vanilla perfume she used to wear.

“was telling the lads about you, love,” he forced an empty chuckle as he walked around her to the kettle and went through their usual routine. “think they might’ve fallen a little in love, not that i could blame them.”

he ran a hand over his face and gave himself a moment to let the tears fall as his palm hid his eyes. her silence was the worst part of it all, but he could see the glaring red of her in his peripheral when he dropped his hand to the counter.

it wasn’t pretending his wife was still alive if she was right there at his shoulder, was it?

“looks like i’ll need to grab you some more pg tips, sweetheart,” he said and poured the boiling water into two cups, sparing a glance over his shoulder at his wife. “we’re almost out.”

post link

[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

[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)

[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 💗

[havenclangen]

83

2/8

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

[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

[nettleclanstale]

Moon 76.

CW: SUICIDE.

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Peter Parkerstar.

[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

[aesthetic-otd]

Today's aesthetic is Artemispunk

[desultory-novice]

I found out that if you layer the True Arena Mix (Phase 2) of OVERLORD on top of itself, you get this sort of tinny Magolor voice.

Perhaps you could use this info for Mechalor?

Ooh, neat! I ought to try that! And I suppose I could use...

...Wait....

In the True Arena Mix...

...Magolor is crying for help....

...

You all do remember how Mechalor was born right?

...

I DID say that Mechalor loves to shock people by casually info dumping his gory death and rebirth in TMI levels of detail but it seems even he has a soft spot for Kirby...?

That or he doesn't want to be caught in a moment of weakness...

(And yes, he did insist everyone start calling him "Mechalor." He'll viciously tease anyone who doesn't! Marx is still his friend :cough: and more :cough: in this universe and calls him "Magolor" anyway. He's the only person Mechalor begrudgingly allows this from.)

[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.