#mist specifically is deep sea

[sentientgolfball]

Water ghouls with bioluminescence? Water ghoul language where they communicate with flashing the bioluminescence so they can speak underwater?

Dew still wanting to share that secret language with Rain and Mist and using his fire to mimic the flashes but he accidentally sets the couch on fire the first time he tries it

[slylycurioustreasure]

The Curse of the Four Souls — Teaser

Summary: Heir to a cursed line of sorcerers, you carry on your shoulders the weight of an ancestral pact: to prevent the destruction of the world, you must unite with four men from clans once enemies of your own kind—a demon, a celestial, an immortal fox, and a human.

But nothing is simple when love, hate, desire, and betrayal intertwine. Torn between your curse and your feelings, protected by some, judged by others, you will have to face the truth about your blood... and what you are willing to sacrifice to survive.

What if it wasn't you, but them... who were trapped from the start?

Genre: Fantasy, Dark Romance, Drama, Action, Reverse Harem, Supernatural, Wuxia

Pairing : Enha hyung Line x reader

word : ??

Author’s Note: Hey! Just a quick heads-up — English isn’t my first language, so there might be a few mistakes here and there. This teaser is a mix of different snippets that don’t follow a specific order. It’s just a little taste of the vibes and characters. Thanks a lot for checking it out!

The wind no longer just blew. It howled, like an ancient spirit awakened in its grave, furious that its sleep had been disturbed. It twisted branches, lifted dead leaves, and tore muffled moans from the mountains that made even the earth shudder. The sky, laden with inky clouds, was ready to tear itself apart. The air vibrated with an electric tension, ready to burst. And you, you advanced in the midst of this world on the brink of chaos, draped in a moon-colored hanfu, the faded lotus embroidery trembling in the onslaught of the storm.

Your steps were slow but sure, almost ceremonious, treading the worn wooden floor of the old suspension bridge over the torrent. The wood creaked beneath your thin soles, but you didn't waver. Your fan, black as the moonless night, was held firmly between your fingers. You could have been a priestess come to seal a forbidden pact, or a ghost haunting the site of a dead love. Everything about you exuded control. Cold anger. And suppressed grief.

But inside, it was a raging sea. A hatred that burned inside you, a pain that even a thousand years could not dissolve. Memories pounded at you: the lies, the betrayals, the contemptuous looks they had dared to give you, them... your husbands. And among them, the cruelest. The most unfathomable.

Then he appeared.

Park Jongseong.

He materialized in your field of vision like a curse spoken in a low voice. First a shadow, then a man. Motionless at the end of the bridge, between the faded red pillars, surrounded by mists and the rain that threatened to fall. His aura wasn't simply dark. It distorted the air around him, swallowing the light as if the night itself had chosen him as its bearer.

The demon king. The master of flames and darkness. The first to look at you as prey. The first to challenge you without ever allowing himself to love you.

He wore a hanfu of black and blue silk, edged with metallic shards, like the reflections of an icy fire. His hair, usually pulled back in a high nobleman's coiffure, was half loose, whipped by the wind. A few wet strands clung to his forehead, framing a face sculpted in hatred and silence. His eyes… ah, his eyes. Two obsidian wells. You had seen them blaze with desire, pride, rage. Tonight, they were cold. And they stared at you as if they saw in you the origin of his damnation.

A shiver ran through you. Not fear. No. But that tension so rare, so dangerous, when two animals recognize each other and know blood will flow.

You stopped about ten paces from him. The wind flapped your hanfu against your legs, your hair flying like black silk threads. And in your eyes, the same sparkle as before, when you had provoked him to the point of breaking his chains.

He was the first to speak. His voice was low, deep, but in the silent space between two gusts of wind, it reached you with the clarity of a slap.

"Witch. Get out of my way."

His tone wasn't a request. It was an order. Sharp as the blade of a celestial saber. But you didn't move. You blinked slowly, then tilted your head, a smile slowly forming on your lips. Not a smile of joy. A smile of war.

“The hellhound barks… but still doesn't dare bite,” you breathed with icy sweetness.

He took a step toward you. His presence became stifling. As if the air itself refused to circulate around him. Your breath slowed. Not out of fear. Out of self-preservation. You knew what he was capable of. You'd seen him kill an immortal with a single strike, set fire to an entire village with a mere glance. But what chilled you most was that he'd never raised a hand to you without being consumed by it. Tonight... you no longer felt that restraint.

"I said 'get out,'" he repeated louder, his voice cracking with suppressed fury.

But you, slowly, moved forward. One step. Two. Until your chests brushed. You stared straight into his eyes, and he didn't lower his. He never had.

You raised a hand, brushed the collar of his hanfu, and gently pulled him towards you. Your lips approached his, but never touched. You breathed in his scent—a mixture of ash, burnt wood, and something older. Something dangerous.

"Or what? Are you going to burn me, little demon?" you whispered, your voice sweet as venom.

You whispered to his ear, your mouth brushing against his icy skin.

"I really should put a leash on you. You're forgetting who you belong to."

He didn't answer.

He grabbed you violently by the throat.

You hadn't seen him move. One second, you were facing him; the next, his fingers were around your neck, almost lifting you off the ground. Your head tilted back, your feet slipped, your fan fell. Your breath left you suddenly, cut clean off.

You felt the burn. The oppression. The instinctive terror of a body no longer breathing. But you didn't move. You were still looking at him. Even then. Even with the tears rising under the pressure, even with your vision beginning to tremble. You smiled. Weakly. But you still smiled.

“You’re playing a game… whose rules you don’t know,” he said finally, his voice barely audible, like a whisper between the shadows. “You’re walking on the edge, and you think I won’t push you over.”

His fingers tightened. You stifled a moan. Your face was turning pale. Your legs were weakening. And yet… no pleas. No screams.

Your tears rolled slowly down your cheeks. But it wasn't fear. It was gratitude. Because finally... he was stopping pretending. Inside you, in your constricted chest, a strange emotion was rising. Something broken. Twisted. Beautiful.

He released you.

But not gently.

He threw you down like a useless burden. Your back hit the ground with a sharp crack. Pain erupted through your spine like a wave. Your body buckled, your breath came back in gasps, each inhalation a blade. You opened your mouth to gasp for air, like a drowning man emerging from the water.

You heard his footsteps. Calm. Cold. He was walking away. Without a glance.

You stay there.

The wood of the floor clung to your skin. Your palms were scraped, bloody. Your hair stuck to your face. And yet, slowly... you straightened up.

You picked up your fan with a trembling hand.

You looked ahead.

And you smile.

For even demon kings eventually fall in love with what they seek to break.

The deckchair you're lying on creaks slightly with every movement of the wind. Before you, the forest stretches as far as the eye can see, bleak and majestic, its trees like silent watchmen standing between life and death. The sky is heavy, a nameless gray, almost suffocating. Dead leaves flutter through the air with the cruel lightness of things long dead. The wind blows persistently, sliding over your bare skin, relieving the stifling heat of the day... and, for a moment, you have the illusion of being at peace.

With your eyelids closed, you feel every detail: the warmth of the wood beneath your back, the fan in your hand that you wave mechanically, the taste of tea still on your tongue, the light sweat that beads in the hollow of your neck. You swing between vigilance and abandonment, suspended between two worlds. But this peace—you already know—is an illusion. Fleeting. Frail. A lie that fate is about to shatter with a single breath.

And this breath has a name.

Park Sunghoon.

You don't move when he arrives. You don't need to open your eyes. You would recognize this aura among a thousand: icy, rigid, oppressive like a chain wrapped around the throat. His energy never announces his arrival. It imposes. It condemns.

The heavenly prince.

The guardian of divine laws, the living embodiment of order. He was sculpted to be perfect, carved from ice and virtue, nourished by prohibitions and traditions. He is righteousness, justice… and the cruelest of judges. He does not forgive. He does not fail. He does not feel.

That's what we want to believe.

But you know. You saw, one day, behind his eyes. You perceived the flaw. That ancient pain, lodged deep in his chest. A loss he carries like an invisible blade planted in his heart. He doesn't cry. He doesn't speak. But he bleeds. And you... you never forget those who bleed.

He says nothing, but his presence is inescapable. You feel the shadow he casts over your body, interrupting the golden sunlight. The wind no longer brushes against you. He stole that too.

You open your eyes. Slowly. As if you were giving him a look, out of pure politeness.

He stands straight, motionless, his slender figure as if sculpted by a celestial craftsman. His white hanfu with gold trim fits perfectly, but his sleeves are slightly wrinkled—a rare thing, a subtle hint of his nervousness. His long black hair is tied high, but a few strands have come loose, plastered to his temples by the wind. His eyes… those eyes so pure, so clear… look at you as if they were judging the entire universe through you.

You smile. Cruelly.

“The icicle of heaven honors me with its presence…” you breathe with lazy irony. “Truly a good day to die.”

You place your fan on the small, rough wooden table beside you and pick up your cup of tea, bringing it to your lips. You drink slowly, silently, as if it were just another detail in the landscape.

But you should have known he wouldn't just watch you.

His voice falls on you like a guillotine:

“Unclean woman… what have you done to the village of Qīnglín?”

No politeness. No preamble. Just the accusation.

You don't have time to answer. His hand hits the table. Your cup flies, spills, the still-warm tea spills onto the dusty floor like spilled blood. You stare at him, and something inside you breaks.

"You're tiring me out, ice block," you mutter through gritted teeth, your gaze hardening. "What's that to you?"

You sniffle softly, swallowing the explosion that threatens to consume you. He dared. He dared to violate your calm, to interrupt your silence, to come and judge you like he always has.

You slowly look up at him, your dark gaze fixed on his, and you fire a poisoned arrow:

“Don’t tell me you’re worried about your lovely girlfriend… or should I say, your ex-girlfriend?”

You laugh. But it's not a light laugh. It's a cruel, broken laugh, deeply painful beneath the surface. You know he can't stand anyone talking about his flaws. Especially not her. And especially not from you.

You see him flinch. Tiny. But real.

He doesn't answer. His jaw clenches. His hand trembles, barely. And you... you feel something twist in your chest. A dull ache. Sharp. You could name it. You could call it jealousy. But no. You won't give him that power over you.

You're not jealous.

You're the one he betrayed before he even told her he loved you.

You're the one he wanted to save... but chose to condemn.

Beneath a sky of ashes and storms, the wind raged, tearing through the air heavy with dust and dire omens. It howled like the agony of a world on fire, carrying with it swirls of dead leaves and scorched sand, striking the barren earth where you stood face to face. Your fingers, clenched on the lacquered wood of your fan, betrayed the inner struggle raging beneath your apparent immobility, while your hanfu, black as the starless night, fluttered around you like a shroud.

Park Sunghoon stood before you, noble and terrible, a dark silhouette cut against this apocalyptic scene. He embodied celestial order, the implacable guardian of divine laws, but his onyx eyes reflected a storm deeper than the one blowing around him: dull anger, unfathomable melancholy, and a torment that consumed him from within. The wind seemed to want to tear him from the ground, but he remained there, unshakeable, like a pillar of ice in the heart of chaos.

His face, sculpted in icy coldness, yet blazed with palpable rage. Without a word, the sword appeared, a sharp light in the tumult, a cruel glare in the growing darkness. The blade in his hand was an extension of his will, cold and implacable, as sharp as the judgment that fell upon you.

With a quick gesture, he pointed the tip of the steel against your neck, the pressure barely perceptible but enough to remind you of the fragility of your position. A cold shiver rose along your skin as the metal caressed your epidermis, leaving a burning mark, a trickle of hot blood that escaped and descended in a reddish trail, pearling in the dull light.

"I will not let a sinner like you bring calamity to this world," he snarled, his voice trembling with suppressed anger, like a storm ready to explode.

You didn't move, frozen in a pose of silent defiance. Your eyes, aflame with cold hatred, met his unblinkingly. With a resolute gesture, you grasped the blade in a firm hand, ignoring the raw burn that spread across your palm, feeling the blood escape in hot drops that beaded on the cold steel before falling heavily to the ground, like a bloody offering to the oppressive silence.

“You claim to want to save this world,” you said, your voice low and trembling with pain and anger, “but you don’t even have the strength to reach out to the one bleeding before you.”

Each word was a punch to the wall of pride he had built around his heart.

“Hypocrite. Coward. You hide behind these heavenly laws, behind this justice that you brandish like a mask, but all you really want is to run away. Run away from this marriage, run away from me, run away from this love that is eating you up inside.”

A bitter laugh escaped your throat, hoarse and heartbreaking. The pain in the pit of your chest assailed you, burning and stabbing, but you refused it. You couldn't afford to give in. Not in front of him.

“Then do it. Kill me. If it will assuage your shame, your disgust, your fear. Kill me, and be free at last.”

You slowly released your grip on the blade, letting your tears, hot and silent, fall onto your pale skin. Your misty eyes didn't see the fleeting tear that crossed Park Sunghoon's face, the shudder of regret and deep pain he tried so hard to hide.

The sword vanished in a whiff, swept away by the storm like a distant echo of his inner struggle. Park Sunghoon clenched his fists, his knuckles white from the force of his struggle with himself.

He was a coward. A coward who, instead of facing his demons, took refuge behind celestial dogmas to flee the only thing that could have saved him: the love you had for him.

Without a word, he turned his back, walking away into the howling wind, leaving you alone in the middle of this desert of pain, carrying on your skin the burn of his rejection, and in your soul the promise of an even crueler fight to come.

Night had fallen over the Black Lotus Pavilion, enveloping the residence in an almost sacred silence, broken only by the steady rustle of lanterns swaying in the breeze. Through the stretched silk walls, the moon cast a pale, almost sickly light onto the dark wooden floors. Incense with bitter notes of sandalwood and musk slithered through the air, tracing lazy wisps between the carved pillars.

You entered your room silently, the fabric of your hanfu sliding over your skin like a second mist. You were about to collapse onto your bed, your thoughts still filled with the bitterness of the day… but your heart skipped a beat.

He was there.

Lying full length on your bed, like a pagan king on his stolen throne, Sim Jake, the ancient fox-spirit with burning golden eyes, was waiting for you.

He'd made himself comfortable, of course. His bare arms rested on either side of his head, his torso partially exposed beneath his half-open garment. His stomach rose slowly in time with a peaceful, almost arrogant breath. His long black hair had spread across your pillow like spilled ink, and at times, he purred softly, a sound both animal and languid.

Your throat tightened. You stood there frozen for a few moments, unable to look away. He was chaos incarnate, lurking there, in this intimate sanctuary you still thought was yours.

You didn't know what bothered you more: his intrusion, or the fact that a part of you... was waiting for him.

Your eyes slid across his face despite yourself—from the perfect arch of his eyebrows to his long, slightly fluttering eyelashes, to his full lips, parted in a sigh. He looked vulnerable like that… but you knew, better than anyone, that beneath that calm facade lurked a predator.

You shook yourself, trying to shake off the creeping unease that was already creeping into you. You turned away from the scene with an annoyed sigh, your steps leading you toward the door, in the delusional hope of escaping the heated atmosphere.

But no sooner had your fingers brushed the handle than a warm, solid, and undeniably masculine hand grabbed yours.

You clenched your jaw, your gaze hard, but your heart—treacherous—raced in your chest. Slowly, almost lazily, you felt his body press against your back. His warmth was unreal, like fire contained beneath a layer of silk. His breath slid against the back of your neck, and his bare chest pressed against you with obscene familiarity.

“A little mouse tries to escape its own lair,” he murmured, his raspy voice filled with lascivious amusement. “I’ve caught my prey. And I won’t let it escape. Ever.”

His arms came around you, powerful, possessive, imprisoning your stomach like two living chains. He embraced you like one would chain a forbidden treasure. Then, he placed a slow, burning kiss at the base of your neck. His tongue barely brushed your skin. You shuddered, despite yourself.

"Let go of me, you cheap demon, or I swear I'll slice off your nine tails one by one and boil them in oil."

You growled under your breath, feigning rage, though your breath was already short. He let out a low laugh, sliding his fingers more firmly against your stomach, gently turning you towards him.

"I would gladly offer you my nine tails, if that were enough to make you sigh... or moan."

His smile was that of a demon certain of his victory.

"Don't pretend to be indifferent, you've been quivering like prey ever since I touched you."

You looked away, stung. He loved seeing you weaken, and he knew it.

"I'm not your prey," you whispered, though even you didn't fully believe it.

He slid a hand along your cheek, tracing an invisible line down to your chin. You felt his claws barely extended, a silent threat beneath the tenderness.

“If you are not my prey… then why do you always come back to me? Why does your heart beat as if it were begging for me to devour it?”

You swallowed hard. Slowly, almost against your will, your hand moved up and rested on his cheek. He closed his eyes, purring like a big cat again. He rubbed his cheek against your palm, almost affectionately.

"I wish I could see you smile like that forever..." he breathed. "But I know I'm the one who'll eventually take it away from you."

At those words, something inside you broke. Your smile faded, frozen. You took a sudden step back, as if his skin had burned you. Your back hit the door with a crash. You gasped for air. An escape. But he didn't move. He was still looking at you, his eyes strangely sad under the carnivorous glow.

"I should go."

Your voice is almost inaudible, lost in the dimness of the room, as fragile as a silk thread about to break. It doesn't sound like you. It's hesitant, trembling, foreign to the woman you usually are—this woman whose tongue is a sword and silence, a punishment.

You don't look back. You refuse. You don't want to see his eyes, nor his mocking smile, nor that feigned tenderness he wields like a soft blade against your skin. Your fingers, cold and uncertain, reach for the doorknob. They tremble. You feel it: it's not fear. It's that even more treacherous thing, the one that gnaws at bones and consumes wills—desire.

But before your palm even touches the wood, the door bursts open. With a simple gesture from Sim Jake.

And you lose your footing. The blast of the opening cuts you down like a sudden gust of wind. You fall backward.

He catches up with you. Obviously. Like always.

Your hands slide against his bare chest, and your body collides with his with a dull, muffled crash, like an interrupted prayer. You feel his warmth, his muscles tensed beneath your skin. And that heart. Damn, that heart. It's beating too fast. Too loudly. Too alive. Like it's screaming a secret it's not allowed to tell.

You don't dare move. He won't let go of you.

His arms encircle you, possessive, burning, anchored to your body as if he were claiming you, as if his soul recognized yours through the layers of fear, provocation, and pretense.

His breath dies against your ear.

“You know…” he whispers, his voice like a thread of sweet venom, dripping with sensuality and delicious cruelty.

“This is your room. I should leave. But maybe… maybe you let me have this privilege. To roll around in your scent. To flood your sheets with me. So that…” He pauses. His breathing slows. “So that you’ll come and do the same, one day, in my room.”

You feel his smile against your skin. It's terrible. Almost tender. His fingers move slowly, lazily, down your spine. Like a caress that goes unheeded, or a lingering goodbye. You shiver. He feels it. He tenses slightly, perhaps surprised that you haven't pushed him away yet.

But you can't. Not yet.

His murmur returns, low, lascivious, grave:

“I'm a fox, you know. I sneak up. I prowl. I soak up. You can chase me a thousand times… I'll always come back.”

You inhale sharply, as if to break the spell. You feel your heart pounding against your chest as if trying to escape this cage made of flesh and shame.

So you snap your fingers.

A dry, imperial gesture.

A black mist curls around him. It bites him, pulls at him, gnaws at him like a silent curse. He slowly disappears, his gaze still fixed on you, and that gleam in his eyes… you refuse to name it.

And then he's gone.

Silence falls like a sentence. The room feels empty. Dead. The warmth of his body has left you, and suddenly the air feels icy. You're falling. Literally. Your legs no longer support you. You collapse to the floor, soundless, your cheek against the cold wood.

You breathe. Once. Twice.

Your breath is ragged, painful, erratic. The adrenaline is gone. All that remains is the truth: you're scared. You're in pain.

And most of all, you hate yourself for how you feel.

Your gaze slides to your pillow. Where he was still asleep a few minutes ago.

And you know that this bed will now seem too big. Too empty.

You press your hand against your heart, as if to stifle the storm there.

But the storm is not him.

It's you.

Lee Heeseung…

That name vibrated in your chest like a cracked bell resonating in the silence of an abandoned temple. Lee Heeseung. Again. Always. Like a damned prayer. A haunting whisper in the shadows of your mind, a painful echo in the flesh, between the frantic beating of your heart and the icy bite of loneliness. He was only human, yes. But not just any human. A former warrior. A former legend. And now, a faded figure behind a closed door.

You'd been standing in front of that door for several minutes, breathless, fingers trembling around the tray where a bowl of ginger rice, his favorite, was still steaming. You'd prepared everything yourself. Pieces of roasted duck, chrysanthemum tea, sesame sweets. As if he'd open the door. As if he'd forgive. As if you could mend a man's heart with a simple meal.

But you knew better.

For days, he hadn't come out. Not a step outside his room. Not a word. Even his footsteps, so recognizable, had stopped creaking on the old floorboards. It was said that he had withdrawn into a silence like that of tombs.

You knock. Once. Twice. Nothing.

So you come in. Because deep down, you're a coward too. And because you're dying from not seeing him anymore.

The room is dark, the air frozen like a crypt. The curtains are drawn, the light barely filters through the cracks, drawing pale lines on the dusty floor. The smell of damp wood, mixed with that of incense burned too long, catches your throat.

And there, in the shadows, you see it.

Lee Heeseung.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, draped in an old winter coat he hasn't even bothered to tie. His long, black hair, once so neat, falls in dull strands, streaked with premature gray. But it's not his hair that takes your breath away. It's his eyes. Red. Swollen. Empty. And yet burning with an ancient fire, the kind you only see in men who have loved too much, lost too much.

He stands up. Slowly. As if every muscle in his body were protesting. As if the world was weighing too heavily on his shoulders.

He stumbles. You take a step towards him.

And he looks up.

"Hee..." your voice is just a sigh, broken, uncertain, like a silk thread ready to give way under the weight of regret.

His hands grip your shoulders. Hard. Too hard. You feel his nails bite into your skin through the fabric. He shakes you. Not like a lover. Like a drowned man gripping the edge of a chasm.

“I opened silences for you…” His voice is hoarse, broken. It sounds like a whisper from the throat of a dead man. “…and you filled them with lies.”

You want to speak, but nothing comes out. He continues, his eyes fixed on yours, but without really seeing you.

“I gave you what I’d never given anyone before. My trust. My story. My flaws. And you burned it all to ashes. You made me believe I could be loved. That I could be more than a rusty sword left in a scabbard.”

He releases you abruptly. Your legs buckle. The tray falls. But with a snap of your fingers, you make it appear on the table. This reflex breaks you a little more. You still try to maintain control, while everything collapses.

“Are you satisfied with what you’ve done to me?” he asks, his voice full of ashes and ruins. “Tell me.”

You collapse. You fall to your knees, your hands gripping the rough fabric of his clothes.

“Hee… I… I never wanted this. Nothing was supposed to happen like this.” Your voice breaks, your words becoming sobs. “I loved you. I still love you. And you deserve a love so pure, so strong, that even the gods would be jealous. But I am a plague. A storm. I damaged you, I defiled you…”

Your nails dig into your own flesh. Your forehead touches the ground. You look like a tortured man.

“You could leave. You could run away. But you stayed. You stayed, even when everything screamed that you should abandon me.”

And in that silence that follows, you know that you have just offered him the only truth you possess.

Heeseung says nothing. He kneels down to your level. His hand reaches out, brushing your cheek. You tremble under his touch. Not because it's cold, but because it's gentle. Too gentle.

“Don’t ruin yourself because of me,” he said finally, in a whisper. “I loved you too. More than my own peace. But maybe that’s the problem.”

And in his eyes, you see the tragedy of two souls who could have loved each other in another world. A world without broken vows. A world without blood on their hands.

He doesn't kiss you.

He doesn't squeeze you.

He gets up. And returns to the shadows.

And you, you stay there. On your knees. Scratched. And alone.

“They loved me as one curses things one cannot possess.”

[pagenne]

PLATONIC Percy Jackson x Older Mermaid Half-Sister

Warnings/Notes: English is not my first language. Characters appearances are based from the books NO HATE TO THE SERIES.

“Don’t go too far,” is what he remembers his mother saying—soft, warm, laced with the kind of care that didn’t need to be loud to echo in his tiny chest.

But she never specifically said how far.

So Percy Jackson, five years old and full of questions he didn't know how to word yet, wandered with purpose only a toddler could have. His legs, short and pudgy, barely made long strides, but they carried him far enough that the cool spray of the ocean mist began to kiss his sun-flushed cheeks.

He trudged forward, unwavering, clutching a paper bag filled with what he considered the world’s finest treasure—blue cookies, the kind only his mom knew how to make just right. He held it with stubborn little hands, the same way he held onto everything he loved: tightly, protectively, like the universe might try to take it from him at any moment.

His green eyes—cheeky, curious, the kind that sparkled mischief and melancholy all at once—roamed over Montauk’s weather-worn horizon.

He took it all in, like a painter committing every stroke to memory.

The sand was a warm, golden-brown that slipped between his toes like silk, comforting and familiar. Above, the sky wore a shroud of grays, clouds clumped together in a quiet hush that whispered of rain yet to come. And before him stretched the sea—vast, deep, unknowable—a shifting field of green and blue that felt like it saw him, knew him, called to him.

The waves came and went, a quiet lullaby of motion. They rolled toward him, then sighed back into themselves, leaving trails of frothy lace and broken shells in their wake. Percy stopped at the place where the ocean kissed the land—a sacred line, delicate and fleeting—and stared.

Something shimmered.

Half-buried in sand was a shell. Broad, pale, like a smile turned on its side. It sparkled with a pearlescent sheen, almost glowing under the gray light. Percy’s eyes widened, his lips parting in a quiet “whoa.”

Still clutching his cookies in one arm like a soldier protecting a sacred relic, he crouched down with the awkward elegance of a child who hasn't quite figured out the mechanics of gravity.

He reached for the shell.

The wave beat him to it.

A teasing rush of water surged forward, swiping the shell from beneath his outstretched fingers and pulling it back into the sea’s embrace like a mother snatching away a secret.

“Oh no!” he cried, his voice small against the wind. He scrambled forward, but his feet betrayed him. He fell back with a soft plop, landing on his bottom with an indignant squish of sand and wetness.

He blinked at the water. Then blinked again. And slowly—almost like a storm cloud creeping in from the edges of his eyes—his lower lip trembled.

He was five. And five-year-olds are allowed to cry. About toys, and cookies, and scraped knees. About seashells that get swept away by saltwater.

But he didn’t want to cry.

Not because it didn’t hurt—but because he was tired of hurting.

Because even at five, Percy Jackson had learned that crying doesn’t always bring someone to pick you up. That sometimes, when you cry, all it does is make your mom sad, and she tries to smile through it anyway.

Because he saw how tired her eyes looked at night, after long shifts and longer subway rides, and how she never let him see her cry, even when he caught her staring at the bills in the kitchen drawer.

Because when he cried once at school—when a teacher yelled at him for a thing he didn’t understand—no one comforted him. They called him a troublemaker. They told his mother he was difficult.

Because sometimes, the world seemed to punish softness.

So no. He didn’t want to cry. Not again.

He sniffled, rubbed his face with the back of his sleeve, and forced a sigh from his tiny chest like a grown man might.

Then he stood up, wobbly and brave, brushing sand from his shorts with a sort of solemn dignity. He turned back toward the lighthouse where his mother waited, probably with a warm blanket and soft hums in her voice.

And then—

Something moved.

Just out of the corner of his eye.

Something shimmered above the water. Not a seagull. Not seaweed. Not driftwood.

Something tall. Something gliding. 

A... a tail?

Percy blinked hard.

Once. Twice.

The sunlight danced off the waves like a thousand sparkling mirrors, and for a moment, he thought maybe—just maybe—he imagined it. Maybe the sea had played a trick on his eyes. He rubbed at them with the back of his hand, smearing cookie crumbs and sugar across his cheek.

But then he saw it again.

A tail.

Long. Big. Beautiful.

It shimmered with soft mint scales that glinted with silver where the sun caught them, rising up like a great, lazy arc above the rolling waves, before slipping back beneath the sea’s surface with a sound like silk being pulled through fingers.

“Woah…” Percy whispered, his little voice barely louder than the breeze.

The curiosity that bubbled inside him was too much to contain. It was a warm and fizzy kind of feeling, like soda pop bubbling behind his ribs, compelling his chubby feet to step closer to the edge of the water. The ocean lapped gently at his ankles now, like it was greeting him—like it knew him.

He stood there, blue cookie bag clutched tightly to his chest, looking out into the endless blue. The tail didn’t appear again. The minutes stretched long and quiet, and Percy’s wonder started to droop like a wilting flower.

He pouted.

But then… something else rose.

First, it looked like seaweed—dark, tangled shapes rising with the tide. But as the water shifted and light caught the shape, Percy realized it wasn’t seaweed at all.

Curls. Floating, spiraling, impossibly long. They bobbed gently on the waves like kelp and midnight, drifting just beneath the surface before slowly lifting higher.

Then—a face.

His heart skipped. His breath caught.

A young girl was surfacing from the depths.

Your head broke the water slowly, deliberately, as if the ocean had been cradling you and was now offering you up to the world. Your eyes—sharp, clear, piercingly sea-green—locked with his the moment your face fully emerged.

Percy stared, mouth slightly agape.

He had never seen anyone like you before.

There was something… off, but not in a bad way. Not scary. Just different. Beautiful. Otherworldly. Your features weren’t like the humans he knew. Your cheekbones sat higher, your lashes longer, your pupils darker and deeper, like little whirlpools of emotion.

But it wasn’t just your looks that made Percy freeze—it was something deeper.

Something inside him stirred.

Like a bell ringing far away in his chest. Familiar. Longing. Like a song he forgot the lyrics to, but somehow still knew the melody of.

“H-Hello,” he stammered, holding his cookie bag like a knight holds a shield. His small voice quivered between awe and politeness.

You didn’t answer at first.

You just tilted your head—watching him.

Like you were seeing more than just a boy. Like you were seeing everything.

And then… you smiled. A slow, knowing smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. Not yet. But it was gentle. Warm. Heartbreaking, if anyone knew what your heart was doing.

He mirrored you, head tilting to the side like a puppy, and your smile grew a little wider. He was cute. So small. So innocent. You had waited so long to see him up close. Six years since he was born—six years of waiting in the currents, watching from afar. And now here he was. With a smudge of cookie on his cheek and the sunlight kissing the brown of his hair.

You moved closer, cutting through the water with the grace only those of the sea could possess. The tide curled around you like it knew your name.

When you came close enough, Percy gasped again.

His gaze had traveled to your arms—faint fins, almost like feathers of light, glowed on your skin. And your smile, once kind and serene, now revealed rows of polished teeth—sharp but not cruel. Not monstrous. Just… natural.

He should have been scared.

But he wasn’t.

You raised your hand, slow and gentle, and opened your palm.

The shell.

Percy gasped, eyes lighting up.

“My shell!” he squealed.

He snatched it from your hand and cradled it like a treasure.

“Thank you!” he beamed up at you, eyes sparkling with the kind of joy only a child could give freely. “Thank you!”

Your fingers curled slightly, resisting the urge to brush his cheek.

You had meant to give it back to him like this. The very shell he dropped in the water just a while ago. 

Not because of the shell.

But because he had touched it. And it was the only thing of him you had.

Until now.

You reached your hand out—trembling just slightly with an emotion too big to name. You wanted so badly to touch his hair. To tuck it behind his ear. To brush away the crumbs.

You were his sister.

His older sister.

But Percy didn’t know that. He couldn’t. Not yet. Not until the time was right. Not until the tides changed.

So you hesitated.

Hovering just above his head, fingers outstretched…

“Percy!”

The sound tore through the wind like a blade.

Percy turned. “Mom!”

Sally Jackson’s voice was clear now, urgent and loving, as she hurried down the stairs of the lighthouse toward the beach. Percy waved his little arm high above his head.

“I’m here!”

In the brief seconds it took him to turn back to you—

You were gone.

[salt-clangen]

Moon 19 pt 2

Leaf fall

A/N: I have one more part for this moon then we are officially done with moon 19!

Trigger warnings: descriptions of violence and mild gore

It was a cool, foggy morning as Snowspeckle led Kelppaw and Ottersplash out with the dawn patrol.

“How did Archstar know about the body?” Kelppaw asked, her voice a mixture of nerves and excitement, finally trusted enough to hear these secrets.

“Someone must’ve said too much at a gathering,” Snowspeckle grumbled, shooting a sharp glance at her apprentice.

“It wasn’t me!” Kelppaw squeaked. “I was too busy talking about my crafting!”

“Could’ve just been a lucky guess,” Ottersplash offered. “We were asking a lot of… specific questions. Besides, Wolfstar said they never actually mentioned a body.”

“They could’ve been talking about Nighthowl.” Kelppaw said. “Which is weird because they shouldn’t know about that either, but still.”

Snowspeckle grunted, relenting a little. “Maybe. I just don’t know what their endgame is.”

They padded down the damp beach, the air heavy with sea mist. The sand clung to their paws.

“Do you think maybe Archstar was supposed to be the founder of SaltClan?” Kelppaw asked hesitantly.

“I don’t know,” Ottersplash said. “OakClan’s whole thing is that StarClan led them to their home.”

“Yeah. Just in time, too,” Snowspeckle muttered. “I was there when they arrived. Silverstar was down to his last lives — paranoid and half-mad. He made Archstar his deputy on his deathbed.”

“Why not his actual deputy?” Kelppaw asked, frowning.

“Because his deputy poisoned him,” Snowspeckle said grimly, leading them to the far border near the half-bridge. “Silverstar realized it only after he’d swallowed the last of the tea.”

Kelppaw shivered.

“So he named Archstar — a complete stranger — as deputy and exiled his old one before he died,” Snowspeckle finished.

“What happened to the old deputy?” Kelppaw pressed.

“He tried to kill Archstar before they even got their nine lives. Had a few supporters, too. Archstar defeated him — was going to let him live, but…” she paused. “A tree fell. Crushed him before he could strike.”

Kelppaw gasped. “That’s crazy!” she shouted, bounding a few paces ahead on the wet sand.

“A sign from StarClan if there ever was one,” Ottersplash murmured.

“Still,” Snowspeckle said, flicking her tail, “I can’t imagine why they’re so interested in us. They’re a strange gib. Stars know what goes on in that head half the time.”

The conversation faded as they reached the half-bridge.

The sky was still a bruised gray, the sun hidden behind thick clouds.

The sea crashed against the shore in slow, heavy sighs.

Marking the border was simple — almost boring — but Kelppaw liked being out with her mentor, and Ottersplash was always good company. She wondered if they might collect shells on the way back.

She opened her mouth to ask—

—and froze.

A flicker of movement — a pale shape shifting through the mist.

“Snowspeckle,” she hissed, nudging the deputy urgently.

The patrol turned as one.

Standing a few fox-lengths away, half-swallowed by the fog, was a gaunt cat — bone-thin and motionless.

“This is SaltClan territory!” Snowspeckle yowled, keyed up from the tense conversations, stepping protectively in front of Kelppaw, her fur bristling.

“State your business — or go!” Ottersplash snapped.

The figure didn’t move.

Didn’t even flinch as they charged toward it.

But before they could reach it —

—it was gone.

Kelppaw skidded to a stop, heart hammering.

Ottersplash spun around, searching the mist with wide, furious eyes.

“We all saw that, right?” Kelppaw squeaked, her voice cracking.

Snowspeckle didn’t answer.

She was staring at the sand where the figure had stood.

A single trail of pawprints, pressed deep into the wet beach, led away — not toward the rocks — but down, down toward the churning sea.

The patrol stood frozen, the mist curling around them like cold fingers.

And the surf whispered against the shore, as if trying to drag something — or someone — home.

Despite what his mates believed, Mallowstripe found his dream-walking ability dull at best, and maddening at worst. He would never speak against a gift from StarClan—not aloud—but sometimes he wondered why it had been given to him. He couldn’t change the dreams, no matter how hard he tried. He couldn’t steer them, couldn’t wake from them, couldn’t stop seeing things he was never meant to see.

His old mentor had once spoken of cats with real gifts—true seers. She had known some, and heard stories of others: cats who could summon visions of the future, who spoke with ghosts, who felt the press of omens before they ever arrived. They followed strange scents and shadows like whispers, and found signs left just for them. Some could travel great distances with only their minds, bridging StarClan and the waking world like it was a stream.

Mallowstripe had asked her how he could train his gift, how to shape it. But nothing ever worked. The ability didn’t respond to effort—only to time. And now that it was stronger, it was simply… heavier.

Lately, he was frustrated. It wasn’t Wolfstar’s fault—stars knew he could never blame her—but her nightmares bled into him. Awake, they prickled beneath his fur. Asleep, they dragged him into darker places than he wanted to go.

Sometimes, he missed the nursery. Nighthowl and Thistle dreamed soft, round dreams, full of warmth and milk and safety. Being near them was like curling into his father’s belly again.

But he had a duty to his mate. He couldn’t let her know how much it affected him. She was already carrying so much. Lynxdawn, at least, understood. She had steeped his skullcap into a thick oil, dulling his senses just enough to keep the worst at bay. It helped.

Tonight, though, he’d forgotten.

The day had blurred by—prepping for the Harvest Moon, tending to the firepit, seeing to the dens. By the time dusk fell, the thought had slipped past him. Now he stood at the den’s entrance, pulse quick and sharp, dread brushing his whiskers.

Wolfstar was already asleep. Her breath was steady—but that meant nothing. Night terrors always came silently at first.

Shadowdive was awake, eyes glowing faintly in the dark, tracking him silently. His quieter mate always waited for him. He hated it when either nest went empty.

Wolfstar didn’t stir. She was perfectly still—too still. Mallowstripe circled carefully, tension clinging to his spine. Something was… off.

Shadowdive exhaled and drifted into sleep. Mallowstripe tried to follow, curling close beside Wolfstar. Her white fur was cold beneath his nose, though her chest still rose and fell.

He closed his eyes.

The drop into dreams was always the same. He never noticed the moment it began. One breath, and he was somewhere else.

The air buzzed like flies in his ears. Everything looked too tall, too far. The world had no sky—just an endless black ceiling veined with red light, like the inside of a rotting eye.

The moon was full, a thick orange gold, like an unblinking pupil.

Two cats stood before him: Wolfstar and Jaggedstar. He knew them, despite their shapes being… wrong.

Jaggedstar’s dark pelt was gone. She was rail-thin, a golden tortoiseshell now, her eyes sunken and wet, her ribs a cage of trembling bones. Her voice came twisted, like stone dragged across bark.

Wolfstar was huge—larger than life. Her sleek pelt had shifted to a brown tabby, Her scent was thick and wrong, sour like a tom’s. Her voice came from too many mouths—it cracked like thunder. “You left!”

She struck Jaggedstar hard across the face. Blood spattered her claws. Jaggedstar collapsed, bones clattering like sticks beneath her skin.

“I tried,” she sobbed, reaching with twisted, gnarled paws. “I tried to come home. I never stopped trying. After everything—”

“You did this!” Wolfstar screamed, dodging her mother’s grasp like it was venomous. “You left me!”

Another blow, landing on the downed molly’s ribs, a wet crunch.

“You did this!”

Crunch.

“I was here!”

Crunch.

“I led the clan!”

Crunch.

“I was there when Dad died!”

Crunch.

“I buried him!”

Crunch

“You left me!”

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

Jaggedstar’s collapsed in a heap, a ruin of fur and twitching limbs. Wolfstar sobbed once—then ran, vanishing into the dark like mist.

Mallowstripe couldn’t move. He wanted to scream. His body didn’t belong to him.

Then the corpse sat up.

It wasn’t Jaggedstar anymore.

The golden pelt was still there, but wrong. Warped. The eyes—red and green—locked onto him. He knew them.

He couldn’t flinch. Not even in dreams.

The fur of its face peeled away slowly, drooping like wet leaves. The flesh slid off next, hissing as it hit the blood-soaked ground. What remained was a skull—bleached and grinning.

Its eye sockets burned like coals.

“You still don’t know my name,” it whispered. The voice came from everywhere—inside his head, inside his ribs, scraping at the soft places behind his eyes. “They buried me. And buried me. And still I speak.”

He tried to breathe. He couldn’t.

“I was clanless. Kitless. Clawless. Even in death, they leave me no peace.”

The shadows around them twisted. Trees bled bark. Stones sank into mud made of fur and bone.

“I will not stay buried.”

Its teeth chattered.

“I will get what I deserve.”

The skull opened its mouth wide—too wide. A scream poured out. Or maybe laughter. The sound made his ears bleed.

Then—he woke.

The sun sat low and swollen in the sky, casting a warm gold over the clearing, but it did little to calm Wolfstar’s nerves. It was too warm for a leaffall morning. Too bright. Every scent prickled the inside of her nose. She’d been on edge since the dream. Since the patrol. Since Jaggedstar and Archstar had begun watching her like she was prey in a trap.

She didn’t flinch when Jaggedstar brushed against her shoulder in the leader’s circle. She didn’t growl when Archstar murmured a dry comment about the her clan’s contributions. But she noticed. They were too close. Too casual. Watching her from both sides.

Were they working together? Or did they sense the Saltclan leader was up to something. It seemed too coordinated, but she couldn’t imagine Jaggedstar cooperating with Archstar in any scenario.

Still, they set her on edge.

The leaders sat in a loose circle beneath the shadow of the great stone. A small bonfire burned gently beside them, smoke twisting lazily into the air. The talk was meandering now—weather patterns, prey cycles, who was fostering whose kits during the cooler season. Nothing dire. Nothing real. Nothing she cared about.

She contributed little, only congratulating Rookstar on his latest litter doing so well. His light voice droned on about his mate and kits until Jaggedstar brought them back to land management.

They stayed like that for most of the afternoon, suspended in dull conversation.

Wolfstar yawned, deliberately. Stretched one foreleg, then the other, and shifted to the edge of the circle, resting her chin on her paws to feign disinterest. Archstar’s eyes followed her. Jaggedstar stopped mid-sentence, ears twitching. Wolfstar ignored them both.

Her gaze scanned the clearing beyond.

SaltClan was everywhere.

Just as they were supposed to be.

Each of her clanmates had been briefed with exacting detail. Find out the names of former male leaders. Prioritize the brown tabbies. Note any fathers who died young. Don’t act suspicious. Don’t cluster. Spread out like wind-blown sand.

A casual conversation was never casual.

Ottersplash lounged near the Oakclan medicine cats, tail tip flicking as he nodded along to something Redmoon was signing. Nearby, Sandpaw tilted her head while speaking to Snailmolt, Honeyclan’s aging historian.

She spotted Kelppaw and Snowspeckle in the far corner, moving toward Rosedrift of Honeyclan. Their posture was relaxed, easy—tails up, ears tilted in false playfulness. Kelppaw glanced around, saw her watching, and flicked her ear once.

Lynxdawn stood beside Junipersong, eyes soft but searching as she leaned closer to the dark grey Molly. Dropletpaw clung to her flank, silent as ever. The little apprentice too fearful to question anyone, instead she listened.

Near the gambling stones, Coralpaw darted between warriors like a squirrel, her eyes light and curious. Wolfstar watched her pause beside Haretrail—one of OakClan’s more respected historians, half-deaf but sharp-eyed. Rippleclaw stood beside him, signing something slowly with his paws.

Then Coralpaw turned. Skipped across the clearing to where Mallowstripe sat near the oven fires. She bowed low, playfully, likely asking for a treat. Her tail gave a slight wag.

The signal.

She had found something.

Wolfstar’s pulse kicked up. Her claws flexed against the dirt beneath her paw. She waited, lazily yawning again as Coralpaw finished speaking with the keeper.

This was the third cat to approach her mate, to avoid suspicion by speaking to Wolfstar with the enemy leaders so close.

She’d sounded half-mad when she presented the plan to SaltClan. A clan-wide investigation based on a dream? Her dream? Her mate’s haunting? But they had listened. They trusted her. And now they were doing what no other clan would dare: treating the past like a battlefield.

Something had happened to Lostclaw, likely something no cat alive knows anything about. The brown tabby in her dream, the one she’d spoken through, was a clue, the only one they had. Saltclan was frenzied before the gathering, now they’d locked in, like following the scent of blood.

She stood slowly, stretched again, muttering something about checking on Mallowstripe. Neither Jaggedstar nor Archstar stopped her. But they were watching.

She padded toward the cooking fires, each pawstep slow and even. From behind, she must’ve looked every bit the doting mate come to share tongues with her nervous mate.

Mallowstripe met her eyes as she drew near. He didn’t speak, just twitched an ear in a question.

“What do we know?” she asked softly, her back to the leaders.

He leaned in, brushing her cheek with his tail as if nuzzling her.

“Coralpaw learned that out of the thirty-some past leaders, ten were toms,” he murmured. “She has the DuskClan ones: Longstar, Adderstar, Sharpstar, Thistlestar. In that order.”

Wolfstar’s whiskers twitched.

“Kelppaw’s learned something from Honeyclan.,” he added. “Poppystar and Ashstar are the only toms to lead them.”

“Any descriptions?” She asked, licking his shoulder, trying to keep her hackles down.

“She’s checking now,” He chuckled, it was low and authentic. “She got a bit excited. I think she expects to be a spy after this.”

Wolfstar felt a spark of joy flare up in her chest, but it couldn’t reach her face.

“I’ll check back soon.” She murmured, stepping back to let him return to his cooking.

Mallowstripe purred and blinked to her, gripping the spoon tightly in his jaws to stir the large cauldron of stew.

She moved slowly. Kept her gait smooth. Let herself be pulled into a short, dull conversation with HoneyClan’s deputy. Then sat again with the leaders. Waited.

The circle, while still formed, had grown since she’d left. Ashenstep was standing in front of the semi-circle of cats, waiting as more joined. Wolfstar sat across from Jaggedstar and her new apprentice, Dogpaw. It had been…interesting, meeting the white molly for the first time, even now it still made her throat itch.

Pushing it down she gave her sibling a tight nod, they hobbled slightly to greet her. They touched noses and she sat down. A few of her clan mates joined the audience as the sun began to set.

Ashenstep told the story of The Hollow Tree.

Later, Ottersplash strolled over, pretending to share tongues with her. As he leaned in, between licks, he whispered, “Ashstar of HoneyClan was a light brown tabby. His father died just after he took leadership — poisoning from twoleg traps. Big event. Whole clan was sick.”

Wolfstar’s chest tightened. She thanked him with a quiet nod, then let him return to his task. Ashenstep began another story, the Clay Dog, one of her favorites.

She let the gib’s gravelly voice wash over her with familiarity, relaxing just the slightest as they spoke.

After the story Shadowdive approached from near the deputies’ rock, his expression soft, but focused. He took his time greeting and nuzzling her, the day apart made him needy.

“Oakstar,” he said quietly in her ear. “The founder. Large, brown tabby. Lost both parents early.”

Wolfstar felt her pulse pick up as she stared at him. “You’re sure?”

He nodded. “Tanglefur was confident. Oakstar’s grief was famously one of the reasons he formed the clan.”

Dropletpaw slipped in next to him. “Longstar of DuskClan—dark grey tabby. His father died when he was young, too.”

Wolfstar purred with pride, she hadn’t expected the shy apprentice to investigate with the others. She leaned in and gave her head a few licks, Dropletpaw flushed at the attention.

“One of the oakclan cats asked why me and Kelppaw were asking around.” She admitted, quickly following up with. “I told them we were trying to find stories to make into skits for the new leaf festival.”

Wolfstar pulled the small molly closer and rubbed their cheeks together with bold fondness. “That’s my clever molly.”

Shadowdive’s rumbling chuckle brought her back to the present. She let the apprentice settle in more as another story began- the oak and the bramble.

Ottersplash nearly scared her when he placed a paw on her flank to catch her eye. She turned and let him speak into her ear again.

“Rippleclaw said that Poppystar was known to be unstable towards the end of his life. He started a lot of territory fights with Oakclan, but he was originally from Duskclan. Both his parents outlived him.”

The voices around her faded away, each new bit of info gleaned took her forward and backwards. It was here, she could feel it, looking around she saw everyone’s focus was on the story.

There was something in the past. Some rot beneath the roots. Something wrong with the clan’s blood.

Her fur felt too hot, she twitched in place, jolting her apprentice. Slowly, she crept back, Shadowdive easily slipped to occupy her spot.

Wolfstar looked up at the moon, huge and golden above the trees. The same shape as it had been in her dream.

The same moon that had seen what came before.

Her heart pounded against her ribs like it wanted out.

She couldn’t wait anymore.

She had to go to the Moon Spring.

Not at dawn. Not tomorrow. Now.

She took one last look around the clearing, then turned back to her mate.

“I need you to cover for me,” she whispered. “I’ll be back before moon high.”

Shadowdive nodded curtly, ears forward as she slunk away into the dark.

Cat Allegiances:

Wolfstar- 25 moons. Leader. Responsible. Compassionate. Natural intuition. Apprentice- Dropletpaw.

Lynxdawn- 20 moons. Lead Cleric. Thoughtful. Faithful. Good teacher.

Snowspeckle- 36 moons. Deputy. Artisan. Loving. Thoughtful. Good singer. Apprentice- Kelppaw

Nighthowl- 76 moons. Warrior. Insecure. Lonesome. Watches humans. Condition: pregnant & Torn pelt.

Nightleap- 40 moons. Warrior. Insecure. Sneaky. Incredible runner. Apprentice- Coralpaw.

Thistle-30 moons. Warrior. Troublesome. Thoughtful. Keen eye. Condition: Broken back & recovering from birth.

Mallowstripe- 26 moons. Camp keeper. Nervous. Careful. Strange dreamer.

Shadowdive- 24 moons. Warrior. Blood thirsty. Loyal. Good swimmer. Apprentice-Sandpaw.

Rippleclaw- 12 moons. Warrior apprentice. Troublesome. Adventurous. Fast runner. Permanent condition: Partial Hearing Loss.

Ottersplash- 12 moons. Warrior apprentice. Insecure→Competitive. Childish. Good swimmer.

Dropletpaw- 7 moons. Historian apprentice. Skittish→Nervous. Shy→Lonesome. Interested in clan history. Mentor-Wolfstar

Kelppaw- 7 moons. Artisan apprentice. Charming→Charismatic. Quiet→Responsible. Plays in mud. Mentor-Snowspeckle

Coralpaw- 7 moons. Mediator apprentice. Noisy→Flamboyant. Bossy→Confident. Never sits still. Mentor-Nightleap

Sandpaw- 7 moons. Warrior apprentice. Impulsive→Fierce. Noisy→Confident. Moss ball hunter. Mentor- Shadowdive.

Briarkit- 1 moons. Inquisitive. Shy. Picky nest builder.

Prev

Next

Moon 0

[the-kr8tor]

In Deep Water

Pairing: Pirate! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 8.7k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader, CW vomit mention, CW Inaccurate medical procedures, CW injury, TW blood, CW violence, TW death, CW guns.

Between the Devil and the Sea Masterlist

Navigation

CHAPTER 7 >>> CHAPTER 8

The laughter gets louder as the source of it shows itself aboard the black hellion, the fog makes way like a curtain opening to start a performance.

Hobie's grip is tight, fingers weaved around your arm, bruisingly strong. Your nails dig into his flesh as the uniformed man tilts his head to look at you, his toothy yellowing grin thrown in your direction. His powdered white wig flutters in the breeze, medals glinting off the single lamp on the bow, hands resting on the pommel of his pristine sword. The angelic figure head is a stark contrast to the devil sneering down.

The blackened wood of his ship groans as it continues to break a part of the revenge. The sails unfurled behind him, blue wings fluttering in the wind.

The angel of death has come.

“Look at what we have here.” He clicks his tongue, eyes boring a hole through your skulls, he narrows them into slits, and like a snake, he slithers as close as he can, tethering close to the edge. There's a flash of emotion in his eyes, snarling, the navy man chuckles, the mere sound makes you want to cower. “Hello little birdy, now how far did you fly to get where you are now?”

Hobie clenches his jaw, stepping over to hide you from his view. His hand never leaves yours, the dull ache from his hold says that this isn't just a nightmare.

You want to wake up even if it means losing his hold on you.

“Oh where are my manners? Mummy would whip me if she ever knew I didn't introduce myself to a lady.”

Hobie shifts his weight, ready to pounce if need be. You grab his shirt, making sure he doesn't do anything drastic. Subtly flicking your eyes to the side, you see the crew do the same. They look at you with fear in their eyes, the hunter’s gazes illuminating their contorted faces.

You can't help but let out a shuddering breath, the sound echoing around the open waters, hoping to get your cry for help to somebody who can do something, anything to get you and everyone out to safety.

“My name's Captain Mathias Bradshaw.” He drawls, thin lips curling into a smirk. “This here is my little merry band of sailors who has a bone to pick with—” pointing at Hobie with his thick finger, white cosmetic smeared on his palms. “Him. The red hydra. I forgot to greet you yet, long time no see you rapscallion.”

You hear Hobie's shallow breathing. Grey eyes thundering, a storm brewing, lightning flowing through his veins. The only reason why he doesn't let himself loose on Mathias is your touch.

“You see here, sweetheart,” The man addresses you and you only. “For the past three years your so-called captain and I have had a bit of a tiff.” He chuckles coldly. “A rivalry of sorts.” He pauses, looking over his shoulder. “Is it still a rivalry if you're leagues above your rival?”

“No, sir.” A gruff voice says, hidden behind the mist.

Mathias turns back around. “Well, we got our answer then.”

Hobie sneakily murmurs to you. “Hide—”

“I'm not done talking!” The sudden outburst makes you jump in your skin.

“You should've been done with your senseless dialogue a long time ago.” Hobie straightens his posture, head held high, a picture of a pirate captain. “Come down here and fight like a fuckin' man, show me your flames and I'll show mine.”

The man scoffs, amusement in his green eyes. “Flames? Yours is barely a spark.”

Hobie scoffs. “Let's be done with it then. Get the closure we both want, fight me in single combat.” Mathias knits his brows, Hobie smirks. “No? Thought you were a gentleman, where's your fuckin' honour?”

A booming laugh replaces Mathias’ scowl. “I guess it died with your little red hair—”

Hobie lets go of you, drawing his gun, pointing it directly at the monster's head. The crew takes this as their cue, doing the same, pointing their weapons towards the men surrounding them.

There's hunger in his eyes, beneath the swirling grey there's a hunger waiting to be fed.

The enemy ships don't even aim their cannons at the revenge, instead they float still in the water, unmoving, the men aboard their ships smirk in your direction like you're being served to them on a silver platter. It's then you notice the sons of the sea’s ship is no more. They took the brunt of the hellion’s collision.

No longer their sails fly, their crow's nest and pieces of wood lay floating in dark waters.

Left behind, slowly drowning in the depths.

You feel droplets sliding on your cheeks, for a second you thought it's your tears. And then more and more of it comes pouring down, splashing on the wooden floorboards.

Thunder booms from a distance, lightning flashes in the sky, lighting everyone's scornful faces.

A few of Karl's men stand with Hobie, clutching their injuries. You don't see Robbie, his lack of presence makes you glare at the sneering men.

“Say her fuckin’ name.” Hobie says through gritted teeth. “After what you did— Say her name.”

“Eh.” Mathias shrugs, “I forgot.” the laughter of his men echoes in the mist.

“You fucker—!” Hobie's hand shakes despite this, he draws the golden gun, aiming it at the navy man whose smirk gets wider.

“I recognize that little blunderbuss.” He chuckles, wiggling his pointing finger, “She pointed that at my head too, you'll be unsuccessful just like she was.”

It takes every fiber inside Hobie to not just shoot and face the consequences later. But he's surrounded, his crew is surrounded, they have no chance of escaping death if he shoots. The only option he has is through single combat and to appeal to the man's ego. He's hoping the idea works.

One look over his shoulder, one glance at your trembling face and he's back to that day, the day MJ was lost. He prays that this day doesn't end the same way three years ago.

“Little dove,” Mathias’ devilish eyes roam over your trembling body. “Look at you,” he chuckles lowly, “I'd say dear ol' Hobie here got an upgrade just because this one's got her head still glued on her neck!”

Hobie almost shoots him until someone from his crew screams, their voice full of malice, venom dripping with every utterance.

“Fuck you!” Gwen exclaims, “Don't you have any honour? She's dead and you're still spitting on her watery grave! After everything you've put her through!”

“Ah! Gwen Stacy, the ballerina turned pirate. How you doin', miss Stacy? I heard your father's still down in the stables, trying to repay his debt to the crown.” he rags her on, scoffing.

“You're still defending her? She's a traitor, a navy spy. The greatest one we've ever had in fact. Her only downfall is loving a bunch of…” he sucks in his teeth, trying to find the word. “Thieves like you. Love got her head cut off and love will be your ruin too.” Flicking his eyes to you, he observes everyone's faces after his tirade.

Hobie steps between Gwen and Mathias, his guns still raised, eyes brimming with the anger of a forsaken God. Yet he remains calm, clearing his throat, standing tall.

“Mathias Bradshaw, I challenge you to single combat, a duel. I win, you let us go. You win and you get to take us all back to the capital.” Hobie's voice booms louder than the thunder above. Lightning strikes near, the water sizzles at the contact. “I know a man of your stature can't say no.”

The man in the uniform guffaws loudly, broad shoulders shaking. “Oh that's hilarious, you think you'd win against me, little pirate? Hmm?”

“Yes.” Hobie doesn't miss a beat.

Mathias smiles, “I guess this one's less messy than what I was planning. Name your terms.”

“Guns only, five bullets. You get shot three times you lose.”

“I'll add a tiny thing to your wager.” The navy man looks over to your direction, pointing his crooked finger at you. “Same terms but I get to keep your little bird.”

Hobie turns to you, wide eyes staring back at you. “No—” He's already shaking his head before you speak up.

“Deal!” You roar above the thunder storm, deciding your own fate. The rain is getting heavier, drenching your terrified self. “The captain will take your terms as long as you honour it.” Nodding to Hobie, he holsters his weapon away from you.

Mathias cackles in the background.

Gently holding on to your arm, you already know what he'll say.

“Don't. Do you know what you just agreed to?”

“I do,” you stare at his raging eyes but they're tender when he looks at you. “I know you can take him, I trust you.” Taking his hand away from your arm, you squeeze him once before pulling him towards you. “Don't play fair, because he won't.” you whisper. “Fucking obliterate him, for MJ.”

Hobie takes you in like it's the last thing he'll ever do. He imprints your touch in his mind, wanting to remember the softness of it when the bullets get too much for him to bear.

He nods slowly, still unsure of your decision. If you trust him enough to sell your soul then he'll fight to the death so you don't have to.

With one last look at you, he turns around, facing up to the man he loathes the most, wanting to just strangle him with his bare hands. Maybe he'll do just that.

For the crew.

Mathias takes his blue coat off, grinning the entire time.

For MJ.

He grabs on to a rope, rappelling off the black hellion, landing in a thunderous impact on the deck.

For you.

Now that he's leveled with your gaze, he's a lot smaller down on the deck, stout with a round belly, face painted with white lead that's currently melting in the downpour. Hobie's taller and slimmer but he makes up for it in his agility and speed. You've seen him fight but Mathias' form could be compared to Finn's build, all muscle and strength hidden behind his uniform.

You're glad this was a duel of pistols if it was any other fight Hobie could be in trouble.

A few of his men do the same, jumping off the hellion while the ones on the smaller ships stay on board but keeping their eyes peeled.

Surrounding the bloodsail pirates, the hands of Mathias' men never leave the pommels of their rapiers. Hobie clenches his jaw, now standing before the king's flame, he can't help but gaze behind the man, back to you and his crew.

Gwen goes to your side, lacing her trembling fingers through yours, Pav sidles behind you, clutching the back of your vest. Miles stands next to Gwen, holding her other hand. You see them look at eachother with a knowing glance and glimmering eyes.

Your eyes meet Hobie's, you give him a nod, eyes full of fury, and trembling lips. You mouth a ‘Bleed him dry’.

The simple act of Hobie smiling at you, makes you tear up. It's the same one he gives you after you patch him up, it's the same one when he handed you the hot chocolate. It's the same smile that makes your heart flutter in your chest.

You're afraid as you part with the crowd to the side of the duelists, lest you get caught in the crossfire. As the one in front, you get a good look at the enemy on the other side, all lined up perfectly like the obedient soldier men that they are. You roam your eyes to their faces, wondering how they could obey a man like Mathias.

You assume the uniformed man walking towards the duelists is Mathias' right hand man. Left eye covered in an eye patch, his hazel eyes observe you. He's carrying a large wooden box, pristine and smooth at the edges with golden locks and embellishments. He opens it with a creak, rain water landing on the wood and soaking the velvet inside.

“You're the challenger, you get the first pick.” Mathias gestures towards Hobie, all smiles like he's not about to meet the end of a bullet.

You stand on your tippy toes to take a peek inside. There are two dueling pistols, flintlocks. One white as fresh snow, one is black like the hellion.

Hobie takes his pick, pocketing what you assume is the five bullets. The black gun in his hand shines when a lightning strikes the mast of the hellion. You hear splintering wood in the distance.

He steps back in place, measuring the metal’s weight in his hand.

“Good choice.” Mathias eyes down the gun. “Death has touched that one.”

Hobie glares, baring his teeth. If only that was enough to kill the man before him.

Mathias takes the remaining gun, wiggling it in his hand. “You ready, little pirate?”

Hobie doesn't show an ounce of fear. “You're going to die today.”

“How confident, confidence alone won't help you aim straight.”

Your entire body shakes whilst they stand back to back, guns raised on their sides. They walk slowly, counting their steps.

The pouring rain doesn't help, raindrops obscuring your vision, the cold mixing in with the ice in your veins.

With every step Hobie takes,

Five

with every hit of his boots on the floorboards,

Four

your heart tries to escape,

Three

pulse hammering,

Two

threatening to give out. Afraid of what's to come. No one else dares to make a sound.

One

Standing end to end on the dock, they turn around swiftly.

After a beat, the man with the box yells. “Fire!”

Bang!

The sound echoes out in the dark, above all the rain and thunder.

Hobie hits his mark, Mathias groans, clutching his dominant shoulder. Smoke bellows out of their guns, dissolving into the rain.

Your words are repeating in Hobie's head ‘Don't play fair’ you say, then he won't play fair.

He notices his bleeding arm, looking down he sees the bullet nicked his skin, leaving an angry gash in its wake. The wood behind him gets the brunt of the bullet, the metal embedding inside, splintering a gaping hole.

You jump when Mathias laughs along the thunder. More and more lightning pierces the sky. You can taste iron in your mouth, not realizing the pain from biting the inside of your cheeks.

They reload, Mathias’ man observing with his watchful eye, making sure they both adhere to the rules; but you highly doubt he's doing it for fairness sake.

Metallic clanking, gunpowder clinking against steel, Mathias' voice enters the fray to your dismay.

“You know, you were too easy to fool.” He starts, finishing up his reload. “You never asked why I left my lieutenant in your hands and why was it so damn easy for you to get my travel documents.” Smiling, the lead on his face melts further, dripping on the floorboards, the white paint mixing in with his blood. “Just like I said, love will be your downfall.”

Hobie doesn't have enough time to squabble, instead he would let his aim talk for him.

“Twenty paces!” The eye patch man yells again.

Hobie and Mathias move forwards, getting closer and closer to each other. You want to put a stop to the duel, but you have to trust Hobie that he'll make it, that he'll win. He has to.

You dare not blink.

“Fire!”

Bang!

Hobie almost keels over, his shoulder heavily bleeds, trembling hand holding his flesh together. You see him smile underneath the pain, following his gaze, Mathias clutches his shooting hand, groaning and hissing. It looks like Hobie shot a hole right in the man's hand. The white gun lays on the bloodied floor, discarded.

Gwen's hold on you tightens, you can hear Pavitr sob quietly.

You catch Hobie's eyes. There's hope in the swirling grey, nodding, you encourage him, mouthing an ‘end it’. He seems to understand, straightening his stance, he reloads the gun as best as he can with an injured shoulder.

Mathias wheezes out a strained laugh. “I gotta hand it to you, your aim is pretty good.” He stands, grabbing his gun on the way up with his uninjured hand. “No matter how amazing your aim is, you're still bloody blind!” He screams, spit flying out of his mouth.

“My two bullets that's in you say otherwise.” Hobie tilts his head mockingly.

“No, no, no.” Mathias clicks his tongue, waving the gun wildly. “You still don't get it do you? You're not asking questions, letting everything fall into your lap, thinking God's on your side on your little revenge quest. But he's not,” he chuckles. “Sacrificing my lieutenant was the best decision I've ever made, especially knowing the fucker can absolutely sing. Loose lips sink ships, little pirate. Do remember that. Especially since you didn't seem to learn from it last time.”

Hobie's face falls, dread filling his chest.

“Bribing the governor to plant my travel documents and telling him to go unwind in a brothel for a couple of days was well worth my coin.” Mathias stretches his shoulder, reloading his pistol with bloodied hands.

He continues. “The two idiots at the gates were…well idiots, I barely had to do anything to them. The lock was a false security to make you sweat a little bit.” The king's flame proves himself. “You're blind. You've focused so much on taking me down that you didn't notice the little details. It's either that or you're also deaf, preferring not to hear your crew's concerns.”

“Not a very good attribute for a supposed captain.” he shrugs, he says his words mockingly.

“Fuck you!” Hobie aims directly at his rival's head.

It's all his fault, everything that led up to this point is his fault.

The gun trembles in his hold. Mathias looks pleased, smiling at Hobie.

“You know the rules.” Mathias sucks in his teeth. “Don't fire until lieutenant Dubois says so or I win and I get your little bird.” he looks over at you. “Oh we're gonna have so much fun together, every night, every day.” His laughter makes you want to grab the nearest knife and shove it down his throat.

You don't back down from his disgusting gaze. “If he doesn't kill you, I will.” Pavitr tries to hold you back. “And it won't be quick.” your voice shakes from sheer anger.

“I look forward to it, duchess.” Mathias spares you one last glance.

You don't notice how Hobie looks angrier than he did, he's clearly holding back. His glare alone could burn a hole through Mathias' skull. Yet he stands tall, getting a second wind; he's gonna shoot a hole in his skull instead.

His head goes a hundred knots per hour, thinking of all the what ifs. What if he just listened, what if he didn't let her stay, what if, what if, what if, the words are tattooed in his mind, clawing and biting at his psyche.

“Ten paces!”

They walk in sync, closer to each other more than ever. Pausing in place, they stare each other down, Mathias' smile never leaving his lips. Hobie's scowl gets deeper with every second that passes.

“Fire—!”

“Fuck this.” Mathias lunges in surprise, grappling Hobie.

Hobie doesn't get a chance to dodge, his gun clattering on the floor as the heavier man tackles him to the ground. The wet floors make it hard for Hobie to find leverage against Mathias who's currently choking him with his large arm.

Chaos ensues, everyone breaks the line, unsheathing their weapons, fighting, steel and skin clashing. Pistols going off left and right, but your main focus is on the two men writhing on the floor.

You hear Hobie choke so you run faster, taking a fallen dagger from a corpse, you quickly dodge people, determined to save Hobie.

“This is what happens when you let your feelings decide for you!” Mathias yells above the mayhem.

Finally making it close to them, in one swift movement, you stab Mathias on his back, crimson ebbs on his white shirt like spiderwebs. He screams, letting go of Hobie.

You don't spare him a glance as you take Hobie by his arm, dragging him below deck. Shutting the doors closed, Mathias bids you farewell with one last cackling.

Guiding him through the corridors, you hope the winding hallways help make it harder for the enemies to find you.

“Y/N.” He wheezes out.

“Don't fucking talk.” Your feet brings you to the galley. Sitting him down, he plops like a fish on the chair, head lolling to the side.

Slapping his cheek, he wakes back up with a groan. “Actually, keep talking. Stay awake, please.”

Hobie nods, “I need to go back up, I can't leave them there.” He tries to stand but your hands stop him, making him sit back down.

“You can't help in this state. Let me treat you then you can go and help.” You look in his pained eyes. “Please, at least let me help with your shoulder.” your other hand fumbles to his back, searching for an exit wound. You already know the answer when you feel the hot crimson weeping out from the puncture left behind.

You plead with your eyes.

“Alright, do what you have to do. Make it quick.” he nods, you leave his side to light a fire in the hearth, laying a metal poker on top of the hot coals. “Can I tell you a story?”

“Whatever keeps you awake.” Taking out the first aid kit from your bag, you notice your hands tremble. They never shake when you're treating someone, with your back turned away from him, you swallow down a sob.

“There was this girl, she had red hair like one of those…” he sighs, injuries aching, throat throbbing. “Apples.”

You reach his side once again, trembling fingers dipping into the wound ointment. “You have a way with words.”

He grabs your shaking hands in his, “Are you alright?”

You pause in your frantic movements, blinking rapidly. “Y-you’re the one who's bleeding right now.”

“You're shaking.”

You twist your wrists away from his touch. “I'm alright, worry about yourself and your crew.”

“You're a part of my crew”

“Shut– just…” you exhale. “Continue your story.”

Hobie nods, eyes drooping. “She just one day showed up on the docks, asking for a place.” He inhales sharply. “I needed to fill the second ship so I agreed, I let her in. I shouldn't have done it.” His eyes well up but no tears fall. “I should've turned her away but she was determined, she had the skills to stay— can you give me somethin’ for the pain? A fuckin' rum or wine, anythin’”

“No alcohol, if you want to bleed out be my guest.” You hold a cloth above his wound, pressing down to stop the bleeding as much as you can.

“Fucker!” He stomps his foot, “you can be such a little shit sometimes you know?”

You can hear the struggle upstairs. Weirdly enough, there's no sound of cannons firing.

“I know—” the ship tilts suddenly, flinging you and Hobie brutally to the side. You do your best to shield his injured self, taking the brunt of the impact, back stinging from the wall.

He lands on top of you, arms on your side, face hidden on the crook of your neck. You can feel his staggered breathing on your skin.

Bottles and pans fly towards you two. Pushing him away, you guide each other to the corner of the room, huddled together, protected by the hearth.

“Shit!” Hobie protects your head with his hand when a pot flies towards you. The ship keeps turning and tossing the both of you until it finally straightens out, you can feel how fast its going by how wild the utensils are swinging.

“Someone got hold of the helm.” He whispers, his cool hand on your tender shoulder. “We're running.” Hobie doesn't say it with pride or dejection, he utters it with embarrassment.

“That's good,” you stand up, giving him a helping hand. “We can get out—”

The unmistakable sound of a cannonball whizzes past and the ship lunges harshly on the side again. You can hear frantic yells from above.

Hobie takes your hand, “I need to get up there.”

Helping him up, you nod. “And you will, let me close that wound off and give you something for the pain and we'll go back up there.”

“Y/N, you can't—”

“We will go up there.” the fire in your eyes makes him obey. “Sit down, I'll make this quick but not painless.”

He flops down, masking the pain with a grimace. Inhaling, he continues. “I let MJ in.”

You pause for a second before taking the metal poker. “Even after seeing all the bloody signs.” He sighs. “Maybe I am blind.”

You hold his face tenderly. “You were, but you still have a chance to change that. You can still help your crew. Make it right for their sake.”

He holds the back of your neck, kneading the skin with his bloodied fingers. “I don't regret letting you stay.”

You look at him apologetically. “You will after this.” Shoving the leather pot holder in his mouth, moving aside his clothes. “Inhale” you place the hot poker directly on his bullet wound, cauterizing the gaping hole.

It sizzles, Hobie holds on to your sides tightly, bunching up the fabric in his hands. Muffled screams eaten up by the leather in his mouth.

You move the rod away once it's done. Hobie's eyes roll in the back of his head. Slapping him lightly, he wakes back up.

“Stay awake, hey. Look at me.” He stares at you through half-lidded eyes. “There you are, captain.” You smile to reassure him. He gives you a tired nod. “Now for the exit wound.”

Hobie inhales, more than ready this time around. His skin is clammy, eyes red from the brimming tears. He clenches his entire body, determined to get it over with. Twisting around in his seat, he hopes the ship doesn't rock as you push the searing metal poker on the back of his shoulder.

With a muffled yell from him, you take the tool away, letting it cool down. Moving his head with your hand, you look at him apologetically.

“I'm sorry, if I warned you first you would've flinched.”

Hobie spits the leather out of his mouth, patting your cheek with his sweaty hand, he leaves it there, stroking your skin.

“I wouldn't have flinched.” He chuckles through the searing pain.

“Of course you wouldn't.” You hold his hand that's on top of your cheek. “You did good.”

He laughs, hand leaving your skin to hold your hand instead. “Not the first time I've felt fire.”

You smile, without thinking, you lay your forehead on his as more cannonballs fly around the revenge.

“You did good too.” He whispers. Eyes closed, he leans away. “Now get me something for the pain and let's get the bastard.”

You smile, nodding to him. Taking a bottle from your bag, you rub mint oil on his upper lip, igniting his nerves, keeping him awake.

“That's the only thing I have that could help. I can't give you alcohol.”

Hobie tentatively stands up, “Maybe after this then.” He groans, slightly limping. “‘m gonna need an entire crate of ‘em.” he thinks adrenaline is enough to keep him on his feet.

He faces you, a ghost of a smile on his pained face. Hobie bends at the waist, you scramble to help him but he refuses with his hand raising to stop you. Taking something from inside his boot, he grabs a shiny and slender thing.

“Here.” Hobie hands a silver dagger to you, intricate carvings of a turtle and a sea snake looping around the glimmering handle. “Somethin’ to defend yourself.”

“Are you sure? It looks—”

“I don't mind givin’ it to you.” He closes your hand around the hilt. “Make sure this one hits his neck this time.”

“I will.” Your eyes fill with determination, adrenaline still coursing through you.

He wobbles towards the door, sparing you a smile on the way.

“Hobie,” you call after him. “Continue your story after this?”

“Only if you tell me yours.” He looks over his shoulder, giving you the same smile he always has.

You scoff with a small smile, “Maybe I will.”

“Let's fuckin’ go and be pirates then.”

—

Getting up the deck was tedious work with all the rocking and shifting from the ship and the wild waves, add that with all the cannon balls whizzing past, it was like riding an angry bull. Meeting halfway with Karl on the way there made it easier, filling your chest with hope.

“Where's Robbie?!” He frantically yells, forehead bleeding, hands gripping Hobie's vest.

“I-I don't know.” Karl's face falls. “But we'll find him, I know he got out.”

“Got out from what?” His voice trembles, “what happened, Hobie?”

Hobie holds his friend’s wrist, “I'm sorry.” Karl weeps. “Go find Robbie and your crew.” He shakes his head. “And get the hell out of here, he's after me not you.”

Karl's eyes fill with tears, flicking towards you who look on with sad eyes. “What about you and the others?”

“We'll find a way out. We always do, remember?” Hobie reassures him with a smile. “Take one of my dinghies, and row the hell out of here.” he takes Karl's hands away from his vest. “We'll see you back at the old place, yeah?”

“You fucking better, Hobart or I'll drown you myself.” Karl takes your hand briefly, nodding. “I hope I see you again, doc.”

“Me too, captain. Find Robbie.”

You part ways with Karl, praying that he finds Robbie and what remains of his men.

“Ready, trouble?” Hobie gets your attention by brushing his pinky against the back of your hand.

“I'm right behind you.”

—

It's war.

The moment Hobie opened the door to the deck you smell petrichor and blood in the air.

You get a glimpse of the battle before he could shut the doors. Bodies, both pirates and navy alike lay motionless on the floor. The sound of thunder mixes in with the pained yells, flashes of lightning illuminates the night sky and you see the faces of the dead clearly.

Two-fingers lay face first on the deck, arms bent at an angle, blood pooling from his head. Through the smoke and splintered wood, Foul screams when a sword plunges through his heart, silencing him immediately. Danny takes a bullet for Finn who promptly avenges him with his cutlass, swiftly separating the man's head from his body.

One face you were hoping was among the dead was missing. Mathias isn't on board.

Something flashes in his eyes when he looks at you. Grabbing your arm, he leans in, your heart stops.

Hobie moves past your head to press his forehead on your shoulder. Bathing in your presence, hand squeezing your skin

“Hobie?”

He smiles, moving his hand up to cup your jaw. Chuckling, he cleans his dried blood off your cheek with his thumb. “Do me a favour, Scuttlebutt?”

“What is it? We need to get up there!”

Hobie ignores you, leaning away. “Survive for me would you? Live, find your family. Promise me.” He sniffs, eyes glinting.

“What?”

“Just promise me, trouble.” He shakes you.

“Alright I promise. Can we—”

“I'm sorry.”

“What—?” Hobie pushes you hard, you fall off the steps, landing on your behind, he exits without looking back, shutting the doors closed. “What the fuck?!”

You rattle the doorknob but it's no use, he locked it on the outside. Frustrated, you try to kick in the door, hurting yourself from the hard wood.

“Fuck! Hobie!” You bang the door, peeking through the keyhole you see carnage as Hobie makes quick work of the remaining men. “Let me help!”

The sound of cannon balls going off almost deafens your eardrums. If only you had your lockpick you could open it.

Your lockpick.

It's a stretch but you still run towards your cabin, feet thudding loudly, echoing around the hallways that you've memorized.

You feel relieved after seeing your door. Shouldering it open, you frantically search for the metal on the shelves. The tip of it scratches your hand but you don't care, already bolting off towards the exit. Running off with your bag tied around you, hoping the medical kit inside is enough to treat the wounded, you hold the lockpick in your hand while you run.

Your hope dwindles with every cannon hitting the ship.

Doors whizz past, ankle stinging, the sounds of screams and gunfire makes you sprint faster.

You don't notice the blood soaked hulking man leaving Hobie's cabin.

Running into him, you stagger, tumbling down, heart falling into your stomach as he looks down at you through his nose.

“Hello there.”

Scrambling to get to your feet, you slide under his legs, stabbing his achilles heel with your lockpick. The man screams in agony, you take the opportunity to sprint like you've never ran before. You'd take running away from O’hara any day.

Your lungs scream for you to stop, but you go on as you hear thundering stomping behind you.

There's no exit and you can't run forever.

The metallic click rings behind you, rounding the corner, you barely dodge the bullet aimed at you, nicking your hip.

“Shit!” You almost fall yet you continue on, entering the library, you shut the doors behind you, locking it swiftly.

Lifting your hand away, the sight of your own blood turns your fear into fury. With your trembling hands, you unsheathe the dagger from your belt.

You have a promise to keep, and you never break a promise.

Hiding behind the armchair you always sat on, you crouch down, gripping the dagger, ready to strike like a viper in the sand.

You look back on what she taught you, “Strike fast and hit hard. Don't give them a chance to get back up.” her voice whispers it to you and you intend to follow it.

The door bursts open, splintering the wood to a thousand pieces.

“The captain wants you alive, little birdy. This doesn't have to hurt if you just come with me, eh?” You hear him chuckle lowly, blatantly lying to you.

His heavy footsteps thud closer.

You use the shadows as your guide, the oil lamp left open on the corner table does the work. For once you thank Gwen for forgetting to close the light.

“I can help with your wound. Glue your wings back together again” he whistles. “The red hydra can't help you with that but I can. I'm a surgeon you see.” Getting closer and closer, you time your strike right.

You come out of your hiding place with a battle cry. Still crouches down, “I highly doubt that!” Slicing his tendons in one quick movement. The second he falls to his knees, you stab him in the neck.

Stepping back, he chokes in his own blood. With wide eyes you flinch when he stands, seemingly unaffected but his shaking pupils say otherwise. With a garbled noise from your assailant, he reaches for you.

“What the fuck?!”

With a split second decision, you dodge his hands, moving backwards, throwing books from the shelves which bounce almost harmlessly on his head and body.

There's a loud thrumming sound outside, its warbling is almost mechanical but definitely something an animal could've made.

He heard it too, pausing in his movement for a second before he lunged towards you. With a scream, your back against the corner, he jumps you.

Your head hits the wall in an ugly crunch, seeing stars, sliding down the wall, landing on the floor, he chokes you with his bare hands. Indistinct noises escape from his mouth, your dagger nowhere to be found in his throat. His entire body hides anything in front of you, drowning your vision, filling it with your murderer. His blood drips down on your face, almost drowning you in it.

You know he's running on fumes but based on your vision fading, lungs gasping for air, you think you'd go out first before him.

Hands grazing something metallic on the floor next to you, you inch your fingers towards it. Finally finding your grip, you smack it on his head.

You've got a promise to keep after all.

He yells, the oil from the lamp spreading on his skin and clothes, engulfing him in flames.

You frantically roll away, killing the fire clinging to your clothes until there's nothing left but burned cloth.

The flames light up the entire room in orange and reds, the paper around him helps feed the fire as he tries to desperately put it out.

There's that thrumming again.

You watch on, holding your tender neck. Your face is flat, eyes reflecting the fire that's quickly eating at the man. Fabric burns on his flesh, flesh turns into charred muscle, the fire eats at that too until he falls, silence hanging in the room except for the fire cackling, ashes and flames surrounding his corpse.

You stand up, ratty shoes stepping over fire to grab the fallen dagger with a thick cloth from your bag.

For a second you stand amidst the fire.

The thrumming outside and the warmth wakes you up, flames licking at your clothes, it's heat scorching your skin, nose filling with smoke. Even with all the pain you still escape with your life, determined to keep your promise.

Running outside the former library, the cracking of splintering wood fills your ears, you instinctively dodge, backing away before the mast of the revenge falls on your head.

Shielding your face, you cower. The mast stills, sharp wood lay next to your feet. Tentatively opening your eyes, the sounds from above are clearer in your ears, all the screams and guns going off, you hear it loud and clear that you can decipher whose screams belong to whom.

The fog enters below deck through the gaping hole left by the broken mast. All the while, the smoke from the library rises up, replacing the mist.

Your exit.

You don't hesitate to climb up. Jagged edges of sharp wood rip amd snag your clothes, stabbing your skin. Finding leverage, you manage to prop yourself up on the deck, meeting face to face with a lifeless Ned.

The light in his eyes is gone, unsung music escaping from his open lips. Skin dirtied by flowing ichor.

You don't hear anything else other than skin meeting skin in a brutal dance.

“No.” You quickly jump up, leaving the fire behind you to consume, to devour what's left of the revenge. “Ned?”

Desperately feeling for a pulse, your heart wretches in your throat, saliva filling your mouth, bile rising up from your gut.

There's no pulse.

With a choked sob, you close his eyes for him. The sound of wet punching makes you turn to your side. Hobie's eyes are wild, vicious and desperate, bloodied knuckles pummeling the man under him. Skin broken, nose cracked, skull open for the world to see. Yet, Hobie doesn't stop even with the obvious signs of death. Fueled by rage, he paints the wooden floorboards with the man's brain.

It all feels sickenly real, your heart is still beating in sync with his punches but there's so much death around you that you feel like you're a part of the dead. Blood and smoke filling your senses, adrenaline slowly washed away like the tides.

You're sitting in a graveyard and nobody else has noticed.

“Hobie.”

His fists pound harshly through the man's head, splintered wood now embedded in his skin.

You apprehensively crawl towards him, your various injuries aching, blood seeping out from your hip. The chaos around you still continues on while he still doesn't stop.

“Hobie—” your fingers brush his arm, he flinches back, fist raised to knock you out. But he halts, knuckles kissing the tip of your nose, painting it with crimson.

With wide eyes, he heaves, muscles tensed, grief all over his expression. You shove your fear down, holding his raised knuckles, moving it away gently. You hold his face in your other hand, smearing the fresh ichor on his cheeks, staining your own skin.

“It's done, he's dead.” You nod, caressing his face, turning it away from the carnage below him. “Hobie,” you unclench his fist carefully, shattered bone and hair sticking to him. With a shallow breath, you let the tears flow on your cheeks. “He's dead.”

His face flashes with fury only to be triumphed over by misery. With a heavy heart, he nods.

Behind Hobie, a uniformed man raises his pistol, without a second thought, you take the golden blunderbuss from his waist, hastily aiming it directly at the man's head.

Your ears ring, the smoke from the gun blinds you for a second before you see your target fall dead with a bullet right between his eyes, blood splattering like fireworks from his head.

Hobie looks at you in surprise, taking his gun away from you carefully. Hands soft on your raised skin. He pats your cheek and you could only shake your head.

“We need to—” the ship collides with something, Hobie holds you close, covering you away from debris. With his embrace, he protects you. Scarred hand on the back of your head, face hiding in the crook of your neck. Leather, sea salt and blood invades your senses.

The hellion is once again looming over the revenge, its golden façade cracking under the damage made by Hobie's ship.

Mathias shows himself, looking worse for wear, he wobbles on two feet, clutching his injuries.

You hear footsteps around you, raising your head, eyes widening at what's left of the crew, they stand behind you and Hobie. Wiping blood off their faces, reloading their guns, sharpening their swords. The red sails of the people's revenge still fly above, more than ready to take what they're owed, no matter what it takes.

Gwen's blond hair is dipped in ruby red, hands tight around her blunderbuss. Miles wipes his face clean, stepping next to Gwen with clenched jaw. Pavitr stands directly behind you, face covered in what you hoped to be someone else's blood. He nods, reassuring you.

Yuri and James take one look at Ned, their expression alone could make you weep again. Finn, crouches down next to you, nodding wordlessly, blue eyes glossy.

Hobie exhales, with shaky legs he stands up, helping you back to your feet. Gripping your knife, you scowl at the man above.

“How cute. The power of friendship isn't enough to save you.” Mathias says through gritted teeth.

The rest of his crew arrives, there's less ships than before, proving how the bloodsail pirates is a force to be reckoned with. They have what Mathias doesn't have, giving them something worth fighting for.

Mathias nods, signaling his ship to turn their cannons towards you and your family.

You step in front of Hobie. “I have a proposition!” Yelling above the rain and metallic clanking, you push away Hobie's hand from your shoulder.

“What is it?” The man rolls his eyes, looking incredibly bored. “We can't be here all night.”

“Me,” the crew voices their concerns, Hobie takes your hand, face terrified.

You smile, “it's alright.” Whispering to him and the crew only. With tearful eyes, you turn back to the devil above. “You seem like you really want me, so fucking take me instead. Let them go.”

You feel the heat beneath your feet. The fire devours everything just a few feet below you.

They all yell your name behind you. Protests fill your ears but you choose to ignore them. You feel his calloused fingers squeeze your hand.

The man guffaws, “Holy shit! You like them that much?” He observes Hobie's contorted face.

“You like her that much?” He chuckles. “You know what? I don't even want you that much, sure, get on up here, birdy!”

There's that thrumming and warbling again. It's much clearer now that you're above, it seems like it's coming from beneath the ship.

“Come here and take me then!” The rain mixes in with your salty tears. Raising your arms, shoving everyone away, you taunt him. “But let them go or I'll plunge this dagger through your eye!”

“Christ, you're as insane as him. Perfect for eachother eh?” he sighs, gesturing for his cannons to cease. “I'm already satisfied even though a few of your men escaped from a dinghy but eh, I'm sure I'll get them soon enough. Just like how I'll get you one day, little pirate. I'm a very patient man, I'll wait three more years if I have to.”

Hobie's face is full of anguish when he swivels you around to look at him. “Don't fuckin' do this. He won't keep his word,” he flicks his eyes to Mathias, then back to you, grey eyes darker than before. “the moment you step foot on that ship he'll kill you.” his mind comes back to that fateful day.

He can't let that happen again, not to you.

You look at him softly. “I know, but I'll make it hard for him, that'll give you enough time to escape. Hobie, I have nothing else, just this.” swallowing the lump in your throat, there's heat under your eyes. Taking his hand, you squeeze it once. “Let me do this, for you and for them. You still have to get your revenge so let me do this. Don't let him win.”

“You promised.” His voice cracks.

“I don't think I can keep it now.” You flick your eyes behind him, the crew looks on with grief marring their eyes. “They're too young for this, Gwen, Pav and Miles, they deserve to live too.”

You hear the rope fall from the hellion's deck. “I'm glad I got stuck in that net even though you made me walk the plank.” chuckling through the tears, you give them your best smile to remember you by.

“Don't leave.” he pleads.

Sliding your hand away, you take one last look at them, making a sketch of their faces in your mind to remember when the inevitable happens.

“I have to go now or this won't work.”

The captain has no plan on how to fix it, how to fix everything, and he beats himself bloody for it.

Turning around, with every step you take feels heavier than the last. You make amends to her in your mind, praying that it reaches back home. You also thank her, but you don't regret running away that day.

You'll never know what lies for you up north or if there's someone there waiting for you. If there is someone, you apologize to them too.

You leave traces of yourself to the people behind you with the hope you live on through those pieces. That at least they won't forget your name.

The howling wind and rain whips at your drenched form, committing the feel of it to memory.

Grabbing the rope, you fight the urge to look behind.

“Hurry up, birdy!” Mathias cackles. “Come on then—!”

The thrumming is deafening, everything seems to freeze mid motion.

Giant mounds of flesh rise up from the water. Snake-like features curl above, rising to the heavens, cutting through the grey clouds.

You can't help but be mesmerized by the beauty of it. Iridescent scales glimmer against the lightning, cracked scales teeming in gold. the lightning bolts ricochet off their scaly skin, unharmed.

More serpents appear from the depths, towers of scaled flesh. They rain sea water from above, dripping from their massive bodies.

One curls just above the hellion, opening its eyes, revealing an entire ocean in its orbs.

You can't stop looking at it, petrified.

“Dragons.” You say in awe.

“Y/N!” Hobie races towards you. His hand brushes against your shirt, so close yet so far.

You get yanked up with the hellion, grip still frozen on the ropes. Holding on for life, the beast has curled around the ship, in your peripheral you see men jumping off, splashing down into the depths, taking their chances in the cold.

Facing the creature, they trill and thrum, crushing the hellion and the navy ships in their massive jaws and swirling flesh.

You wake up from the trance they had you in, almost losing your grip off the rope.

“No!” You screech, saving yourself, arm socket straining against your weight. Twirling the rope around your hand, you tie it just like how they taught you.

Palms burning on the hemp, looking down, you're hanging high above the revenge. You watch as the crew frantically unties a dinghy while Hobie and Finn stay behind, they're too far for you to make out what they're doing.

Your only chance is to jump in the water but you know that'll be the end of you.

Water parts for something swimming fast under the water, it moves towards the Revenge. You scream their names in an attempt to warn them.

“Gwen!” Your throat struggles from the screaming. “Brace yourselves!”

The serpent crashes on the starboard side, away from where the small boat hangs. Hobie clings to the remaining mast, knife in his hand. Heart pounding, you watch as Gwen runs towards Hobie, he yells, she shakes her head but in the end she bolts for the dinghy. You nod, hoping she saw that you forgave her.

The beast constricts around the helion, crashing the oak and its gilded carvings in its wrapped body.

You sway in the wind with the serpent’s movements, praying that the rope hangs on to the figure head. The figure head of an angel looks down at you, lifeless eyes observing your slow demise.

This is the end for you, you've never thought you'd be killed by a mythical being turned into reality but here you are, hanging on by a thread, waiting for death to come.

With one last glimpse at the revenge, you see the fire finally reaching above deck. Gwen and the others lower down on the dinghy while Hobie grabs onto a rope, cutting the knot off the steel rings, remembering James' teachings, if he keeps doing that he’ll get yanked up, and with the wild wind, it will surely be a disaster.

You yell his name in a futile attempt to stop his effort at saving you.

Finn raises something in his hands, heaving it over his shoulder.

You sharply turn your head when a snapping sound fills your ears. The hemp untangles, with the rope breaking in the middle, you close your eyes.

The sea serpent lets out a guttural scream, the sound alone sends shivers down your spine. It uncurls around the hellion and you get a glimpse of a sharp harpoon sticking out from its eye.

Falling with the hellion, the serpent's eyes turn from blue to a bloody red, bathing everything in its gaze in crimson. it's the last thing you see before you shut your eyes.

You feel a familiar arm around your middle, looking over your shoulder, you think you've already died.

“I've got you!” Hobie yells, with him carrying you and his hand grasping on the rising rope, he struggles to hold on.

So you help him, wrapping your arm behind him, you hold the rope in the other, face close to his as you two fly above the revenge, swinging and whipping uncontrollably in the storm.

The beast trills, jaw unhinging, its rows of shark like teeth in full display.

“Shit!” Hobie manipulates the rope to swing you two away from its sharp teeth.

It fails to catch you, instead it turns its attention to Finn on the deck.

“Finn! Run!” Your blood curdling scream gets his attention, yet he pays no heed.

But everyone already knows it's too late, with one last fight in him, he raises his harpoon, yelling, meeting the serpent's opened mouth halfway.

It swallows him whole.

You just stare at where Finn once stood, he leaves patches of his ichor on the floor.

The revenge sinks, fire and water engulfing Hobie's home, your home.

“Love!” The name rots in his mouth, it gets you out of your frozen state. “I—”

The last standing mast cracks and breaks apart. You lose your grip on Hobie.

And you fall once again. For a second you fly, eyes peering towards the clearing sky, with white clouds in your vision, you brace for impact.

“MJ!”

That's the last thing you hear as you fall in the depths in a harsh splash.

A/N: so sorry for the late update!! Hope you like it 🫶 (if i forgot to put any warnings on the tags please tell me)

[onlytavs]

I want to learn more about Zuriñe (I'm obsessed, sorry xD)

From 30 Questions ask: 7, 9

From Get to know your Tav!:

favorite weapon?

style of combat?

(these are things I LOVE learning about, combar-related :3)

Don't be sorry!

I low-key feel bad because... I actually have a whole info-dump of like... scattered stories for Zuriñe that I've been working to flesh out her background and origin story. So, I feel like I'm about to share a whole lot here, but it may not come together very well because I'm still working out the order of operations for it. I've also embarrassingly put so much into her personal story arc.

Forgive me. 🫣

7. Describe their arc. How would a player help resolve it? What choices can be made? Can your Tav be turned down a dark path, or pulled to a lighter one?

Flashback:

Years ago, Zuriñe’s crew, the "Sea’s Grin," sank a rival privateer vessel during a high-stakes conflict over disputed sea charts and smuggled arcane relics. That vessel was captained by Talyss’s older brother, Venar Marvyn, a brutal but brilliant tactician feared across the Sword Coast. Venar didn’t go down fighting. He drowned tied to the mast, thanks to one of Zuriñe’s razor-tongued distractions and a clever sabotage plan that turned the sea against him.

Talyss, then just a dockrunner for the Moonbite Syndicate, took the loss personally. His brother wasn’t a good man, but he was his and Zuriñe’s laughing victory ballad, whispered across port towns, ensured that Venar died a villain in story as well as sea.

The Syndicate took notice of Talyss’s grief and his skills. They gave him a mission: infiltrate the Sea’s Grin and recover a specific item: The Gullheart Lens. A nautical relic secured in the Grin’s hold that was said to reveal hidden coastal paths and planar rifts tied to the Astral Sea. Zuriñe wasn’t the target. The Lens was.

But Zuriñe got under his skin.

He didn’t expect her warmth. Her music. Her frustrating optimism. He grew close because it made the con easier... until it didn’t. By the time the ambush was called in, Talyss had a choice: take the artifact and leave, or take the girl and silence the old betrayal.

So he led her to the Wharf, telling himself it was "just the mission." That she would be fine. That it was poetic justice.

At the Wharf, when the trap sprang and the gulls scattered like white lies, Talyss drew his blade slower than he should’ve. Maybe he wanted her to run. Maybe a part of him hoped she’d fight and make it clean.

When Talyss sprung into action, he didn’t go for the eye first.

But Zuriñe... Gods-damned loyal, infuriatingly brilliant, and still smiling like they could come back from this moment grabbed his wrist instead.

"Don’t do this."

She didn’t yell. She didn’t scream. Just… pleaded.

And that’s when he sliced her throat.

It wasn’t deep enough to kill, not quite. It was a cruel swipe under the jaw, fast and instinctive. He meant it to end the song. A silencing.

But she staggered, clutched the wound, and kept singing anyway. Blood in her teeth. No melody. Just fight.

That’s when the second blade came. 

That’s when the eye went.

And by the time the Syndicate took the Lens and faded into the mist, Talyss stood shaking, still holding the knife, and watching her crawl toward the waves.

The scar on her neck? It never healed smoothly. 

Because he didn’t cut her to kill. 

He cut her to erase her voice.

But it failed.

Now she wears it like a lyric, only she can sing. A mark of survival. A line between then and now.

And when Karlach asks about her missing eye, runs her thumb over the scar on her neck for the first time and whispers, “Who did this?” 

Zuriñe just shrugs and says, 

"The only man who ever heard the whole lullaby… and still walked away."

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The Story Arc

- In Baldur’s Gate’s lower quarter, whispers ripple of a Moonbite fence posing as a mapmaker under the name Kestel Darn.

- Zuriñe hears the voice first. Not in a tavern. In an alley, tuning her lute out of habit.

- She freezes. The rest of the party exchanges glances.

- A quest activates: "The One Who Took Her Song"

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Act I: The Confrontation

Player Choices (Dialogue-driven):

- Confront Talyss Immediately – "You left me bleeding in the surf. You cut my voice."

- Play the Long Game – Tail him. Listen. Watch him not flinch when someone compliments the scars he gave her.

- Let Another Companion (Karlach, Shadowheart, etc) push her to act – "You’re not gonna say something? After everything?"

Talyss recognizes her instantly. He doesn’t run.

He smiles like she taught him how.

"You kept the song. I thought… Gods, I hoped you would."

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Act II: The Choice Branches

Talyss reveals:

- The Lens was taken but shattered. It’s still somewhere in the city, reactivating planar tears.

- He’s not with the Syndicate anymore. He’s in hiding. But he still hears her singing in his dreams.

- He offers to help her close the rift it’s causing.

Player Choices:

1. Forgive & use him - Zuriñe grits her jaw. Works with him. Coldly or sincerely. A Bard check lets her manipulate him through shared lyrics.

2. Kill him quietly - At any moment. A private back alley. A clean duel. The rest of the party might try to stop her or hold the door shut.

3. Walk away - "You don’t get my voice. Or my vengeance."

4. Make him hurt - Not physically. But break his song back. Use Performance/Insight checks to write a new ballad about the Wharf... this time, for him.

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Act III: The Final Chord

If Zuriñe works with him, they reclaim the fractured Lens from a planar smugglers’ vault in the Undercity. In its light, she can:

- See the past - Talyss shaking after he cut her.

- See the choice - his hesitation.

- Choose to change his ending - or close the rift with his name on her blade.

Whatever she chooses, the final journal entry reads:

“The Wharf took my song. I made a new one.

He doesn’t get to hum it.”

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What’s the significance behind your Tav’s name?

To be honest, I just thought Zuriñe was cute. But her surname has a whole lot of meaning behind it. Her full name is Zuriñe Oarlin, and she adopted the name from a halfling, Marjeon Oarlin, among the Sea’s Grin.

Her mother was a surface elf noblewoman and her father was a Seldarine Drow bard who passed through with charm and didn’t stay. Zuriñe was raised in secret, half-acknowledged, tucked away in a coastal monastery where she was meant to be shaped into something respectable.

But Zuriñe couldn’t be controlled. She skipped prayer to listen to fishermen and learned songs the monks called vulgar. At 15, she climbed the walls barefoot and vanished into the docks.

She slept in boats. Ate bread crusts. Sang for coin and warmth. At some point, she stopped looking back.

One day she ended up sneaking aboard the Sea’s Grin during a heavy rain, curled up in the supply hold to escape a dockside debt. She was caught. However instead of throwing her overboard, the cook handed her a knife and said, “You peel potatoes, you eat.”

Marjeon was the Sea’s Grin’s cook long before Zuriñe stowed away, and he’d seen everything from green sailors vomiting through a gale, captains crying over lost lovers, mutinies, miracles, and more burned stew than he cared to count. At first glance, he was all edge. Scarred knuckles, braided gray beard, and eyes like overcast skies. He didn’t smile often, but when he did? It was always for someone else, never himself.

When he found a teenage stowaway curled beneath the potato sacks, half-drowned and shivering, he didn’t shout. He didn’t raise alarm.

He just grunted, handed her a knife, and said, “You peel potatoes, you eat.”

Over time, he became her silent ballast. He never pried, never lectured but he always noticed when she hadn’t eaten. He tucked extra bread in her hammock netting. Called her "Grease Goblin" when she botched galley duty. Smacked her on the head with a spoon when she got cocky.

She’d never admit it aloud, but sometimes she played her lute outside the galley just so he’d hum along while chopping onions. In his own way, Marjeon became the only father figure she ever trusted. The one who stayed.

So, she adopted Marjeon's surname.

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1. favorite weapon?

Zuriñe dual wields two scimitars,

The Salty Scimitar(rrr) and the Adamantine Scimitar

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2. Style of combat?

Zuriñe’s fighting style is a blend of bardic flair, sleight-of-hand misdirection, and dancer's precision. Every move is calculated to confuse, distract, or emotionally disarm before the real blade lands.

Trash talk mid-blade swing is half of her tempo. "Blink and you’ll bleed prettier," "That your parry or are we hugging?"

She's kinda cocky, what can I say?

PS: Sorry this was so damn long! 🫠

[muppenthings]

Hello, I quite like your merfolk designs and the different characters you've come up with. I relate to Runt's fear of the deep ocean and have struggled to even consider learning to swim again. 🌊😨

I've seen some of your smaller merfolk designs, like the latest one of a mothfish mermaid, it then got me thinking about cleaner fish and their clients. I'm going to go a bit speculative biologist here a moment so... I hope you don't mind the rambling. 😅

Since leviathans do or had existed, depending on which world we're looking at, beings of such size may get struggle with cleaning themselves for multiple reasons; like age, missing appendages or just in a hard to reach spot. So, maybe some merfolk evolved to help clean those areas? Various fish have evolved that clean larger fish, sharks, turtles and supposedly even octopi - whose to say something similar couldn't happen with merfolk? Maybe a few of these cleaner merfolk specialise in providing their services towards specific types of large merfolk in exchange for protection or sharing their meal. Maybe some provide information or gossip to the large merfolk about other merfolk or leviathans. (Possibly acting as spies if you want to lean into that.) Maybe a few can sizeshift to fit the needs of their clients, but not getting no where near as big as say Gorm or Cetus. (Although a giant cleaner mer person would be funny to imagine, if their kind can be super tiny in comparison to everyone else.)

Like, just imagine some of your big merguys like Keiki meeting one of these cleaner merfolks and getting the ocean equivalent of a spa treatment! 😄 Is this too silly? IDK.

Accck hello, yes I love me a good ramble!! :D

In all my worlds; Jordh (where Merry, Tide and Cetus lives) is the only plausible world for small merfolk, and thus one specialized in cleaning! The leviathans would benefit the most from them given their size and solitary lifestyle! And like you wrote, the cleaners would get protection and food in return! Win-win! Hmm I can imagine smaller merfolk that'd be like companions, always following their leviathan around. And with how the leviathans slowly died out due to an illness, it'd be a very tragic scenario. There's only one left now so I can imagine there'd be fierce competition for him. To his horror because he didn't grow up with having such small mers around. xD

I absolutely love the idea of the little mers spilling all the tea during the appointments! They'll be cleaning their client and be all gossiping like "Oohh I heard Mist got caught sneaking sugar kelp last week! She's been cleaning shells for days as punishment!" xD

And the mental image of a giant cleaner mer cracking their knuckles in a 'time to work' way while the client gulps nervously because that size is Not what they were expecting lol!!

I'm cackling at the gif!! If there were little cleaner merfolk that do this, Keiki would be a regular for sure! He loves a good pampering! Unfortunately for him he'll have to settle for normal cleaner fish. Since the merfolk in his world only come in one form and size-ish! But there's plenty of cleaner fish that specializes in large creatures since the ocean's full of giant sea serpents and more. :3

[goroaix]

For 1000 Long Years, My Jaws I Whetted; Today, I Hold Them Unsheathed Before You

Qian Kun x Fem Reader

Ancient China/Silk Road Era with Chinese Mythology. Historical Fantasy and Reincarnation AU

Explicit gore and violence; period typical attitudes (no overt sexism, don't worry)! religious conflict; dubious morality; exorcisms; cannibalism.

26k as of chapter 1/2 (chapter 2 will be out soon)

『 Heaven's will was absolute. Any transgressions would not be easily forgiven, be it by their own creation or otherwise. In the eyes of the realm above, all were equal and inequal. Starvation for starvation. A millenia for a millenia. If only Qian Kun knew repentance would become second in the throes of his immortal heart's desires. 』

It is very heavily implied that the reader is from a specific country since it was impossible to keep it ambiguous.

The sun has returned to the west mountains:

Deep and far rises the blue night sky.

Where does the past and the present end?

Thousands of years have been blown away by the wind,

The sands of the sea-bed are fused into rock.

Fish are still breathing bubbles under the Emperor's bridge.

Time has wandered its long road,

And the bronze pillars were long ago destroyed

By Li Ho (791-817). Translated by Ho Chih-Yuan

०वर्ष (0000)

The river banks of Feng Du moulded to his steps, blanched soil clinging for a moment before crumbling, falling.

Miasma hung heavy around the rigid red pillars of the temples. Only when he, Qian Kun, passed through, did the light find respite and illuminate what had not seen brightness for a thousand lifetimes. Behind him, the thick shroud returned. Infront of him, it melted away.

Kun hadn’t been summoned this time, or any other time that he visited Diyu (the realm of Souls), yet he found himself wandering the cities that lay within, situated on a layer above the enactment of judgement but in the centre of where it was ordained.

Here he could watch the silvery mist of souls pass through. They shimmered like pearls, iridescent despite the dark that shrouded all light. Only the river shone a molten gold and twisted through meanders that faded into canals of farther cities; the ferry never travelled that far. It didn’t need to

His golden paws folded under him, tucked neatly under his belly while his tails curled lazily around his hind legs - twitching occasionally when a blade of grass tickled the sensitive limbs. It was here that he liked to observe the rite of passage. Perhaps his hobby was one that was unfitting of a creature forged from the hands of Heavenly deities. Still, he would argue that the duties of the Pixiu included overseeing the essence of those who passed through.

Most Souls accepted what was to come. They obediently took their place on the sturdy bamboo boat, a vessel that was neither simple nor too decorated, and listened to the quiet sounds of liquid lapping against the hull. Some asked where they were: the majority already understood.

The ones that dared to ask were eased with a smile, the rowing pausing momentarily before the kindred ‘Grandma Meng’ took their hand.

‘You are moving on, my dear,’ she would say, ‘you do not need to fear. Whatever will come to you is what you deserve.’

Kun always found that turn of phrase to be quite vague.

Nonetheless, it always soothed their questions and he would watch them continue to drift with each stroke of the oar until it was lifted and anchored in its holster with practiced ease.

A golden pot perpetually bubbled to Grandma Meng’s left. Inside, the savoury broth was warm - never scalding. She would ladle a generous portion into a mahogany bowl and hand it over.

‘Once you are finished, you will be judged.’

They never hesitated to drink. Every last drop had to be swallowed.

From here, Kun could choose to follow Souls he found interesting and witness the work of the divine: their judgement.

Today, this routine was no different. He’d seen it thousands of times before, knew the process down to every subtle ripple of the river as the boat pushed through.

While Souls retained nothing of their corporeal features, it was not impossible to tell who from what. Feminine Souls were always a little lighter, more platinum than silver than masculine ones. The immature would shimmer more vibrantly, a certain sparkle to them that hadn’t been dulled by the motions of life.

Right now, it was a masculine Soul.

His tails swished lazily as a soft snort left his snout.

“Where am I?” They questioned.

As always, the answer was the same.

The Soul shifted, glimmering restlessly as they held onto the edges of the bowl and drank it all with an urgency that proved unusual.

He got to his feet with an ignited sense of curiosity and followed behind the wisp of silver as it travelled through the system of the city. It came to a stop at the centre of the city, materialising in front of the ornate scales and the feathered pen that would determine their fate.

The podium itself was carved from premium jade, each curve and contour of the engraved design created by the talent of the celestial. Images of the river, of the capital, Youdu, and the Heavenly gardens that Kun called home were depicted with faultless clarity.

The Soul could not see him as he could see it.

Kun stood beside the podium and read the details that emerged with every precise brush of onyx ink. Details changed and adjusted for the individual whilst adhering to the rigid structure that all must follow: ‘Reincarnation cycle number. Noteworthy deeds. Filial Piety. Misdemeanours. Final Sentencing.’

It was with this structure that all creatures with consciousness were judged. During life, unlawful actions may remain unwitnessed and unpunished but in this realm, under the ever-watching eyes of all and nothing - the divine and the damned - every action will be accounted for.

This cycle was not new to Kun. He understood it like he understood the clink of coins in a purse, like the taste of good fortune that forever lingered on the tip of his forked tongue. It was by the hands that governed these innate laws that he was created.

‘He has struck his starving child dead and consumed him for sustenance. His until-death repentance is sincere and will be taken into consideration.’

For a moment that lingered for a touch too long, Kun could not believe his eyes. He blinked. Plumes of smoke barrelled from his nose and melded with the acrid dark unique to Diyu. Surely, this could not be-!

‘500 cycles are to be completed in the 11th layer.’

A mere 500 iterations…

The ink that adorned the silk was sourced and processed from the bark of the Heavenly tree rooted in the utmost layer of Tian. Any suggestion of a mistake regarding this was akin to blasphemy.

Yet… Kun was unable to forbid himself from thinking as such.

Humans had been sculpted from clay - every feature lovingly crafted and shaped into perfection through the vision of their creator. However, like clay, they embodied the imperfections of their material. There would always be cracks, hairline splinters in the ones that could not shoulder the pressure. Faults may be glazed over but their scars would not fade - such was the folly of allowing free will.

To him, this was the worst of mankind.

Murdering a child was a crime so abhorrent, so decidedly evil that the punishment of being slowly, suffocatingly crushed under the weight of stone boulders was almost too merciful. Even if bones splintered, broke through skin in haphazard manners and punctured airless lungs, taking a life that had no chance to mature beyond the nest of their parents made this consequence too light.

Kun did not see sufficient atonement. A single week of repentance was not enough.

He was a Heavenly creature - the protector of Souls and good fortune. If he did not seek justice for the Soul of this child, he should not dare to align himself with righteousness.

He stepped forward, shadow eclipsing the podium, and usurped the pen. For a moment, it resisted - bound by principle - until he tugged again and it relented.

His tails held the pen tightly.

‘Additional 500 cycles within the 7th layer must be completed.’

Layer 7: For those who have killed dishonourably, a mountain of sharpened knives that begins from the deepest floor of Earth’s ocean and concludes at the very edge of Heaven’s lowest layer must be climbed.

Kun stepped back, relinquishing the pen.

It hovered and analysed what had been added. Finally, it confirmed what was written with a flourish and a stamp of the Jade Palace to conclude.

The next Soul appeared.

He extended his wings, the crimson tipped feathers catching the stagnant air before he was airborne. With every beat of his wings, the breeze became clearer, fresher. His body was not bound by the constrictions of the realms below, as was clear by how he had graced the gardens of his home within seconds.

With a shake of his body, he rid himself of the last traces of melancholy and began to ponder on how he should spend the rest of his day.

I have not visited Dongtian in quite some time. The grottos are supposed to be quite beautiful at this hour.

Ink spilled from the end of his tails, marrying the perfect blade of grass that it fell upon.

Underneath him opened a chasm.

What followed was a sensation so blinding that Kun could only scream - beg for mercy that he was not afforded. Fur ripped from tender tissue - muscle torn from bones. The tendons of his heels were severed, the taste of his own blood so foreign and so foul that he thought it akin to drinking sewage-

He could not breathe.

For the first time in his long life, he was experiencing pain.

Only seconds ago, his wings had the authority to pass through the heavens and let him nestle amongst the clouds. Now, every single bone within them was shattered and mangled. They contorted, twisting inside out until he could not distinguish feather from flesh.

Golden blood rained down on Earth as he plummeted with no recourse.

Falling. Falling. Falling.

He hit the ground.

Crusted blood flaked off his skin when he finally found the strength to sit up. It dripped slowly from the wounds that had yet to scab, dribbled like liquid stars over the blades of sunburnt grass that had been flattened by his body.

Kun crawled, his scraped knees unable to withstand the pressure of holding his entire body. He crawled, and crawled, and crawled with a lameness that had him thinking that he had been cast into his own circle of hell - damned to drag his limbs behind him for a reason unbeknownst to him.

The pool of condensation was murky, vastly different to the sublime clarity of heavenly water bodies. In those, it was as if he had been looking into a mirror - able to see the powerful face of a dragon born from hardship, and the rigid body of a lion that moved with deadly swiftness.

Now… he saw features he did not recognise.

A human visage stared back at him, almost offensive in its foreignness. Kun was not a human, had never considered himself to be within the same realm of classification. His essence was light and justice - fortune incarnate. Being human was the antithesis of all he had groomed himself to be.

Yet, these big brown eyes reflected back at him, bore into the frayed nerves that pulsed rhythmically.

Not all had changed, evidently. The antler on the right side of his head remained as it always had. All his teeth remained elongated and sharp, poking out from under his lips to graze against warm toned skin.

Unfortunately, the same could not be said for his wings.

Once broad, the wingspan six times the size of his body, they now hung limply at his back. The feature that he had treasured the most was destroyed. Each hour he had spent meticulously preening himself was in vain, his efforts tangled within the mess of blood, cartilage and bone.

There was no restoring them. (He didn't want to admit it). Without them, he could not fly home.

His fingers trembled as they reached out towards the sky, the cloudy endless expanse too far out of his grasp. These mangled limbs would not carry him back, and these foreign ones would not aid him. There he lay, cast from the heavens for a transgression that he was not privy to.

Was it so easy to be exiled? To be stripped of all he had known and live as the ‘other’?

What dare he do other than plead, extend and stretch his five fingered hand for the faintest touch of hope?

It was fruitless.

Moisture seeped into the back of his clothes, the beautiful silken hanfu stained with soot and dew. Fabric clung to his skin - skin that felt so much more frail, so much more mortal.

Kun wobbled on his feet, grass and mud squelching between his toes in a manner so unpleasant he winced. Every stagger and stumble propelled him forward, along the barren expanse of the hills that laid out before him.

Faintly, the thought that even Diyu was more prosperous crossed his mind.

No matter how far he walked, how many times he limped towards the endless horizon, he found that he could only go so far, doomed to circle the same thousand acres of land: barren, untilled and operable.

Days and nights passed overhead, light filtering through the sparse branches of the trees. It was a small kindness that he could not feel the blistering cold of the night, that he could lay beside the stream and see the ripples of water - however less magnificent than that of the gardens.

Though, it did little to quell the wrath that raged within him.

How was he, a being embodying all things holy, cast down to this realm with no respite? No warning nor reason? And why could he only reach so far before that same decrepit and listless hut fashioned sloppily from clay and sticks marred the skyline?

After 3 days and 3 nights of wandering, he found himself at its door.

No longer was he unsteady on his feet. The wounds of his wings had begun to scab over.

The door yielded with the lightest touch, crumbling at the splintered hinges. Inside, the odour of raw dirt and mildew overpowered. It was hardly big enough to house any animal, yet the bed of hay and feathers that rested at the furthest left wall spoke of this being a human residence.

‘What a pity,’ he could not help but think, ‘to live in such dismal conditions.’

A scroll too neat and too proper stood out sorely against the backdrop. Despite sitting on a table embedded in dust, it remained clean and delicate. There was no resistance when he unfurled it.

‘Qian Kun.

Your act of arrogation toward the ruling of Souls is certainly unjust. You have damned a Soul to further 500 cycles of turmoil for a reason that was neither discussed nor expressed. Your place lies within the 3rd layer of Heaven - of which does not give you the authority to overstep.

As all things are judged, you will be, too.

Your constitution is unique, hence, your punishment will reflect this. For the undue suffering you have signed on, you will toil the lands for 1000 cycles and reap what the Soul could not. Only when the Soul has passed their 1000 cycles, you shall also be forgiven.’

So, that was it. How cruel.

He was being punished for overstepping, irrespective of how justified it was. A parent who devours their own child was not deserving of gentleness in his eyes, for they had not extended it to their own kin. Sympathising with the child was deserving of exile, was it? He could not forgive this.

He shouted until his voice was hoarse, held the scroll in his tight fist until crescent moons from his clenched fists blossomed in his palms.

There was no answer (and, deep inside, he knew that there would not be one for 1000 long years).

१००वर्ष (0200)

The presence of fresh dirt was hard to forget. It was pervasive, clinging to all that it soiled with a pungence that he could only be rid of through scrubbing with dried honey locust seeds and leaving it under the sweltering sun.

He did not pause. Rather, he worked in spite of the mud that thickened on the soles of his shoes and rooted into the hem of his oversized clothing. At first, he had tried to work in his hanfu but no amount of hubris could deny the ruin that the fabric underwent and it became obvious that tilling in larger, hemp clothing was more suitable.

Fortunately, time was unlimited and whatever hours he didn’t spend outside was spent on either sewing or working on the abode he had built. And, after two hundred years of work, he might dare to call it somewhere adjacent to home.

Kun knelt by the upturned soil, dropping seeds that he’d collected from nearby plants. If there was one thing he desperately missed, it was the sprawling gardens that greeted everyone the moment they stepped foot within. Heaven had flowers that would never grace the dirt of the mortal realm, the kind that glowed a gorgeous pink in the day and luminescent teal come night. Such flowers could not survive on the tumultuous level of nutrients here; he would be surprised if they sprouted at all.

So, he settled for expansive orchids of fruit trees and meadows of flora that he had cultivated throughout the seasons. The animals that he’d nurtured in his boredom seemed to take to the surrounding nature, and he could enjoy some sort of company amidst the silence that otherwise dominated. Mostly, they had migrated by themselves and been incentivised to stay. He did not mind: he was far fonder of them than humans.

Gloved hands patted the mounds of soil down, continuing along the dozens of rows before he rose to his feet before watering each plot. They would take four days to sprout seeds and within a few weeks they’d become saplings.

In the distance, one of his precious cats, Gui, wandered out of the door with her tail swaying leisurely behind her. Her mewls were soft, too spoiled to put any volume behind it because she knew he would tend to her every beck and call.

She was right.

With a clap of his hands, the excess dust fell into the wind. The gloves were dropped and he came closer, scratching under her chin and stroking her tortoise-shell patterned fur. Her purring was loud, vibrating through the skin of his hand before her nose pushed against his palm.

“How greedy you are,” Kun chided, tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth. “Gui. This entire orchid may be harvested for your appetite, and you will still nudge me for more before it’s settled in your stomach.”

Gui meowed as if in agreement.

“Hm. Come this way.”

Her little legs followed at his feet into the timber and brick house, the bamboo floors glistening from the coat of oil he’d varnished them with. In their brief journey, the other two cats, Yue and Hua padded over - intelligent enough to know that once their master was headed to the kitchen, their stomachs would soon be full.

Satisfied with one dried fish each, they tended to themselves and cleaned up every bone and scale.

No matter how short their lives were, Kun found a certain fulfillment in caring for them. They were gentle creatures that scarcely begged for attention and didn’t withhold affection; he far preferred them to dogs. He’d housed a pekingese dog, a creature so small that he wondered how it hadn’t died partway in its climb up the hills, and vowed never to do so again. It was a needy thing, whimpering when he was away and barking when he was near. Though, its one redeeming quality was how obedient and lively it was.

Kun continued his work outside, leaving the felines to their treat. The front garden would not remodel itself.

It was as he worked, arranging white stones along the border of the plants, that a thick, putrid stench wafted toward him.

Yet another? This was becoming a far too common occurrence!

Kun thought to ignore it and let it fester - just until he had finished his work. There were only a few meters left for him to decorate and then-

The panicked bleating of his goats had him dropping all stones unceremoniously.

How bothersome. A place so remote shouldn’t have a problem with malevolent spirits and miasma - there were no humans around to stir such things. And somehow, he had seen more of them manifesting along the borders, disturbing his livestock and killing the flora he’d laboured for.

Yes, there were the one or two travellers that he saw making their way across using the paths at the very back of his domain, but they were hardly enough to justify the trouble he was having to quell. Maybe they’d passed away along the route and their essence was stuck in a state of limbo…

Either way, it was not his concern.

This one was particularly shapeless. It clung to the fence, oozing along the wooden posts in a coagulated, purple mass. The skin trembled as it moved, shivering and pulsing with every slow inch along the ground towards the bleating goats.

Decay filled his nose, catching in the back of his throat. A grimace crossed his face when it trudged towards him.

Bones dislocated. Joints cracked and popped. His mouth opened, jaw unhinging from the taut corners with his forked tongue unfurling - flickering in the air to taste the level of toxins. Rows of sharp, pearlescent teeth shone in gruesome warning, the soft hum at the back of his throat drawing it closer… closer...

Kun swallowed it whole the moment it fell into a lull. The taste was sour in the moment but washed away moments later.

It seemed to have been festering for a while, only now growing large enough to try and claim one of his animals - as if he would ever let such a thing happen.

Kun turned to his animals, making sure that they had their food and were not injured before returning to his stones.

As was his life for the last two centuries - this routine he had cultivated out of nothingness and the knowledge that he could not stew in filth for millenia. Perhaps by the end of it, he would see the rise and fall of all the earth around him, or maybe it would stay the same as it always had. He knew every inch of soil, stream and road, what species could prosper and what would wilt.

The only thing he didn’t understand, and didn’t care to, was the occasional trotting of humans passing by. They never came closer, and he half wondered if they were able to perceive him.

Regardless, Kun would see it from beginning to end, and he would do it in the now peaceful quiet of this mountainous land.

३३३वर्ष (0333)

How strange.

The influx of malevolent energy had been surging the past few years for a reason that he hadn’t been able to understand until very recently.

The number of humans that travelled along the dirt road had steadily increased from one a year to two, perhaps three, and now - all of a sudden - it had become tens of people per week. Of course, there was a reason that Kun was not privy to. Still, it was bothersome to continuously exorcise the amalgamations of resentment and scum.

“Gezi,” he addressed his grey cat, a descendant of his late Gui. “Stay inside for now, my sweet.”

She mewed in a tone so achingly similar to her great grandmother’s, her paws under her body as she resigned herself to another languid nap. Good, he thought, he didn’t want her to be caught in any misfortune.

Kun closed the door, hand brushing against the protection talisman he had hammered into the thick red wood.

This odour was pungent, like the decay of rotting meat that had been left to sit in its own melted fat and juices. Kun’s nose twitched, acclimatising to it.

The source resided at the path - just as expected.

Even so… he’d never seen one so large.

Purple swallowed the leg of a man, digesting it with crimson oozing from every orifice. The man’s face was waxy, pale with perspiration that glittered along his forehead. If he didn’t have the ability to sense the fragility of a Soul, then he’d have thought the man as good as dead.

They spoke in a language unfamiliar and unheard of to him. They were talking about him, looking towards the stranger in clothes far different than theirs and an expression that told nothing.

“You… help?” One of them managed to ask, tones sharp and grating to his ears though understandable.

Kun simply nodded.

The faint shimmer of glamour glistened in the air, unrecognisable to them as anything other than the catchings of sunlight. It masked the way his jaw split open, how his skin stretched over every bone and muscle with enough strain to tear. This was his small mercy to them - that they did not witness the true horror of exorcism and the nature of what was consuming their companion.

This one lingered on the way down, as if trying to crawl back up his esophagus.

It dissipated into nothing before it reached his stomach. The muscles of his mouth stitched back together, presenting a normal, familiar, humanoid figure.

“He will recover,” Kun informed, words stilted and unwelcoming; they did not notice.

Their friend was cradled, held in their arms before placed gently on the cart with a bed of straw amongst the tawny bags.

“Thank you! Thank you, Mister!”

Coins pressed into the palm of his hand despite his reluctance to accept. They would not let him return it, and he thought it better to accept than to argue with foreigners. There were plenty of uses for melted down metal, after all.

He turned to return home. The job was done.

The horses and cart drew into the distance and out of bounds. Kun made his way along the path, intending to branch off closer to the house when something called out.

“Mister! Mister!”

Midway through his step, he paused. The inflection of this voice was unlike anything he had ever heard. An accent thickened it, similar to the men he’d just bid adieu, yet it held this feminine lilt he’d only experienced one before when dealing with the spirits of Heaven. The skin between his thick eyebrows pinched together.

“Please help,” she pleaded, countenance shadowed by the hood that covered her eyes. The cloak covered her from head to toe, simple floral embroidery decorated the hemlines. However, the most striking aspect was the thick, heady scent of aromatic spices that clung to her body.

Hadn’t he dealt with enough humans already? His only option was to relent.

“What is the matter?”

“Come this way.” With a small gesture of her jingling hand, he followed her lead. Kun did not stare unduly at her, his gaze resting at her feet so he could see where she turned and the pace of her steps so he would not overtake. However, the soft tinkling of her steps were hard to ignore, the flicker of jewellery against her ankle briefly catching his attention. “Here. They are with blight.”

Ah…

The scene was filthy, the remnants of resentment having faded away but the effects lingered. Men laid with opened eyes and gangrened limbs, shock etched into the rigid muscles of their faces. They had been caught at a weak moment and paid the ultimate price.

“There’s no saving them. They have passed on.”

She hummed in soft acknowledgement. “Please help me bury. I will compensate.”

All arguments he had were swallowed, kept lodged in the soft spot within his sternum. Had it been a male, he may have been less inclined but it was a young woman. Despite adhering to different laws and social dynamics in his home, he inhibited a male body and understood that he held an advantage of strength.

“No need. I will help you.”

“Thank you. I created burial sites.” Her hand lifted as she motioned towards the plots of land she’d painstakingly carved, the more delicate fingers sore from the manual labour. She had accomplished the hard part with only a shovel that lay propped against the cart he presumed was hers.

Did she have no companion?

“Is your escort elsewhere?” Kun asked, uncharacteristically curious. In all 333 years he had resided on the moral plane, he had yet to see a woman - and even then, he was well aware that they did not travel without a male present.

“Yes. He is ahead.” So they had separated.

The bodies were cold, warmed only at surface level by the sun that had begun to set. The cloth wrapped gently around them, covering their dignity. In his arms, the bodies were light.

He did not waver because of their weight, or the dangling limbs that caught in his robes. Rather, it was from the subtle frown of her lips.

Was the way he handled them displeasing?

“Are you acquainted with them?”

“I am not,” she replied. “I happened upon.”

“Are there certain things you want me to do, Miss?” Kun persisted, unwilling to unintentionally disrespect a body. “I will follow your lead.”

“No. This is enough.”

He obliged, placing them within the graves. When he moved to the next, she covered them with soil, patting it down smooth with her bare hands.

The actions were done in silence - no idle chatter amongst them. Orange turned to hues of pink and purple, darkening until the last rays of the sun dissolved into inklings of night.

The last of the three men had been tended to.

“Mister. Your compensation.”

A small pouch of coins was held out; Kun accepted wordlessly.

Her companion had not yet returned and the night would only deepen. Leaving a woman without protection left behind a heavy feeling, and he found his tongue moving of its own accord.

“Will he not return for you?”

“He will,” she confirmed. By now, her entire face was shrouded, only the faintest shadow proving that she was tangible, living. “Does Mister know a- how to say…?” Her tongue clicked against her teeth. “Inn?”

Not for a long while.

“No.”

Once more, the chiming commenced as she moved her arms. “I see. Then, thank you.”

Swaying stalks of grass tickled his legs, the midnight breeze and beginning of cricket chirping. Something within him was churning, unable to let this woman go without being certain of her safety. Humans could not see in the dark, and many of the creatures that lurked within its shrouds knew this.

When her stallion stood to its full height, snorting and stomping its feet, Kun could not bear it a moment longer.

“Leaving in the dark is a death sentence.” When he stepped forward, he took care to keep a distance from her. “I have a cabin at the Southernmost section of my land. Your stallion and cart may be left in the stables.”

She did not move.

“Miss,” he implored. “I harbor no desire to harm you. Should your escort come to look for you, I will direct him to you. But I cannot, in good conscience, let a lady leave without offering a safe bed for the night.” What followed was more silence, punctuated only by the everlasting sounds of the night - a hum that he turned to background noise until this moment where it had become harrowingly loud.

Then, she took the reins of her voice and gently tugged her horse towards him. “You are most kind, Mister. I believe you.”

During the last century, Kun had begun construction on a smaller version of his home at the base of the land. At first, it had been a passion project, mostly to give him an idle hobby that was in close proximity to the stream. Fashioned in a style emulating his own dwelling, the little cabin would be comfortable - if a little small. He came to a standstill in front of it, lighting a fire in the pit. The flames flickered, their shadows dancing to its rhythm.

“When you lock it from the inside, it cannot be opened from the outside,” Kun informed her, hoping to reassure any doubts. “I will take you to the stables.”

Her voice was stark against the quiet backdrop, almost startling him when it broke through. “It is only you?”

What was the purpose of her question? “I live here by myself, yes.”

“It is so far from others.”

Well… he was aware. Kun had spent centuries conversing only with animals and himself. Humans were not interested in aimless chatter with a creature far removed from themselves, similarly to himself.

“It is.”

There was nothing else said on the matter.

The horse brayed, quietened by a gentle rub of its muzzle and the guidance into a warm, wooden stable. Her cart was left in the far corner.

“This is board.” Copper coins reflected in her palm.

“Board?” He repeated, unsure of what it meant. “Keep your money. I have no use for more.”

“You don't want it?”

“No.”

“I insist.”

Kun turned to leave, her figure standing against the light of the flames before she entered the cabin.

Humans were strange beings, and human women even more so.

Read the rest on AO3

[fernthewhimsical]

Fern's Nehalennia Deep Dive: pt 2

Aspects

On the votive stones found dedicated to Nehalennia some symbols are repeated again and again. Through those, we are able to get a pretty clear image of the aspects that belong to Nehalennia.

the Sea and Water

It is no coincidence that her temples were at the coast, near the mouth of the river Rhine. She was the Goddess who protected voyage over Sea and possible over the river. On her votive stones Nehalennia often stands with one foot on the bow of a ship, holds a rudder, or there is a shipping wheel leaning against her throne. From this we know she was a Goddess of protection over sea. Traversing the sea has always been dangerous: the sea can be calm or tempestuous. Navigation was difficult, and the closer you came to shore, the more dangerous it became. Having a patroness guide and protect you would have been very important. But the sea is not the only water Nehalennia ruled over. In 2021 new findings were presented by Jasper de Bruin for the Museum of Antiquities, Leiden. Nehalennia's temple was probably a place where cargo was changed from small ships that could traverse the river, to big ships that could traverse the sea. Evidence was also found of four big water wells in the "garden" of the temple. Which is thought to be where the ships would load up on clean drinking-water for their journey.

Abundance and Harvest

On many of her stones Nehalennia is holding a basket or cornucopia filled with fruits, especially apples, and breads or grains on her lap or in her hands. There are also votive stones where there are apples displayed on top, as if it is an offering that is left there for her. On the sides some stones have wheat, trees of life, or vine ranks, all symbols of abundance and harvest. On one stone there is even a hunter holding a bow, showing that she was believed to provide for her people in many ways.

Commerce and Trade

By far most of the votive stones found have been offerings from traders who went overseas to wend their wares. It brings up the question if she even was a Goddess of the sea at all, and not one specifically of trade over sea. On the stones the traders would start their offering with Deae Nehalleniae, followed by their name, where they are from, and what they were trading. It always ends with V.S.L.M. from vōtum solvit libēns meritō (“has fulfilled his vow freely as merited”). Because the traders stated their own trade, as well as where they came from, we know quite a lot of the devotees of Nehalennia. Trades mentioned are those of salt, fish sauce, earthenware, terra-cotta statuettes, and wine. There are also stones offered of those who were seafarers by trade, moving cargo from one place to another.

Protection and Loyalty

On many of her votive stones, there is a dog patiently waiting at the Goddess' feet. In many cultures, dogs are used for protection and as patient guardians. They are loyal to their family, and will fight off threats when needed. The presence of a dog on many stones can mean that the devotees saw Nehalennia as a loyal protector. Something reflected as well in the shorthand V.S.L.M.: "as merited", so something she has proven to them, probably over and over again.

Psychopomp

But, that is not the only reason for the dog to be her loyal companion. In some of the tribes in her territory, the dog was seen as a guide to the underworld/Otherworld. The dog would take the souls of those departed, and bring them to their final resting place. There is also the bow of the ship, on which Nehalennia often rests her foot. This we often see on other votive stones of Gods connected with death and dying. This all points to Nehalennia also serving as a psychopomp: one who guides the souls of the deceased to the afterlife. There are more myths connecting travel over water to the journey of the soul after death. Ynys Afallach, or the Isle of Avalon is a mystical island shrouded in mist (also one of Nehalennia's attributes) where the dead are brought to rest. There are more islands scattered through European folklore like this, including one off of the coast of Zeeland. Legend has it that once a year the local fisherman were contacted by a mysterious figure to sail their boats in the dead of night. As they reached the boats it would lie so deep in the water, as if carrying a great burden. Once their destination, often an island, was reached, they would hear a voice call out the names of the dead. And the boat would rise and rise as if one by one the souls would depart the boat.

Motherhood

As a Goddess of abundance, harvest, and protection, the step to a Mothergoddess is a short one. However from Nehalennia there is also more evidence that she was seen as a mother. In the same area as where she was revered, a group of Goddesses called the Matronae, or "mothers" were also honoured. Most often depicted on votive stones in groups of three. On two stones with Matronae the Goddess Nehalennia has also been identified. One by name, and the other by her iconic pereline and dog.

Guiding light

As stated before travel by sea was dangerous. Navigation was essential and often happened by stars, the guiding lights in the sky. But that was not the only light important to seafarers; without a lighthouse to show where the shore is, and what is a safe place to land, the journey is that much more dangerous. The same for lanterns on the ships themselves, to make them visible in the dead of night. To other ships, and to those on shore waiting for their arrival. To me, those guiding lights are part of Nehalennia's guidance and protection.

[Link to the Masterpost]

[chillwildwave]

The Wishing Kingdom: Prologue.

@annymation @uva124 @signed-sapphire @wings-of-sapphire @thisnameisnotspokenfor @mythartist21 @mafik-sun @lunellasflo @rascalentertainments @frogcoven88 @kstarsarts @oh-shtars @spectator-zee @emillyverse @gracebethartacc @gracebeth3604 @galacticstarslove17 @tumblingdownthefoxden @rylxdreams

(We hear the Disney intro with 100 at first but then we pan over to the Walt Disney Castle where a storybook titled “The Wishing Kingdom” is seen being laid on a desk, while we hear a choir harmonising, we hear a voice that is remiscent of an Golden Age male narrator.)

Once upon a time, there was a sky, so blank and so bare, even clouds covered its dread, what remained was a dark pit of nothingness.

It stayed like this until those clouds danced around the sky which caused cosmic dust to glide on by, it is said that when two elements are combined, you would get one of the most brightest creatures ever seen in the universe, responsible for looming over humans over the sky, day and night, providing every need that they offered.

So much so that the star god, Xanthos used his powers to create a habitat for all the stars, the kingdom of Starfell, where these creatures would live peacefully and decide in which star would grant wishes to their people…

Down the mist of the ever-so vivid Starfell, came the land of humans where they believed so much in the wishes that the stars held that they would hold a tradition, where their wishes would be written on a single strand of ribbons and wrapped around the branch of the first existing wishing tree…

(Little Asha interrupts the story as soon as her dad says “wishing tree.”)

“You mean the one we are on at the moment?” She enthusiastically questioned as she wiggled her legs, begging for her dad to answer.

“Yes, dear, now let me finish the story cause I’ve got more to tell.” Her dad replies when he turns another page on the book.

Even though some wishes were granted by the stars themselves, there were a few that were too controllable to grant, this happened with two specific people, a prince and a princess, held a wish in their hearts, trying to call the power of the stars to make them come true, however, the stars kept their powers shut after they found out about that wish, they thought that it would be too dangerous as it was said that if any dangerous wish was granted, it would release a dark void that would not only destroy Starfell, but also the entire humanity of Earth.

The couple tried to beg for their wish many times, not even days and weeks, but for years, until the stars decided not to grant it due to how much danger it could possess on causing destruction on the universe.

Even with their wishes in their hearts, they decided to head to a cabin where each book held a spell that would grant them magic, not just magic, but magic so powerful, it is almost impossible to avoid, so they scrummaged all the books from the shelf until the prince found one where he took deep breaths and summoned the old and powerful forces…

Magic, rare and strong,

Give me what I deserve,

Feed that feisty song,

And let the wind dissolve,

The wind dissolve.

(As he says that, he closes his eyes as we see Green effects swirling around the couple, the Princess holds onto him as he says the spell, it takes a long time until they are relieved that they had so much power from the one spell now.)

And with all this power they held, it was then that people believed that they were responsible for granting the wishes, as if they had the same power as the stars.

So it was there where they found an island on the Mediterranean Sea where the Kingdom of Rosas was established, with a hidden hamlet where the enslaved, scrubbed, cleaned and guarded their land until their chains were broken.

(We then go back to little Asha with her head next to her father.)

“You mean, that where we live, what is the cost of freedom if you can’t buy it her in this kingdom?” The little girl raised to question, her inquisitiveness kept flowing.

“I don’t know what the cost is, but it is part of what the king and queen say for their people.” Her dad replied with a solemn look on his face, he looks up to the stars while he touched his wish on a ribbon.

“Asha, there’s something I would like to tell you, look. You see these stars, right above us, legend says that these are used to believe us that with a wish, comes a dream.” (The screen then goes to the stars, the brightest one illuminating in the night as Asha’s dad speaks.)

“And when you have those, all you have to do is to keep believing, and when you have that dream, if you want to achieve something, you need to have the courage to get what you want.”

“What happens if…” She took her time to come up with another question, although she knew that it was negative, no matter what, she asked anyway. “I don’t work hard enough.”

“Well if you don’t, well, it doesn’t mean that your life is going to be entirely perfect, and if you don’t work hard, your goal will be much more complicated that it might seem.” (This causes her dad to look down at her notebook while Asha tries to get him to not look at it as she thinks he’s seen her swearing in her notes.)

“Dad, give me my notebook back!” She playfully teased him while still holding onto it.

(He still holds on to it as he reads her page while Asha slowly looks over it to see which page he is on.)

“It seems that you writing about what you want to achieve right at this very moment.” He giggles as he feels her embrace as she lays on his shoulder to look at the stars one more time before bed.

“Well, yeah and the start barely even begins with me, but tell me Dad, did you ever have a wish once, did the stars answer?” She spoke softly.

He doesn’t speak for a moment, his eyebrows causing a frown with his eyes looking up one more time. “Never, cause I’ve kept that wish for a very long time, for as long as I can remember, and since the king and queen became the new wish granters, I always knew that my wish should be worth keeping in my heart no matter what cost it had to get to me, and I believed in myself harder to the point where entered this area, with you and Sakina, and that wish, I wrote it on the ribbon and hung it on this branch of the tree, it is so special to me because it reminds me of that wish growing and growing as it lays on the branch, if it drives my heart, it’s possible that my dream would come…”

Silence… He just suffered something inside of him that the end is nearly near, there’s only silence, not much talking, Little Asha gets up and helps her Dad get up after he felt something but he fell back down causing her to carry him but it was no use, we also see Sakina running towards the tree after the commotion, as she runs to the tree, she sees her husband slowly dying while she stands next to Asha with tears running down her face, she also strokes her on the hair, gently.

Her dad continually coughs in agony, while Asha grabs his chest and tries to revive him. “No dad, you can’t, you said you would always be with me… You can’t!” Her voice is almost lost due to her pain.

The last words were spoken… “Asha… Sakina… Look at me, sometimes, not matter how old and young you are, the wishes will be dead if you don’t make it happen, there’s not a single thing like living forever to grant your wish, you shouldn’t have to live forever without that chance of wishing upon a star… Just, remember.”

He says after he closes his eyes, while he fades away to dust filled with sparkles setting their way to the sky, tearful Asha couldn’t even move after she tried to hug her mum because her hands were too shaky, despite that, her mum hugged her back as they watched the dust glide away, directing itself towards the cosmic sky of the stars…

And that’s the prologue for y’all, it would be nice if you give me your thoughts and also, I’m planning on doing an animatic to the same scene but who knows I could make some tiny adjustments to it as I go, here is my WIP animatic so far. There’s more to come.

[hplovecraftmuseum]

One element of Lovecraft's fiction that remains to some degree controversial is his use of various terms to describe his monstrous alien beings. This issue has been further confused by the habit of his followers to interpret these terms in various ways in their own fiction. The following examples are some of the better known names Lovecraft himself quoted: 1. The Ancient Ones - Lovecraft used this term in several tales, but the exact identity of who these entities are is open to interpretation. 2. The Old Ones - Again a specific defining explanation for who or what qualifies as an 'Old One' is nebulous and MAY depend on who is using the term in a particular story. 3. Outer Ones - This term is used as in THE WHISPERER IN DARKNESS to describe the Fungi From Yuggoth. These creatures are the origional beings that inspired legends of the Mo-Go AKA The Abominable Snowmen of the Himylayas. 4. The Deep Ones - These fish-frog- humanoids are the children of Dagon (and we might extrapolate) Mother Hydra. Information on this group is best defined in Lovecraft's masterpiece, THE SHADOW OVER INNSMOUTH. 5. The Sunken Mighty Ones - As far as I've been able to discover Lovecraft only used this term once and that occurred in the story, THE STRANGE HIGH HOUSE IN THE MIST. The term would seem to imply that this was used by HPL as a collective one from the Roman gods and demi-gods of the sea or oceans. Nodens, a somewhat obscure diety worshipped as, THE LORD OF THE GREAT ABYSS, in ancient Roman Britain appears with Neptune and other sea gods too. As Lord of the Great Abyss, vast and empty regions of lakes and seas were also traditionally his domain too. Lovecraft had not yet written his 'INNSMOUTH' tale but we can't assume that the term SUNKEN MIGHTY ONES only refers to ancient Roman and Romanesque nautical characters with certainty. 6. Elder Gods - Lovecraft uses this term in THE had shared intimate knowledge about lovecrafts fictional universe. That was not true. Derleth would go on to term that fictional universe, The Cthulhu Mythos. Lovecraft never used the term himself and never attempted to set down "rules" or a specific structure for his background mythology. 7. The Great Race - The cone bodied creatures from 'Yith' featured in THE SHADOW OUT OF TIME are given the rather odd title, 'The Great Race'. Why Lovecraft would use such a peculiar term for these creatures is pretty hard to explain, but I will attempt to do so in a future exhibit. 8. The Crawling Chaos - This was the title Lovecraft gave to his Satan-like character, Nyarlathotep. Nyarlathotep went through a quite a serious and complex evolution through the years of Lovecraft's tales. The name itself was born from one of his dreams and was an important element in his last tale, THE HAUNTER OF THE DARK. 9. The Squid-Dragon - This term was used occasionally by Lovecraft as a sort of nick-name for Cthulhu AKA 'Great Cthulhu'. 10. Chaos/ chaos - Capitalized and not. c

Chaos was often used by HPL as an alternative name for Azathoth in his fiction. The strong possibility is that Chaos, concieved as the "vast emptiness" at the beginning of time, by the Ancient Greeks is in fact similar or identical to Lovecraft's own Azathoth. HPL was a devoted fan of Classical Mythology since he was a child of 6. Azathoth may in fact have been the very first of his origional cosmic entities. 11. 'Elder Things' - This term was one of several used by the explorers featured in AT THE MOUNTAINS OF MADNESS who witness the final horrors and are the only members of the original expedition who actually see the titanic ruins left by the 'star- headed' plant/ creatures of Antarctica. The term is a little questionable since the men using it are scientists and non-believers at first. Though they were aware of The Necronomicon they saw it was nothing more than childish fable until they were exposed to the ruined city of the star-head creatures. 12. The All Mother - was a term used for Shub-Niggurath earlier called "The Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young." Shub-Niggurath was perhaps concieved as a mother of demons in earlier tales. "She" never makes an actual appearance in an original Lovecraft tale, but her name is used as an oath by several characters. Whether she is actually meant to be the actual 'mother of all life throughout the universe' by the term "All Mother" (in THE MOUND) is a question. 13.'The All in One, One in All' - Became a term for Shub-Niggurath's male counterpart, Yog-Sothoth. 'Yog' who went through considerable evolutionary conception. In the E. Hoffmann Price/ H. P. Lovecraft "collaboration" - THROUGH THE GATES OF THE SILVER KEY, it was really all Lovecraft- Yog-Sothoth becomes a sort of cosmic brain in which ALL creative entities (including humans) are cells or facets. (Exhibit 535)

[hmserebusadjacent]

Beautiful

Thought I would post my own humble fluffy Emmrich x Rook story here too.

Emmrich x Trans Male Rook (Pining, longing, all of that lovely stuff)

A story in which an origami ship is made and two men grapple with the enormity of their feelings for each other.

Word count: 771

AO3 link

“It was the silly dream of a child, I suppose. To run away to sea…”

Rook had thoroughly drifted off into the mists of time, Emmrich could tell. Practised hands carried on folding the paper this way and that without the maker even having to look down to check his workings. The logical part of the necromancer’s mind wanted to study the paper folding so he might perfect the art before giving Rook a ship of his own.

But Emmrich’s heart was already lost in the other details of the man across from him, as it always seemed to be nowadays.

The way Rook used his nail to press the lines on the paper more firmly and flatten them, the subtle colour change at the end of his nails a hidden bloom. The hunch of the assassin’s shoulders but the lack of stress lines around his eyes and mouth, showing the war between his need to relax and his instinct to be on guard. The small little gap between the man’s lips that moved ever so slightly as he breathed in and out…

Emmrich idly wondered if Rook’s lips would feel as soft as he had often imagined they would…

“Still, it was a nice dream to have, even if it was foolish”, Rook whispered, shattering both the quiet moment and the deep concentration Emmrich had been pulled into. It felt like something had been drained out of him but had also been refilled anew during his quiet contemplation, and Emmrich had to resist the urge to sigh almost wistfully.

When he looked up to the assassin’s eyes to find the man looking at his folded boat, the necromancer acquiesced and looked downwards.

The boat was much like the others that Rook had made, with the pleasing little sails and the flap at the back that allowed the ship to stand up. But this particular paper was such a pleasing shade of green that it almost seemed to dance in the firelight, casting its own shadows much like Veilfire does.

“Beautiful”, Emmrich found himself commenting, permitting a warmer smile than perhaps was wise to twist his lips.

When the necromancer looked back up to Rook he was almost startled to see a blush dusting the assassin's cheeks, the man only holding his gaze for perhaps a second before he was looking away. The little cheeky smile that graced Rook's lips and the little cough he let out too in the aftermath had Emmrich's heart rattling out a sudden realisation.

Did Rook want to be described as beautiful? More specifically by Emmrich himself?

Oh shit…

By the time Rook looked back at Emmrich the necromancer was still trying to form words, and even Emmrich himself knew there must be a certain desperation to his gaze. Desperation to cross the gap, to bridge to something wonderful and new and joyously…alive.

What was worse was that Rook seemed equally torn, heart almost certainly racing in his chest over a dilemma that the older man dared to hope might be similar to his own.

Thankfully the assassin saved Emmrich from needing to formulate anything else that night, effectively ending the line of discussion when he gave a little wink and stood up.

“I've taken up enough of your time. I'll leave you to it.”

The assassin's face was still holding some of that desperate hope, creeping out behind the mask of joviality that was trying to stay fixed in place.

Even then, Rook wasn't done with inadvertently playing with the other man's heart, for his shy gesture of holding out the ship was enough to make Emmrich want to swoon.

“For you, if you'll have it.”

With hands that he desperately hoped weren't shaking, Emmrich reached out and plucked the ship from the waiting hands before him. He couldn't help but cradle both of his hands around the ship now as he brought it back to his lap, intent on protecting it like the treasure it was.

“Thank you…”, Emmrich almost whispered, somehow making the moment feel all the more intimate.

Rook merely offered a small bow, letting Emmrich see the smile on his face as he stood back up to his full height and then departed and melted into the shadows.

The moment Rook was out of sight and earshot, Emmrich Volkarin gently placed his head in one of his hands and let out the wanton sigh that had been building inside himself all evening.

“What am I going to do…?”, he whispered under his breath, the usually stoic necromancer lost in the midst of feelings he hadn't felt for nearly thirty years.

[evolutionsvoid]

When it comes to the denizens of the deep, the Church's opinion can be a bit murky. These beings are not labeled blasphemous or hunted down like other heretical beings, but yet those on high do not openly accept them. They will point to these odd fish and creatures as examples of faith being all around us in this world, but they do not listen closely to whatever "gospels" these entities might share. Some sects openly embrace these beings, seeing them as holy and divine, but the Church itself exudes an aura of wary tolerance. Look to these creatures as proof that even the natural world itself partakes in worship and religion like that of the Church, but go no farther than that. If these things pray or preach, it is of a primordial faith, one far more "blunt" and "savage" compared to the glorious Church of Divine Wealth (or so the faithful of the Church claim). Thus, it is warned to stay true to the Church's teachings, and keep things respectful between oneself and these strange beings. Obviously, as long as one stays away from the sea, there is little chance of encountering one of these creatures. However, in rare instances, it seems that a "pilgrim" may appear upon the shores and walk the lands on some unknown journey.

From their appearance and peculiar gestures, they have gained the label of "Monk," though one may question if this status can truly be handed out on visage alone. Encounters with these beings have occurred both at sea and on land, as these creatures seem far more amphibious than others of their kind. For the sea folk, they have caught these beings in nets, or watched lone individuals slowly pulsing through the shallow waters upon a dedicated path. When hooked and brought up, they offer no tokens or wise words, they simply gesture with their tendrils and nudge their bodies towards a single direction. It appears they are obsessed with a specific destination, desiring it above anything else. Those on both land and sea will do anything to follow some invisible path, with some believers labeling it a pilgrimage. When meeting dry land, they rise up onto their tentacles and slowly slither forth, never pausing in their journey. They will crawl their way across the earth, completing some journey known only to them. No one has been able to piece together their purpose. Some have spoken in an odd tongue to strangers, while others gather random objects and trinkets. Eventually, they will turn around and make their way back to the ocean, and vanish into the depths. Supposedly they found something up here, but no one can really say what.

Interpreting these Monks has been an endless effort, with no real way to confirm what is the truth. Some think it is simply the migrations of an animal, perhaps laying eggs or seeking particular nourishment needed for the next stage in life. Yet, they do not appear in large groups, which you would think would happen if this was some kind of life cycle. Some think they are sick and lost, like other creatures of the deep found dying in the shallows. Yet, no weakness is found, and their determination is unstoppable. Those who believe them to belong to some divinity of the depths claim it a pilgrimage, and this is some task given to them by their faith to contact those above. Surely they seek a holy goal, be it dispensing wisdom or gathering sacred materials. Even their actions emanate the ways of the faith, for when threatened they do not turn to violence. It would appear that these Monks are tied to Phlegm in a way, as they can breath out a damp mist of calming Phlegm to subdue foes. Those struck by the greenish cloud that billows from their "face" will find their bodies relaxed and their minds at peace, sedating them into a state of bliss, where they cannot bring themselves to raise their weapons. Any danger is met with these mists, and once the enemy is rendered harmless, they continue on. The other evidence lies in their diet, as the believers claim they show temperance in their feeding. Monks eat very little when on shore, and only eat tiny morsels of meat. They are very careful in tearing their food up into small pieces, as if large portions are blasphemous and gluttonous. Many compare this to the fasting and moderation shown in other worshipers, and that this is clear proof that faith runs within these beings. 

Of course, there are others who are more paranoid about such creatures, which stems from living in a world in chaos. They see these "pilgrimages" as something less holy and innocent. To them, the Monks look more like scouts, and their journey one of collection and study, rather than meditation. Who is to say that these creatures are not scanning the lands and gathering valuable intel to send back to the depths? Why should we believe them holy and not insidious in their design? They wear a familiar visage and hide behind a peaceful demeanor, yet they say nothing of their goals and are unflinching in their purpose. Wouldn't a peaceful fellow of faith take time to sit with others and show kindness? Wouldn't they seek to break bread with like minded folk? Yet they do not waste time in their quests, and are always intent on returning home. Surely there is a chance they are carrying precious details that serve to bolster their own forces and knowledge. After all, everyone else in this world looks to be quite eager in carving up these lands in disarray, who is to say these strange fish are not another hungry beast at the dinner table?

-------------------------------------------------

"Monk of the Sea"

[aishangotome]

[Xia Xiaoyin Card] Awakening From a Long Dream (长梦将醒)

Meeting Incidents

Incident 1:

A legend circulates among the merfolk that at the end of the deep sea lies an untouched ocean region where a bright moon rises with the tide.

Ever since hearing this legend, I had been relentlessly pestering Xia Xiaoyin to take me to see it.

Xia Xiaoyin was initially reluctant, but seeing my persistent nagging, he finally agreed.

The end of the ocean region was a lightless deep sea, so quiet that only the sound of water could be heard.

Mist glowing with a faint light rose from the coral. I saw a kind of indescribable sorrow hidden beneath Xia Xiaoyin's solemn expression.

I squeezed his hand, and he gave me a faint smile in return.

Soon after, a golden full moon slowly rose from the horizon of the tidal ocean, illuminating the desolation that flashed across his eyes.

Incident 2:

Deep within the Mirage Palace lies a stele forest, inscribed with the history of the merfolk in ancient script. I was interested in the past of the merfolk, but I couldn't understand the writing, so I begged Xia Xiaoyin to help me interpret it.

The merfolk's historical records were like songs, passed down through generations in the deep sea tides. The stories told by the Sea Emperor were the most beautiful of all these ocean melodies.

I was captivated by this elegant singing, so much so that I had no desire to admire the illusions that appeared in response to the song.

Until I felt a flick on my forehead, and the singing abruptly stopped.

"Wake up."

His expression was somewhat displeased, but the corners of his lips were slightly upturned.

Incident 3:

There are many wondrous things in the sea. Every so often, merchants from other ocean regions would bring local specialties to trade at the market in the Royal Sea.

I bought many novel trinkets at the market and returned to the Mirage Palace with large and small bags, wanting to show Xia Xiaoyin.

His Majesty the Sea Emperor expressed his disdain, but he still looked at the treasures I had brought back.

He picked up one small jar, his expression subtle.

Getting closer, I saw the words "Seafishing Honeydew" written on it. Before I could explain, Xia Xiaoyin's dangerous gaze was cast over me.

"Buying this kind of thing... don't tell me you still want to go fishing for others?"

Incident 4:

The Sea Emperor's birthday occurs once every hundred years. On that day, the entire Mirage Palace would celebrate for him, holding a grand banquet.

However, even on Xia Xiaoyin's birthday, only he and I were in this vast Mirage Palace.

He looked at me from his throne, his expression arrogant yet seemingly expectant.

I sat on his tail and said the words he was waiting for, and then I realized that his silver tail had wrapped around me at some point.

In the end, I spent a birthday with him that was unforgettable in every way. The very satisfied Sea Emperor stroked my sore tail and said that his birthday could happen once a year from now on.

Nonsense. Wasn't it that as long as he wanted, every day could be such a birthday?

Incident 5:

There are also four seasons in the deep sea, and some rare marine life only grows in specific seasons.

A maidservant said there was a rumor of a mysterious flower coral that only grew in the southern seas. When it flourished every summer, it would turn the area into a sea of flowers, and any merfolk who saw this sea of flowers would be happy for the rest of their lives.

The coral's flowering period was very short. Before it was even time, I couldn't wait to ask Xia Xiaoyin to take me to see it.

Seeing that I couldn't stop thinking about those coral flowers after returning, Xia Xiaoyin used some method to transplant the coral flowers, which should have already withered, into the Mirage Palace's garden.

Worried that these would also wither quickly, Xia Xiaoyin snorted softly, as if I had underestimated his abilities.

"It's just a simple little spell... they won't wither so easily, don't worry."

----

Card Story

A while has passed since the Mirage Palace awakened and the sea people revived. Deep within the palace's secret realm, the Sea Slumber Flowers still bloom unrestrained, just as they did in the past.

There is no one else here; the only sound is the quiet murmur of the water.

The handsome merman lying in the sea of flowers has his eyes tightly closed. A petal sways and gently falls onto his brow, but he doesn't seem to notice.

What kind of fish sleeps in its little nest right before its birthday?

I reached out, carefully tracing the contours of his face, and also plucked a Sea Slumber Flower, intending to place it in his hair.

Before I could succeed, he reached out and grasped my wrist.

He was finally stirred awake by my antics, reaching up to brush away the flower petals on his head, frowning as he looked at me.

Xia Xiaoyin: What are you doing?

Me: I was wondering why you have a palace to sleep in but insist on sleeping here.

He glanced at me, his robes stirring the petals. Then, I felt a chill on my lower body as his beautiful silver fishtail wrapped itself around my thighs.

Xia Xiaoyin: Of course, it's to prevent some little mermaid from disturbing my peaceful sleep again.

I was sure he was still bothered by what happened before.

Me: Will those who disturb your peaceful sleep be fed to the fish?

I nuzzled his neck. He paused, then lowered his head.

It was a cool kiss carrying the scent of seawater, yet the mingled breaths were incredibly hot. His presence enveloped me, even overpowering the scent of the flowers blooming on the seabed.

After a long while, he finally released me. I saw that the corners of his eyes were already flushed red.

The Sea Emperor's thin lips parted slightly, carrying a hint of displeasure.

Xia Xiaoyin: That still depends on who it is.

He tightened his grip with his tail around me, the pressure so strong it felt like he wanted to swallow me whole.

I quickly begged for mercy.

Me: ...Let's talk about something else, like how you want to celebrate your birthday?

Xia Xiaoyin glanced at me, frowning as if he was also thinking. After a moment, he tossed the question back to me.

Xia Xiaoyin: You decide.

Xia Xiaoyin: But if you make me unhappy...

He lowered his voice and leaned closer, the threatening words sounding more like a lover's whisper.

His dreamlike, colorful pectoral fins were right next to my cheek. I heard a muffled murmur escape his lips, and then darkness obscured my entire vision.

In my hazy consciousness, that pale, slender hand slowly traced my eyebrows and eyes.

I seemed to hear a soft sigh.

Xia Xiaoyin: This time... you're not allowed to leave me again...

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BtW Masterlist

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[twinflameauwof]

what’s the lore of the world? like what’s going on? the conflicts some may say (i love all the art you’ve posted btw)

aaaaaa I’m genuinely so glad I got this questionnnnn!!! (YAP FEST HERE WE GO)

I’m not the best at explaining things, but basically in Pyrrhia, there are 8 tribes instead of the canon 7, and that extra tribe is the Mistwings. The Mistwings are descendants of a large group of Rainwings, Seawings and Icewings that somehow formed a society together. This resulted in the Mistwings, dragons that are a mystery to the outside world, no one knows they exist.

They live deep in the rainforest, where the land was enchanted by an ancient Animus to have constant mist falling over it, and the Rainwings are too scared to enter it. The enchanted object is called The Ghostflame, and after a princess wins a challenge against the queen, the former queen will stick around until a new heir is secured, and then she will disappear into the forest, this is believed to “feed” the Ghostflame.

Anyways, moving on from those guys, the Sandwings are basically the Nightwings in this situation, pretty much everyone see’s them as self-righteous, full of themselves, hoarder dragons because of previous queens, and the current queen, Mirage, is making many attempts to de-stigmatize her tribe, which isn’t helped by many rebellious Sandwings going out and doing whatever they want to please themselves, this results in late Mudwing Queen Fern’s death.

MudWings are nomadic, being tough enough to traverse through nearly any environment (except the Ice Kingdom), many troops leave the kingdom to cultivate and sell unique goods.

Nightwings are how they were in Darkstalker’s book, basically, and under the royal family, there are three Nobel houses named after the three moons, Oracle, Perception, and Imperial.

Seawings are split between three societies, the Deep Kingdom, the Sea Kingdom, and the Reef Kingdom. The “DeepWings” are a group of Seawings that live out in the open ocean, pulling rafts behind them for proper resting and feasts, they technically have a “queen” but it’s less traditional. The Seawings are closed off and often don’t participate in many inter-tribe events except for the royal family. The “ReefWings” are far more social, living half in the ocean and half on beaches, their scales are more colorful than the others’, and they are responsible for most trade. The “Council of Pearls” is a group of regal dragons from all 3 segments that make decisions.

The IceWings aren’t doing the best, but they’re not doing bad, their last queen, Chorus, died of an illness soon after having her first egg, leaving her husband, Silver, to fill the roll until their (luckily) daughter could grow to fill the roll. In this version, the Icewings are less isolated, and have one of the greatest armies on the continent.

Queen Talon of the Skywings loves being entertained, which is why the Skywing Arena still exists in this AU. However, instead of it being essentially an execution, it is seen as a way for dragons to earn glory. There are very strict rules in place to keep dragons from being harmed severely, any heavy injuries can lead to suspension and even being banned from The Arena.

Rainwings are also very similar to canon, except for the other tribe’s opinions on them, in this AU, their venom is common knowledge, and it is well known the amount of damage they could do if involved in a war. They do not write scrolls (although they can still read/write, just not often) instead, they share stories and teaching orally, they are believed to have one of the best schooling systems of the continent.

I hope this was sufficient information! Much of this AU is still being worked on, and Pantala is being covered by the other owner of this account, so I don’t have much info on that, and I’m also not completely finished with the lore and culture for each tribe (I made some of this up on the fly lol) so if anyone’s curious about something specific, please ask, it will force me to continue thinking about this! (Which is a good thing, trust me)

[gobsnacc]

Soul solstice at the wizard tower!

Allow me to set the scene!

On your way to the Party you encounter…..

Thick trees that turn day to night here, as a heavy mist crawls eerily across the well lit footpaths. A perfectly spooky setup for the coming holiday!

For those traveling these roads in and out of the forest surrounding the Wizards Tower with their sacks and buckets decorated for the season, they might notice shapes of various sizes moving in the darkness, hands popping out of the mist, beckoning you closer.

Do you dare?

Should you, you will find the hands have little home made treats to give to those brave souls! Those hands belong to the scores of creatures who live in the forest! Centaurs, dragons, imps, fae and so on. Seems they had a good harvest and wish to share their spoils with the good people coming to the party! All safe to eat!

As you finally leave the confines of your forest path you find that the thick mist has followed you here to the clearing as well! It comes spilling out of the forest inching across the waters of the lake where you know The wizards tower lie on the small island in the middle. But the mist obscures your view of it!

However as you step into your petal boat and begin your journey across the lake you can see…

Strange lights that float around the misty lake, some stagnant, others dart across under the waters. What could they be?….

Oh!

The ones above water are Gourd lanterns sitting in the center of their own Small flower boats! Their lights glow bright in the mist as they lazily bob along the waters surface. One spell keeps them from rotting, a secondary spell allows them to make spooky faces at guests as a mini sun lights them up from within!

But what are the lights below the lake?! Are those…eyes!?!

Oh my!

Its the mermaids! They have invited some deep sea cousins to glow and roam about to join in the festivities! They pop up out of the water to wave to Passers by in the Petal boats!

As you grow ever closer to the tower your ears pick up eerie sounds….

Ha! Its just a theremin and someone playing the saw! Some of the locals are playing them to add to the ambiance! They wave from the islands shore as you begin to land.

As you depart the boats your senses are bombarded with sights, smells and sounds!

Lantern Gourds dot the landscape, line the paths about the island and invite guests into the Tower. The smell of food wafting from the windows, the sounds of laughter and joyous screams drift in the air.

You have made it to your destination! But now, which way should you go?

Do you take the gourd lit path around the island?

Should you, you will find the still locked up greenhouses on either side of the tower.

But along the sides of one of the greenhouses you find various magic mirrors playing horror films and living floral chairs waiting for you to join the ranks of the moviegoers!

Along the side of the other Greenhouse, the mirrors play dancey spooky music and gently change colours! People laugh and twirl about in their costumes! What a fun little dance party!

The more direct path leads straight into the mouth of the tower. Dare you enter this once accursed place?

You do! And as you do you are greeted by those that care and run the tower. An alien Lizard chitters at you, baring her fangs in a smile. A Dragon halfling blows a small flame above your head. A Vampire draws his cape and hisses. The Mage of the tower who just so happens to be a Goblin waves her hand and little sparks fly from her fingertips! Welcome to the party! Lets go check it out!

First stop!

The main lobby, the heart of the tower is decked out in tavern finery! The bar and tables are chock full of snacks and drinks. Spiced wood burning in the fire and a calm happy chatter floats about the room.

Lets move down to the basement! Specifically the library!

The basement of the tower is hosting all manner of spooky stories with accompanying play actors. They dance and shriek and mock as the teller of tales spins their web of words to the captivated audience.

Passing back up from the basement, passed the lobby to the next floor we find

Levi’s apothecary shop! It is a buzz with children giddily wrapping and decorating little dolls in bandages. Older children brew their own flavored gummy treats in teeny little cauldrons. And we mustn’t forget the adults too! The adults get to brew their own flavored alcoholic drinks in their own teeny Cauldrons!

Lets move up a floor!

Svetzas office/ antiquities room Is holding an interactive demonstration on mildly cursed objects! They give the users animal parts of a wide variety or change their voices, make them float, turn their hair colours and other gentle curses that last till sunrise unless asked to be de-hexed/cursed.

Last floor!

The Healing room is kept quiet for those who need a place of respite from all the hustle and bustle of the party. Gentle sounds of water and nature drift through the dimly lit room. Beds are ready and waiting for people to nap. Mats by the fireplace are ready for meditation. Its a really calm atmosphere.

So dear guest, where will you go first?

The week long party has begun!

Welcome dear guest to Soul Solstice at the Wizard tower!