#my ghastly creations

[creepycr4wly]

Saw his own dimension burn

Misses home and can't return

Says he's happy. He's a liar

Blame the arson for the fire

[chefwhatnot]

A Too-Close Analysis of the Double Exposure Treatments from Duskmourn (1/2)

Happy Prerelease Weekend everyone! During the announcement stream for Duskmourn, Art Director Ovidio Cartagena said that one of the goals of the "Double Exposure" Alt-art treatments was to capture the inner psyches of Legendary Characters. And that immediately tickled my neurons, so I decided to write a bunch about the different Double Exposures and what exactly they suggest about the different characters! This post will feature all the characters from Duskmourn who appear in the Main Story articles, with the rest coming sometime tomorrow probably.

(EDIT: Part 2 is out now! You can find it here)

The Wandering Rescuer-

In profile over the Wanderer is one of Duskmourn’s demons, seeming to show similarities to the demon depicted on the card “Vile Mutilator”. This demon in particular, and presumably other Duskmourn demons, possess the ability to kill survivors’ glimmers. The Wanderer is the only character we see in the story who has a glimmer, potentially because her will and connection to her home plane are strong enough to manifest one before any other members of the party can. So, having that connection to her home, to the place she has sought after for so many years and finally had the chance to return to post-March of the Machines, taken away by a monster… yeah, I can see how the Wanderer might be afraid of that.

Valgavoth, Terror Eater-

Unlike the other double exposure treatments, Valgavoth is the upper layer of this double exposure: he is the nightmare. He blends seamlessly into the door behind him, which is carved with a simulacrum of his core form. He is the House, and the House is Valgavoth. There is no escape from his grasp, etc.

Tyvar, the Pummeler-

Tyvar looks forward, fists raised in a fighting pose. His position suggests fearlessness, but a Cellarspawn still taunts him over his shoulder. “Oh why’d he be afraid of some random Cellarspawn” well he’s not, he’s afraid of what it represents. I posit that this Cellarspawn is the one Tyvar copies when he puts himself and Zimone into House camouflage in the main story. That action, while clever, nearly led to both of them being subsumed into the essence of the House if not for Zimone’s fateshifter. It represents bad change, the possibility that Tyvar isn’t infallible, and the way his transmutation abilities feel uncomfortably similar to that of Phyrexian compleation. But still, Tyvar stands proud and stares forward, ready to courageously curtail whatever may come. Also, only noticed this a bit after originally writing this section, but compare Tyvar’s Double Exposure card to Kona’s. Notice anything? The colors are inverted. Tyvar, the subject of the card, is rendered in magenta, perhaps showing how he is to be feared.

Kaito, Bane of Nightmares-

Kaito is surrounded by gaseous Cellarspawn who shy away from him, flinching back as though in pain. This, combined with his title as "Bane of Nightmares" suggests that there is something about Kaito that the House instinctively cowers from. Which, upon thinking things over, makes sense. He is a planeswalker: he has the ultimate trump card to ignore and escape the horrors of Duskmourn at any time. Plus, he is the only person we’ve seen who was actually able to pose a significant threat to Valgavoth, stabbing him through the chest at the climax of Episode 6. The ghastly cellarspawn are Valgavoth’s creations, and Kaito may be the only one they fear. (Kinda expect Kaito and Valgavoth to have an Ajani/Bolas or Elspeth/Norn relationship maybe.)

Niko, Light of Hope-

Niko is both layers of their double exposure, one calm and confident, the other in pain. Niko’s fears are all internal: fear of not measuring up to their ideals, fear of being forced to go along with whatever plans the powers that be have in store for them. Just as their magic creates reflections, the hand that skillfully balances five of their magic shards is reflected in agony on the "internal" layer. Yet, simultaneously, them being both layers of the double exposure seems to break the rules shown by the other cards. Extremely fitting for a master of their own destiny, wouldn’t you say?

EDIT: @greatdinn pointed out that, in the “internal” art, Niko’s eyes appear to be missing. It could be read as them squinting, but if that is the case it could suggest that Niko’s biggest fear is going blind and losing their skillful accuracy.

Marina Vendrell-

Kinda similar to Victor’s Double Exposure treatment, the wings of a moth is overlaid on top of the subject’s face. However, Victor’s moth is covered in eye patterns, while Marina’s has the shape of a skull on its wings. Victor sees Valgavoth as a source of knowledge or power, Marina knows he brings only death. Notice, too, the way that Victor stares forward, making himself a part of the moth, while Marina glances to the side, attempting to reject its existence. Marina’s only safety now is that of denial: accepting how her actions doomed the plane to an eternity of nightmares would undo her.

Nashi, Searcher in the Dark-

Hey remember that time Nashi was trapped in a cage by a group of wickerfolk who slowly picked off the other Nezumi he cane to Duskmourn with and turned them into wickerfolk? Remember how a similar thing happened when Nashi ran into Tezzeret during that one side story and Tezzeret killed a bunch of Nashi’s friends? Remember how Tezzeret ALSO killed Nashi’s birth parents and everyone else in his village? Remember how everyone who gets close to him meets a horrible fate, to the point that eventually Nashi must find it easier to push other people away, to remain isolated because the only reasonable explanation is that he must be somehow cursed to bring ruin to the people he loves? Yeah.

Winter, Misanthropic Guide-

Winter pinches his forehead, deep in thought. Layered over him is a dagger with a strange handle that morphs into the hand of a corpse. This blade is a reminder of how he betrayed and sacrificed his friend in the house in order to escape Duskmourn. The blade faces the same direction as him, as though primed to stab into someone’s back. The hand is either the hand of his friend, desiccated and decaying, and/or represents the agency he had in the betrayal. Despite his claims that anyone would do the same, it is ultimately a decision he made, a path he followed, and consequences that he is responsible for.

Zimone, All-Questioning-

Over Zimone's face is a book, cover detailed with gnashing teeth and pages flipping ominously in the wind. But, as the story points out, how can there be wind inside the house? Zimone does not know, but she wants to. She wants to know everything, regardless of how outwardly intimidating the container of that source of knowledge may be. The spine of the book makes it look like her eye is closed, which combined with the reflective lens gives her an appearance of sleeping reverie. Her desire for knowledge blinds her to other potential threats, which the House knows and uses to sow the lures of her destruction.

That's it for now! Stay tuned for when I release the rest :)

[swampstew]

Roronoa Zoro, O-73 ~ Praise Kink

Summary: Let's do a monster mash! <She did the monster mash, The Monster Mash, It was a online smash, She Did the Mash, It went viral in a flash, She Did the Mash, She did the Monster Mash!> Frankenstein monster trope but I made it One Piece. Let your imaginations run wild with that scarred body.

Warnings: Spicy and suggestive. No actual smut but a collection of things Frankystein-Zoro would say as he rails you tenderly in his big, monstrous and scarred hands. Praise kink and affirmations, dirty talking, GN reader

Modern monster au: Franky’s Super Weird Experiment! This time he’s gone too far! Creating “a SUPER humanoid,” Franky’s newest creation is loose (or lost) in the ghastly mansion. Until he stumbles on to you, one of Franky’s many research assistants. Seems like Zoro/Zolo (he mumbles a bit, he’s shy at first) is taking an interest in you. Could you ever love a monster like him?

You’re gorgeous. Beautiful. So sexy. My precious human, no one will love you like me

More – give me more of you. I want you to be mine. Forever. Say yes. Sweet thing, you’re so good to me

Do you want to be my doll or my master?

You’re perfect. What? You have insecurities? Not anymore, my sweet

Look at how much precum/slick you’re dripping, and I haven’t even touched you yet. Aren’t you a freaky little thing?

I love the way that tattered outfit looks on you, you didn’t have to dress up for me

This {body part} was made for me

Can you see how you make my cock twitch?

So bare, so naked for me, and not just your nudity. I’m going to make you my spouse

Choke on my monster cock, your moans make me twitch

Only you can make me feel this way. Can make me this cum this hard, enough to stop and restart my stitched heart

I’d never lay a hand on you unless you wanted me to. You do? Wow that’s a lot of places – I’ll spend the rest of my life discovering your pleasures

I love watching you bounce on my cock, seeing you whimper and tremble over my thighs as I fuck you until you’re brain dead

Just like that, you’re doing so well little one

I’m going to mark you, inside and out

3 tiles to go, and since we've already made 60+ calls, the Halloween Scenario is going to be:

Halloween party/séance gone wrong scenario

[mysteryideasgroup]

Bone/Shadow Queen Lady hybrid Skeleton Ghost Skeleghost (MSA X LMK (Lego Monkie Kid oc: Enemy oc))

Bone Lady/Shadow Queen hybrid Skeleton Ghost Skeleghost

Full Name:

Nicknames: Queen, Mom (Possessed/Mind Controlling), My Queen/Lady, Monster,

Gender: Female

Profile Pic

Age:

Blood Type:

Occupation:

Actual or Past Occupation:

Favourite Shows/Games: (___/___/___)

(___,___,___)

Instrument:

Favourite Animal:

Family Members Relatives:

Family Members' Siblings Relatives: 

Other Family Members Relatives:

Friends:

Enemies:

Species: Human (Former), Bone Demon/Shadow Demon hybrid Skeleton Ghost Skeleghost (Current)

Status: Alive/Active

Alignment: Bad

Likes: 

Dislikes: 

Hobby: 

Goals: 

Weapons: 

Powers and Abilities: Like Bone Demon Lady, Shadow Queen, Shape-shifting, Possessed and Possesses to Victims, Mind Controlling to Victims, Demons/Spirits, Float/Floating (Levitation), Ghosts Spirits, Necromancy, Manipulation, Charisma, Corruption, Skeletal Constructs, Crystallokinesis, Telekinesis, Resurrection, Phenomenal dark powers, Umbrakinesis, Evil manipulation, Possession, Near-invincibility, Immense dark magic, Heat-vision, Ghastly hand conjuration, Immortality, Dark lighting projection, Defence break, Attack augmentation, Defense augmentation, Poison inducement, Confusion inducement, Allergy inducement, Life-draining, Healing, Curse inducement, Beast creation, Dragon creation, Demon creation, Electrokinesis Implied: Pyrokinesis Bestowal, Cryokinesis Bestowal, Electrokinesis Bestowal, Poison Bestowal, Volatile constructs

Skills and Abilities: Like Bone Demon Lady, Shadow Queen,

Weaknesses: 

Fears/Phobias: 

Skin Colour: 

Eyes Colour: 

Hair Colour: 

Clothes: 

Shoes: 

Accessories: 

Face Making: 

Hair Styles: 

Eyebrows Styles: 

Nationality: 

Sexuality: 

Relationship Status: 

Romantic Status:

Crimes: Like Bone Demon Lady and Shadow Queen: Possession, Child Possession, Brainwashing, Torture, Mass Murder, Corruption,

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Likes sames of Bad Demons Spirits of TV Series Shows, Movies, Games, Video Games, Books, Novels Books, Graphic Novels Books

Possessed Victims:

Mind Controlling Victims:

Attempt to Possessed Victims:

Attempt to Mind Controlling Victims:

Failed Attempt to Possessed Victims:

Failed Attempt to Mind Controlling Victims:

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For @laurasanchez36

AUs Alternate Universes CUs Crossovers belongs to me 

All belongs to my MSA ocs sonas and my New MSA ocs sonas, (my MSA X LMK ocs sonas and my New MSA X LMK ocs sonas)

All belongs to her MSA ocs sonas and her New MSA ocs sonas, (her MSA X LMK ocs sonas and her New MSA X LMK ocs sonas)

Mystery Skulls Animated MSA belongs to Ben and MysteryBen27 of YouTube YT Series Shows 

Lego Monkie Kid LMK belongs to Lego TV Series Shows and Movies

[angel-of-the-moons]

Nothing Is Lost

Khonshu x Fem!Reader

TW/CW: Blood, nightmares, night terrors, attempted sexual assault (nothing happens), mugging, stalking, religious stuff, mentions some gross af Egyptian lore (reading about that in my textbook was... whew. A lot)

MINORS DNI I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR CONTENT YOU CONSUME

A/N: Obviously inspired by this version of Day 'N' Night from the Moon Knight soundtrack/trailer.

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Chapter 2:

Stressing My Mind (Mind)

After that day, the bag sat on your tiny table. You would spend at least two hours out of the day or night just... staring at it.

And when you fell asleep?

Your previous dreams, confusing, and nonsensical seemed a vacation compared to the ones that haunted you know.

You would hear screams, piercing your ears and causing pain. It wasn't until your senses returned that you realized the screams were coming from you. You would look down at yourself to find blood pouring out of you from your abdomen.

No matter how much pressure you applied, your blood would flow from you like a broken damn, pooling at your feet and running outwards like a river, the end promising a light in the twinkling darkness your dreams often had you in.

You heard the whispers, louder, still indiscernible. It was a man's voice.

You figured it was coming from the light at the end of the bloody river, so you screamed again. Only this time, you made ghastly gurgles, before you would cough violently, blood flowing up and out from your lungs to join the river beneath you.

And that was when you woke up.

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It was after days of consecutive restlessness that you decided to say fuck it.

You unwrapped the "gifts" Jezebel had given you, along with her handwritten notes on what to do, and what kind of offerings to leave once you'd set up your altar. It even included a basic prayer for protection from this god, Khonshu.

You weren't sure how to go about it... so you did some extra research into this "Khonshu".

God of the Moon, indeed he protected those who traveled at night. He was also associated with justice, healing, and even fertility. An odd combination, you mused. But from what you knew of Egyptian gods, they were associated with some weird shit sometimes.

You even unfortunately spent so long clicking on Wikipedia links that you wound up reading about the Contendings of Set and Horus. The stuff Isis did on behalf of her son made you want to rinse your mouth out with the strongest, mintiest mouthwash you had in your cabinet and swear off salads forever.

Well... at least Isis going to the ends of creation for her husband Osiris was romantic... ish.

Once you were done, you decided... hey, what's the harm in offering up a little prayer before you go in for work? You'd be working a later shift tonight, the worst time to walk home was... okay, well any time after the sun went down, really.

You lit the incense, consisting of cinnamon and myrrh, at the base of the statue, along with the fresh fruit your measley budget could afford until you got paid; then you kneeled down and bowed your head.

"Here goes nothing..."

You feel a chill rush through you when you complete the prayer, goosebumps forming on your skin.

A wind blows on the fire escape outside, knocking over your potted plant.

Surely, your apartment is drafty. That's it...

You clear your throat and stand, putting the incense out as you shove your metro card in your empty "work" wallet. It had your name on it, but not your address. So if somebody snatched it they wouldn't be able to track you down.

It wasn't paranoia if it was a very real possibility, after all...

You didn't realize you forgot your mace and taser.

You were so buried in the thoughts of your night that you didn't notice the shadow looming in the dim light of your apartment.

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"Hey, kid, you all right?" Your elderly co-worker, Alec, asked you from his hunched posture. He had told you he was in some sort of accident, and as a result of a botched surgery he had a permanent hunch. He'd been dealing with it for a little over twenty years. In some places he was listed as "disabled" but Alec having his hard-set personality, he wanted to work, earn his keep, not languish in bed somewhere.

He'd taken a shine to you because you were the only one there who didn't treat him like... well. The awful things your coworkers whispered and giggled about behind his back. Sometimes in front of him, too. But never you. Alec felt like family, in the past two years you worked this job. He was like the kindly uncle you wished you always had.

But apparently he'd taken note of the dark bags under your eyes lately, worse than usual and hanging like shadowy curtains over your cheekbones.

"Oh, uh... yeah. I just... haven't been sleeping well, 's all." You mumble, focusing on the particularly dirty spot on the floor from where some idiot made the previous printer that had been there explode.

You would have paid serious money to see the poor sod it exploded on.

"You're working too hard, kiddo." Alec said with a click of his tongue, as he wiped down a nearby table. "Gonna work yaself to death."

You smiled when his accent slipped in. Born and raised New Yorker, you knew. Unlike you. His accent was one of his endearing qualities.

"I'll keep that in mind, Alec." You chuckle, leaning over to scrub roughly with your mop at the ink stain in the linoleum.

"If ya keep hunching like that kiddo," He winked at you. "You're gonna wind up like me, sans the accident!"

"Oh I should be so lucky, Alec! You're resilient as hell."

"Ha, thanks kid. But seriously. You gotta take it easy. If you don't let yourself rest, something else will." He warned you.

And yeah. You knew that much already.

But... money is money.

And money made the world go 'round.

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You hated it.

Hate, hate, hated it.

You felt someone following you, your "feeling" kicking into overdrive. This particular feeling you got well acquainted with. It happened just before every time you got mugged.

Your fears were compounded when you looked in the blacked out windows of the shops you passed in front of, and saw the silhouette of a man marching several paces behind you, this hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, jaw set tight as his pace kept adjusting to match yours.

You didn't have any money. And you were afraid at what he'd do if he attacked you. Would he rough you up and let you go because of a poor mark?

Or would he want to do something... worse?

You up your pace again, the soles of your shoes tapping the pavement.

The chill you felt earlier slipped into your bones, your hair standing on end not from the cold, but from your "feeling".

You all but skid and burn the rubber on the bottom of your shoes when you dart into an alley you had well-mapped by memory, the sound of heavy footfall close behind.

But then it hit you.

If the guy kept following me you, and you ran to where you felt safe...

He could find out where you lived.

Which was worse.

You turned to try and backpedal; fumbling your pockets for your protection, only to realize you left it on your dresser earlier... but the moment you try to turn and escape the other direction, you're clotheslined; splitting your lip and sending you stumbling onto the concrete below.

A taste of copper flooded your mouth and you realized you bit too hard on your tongue when he hit you.

You barely had a moment to recover from your discombobulation before you were hoisted up by your collar, shoved hard against a wall... and felt something cold press into your belly through your shirt.

"L-look... I don't have any money on me. You can search me, and I won't tell anyone..." You say, trying to stay as calm as possible, holding your hands up on either side of your head trying to make the man feel like you weren't worth the effort.

You knew nobody would hear you if you screamed. You knew nobody would come save you if they did. You knew that some people just wouldn't care.

"Well it's a good thing I'm not after cash..." His disgusting breath spewed in your face.

Fuck.

The barrel of his gun slowly rose, catching one of the buttons on your blouse as his knee forcibly parted your thighs.

He used the barrel to undo the buttons one by one.

He tries to force his mouth onto yours, but you turn your head and he raises the gun, pistol whipping you and knocking you down again.

He fists your open shirt again and pulls you back to your feet and throws you against the wall again.

You squeezed your eyes shut as you feel his stinking breath on your neck, the barrel of his gun digging painfully into your ribs.

You choke back a sob as his free hand reaches for your jeans, ready to rip the fly down.

Goddamn that stupid prayer. It was fucking pointless. So much for praying to some god to protect you when you walked alone at night.

Some god of justice--

All of a sudden, the weight of the man was lifted off of you. You whip your head around to see if someone had saved you, but you saw nothing.

Your would be-rapist stumbled to his feet and raised his gun at you.

"I don't know how you did that, you little bitch--"

"Please! I didn't--"

You threw your hands out towards him, the moment you did, he hit the ground like something violently slammed into his gut; crumbling to his knees, gasping and retching for air.

He fumbled for his gun again, but it skittered away across the pavement.

"What the fuck." You breathed.

His head jerked back and you heard the crunching of bone, and he fell back, limp.

You breathe ragged breaths, watching and waiting to see if he indeed tries to get up again.

He doesn't.

Your adrenaline takes over and you clutch your shirt against yourself, running through the alleys until you make it home, safe and tucked away into your apartment, shaky hands sliding all the locks into place and snatching your window curtains closed.

You collapse against the wall, breathing hard, lungs and leg muscles burning.

You stare at the statue sitting on the pitiful altar you DIY'd yourself earlier.

It sat, offerings still there and incense half burned, the statue so... serene, it unnerved you.

"...What..."

You took a deep breath to try and ease your nerves.

"...God... what happened?"

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Chapter 3: Link

[dailyadventureprompts]

Planescape: The Astral Dreamscape

 I make it no secret that I’m not a fan of D&D’s default “great wheel” cosmology as I find the rigidity of its worldbuilding gives me very little to play with as a DM. So here I’m going to present my version of the astral plane, which I’ve found to be a much more convenient narrative thread to weave into my stories involving high magic and the truly weird

Setup: As the feywild exists as a heightened form of the mortal realm’s vitality and emotion, and the shadowfell acts as it’s dark and ghastly inversion, the astral dreamscape takes its form from the cast off thoughts and imaginings of all conscious creatures.

It is the place where the dreaming mind ventures when freed from the body, where fancies become theories become thoughts before becoming forms. It is said to be the origin of all magic, as a mage shapes the impossible form of the spell with their mind before setting it lose in the waking world, a wave of creation taking form in the astral sea before breaking on the material shore.

When viewed in its natural state, the Astral dreamscape resembles an endless starry sky, filled with swirling fogs, auroras and nebula like gasses. Vast structures float directionless in the expanse, growing like coral heedless of any physical constraint.

Adventure hooks:

Many arcanists seek a path to the astral plane, as a sufficiently powerful will with access to the right preparations can shape the raw material of the plane into anything they can imagine, creating island in the astral sea or cathedrals out of stardust. After these architects die or grow bored with what they’ve made their creations drift aimlessly, slowly dissolving back into the aether or being colonized by the creatures that drift through the infinite starscape. There’s fortunes to be made in looting the dream-mansions of long dead wizards.

When magic goes wrong, it evokes a phenomenon that learned types call “ astral bleed”, and adventurers call “ wild magic”. Space shifts and warps in on itself, objects randomly become enchanted or animate, and creatures from the astral sea begin to scuttle through dimensional cracks. Often dangerous magical experiments can be found by following a trail of increasing weirdness that leads to their secret laboratory.

Sometimes a dreaming mind will get lost in the astral plane, their consciousness getting lost in the vastness while their body sinks into a coma. The traveller will have to dodge psychic predators, while formless nightmare things seek to find their way back to the empty vessel that is the traveller's body.

One also can’t mention the astral sea without discussing the spelljamming ships that skirt across it from world to world, trading and raiding like star-spanning pirates.

[ladyduellist]

Epistles of Saints & Sinners

Chapter Summary:

The morning after Tav and Astarion have sex brings up old memories and complicated concerns.

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Story Summary:

When Astarion meets the humble bard, Tav, he soon finds out he's the only one between them that knows they are bound as soulmates through their marks. Deciding it's more trouble than its worth, he refuses to tell her along the course of their journey across Faerûn.

But, unbeknownst to him and their companions, Tav is harboring a gruesome secret that she only thought was nothing more than a traumatized period in her life.

As they both come to face to face with their pasts and presents, will they choose to move forward or let it consume them?

Healing isn’t linear—after all.

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Chapter 10: After

Ao3

Next Chapter

Previous Chapter

Main Page & Chapter List

Word Count: 2.9k

Pairing: Astarion x female bard Tav

CW: Torture, Abuse, Mention of Torture Devices, Sexual References, Act 1 Spoilers

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The spawn will need rules—lessons—to follow by. Just as Vellioth handed to me, so shall I hand to my creations. My future, beautiful thrall. The time grows near to choose who will do my bidding, to usher in the rite. Ones that value their lives beyond mortality’s chains. Even to exchange it for an eternally damned life. It will take time. Centuries worth. But, they will do my bidding. My dark children. My slaves. My sacrifices.

Let my first lesson guide them:

First, thou shalt not drink of the blood of thinking creatures.

— Cazador Szarr ‘The Avid’, journal entry 1280

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Astarion Ancunín.

From the moment he was turned into a vampire, he was reminded by his sire that he had been chosen. Chosen for his rare picturesque appearance. Chosen for the allure of his social noblesse towards mankind. Chosen to masquerade as a courtesan.

Over and over again was it repeated, until the pale elf believed it to be a treasured gift from his master.

It had taken the better part of six years, forcing Astarion to learn how to control his hunger for thinking creatures. Cazador kept his spawn held captive within rooms—he affectionately referred to as ‘the kennels’—of cages and torture devices. A claustrophobic scent of blood and decayed animal fluids long having permeated into the floors like a sedative sitting beneath a tongue.

But, his creations had a role to play! Obedient mutts to play fetch for his fertile ghastly mechanisms. He trained them with bugs and rats to curb their appetites, whilst feasting on mortals in front of them. When the spawn would flinch or show their hunger towards a human, Cazador wasted no time in having his servant of bones ready a pair of red-hot pliers.

Twist, pull, burn. Twist, pull, burn.

Fingers. Nipples. Eyelids. Tongues. Cauterized and ripped open in the room that would be their confessional.

“I am your creator. Your father. The priest to hear your penitence. CONFESS! Hast thou lusted after the blood of thinking creatures?” Cazador would scrutinize.

Eventually, the vampire spawn learned. Oh, they always learned. Who they belonged to. Who held the leash that tightened around their mendicant necks. Always sniveling until they learned to smile and appreciate their master for the welfare he bequeathed upon them.

Astarion's fear and resilience drove him, unlike the other spawn. He would not relent to slip entirely into the madness of the night. And because of his choices to defy his master—when he was not around to compel him right away—the consequences for disobeying the coven’s lessons would result in a barbarity far worse than he could ever imagine.

Lacey and Wymonde were their names.

Two victims within the first decade of Astarion becoming a vampire spawn.

Two victims he became enamored with.

Two victims that would create two of the worst memories in his immortal life.

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Lacey. Good-humored, sunny, feisty, Lacey. An unmarried half-elf woman at the age of 42. A baker who inherited a pastry shop in Baldur’s Gate from her human mother.

During year eight of Astarion’s new unlife as a vampire, he noticed her for the first time on his way back to the Crimson Palace after a failed hunt for Cazador. Hauling poorly sealed bags of powdered sugar into her business from the alleyway, it looked like snow was falling in the middle of summer. She was covered in it—angelically so.

He stared at her from the shadows for far longer than anticipated, wondering if the wings of aasimars resembled such purity as the woman’s ringlets garnished in the soft confection. And then, she greeted him roughly, voice lively as a worker bee.

”Saer—are you going to just stand there drooling like a lout or are you going to volunteer to help?”

Astarion shouldn’t have helped her that night. Her bold humor in acknowledging his presence and asking for such a brainless task made him feel more human than nearly every evening he spent in his immortal life thus far. She never once addressed his handsome face, instead taking a genuine interest in him as a man.

Lacey rendered him speechless with her intellect. She belonged in a college as a professor, teaching the youths of their age! Yet, this life was the one that she chose. Perhaps for her it wasn’t ideal, but he admired how she made the most of her situation. There was a degree of strength Astarion tore from it, like a bandit running off with fortunes in his pockets, until he realized he had become genuinely attracted to her. She retained care behind her shining eyes he wanted to own, to sequester beneath the soils of his spirit.

Five nights in a row he visited her. Conversations often leading into topics the vampire slowly started to forget about from his previous life, but she managed to temporarily unearth them for him to relish. Everything she spoke about was wrapped in her warm positivity. She had unintentionally given him hope.

It was the beginning of a relationship. A forbidden intimacy only they knew about. One to possess as his alone; one to nourish.

On the fifth night, he brought her a bouquet of fresh flowers: an invitation for romance. After she closed up for the day, he slept with her in the back room of her shop. Propped up on the edge of a table, corset haphazardly unlaced, Astarion thrust into her slowly. They kissed each other in a display that seesawed into a fit of inferred emotions until dawn.

The next evening, she disappeared.

And he knew.

The following night, Cazador shackled Astarion to the prayer cross torture device. His limbs were not allowed to straighten; he was sleep deprived for several more evenings. Punishment for allowing himself to belong to another aside from his master.

Until she finally appeared.

His angel of hope: Lacey.

Brought secretly to the palace by his siblings. A reparation for his sins.

Cazador drained Lacey wholly of her blood, compelling the spawn to watch as his lover died before his eyes. Then, he flung her body to the creatures in the foul sewers of the undercity to consume.

Through Astarion’s exhaustion, his screams became hoarse recollections. Those that were attached forever to the brief season of possible love, now belonging to the destitute plane he started to feel within his oppressed consciousness.

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

Wymonde. Loyal, persevering, darling, Wymonde. With paladin oaths scarred upon his hands and a wondrous sense of courage. A young human man with a naivety typically carried over into the early stage of adulthood.

Ah, was he ever beautiful. Skin smooth, unblemished, with the faint trickling of rosiness upon his cheeks. Tall and muscular. His virginity—not yet taken. The perfect victim for the master the spawn were enslaved to serve.

It was at the end of Astarion’s first decade as an undead, that he bumped into the man—quite literally. Wymonde had been sitting on steps leading down to the docks, gawking at the stars above, when the vampire tripped over him in the dark. Instead of offering a wayward apology to him, the human conceded with his knowledge of astrology—a strange bid given Wymonde’s nature as a country yokel from some distant farmland.

With the stars as their guide, the man extrapolated upon his preferred constellations and what they meant to the denizens of Faerûn. Astarion mostly sat in silence, listening to legends of the pictorials in the back-lit canopy beyond their reach. The paladin expressed the weight of his loneliness he carried with him since he entered into duty with the blade. They squeezed one another’s hands, knowing of their shared sentiment resulting from their hardships.

In the moment, they were just allowed to be.

This would be the last time Astarion felt a sense of connection to the living.

Impulsively, he kissed Wymonde tenderly. He had not attempted to jeopardize himself with the fanciful whims of indulging in an affair since Lacey’s death. The act scared him in such a way, that he ran in lieu of delivering the unsuspecting man to his demise.

But, he belonged to Cazador. There would be no escape.

And as the djinn of malevolence danced on his master’s back—aiding him with instructions of scourge—it was decided Astarion would be sealed, unfed and alone, inside of an ancient tomb for a year.

Buried alive. The vessel of his body, raw out of desperation to scratch his way out. Silence. Wishing for death. Months of nightmares. Starvation.

There would be no heroes to rescue him. No mercy granted. No gods that would answer his prayers. Sadistically imprisoned for the contrition of his conscience.

Astarion would never disobey again.

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

The sun’s fountain on his skin had become a verb for Astarion.

It would not mend his centuries of torture, but it was the harbinger of a freedom he thought no longer existed. His hope disintegrated in that impenetrable tomb all those years ago; he didn’t understand the meaning of the word anymore. Not fully. Astarion’s story was no longer about hope: it was about self-preservation.

So, he stood beneath the kindling sphere of flame to soak up the authority and knowledge that predated mankind, that the sun was the only natural force in the universe he would allow himself to trust. No longer was it gods he made his supplications, but it was this daystar he could worship above all else. Should he decide to fly towards its rays of luminescence with wings made of wax, he would gladly allow them to melt for one final grace of its burst of gold upon his flesh.

With dusted flakes of gold printed into his hands, Beneath the watchful gaze of the fiery star, He finds respite in its rusted hues. The realms aglow, kissed by its streams. A catharsis found, until the shadows do rage.

“Good morning,” Tav yawned from behind him.

With his arms outstretched, eyes closed, he continued to bask in the lustrous beams. “And here I was thinking you’d sleep longer after last night’s activities.”

“I mean, I did pass out as soon as I—we were done,” she laughed.

Astarion could hear her heart speeding up. She was most likely blushing, perhaps remembering their passionate evening together.

“Yes, well, when you’ve had a lover such as me, it’s only natural you’d overexert yourself,” he boasted.

The bard shuffled on the ground, leaves crunching from her movements. Her breathing seemed changed, as if she were deciding on her next move in a game of lanceboard.

“Astarion? Maybe I was mistaken, but you didn’t seem fully there during the act. The first night we fooled around in your tent, I thought I saw the same distance in your eyes,” she hesitated with her voice considerately. “And gods—I’m embarrassed to even bring this up—but you also didn’t…you know…finish. Which is fine and there’s nothing wrong with that whatsoever, it’s just—”

Bedding a bard was a rarity for him. They were able to spellbind with their lyrical flattery, even better than he at times, acutely aware of his trickery with his soothing tongue. A troublesome group better left in the dust.

Except, for her.

She was far too intuitive for her own sake, lacking the ignorant tact to have less perception about the world around her. The explorer with a fine-tooth comb, running it through the varied remnants of him.

He craned his neck to acknowledge her, eyes indifferent. “You wish to talk? As in, having a conversation about sex? Adorable. Darling, there is nothing to say, except that, yes, I held back intentionally to focus on your pleasure before I lost control. Need I remind you that during your orgasmic relief, it was my name you cried from your lips. So, apparently, it must not have been too much of a concern.”

“It is a concern to me though. Your thoughts and emotions mean something. To put it more plainly: If I’m not what you want or if this isn’t what you’re interested in after all, we can end it right now,” she replied firmly.

Astarion sighed heavily, moving further into the sunlight. “See, this is exactly why your little meddlesome ploys seats us in the predicaments they do. There is no need to ruin our little ventures into each other's portfolios. We’ve already stated what this is meant to be—let us leave it at that.”

“But, ‘Starion—” the songstress started before he interrupted.

“Tsk. Now, none of that. Shall we get on soon? I’d like to depart before those dreadful tieflings come back to my tent again to thank me for saving their tails.”

Suddenly, he felt her looming near him. He knew by that stuttering heart drum of hers, that she was not done with her interrogations. That she had seen in full view the raised scars etched on his back, like a crest he carried for the Szarr family. Damn her all to hell!

Tav studied him, lightly stepping nearer. “This—this is what I felt last night?”

“A poem from my old master. He fancied himself as quite the artist and carved it with a lot of revisions over the span of a night,” he told her hollowly, trying to restrain the anguish in his tone.

“Have you ever seen it? The script looks familiar…Inferno maybe?”

The vampire sharply turned to face her. She looked disheveled—a sloven mess. Hair wild. Dried blood smeared on her cheeks and neck. The fluids of their lust, still preserved on her inner thighs. It was unlike him to leave a tryst in such a state. Providing thorough aftercare had been an essential rule to follow when it came to seducing his conquests.

Yet, he was prepared to leave her alone in the forest, naked and dirtied. Why?

The answer was transparent. So much so, it consumed him, making his blood run colder than chilled bones. People didn’t see him—not really. But, Tav, she wanted to see him. See beyond the fog of his existence that lurked in passing witching hours. And it bothered him. Enough to leave her there to turn tail and put as many miles between them as he could muster.

“Inferno? Gods. The bastard was demented, so who knows. Oh, but I’m sure grabbing a mirror to look at it will solve all my problems!”

The bard bit at her lips���as she was wont to do—acclimating to a serious matter. “Maybe if I took another look at it, I could help you somehow.”

“I think not. You’ve seen enough already,” he snapped.

But, she was the Bathsheba tempting him with her bathes to wipe parts of him onto her and behold his burdens. It nearly forced a piece of him to crack.

“No one is going to harm you here,” she softly reassured him.

Rich scarlet flooded his vision as it orbited around her. She waited patiently in front of him with that same pitiful kindness behind her eyes that she extended to nearly everyone. He turned his head away, uninterested in bearing the weight of her concern for him.

Then, their worms were twisting together, forcing a psionic connection without their permission.

“No! Do not try to dredge up the past, Tav,” Astarion absconded as he severed the link.

Disoriented, she shook her head. “The tadpoles must have done so of their own volition. I wouldn’t have ever tried to pry into your past without your consent, Astarion. I swear it.”

“You seem to have misplaced your accountability, my sweet, or have you already chosen to shoo away our other recent incident when you tried to connect during our pleasant encounter with Raphael?” he snarled defensively, throwing up his hands.

“That was different. I was trying to protect you,” Tav urged, inching closer.

Astarion backed away from her. He didn’t know how to communicate to her what was coursing rabidly through his mind. But, there was the trickling of his body feeling an unknown he could not recall ever harboring. A reclamation of his autonomy he was straining to identify.

“Well, nothing to sate your entertainment like the tragic backstory of the beautiful vampire. How blatantly cliché,” he deflected sarcastically. “Perhaps you can write about it in an upcoming song! Please do remember to give me some credit.”

Her face was covered in splotches of reddish pink. A mist wettening over her sight. Remorse filled the fine lines around her mouth, but she also seemed… frustrated.

Did he really mean to widen this chasm between them while trying to maintain his security with her?

“I’m sorry about the incident with Raphael; it will never happen again,” she admitted coolly, avoiding his gaze.

Tav dressed herself quietly, doing what she could for her appearance. Astarion watched her intently. She was a fool to linger around him. He was a fool to allow her to probe to the extent she had.

“We should head back to camp.”

She nodded, smoothing down the last parts of her skirts. But, before she turned to leave, she stood before him in her observing stillness. Her empathetic valor crashing against him with the tremoring cadence of her cardiac organ. An unparalleled flicker in their time together.

Astarion blinked several times, processing what he had just witnessed. Yes, he could be a crude and brusque man—he was aware of his derisive tendencies. Yet, while she stared at him, he saw his sorrow eclipsing her eyes like the ashes from palm leaves. And for a second, he could have sworn his hunger for blood was replaced with a longing for affection he had locked away in that burial chamber, along with his memories of Lacey and Wymonde.

[recalcitrantlycaffeinated]

All good things must end; so also the DND campaign I was playing over the summer. The DM was able to pretty neatly wrap up the campaign in a bow at the end of the session, since it was a pre-fab campaign he'd run at least four times, but we certainly didn't make it easy for him along the way:

we found a ceremonial obelisk with orbs all around the room, that had a complicated poem we were supposed to use to solve a puzzle. We were able to figure out the puzzle within about one minute without using the riddle at all because of our obsession with rainbow order and symmetry

we entered a ballroom and almost the entire party failed our will saves and got trapped in a ghastly waltz

I attempted to get out of this with another handy item I had bought and stuck in my bag during character creation, but even my will saves with advantage were so bad that the DM granted me a permanent flaw: whenever I heard music for the rest of my life, I was going to dance.

A lot of the rest of the campaign was spent with my compatriots playing music and laughing at me dancing.

the only reason we ever got out of the ghastly waltz was because Seamus did some flirting with a ghost. (He said it was not flirting.)

there was an incredibly long sidetrack where the youngest person in the room got so into Gravity Falls that the DM put a gravity falls character into the story temporarily. This made the sidetracking worse and somehow led to a further side track, this one from the oldest person in the room, about Star Trek

we found a room full of golems of ourselves. after reading the mysterious rune about the heart of a warrior being still when faced with himself, and using logical deduction to determine that our golems were going to copy our movements exactly, somehow the whole party did not decide to just walk past the golems and get through the door??? even though that was the right thing to do??? obviously???

I cannot be blamed for this. I did not attack my golem. I knew better than to attack my golem because it was super obvious. But also I Love to Roleplay Idiots, so while everyone else around the table was taking their combat turns for attacking For Some Reason, I was squirming in my seat hoping things would resolve before they came to me because I KNEW what Traps would do in this situation.

Things did not resolve before they came to me. The DM (again...a priest at my parish!!) asked what I wanted to do. "I kiss my golem on the mouth!" I announced.

The DM started turning enormously red. He paged through all the combat scenarios before him and squeaked, "This isn't in my book!!!!!"

[lorei-writes]

Lost Nightingale

Full artwork by @wordycheeseblob can be found below the story.

Chevalier x OC (OC Chart: Esther) Romance / Comfort / Political Intrigue (hinted) ~2.4k

A story that got out of hand. I can't thank Saki @wordycheeseblob enough for the wonderful gift she's prepared <3 So... I just finished this as efficiently as I could. I can only hope my care shows.

Author's Notes: The fall of Amber did not mean the fall of its nobility. However, the ongoing serfdom proved to be a fertile ground for discontent. An Obsidian-backed uprising of Amberian peasantry occurred, leading to near complete annihilation of the former Amberian noble houses. Being of both Amberian and peasant origins, Viva and Esther face backlash from the Rhodolitian royal court.

Additionally, Lady Lavigne is briefly brought up -- she's a character previously introduced in Roots of Deception.

Content Warnings: none

Esther watched as Chevalier stood by the desk, shoulders tense and frame rigid. He was the weary sort of stern, gaze gliding over the documents delivered in his absence as his brow bravely resisted furrowing. The information, however, must have been like a spring shower to a dirt road – for the ground to split was inevitable, very much as it was impossible for Esther to stay there and merely watch. She approached him, the soldier, the knight, the commander, the diplomat, the prince… The man smothered underneath all those layers of titles, stunned by her undoing the clasps of his cloak and taking its weight onto herself.

The ballroom buzzed, idle gossip and the talk of daring ventures both swarming low above the heads of lords and ladies in attendance. A thousand candles kept the golden chandelier aglow, each flame burning twice – once, over the wick, and then voraciously through its resplendent reflection. Molten wax flowed down their sides, few stray drops tainting the marble floor. Heels plinked like glass. The crowd split as conversations prematurely met their end, noble hands latching onto equally noble arms to be escorted away.

One thing, however, remained unchanged.

“Your appeal has been rejected. If that is all you had to say, clear out.” Chevalier’s voice shattered any frozen hope still present in the inquiring stares, the last of ice being crushed to none under the weight of his words. His eyes turned chilling, frost advanced to claim any grounds for objections before they had as much as managed to sprout. Wayward snowdrops still flourished under the nourishment of youthful ignorance, however. The nobleman suppressed a shudder, his fist clenched.

“Your Highness, excuse my impertinence, but I implore you reconsider the —”

“The decision is definite.”

The man withered at once, the initial flush over his cheeks fading rapidly on behalf of a ghastly white, promptly progressing into bloodlessness. Caught unprepared in an imaginary blizzard, he stood, lips trembling helplessly, icy fear of his own creation shackling him to the floor. Chevalier turned his face away, a whisper of a sigh nestling in his throat.

Voices began to die down, hushed themselves and huddled closer to the walls. Violins, cellos, flutes, clarinets, oboes, and any other instruments that felt courageous enough – at first quietly, politely, they merely swept the floor with their sound, slowly growing more brazen with each released note. Another type of excitement entered the air. A woman approached Chevalier, the troubled smile on her face easing some of his frost.

“Are you done now?” he asked, faintest traces of weariness lingering in the crease between his brows.

Esther nodded. “Thank you for waiting for me… And may that be the son of count de la Roche?”

“I — Yes, my l-lady,” the nobleman stuttered, and stuttered only harder once Chevalier put his arm around her waist. Esther let her gaze drift from her fiance, to the stunned nobleman… to one of the ladies stationed by the wall, whose gaze seemed to pierce her. Whatever she could observe over the face half-hidden behind a folding fan, Esther didn’t dwell on it much. She clasped her hands.

“I think I may owe you an apology, Sir.” With practised honeyed sweetness, Esther enveloped the scene in the warmest of her smiles, thwarting the blizzard to announce a spring thaw. “I’m afraid I’m not as competent as my fiance or any of his brothers. I hope the list of missing documents I’ve prepared did not cause any confusion? I’m certain the petition will be reconsidered once those are submitted, although I cannot speak to the result of that.”

“F-fiance? I was unaware.”

Esther clung to the composure hinging on the upturned corners of her mouth. “Yes. We got officially engaged five months ago.”

“I see. M-my congratulations, Your Highness —”

Chevalier’s grip at her waist tightened, the nobleman and the noblewoman fading away as she searched his face for the answers. Her eyes widened as they often did, eternally awestruck with the most mundane of mysteries hidden in any of his mannerisms, studiously examining the surface of his indifference. Esther watched him, and in turn, he watched over her; Chevalier measured any wrinkles in her features, took in the shade of her complexion, made it a point to pay attention to the state of the whites of her eyes…

Esther leaned into her love’s warmth, some of her worries getting tangled in the periwinkle tulle flowing down the length of her legs. She let them go, however, one steady breath interlaced with one barbed murmur at a time. The music grew louder, although never loud enough for the buzz to be snuffed out. The dance began.

***

A thousand flames shrunk to one, a stud of a wick submerged in tallow sitting proudly in the cresset. Thin light licked along the walls, its feathery tongues just barely swiping the winding staircase, lacquered wood of the old bannister sighing heavily under the faintest touch. Impatient footfall rushed ahead, climbed its way up to the very ceiling in a whispered orchestra of ricochets.

“Mind your step. The servants’ passages are rarely maintained past the base point of usability.”

“Thank —”

Chevalier caught Esther by the waist, her foot slipping as if on command. The flame trembled on behalf of her smile, a weary sigh crawling out of her lungs. “I’m sorry.”

“Just be more careful.”

“You know this is not what I’m sorry about.”

“Do I.” Chevalier’s voice echoed up the staircase. The carrier of light, he had Esther walk in front of himself, her hand clutching the bannister as she stepped just at the edge of darkness. It was fine, however; it was not the climb that bothered her.

… wench…

Have you heard of the uprising in Obsidian?

They say peasants slaughtered their own nobility… From Amber… a single golden coin a head…

She’s got to like the smell of blood.

… so that’s what we have for a Queen?

I bet they can’t even read, not to mention write…

… perhaps the king has other uses for her…

That twin? Do you think they switch them sometimes? Surely, they wouldn’t mind.

… That beast, probably no other would touch him.

The walls buzzed, each brick a hive saturated with syrup brewed on waspish remarks. Esther stared ahead, lifted her skirts, disregarded the throbbing in her feet and pressed onwards, scolding herself all the while. She knew things wouldn’t be easy. So… Why?

Why?

The mouth of the staircase spilled into a – narrowly avoiding a title of narrow – corridor, crisp evening air seeping inside through the small windows, a thin coat of rust coating the iron hinges on the frames. The space smelled of musty disuse, moist stench of mould wafting from the old wallpaper. Chevalier scrunched up his nose. Their fingers interlaced, he pulled on Esther’s hand, although to no effect; Esther stood anchored, those mellow eyes of hers widening yet once again, cautious of the oval imprints in the thick layer of velvety dust padding the sills. She ran her fingers through it.

“Esther.”

“Aside from the anti-monarchy faction…” She shook her head, a single wayward curl falling over her forehead. “Do you think they’re connected to Lady Lavigne?”

Chevalier did not reply. The flame painted his face in shadows; hardly brighter than dark starshine sieved in through dirt-covered windows, what little was there of its lustre sinking at the bottom of his eyes. Esther stared at him, intensely enough to evaporate any doubts or uncertainty.

“De la Roche outlines many particulars regarding Lavigne’s imprisonment that shouldn’t be known to the public eye. His petition is likely to be written off as an act of philanthropy, however, it is highly dubious he has no agenda of his own,” Chevalier recounted. He pulled on her hand again and they resumed walking, the floor creaking as they did.

“That would explain Gilbert’s visit.”

“He certainly isn’t here to hear about the working conditions of his spies.” With a scornful snort, Chevalier turned the old bronze knob, the door giving in to reveal the furthest corner of the residential wing of the palace. Esther breathed the clear air with relief, the old passage – purposefully left unattended, as she surmised – closing behind them as if it had been but a nightmare to begin with.

All that remained was, in comparison, just a short walk, just a few carpeted staircases and safe brightly lit corridors, a few moments she would later be hardly able to recall. For Esther, it happened in less than a snap of fingers; one second his warmth was there, clinging to her skin, and then it ceased, disappeared. It slipped away. The knob turned again and with it, they revisited the dark, their very own bedroom appearing rather desolate when devoid of light. Something scratched the wall. Chevalier marched onwards.

“Bambi,” he called. The shuffling stopped on behalf of a content whimper, a newly alight candle enveloping the beast in its glow. The dog wagged his tail before lying his head down again, the bedding underneath him having moved from its original place by the bed up to the very door. Esther crouched down to tug at his ears.

“Sorry, Bambi. We can’t have you bite any nobles now, even if they are mean,” she whispered and offered him some pets, more whimpers following… But her eyes were elsewhere.

Esther watched as Chevalier stood by the desk, shoulders tense and frame rigid. He was the weary sort of stern, gaze gliding over the documents delivered in his absence as his brow bravely resisted furrowing. The information, however, must have been like a spring shower to a dirt road – for the ground to split was inevitable, very much as it was impossible for Esther to stay there and merely watch. She approached him, the soldier, the knight, the commander, the diplomat, the prince… The man smothered underneath all those layers of titles, stunned by her undoing the clasps of his cloak and taking its weight onto herself.

“That’s been enough work for today,” Esther wished in a whisper, eyes cast down. Almost apologetically, her palm pressed against his heart. “Let it go until morning.”

His fingers hooked below her chin. Chevalier forced her to look at him.

“Will you?”

Something flickered over her face, tied her lips shut and had her avert her gaze. Esther stared at the collar of his shirt, at his neck, his Adam’s apple, dared to venture up to the corner of his jaw. But no further. Chevalier let his hand fall by his side.

“Will you help me out of my dress?” Esther asked.

Metal clinked against the wood as the candleholder came to rest atop the vanity. “Then sit.”

“It’d be more comfortable if —”

“Do not think I have not realised that your feet hurt.”

The mirror seemed to have harnessed the flame, diffused glow softly enveloping their reflections. Esther sat, her back straight and hands folded in her lap, face unusually – although openly – troubled. She sneaked a glimpse at herself, or whoever was wearing that disguise. Gloves fell on the table in front of her, goosebumps raising over her skin as decisive hands swept her hair aside. Blonde locks tumbled over her shoulder, rough fingers brushing against the nape of her neck, spilling lightning down the length of her spine… and so he began working on the lacing at her back, dexterous hands pulling and tugging at the silken ribbon, the complexities of various knots falling apart. Esther plucked the decorative pins out of her half updo, wayward curls rushing into her face. The jewels and precious metals she had worn returned to their casket. And he had done nothing to upset her. He had done nothing to betray her trust. He had not even said a word she could doubt… Chevalier merely dragged the fabric down, yanked at it so hard Esther could almost hear the seams groan. She looked up.

Esther could not resist the mirror anymore, and into the mirror she did fall, to be completely captured by her lover’s gaze. His thumb stroked her cheek, powder falling off to reveal faint freckles. Chevalier did not seem to want anything more, his touch fading too soon yet again, cold rushing in as if winter itself sharpened its icy teeth to sink them into her flesh and —

“Would you help me out of my corset too?”

Chevalier nodded. Slowly, like a tiger stalking his prey, he leaned down further. His breath spilled over her skin, so hot it melted away any frost. Esther sucked the air in sharply. He merely watched, the laces needing little prompting.

“If there’s something you want to say, say it,” Chevalier demanded from over her shoulder and her lips pursed in response. Esther stared as he smoothed her hair down with a gentle sort of awkwardness, usually reserved for terrified animals.

“I —” she hesitated. He just watched. As still as a statue, his eyes never once moved away from her reflection. Esther searched for the right words, articulated them as if tasting each for poison, “If… If people did not approach you with fear… would you still choose me, even knowing what trouble it would cause?”

Chevalier seized her by the chin, just short of causing her pain. He forced her to look at him, at him in the flesh and bones, and blood that had turned cold to then boil in his veins, rampant bewilderment leaving behind only scorched thoughts. His lips remained firmly sealed, yet… his grip loosened, apologetically. Esther put her hand over his.

“That’s a pointless hypothetical.” You know the answer.

“Is it?” She brought his hand away from her face, absent-mindedly tracing the lines over his palm with her thumb, soothing his callouses. She did not dare look away, did not dare weigh her words lightly and let go of the flicker moving over his face, the slither of truth she so needed for herself. “I can’t read minds the way you do, Chevalier.”

Esther did not shy from him, but he could not bear being seen. Certainty interlaced with hesitation, all his talents, his strength, knowledge and accomplishments fading away at one meagre question. Chevalier leaned down, touched his forehead to hers so that her eyes would close and his heart could pretend it was not exposed.

“Your fearlessness is not what makes you precious to me.”

Esther held back her breath.

“I do not require for your presence to be favourable to the state. To keep you by my side is just my selfish wish.”

She put her arms around his neck – and he hoisted her up, out of her gown and the riches, bared down just to the thin linen chemise and her freckled face. She was the trill of nightingales, the hard thudding of her heart chirping him a promise, assuring him that she’d stay.

“And you too are my beloved,” Esther whispered against his lips before claiming them as hers, the foreign lilt being replaced by another kind of melody.

--

--

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[reverieparacosm]

Bondrewd x GN!Narehate Reader

Synopsis: You, an adventure, are rescued by Bondrewd after a serious injury. But is it worth it?

Warnings: Yandere, kiddnaping, violence

Note: Oh well, did I write an open ending? Oh hell yea.

Alright, buckle up for a wild ride! But hey, before we dive into this crazy fiction, let's get one thing straight: I am absolutely, positively, and emphatically NOT on Team Bondrewd. It's just fiction!

The last thing you remember is the chilling grip of those villainous hands, dragging your helpless body into the bowels of that godforsaken dungeon. Panic surges through your veins as your vision fades into an abyss of darkness, the ominous sound of a heavy door slamming shut echoing in your ears.

A timeless void engulfs your consciousness, until a spark of awareness flickers within your core. Your eyes flutter open, and you are greeted by a world utterly transformed. A strange sensation courses through every fiber of your being. It's as if your very cells are awakening, shifting and rearranging themselves to a mysterious symphony.

With trembling hands, you reach out to touch your own body, only to recoil in astonishment. Instead of the familiar contours of human flesh, you now possess a new form, a creature of untamed power and primal beauty.

Fur and leathery skin envelop your limbs, imbuing you with an otherworldly grace. Gone are the trappings of your former existence, replaced by dark brown pants that cling to your agile frame and a cloak the color of shadows, billowing around you like a shroud of mystery.

Confusion storms through your mind, a tempest of unanswered questions. Who or what has wrought this metamorphosis upon you? Why were you chosen for this bewildering transformation? Fear and curiosity dance within your soul, intermingling with a burgeoning sense of awe.

In the dimly lit corner of the room, a haunting figure materializes, and your instincts scream out that it can be no other than Bondrewd himself. A surge of determination courses through your veins as you gather the remnants of your strength, and the words spill forth from your trembling lips, "Bondrewd, what monstrosity have you unleashed upon me?"

Bondrewd slowly turns to face you, his eerie mask emitting a ghastly purple glow that cuts through the oppressive darkness. He meets your gaze. "Ah, so you still recognize me. Remarkable. It seems you have not entirely succumbed to oblivion," he remarks, his voice dripping with a sinister satisfaction. "Allow me to enlighten you. I have bestowed upon you a transformation of unfathomable magnitude. Through intricate and perilous surgical procedures, I have forged you into a new type of Narehate. The results, I must say, have surpassed even my lofty expectations."

The weight of his revelation crashes upon you like a relentless tempest, and disbelief engulfs your being. A surge of anger intertwines with the overwhelming sense of betrayal pulsating within your chest. "Why? Why would you subject me to such horrors?" you demand, your voice trembling with a mixture of fury and anguish.

His voice drips with a chilling nonchalance as he explains, "My dear, naive adventurer, my motives were simple yet ambitious. I sought to fashion a Narehate possessing an unparalleled array of powers. And to achieve that, I required a subject of extraordinary physical and mental fortitude. You, with your illustrious history as a formidable adventurer, were the epitome of perfection in my eyes." He pauses, a macabre satisfaction permeating his words. "You should consider yourself fortunate, for you have become my most potent creation."

As Bondrewd speaks, you feel the passion and determination in his voice, the room lighting up with his energy. You sense an almost obsessive aura surrounding him as he steps closer to you, placing his hand on your shoulder, his touch almost electric. "I have fallen in love with you," he whispers, his mask close. "Your strength, your beauty, your bravery - they are unlike anything I have ever seen. You are one of the most amazing people I have met, and I will never stop loving you."

As Bondrewd continues to explain his reasons for transforming you, his voice grows more excited, speaking of your qualities in detail, with a passion and reverence you have never experienced. Your determination, heroism, and strength in the face of danger are, in his opinion, absolutely unique. All of these qualities have captivated him, and he is certain he will never stop loving you. But even in the middle of his speech, he seems to forget the suffering and pain you have experienced. His love for you is so all-consuming that it blinds him to anything else.

As you stare up at him, feeling hopeless and helpless, you can't help but feel a wave of anger rising within you. The pain, the confusion, the lack of understanding - it's all too much to bear. And yet, your captor only seems to get more enraged with every word you speak. Finally, you ask the question that's been burning on the tip of your tongue.

"You call this love?" you say, your voice shaking. "You turned me into this creature, a Narehate. I can't even recognize myself in the mirror anymore. And yet, you dare to say that you saved my life? Do you have any idea what you've done to me?"

Bondrewd's fingers close around your throat, the grip precise and measured. He lifts you effortlessly, your feet leaving the ground as his hold constricts your airway.

The pressure sends shockwaves of agonizing pain rippling through your body, threatening to unravel your very existence. Desperate for release, you thrash and struggle against his unyielding grasp, but his hold remains steadfast, unyielding as the cold touch of steel.

Bondrewd observes your frantic movements with a serene, almost thoughtful demeanor. "Now, now, there's no need for such theatrics," he murmurs, his voice soft yet patronizing. "You're only making this more difficult for yourself."

Bondrewd chuckles softly, "my dear Narehate, how dare you presume to challenge me?" he says, his tone laced with condescension. "You, a lowly, transformed creature - you should be on your knees, thanking me for the mercy I have so generously bestowed upon you."

He pauses, "after all, is it not I who has granted you this... unusual existence?" Bondrewd muses, his golden eyes gleaming with a twisted sense of pride. "You should be grateful, not defiant. But I suppose I can hardly expect true understanding from one such as you."

Amidst the searing pain, you summon every ounce of strength to respond, your voice a mere whisper, yet infused with determination.

"Your… twisted… benevolence," you manage to gasp, the words a struggle against the suffocating grip around your throat. "It… is no… salvation… but… a… curse."

He drops you to the ground, and you feel the air rush back into your lungs as you gasp for breath. He crouches down, his mask inches from yours.

"I did what was necessary to save your life. My special surgery left you with a weakened mental state and a poor memory. And yet, here you are, questioning everything I've done for you. You really need to learn to appreciate all the good things I do for you."

"We found you in the fourth layer. You were in a very bad condition, suffering from many wounds. We managed to heal them, but you got a bad fever, and the only way to save you was to do a surgery."

As Bondrewd speaks, his voice gradually transforms from a cold, detached monotone to a softer, more empathetic tone. Gone is the rigid, uncaring scientist; instead, he now appears almost paternalistic, his aura occasionally flashing with the same madness as before.

"Please, let me go," you beg, trying to hold back tears as the realization sinks in that you are now truly at the mercy of this madman.

His voice is cold once more, and his grip on your chin tightens.

Bondrewd regards you with a mixture of exasperation and condescension. "Do you not appreciate the magnitude of what I have done for you?" he asks, his refined voice dripping with disdain. "I have saved your life, and granted you power beyond your wildest dreams."

He leans in closer, the eerie violet ether light casting an otherworldly glow across his serene features. "You seem to have forgotten your place," he murmurs, his tone taking on a subtly threatening edge. "You belong to me now. Your will is subservient to mine - you will obey every command I give, without question."

Bondrewd's grip on your chin relaxes. "Am I making myself perfectly clear?" he asks, the faintest hint of a dare underlying his words.

You respond with a simple "no," knowing that you are never truly safe until you are as far away from him as possible.

As you stare at the ethereal purple light, you feel a sudden burst of determination coursing through your veins. No matter the cost, you are not going to let this madman control your life anymore. You take a deep breath and steel your resolve.

"I will not obey you," you state firmly, your voice steady despite the fear that still rages in your chest.

"You will obey me," he says, the words rolling off his tongue with a deceptive smoothness. Though his tone remains composed, a subtle undercurrent of menace sends shudders down your spine. "Failure to comply will result in... unpleasant consequences."

At that moment, you realize that you have two choices: you can either continue to live in fear and obedience, or you can take a stand and fight for your freedom. Without hesitation, you choose the latter.

You reach deep within yourself and summon all the strength and determination you can muster. You know that it will not be an easy fight, but you are willing to risk everything to escape the clutches of this madman.

With a burst of energy, you break free from his grip and bolt towards the door, your heart pounding against your chest like a thunderous drum. Behind you, his voice echoes through the hallway like a haunting melody, but you refuse to look back. You just keep running, each footstep propelling you further and further away from danger.

As you sprint down the dimly lit corridor, every breath you take feels like a struggle. Your lungs burn, your legs ache, but you push through the pain, your determination unwavering. You round a corner and catch a glimpse of the end of the hallway. There's a door in sight, and your heart leaps with hope.

With a shaking hand, you turn the handle and push the door open, expecting to see the light of freedom on the other side. But what you see instead stops you dead in your tracks.

[creepycr4wly]

Do you think they'd try to kill each other

[metaoflocasol]

Muse Mixup Madness July 2024: The End of a Failure

*this is to be viewed as a vision of real time events*

Tw: death and violence/fighting

“You? You?! YOU DARE STAND AGAINST ME, MORTAL?!”

Meta Solari stood in front of Vitch, feeling small against his opponent.

“It’s over, Vitch. This isn’t worth it-”

“SHUT UP! YOU HAVE NO IDEA OF WHAT YOU SPEAK! I HAVE TRIED TO CONVINCE YOU. I HAVE TRIED TO INFORM YOU OF THE DANGER THAT HAS BEFALLEN US, BUT YOU DIDN’T LISTEN. YOU HAD TO GO AND FREE THE BEAST, AND NOW LOOK AT THIS PLACE!”

And Vitch was right, Meta had freed the imprisoned Necrozma, giving it enough light to restore its body, if only for now. The mask Vitch normally wore, the face of Necrozma was gone, showing a ghastly sight. His face was being consumed by void. Blacked out and glowing with hatred and pain.

“YOU TAKE MY BODY AND STEAL MY SOUL, ALL TO TRY AND HELP A CORSPE! I AM TRYING TO SAVE YOU, DAMNIT! I AM TRYING TO SAVE EVERYONE! NO MATTER THE COST! SO WHAT IF I’M THE MONSTER?! NO ONE WILL BE COMPLAINING WHEN THEY GET TO LIVE OUT THE REST OF THEIR LIVES! NOT WORRYING OF AN APOCALYPSE THAT NONE WILL SURVIVE!”

“Enough! You haven’t saved a singed thing! You could’ve opened the Gateway long before this! You were too blind-sided to realize then, and you still are now. I cannot let you do this. You cannot go any farther”. Meta stared down his foe. His counterpart. His glimpse into a world where all abandoned him and the fate of creation fell on him. He had failed there, but not now.

You’ve always said that the difference between us is that I run away from my problems, that I never took action. I disagree. We both ran away that day before finding Necrozma. We both took upon the weight of the world when it felt like all was crumbling. We both sacrificed the things we cared for to help others. No, we are the same in that regard.

Where we are different is that you don’t allow others to help you. You want to be the one to fix everything, because you don’t trust anyone else to do it. Not me, not your followers, not Necrozma, not Arceus, no one. You walk alone despite others walking the same path. This all could’ve been avoided if you-”

“SHUT UP!”

Vitch created a beam of light that flew towards Meta, threatening to kill him. But instead, it condensed into a single small sphere that flew into the amulet. The light condensed, reflecting across off the room, glowing violently before exploding outwards, surrounding Meta.

“WHAT?! THAT’S IMPOSSIBLE! HOW DID YOU HARNESS THAT LIGHT WITHOUT A Z-CRYSTAL!?”

Meta didn’t respond, just looked up with clenched fists eyes glowing bright.

Letting out a ferocious roar, Vitch flew at Meta, arms stretched to strangle him.

“NO MATTER! I HAVE THE POWER OF THE THREE GODS UNDER MY CONTROL, YOUR LIGHT ALONE IS NO MATCH TO ME!!

Meta dodged the attack, his light colliding with Vitch’s tainted light. The two traded blow after blow of condensed supernovas, mini suns, and light the scorched the heavens upon their foundation would be built.

“YOU ARE NOTHING TO ME! I AM A GOD! YOU HAVE NO HOPES OF DEFEATING ME! I KILLED LIGHT, DARKNESS, AND MATTER ITSELF! WHAT HOPES DO A PUNY HUMAN CHILD HAVE AGAINST ME?!”

Meta let out a cry as he unleashed a ball of pure photon power, almost unseen in the sea of light surrounding the two. Vitch easily dodged the attack, but it blew a giant hole in the wall of the room, from which two sets of glowing eyes could be seen against the light pouring out from the confines.

“No…”

Vitch looked in fear at the ghost of his past, now doubled in their hate.

“You thought you could get rid of me, BOY?!”

One of them telepathically shouted

“YOU SORELY MISTAKE THE POWER THAT I HOLD! IT IS TIME I RECTIFY THIS EGREGIOUS ERROR OF MINE!”

One of the Necrozmas, shining a godly blue collided with a frozen Vitch; who was petrified in fear. The Necrozma tore off his stolen Z-Crystal with its immaculate jaw, causing Vitch to scream.

A supernova exploded from Vitch, utterly destroying the temple surrounding them. The four of them found themselves standing in a field of rubble, with nothing but darkness surrounding them, the only light coming from themselves.

“It is done. You’ve lost, wretch. The world you know is gone, because of you”

The two Necrozmas began to overlap, as if there powers were becoming one, as if the original Necrozma birthed from Arceus’s grand design had once more been awoken from a long forgotten past.

“This world is in ruin. Nothing is left of it. Those who had once lived here are either no more, or displaced in universes not their own. What do you have to say now?”

Vitch didn’t respond, bleeding out glowing ichor that had replaced his mortal blood. He only stared, kneeling as the life was draining out of him.

“I thought you were someone of good, child. I had believed you could’ve shown me a brighter future than the one your kind had shown me long ago. Perhaps you did… but at what cost?”

“…I…” he croaked out, coughing violently.

“Save your breath. It is too late to undo what has been done”

With that, the now merged Necrozma created a portal between the decayed universe and the Arcean Gateway with their enhanced powers.

“Come, Meta. There is one last mission to be done”

With that, they left, casting the world into enshrouding darkness.

Meta began to follow them, but stopped when he heard Vitch croak out.

“Wait…”

He turned his head to him, looking at the twisted version of himself with a mix of pity and disgust. He had no reason to wait for him, after all he had done, but something kept him there. Some unknown feeling, like a wheel turning endlessly in the course of the future, gave him pause.

“I have… done so much… wrong… to this world… I never wanted this… no… I went too far…”

“That you did”

“The… Gateway… will not… open in its current state… it’s sealed shut”, Vitch coughed out.

“…”

“Take my hand… I have something… to give… you”

********************************************

Meta didn’t know what was going on. Arceus, a being beyond his creation and Necrozma, the God of his faith conversed in a manner unknown to the likes of his human brain. Something he couldn’t see, hear, touch, feel, or smell imposed upon his very being, making him feel small and insignificant. Much more than the laymen of his own species.

Time was foreign. Seconds passed as freely as eons, yet none moved in the lack of space that filled with realm. He knelt, still pondering what Vitch had told him. How could two souls so identical go on such different paths? Was the real difference between himself and a monster the death of all he cared for? It chewed at him, knowing upon the brain and usurping the serenity of his thoughts.

“Child. The Genesis offers you a choice. They can ease your soul of your worries caused by this horrific oversight. It will be like this never happened, never met your alternate, never learned of the Ether, never had to endure the hardships of your captivity. You’d be at peace, unaware of the pain these last two months have caused. Will you accept?”

Meta thought hard. He doubted that he could live the rest of his life in peace knowing what he knew, but even so, he didn’t want to forget. After everything Vitch had done, he was still him, and denying that would be denying a core aspect of himself. No, forgetting wasn’t the answer, but neither was remembering the way he currently did.

“I thank you, the omnipotent Arceus for your offer. If I may, I’d like to request a course of action of my own…”

END OF ARC

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Fëanorian Week - Caranthir

So...erm...yeah, I don't even know what to say about this one...

Words: 510

Characters: Caranthir & Celegorm, Caranthir x Haleth

Prompts: Childhood, Spouse, Betrayal, Dwarves & Humans, Marriage, Appearance

Warnings: Oh insecurity, sadness, longing, loss...

Anger—diffuse and dull now—billowed through Caranthir’s soul like a pinkish mist.

At times, it felt as if all the other emotions which he’d once been able to feel had been displaced by that singular fire which kept his heart beating by sheer, brute force.

His fingers tightened around worn, threadbare fabric, and he scowled ferociously.

He’d tried to throw away the ghastly ragdoll countless times—it barely resembled anything at all, let alone the cat it had meant to represent upon its creation, and he hated how attached he was to the accursed thing.

For as long as he could remember, Tyelko had disliked him.

Of course, little ill-tempered, red-faced Morifinwë had not been worthy of the incandescent wrath or the formidable hatred of so tempestuous a soul—no, he’d grown up in the bitingly cold shadow of his older brother’s disdain.

Thus, the nameless lump of fabric—made of scraps from one of their father’s old mantles—had been the only gift Caranthir had ever received from Celegorm.

All the stitches were crooked, and the knobbly filling of discarded thread and whisps of clothes his brothers had outgrown had long since fallen out on account of the shoddy handiwork.

Irascible and impatient by nature, Caranthir had decided to take it apart and make it anew at least as often as he’d considered throwing it into the flames, but, ultimately, he never had.

“It’s red, like you,” his sibling had crooned upon thundering into his room in a flurry of dead leaves and mud. “It can be your friend.”

Caranthir, who had gained respect but never love over the years, would have been mortified that he still yearned for friendship so desperately; alas, shame had been burned out of his being along with hope on the battlefield.

Innumerable were his allies; he was feared and esteemed in equal measures by his own kind as well as his trade partners, but none of these brave souls had ever held any real affection for him.

Except…

Despite the betrayals he’d perpetrated and endured, and which had hardened him into something as unrecognisable as the mangled toy he clasped against his aching chest, Haleth had smiled at him as if he wasn’t unlovely and bitter.

She’d been wrong, but that didn’t diminish the sense of wonder and awe that flooded Caranthir’s petrified heart whenever his thoughts but grazed the image of her boundless, reckless joy, etched indelibly onto the last remaining soft spot of his soul.

Wordlessly, he laid down his childhood comfort, a symbol of untarnished love that could never be unmade or marred by dark deeds and terrible times, on the wet earth under which rested the brittle bones of one he had cherished more than he’d ever confessed.

“I give to thee, Haleth of the Haladin, queen amongst mortals, the jealously guarded and honestly dismal craft of Turcafinwë Tyelkormo…along with the wretched soul of one you might have saved had your fate been a different one.”

Desolate and utterly alone, he turned and limped away, blind with tears.

-> Masterlist

@feanorianweek, here is my first submission!

[xiyouyanyi]

JotG S2: The Ramifications

-SWK didn't leave MK to go on a vacation. Well, he tried to say so, but MK interrupted him and asked him if he could go to the Celestial Realm instead, to check on the two immortals who helped them out. And he was like "Yep, that just happened to be my first stop!"

"I don't want them to be in trouble. They…okay, one of them isn't the nicest person, but she still helped me out. Hopefully they won't. But if they do get into trouble, would you like, help them back? For me?" "Sure bud, don't worry. I'll keep an eye out."

-In truth, he got a summon from Thunder Bureau, and proceeded to spend most of S2 lying skillfully in court, trying to conceal his disciple's existence from prying eyes and get a lighter sentence for their helpers, while also bringing attention to the more urgent issue that was LBD.

-He paid a visit to Kui Mulang, now imprisoned inside a much more secure cell, with Thunder Nails stabbed through his shoulder blades. A harsh exchange ensued: SWK pried for intel about Ivory Lady the Ghostly Immortal, Kui Mulang responded with a series of mockeries and scathing remarks, before tossing out this bombshell. 

"I'll tell you everything I know, if you tell me what happened to my children." The Wood Wolf Star said, eyes hidden under the shadow casted by his messy, blood-soaked mane. "The Great Sage is capable of some exquisite destruction, but I do not believe, for a second, that he is a child killer." "...Even if they are alive, do you seriously think you can still get back into their lives? That they'll ever want you in their lives, after what you'd done to their mother?"  "Ah, so they are alive." "..." "I'm not asking where they are. Only what happened to them." Kui Mulang continued. "In exchange, you get to know all about that ghastly acquaintance of mine. Deal?"

-The Dumpling Destruction episode got slightly adjusted to suit the new "court case" scenario: it wasn't the Four Devarajas’ fault, but one of the Four Thunder Generals——Deng, Xin, Zhang, Tao.

-See, having a bunch of thunder and lightning-wielding guys be both judges, lawyers, SWAT teams, and executioners tend to make your average court case…quite heated.

-And during one of those heated arguments that lasted from the Thunder Bureau official halls all the way to the dining room next door, someone imbued their breakfast with Thunderfire and threw it at the other guy, who dodged just in time; the flaming dumpling flew out of the window and fell through the clouds, straight toward the Lower Realm.

-Like, it was still regular dumpling-sized, but that wasn't gonna matter because Thunderfire was more high-grade explosives than flames, and the impact was still enough to flatten half of the city. 

-In fact, searching for this tiny, free-falling object just made the mission even harder, and the first thing people noticed on the ground wasn't the dumpling, but the roaring thunder that accompanied dozens of winged generals as they combed through the sky, desperately looking for the offending object on Lord Wen's orders.

-SWK told MK what all the fuss was about via astral projection, then went back to breaking up the fight in the dining hall, because yes, after casually tossing a mini-nuke out of the window, these four were still engaging in their violent legal debate. 

-Lord Wen wondered, for the billionth time in his life, if one of the Taisui gods or someone in the Dipper Mansion really had it out for him, then sighed and ordered Hanzhi's temporary release, just so the Wind Bureau could assist in the search too.

-Mei, being part of the West Sea dragon clan, was obliged to help out any Celestial Bureaus involved in weather creation by virtue of an ancient accord. She wasn't too happy about it, as MK and Tang set off to find something in FFM's vault that could create a protective barrier over the city, in case the others all failed their spot checks.

-I'm making some tweaks to the treasures we are collecting, mostly by replacing them with ones from FSYY. Instead of the Demon-revealing Mirror, we have the Yin-Yang Mirror(阴阳镜) of Chijing Zi, and instead of the Crimson Jimweed, we are looking for the Chaihu Grass of Shennong.

-Since the full Yin-Yang Mirror is too OP, in this AU, it was split into its white and red halves: the white half can insta-kill anything with a soul, the red half can revive whatever the white half killed, and FFM's vault only got the red one, which was useless on its own.

-Also, instead of Guanyin's vase, the treasure they were looking for was a crystalline vase containing the Divine Water of Triple Light(三光神水)——a substance that could transform ordinary water into a self-regenerating magical barrier, also from FSYY.

-But Tang, who thought "that other God-Demon novel" was boring and not as well-written as JTTW (true), didn't know that. He still found it despite looking for the wrong vase the entire time, while pursued by Spider Queen's minions; a truly incredible feat. 

-The Thunderfire-imbued dumpling was found by Mei and neutralized safely in midair via Hanzhi's tornado, seconds after the Divine Water barrier went up.

-All four Thunder Generals received fifty lashes, on top of the beatdown they received from SWK. Hanzhi, being the natural gossiper she was, revealed her "on parole until mission's over" situation, as well as SWK's involvement in the court case to Mei.

-Of course, Mei told MK, which…only added to his guilt and anxiety. Come Minor Scale, this also changed LBD's approach: instead of telling him that SWK left because he picked the wrong successor, she focused on how his mentor had to clean up his mess, that maybe SWK didn't tell him all the truth for a good reason——he just couldn't be trusted with it.

-One question remained: why was LBD trying to rebuild the Bone Mech, when it could no longer be a vessel for one of the Ten Kings post-deification, and even if it could, the dead Shang kings would not have answered the calls of anyone who wasn't a direct descendant of theirs?

-Because it is less about the soul they are pulling out of the Underworld, and more about creating a passage between the world of the living and the dead, which is why she needed the staff.

-As Yu the Great's extendable ruler, not only can it change its size and length at will, it can also command the Water element as a whole——including the water of the Underworld rivers, the Nine Springs.

-So LBD is using the Bone Mech to create a canal between the two realms, then using the staff to draw the Nine Springs through. Which, like everything Underworld, is the purest Yin-aligned substance you can find, and reacts with Yang-aligned energy in unusual ways: in this case, it creates a living, growing ice that encases Yang-aligned entities upon contact.

-This is how the Ice Hells are constructed: every wall, every floor, is made of condemned souls of the deceased. But unlike in the Underworld, where the flow of Yang energy is predictable, controllable, and quite weak in strength, when the same water enters the mortal realm where Yang energy is so abundant, it just grows and grows and insta-freezes everything it touches.

-With the reverse-flooding also came tons of ghosts, finally escaping their confinement in the Eighteen Hells, but honestly, that was the least of everyone's worries. 

[forgottenroisin]

Brigit x Rosie “It could be worse.”

FLASHBACK

"The important thing," said Brigit. "Is that we remain calm. It could be worse."

"I don't see how!"

It had been a sweet notion. First, Brigit, Aoife, and Rosie had arranged for Eithne to take the day off, it being her birthday, by claiming to Valentina (who had no earthly notion when any of her stepdaughter's feast days fell) that she had a 'pox,' and vague and ill-defined malady which they had cobbled together expressly for the occasion (having lain some foreshadowing of the illness down in the previous fortnight, saying about how Farmer Tom's wife and boy had it and how it was said in town everyone in the are would have had it at some point, come the summer, and knowing well and good that Valentina would never fact check them as it would require stooping to speak to such 'low' personages as Farmer Tom). Second, Aoife and Cillian would take Eithne out to town on a few fun-filled errands while, thirdly, Brigit and Rosie prepared the cake.

While the first two parts of the plan had gone smashingly, it was the third for which them were proving not entirely prepared, a fact which stung all the more when one considered how both Aoife and Cillian had expressed doubts on this point while Brigit and Rosie had insisted up and down that they could certainly handle something so simple as a cake and that really the other two ought to have more faith in them as people than to hold such appalling doubts that, Rosie had added -- an argument which had finally convinced them -- were so rude as to nearly border on exposing a doubt Aoife and Cillian clearly held about their characters!

And, with their characters now on the line, Rosie and Brigit now stood side by side, gazing at their creation. The dazzlingly white confection sloped, slumping to one side like a wounded soldier. On the other side, it did stand up (somewhat), but this effect was marred by the attempt at decoration the sisters had effected. In attempting to pipe flowers and vines onto the side, they'd somehow managed to make it look rather as if the poor thing were bleeding AND wounded.

"We've created an abomination," said Brigit.

"I feel like a monster! We should put it out of its misery."

"Put it out of its misery? How?!"

Rosie pressed a knife into her sister's hand. "It's for the greater good."

"What do you want me to do? Stab it to death?"

"Cut it up! It's edible...I think...It can just be ready to be served when she arrives!"

"We can't cut Eithne's cake!" cried Brigit. "It's her feast day, not ours! It's not what's done! She has to make the offering to the guardians, and that starts with the cutting of the cake!"

"Would you prefer her to have to see this ghastly horror we've created? We'll give her nightmares. On her feast day!"

"No. We can salvage this."

"How?!"

Brigit grinned. "I have an idea."

***

"Are you ready?" hissed Cillian, rushing into the kitchen. "I ran ahead but, they're almost here and -- Amestris' head! Why is there a bush in the kitchen?"

"It's not a bush!"

"It's a cake."

"No, that--That, my dear ladies, is a bush."

It was certainly botanical. The kitchen island had been scrubbed entirely clean of the chaotic efforts lately put into crafting the cake by Eithne's sisters, and in its place, stood the mishapen lump they had crafted, disguised under an array of looping vines and flowers that seemed now to grow in effortless coils from a sweetly sloping mountainside.

"It's all edible vegetation," said Brigit.

"Don't you recognize it, Cillian?"

"What?"

"Don't you see?" asked Brigit. "It's the mountainside where our father asked our mother to marry him. Perfectly recreated, even now to the spot where trees and shrubs grow!"

"O--oh," Cillian's brows rose. "I...I do see it. That's genius! She'll love it. But...how did you recreate the exact slope of the hillside so perfectly?"

Exchanging a glance, Brigit and Rosie grinned. "Bakers' secret."

[antihibikase2]

He does not remember the life he has led before- nor does he think it is a life worth remembering.

In the darkness, all he could see were angry glares, faces contorted into ones of disgust or fear. The words that leave their lips are just as degrading, labeling him a creature of the night- surely, not one of the creations of "Old Sinnoh".

With his dying breath, he howls to the moon-a curse of his own, to the god above.

Arceus,

Creatures such as he, leading such cursed existences- what purpose did they serve, other than to be hated?

Why have you forsaken me?

He snarls; a shadowy figure manifests across him, face obscured by their parasol- the only thing he sees is the pendant she wears, shaped like a tear.

A dying dream, he thinks.

Even as their laughter rings in his ears, clear as a bell.

"Oh my, a Zoroark?"

…

He bites and claws the hand that feeds; but the hand does not strike back, merely curling into a fist, claws digging into their skin- and relaxing, offering an open palm to the beast.

"You and I are more alike than you think, dearest Zoroark,"

The smiling woman must be insane, he thinks.

But, seeing how her shadow stretches into something incoherent, a void that threatens to swallow him whole- he supposes she might be right; even if he himself was a mere Pokemon, and she herself was-

"Not one of His creations."

"How ironic, coming from you- you were persecuted for the same thing, were you not?"

He flinches.

"Oh, you silly little thing. Such abilities are not beyond the power of Giratina- of course I know what you are thinking about."

Her black dress drags on the blood stained grass, withering as the fabric brushes against the blades. Each step she takes, a trail of death follows; he could smell it.

"Poor creature. You have done so much good for the world- to be exiled from your pack because you chose to live with humans; and to be killed by the same humans you protected,"

She speaks of his pain as if it were her own- as if she understood.

"And to die cursing Arceus- I was the same."

Illuminated by the moon, her bronze eyes shine into a deep red.

"That is why I am here."

He has heard of tales of witches before- cursed humans who dabbled with life and death, often disguising themselves as healers among the land.

In particular, the rumors concern those of the Celestica bloodline; supposed fanatics of Arceus, who lived amongst themselves, secluded from the rest of human society.

In a way, they really were similar, weren't they?

"So, you know about the Celestica? Then surely, you must know,"

His ghastly white fur, written in books as a sign of bad omen- and her blonde hair, whispered among townsfolk as a curse.

"The suffering of my people- my ancestors and our descendants, just like you Zoroark."

She crouches to his level, lowering her parasol.

She holds the pendant up to him.

"I have given you a second chance at life, just as Giratina had with me- and just as Giratina is serving Arceus through me, you shall do the same."

That pleasant smile is nothing short of sinister, scarier than any other Zoroark's.

"Come with me- unless you want to be hunted again."

And really- he would have been a fool to refuse.

As his paw reaches out to shake her gloved hand, curled around the pendant, he finds himself asking,

"Who are you?"

Her red eye flickers back to brown.

"Please call me Lady Cogita."

…

The Zoroark of Kalos were different creatures- still feared and fabled, but their furs were dyed a deep black; and he noticed very quickly that they were not as prideful as Hisuian Zoroark.

Though he morphed into a smaller creature to avoid suspicion, trotting alongside Lady Cogita, the Zoroark that roamed the forest avoided them at all costs- as if they could see the dark auras granted to them by Giratina.

"We're here."

Parting through the leaves, he is welcomed into a village bathed in sunlight, hidden deep in a forest south of Snowbelle.

A Gallde that guards the entrance glares down at his smaller form, seeing through his disguise.

But, Lady Cogita places a soothing hand on its shoulder.

"As far as anyone is concerned, darling,"

She gestures to her smaller companion.

"This is an Eevee. No?"

His tail flicks, silver fur shimmering.

A convincing disguise to most- but an unsettling presence to very few.

He supposed that psychic types, as well as fellow Zoroark, could see through it with ease.

She could not understand what the Gallade says- but the Zoroark does, and bites back his tongue when the sentry of the village mutters something under its breath.

"He takes his duty very seriously." She simply says.

He rolls his eyes at that- and follows her as she leads him to the village, greeted by many others, donned in robes of white.

They look up at her with proud smiles, welcoming her return warmly and offering to throw a feast to celebrate her arrival. A loving display of community, something he had seen quite often in his home region- especially towards explorers who braved through Hisui's wilderness and returned home to their families.

They seemed to be unaware of her shadow, or her alliance with Giratina; but the red flowers do not seem to die in her wake as they did with those of Hisui.

"The flowers of eternity are blooming beautifully- that is enough celebration for me," She tells the village elder. "I am happy; surely, this was a blessing brought to us by Arceus."

The mention of Arceus makes him wince, something that does not escape Lady Cogita's gaze.

He scoffs- and she lightly nudges him with her foot to scold him.

"Truly. You were correct, miss Cogita- his birth was a gift from Arceus Himself."

"Of course- he is an angel sent to us, a little dove."

A little bird; funny, he himself used to hunt for those.

When he pokes his nose up at her, she simply smiles at him, and leads him deep into the village.

He takes it that she's some sort of authority around these parts; wild Pokemon feared her for her aura, while humans respected her for her knowledge, possibly unaware of her deal with the devil- or the beast that accompanied her.

He does not understand why she chose to bring him to life, other than for her own amusement.

But, as she leads him into a house bathed in sunlight, surrounded by Pokemon- he sees why.

"Acro, darling,"

A small child lifts their head from the book they were buried in, red petals on their blonde hair.

"I'm home- I have a surprise for you."

...

"There once was a time where humans feared Zoroark,"

N says, tone laced in sadness.

"Even until now, such a reputation follows them. They are frightening creatures, yes- but I do not think they deserve to be shunned."

Two of the shadows stay still- one assigned to the false king, the other assigned to the pair of goddesses.

The other shadow, with his golden eyes and red tips, white hair messier than the other two's- was assigned to the heirloom.

"What do you think, Doctor Colress?"

The doctor.

"I wonder if it is us who chose to shun them- or it was those creatures who chose to live separately from humans. Surely, they could make their own choices-"

He speaks just like his mother had, wise and direct,

"-and perhaps, they were correct in doing so. Humans are much more unpredictable; those who desire to kill hide their claws. If anything, it is Zoroark who fear them- and humans merely used that against them."

But scared.

Lady Cogita was never scared.

N takes his answer into account, smiles,

"You understand Pokemon very well, Doctor,"

And reaches out to pat his shoulder, in a show of comraderie.

From the corner of his eye, he sees the doctor flinch- but he balls his fists to his side, golden eyes flickering uncomfortably between his shadow and his doll, who remained in the corner of the room.

"You're a valuable asset to Team Plasma; it makes me relieved that you're part of our operations. Not all humans can unconditionally understand Pokemon like we can."

He means it with no malice- his aura says so.

But the doctor does not take his words as they are.

Those who desire to kill hide their claws, as he said- something he applied to all he would come into contact with, wary like a Zoroark.

The doctor pats N's hand with his own- and slides it off of him.

"Do not compare me to the likes of you," was what he wanted to spit out.

But, he says something else.

"If you excuse me, my king, I have work to attend to."

He glances at his shadow once more.

"Tres. Carry my materials to the laboratory."

Their eyes meet- and the pendant under his clothes beats like the heart he once had.

"To follow my dove to the edges of the world, in darkness and in light-"

He bows, one hand on his chest.

"That is your purpose."