#moon's pallor mask

[tanetime]

Oh yeah I forgot to upload this.

I threw together temporary bios for the newest masks for Wyneer's page on Art Fight. I wasn't able to do the art myself because of my injury, so I paid some people to make portraits while I tried to make sprites. I had to give up on finishing Viridian's part though...

Thanks to @.atarsto @.kosmikcactus and @.melankoolic for chipping in. Not that you had a choice. Because I paid you.

Fun fact: those sprites you see are actually finished builds exported through Spriter, not mockups. That's what they look like in the game! Unless I fucked something up.

I also drew/paid for assets for Night and Ray's sheet but ultimately I haven't had time to put the sheet together. I'd apologise but I spent money on that thing so honestly you should be apologising to me on my behalf.

[raekensluver]

nightfall temptations (introduction)

description: breaking up with your boyfriend, ethan landry, was too easy. he was too understanding, and now you're discovering why.

pairing: dark!toxic!ex!ethan landry x fem!reader

contains: 18+, Minors DNI, dark content, mentions of typical scream violence,

song rec: heathens by twenty one pilots- "you'll never know the psychopath sitting next to you. you'll never know the murderer sitting next to you."

w.c: 790+

an: i miss the magic of halloween from when i was a kid.

"come on, just one more block," you murmur to yourself as your phone buzzes for the fifth time that night. the sidewalks of new york city are eerily empty, the neon lights flickering in the quiet, casting an eerie glow on the deserted storefronts. the cold air whispers around you, carrying the distant echo of a siren and the occasional rustle of a forgotten newspaper dancing in the gutter. you fumble in your pocket, fishing out the device that's become a second source of anxiety.

the screen lights up with a familiar unknown number, the same one that's been taunting you for weeks. your gut tells you to decline the cal and maybe he'll leave you alone, but curiosity and fear compel you to swipe the screen. "hello?" you whisper, hoping that maybe, just maybe, it's a wrong number this time. instead, the all-too-familiar static fills your ear, the kind that makes your skin crawl.

a chilling voice, digitally distorted yet eerily human, echoes through the line. "hello baby," ghostface says, his tone mocking and playful. "aren't you just lovely tonight?" your heart races as your eyes dart around the empty street, searching for any sign of movement. he must be watching, but from where?

you grip the phone tighter, your knuckles white with tension. "what do you want from me?" you demand, trying to sound braver than you feel. the static hums for a moment before he speaks again. "oh, i just like to keep tabs on my favorite little scream queen," he teases, a sadistic chuckle following his words. "now tell me, what's your favorite scary movie?"

you quicken your pace, the cold wind stinging your cheeks as you struggle to maintain composure. "leave me alone," you say firmly, your voice shaking slightly. you can almost feel his presence closing in, his shadow looming somewhere in the dark alleyways. "or what?" he taunts, "you'll call the cops? they're busy with the real horrors of the city, not playing hide and seek with me."

his words hit a nerve, making you realize the futility of seeking help. your hand clutches the phone so hard you're surprised it doesn't crack. "what do you want?" you repeat, desperation seeping into your tone. the line goes silent, except for the heavy, deliberate breathing that sends chills down your spine.

you don't notice the turn you've made until it's too late. the bright lights of the main street give way to the stark darkness of an alley. your eyes strain to adjust as the buildings lean in closer, the bricks pressing down on you like a tomb. your footsteps echo off the damp walls, echoing through the narrow passage. you're no longer sure if you're moving away from safety or straight into his arms.

the alley opens up into a small, dimly lit courtyard. the moon casts a ghostly pallor over everything, making the shadows dance and twist. that's when you see him for the first time, standing in the center, his iconic ghost face mask gleaming in the moonlight. your heart leaps into your throat.

his posture is strangely familiar, the way he holds his knife at his side, casual yet threatening. something about his stance, the tilt of his head, it's all too…personal. your mind races, trying to piece together the puzzle of who's could be behind the mask. you know this character. you've heard about the killings on the news by someone in a ghostface mask and from your friends about how the 'stab' movies were based on the killings that took place almost thirty years ago. and now, you're seeing him standing in front of you. just looking at him sends a cold shiver down your spine, the kind that makes your hair stand on end.

you look like a deer caught in the headlights, frozen in terror. ghostface takes a step closer, his boots clacking on the cobblestone. "now, now, don't go anywhere," he coos, as if you had anywhere to go. your legs feel like jello, threatening to give out beneath you. "we're just getting started."

you whimper, unable to hold it in. your eyes dart around the courtyard, avoiding the cold, dead gaze of the mask. that's when you notice his shoes, a pair of worn-out sneakers with the laces undone. something about them seems…off. they don't match the rest of his outfit, which is a mix of dark clothing that blends with the shadows. the sneakers seem almost…ordinary. a strange detail in the chaos of the moment that somehow makes him more real, more terrifying.

that's when the realization hits you like a punch to the gut. you've seen those shoes before, countless times, in a place you never thought you'd associate with fear - your ex's apartment.

you swallow hard, trying to push down the bile rising in your throat as you call out, "ethan?"

edited 1.1.24

[atarsto]

you've drawn wyneer's ink black mask like 1000000 times so what about moon's pallor

Moon's Pallor with the Mooncaller staff fo today.

[jackals-ships]

selfshiptober time babyyy slaps the top of these freaks for day one

[alduin pov, brief allusion to their past as enemies + alduin typical "what's a boundary?"

#1. confession | night. [jackal/alduin]

Sleep does not come easy to his Dragonborn. It does not come easy to him either, but then, The World Eater does not actually need it. He merely play acts it to set them at ease. (he's learned to play at many such things. the mortals are more relaxed when he matches his breathing to theirs, when he blinks more often, when he eats and drinks as they do.)

His Dragonborn on the other hand does need sleep. And yet their body fights it at every turn. (a sickness of the mind, the healer acolyte told him. not uncommon in those touched by the Hunter Lord. even more so by those personally blessed by Him.)

In Skuldafn he oft found them wandering the halls when all others were abed. Here among the ash he watched them pace restlessly, back and forth and around their small campsite. Sometimes they would pause, head tilted back towards the moons, expression unknowable under their mask. They would stay like that for long moments before returning to their pacing anew.

This night was no different. Masser and Secunda were high in the sky before they ceased moving. Yet even in their bedroll Alduin watched through lidded eyes as they shuffled. Rolling back and forth, kicking the blankets off and then pulling them back up.

It is only when they have finally stilled for more than a few moments that he opens his eyes fully.

They lay close to the fire, away from him, and he is careful as he walks to them. He is always so careful not to wake them.

Because each night he trespasses. Each night he steals a glimpse of that which does not belong to him. Each night he promises that he will be satisfied this time.

Each night the gnawing pit of hunger grows ever deeper.

Tonight they have fallen asleep on their back, and for that he is grateful. Once he was almost caught as he tried to shift them for they'd laid on their stomach. He is unsure what they would do if they were to discover him and he does not intend to find out.

A claw slips under the edge of their mask, a gentle tug all that's necessary to break the spell holding it in place.

His Dragonborn doesn't even twitch, breathing still slow and even as he sets the mask aside.

He is more hesitant as he reaches a hand out again, for they wear a tighter mask of cloth under the polished obsidian. It leaves the upper half of their face exposed and he always tells himself he will be content with just this much.

Each night Alduin proves himself to be a liar yet again.

The slightest frown creases their brow as he pulls the cloth down, but it smooths itself back out. Lucky for him his Dragonborn may struggle to sleep but once they are down it is to a corpse like depth.

It is that depth that emboldens him further.

He curls his fingers, leery of putting claws to their flesh. (the memory of the ease with which their flesh parted under his hands haunts him now, where once it had made him croon with a predator's satisfaction, now it makes his stomach roil.)

It is the ghost of a touch upon their cheek, knuckle dragging slowly over pale skin that under the moonlight is even more corpse like in its pallor. When they don't twitch he does it again, attempting to be gentle in his clumsy touch.

Their skin is so soft. Even the delicate golden scales under their eyes barely feel like the scales of him and his. It makes an odd sort of heat bloom under his skin. An itch in his scales that no amount of clawing alleviates.

“...what have you done to me, Dragonborn? Is this a taint from that accursed Shout?” His hand moves almost unconsciously, slow and steady strokes across their cheek. “..I fear not. But you have still…”

He tilts his head back then, huffing out a bout of irritated smoke. It does nothing to that slowly creeping feeling he cannot place. “...you have cursed me. You have cursed me with your mortal emotions. You have.”

A pause as he uncurls his hand, clumsily mimicking the way he has seen acolytes cradle each other's faces. It is…nice enough he supposes. “..I have heard you throw the word about with nary a thought. And now I wonder, now I fear, is this what you mean when you tell my kin you love them? Do I love you? I fear I must.”

He leans down then, nose bumping against their cheek. Another thing he thinks he's seen the mortals do to show they care.

“...you have ruined me, Dragonborn. Would it please you in the knowing? Would you believe me at all, or decry my words as another lie? Would you return my affections, my Dragonborn? Or do I frighten you still for all the harm I have laid upon you? It is selfish of me to wish that you feel the same, but I have always been and always will be thus.”

He allows himself a few more moments of gazing upon their face before carefully returning their masks.

He will not sleep tonight, his gaze fixed onto the twin moons above him.

The moons watch back. Twin celestial bodies that would ring with laughter if they had the mouths with which to do so.

Twin bodies that watch a pair of would be lovers feign sleep, one unknowing of the others nightly deception.

[twistedisciple]

[ Embrace ] + [ Dip ] Wasn't this that human he fought down in Abyss? Or maybe that hasn't happened yet in this timeline. Regardless, hopefully Griss wouldn't mind how rigid Ephidel's moves were when they are matched in the dance line. The morph effortlessly dips the other low. "Your scars look lovely in the moonlight."

"Huh?!" Was that supposed to be a pickup line? Or was this guy one of those misguided kids running around with the romanticized ideas of fell worship that he'd met earlier in the night? Either way, the suddenness and the absurdity both are enough to distract Griss from the dip until his back cracks and he's staring up at a pair of gold eyes set in a moon-pale face, mask-like in its pallor and lack of expression. His jaw falls slack, confusion notching a line between his brows. No, there's something different going on here. The man reminds him of the Corrupted, somehow. Except that skin of his is too smooth, too perfect. Inhumanly so, but not like the undead.

When the shock finally wears off, a wicked look takes its place and Griss claws his hands up to the man's lapels, digging his fingers into either side and dragging himself up closer. One shift off-balance and both of them would topple to the ground.

"Want some to match?" he purrs, for now effortlessly as he clings half-suspended from the other man's neck. "We can trade; I'll cut you and then you cut me."

[huntershowl]

@gomannakami said:

❛ If I stay here, trouble will find me. ❜ (from suguru!)

THE WAXING MOON BATHES THE ROOFTOP in a silvery, angelic pallor. it's a beautifully clear night, a tapestry of stars spread out across pitch-black cloth — not unlike the voidlike smoke that seeps from seph's hair, a strange natural sculpture formed of cursed energy with those faint mock-stars glimmering in its blackest depths. the orion constellation shines before her like a cruel joke. bitterly, she tears her eyes away from it to glance over at her former friend.

both of them have changed for the worse. persephone is pulled by collars and leashes from several directions at once: their boss, their paranoia, their revenge. she buries her teeth and mechanical claws in the bodies of people the world believe to be innocent, bathes in their blood, and exorcises the curses their deaths create. geto... is pulled by no leash, it seems, but his own. he kills without a second thought. the way his new persona, this egotistical mask, lords over people from his god-mocking throne reminds her of her boss — only, geto hasn't had two thousand years to desensitize himself to the sanctity of human life.

not that she cares. in truth, she doesn't care about much of anything anymore. rage has eaten away at most of the emotions they used to feel freely, as it has eaten away their dreams and desires until all that was left were ashes. geto could kill every last being in this miserable sack-of-shit planet and persephone wouldn't bat an eye, so long as he didn't harm their brother or interfere with their own singular goal.

❝ i know. ❞ her voice carries the weight of resignation. loneliness is inherent to the life of a jujutsu sorcerer — whether they work for the society or become a curse user, somehow, it feels inevitable to end up isolated. she didn't allow herself to hope when geto found her, and so the news that he can't stay does not crush her.

but they do approach him, stepping into his space without a mote of fear, and look him dead in the eye. up close, the battering she has gone through in the years since they've met is more painfully obvious, and she lets it be. the gruesome scar winding around one side of their neck, the dark circles, the rage etched into their features. rage that softens, just a touch, as they look at him. ❝ tell me you mean it. what you're doing. tell me you believe what you preach and that you aren't hurting, so that i don't have to worry about you anymore. ❞ as if she would ever stop.

[brooklynislandgirl]

Wrath: Something that gets me angry. From miss spice.

Shackled to the Shadow || Accepting It has been some time since Nilza has been an outsider. The Sept Warder has ceased sending any of the packs to harry her, to watch her constantly from the outskirts as she pays visits to the little kinfolk. Still, she holds even less status amongst the Sept than even Beth does. Beth has tried in the past to explain the draconian nature of being part of Garou society, only to get flustered and defensive when questions are posed. Tonight, things are different. It all began when they were woken in the middle of the night by one of the other kinfolk women. Belly swollen with growing life, the woman was dressed in flannel and hand-me-down jeans. Bloody rents that were unmistakable claw marks bled heavily down her back, and her lip was busted, an eye blackened shut. It is one of the few times that Beth allows anyone to see her skills on full display, a staggering amount of raging hubris making her defy the very delicate nature of reality itself. There's no poultices or root-work. No tinctures, salves, bandages. Face a mask of cold ire that is never directed at the woman, Beth draws sigils in the blood already shed. Thereafter flesh begins to knit itself back together. The woman's pallor becomes the flush of youthful life once more and the unimaginable agony is gone in a twinkling. A tall woman appears shortly after, with other mountain women in tow. Beth bows to her deeply, and she gives a grim nod of her head. The women do not concern themselves with Beth or Nilza but instead, once Beth confirms the mother-to-be is healed and the child perfectly unharmed, they drape her in what looks like a bear pelt, the smooth leather side inscribed with sigils. They usher her away. White knuckled and still furious, Beth turns toward her lover. "Do me a favour, please?" she asks through grit teeth. "Put some more wood in the fire, an' set the kettle on? We're gonna have more comp'ny tonight." How she knows this doesn't matter. Not when she goes over to their bed, passing Saph on the way and petting her square grey head to ease the dog's nerves. Kneeling, Beth searches under the bed as far as her body naturally bends, then a little deeper still. If Nilza looks-looks, then she'd notice an unnatural shift of limb. While Beth does not walk as wolf and woman like her cousins do, she does possess a gift for changing her body when needs be. From the far side of the bed, and with what seems like a great effort, she retrieves an object. It is nearly nine feet in length ~another impossibility~ and appears quite heavy. It is slender though, wrapped in layers of oiled cloth and bound in leather with little bone charms attached to the ends. Reverently, Beth carries the unwieldy package to her table and sets it down with an incredible reverence. The wind outside dies down and the shadows of the cabin shrink away, as if they too can sense an aura from the bound cloth. She sits beside it and stares at the door. Her voice seethes in the back of her throat and her words are bitter vitriol.

"We follow the ancient laws as they were given to us, howl-to-tongue an' back again. An' while Becky's man isn't part of this Sept, we took him in as one. I'm not no scholar, heck, I ain't even one of Grandmother's chosen an' even I know he broke them laws t'night. "Respect th' territory of another. Respect them that's lower in station, for all are of Gaia. Do not suffer thy people to tend thy sickness. Ye shall take no action that causes a Caern t' be violated. Now some of th' Elders might not see it that way? But me? I ain't gonna 'bide this." Beth practically shakes with that burning rage now. She nods toward the door for a moment and begins to occupy her hands with the item's unwrapping. "They'll take her by moon-bridge to one of the other Septs. Prolly Moon's Blessin' given it was Akasia that came an' got her, or maybe Mountain Watch cause it's closer, less stressful on Becky an' her pup." When she is done, the item is revealed. A gorgeous oak wood staff ancient as maybe the mountains themselves, polished by the many hands that have held it through the aeons. The nearly six feet of wood is topped with a broad blade that thins to a needle-sharp point of gleaming silver etched with a half-dozen symbols that seem to turn up a lot in these hills, glyphs of power and mysticism, a language all their own, but each one looks like a series of claw-marks. "Now, I ain't gonna be allowed t' take up for her, but John'll be my proxy. An' he'll challenge Becky's man to a duel, but he'll have Cumha Léanmhar t' carry with him." She flicks a dark gaze toward Nilza. "This. This is the reason I speak wi' as much weight as I can."

[tanetime]

I damaged my right hand a few weeks ago and needed medical treatment, so I haven't been able to draw at all.

Here's some Moon's Pallors I doodled while trying to see how it was healing. It didn't occur to me how difficult it would be to draw his leaves when I have so little control over how my hand moves the pen...

[tj-wrote-things]

𝐇𝐞 𝐖𝐡𝗼

Nikolai Lantsov x fem!Grisha!reader

Based off of this ask

A/N- Hey besties, this is kinda late,, and i hate it but only a little bit. Can you guys like -stop requesting arguments??? pls its breaking my heart.

Mega thanks to @itisroe e for being my editor and shoulder to whine on :)

*Id like to take a moment to say that Nikolai is a bit of a dick in this one, and id like to reiterate that its never okay to invalidate or insult a so. I dont condone that type of behavior, im just writing it

enjoy:)

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If there was one thing Nikolai Lantsov knew how to do, it was pout. You caught him— more than just a few times— slouched over on the blush red couch with his arms crossed, face smushed into a scowl as he studied you packing your bag.

You sighed, casting an increasingly irritated glance at him as you folded the coarse cloth of your winter coat and tucked it away with the rest of your belongings. The weight would be too much to bear, but you knew it would be cold up north where you were headed alongside Zoya and the Bataars. 

“I’m leaving at dawn, whether you like it or not, Sobachka.” 

The King looked away briefly at your words, hating understanding that you were right. He hauled himself out of his seat and redirected his sulking to the world outside the large window. It was beautifully blanketed in steadily falling snow. 

“Will you really make our last night together a bitter one?” you commented.

“It wouldn’t be our last night if you’d just let me come with you,” Nikolai huffed. 

You exhaled, dreading that this would be the third time you had this discussion, which, in his world, was more so a debate.

The reason was simple: Nikolai had no business accompanying them. The objective of the mission to Fjerda was a peace treaty between the Drüskelle and the Grisha populous. As Nikolai fit neither category, it had been decided that he would stay back and continue to hold the country together.

“We’ve been through this: to bring more people on the expedition would only irritate the Fjerdans. Especially, the king of a country with which they’ve been at war for a considerable amount of time,” you reiterated. 

Nikolai shook his head again, unwilling to accept it. He refused to welcome the fact that the love of his long life would be away and in perpetual danger for weeks. 

The wind whistled as it bounded against the window, filling the room with a violent creaking.

“It’s dangerous, Y/N, why can you not understand—” 

You cut him off swiftly as his voice began to rise, “You watch that tone, Lantsov, or I’ll—” 

Now, it was Nikolai’s turn to cut you off: “You’ll what? Leave early?” The young man turned to you from the window and met your incredulous gaze. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. We both know it's your only vice.”

“My only vice,” you mocked cynically. “In what regard?” 

Nikolai spread his arms patronizingly as if he were explaining the obvious to his childhood self.

“Your heart craves adulation,” he said, pointing a sharp, accusatory finger your way. “You’ll take any opportunity to leave Os Alta— leave me— and flaunt your gifts.” 

Your heart thudded heavily in your chest. In anger or despair, you could not tell.

You would not lie to yourself. You knew with all your heart that, all things considered, your mastery of the Small Science was a blessing, hidden behind the mask of a devil. In the days you served faithfully in the Second Army, your gifts were revered and you were respected in the highest regard amongst your Grisha peers. However, in the years following the war, you became like everybody else. 

It was at the behest of your husband that you progressively began to use your power as an Inferni less as the days passed. Ever the political mastermind, he had approached you one summer evening and begged you refrain from using your power in public, claiming that the presence of a Grisha Queen was too much for his fragile country to bear. In the beginning, you had agreed, for if there was one thing that surpassed your love for your husband, it was your shared love for Ravka.

You knew that relations between the Grisha and the others were strained, and so you agreed, taking your husband's hand and promising to limit the displays of glowing orange flames which had burned your enemies as well as warmed the hands of your allies. 

It was becoming increasingly difficult to train behind a closed gate, under a roof, beneath the watchful eye of First Army guards armed with fire extinguishers. In fact, it had grown so stifling you had begun to resemble Alina Starkov when first she came to the Little Palace, with her pallor skin and brittle locks.

You brushed the aforementioned hair, now soft and healthy from the effects of tailoring, behind your ear as you placed the brush down and sharpened your stare at Nikolai’s face, shrouded in silver shadows from the icy light of the moon.

“Craves adulation,” you grumbled, knowing that if your voice rose any higher, it would betray every emotion storming around your heart. “Have a look in the mirror, Nikolai, and tell me which of us truly fits your description.”

His description, in all its insulting glory, fit Nikolai Lantsov to the tee.

Nikolai Lantsov, who would smile and wave to a crowd with a Sun Summoner on his arm, allowing you to watch with disdain from your place on a horse beside Mal. Nikolai Lantsov, who would hide behind a pair of gloves to escape the truth of what he had become. Nikolai Lantsov, who had pushed his wife into a state of sickness, albeit unknowingly, sacrificing her life’s blood for the sake of his country.

Nikolai Lantsov, who resolutely shook his head, running a hand through the already dishevelled hair on his head, before waving it dismissively, as if swatting a fly. “Please. You’d flick your hands for anyone who’d ask— if they clapped hard enough.” Nikolai moved for the bookshelf, drawing out a novel as if his words were mere small talk with an old friend.

Your anger blurred to shock. “Flick my hands—”

“Honestly, you take every opportunity to flaunt it. I’m surprised the Little Palace is still standing after having you inside for twenty years!” 

There was no sense to his vile declarations now. Though, Nikolai could not see it. The anger, betrayal, and frustration at being left behind were all that clouded his boyish mind as he hurled one unkind word after the other.

“Nikolai,” You moved towards him, arm outstretched, eyes beginning to water. “Lapushka, please—” As your hand approached his, the storm heavier than ever. He wrenched his arm away from you, leering his head back to look you in the eyes.

“Truly, I can’t be sure why you haven’t left already.”

“For saints’ sake, Nikolai. Look at me!”

The dam broke as you flicked your hands, removing the tailoring to your appearance, unveiling the truth of your restrictions.

Nikolai stared with an open mouth and hard eyes as the warm winter flush of your cheeks was replaced with dulled skin, and the sleek shine of your hair was redefined with a brittle and unkempt bush.

“The only person from whom I crave adulation,” you whispered, “is the only man who’s too thick to look past a wavering mask.”

The Lantsov King swallowed, flipping the book restlessly in his hands. “Y/N—”

“Get out.” You left no room for him to argue, even when he opened his mouth once more. “I said leave!” You stalked to the door, pulling it open with a loud shriek of wood. “Now.”

Nikolai Lantsov, who spent the night in a guest room, in a state of perpetual regret.

No amount of tossing and turning brought any comfort to his aching heart, nor his pounding head. He flopped halfheartedly in the guest bed, stiff from lack of use, and from lack of you, revisiting the disgusting words he’d spat. The reason for them, however unjustified, sat heavily on his chest, suffocating him at an agonizing rate.

Nikolai Lantsov, who was afraid that— like his mother and father— you would grow to resent his blood, resent it for its stark difference to yours. The fear that you would  regret your marriage to what your people called an otkazat’sya: the abandoned.

The King figured it was only a matter of time before the title served him fully. 

It was reasonable, wasn’t it? To lash out at a time of vulnerability? Nikolai couldn’t be sure, having grown up in a family of despots who had never given him the time of day when it mattered most. 

Watching the tailored facade fall from his wife’s face, Nikolai was reminded solely of his mother, who, like you, was coerced into moulding her face into that of the perfect queen, at the behest of her husband. He knew then that all he had said and done was wrong. Wrong to her, and wrong to her people.

How could he bring himself to apologize? To walk into their bedroom and beg forgiveness? Would she forgive him? Even if he stooped— a king in tears and on his knees for the woman he loved perhaps more ardently than the country he vowed to govern— would she, in all her scorned glory, crouch beside him, take his face in her hands, and kiss away his regret?

Could he expect her to?

Dawn came around all too swiftly, rousing husband and wife from their fitful sleep in separate rooms, and with it came your departure to the northern lands.

You stood side-by-side with Nikolai as the carriages were loaded with provisions, luggage, and gifts for the Drüskelle, refusing to look at him. Instead, digging fruitlessly in your shoulder bag as an excuse to keep your head down.

The call came from the footman as the time arrived for you to leave. You didn’t make it more than one step forward with your hand gripping the leather strap of your bag before a firm grasp was on your waist.

“Wait,” whispered Nikolai, tugging you back. He cast a glance at the guard, letting him know that they would need a moment. “I can’t let you leave— not like this.” 

You held your gaze to the floor. Gently, he tilted your head back up with his thumb and forefinger. “Not now, not when you can barely look at me,” he continued. You held his stare as his hand shifted tentatively towards your jaw. “Not when I can’t be sure you won't come back to me, Milaya.”

You sniffled softly at the nickname, moving your own hand to his face and pausing to tuck away a loose golden curl.

“Please come back to me,” he said softly as if he were sharing a secret. There was an unspoken apology apparent in his reddening eyes while the seconds ticked by.

“Of course,” you murmured back, tipping his head down as you pecked his brow, then his cheek. “Nikolai, there’s not a thing in this world that could keep me away from you.”

You kissed him soundly, your hand running across the expanse of his jaw as he leaned into the tender forgiveness settled in your palm. When you broke apart, Nikolai took your hand from his face. He kissed your palm and walked you to your carriage. The King watched with concerned eyes as you took your seat.

Nikolai kissed your hand once more from his place on the ground and looked up at you. “Swear you’ll write,” he said. “Or I’ll crash the proceedings.”

You barked a hearty laugh, squeezing his hand as he tried to let you go. “I will,” you promised. “And I’ll see you when I come back.”

It was another moment before you let go of his hand. His palm hit the carriage door bearing the Lantsov crest. You watched as the carriage travelled further and further away, Nikolai’s frame disappearing into the horizon. 

“I promise,” you whispered.

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[ffxivquel]

Pawn

That night, he laid painfully awake in the infirmary. He’d slept for nearly a moon- at least one part of him did. The other had lived that time shaking in that ruin. Disoriented, frightened and existing in a nightmare. Now, he couldn’t close his eyes.

Felore remembered little of the wraith that struck him in the ruin. What he laid awake rehearsing in his mind were witness accounts of the incident. The moments his aether and body had been sundered in two. The confusion of his body’s odd stasis. His deathly pallor masking the single tether of life that his heart weakly beat to. It had taken them weeks to fully understand what had happened. That his soul cowered in the dark chamber still in Belah’dia. And when they finally returned, he was so traumatized, his aether lashed out. Refusing to cooperate and skittering into shadows deeper in the ruin.

He was returned in a Sharlayan device. Countless hours spent with chirurgeons and Ossuary priests looming over his body, debating ethics and all manner of advanced aetherology. He was lucky they managed to put his split parts back together without losing him or committing a crime.

There was something sobering about being forced to lay another night in a bed after being asleep for so long. His muscles of twenty turns had atrophied. He was weak. But he’d recover.

To once again crawl through the most dangerous parts of the ruins for the Ossuary’s mission as all young apprentices did. Or perhaps he wouldn’t. Death had touched him, and he was finished being a pawn.

[karmawind-a]

ㅤㅤㅤ𝐭𝐡𝐞   𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐠𝐞𝐬   𝐨𝐟   𝐡𝐢𝐬   𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬,   the   darkened   corners   of   an   unmara-influenced   mind...   oh,   they   remember   dan   feng's   plight   well.   this   occasion   had   become   special,   in   it's   own   way,   something   to   celebrate   the   inherit   eroticism   and   beauty   of   his   beloved   dragon   lord.   yingxing   had   spent   so   many   moons   coiled   in   the   sheets   with   him,   beneath   that   illuminated   sky,   the   smell   of   sex   and   incense   heavy   in   the   air.   night   after   night   they'd   spent,   coiled   in   a   warm   embrace,   until   the   pallor   of   his   flesh   had   been   stained   with   bruises   and   love   bites,   marks   and   scratches...   until   he   could   no   longer   move,   and   his   holy   yinyue   jun   would   take   to   riding   him,   or   fucking   into   the   artisan   instead.   yes,   the   blade   remembers   so   many   of   those   details   as   vividly   as   they   were   yesterday   -   and   the   clearest   memory   of   all?

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ'   i   love   you.   you're   mine.   in   this   life   and   the   next.   '

ㅤㅤㅤhe   shivers,   and   for   once   he   does   not   know   if   it's   from   lust  ��or   the   presence   of   long   dead   ghosts.   

ㅤㅤㅤcrimson   hues   dissect   the   being   below   him   with   almost   morbid   curiosity,   wildness   fading   to   sharp   and   keen   interest   in   the   span   of   a   moment.   he's   unable   to   resist   the   hiss   that   leaves   him   -   and   he   tells   himself   it's   because   the   sensation   is   familiar,   it's   because   yingxing   has   been   here   before   and   the   blade   is   only   reliving   the   feelings...   but   deep   down,   he   knows   better.   knows   that,   in   fact,   it's   because   dan   heng   is   beautiful   -   his   body   resplendent.   lithe,   strong,   stunning.   oh   he   wants   to   taste   and   taste   and   taste,   drink   the   moon   drinker,   take   him   apart   and   see   if   he   writhes   like   dan   feng   did,   or   what   noises   he   can   entice   from   those   cloud   spewing   lips...   

ㅤㅤㅤhis   back   meets   the   ground   in   a   flurry   of   limbs,   low   hiss   parting   his   lips   as   the   sword   his   now   far   from   reach.   he   could   still   kill   dan   heng   like   this,   and   quite   easily   -   but   why   would   he?   this   is   far   better   a   punishment   for   a   sinner   such   as   he,   he   tells   himself,   even   as   his   body   stirs   to   wakefulness,   hardening   within   the   slate   gray   of   his   pants   and   his   hands   moving   to   fixate   upon   slim   hips.   his   grip   is   bruising   -   but   he   is   always   rough,   especially   now,   especially   as   he   looks   deep   into   moon-cut   eyes,   and   grins   again.   

ㅤㅤㅤ❝   pathetic.   ❞   he   breathes,   and   yet   the   word   is   a   thin   mask   for   what   he   truly   means:   beautiful.   he   is   not   immune   to   these   worldly   pleasures,   not   as   his   eyes   lid   -   his   hips   arching   upwards,   body   rolling   into   the   warmth   the   other   provides.   ❝   so   pathetic.   ❞   and   aeons,   it's   nigh   on   affectionate,   nearly   reverent,   the   way   he   says   it,   the   way   he   reaches   forth,   gripping   dan   heng's   tunic   in   his   hands   and   ripping   it   clear   off   his   chest   with   one   brutal   flex   of   his   fingers.   his   gaze   drills   from   murderous   to   hungry   -   mara   bleeding   into   the   remainder   of   yingxing   and   lust   blooming   in   it's   wake.   yes,   he   thinks,   yes   let   me   have   him   again,   and   again,   and   again.   only   he   knew   how   to   make   this   better,   only   he   could   bring   this   body,   this   soul,   the   undue   pleasures   and   pain   it   deserved.   

ㅤㅤㅤa   growl   rends   through   him   then,   hand   careening   upwards   to   slide   brutally   through   dark   tresses.   with   a   pull,   he   yanks   dan   heng   downwards,   and   smashes   their   lips   together   -   violent,   hungry,   tasting   of   copper   and   cloud   hymns   and   want.   he   is   savage,   perhaps   more   so   than   usual,   the   plundering   of   tongue   past   sharp   draconic   fangs   -   wet   muscle   fucking   deep   into   the   warmth   available   to   him...   he   remembers   this.   remembers   being   a   mortal   man,   worshipping   the   body   of   his   dragon   god,   striving   constantly   to   be   perfect   at   everything   for   yinyue,   yinyue,   yinyue...   

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤno.   this   was   dan   heng.

ㅤㅤㅤthat   noise   melts   to   a   sharp   snarl,   the   brutal   bite   of   his   own   teeth   to   dan   heng's   lower   lip   -   the   sucking   of   that   soft   tier...   it   all   culminates   into   blade   arching   up   into   him,   while   a   hand   finds   the   soft   pebble   of   his   nipple.   there,   he   is   more   gentle,   flicking   oh   so   lightly   over   a   pink   nub   and   allowing   wanton   want   to   permeate   the   next   few   kisses   he   presses   to   those   sinner's   lips.   ❝   be   specific.   ��   he   murmurs,   cruelty   curling   past   his   mouth   the   same   way   the   other   breathes   mist   against   his   kiss-stained   lips,   ❝   tell   me   exactly   what   you   want,   or   i'll   leave   you   here   to   rot,   empty   and   alone.   ❞

          so too, had long scion’s body attempted to warn him from within. the archivist thought he had been made sturdier, that the … amorous ghost of these memories was just restlessness, that the heat was simply weather. and if it was a fever ?   what then ?   well, dan heng might have ignored that too, for when was the last time he’d allowed sickness to trifle with him ?   not a one. there had been familiar talk, familiar mention of the ritualistic surrender to passion   –   but to be moonstruck was   …   well it had never been a pleasant affair. plagued, he had been, by the shadow of his memories   ;   dreams of touches and nameless faces, a voice that echoed and reverberated in his head long after the dregs of sleep had left him.   (   ‘   yinyue. my beautiful yinyue.   ’   )   and always he would wake from those moonstruck dreams conflicted   ;   aroused and frustrated, jealous and lonely.

          lately, the dreams had become more convoluted, the mysterious figures just beyond the point of recollection emerging in the form of his familiar hunter. the concepts escaped him before he would reach the waking world, but they always stayed with him   ;   a whisper in his ear, a longing touch across his back, a temperamental heat in the bones of him. it had never been more apparent than in the moments he looked up from what could have been a dying blow, when the remnants of slain beast had been felled by blade’s weapon, and his growled out “ you’re mine ” had made a permanent imprint in his memories. some insane part of dan heng found blade attractive, some unwell part of him had followed the set of his eyebrows, the cut of his jaw, the glowing fieriness like tempered – metal in his eyes, and dreamed of kissing him under the moonlight. it was as mortifying a realization as any, until it had been surpassed by this moment   ;   feeling idiotic and vulnerable under the hunter’s scrutiny.

          the sword piercing rotting wood should have been sounding off alarm bells, so too, should the realization that blade was well aware of what it meant to be moonstruck. dan heng could run. in this instant, blade was disarmed. he could have cloud piercer in his hand, cutting across the warrior in moments. he could visualize a thousand different escape routes in an instant, but what he wanted, what he desired had been   (   regrettably   )   right here in front of him the entire time. dan heng was a sanctimonious vidyadhara. he was – by birthright – a sinner. did it mean he was undeserving of the pleasures afforded his race ?   was he to spend every eighth – ringed moon on his own ?   despondent and cold ?   or   …   could he take matters into his own hands, if only for tonight ?   death may loom, but not while his blood sung with the friction between them   ;   when he could do nothing with self restraint but discard of it, grip blade harder, grind down stronger, bitten lips spitting out an unabashed groan as the pleasure surged through long scion like a tsunami.

          eyes aglow like the light of the moon, the story of predator and prey flipping as dan heng lunged at the hunter to straddle his thighs – out of arms reach from the weapon at hand. it was a small relief, for blade was deadly even without his signature sword, but the thought did not matter as much as it should. not when the vidyadhara had a better control like this, when the arch of his back upon grinding hips once more was pure ecstasy. in wake of heats that had always, always, left him uncomfortable, and unsatisfied, this was sheer, unadulterated bliss already. in the end, who could know his body better than his worst enemy ?   exploit the weakness of him ?   would he ?   would this be more satisfying than painting his metal red with blood ?   “   don’t just stare.   ”   dan heng growled, quiet, flushed cheeks dampening the sharpness of glowing blue – green slits, tendrils of mist giving away just how desperate he was. oh, how he ached in ways he hadn’t in decades   (   with a need to be loved like he hadn’t in centuries.   )   “   i, i need –   ”   your blade. the way yours slakes its appetite on blood. i need it. i need it.   just say you -   “   - need you, blade.   ”

          drink me up, this lunar divinity, just this once. have your fill.

[lovetaled-a]

*  @warnsyou  (  jem carstairs  )  ⋆ ›   ‘  stay behind me.

every face that rises in will’s vision is of a glistening pallor,    cut with crimson lips like petals of rose,     darkly sunken eyes with undertow gazes,     of eerily-uncanny beauty:    their shapes the delicacy of pressed flowers and passions long withered.     he’d never been fond of vampires.     they first unsettled will as they drew his curiosity,     their costumes from bygone eras and untastefully-cultivated appearance of living.     he thought it similar to seeing ghosts,     only these were utterly drained of the humanity which tethered the restless souls will encountered on the london streets.    corporeal and moving,     life-mimicking,     and in all respects except the literal heart-beating sort,     alive.     yet they defied the very nature which rendered life temporary,     thus love eternal.

the place was called a bleeding den by shadowhunters.    few managed to operate successfully without being discovered:    a blatant violation of the accords through and through,     and an easy one to decommission once proof was obtained.     of course the downworld had its ways of thwarting discovery,     and always suspected the presence of nephilim who interfered.     will had never been to one of the places himself until now:     while vampires feeding on mortals despite the law was something he’d seen time and time again,    this was a reveling in it,     a place of vice where mundanes bled out and died,    some to revive again,     that even desired to walk among the night children.     however the process of that transformation was not one that could be controlled and more often than not it occurred through malicious intent. 

as he weaves his way through cold bodies in an even colder room,     sensuous music and sinister voices and laughter and wailing cries that burn in will’s ears.     he finds himself near to praying that the glamour and care he took in covering up his runes kept him from immediate discovery     (  one could only imagine the trouble that a shadowhunter would run into in a place where vampires drained people of blood like they were downing drinks.     will certainly doesn’t savor becoming some pasty bloodsucker’s nightcap.  )     he cannot disguise the momentous shudder that wracks him,     the quick masking of a stricken expression.      surely the sense of overwhelming wrongness occurred prior to the discovery of his parabatai among them,     leaning against the wall near a dripping candelabra,     with a glass of devil knows what drink the den had on tap.     his gaze narrows in the dim light and pressing shadows,     wishing it were a trick:     but will knew him always,     by soul keener than sight.     his lips part in surprise as he catches up the twin silver moons of jem’s eyes in his own,  approaching without a glance over his shoulder in apprehension of notice. 

❛❛    what in the bleeding hell,     james  —    ❜❜      his eyes darken to turbulent seas in the night,      shoulder close to brushing up against the other’s:     he hadn’t warned jem he’d be staking the place out,     yet jem must have caught wind and come up with a ruse far more elaborate than will’s for blending in     (  he looks like one of them,     will realizes with a pang.     i might have passed him by and thought nothing.  )     ❛❛    bleeding hell,     bloody literally.     i thought you were confined to your chambers.    ❜❜    yet would will have asked jem along,     to a haunt such as this ?     he knew too well the way jem would go very still,     tighten his lips and bend his shoulders with self-awareness at the sight of downworlders poisoned by the drug that laced his own blood.     a part of will always sought to prevent it,     and he would face greater horrors than this to avoid the dismay that always settled over jem at an inadvertent reminder of his fate.     will tilts the brim of his hat low,     as his voice harshens to a furious whisper.    ❛❛    very well,     behind you.     so long as you explain what you thought of coming here,     dressed like dead hamlet ran off the stage for a lark.       and do not even consider drinking that.    ❜❜

[queenofbaws]

DAI: Steel and Salt

Fandom: Dragon Age Characters: OCs Rating: G (some language) Author’s note: Welp, I haven’t posted anything like this in a grip, but I couldn’t help it - here’s the (unlikely) meeting of a couple of my fav side characters from an rp my buds and I have had going for a bit. Contessa is @malum--in--se’s, and the as-yet-mysteriously-unnamed Avvar is @kryptonitic’s ;P ---

“It seems to me that a captain should be at the helm of his ship at all times.”

To acknowledge her presence, the Avvar simply chuckled, one corner of his mouth curving upwards in a hooked smile. In the full light of the moon, he seemed to be cast in a pale silvery glow, his skin taking on the pallor of a waterlogged corpse. He made no effort to turn towards her, and indeed did very little to interrupt his own comfortable lounging; he sat suspended a foot or so above the waves, reclined in a makeshift hammock of netting attached to the side of the boat.

To Contessa, it did not appear to be a particularly safe perch. It would be so terribly easy for someone to slice through one of the ropes and simply send him down into the chilly waters of the Amaranthine. “You trust your men to handle your vessel, then?”

He did not speak for a long while, instead continuing to stare out across the water. As Contessa drew nearer (still well outside of striking distance), she realized one of his arms hung out over the nets, his hand obscured by foamy crests of water. “A strange concern for an Orlesian,” he said after some time.

“Antivan,” she corrected without missing a beat. Her porcelain mask was tucked away somewhere in her bags below deck in the hold, but the faint spray of salt air on her skin felt like a mask of a different sort. It was another of her many talents: switching so easily between Orlesian ideals and Antivan ones. Standing there on the rocking deck of the ship, illuminated by nothing save the moon and stars, lulled by the sound of the waves around them, she felt closer to a Crow than a Harlequin. Maker, it had been…a long time since she’d felt that way.

The Avvar scoffed loudly enough for her to hear. “Ah. Antivan. Aye. Such a difference, the two…” he tone grew mockingly pensive, “Such a difference.”

There was a difference. There was an entire world of separation and subtext that lay between the intricate societies, but she didn’t much care to explain that to him. The difference between Orlais and Antiva was as clear as the difference between her dear, sweet Napoleon and herself. Orlesians were ostentatious and backhanded, prone to histrionic meltdowns and weak for gold filigree. Antivans were prideful and as quick as the daggers hidden under their clothes, they were passionate but patient. Had Napoleon not already been asleep, the captain would’ve seen it clear as day: At the mere suggestion that Orlesians and Antivans were one in the same, Napoleon’s head may very well have exploded with righteous fury. Contessa simply watched the sky with careful eyes.

Because the Avvar were not Orlesians nor Antivans nor Fereldans nor Marchers nor Tevinters nor Navarrans nor much of anything else, and loath as she was to admit it, she didn’t have nearly enough experience with their sort to have as solid a read on him as she would’ve liked. That meant the scales were not particularly tipped in her favor. That would have to change. Soon.

The Avvar turned to her only slightly, the cast of the moon making the pale blue ink on his skin appear almost black in comparison. His eyes were hooded by the jut of his brow, and something about his face called to mind the warning tales her grandfather used to tell her about the beasts that lived in the ocean’s depths. “I don’t suspect you came up here just to nanny the crew, eh?” His head rolled back against the netting as he glanced down to the water once more. “So what is it that troubles you, lowlander? Ah. Apologies. Antivan lowlander.”

She could hear the smirk in his voice, filed it away for later, and pretended to ignore it. “Why did you agree to take us?”

He turned fully to her then, examining her with a breed of contemplation that again brought to mind something scaled and hungry. Still he said nothing, only watching her with those inscrutable eyes.

Ah, so he hadn’t expected directness from an Orlesian-slash-Antivan. Good to know. “No one else on the dock was willing to transport us, regardless of what we promised. So why is it that you would?” She had her suspicions of course—Contessa always had her suspicions—but it had been a full day without the Avvar or his crew letting on in the slightest. It was setting her on edge.

The air between them was silent but for the waves. Somewhere far off, a bird cried out in the darkness.

Slowly at first, the Avvar nodded, and then cast his gaze back out to the oily black waters of the ocean. “I suppose you’ll be wanting the real answer, Antivan, but oh, I’m not sure the real answer is something you’ll be willing to hear.” He heaved a heavy sigh as though it weighed on him.

She had considered making an accusation, drilling down on what he had meant, but years had taught her that men often hanged themselves best with the nooses their own hands had tied. So she let him speak.

His answer was…not even in the realm of what she had expected. “Mayhap the reason you’re aboard my ship is that it’s what the gods want.”

It was only decades of honing her craft that kept her face as impassive as it was. “The gods?” Contessa asked, blinking in disinterest. “I didn’t take you for a pious man. But if you feel the Maker has—”

There was a strange sound from him, caught somewhere between a cough and a laugh of derision. He forked the fingers of his dry hand towards the sky in a lewd gesture. “Stuff your Maker. Neither him or his fiery tart have say in what we do on this ship.” He offered her another sharp, withering look. “Our gods answer us, Antivan. When has yours ever done that?” He fixed her with that stare for a long while before jerking his head, signaling for her to join him at the edge of the boat. “Our gods,” he began again, “Look for those of us who are worth something. Those of us who are capable and strong. If we are strong enough, if we make our offerings, if we speak to them…sometimes they present us with…unique opportunities.”

Warily, she crossed the space between them, the boards of the deck creaking under her feet as she joined him. She leaned her hands against the side of the ship, craning her head over to get a better view of the choppy waters being churned up by the boat’s wake. From that vantage, she could tell exactly what ropes would need to be cut to send the great brute of a man crashing into the water; the thought occurred to her again that he must trust his men a great deal if he was so willing to put himself in such a stupidly vulnerable position. Contessa Ravenna did not trust in that way. “Unique opportunities,” she repeated, looking down at him.

“Whether you believe me or not is your burden, lowlander. You asked me a question and I answered. The gods brought you to me. There is a reason for that, though for love of The Lady, I can’t begin to fathom it.”

She had the desire to wrinkle her brow, but it was a fleeting thing, gone as soon as it occurred to her. “I can’t help but notice one tiny insinuation you’ve made, there. You say that your gods help those they find worthy. Does that mean you believe yourself to be one of those lucky few?” It was a pointless question to ask. In her experience, there were hardly any men, Orlesian, Antivan, Avvar, or otherwise, who thought themselves unworthy of anything.

The Avvar did not speak. Instead, perplexingly, he lifted his right hand, the one that had been in the water since she’d first come above deck, and reached across himself. He turned his palm up and waved his fingers to beckon her to give him her hand.

Contessa stared at his mammoth palm for a second, maybe two, thinking to herself that he was truly a madman if he thought she was about to entrust her own physical wellbeing to him. And then, in a show of bravery or stupidity—she hadn’t quite decided—she acquiesced, allowing him to take her hand.

“Bend,” he ordered, his tone surprisingly gentle, given the deep, thunderous rumble of his voice. When she did, he placed her hand into the water where his had been only a moment ago. Once her hand was submerged, he shifted his grip to her wrist, turning his gaze to her face. He stared with a dark sort of intensity, looking for something Contessa couldn’t quite place…

And then she felt it.

Against the pads of her fingers, something solid. Something rough. Something large.

Finishing school be damned, that time she did react. Her gasp was quiet, more a sudden intake of breath than an actual cry, and she pulled her wrist free of the Avvar’s grip with a sudden jerk. Part of her wanted to look at him, wanted to demand what had happened, or how he was doing that…but her eyes were riveted on the dark shape just under the water, the tip of a fin she had mistaken in the darkness as just another wave.

It was difficult to tell in the dark of the night, but she cast her eyes down towards the stern and thought she caught sight of another fin for the briefest of moments. If she had, and if that had been its tail…the shark was nearly the size of the boat itself. Her hand dripped, spreading a cold wetness through her bodice as she pressed her palm to her stomach in disbelief.

“Oh, I am worthy,” the Avvar said, his quiet confidence terrifying in its own right. He dropped his hand back into the surf, allowing his fingers to skim the massive beast hidden just under the water. “Of that, lowlander, there are no doubts.”

[storyweaverofgondor]

So @theguywhoreallylikescats inspired me to really go whole hog and nose dive into a Lord of the Rings Cats au. so despite a fickle and easily distracted muse I’m going to try and write It! Yay!

Here’s a small preview:

“Misto!” Tugger exclaimed and rushed to the other cat's side. He dropped to his knees, hardly hearing the clatter as he dropped Sting onto the rocks. He grabbed the sticky fibers of web and tore them away. He stared in shock and horror at the sight that met him, stomach tying itself in knots. Misto's face was slack and held a deathly grayish pallor, blue eyes staring blindly up at nothing.

“Oh, no.” the maned cat breathed. He could feel the burn of tears in his eyes and this time he did not care if they fell “Misto?” with his last bit of desperate hope Tugger gave the smaller tom a rough shake “Mistoffelees!” He exclaimed, trying to ignore how the other tom shook limply like a freshly gutted fish. He pulled the shrouded figure into his lap “Wake up.” he pleaded, heart breaking at the lack of warmth he could feel “Don't leave me here alone.” he pleaded, tears now flowing freely down his cheeks “Don't go where I can't follow.” he leaned in closer and his tone hardened to almost a command “Wake up.”

but there was no response. No reaction. No adorable blush or amusing eye roll. The Rum Tum Tugger had to face the truth.

“Not asleep. Dead.”

there was such a note of finality hearing his voice say those words. There was no turning back from them. To be confronted with such a fiendish certainty left the poor cat overwhelmed.

With a sob he clutched the figure in a tight embrace. He didn't care if the sticky webbing caught in his mane and claws.

What could it possibly matter if the stars had faded when the moon had been ripped from the sky?

Tugger rocked back and forth as he cried, the lifeless figure cradled in his arms “There's so much I should have told you.” his voice had become so small and breathy, his swagger finally crushed beneath his despair. He tightened his grip of the nape of Misto's neck, unable to let go.

A flair of blue light in the corner of his eye made him look up.

Sting lay where he had dropped it, glowing bright.

His golden eyes widened in realization before his face hardened into a cold mask.

Whatever orcs or goblins had been stupid enough to intrude upon this moment would deeply regret it.

The Rum Tum Tugger had nothing left the lose.

So, Opinions? :) Yes, Tugger isn’t Gimli. sorry to disappoint. I wanted the Tuggoffelees angst!

[minaa-munch]

Ashes and Dust (Part 2)

“Jinko?”

“Suna”

“What about Anko?”

“Dunno”

“Minato?”

“Nope”

Shikaku paused, raising himself to rest on his elbows as he fixed the blond with a curious look, “If he’s not on that squad and you haven’t seen him around your family compound...” trailing off, black hues narrowed a fraction, “Where do you think he could have gone?”

“Beats me” Blue hues blinked as a light breeze slapped a stray leaf on his cheek. Inoichi didn’t even bother to flick it off. 

Next to him, Chouza opened another bag of rice crisps, “You don’t think any of the other villages are playing dirty, do you?” fingers pulled out two chips before the bag was invitingly dangled over Inoichi’s face, “I mean...he broke the Sandaime’s record and everything.” 

Inoichi sighed before he too, pulled himself up via conveniently placed Akimichi wrist, “You guys worry too much” he grinned, looping both arms around their shoulders, “this is Namikaze we’re talking about! Wherever he is, he’s probably fine!” 

Shikaku and Chouza exchanged a look. Inoichi was trying too hard to be cheerful, and it was very easy for them to tell, seeing as how they had spent so much time together. They were also the very few who knew that both boys shared a clan, though Inoichi happened to be from the main house whereas Minato’s parentage was somewhat vague at best.

What they didn’t know though, was that Inoichi had already asked.

“He’s been picked for a secret mission.” the patriarch was clearly busy, hands already unrolling a scroll, “seeing as how he’s the only one who made Chunin.”

Ouch. Inoichi felt his face burn a little in embarrassment though he dared not say a word to risk trying the elder Yamanaka’s temper. Said Yamanaka seemed to have noticed. Steely blue hues flickered to the younger male as his fingers paused, “I have faith in you, Inoichi.”

Eh? 

He swore he saw the old man’s expression soften, though then again Inoichi might have been hallucinating “Someday, you will lead this clan and you’ll have to make decisions that will not only affect you, but this entire family and even the village.”

Blue hues blinked in surprise.

“Everyone has a role to play. I know you’ll be able to play yours.”

His father had conveniently sidestepped the issue, and that hadn’t been the first time. If Yamanaka Ichirou didn’t want to talk about something, not even the Hokage could get him to speak. 

Still...it had been nice. He frowned a little at the memory, “He’s fine...”

Probably. 

-----

Wet fingers fumbled with the seal that taped the scroll shut. So hasty was he in his attempts, he had forgotten the necessary chakra seals required until a manicured hand poked his shoulder in reminder. 

Once the appropriate seals had been made, the scroll unfurled all over his lap - cue three pairs of curious hues as the newly titled Sanin leaned over the slanting script, the kanji clear and crisp on faded parchment. 

Jiraiya, 

I’m glad that the three of you managed to survive a run-in with Hanzo. The news of your successes and your new titles has definitely boosted our troops’ collective morale. Unfortunately, we don’t have time to celebrate - I want you three to wrap up matters in Ame as quickly as possible and then join our reinforcements at Kusa.

We, on the council’s approval, intend to make a final push against Iwa soon, and you three will be needed to further the objective.

Still no word of Minato, eh? Jiraiya’s lips pursed in a thin line as Orochimaru and Tsunade exchanged a look between themselves. They were not privy to Jiraiya’s internal monologue, though they were well aware of what it meant to go toe-to-toe with Iwa around that particular border. 

Their resources were at their limits - it was either victory or utter defeat from here on and that particular outcome had just been placed squarely on their shoulders. Hatake Sakumo was already too occupied in Suna, and they couldn’t afford to pull Jonin from where they were stationed in the many, many, outposts littering the border of Hi no Kuni. 

That, coupled with their recent escapades had the village leadership turning to them. White brows furrowed at the thought, as he raised his head to look at his teammates who appeared just as battered as he was. Tsunade met his expression with a pensive one of her own, whereas Orochimaru simply sighed, standing to regain his spot before the rocky precipice. The wind whipped his inky hair around his shoulders, but neither Jiraiya nor Tsunade had to look at him to know what he was thinking. 

They would probably head out tomorrow, though he had an empty feeling in the pit of his stomach that he knew had nothing to do with hunger. The Sandaime had ignored his constant queries after his wayward student, and Jiraiya was no fool. 

The will of fire must keep burning in order to illuminate the village, from where tree leaves will bud a-new. 

Cue the timely crack of thunder, announcing a fresh bout of rain. 

-----

The night was quiet, apart from the occasional, low drone of machinery and the occasional cricket that tittered from somewhere in the mess of concrete and wood that comprised the streets of Sora no Kuni. The moon hid behind one particularly towering structure, its light streaming in patches across the dark alleys. One particular strand illuminated crimson locks before they disappeared, leading a casual witness to deem it a trick of misplaced brick. 

The land of the Sky, as it had come to call itself, had recently emerged to challenge the five great shinobi nations, a feat that usually did not merit much notice since they weren’t called the five great shinobi nations for nothing. 

However, what made it a threat was the presence of arms and machinery - coupled with the fact that they had practically announced the fact that they would destroy the nations - starting from Hi no Kuni - from the very heavens. 

The declaration made it their problem. Technology was troublesome and something Konoha did not possess in abundance you see; and at that point in time, they could not afford a new contender in a war such as this. The fact, coupled with their dwindling resources made it the perfect training dummy of sorts. Light hues flickered to colored counterparts at the thought, taking in the sick pallor of the kunoichi’s face. They hadn’t given her enough time to recuperate from their training sessions, nor from handling constantly fluctuating demonic chakra and he could see that it was beginning to take its toll on her.

Well, tough. “Just like we practiced.” He said, to which she turned even paler, if it were possible. Gloved digits pulled out an inscribed scrap of paper, “Its fine. We have reinforcements if it comes down to it.” 

“Iie. You don’t know what the Kyubi can do.” The whisper was firm, though laced with disdain, as pale fingers curled into tight fists by her sides. Kushina was adamant, “Mito sama never meant for the vessel to be used this way.”

Cue a frown that the Uzumaki couldn’t see, “Times have changed...” he began, nimble fingers already forming seals; the air had shifted around them, though in all the wrong ways, “And you don’t get to complain.” The inscribed bit of paper was slapped on to her forehead before she could move, the kanji already bleeding on to her features; black ink drawing out frothing, burning chakra that wrapped around her limbs. Her eyes had grown wide, petrified as blood enveloped the startled iris. 

The malevolent chakra forced him to take a step back. A masked gaze took note of the bubbling tails that had begun to sprout from her altered form, and what had once been a kunoichi was now a snarling beast on all fours. Empty white sockets almost zeroed in on him before he disappeared in a swirl of leaves, leaving nothing but the concrete around them to suffer the beast’s wrath.

History would later report that Sora no Kuni was destroyed in a single night. Nothing but debris and burnt corpses remained.

--And the technology they had been so proud of? Twisted heaps of scrap metal amidst splatters of thick blood. 

----

Pale blue hues stared at despondent digits as he willed them to move - only to get a slight twitch of his index finger in reply. Frustrated, he knocked his head back into metal, tired lids fluttering shut.

He was more than exhausted, if that was possible --- and maybe if he hit his head hard enough, he’d manage to give himself a concussion. 

Cue the steady sound of dripping fluid as his hooded gaze narrowed at the dark smudges lining the opposite wall. How many days had it been? The thought prompted a frown, though more at the loss of his sense of time and space - they were at war, weren’t they? He had rescued Kushina just yesterday...

Right? 

At times like these - which were rare, seeing as how this was the only other instance - he wondered, not for the first time, what Jiraiya sensei would do.

|| Special thanks to @senjutsunade for tolerating my ranting/whining/moping. ^^; 

[quiltipcanines]

The Weeping Candle

The light of false reflection comes to hold. The light of the sun is paper thin. It can only cast a pallor. It's untruth tints the world in black and white where luminance is attained only by optical illusion. Everything is delicate in this light. Everything is starved. To be lit is to be sick with the white glow dripping over black features. The untrue sun performs light in a disjointed grace attained not through skill but by broken, missing bones. But to the world it has given them white light. Pure light. Even as the light carves hollow craigs under eyes and between ribs, they will thank the untrue sun for it. The pristine mache prepared for them like paper snowflakes delights them for the same unenlightened way that both satisfies while being lesser. 

But the moon is not satisfied. Not mollified, not consoled. She sees the sun, and knows what it is not. The false light has rent her- for the reflection of false white light has made her a cavern of negative space among the black. White behind it, white beyond it in a dimension that should not be. The lie of light has hollowed her, imploded the mirror that she is. The grief alone might be enough to fill her. If only sorrow was an obelisk that would blot out the sun. 

The moon turns away in pain, not only for the pain of it but for being unable to bear the warping. She casts her eyes wiped white to the sky behind her and bears her grief and rage for being trapped a reflection, an association. She begs the stars for light to shine, just enough true light to see by. Her hand erases the space before her as she reaches out to the smallest star, when suddenly, slowly, achingly- a drip falls from its bottom point. So tiny it's naught but a line, but it glimmers a warm white as it falls into the black below. Just before it seems as though it will splatter on the bottom of space and be lost to the darkness the drop flares out delicate ivory wings trailing scales in their wake. It rises up towards the Moon in graceful and purposeful flight. It is a moth and though it flies the Moon thinks for a moment it is carved of her own stone with how each flap of its wings reveals a rainbow over ivory. 

One by one more teardrops rain down from stars all around her. They are luminous as they fall. Each is white, but the white seeded from every color grown into one. Every motion and breath shows a lineage of hue. Dusky whites born of purples, nurturing yellows making way for eggshell, and misty greens- all there and pearlescent as they fall. All are lit. Some glimmer like candle flame over wax, others as though they're lit from inside.  Each is only faint, mournful scrap of light to toast what had been lost, but together they rose as moths in a with a comforting glow that blanketed the night.  

As the first moth landed on the moon she froze where she expected the moth to. It was soft, almost down and it was unwavering as the negative of the sun ate the glow it cast on the moon. She held her breath as it crawled over her hand, and then slipped beneath her skin and restored the space that was lost. The moment it did the taint of the sun washed away like dust in a breeze. A second moth landed and slipped under, lulling the Moon with a bedtime story she had told the stars hundreds of times over. Her eyes slipped closed and her arms opened.  

A child of the moon lay hidden in the heart of a peach like a secret behind flesh and hull. When the peach pit cracked and bore her in the world she wanted to be back in the sky. The moon was in the seed of her heart and it longed to be back in the sky. She planted fields of lavender like billowing clouds and lay among them until she slept and could look down on the world from her dreams. After she made every bundle of lavender she would make a wish, and then tie each with a bow for luck. One night a star fell from the sky and she caught it so it would land in the arms of someone who understood. Together, she and the star lamented and mourned their fall from the heavens. When the child told the star what she had done, hope cast a spark against its cold iron once again. Like the Moon could wield dreams, Stars all spoke in wishes. While the child dreamt the Star called upon all of the wishes she had made over time, until each wish formed a step. Together they matched step for step, hand in hand, to ascend into the night sky where the Star was welcomed back and the child was welcomed home. 

In a swarm the tears of the stars flew to cover the Moon. Their wings felt like a slow rain of peach petals as they crawled into her to patch together a new, gleaming skin. The Moon was now scaled in moth’s wings like the scales of the wings themselves. A luminous glow came from within her, dim at first but then bright enough to illuminate the seams of each of the moth’s wings in her new patchwork skin. The light was warm and small, having the fragility of something born new to this world. It would one day grow bright with rays of light sharp as fangs but for now it would need to be tended and fostered. Still, it was enough. It was the light the moths had sacrificed themselves for, and it would be enough. It would become whatever it needed to be. 

With her new veil of moth bright skin, the Moon has become the lantern by witch to see by. Her light is the warm shade of growth that cracks through the sterile white light. It is small, it is changed, but it is a light of her own and its potential is infinite. No more does the Moon need the Sun. Her light will not be a reflection of the harsh rays that illuminate superficially. Hers is the soft light by which truth is revealed. Fingers twined in just enough darkness to remove masks, cloaks, and armor, and just enough light to show the naked whole of a person. 

Now with tears dry, the Moon stands and steps to take her place in the sky. She feels the soft flutter of one thousand moths inside her. Just part of her. Their scales catch the un-sun’s rays and they are twisted, bent, and broken. A dark halo surrounds the Moon as the existing light is eaten away. It is the herald of her majesty. The dark before her light.