#my rotten little tree rat

[morbidwlws]

Ppssssssttttttt

It’s my oc’s birthday !! So I’m gonna talk about him a lil bit to celebrate 🪩

Levi Gibson was born on August 10th in a small hospital in Vernon, KY that was torn down when he was seven. He didn’t know anything about that, though. The kid was already growing up like a weed on the banks of Dale Hollow Lake, keeping his daddy up at night, getting himself - and his little sister, Spencer - into all sorts of trouble.

By the time he dropped out he’d been suspended from school more times’n he could count, the first one being at the ripe old age of ten. That’d been the time he heard some of the boys talking about Spencer in a way that made him sick and when one of ‘em said it to his face in the lunch room he’d knocked him out. It hadn’t done either of ‘em any good.

He quietly observed the way she got blamed for the whole thing, like she wanted that rumor to be going around in the first place. Like she wanted any of the subsequent ones. From the beginning it was aparent to Levi that there was more to it that she refused to talk about. It bugged the hell out of him that there was something he didn’t know about her life.

He couldn’t stand to leave her alone for a minute either, especially then. They’d walk the long way home from school every day: follow the river up around town before crossing it on the highway. Once on the other side, they’d head straight into the woods on a well beaten footpath. For the entire hour between three and four o’clock the world was empty save the two of them. They filled the time by picking up sticks just to break ‘em, catching bugs and planting them on one another, shoving each other and laughing until they cried. She never brought it up and he never asked. The space between them was sacred - that much he knew - and he wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize it.

[silaslich]

Choices have consequences

Simon ��Ghost” Riley x gn!captain!reader

Wc - 2.8k

Summary - you’re tasked with taking your team to Germany to assist tf141, all goes well until Ghost takes a bullet.

No CWs

AN - this was wholly written for my own entertainment just so I could interject my ocs somewhere with no context but hey why not post it for the fun of it :)

Stories did little to compare to the haunting image of the man in the mask.

The Ghost.

A strong soldier with a good head on his shoulders. Perfectly curated for his field; no strings attached, no loose ends. No one waiting for him, no one that would seek him out if he were to disappear. Not one single person who would be notified of his death when that dark day came.

Ghost had cut himself away from any semblance of a normal life he had left. He took the choice out of Simon’s hands and forced it regardless, hiding his truth and burying it away. Files upon redacted files lay piled up. His name. His face. His home. His family. All buried deep down in the archives, tucked away in a dark corner where no one would see them. Where no one would know to look.

He was an anomaly. A complete stranger to these men. He couldn’t relate to them, couldn’t join in with idle conversations between deployment or while on transports. Talking about future plans; wives, kids, holidays spent around a stained oak table with chairs pulled up to each corner - filled to the brim with family and friends and pets.

He would just keep his eyes low. Listening carefully but mind somewhere else completely - disassociated. Displaced from his surroundings.

You met him years ago in Germany. Barely two words spoken between you before you were split, sent your opposite ways to divide and conquer.

Task force 141 wasn’t foreign to you, John Price had been an acquaintance of yours for some time now, conversations had in passing like ships across seas, opposing squadrons touching down onto the tarmac of the same holding barracks or tight-knit rendezvous at the higher up facilities. It came with the territory of being a Captain, Price had is men and you had yours. He’d remarked that you were young considering your rank.

“I’m older then I look, Captain” you’d said. You weren’t about to tell him how old you really were, that you were perhaps closer to his age then he thought, you’d let that conversation happen another time.

Germany had been a chance encounter. A tipping point in an otherwise routine mission; a drug ring shipping through exports across Europe, a rat had let slip of armour deals happening too, heavy duty artillery that was more then just black market trade. Warfare grade shit. By some chance, yourself and your force had been available to assist, already running through that particular area of Europe for another lead you had been following. It had come up short. After just a short phone call you were dropped by helicopter onto the outskirts of Görlitz, a rural town that would provide a great meeting point that would be more than inconspicuous. An old hay barn had been the check point. It’s decaying wood panels all chipped and splintered and rotten from the damp. The roof was half con-caved and the landscape was dull and horse sick. Grazed down right to the clay.

You and your team kept a low profile, walking along the tree lines with weapons drawn, rifles held to your chests as you scanned your surroundings. Old habits died hard. It would take some drilling out of you for you to change your ways, always on the look out, always watching and waiting for the jump.

The select few men you had brought with you were some of your finest; the big Austrian lieutenant König, Toni (Norvin) Espin the scouser sergeant, Craig (Jank) Conners the Londoner and Felix (Trap) Valenski the basket-case Canadian.

It was a team you’d hand picked yourself, comparable to TF141 in the sense that each of you came from somewhere else, some other unit or faculty, bought together by pure chance or pure luck. Freedom fighters for the greater good. Dirty job. Clean world. Clean slate for the rest of humanity to crack on with. Your hands filthy and stained, not washing off in the sink, stained deep down to the bone, bleached into your skin.

Your fist rapped against the wooden door, barely holding on at the hinges. You kept your eyes to the door, only glancing over to your men to gesture to your own eyes with two fingers, then pointing them out into the landscape, signalling for them to keep a look out. Price met you at the door, peeking through a splintering crack.

He ushered you all in with a “good to see you made it lads”.

There was a small woodworking table propped in the middle of the barn with a small flash light placed atop. A make shift desk. Littered with maps and coordinate sheets, messy scribbles dashed across and certain areas circled. It looked like they’d been here for hours. Stewing away. Plotting.

The five of you filed in, spreading out across the back portion of the barn, staying aback, not treading on the toes of the 141. You were here to assist, not to overtake. You took a step toward Price.

“So tell me Captain” you began, shifting your rifle to lay across your chest as it sat propped by its strap, “what do you need of us?”

Your eyes scanned the room, finally taking in the the rest of his force. That’s when you saw him, the Ghost, a burly masked lad with a hulking stature and dangerous air, he didn’t unsettle you in the slightest but you could see why someone on the receiving end of his barrel might think otherwise. He was set off away in the darkness, arms folded and one foot propped across his other leg as he leaned against a wooden bannister frame. To his left was a shorter man, dark hair shaved into a tasteless mohawk, a prominent scar across his chin and a slanting smile painted across his face, he had a kind eye about him, you learnt his name was Soap. Hovering close to Price was the last to be introduced, his name was Gaz, a handsome young chap with slight facial hair and shades pushed up to sit atop his head.

“He’s a big lad ain’t he” Soap chuckled, nodding his head toward your lieutenant. König said nothing in retort. You raised a brow and looked across at the Austrian, his mask covering any emotion he could possibly be showing, you turned back towards the Scotsman.

“Glad to see your eyes work well sergeant” you smiled, nodding your head, he only laughed in return. Gaz laughed too. Price cleared his throat.

“I’ll get straight to it Cap” he said, beckoning you with a finger to step even closer to his makeshift table, you rounded the wooden desk, eyes scanning quickly over the scribbled plans and route markers, committing them to memory.

“I’d like you to form our defence, cover our arses as we infiltrate” you went over the logistics quickly in your head. You kissed your teeth in thought.

“Swap a soldier for König” you said, eyeing up Prices’ boys to see who’d best fit. Price looked at you and raised a brow.

“König would be better utilised as a battering ram of sorts, better close up on the offence rather then at long distance. He can get you in and better still he can cover you from there on out” you traced your gloved finger down over the map, following the route in which Price planned to take.

He grunted in the back of his throat, acknowledging the information you’d gifted.

“Right. I’ll swap your big fella for Ghost, he can stick with you lot at long range and cover our backs incase it goes south” he sounded pleased with his plan and you nodded in response, you glanced over at Ghost, seeing he hadn’t moved even an inch since you and your team had arrived. It’s like he really was just that -

a Ghost.

You jumped the drug ring that night. Just as planned; Price took König as his defence, followed by Soap and Gaz. They powered their way through the rings holding facility that was hunkered up on a canal channel, up stream and out of sight. They worked quick and they got the job done, with the assistance of yourself and your boys securing the perimeter and having Ghost as your extra.

Ghost hadn’t said more than a few words; despite the odd movement suggestion or offer of instruction to your men, he kept his mouth shut. You’d worked with hundreds of soldiers in your time, helped train some of the best of them, you’d seen personality types like his before - more brain and brawn then most, with that added third element of reservation. He thought of each word carefully, only gave away what he needed to, and in return you didn’t pry.

By the time Price was heading back with the rest of his crew, yourself and the others started to shift too, readying yourselves to meet them half way. They aren’t too far, just down a ravine heading towards the channels that would have carried the drug rings cargo. Norvin pipes up.

“Where after this Cap? Somewhere sunny?” He smirks when he speaks and you brush him off with a roll of your eyes.

Wishful thinkin’ Norv” you retort, falling into step beside Ghost who happens to be the closest. Trap is the next to start.

Put in for somewhere properly cold, this soggy shit doesn’t count” the lanky Canadian gestures around with both hands dramatically, the motion forces you to follow his eyes.

It certainly is just a soggy and bogged up blanket of rain and sleet out here this time of year, the smell of the earthy soil and kicked up leaves fresh in your nostrils.

As you all trudged further down the brow of the steep hill you saw the rest of the boys come into view, more specifically, you saw König first. That big bastard was hard to miss, a racing thought sprung to mind, it wouldn’t be hard for the enemy to hit him.

It was slippery and muddy. Caked to your boots and splashing up to your calves, it took some time to progress and cover the land, mainly because Jank took a nasty spill and instead of helping everybody just laughed - even Ghost cracked. You supposed it was funny, there’s nothing that can bring a group of soldiers closer then laughing at the expense of one of their own men. Jank didn’t find it particularly funny, smothered in mud right up to his eyeballs, you eventually caught yourself and offered him a hand up. Much to your surprise, he didn’t pull you down into the dirt with him, given his track record - you wouldn’t have put it passed him.

As yourself and your team head down the hill, you see as Price and his boys are coming up, honourable members of each being Ghost and König of course. The captain gets closer and closer, raises his hand to wave you down when you hear and feel the air whip around you.

It’s like lightening striking. One second you’re standing up right walking beside Ghost, and the next you’re crushed beneath the entirety of his weight.

It’s hard to tell if the razor sharp pain in your chest is from the impact or from Ghost crushing your ribcage, your voice dies in your chest when you cry out in pain, but it falls to complete silence when you manage to pin your eyes between your chest and Ghosts.

Because there’s nothing but blood.

-

It’s a hard place to be. On the wrong side of the door, from the outside looking in.

Guilt is a weight you carry well. It’s something you’ve had to come to terms with, make a friend out of, because she’s a headstrong mistress - one that doesn’t allow her victims much room to breath.

You’ve watched countless men and women die, both by your hand and the enemies. It’s a way of life unfortunately, another thing you had to prepare for when ranking up. Those deaths are on your shoulders, carried on your back till the day you kick the bucket yourself. It’s your job to oversee your team, to carry them with you, deliver them back home to their friends and families at the end of it all - hopefully not all of them in caskets.

Watching on now; this man, near enough a stranger to you- listening to his chest rattle and watching as his ribcage rises and falls in shallow succession. It’s a new found sensation that cuts deeper than anything has before. The ache of the healing wound in your chest strives to remind you that you should be the one in his place.

Someway - somehow, Ghost had seen the glint of a sniper in the distance, so far away it could have been anything, a stray of light catching the stream or a trick of the eye. Yet, he shielded you, screamed for everyone else to drop to the ground, he had bellowed so loud you hadn’t even heard it over the sound of the blood rushing in your ears.

Not only had he saved you, but the rest of the team as well, Ghost had walked away as the only critical injury. Even your wound was surface deep, his body had slowed down the bullet almost indefinitely, all you had now was a gnarled scabbed up entry wound.

And Ghost still hadn’t woken up yet.

The days stretch into what feels like eternity. You don’t eat and can barely sleep, you can’t even rip yourself away from the ward.

You carry your guilt well, so you can’t justify what makes you stay, what keeps you rooted to the sticky-clean vinyl floor.

Price stays too. Eaten up by his protective instinct, much like you are with your own team, they’re more than just that - a fucked up sense of family hiding between the bloodshed and the bullets. It’s why he had allowed you to stay, given you permission on Ghost’s behalf to see his face, to watch the way his features slope gently in sleep.

On the ninth day, Ghost wakes up.

It’s an awful ordeal. You’re getting yourself and Price a coffee when you hear it - when you hear him.

Something smashes and the machines keeping him breathing must clatter to the floor, Price pulls the assistance alarm just as you make it to the door.

For the briefest of seconds, Ghost stills when he sees you, eyes wild and frantic - but they’re glazed over, he’s clearly having an episode of some sorts. You make it to the bedside just as he’s pulling the wires off his chest, grabbing hands aiming for the oxygen mask next, Price’s voice is there attempting to soothe him the entire time.

“Calm down, Simon” he breathes, lowering his face close to Simon as he braces his palms gently on his chest, ushering him to relax, “it’s okay Si” Price looks from his lieutenant and then up at you.

His eyes contradict his tone. For the first time since you’ve known him, Price looks worried, if you didn’t know any better maybe he even looked scared. Fearful for his friend. You’ve deduced plenty in the last week or so, the captain hadn’t overshared on Ghost’s behalf, but he’d let enough go unsaid that you put two and two together - Ghost hadn’t always been a Ghost.

He was once a man; with a life and a family, despite being broken down and beaten by his father he rose above it, he sought out a life that would give him the control back. But even that was short lived, betrayed and brought to his knees and buried alive - left to rot away in that casket six feet under.

Ghost wasn’t created to replace Simon, he was created to protect him. Not just his identity and his past, but to protect that little boy that never got a chance to be just that. Simon had to grow up too fast; everything innocent and sweet ripped away too young, instead he was carved out by harsh words and glass bottles - moulded to be a shell of his former self.

The nurses are quick when they arrive; they sedate him through his IV and replace everything he’d managed to rip out, he’s in and out of it. Drifting as Price said.

You sit there for the rest of the afternoon. Silent by his side as he rests. Again- you don’t know what keeps you there. Maybe it’s an obligatory sense of responsibility for this man’s life now, he’d saved yours, now you owed him the same. It makes the wound in your chest ache, the dull throb of it palpable under your palm when you rest it there.

Then you realise as your eyes scan him, hovering over the bandages that wrap around his entire torso -

You’ll both have matching scars now.

[its-jaytothemee]

Could you please write something about a wood elf Druid tav getting a bad fever/sickness after collapsing just as she steps in the door of the elfsong tavern rooms from the horrible miasma of the bhaal temple and a romanced Halsin tends to her and watches over her

Finally had a chance to get this finished! Sorry for the wait, life just got a little hectic but I didn't forget about you :) Thanks for the prompt, this was fun to write!!

Have a fluffy hurt/comfort piece for this fine Monday.

Also posted on AO3 if you prefer

Pairing: Halsin/Tav (f!reader)

Tags: Fluff, hurt/comfort, not NSFW but alludes to sex toward the end.

Word count: 2,641

Baldur’s Gate goes against everything you stand for. Nature, harmony, peace, community. But not even the city itself with its walls of stone and locked doors to prevent helpless refugees from entering could compare to the horror of the Bhaal temple lying in wait beneath it.

At least on the surface you could still breathe the fresh air, listen to the singing birds flying high above the stone walls, hear the breaking of the waves in the harbor. Nature is out of balance in the city yes, but down here? Here in this wretched temple the scale has broken completely. Only death and suffering and a necrotic miasma that seeped its way into every fiber of your being can be found in the God of Murder’s domain.

The battle with Orin the Red had been vicious. You and your companions fought with brutal ferocity to end her reign of blood and carnage in Bhaal’s name. Though as the fight persisted, you noticed a corruption to your magic. The beautiful verdant vines that you would usually call forth to ensnare your enemies had taken on a sickly brown color. When you try to call on the magic granted to you by Silvanus to heal your allies’ wounds, the bright magic flickers at your fingertips before puffing out of existence. A horrible burning sensation seizes your throat for a moment before a dull ache takes its place.

No matter, we’re leaving this accursed temple. I just need some fresh air. The stench of death is simply clouding my mind.

“You okay, soldier?” Karlach kneels on the bloodied floor, clutching the large gash on her arm.

“I…I think so. This rotten temple must be affecting my connection to the Weave.” You respond as the light pricking pain behind your eyes builds to a loud pounding. Given your magic seems to be touchy here in the temple, you opt to give your friend a potion from your bag.

“This should make it manageable until we can get out of this place.” You go to take a step towards the exit, but your head swims and your vision darkens. Luckily, a deep breath steadies your legs and pushes the fatigue from your mind so you can continue your way to the surface.

You never thought you would be so happy to see the streets of Baldur’s Gate. A new appreciation swells within you after your time in the temple. Sure, there’s hardly any trees and the only animals you see running about are the stray cats and dogs or an occasional rat, but at least now you know there’s far worse things.

“Hells…” You press your hand to your temple as the sun pierces your eyes, agitating the already pounding ache you feel behind them.

“Tav?” Wyll looks at you with deep concern. “You don’t look so good, friend.”

His hand extends to touch your forehead, which you now realize is coated in a thin layer of sweat.

“I…I’m fine. I just need to get back and rest is all.” You try to inhale the surface air, desperate to clear the deathly fog still lurking from the Bhaal temple.

Your companions keep a wary eye on you as you all continue your trek through the Lower City. Normally, you’d stop at some of your preferred vendors to sell some of the bits and baubles you’ve picked up on your latest quest. Today though, everyone insists on getting you back to the Elfsong so Halsin can tend to whatever sickness obviously plagues you.

Halsin…

At least the thought of him makes you smile and helps push the pain away for a moment. Your sweet, considerate, strong, bear of an elf. All of a sudden, you feel dizzy again, but not from the incessant ringing in your ears or pounding against your skull.

The familiar sounds and smells of the Elfsong Tavern pull you away from your daydreams. Normally, the smells of wine and stew and bread would make your mouth water, but right now they cause an uneasy churning in your stomach. You gag to keep what little food you’ve eaten today in your body. With some significant help from Karlach, you make your way up the stairs.

Surely they’ve added at least twenty more since we last left?

By the time you’re standing outside the door to your large, rented room, the light layer of sweat coating your skin has drenched your underclothes. You gasp for breath, the taste of death still prevalent on your tongue from your time beneath the city.

The doors open, and you can hear your friends speaking to you, but everything is warbled in your ear. You see Halsin come running up to you, a look of panic spreading across his face.

What’s wrong, my love?

You try to form the words as you feel his arms wrap around your waist, but everything fades to black.

***

“Tav!” Halsin calls out to you, but your unconscious body remains limp in his arms. “What happened?” He looks to the rest of your companions who had accompanied you to the temple of Bhaal.

“I don’t know!” Karlach starts to pace as he picks you up to lay you down on your shared bed. “She almost seemed sick, like they couldn’t breathe properly with the air in the temple.”

“She tried to cast a healing spell on Karlach but couldn’t form the magic. Come to think of it, she seemed to have trouble casting any of her normal spells.” The alarm in Wyll’s voice is evident as your labored breaths slow with each rise and fall of your chest.

He kneels next to the bed to examine you. The ragged breaths that rise from your throat fill him with dread. A quick healing spell closes the small cuts you received but does little else.

“Talk to us, Halsin. What’s wrong with her?” Karlach continues her pacing around the room.

“I’m not sure yet. I need some fresh water and the small drawstring pouch from my bag.” Halsin swallows the anxiety threatening to block his throat. Despite his feelings for you, his years of healing experience take over.

Your breathing slows further, and he notices the pallid color of your lips. The veins in your arms start to take on a necrotic black look The others come to his side with the requested items. He dips a clean cloth into the water before running it over your sweat-slicked forehead.

“The air in the temple must have corrupted something within her. I’ve seen this only one other time.”

After the shadows were unleashed at Moonrise, he dragged one of his peers from the curse only to find they had already started weaving their way into his body. Not enough to fully corrupt them, but it had been enough to nearly kill them.

“I need someone to hold her legs and arms, keep her as still as possible.” Karlach and Shadowheart came running to your side, pinning your limbs down as Halsin started another incantation.

He places his hand over your mouth and concentrates on the deathly fog that had settled in your lungs. Moving his other hand across your chest and up your throat, he works to draw the corruption out of your body. Your legs and arms convulse, you try and thrash and writhe at the pain, but your companions hold you still.

It takes a couple of passes and intense concentration from him, but eventually he’s able to rip the disgusting miasma from your body. The horrid green vapor sits heavy in the air as he pulls it from your throat. Gale puffs it away with a quick spell.

As soon as the corruption leaves your body, you take a few deep, gasping breaths. Once again, you’re able to breathe the air around you. The color returns to your lips and cheeks, and the black color following the veins in your arms begins to slowly retreat. Despite the sickness being purged, you remain unconscious.

“Shouldn’t she be waking up?!” Karlach’s panicked voice bounces off the walls.

“She will soon, her body needs rest.” Halsin assures her as he sits next to you on the bed. He brushes the stray hair from your face as your breathing returns to normal.

The small drawstring pouch beside him was filled with various suspensions and salts for his healing remedies. A few of them get wrapped in the cool, damp cloth he had used earlier before he places it over your eyes.

He continues to assure everyone else that you will recover, allowing them the freedom to run errands in the city. The others start gathering their things so they can continue with the day. But Halsin of course stays at the Elfsong with you.

“I’m right here, my heart. I’ll be here by your side until you wake.” Halsin presses another kiss to your forehead as you rest. He moves down to the floor beside you, holding the hand closest to him until your eyes open again.

***

You startle awake, bolting upright to find yourself in one of the Elfsong beds.

“It’s alright, Tav.” Halsin’s soothing voice slows your heart rate. You look over to see him kneeling at your bedside.

“What…what happened?” Every muscle in your body is sore. A dull pain still burns in your lungs, as if the nasty haze from the temple had to be ripped out of them. Your hands clutch your chest as you try to catch your breath.

“I’m not entirely sure.” Halsin takes one of your hands and gives it a light kiss. “Can you tell me what you remember from your time in the Bhaal temple? The others said you seemed to have trouble with even basic spells.”

You recount the fight in as much detail as you can recall, but your memory is as hazy as the air you remembered breathing. But you can recall the vivid memory of your tainted magic.

Halsin looks lost in thought for a moment, his brow furrows as he considers your words. Absentminded strokes from his fingers along your hand soothe away some of the anxiety clouding your mind.

“I see. Bhaal is considered a harshly opposing source to Silvanus. Perhaps being in that temple disrupted your connection. Dare I say almost corrupted it.”

“If I never feel that suffocating fog again, it will still be too soon.” You throw yourself back onto the mattress.

Halsin smiles before breaking into a soft laugh. “At least it didn’t corrupt your sense of humor, my heart.”

“Would you come sit with me?” You desperately need to feel his arms around you.

“Of course.” He picks you up off the bed so he can sit on the soft mattress and nestle you in his lap. You lean into him, resting your head on his chest.

His large arms wrap around your shoulders easily as he pulls you close. The faint scent of herbs and fresh tilled dirt cling to the leather shirt he wears. Years of his time spent in nature weave into every fiber of his being. Warmth and affection seep from every one of his pores as he cradles you in his lap.

“Where are the others? Are they alright?” You ask as one hand moves up to stroke the hair tumbling down your back.

“They’re fine, Tav. They’ve gone out to do some trading so you can rest.”

“Thank you for staying with me.” You turn your face further into his chest as he presses a kiss onto your head.

“As if I would let anyone else watch over your recovery.”

You sit there together in comfortable silence as you have so many times before. As he holds you tight against him, he mutters a few more healing spells, taking away the soreness plaguing your body and the pain in your lungs. Each gentle kiss along your forehead and cheeks drives away the fear that had been gripping you since the temple. Despite the relief you feel, a troubling thought crosses your mind.

“You said the temple could have corrupted my magic. Do you…” You trail off for a moment. Halsin gives you an encouraging squeeze. “Do you think it’s permanent?”

The thought brings tears to your eyes and causes a shiver to run down your body.

“Only one way to find out.” He loosens his grip on your shoulders so you can use your arms freely.

With a deep breath, you draw on your power to conjure a small patch of vines on the floor. In the temple, they had appeared as brown, decaying branches, void of life and color. But now they had returned to their supple, green tendrils. Tiny white flowers adorn the vines as they curl into a content pile.

“No harm done. They’re lovely as ever.” Halsin whispers against your temple. You let out a sigh of relief.

Whatever disruption Bhaal’s unnatural sanctuary had caused was now nothing but a memory. You say a silent prayer of thanks to Silvanus for restoring your connection, for keeping you close to his vitalizing influence. Now that the issue of your magic is handled, another thought crosses your mind. One that brings a playful smile to your lips and a blush to your cheeks.

“You know, if the others are going to be out for a while, we could take advantage of the empty room.”

“Oh? And do you think you’re feeling well enough for such an activity already?” The mischievous gleam in his eye causes your heart to skip a beat. You turn so you can straddle yourself over his legs and look at him head on.

“I guess that decision would be up to my wise healer.” You lean forward to plant a tender, lingering kiss on his lips. His arms snake around your waist to pull you closer.

“I don’t see the harm, so long as he’s gentle with you.” He breathes the words into your ear, the feeling is hot on your already flushed skin.

“I make no promises for myself, though.” You try to kiss him again, but he grabs you by the hips and flips you over so he can hover over you on the bed. The movement startles a yelp out of you, but quickly turns into an eager giggle.

“Oh, but I must insist you relax.” His tone shifts to an excited growl as his approving eyes take in every detail of your face.

“Healer’s orders.”

You laugh and do as you’re told. After all, how could you resist those eyes? You find yourself relaxing into his loving, familiar embrace, and soft kisses, stealing these last few moments to yourselves before your companions return. Before returning to the responsibility of saving Baldur’s Gate, and all of Faerûn along with it.

[faeriecinna]

Ashnikko Lyric Prompts for all your spooky gay fantasy story writing needs

Aka, Lines I'm Sad I Didn't Come Up With First

One thing you need to know about me is I'm a SUCKER for fics/stories/poems inspired by songs so I figured I'd drop some lyrics here for y'all to play with :)

Bound with the curse, bees and the birds, even the plants are perverse.

The trees come alive, their vines reach out and wrap around my legs, I'm in a bind. Flowers bud and grow from the place we intertwine.

She is divine and I'm devout.

Scared of what I'm feeling - the bruise of being fourteen - there's chlorine in our hair and my jaw is shaking in my mouth.

Down. Feathers over rocks. I died and I land with both of my hands in the mud.

It felt like a God - how she held me. I slept on her shoulder, I gave her my all. I bathed her in waterfalls and I continued to fall, burning like a dying star.

Invasive weeds rooted in my heart, set in a crooked trajectory. The journey here was hard, I was almost pulled apart. Trying to leave this orbit took what's left of me.

The forest reaches out to guide me. Blue fire paths of will-o-wisps illuminate the darkness's oldest tricks.

I am nobody's captive. I asked him not to kill me politely. He drained my magic core, bottled up at the source. I washed up on a sea glass shore.

Menacing figures fall from the sky - symbols and sigils, I saw the signs. Rats in the sewers, death on my mind. I've set my sights on you, baby, you're mine.

The world is burning and I laugh in the flames.

You like my boots? I could stomp you like a little rotten fruit - on your jugular and leave a pretty bruise.

I'm coming for you - I'm contagious. You ruined what is sacred. I was living good before your locusts and your plague hit.

You're crying and you're shaking? I'll take your tears, bottle them and use them as a face mist.

You sang the song and now our destinies are tied. Dance til your feet bleed and join in the hunt - you will live forever if you come. Hither, come

You sang a song with your wicked mortal mouth. Sing to me sweetly, call to me now, there's a hundred hungry spirits in the trees looking down.

You sang a summoning you thought was a song, I heard my name on the wind.

Everything is stardust, everything is God.

God made me pretty, you made me mean. I brought a blade to the dance routine.

Feed the beast on broken dreams.

I'm an entity, an apparition looking for a host. I am darkness's scary sister, dissipate like smoke.

Three times say my name, you can't escape my cold embrace, I drag you to the bottom of the lake.

[vertebrates-and-pieces]

... Man, I'm going to spam you with all kinds of Morgott things, and for that I apologize in advance. X3

I think we've all come to the conclusion that he is a man starved. Not just in terms for food, but for physical contact as well.

How did he take care of himself before? What was the maximum and minimum of his self-care routine?

What are things like with his little Tarnished? How have things changed?

No need to apologize! I have a whole bunch of thoughts and this gives me an excuse to share them!

Sometimes I may get a bit busy and be unable to respond right away, but I absolutely love when people ask me stuff like this! (I honestly look forward to seeing and answering asks haha)

Also shout out to my friend @cant-even-throw-straight on this one, because we've had several conversations about this very subject.

Morgott's appearance is unkempt, shabby, but despite that, he does not seem dirty. This is a man who washes himself regularly, who does not allow his wounds to fester. He keeps himself hygienic. Think about it, he grew up in the sewers. He is intimately familiar with filth and how it can seep into forgotten crevices and open cuts. He's seen literal babies, raw and bloody at the stumps of shorn horns, tossed into waste. Infection, mold, rotten teeth… He's seen it.

He makes an effort to keep clean.

He might not treat himself kindly, but affords himself at least this one luxury. Besides, he is the de facto caretaker for something great and holy, to sully it with grime would be disrespectful, disgraceful. He will never allow his dragging tail to leave trails down hallowed halls like a slug. Similarly, he eats enough to not be fully starved, sleeps enough to be properly alert. His job is important.

That being said, his bare minimum is still not enough for him to be anywhere close to healthy. His scant hours of sleep are fitful and shallow. He has never used a bed in all his life. He sleeps at the sealed entrance of the Erdtree, ever watchful, and when he wakes, body aching from the bare stone and night's chill, he prays his thanksgiving for being allowed to slumber beneath its light and not down below in the darkness, that his sealed blood only occasionally darkens his slumber with cries of the damned. He eats only the rations he provides for the troops, and then only enough to reduce the gnawing pangs of hunger to a tolerable level. He does not cook, and does not season his food. He's eaten roaches, slugs, the occasional dead bird washed in after a storm, and rats, so many rats. He remembers what it feels like to pick their fur from between his teeth.

When he bathes, he does not warm the water. He's never needed to before, so it would be a waste to do so. He scrubs himself with a harsh, simple soap and a stiff bristled brush meant for livestock. He air dries instead of using towels. He does his best to keep his hair from matting, but there are a few places where his horns make this impossible. He shears these clumps whenever they grow out enough. He only has one item of clothing.

Even with someone who cares about him in the picture, his habits will take a significant amount of time and effort to shake.

Some will be easier than others. It won't take much to convince him to let the Tarnished use their smaller hands to snip the difficult to reach matted areas and comb his hair between his horns. But, getting him to start using a bed is going to be a bit of a battle. He's terrified of shirking his duty. He is honestly terrified of sleeping in the dark too. He needs to feel that golden light in order to feel secure enough to rest now. Probably needs to start off with a bed outside to ease him into it, and even when he sleeps indoors, it will never be with drawn curtains. Sorry darkness enjoyers, Morgott needs his tree nightlight, you should probably invest in an eye mask (or shove your face into his chest).

One positive about him, though, is that even as he takes better care of himself, he will not be wasteful, which is honestly an admirable quality for a king to have.

Bonus Thoughts:

-As long as he keeps himself clean, he smells surprisingly good. A clean, earthy musk.

-If you have to, say, travel through Caelid together for a week or two though, without access to enough clean water to spare for baths… he gets pretty smelly. Not the worst in the world, but definitely ripe: sweat and a dog in the hot sun come to mind. He will be very self-conscious about this too. He is not a fan of being dirty or stinky. He's rinsing himself in the first clean river he comes across.

-His magical projection does not need to bathe. It tends to stay as mostly a snapshot of how he was when he conjured it. He cleverly created it in such a way that it appears injured as it is attacked though. Would be very suspicious if it didn't bleed.

-Even if he refuses to use towels and it can be frustrating, getting to see him dry in the open air, rivulets of water rolling down his bare back turned to glistening honey under golden light… yeah. Gorgeous view ahead.

-

[bluewavesofchange]

The guardians of the Pharaoh.

I don't own Yugioh or it's characters.

Chapter 1

Many have lived their lives with the obvious delusion that life is a spectacular and mesmerising thing to wonder through. Brought into this world as a small, fragile, yet beautiful infant who has a warm hearted, loving and beyond beautiful mother. Whose eyes are bejewelled with a light that scare away any evil in your precious little heart. And don't forget her humble smile, her lips curved into a perfect crescent moon that gives passage to softly spoken words such as 'I love you' in a voice that's calm and subtle, like the gentle breeze of an Autumn morning. And beside her is a father. A powerful yet meek man whose firm yet welcoming grip brought you up over the many years, a man who guided you over the unpredictable, treacherous and hard road of life. Always there to catch you when you stumble and break down. His unforgettable words, spoken in a humble tone but still coated in love...if only that were true for me...

 

I had the misfortune of being brought into the cruel, withering and cold piece of hell screaming, alone and afraid. The woman, who sadly carried me in her doomed body for 9 long months, was released from her mortal existence mere moments before I was pulled out of the warm, protective womb where I was created, into the hell that is called the world. The man, who was supposedly married to the now empty and lifeless woman, a man whom I was supposed to call father, a coward who left behind a small, vulnerable baby girl...he left her lying in the incubator...alone...nameless...unwanted...afraid...a nothing with no one to hold her as her terrified and glass shattering broken screams and cries echoed throughout the chilling white halls of the hospital that stood short amongst the square giants that formed the brightly lit city. Its crowded streets and busy roads, the load hooting of taxi's, the busy and singled minded people shouting their lungs out, dulled out the heart broken cries of the abandoned and neglected little girl...the broken cries of a confused and trembling little me...

 

...learning at only an hour old...

 

...what loneliness and brokenness really was...

 

The doctors said I was born a tiny baby, small enough to fit into a handbag like those barking rats the celebrities prance around with. I was born with skin whiter than the first snowflake of winter and smoother than a porcelain doll. Dark wavy curls covered my scalp, each gentle curl facing a different direction like a bunch of waddling penguins. Born with a small mouth, it was hard to believe that something so tiny could produce such an ear bursting sound. And the eyes...the kind, small and skinny nurse who had taken care of me, said she had never seen such eyes before...a deep blue shade that could have been mistaken for sapphires. These two orbs of beauty that held such innocence and purity...also held so much hurt and agony at such a tender age...already knowing that the world was a cruel place...that the spiked claws of darkness and despair would always try to snuff out the light of happiness and goodness...dragging away everything you have...until you are completely alone...like me...

 

I was left at an orphanage a week after I was born and given the name Lillian. The place was cold like everything else on this retched planet. The walls were covered in scarlet red wallpaper that was already peeling from years of clinging to the hollow wooden walls. The floors were puzzled over by brown and grey tiles, several being missing or cracked or shattered. The ceiling had more mold and stains on it than an ancient tree in the rain forest. The smell was terrible due to the other orphans never cleaning properly and the smell of rotten eggs and urine was always around us. We were stuffed into any room that had even a crumb of space, sleeping on rotten old mattresses that were donated who knows when, some not even fitting on the rusted metal bed frames that cradled them...but that's not even the worst part...

 

The worst part was the other kids I had to stay with. I don't think some of them had a single good bone in their bodies. The oldest kid was always the one in charge. And that was Markiato. He was 13, never was considered for adoption, not once because of what a jerk he was to everyone. He had filthy blond hair that I don't think was ever washed. He carried around an old baseball bat that he used to install fear in everyone. He was tanned or should I rather say he was sun burned with dark brown eyes that dug out your soul and filled you with terror whenever he glared at you. Not to mention he was basically a giant, tallest kid in the orphanage and leader of the "B.O.B", that stood for "Bad Orphan Boys". Creative, I know. They were a group of boys that followed him around like he was a fricking king. They did whatever he said and beat up anyone they didn't like. I guess they must have really hated me, because ever since I got there, I had been their punching bag. And you would have thought that the caretakers of the orphanage would have done something about this. Maybe they could have stopped the older kids from beating the crap out of us but no. Whenever someone went to go complain about getting hurt or their stuff being taken away, the care takers would just shove them away and told them to go play or that it was just part of growing up. Yeah, it’s part of growing up to have someone hit you in the stomach with a bat and then beat you as you fall to the ground...

 

...the only time we were somewhat safe was when they sent us to school...

 

...but even that place had its list of problems and horrors...

 

...if it wasn't the kids at the orphanage beating us up...

 

...it would be the kids at school...

 

But there was a time when my life at that hell hole was actually good. I was 9 years old when I first really experienced happiness. The day was like any other day, winter was coming to an end, the snow had started to melt some time ago and the weather was still extremely cold. The paper thin blankets that had more holes than Swiss cheese and smelled worse than a public bathroom at a train station was the only source of warmth we got.

I was sitting on the bench by the window between two bare and leafless bushes, starring down at the dead and dusty ground, hugging my faded lavender sweater tightly to keep warm. It's not that I ever minded the cold, but it helped me feel less lonely somehow. The sound of the creaking gate that stood at the front of the orphanage was heard and the other kids rushed towards it. This could only mean one of two things...new arrivals had come or someone was coming to adopt. It wasn't odd that we got new kids arriving a few times a week; it was the fact that there were so little of us leaving this horrible place. I guessed nobody really wanted kids these days. Sighing, I got up from my seat and headed to the gate with the others to see what was going on. I had already given up hope of getting adopted. Too many times had families come looking for a child and they would just look me over. Maybe there was something wrong with me...I really was unwanted...even around the orphanage everyone called me "Lonely Lilly"...cause nobody wanted to come near me and I was always seen sitting by myself...

 

As I reached the gate, the other kids had started heading back to the playground already, clearly disappointed. I guess that meant that no one was here to adopt. I saw the two boys that had arrived. The tall one had brown chestnut hair and sweet blue eyes. He wore a yellow button-up shirt with a blue pullover, plain black jeans and a pair of white sneakers. The smaller boy that stood beside him had raven black long messy hair and soft grey eyes. He wore a green button-up shirt, grey shorts and a pair of purple trainers with knee high socks. They didn't talk to anyone as one of the caretakers led them into the building to show them around and assign them a room. I headed back to the lonely little bench by the window, thinking of the two boys that had arrived. They were most likely brothers considering they both arrived at together and looked, well a little alike I guess. Were they abandoned like me or did their parents pass away? Or did their parents do something bad and now they have to stay here? Why did I even care? Not like it really mattered to me what the story was with each kid that came and went from this place. Most of the time, the others left me alone and that was just fine with me. I didn't need anyone and didn't want anyone...I was fine with being alone...because that's all I would ever be.

 

A few hours passed and I was still sitting in my usually place when Markiato and his gang of mindless idiots came to pester me. Markiato stood in front of the others, holding that stupid bat under his right arm as he sneered down at me, making me shudder.

 

"Well, well...if it isn't little lonely Lilly."

 

He said with a chuckle, I hugged myself defensively, not wanting to aggravate him in case he tried to smash my skull in with his wooded beating stick.

 

"What do you want Markiato?"

 

I stuttered as I stared down at the ground, not wanting to make eye contact with the mammoth in front of me.

 

"Just wanted to spend a little time with my favourite little loser..."

 

He kept grinning as he reached out to lift my chin, making me look right into those horrible eyes. I quickly hit his hand away and got up keeping my gaze away from the rest of the boys.

 

"Just go away Markiato..."

 

I spoke softly as I turned to quickly leave but found myself surrounded by the rest of his menacing gang. Looking around as fear started to build inside me as I could find no way out of the circle of boys surrounding me. Each one having a nasty smile on their unwashed faces. Markiato slowly approached me again, grabbing hold of my jersey collar and pulled me towards him. The smell of onion rings and fish leaked from his mouth as he smirked at me, his yellow teeth fitting precisely in the frame of his lips. Instantly I began to feel sick.

 

"Now why would I go away? We're just having some fun right? Besides you seemed so lonely sitting here all by yourself."

 

Snickering as he spoke, I tried to pull free from his iron grip but it was no use. He saw me struggle and the impending fear that was growing within me as I began to tremble. Shoving me hard onto the cold hard ground and dirtying my jersey in the process. My eyes filled with tears of pain and fear as I lifted myself up with my arms, shaking as I stared at the ground watching the shadows of the boys around me. Twirling the bat in his hand, I could see him looking around at the other boys...

 

"You know fellas...maybe we should put her out of her misery? Send her back to where she came from..."

 

He slowly circled me, still twirling the bat mockingly before reaching down, his empty crusty hand grabbing my hair and pulling me up. Letting out a cry of pain, I grabbed his wrist, trying to ease the sudden burst of pain on my scalp.

 

"Pl-please st-stop!"

 

I yelled at him before he threw me to the ground again, landing face first in the dirt and scrapping my cheek. I weakly tried to hold myself up again, my hair falling over my face as a tear ran down my cheek, listening to the other kids laughing and mock me...I wanted to die right there and then...I just couldn't take it anymore...I wanted it all to stop...I wanted it all to just...go...away...

 

Just as Markiato raised the bat over his head to strike me, I knew nobody would come help me...nobody cared about me...I closed my eyes...waiting for the pain to come...when...

 

..."Leave her alone!"...

 

I heard someone calling from a distance followed by the sound of someone running towards us. Slowly I opened my eyes, glancing up ever so slightly at who was coming. And I was astounded to see that the boy who had arrived a few hours ago, sprinting towards me with his brother not far behind him. Markiato and the other boys turned towards him as he stopped just a few feet in front of the circle of boys. The blond beast started chuckling,

 

"Well, well, what do we have here? Prince charming coming to save his pathetic excuse of a princess?"

 

The boys began to laugh as I just looked back down at the ground.

 

"I said leave her alone. Go back to playing king of the idiots you freak."

 

The yellow shirted boy said as he took another step forward, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. The others went silent, their expressions becoming shocked. What was he doing? Did he want to get himself killed? Markiato tightened the grip on his bat.

 

"What did you just call me runt?" he growled through his teeth.

 

The kid didn't even flinch or look scared of the towering bully in front of him.

 

"I called you a big fat freak..."

 

…and with that said, he slammed his fist into Markiato's stomach, causing the taller boy to fall over like an old oak tree being cut down. And dropping the baseball bat that he held in the process. The boys standing around me looked at the kid slightly frighten as he had just taken down their so called mighty leader. Quickly they ran away like a flock of pigeons flying away after being chase by a small child, leaving behind their fallen comrade.

 

The boy slowly approached me; I kept my gaze down, not really knowing what to do...

 

..."Hey are you ok?"...

 

...I looked up to see him kneeling in front of me, with his hand stretched out to me, offering to help me up. Still scared, I took his hand, not really knowing why I trusted this kid. He got up helping me up as I muttered softly, "I-I'm fine..." He noticed the scrape on my cheek, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and gently wiped away the dirt surrounding the wound. I whimpered softly, pulling back slightly at the contact of the fabric on my raw skin.

 

"Hey, it's ok. I'm not going to hurt you."

 

He said in a soft spoken voice as he smiled at me. He reached out a second time and this time I didn't pull away, letting him clean my cheek...

 

"Th-thank you...for saving me...even though you didn't have to..." I spoke shyly as I kept my gaze away from his.

 

"It's ok. I just don't like seeing people pick on those weaker than themselves."

 

He said with a smile. Blushing at the comment, I looked up, glaring at him slightly, "Are you saying I'm weak?"

 

He chuckled and kept smiling that stupid smile,

 

"No. I'm just saying I don't like seeing people getting bullied. Especially if it's a cute girl."

 

I could have sworn I saw him blush too, making me giggle for a bit before going silent again, realizing his hand was still on my cheek. He must have noticed this too as he quickly retracted his hand away from my face. It felt weird...to have someone care about you...it felt good...almost enough to make me smile...

 

..."So what's your name?" he asked...

 

...not many of the other kids in the orphanage really knew my name...besides those who picked on me...

 

..."Um...I'm L-Lillian..." I answered shyly...

 

"Lillian? That's a pretty name."

 

The small boy that stood behind his brother answered with a sweet smile,

 

"I'm Mokuba and this is my big brother Seto. Hey wanna be friends with us? My big brother can keep you safe from the kids who bully you..."

 

...friends...

 

...nobody had ever wanted to be friends with me...let alone wants be around me...

 

Before I could even answer him, Mokuba grabbed my hand and pulled me over to the red and yellow swing set, Seto following close behind us. We spent the afternoon playing together and many days after that. We became close, Seto taught me how to play chess, while Mokuba taught me how to be a kid. I was never kid actually. I mostly spent my days lost in thought instead of playing. I had friends for the first time in my petty little life and for the first time I could actually truly smile and laugh. They had welcomed me into their lives without a second thought and they accepted me for who I was and they cared about me, and soon I came to care about them just the same.

 

For the first time in a very long time I felt something warm with in my heart...I felt...happy in some way...I felt like maybe...just maybe there was hope for me. That maybe I wasn't meant to be alone forever. Mokuba and Seto had given me something much more than just their friendship...they had given me hope, hope that I had long since been forgotten. Hope that my life would become better; a hope that someday I would get adopted and would find a family that loved me and that would take care of me.

[yohohonabottle]

Fall Harvest! (Reposted from Ao3)

Summary: It's Fall Harvest, and the crew is having fun. Candies and fish or other goods are exchanged, everyone is dressed-up and jolly. And the atmosphere is cozy and spooky, with the living and dead mingling together in peace. Work status: Oneshot in progress ----------------------------------------------------

Nightfall drapes, and with it—The line between the living and deceased blurs. Joyous fairs and solemn memories, candy and goods, all a lovely combination with the fall of rotten yellowed, red and browned leaves. The waves below the lively low-lit coastal town come and go as children disguised run, laugh and play on the streets, some dressed in hand-crafted costumes and others under a shapeshifting spell. With them, the weathered denizens wear smiles as they too partake in the festival and put their worries aside for just this one delightfully spooky night.

On the coast, far from the merry rundown town—A fine lady in black silky gown stands on the shore near the cold tides along with an archer of a fleet long gone. Awaiting the leader’s return.

—“I wonder…” The noblewoman calmly reclaims her seat upon her throne of thorns, plucking the harp’s strings with poised grace, elegant smile of contempt on her lips. “For how long do you plan to stand behind your tree, Magister Pirin?” The woman beside her stays muted, eyes resting on the waves gently rustling ashore and the inky horizon. Her grip on the skeletal bow tightens, then relaxes.

—“I wanted to ensure you were done chatting before I approach. It’s ill-mannered to interrupt.” -There’s a laid-back smile on the mage’s lips and tone. And so is eavesdropping. However the lady doesn’t bother to deign the short magister, merely plucks one of the strings idly.

“Nevertheless, the point of my ‘visit’ isn’t idle talk. Rather—To formally extend an invitation to both of you for this festive evening. Not as ‘Merlin’, but as merely myself.” This gets the noble’s attention, or her curiosity, if for a second. 

As yourself, you say..? —“Why should we accept your offer?” -Bonnie near hisses in discontent defensiveness and a cold glare as she finally turns to face ‘Merlin’. Still remembers how he and his crew took down Hodgkin as vividly like it happened yesterday. Those rats… Cecia observes, maintaining a courteous behavior without tipping fully into outright hostile.  It’s not wise to anger the Moon. 

For all his subdued power, that being is a force to be reckoned with. She had been foolish enough to not mind her manners one day, right when the Overseer has already had his patience greatly thinned. It happened in a blink—Chords of magic lashed out, grabbed her every joint like a marionette and squeezed tighter than a noose, burnt and stung, petrified, almost corroded and eroded.. As visions most ghastly played out before her eyes, glitched out harshly. All of the Lady of Thorns’ worst fears.

That day, Cecia learnt what true fear is. A single tear rolled down her cheek, as she remained frozen still long after she’d been released from the strings’ hold. Even though ‘Merlin’ had made amends, tried his best to make it up to her as deep apology, riddled with guilt for lashing out like that, the memory still chills her to the core. All those sweet, warming dreams he gifted, the healing, the divine soothing melody he played to ease away the horrors from her mind.. did little to remove the memory.

And the spite-begrudging respect that nestled within her cold heart.

—“You’re not obligated by any means. However I figured a little festive joy won’t hurt...And it simply felt wrong, leaving you behind while everyone else is having fun.” The Dead Tide archer levels him a skeptical, puzzled look. The notion seeming silly to her, funny dare say.

Pirin, the hero of Rustport, of Esperia, feeling bad for leaving out them two Graveborn villainesses. Arms folded behind his back, the vampire shifts his weight slightly.

“Call me crazy if you want, but I can guarantee my words are no lies—Same as my simple invitation.”

—“You are aware of the hit your image would take, right? Two Graveborns wandering in Rustport isn’t a sight people would want to see. Even less us, given our track record.”

—“Yup, and for that, I got a nifty solution: Disguise. Kidding, Merlin beat me to the idea. Either way—Costume or shapeshifting spell, up to you.” The glimmer of playful mischief doesn’t go unnoticed by the two women. There’s not a trace of deceit or malice in his voice. Only a lilt of good-natured humor as the pale man goes on to add—“Assuming my offer is accepted, that is.”

—“I prefer to not waste my time mingling with insignificant peasants. Furthermore, it’s insulting how mortals have twisted the tradition of Fall Harvest into exchanging of fish, rather than waiting for the dead to return. As it should be.” An excuse that the felled star doesn’t appear convinced by, having seen the aristocratic woman give a kid candy.

A fact that Bonnie was sure to point out in refute to her claims. And was met with deflecting denial of an explanation. Something, something manners. However the stand-in doesn’t fire back, holding her gaze evenly. Smile knowing as seemingly always.

That patience, tranquility—It never fails to get on her nerves. Cecia restrains herself from creasing her thin eyebrows or thin her lips. This man, daring to laugh at, patronize me. Hmph. But no. No displeased scowl colors her alabaster face, wrinkles her immaculate features. No, instead her smile continues to play on her lips. The knowledge of his genuine kind intent does nothing to douse her annoyance. —“Not to mention we’re enemies. There’s no reason for us to take part in your charade.” -The wanderer’s eyes flicker over to Bonnie, not taking her snapping personally. Rising his narrow shoulders in a shrug, the snowy-haired mercenary reaches into the inner pocket of his high-collar tailcoat, procuring a handful of candy.

—“Well, I tried. One last thing before I’m out of your hair.”

The sweet goods shimmer like honeyed gems, some with nuts and some without, others with some kind of fruity crème or jelly inside. Each piece is nicely wrapped, shaped like skulls, eyes, human hearts or doubloons and life-like goldfish, masterfully made with care.

—“Here, as per festive spirit. Happy Fall Harvest, Bonnie and Cecia!”

And with that farewell, the infuriating rapscallion saunters away. Bounds for the lively shoddy little town.

————————————————————————————

Out north of the coastal town, somewhere in the hotsprings of Cedar town—A certain bard relaxes in the waters.

The duchy sure is a wonderful place with much more to see, so much so that one trip isn’t enough. Still, no need to rush.

Soaking in the warm hotspring water, the grey hare Wilder takes a moment to listen to the wind idly, pondering on where to go next...Yet no particular destinations pop up in his mind. 

Maybe it’s good that Pirin didn’t come to Cedar town. Knowing him, he’d get bored to tears on the first day. 

The mental image of an indifferent, tense vampire molds in his mind’s eye, wincing at times whenever something gets a tiny bit too loud or lively. It’s both funny, and also makes Lorsan’s absent smile turn sympathetic—If, still slightly amused. Can’t blame him, honestly. 

...Still, it would’ve been a nice change of pace for him. Kick back and relax, instead of always going through crazy adventures. 

The thought easily melts away, replaced with nostalgic memories of old adventures. How the ‘faux Wilder’ or ‘Graveborn’ was a restless ball of energy right from the start—Always at the ready for action.

How many times did Lyca have to remind him of taking it slow?

How many times had those ‘dead’ eyes immediately lit up at the mention of a new place? Or darted off ahead to scout and also explore an area? Never one for sitting still. 

Oh who am I kidding, he would’ve hated every second of it. Probably explore the whole duchy in a week or less--And as soon it's time to leave, he'd dart off in a blink! Maybe even find the place draining with how chocked with taverns, guest houses, merchant stalls and loud vendors at almost every turn the town is.

And so rife with dense tourist traffic, so much unwanted attention all at once packed together. It would most likely kind of freak out the 'magister', struggle to find a secluded corner and catch his breath. It is a rather large and very much heavily populated town.

As much the burning star has gotten better at socializing and tolerating crowds of Lightbearers, it would still have been too much all at once. The mental image morphs to a very much overwhelmed night nymph firmly sticking to his side and agitatedly pacing.

Not a very pleasant picture. Valen would be much more inclined to enjoy the atmosphere and thrive, from what little he’d gotten to see of the knight.

Maybe if Bryon, Eironn and Lyca were also present, the trip could have been more easy to stomach for the Eclipse descendant. It won’t be only one familiar face by his side, and he’d be more likely to loosen up...Have something else to busy his attention.

I wonder how my ‘Graveborn’ friend is faring. Hasn’t responded to my letters for a while now..

Did he get into another adventure? Or is he busy, being in trouble? Come on, Lorsan—He’s not a kid! Vanyo is fine!

Ugh, Misarte look at me—Becoming like my sister. The water ripples and softly sloshes with his movements, tail and left ear giving a twitch. Putting his clothes back on and checking his belongings, a merry hum resonates from his chest.

A woman lightly clears her throat. 

"Excuse me, sir? I have a letter for you, from the Magister." 

Looking up at the messenger who is holding out an envelope in her hand, the Windwhisperer offers her a thankful smile and takes the letter.

The lady doesn't wait for him to say 'thanks!' and simply disappears to deliver the other letters in her large bag, hopping on her horse and darting off. It's...bit of a downside of Cedar town. Busy and hectic all the time, that the people tend to be slightly 'cold', distant. Unlike Holistone and Ryeham where the locals are more welcoming, always stopping by for a chat or just stop by check up on you. Enjoying the simpler things, happy to meet new faces and get to know each other despite the everyday struggles. Tight-knit communities.

Padding back to his guest-house with brisk gait, the Wilder hurries to open the envelope as soon he closes the door.

Sure enough, on the piece of parchment neatly folded up with careful precision, all smooth edges-- Vanyo's cursive handwriting stares back up at him in its orderly glory.

Elegant, eligible, a little hasty with some lines being faintly thicker or tapering out in places--Easy on the eyes nonetheless. 

Hello, my friend! Sorry for my much delayed answer, so much has been going on since we last ran into each other. (Rest assured, I’ve red your letters. I was simply swamped and couldn’t get my hands on pen & paper. (;^;’ )) I hope you’ve been faring well these days and no hitches on your travels. (I really have so much to say, hope to see you ‘round some time!) So where do I begin? First, me and my crew finished clearing up the remaining Dead Tide trouble-makers and snagged all the treasures; solved the puzzles, helped fix the water-system in town so Rustport now has fresh clean water and helped reform the Water Wights. If you want to try a damedangler, Al’s fish stall is to go! (They’ve got other fish as well, however Flametails and Damedanglers are my favorite. Too bad one bite was like a stone to me and I couldn’t hold it down. T_T)_/ Sometimes I really wish I could eat normal food.. Anyways! Somewhere along the lines I...Okay this is embarrassing to admit, but you will find out at some point—Might as well rip off the band-aid now. I..I found myself a partner. A Rustport local who’s a great adventurer, called Sinbad. Fast-forward a couple of quest months later and we got together. Happy & with no regrets. Almost forgot to mention, we had went to visit Holistone along with a couple of my other teammates (Berial the Hypogean jester, Soren from Uru clan in the desert, and believe it or not Cecia was also on the team. Also Mikola, the announcer of the Sunseek Arena. Eironn also happened to be nearby) in order to discuss some recent odd phenomena and how to handle it. Eventually everyone agreed on a general consensus. And before I left the camp with my partner, I noticed Valen was off which worried me. Turns out he’s been mulling over an idea, which we reluctantly accepted. (I’m trying to skip over some things here and keep this brief.) So our duo kiinda became a trio, still in testing how it pans out or if it even works. Wouldn’t you know it, November arrived and with it Fall Harvest! It’s a lovely festival among Lightbearers, all spooky themed with honoring the memory of the fallen heroes in the Divine war and exchanging fish (for Rustport specifically- the fish swapping part)-- And why am I rambling..? Point is: You’re invited along with Lyca, Bryon and Eironn + my desert family! (You’d be surprised how close Rustport is to Cedar town! Aalmost right under your nose!) Regards, your ‘Graveborn’ workaholic

A small chuckle escapes the hare-Wilder at the signature, getting over his surprise and confusion. Reading over the letter one more time and folding it up, the teal-eyed bard makes haste to tuck it into the neckline of his cape, and pack up his belongings. Rations, coin-pouch, map, souvenirs, spare clothes, paper and charcoal pencil plus some toiletries he'd brought from home and ones he's bought. A quick count of the coins and calculations later, the Windwhisperer hops out the door with bag slung over his shoulder and staff in hand, ready to embark on a journey to the spooky festival, a chilly breeze ruffling his bangs.

Bounding straight for the docks, nobody pays him much mind- too busy milling about to haul or take off goods from cargo ships, boarding or getting off from vessels or waiting for a ship to arrive. Like cogs in a clockwork.

Not like Fall Harvest hasn't arrived in Cedar town, but it's so commercialized that it has lost its spirit, feels somehow hollow. And the chance to see an old friend is better than being alone with no good company surrounded by sights. Besides, since it's not far--Why not go for the festival and then come back here? Or go on another destination, where the wind blows. 

"All passengers for Rustport, come aboard the Sovereign of the Seas! Taking off in ten minutes! All passengers for Rustport, come aboard!" Oh no! I'll miss the ship!

—"Sir! I'm sorry-" A few passengers toss him a nasty look as he bumps into them in his haste. Some shake their head and others snap 'Watch it!', 'How rude!', however the hare doesn't pay much mind--Scrambling to reach the attendant. "Excuse me! I need to get to Rustport-" The crewmate pauses ringing his bell and bellowing the announcement, the passengers moving up the ramp steadily like ants. Checking his list, the teen glances up at him.

"What's ya name?"

Catching his breath, the bard fixes up his cape and adjusts the bag-strap on his shoulder, supplying his name and watches the boy check the list carefully again with a soft scowl.

"Lorsan. My name's Lorsan- Please, sir! I need to get there as soon as possible! My friend is waiting there for the festival!" The attendant presses his lips together and quirks his ruffled thick blond eyebrows up, giving a sympathetic even shrug of his shoulders. 

—"Sorry, buddy but you're not on the list. You can either wait for the next course or catch another ship."  —"What?? No, no- Okay can I get on the list? How much?"  

That hurried, huh? 

Casting an almost conspicuous glance around, the teen turns back to him. And presents a solution to the 'dilemma' that's not ideal, but what else can be done? Better than waiting long for the vessel to return!  —"Look here, it's too late to sign you up the regular route. So instead you can hop on and be a part of the 'helper crew' onboard--Cleaning, fish-gutting, the whole 'nasty' jazz. This way captain won't give ya the bum's rush and you'll be on your way. We good?" Not unreasonable, all things considered. Lorsan's stomach lurches at the mere image of getting his fur and clothes dirtied, however the Wilder steels himself with a grimace and clasps the attendant's hand. Shakes hands on their deal.

—"Yup, we're good. Thank you for the generosity-" "Michael. My folks call me 'Ferret' or 'Mich', either's fine." "-Michael. Thanks, it means a lot!" Tucking the notepad back, Ferret grins at him, giving a firm pat to his shoulder. "Don't worry 'bout it. Now hop on quick 'n find Marianna--Tell her Ferret got ya. Go." Sure enough, Lorsan needed not be told twice, flashing him a bright grateful smile as he ducks in.

Navigating the stream of passengers and vessel, pausing now and then to ask crewmates-'Excuse me? Where can I find ma'am Marianna?"- and getting some puzzled looks and instructions, eventually the Wilder finds himself in the sanitary part of the ship. 

—"Is Marianna here?" The crewmembers pause in their work as he pop his head from the doorway, eying him curiously. A plump tanned woman with freckles and pink headband steps up, stained apron and a rag in hand. Her voice is warm yet commanding, non-aggressive in tone.

"Sure is. That'd be me, bunny boye." Humorous and friendly, as if already guessing why or how he'd gotten here. "Let me guess, Ferret gotcha?" The others continue working diligently, keeping an ear on their interaction and some exchange looks. Evidently this isn't anything new. A relieved grin curls on Lorsan's lips as he nods, stepping into the room.

"Yes! He told me to-" The smile drops and a look of shock settles instead. "Wait, how did you know?" 

—"Trust me, you're not the first one Mich let in on the condition of helping us." 

"Yep, that's an old stunt even the cap'n knows. She's just turnin' a blind eye 'cuz it gets 'er more crewmates--Even if temporarily." 

"Mhm." One of the guys wipes off the sweat from his brow and raises a hand as cheery hello, earning himself a glance and wave from the Wilder. "Fellow 'intern' here! I'm Ralph, good to meet you!" 

Marianna puts her hands on her hips and tuts, spotting a speck of grime on the wall. "Ay Ralph, there's a spot ya missed, mate." The other crewmate looks at said spot with a 'whoops!' and quickly wipes it off, switching rags to finish disinfecting the floor.

It seems most of the work's done in this part of the Sovereign vessel. The corridor is spotless and so are the stalls, one of the staff takes out a notepad and checks something off. The current task, a fairer-skinned girl with seashells in her curly hair and on her rope belt. She almost sounds like Hewyn and Marianna like Lenya..If I squint a lot.

—"Say, how about I tour you around? Forked-tongue will join us soon. We've still got some spots to fix up, but kitchen's short-on hands and tonight'll be more bustling." Before either Lorsan or Marianna could so much as utter a word, Ralph steers the hare out. "Come on, better get a head-start." The grey-haired bard glances back over his shoulder for a moment then looks on ahead, lapsing into conversing with his (temporary) colleague. 

————————————————————————————

—"Aand, done!" -The legendary Magister hums in jolly satisfaction after tucking in the loose end of fabric, stepping back admire his handiwork. The acorn-mummy looks at the mirror, giddy with excitement. Meanwhile Hammie, now dressed up as an adorable fairy, helpfully darts over to Mirael's side with a mask in hands.

And hides away the huffy jealousy that spikes in her poor little heart, knowing the apprentice will forever be much closer to her master than she could dream. Even though the great Magister Merlin has reassured her countless times that she and Chippy will always be his number one, and the cutest, most reliable familiars. No matter what.

The Scarlet witch, dressed in a black fire-patterned kimono with a red rope belt wound around her waist, adjusts it to sit better- knot and ribbon on the side. Under it, a wonderful floral obi sash. The detached, fluffy fiery-red furred nine tails move slightly along with her ears.

—"Chippy looks so ferocious! And scary!" Nevermind that his and Hammie's outfits toe the line between cosplay and silly kids' costumes. While Mirael and Merlin are much more properly fitted, still not as 'realistic' but more intricate with some effects sprinkled in. 

—"A very scary mummy indeed." -The former student coos with a smile as she gently takes the offered fox-mask from the little mage's hands and puts it on. In the background, Merlin still fusses over his own costume to make sure nothing is loose, black gold-accented jackal mask resting atop his head. The black cowl draped from it frame and obscure his face, the shirt and attached thin blue cape holding a very subtle shimmer that doesn't clash with the gleam of the golden-like cuffs on his wrists and the gorget on his neck.

Fixes up his belt with light-grey drape of linen and the black puffy-sleeved pants, fidgets with the 'tassels' hanging from the mask's sides. At least there's no need to wear the shapeshifting spell, no one will see the truth concealed. 

—"Mira? Is my belt loose? I could've sworn I tightened it but it still feels off.." Looking over to her boyfriend, the fire-magic user smiles fondly, the claws of her feet softly scraping against the wooden floor of their shared dorm. Placing her hands on the Arch-wizard's shoulders and leaning on him, she speaks in a gentle reassuring tone of voice lowered in mischief. Sends goosebumps up her love's skin under the shirt, the two gazing at their reflection in the tall vanity mirror. "No, your belt is alright."

The two hamster familiars watch quietly from the doorway, the mummy opening his mouth to speak but gets shushed by his fairy comrade. Certainly doesn't catch the not very subtle hint of flirtation and...other 'tension' between the serene couple. "Hammie??" "Come on, Chippy. Let's wait for the Magister and Mirael at the lobby."

Before the ginger and white-furred acorn-mummy could protest or question, Hammie ushers him out the room and down the spiraling stairs to the lounge. Behind the counter, Dolly- dressed up as a kikimora house spirit- offers the familiars a wave.

And Chippy gapes at her unusual appearance and raspy, crowing voice. On the other hand the white-furred mage calmly approaches the counter and hops on the stool nearest to the ivy-draped juke-box in the right corner close to the staircase. 

Completely unfazed by the altered looks of her best friend. 

—"One bowl of nuts, please! Thanks Dolly!"  

—"Of course, just a second!" Chippy still gapes at the long-ear and snout assistant dressed up in patched-up rags, eyes the size of saucers. "D-Dolly?! It's really you??" 

Placing a small bowl of nuts and seeds before the 'fairy', the maid smiles her signature warm smile, clawed gangly hands resting on her apron. "Yes, the Magister cast a shape-shifting spell to make me into a Kikimora." Sat by the counter, her bestie chimes in to explain. And feels inwardly smug at her own cleverness. "A house spirit from folklore that can be good or bad, depending on the house-owner's behavior." 

—"Chippy? Hammie? You two good to go?" Hammie instantly pours the remaining acorns into her bag and hops off the barstool with a grin, big sparkly pinkish butterfly wings fluttering. "Yes! I'm ready!" And because she simply couldn't resist, the little fairy jumped right into her owner's arms. The mummy pads after her quickly, fearing of being left behind, narrowly making a strip of his costume come undone.

—"Wait for Chippy!" 

————————————————————————————

At the Golden Guest inn....

—"Stay still." -Sat on the plush king-sized bed's edge, Valen tries to not move too much or talk while the brush glides over his skin. Except it's proving a difficult feat, the (odorless) fish-scales carefully glued on his forehead and around his eyes itching a little. Feel unnatural on his face, shoulders, arms and neck.

Keeping his hands at his sides, the poor knight tries to content himself with enjoying the feather-light touches of his former charge. The hairs of the brush tickle.. then go away. The hand holding his jaw carefully tilt his head to the side then lets go. And while Pirin worked on transforming him into a vicious monster for the occasion, the sailor lounged around in the room, enjoying 'the show'.

—"Can I move a little? My back is getting stiff..." 

—"Mhm. Just don't scratch at the scales." I don't even envy you.

The 'pitying' thought wheezes through the Solitaire's mind as he opens his eyes to look at his reflection in the mirror, catching sight of the other's smirk. Silently laughing at his misery, whilst their shared boyfriend shuffles about to prepare the materials for the next costume--A headless horseman.

Initially their 'doll' had suggested the idea of getting costumes to go along with the festivity. Then Sinbad had pitched to simply use a shapeshifting spell like Merlin. However the solder reminded him that unlike Merlin who's a conduit of sorts and is borrowing his powers from Dura, their vampire doesn't do that. Can't do that sort of thing.

Something that the rouge had forgotten about in his almost childish excitement. And somehow it snowballed into this, after brainstorming costume ideas: The challenge to make costumes out of cheap or hand-made and thrifted materials plus ensuring the end result looks stunningly realistic, filling in the gaps with illusion spell. A plan that instantly riled up the vampire's competitiveness despite the steep difficulty. All in all, already it's pretty impressive how good the 'ghost' is with make-up--A chimera technique combining Mirael and Vala's tips on applying it along with a handful of Earl Ludovic's painting advice.

The young lord was more than happy to help out, talking at length about colors, shadows, lighting and how to blend them harmoniously. Plus some other tips and tricks he has had picked up during his own trial and error of painting both prior and after his death regarding different textures and other effects.

Needless to say the predicament intrigued him, a way of art that isn't the typical art yet no less wondrous. Thus, should they need any help, he'd be more than glad to answer. Might come to the celebration himself to see how it panned out, alongside with the 'modernized' tradition as well. Relieve good memories of cheer.  

—"Noted. I will try to keep my hands at my sides." Looking back his reflection, the charmer stands up and turns to properly face it. The way the scales shimmer in the dim light, the wavy light auburn strands have been 'turned' into snakes that still resemble his hairstyle and his eyes look serpentine- It steals his breath.

The curved outline of his jaw making it appear like that of a snake. A gorgon. Still handsome, but with an eerie twist to it, monstrous. Even the pupils move in accordance to his mood! Like how the slits dilate ever so slightly in curiosity then thin out, surprised and creeped out.

"I can't believe this works.." Definitely better than being a vampire or werewolf. Both options felt somehow...bland and cliché done to death. Every year when Fall Harvest swung about, Holistone suddenly fills with them or mages, maybe a pirate or ghoul here and there if lucky. Can't forget the clowns. (And also because it would have been insensitive towards Maulers, and Pirin.)

—"Blink twice if you haven't turned to stone." -The blond con artist larks from where he's leisurely sprawled out on the very fluffy, plush, duvet bed. The lilac-eyed elite knight shoots him a smirk, mirroring his snark and casually bites back, turning his head to look at the rascal.

—"I will petrify you into stone at this rate." Said man snorts and is about to fire back, however their shared romantic interest efficiently axes the heating up verbal spar. A coat is pushed into the rugged orphan's hands with a stern "Hold this down." and the black-widow sets to sewing up, the seafarer complying and watching his love work with interest. Meanwhile Valen quietly adjusts the toga on his shoulders and the leather belt he'd snagged from his own uniform, adding it to the attire.

It won't be visible, but he'd still have Stormcaller by his side. Last comes the fur-trimmed cape, which with some calibrating, rests a little bit like a side-cape. Glancing back to his golden bird-motif waist belt and back at his current state of outfit, Valen eventually fastens it on. 

For a week the two of them have been squabbling, half as friendly teasing and half-seriously, and the 'Magister' has been tolerating them...Until tonight his patience has thinned with their antics. 

—"I wonder what Merlin will be dressed as..? A god of some kind, perhaps." -The captain of the Solitaires muses aloud to himself under his breath, absently wandering his gaze over the stand-in's attire.

Namely, the skeletal-thin, jointed black arms so reminiscent of a black-widow's legs and the many very thin threads holding them from shoulder to fingers. And somehow they blend in with the dark-grey maestro tailcoat, the white spider-web embroidery at the sides on the back. The silhouette of a spider is unmistakable.

Whatever rough edges, seams and stitches or mistakes there are, have been concealed well enough to not be easily spotted. Unless someone is really up-close and specifically looking for them. Sauntering over, he tries to help.

—"Need any help, my love?"

—"I'm trying to figure out how I can pull this off...The typical padded trench-coat won't work here." -Surveying the 'headless horseman' with a critical eye as he mutters this, Pirin circles around him, doing mental gymnastics. All the while Sinbad stays as perfectly still as possible, letting his limbs be moved like a puppet or mannequin.

—"Maybe we could use my other outfit instead? Y'know? The one I got when I took my old man's compass back on Scandia Isles?" -He supplies, following the night nymph's movements with his eyes and resisting a shiver for...multiple reasons. This causes the pale black-widow to halt his circling, faceted dark eyes lighting up. —"Yes! It's a coat and the collar is high just enough!" 

—"Perhaps we can make a replica of it and cut a hole on the side?" 

—"Nnah.. Don't think it'd work. Wait, what do you mean 'on the side'? Low or..?"  —"Not quite. Here-" -The charmer places a palm under his chest-line, struggling to put his train of thought into proper words. "And it would look like you're holding your head in one hand, the reigns in the other." The more Valen attempts to explain, the more confused both his companions look. "You get the gist of what I'm saying, right?"

The duo blinks, stumped, with 'Merlin' adopting a contemplative stance and the intel-trader scratches his head.

—"I'm not sure.."   

—"..I'll see what I can do..." Already striding to the door, mind rapidly whirling with ideas...

————————

Several hours of teamwork and inspirational ideas from Hugin later, the trio finally emerge out on the streets of Rustport.

Sat on the steed's back and holding the reigns in his hand, the hustler earns himself a handful of looks from the other citizens. Not the most comfortable costume, but it's worth it.

The horse (that Valen had arrived with and let him borrow) huffs with a shake of the head, one ear slightly lowered and the other kept raised. Sure completes the look. The gorgon holds the other reign and striding on his left, soothingly runs a hand over its side, murmuring 'Easy, boy. It's okay, no need to be afraid.' The animal shakes out its shaggy black mane and snorts, both ears perking up and swiveling forward. Still a little uneasy but inquisitive of it environment.

Seated behind the rider, the black widow silently enjoys the chilly sea breeze and decorations. And also his two partners not bickering childishly for once. 

—"I know I'm supposed to be a headless horseman and all, but uh..Is the horse really necessary? Not that I'm complaining, it's just-"  —"Strange, because you're not used to being on horseback?" 

—"Yeah." 

—"You will get used to it. It's not difficult--Pretty easy, actually. Simply lightly pull on the reign to let Arthur know a change of direction is incoming, and turn your head in the way you want him to turn. Also apply pressure on the saddle if you want speed or ease up to lower momentum. There is also how your body is positioned that can cue the steed, for instance, whether you are leaned forward or back. It takes a little practice but it's simple." —"Huh, alright. Will have to tug on the reign to indicate a turn, since.. Y'know. I don't have a head and all. Anyways. Think I might get the hang of this, though I don't understand how me leaning forward or not can be a cue. What's up with that? Is it about taking a turn like the head-thing or fully turning like a ship?" Quick padding footsteps tap on the cobblestone street paired with child-like jovial laughter, a blur of orange and white darting from the direction of the main gates.

—"No, it's-"

And smacks right into the knight's leg--"Oof!" 

Rubbing a hand over his head with a groan, Chippy slowly looks up-- Glancing down at the hamster that fell on his rear, Valen's expression of tiny confusion remains. "Chippy?"--And freezes up.

Two lilac-colored eyes peer down at his stunned form, slits dilating ever so slightly in expression of curiosity then shrink back.

"Are you alright? Where are Hammie and Merlin?" The Acorn-knight's wide, horrified eyes stay locked on the looming monster that looks only vaguely akin to a familiar friend, has his voice. The 'curls' slither and turn their heads inquisitively, beady eyes staring at him as their forked tongues flicker out.

Some hiss softly.

And then when the serpent-humanoid beast speaks, mouth opening slightly on the 'A' parts in words, sentences--Sir Chippy gulps and shrinks back. Two sharp, thin, curved fangs gleam in the street lamps' warm light and the glands glisten with venom, tongue thin and forked, jaw wider than a human's and curved into a smile even though the creature isn't smiling.

The mere mental image of that seam expanding and that jaw fully opening to swallow him whole makes chills run down the mummy's spine, color draining from his chubby face.

Trembling, the paralyzed rodent's mind finally registers Sinbad's voice who seems to conversing with the vile serpent. ("Uuh, hello? Sir Chippy? You good there, buddy?" "I might have scared him, I mean I do look like a gorgon. Perhaps he is worried I might eat him, similar to how snakes prey on rodents. I remember Pirin once told me of how he and Hammie were always on edge around Kafra due to him being an Owl." "Guess that's the thing. He's mute as a fish. Don't gorgons eat people, though..? Eh, at least I'm not a snake." "You aren't any better. I'm a serpent-monster but at least I have my head on my shoulders.") 

—"Helloo? Esperia to Sir Chippy? It's us, your friends!" Slowly looking up at the blond man, the ginger-white furred hamster familiar gasps at the ghastly sight.

Mounted on the black-maned stallion, Sinbad's lifeless body sits upright on the saddle in his Captain attire. There is no head on the neck, a clean cut...yet his hand still holds the reigns, voice speaking clearly as day. W..W-Where is his head?!? What happened to Sinbad?!! Who murdered you?!?  

A stab on nausea pangs in the familiar's gut, hammering heart now racing faster with growing fear as he rises onto his wobbly legs, suddenly feeling helpless without his sword and shield. The snake is still staring at him with its unblinking hungry, cruel leer.

Chippy's eyes frantically dart over the beheaded body of the seafarer he once held a grudge against angrily, now horribly guilty for his unjust anger, and then finally land on the missing head. Held.. in the rider's other hand...staining the palm with red. The eyes still move, looking at him. 

...w..was he murdered tonight..? Just now? Did this evil monster behead...? Sinbad didn't deserve it..!! He may have betrayed Chippy and the Magister's trust, but he didn't deserve to be murdered! 

—"..S-Sinbad...?" -The mummy's horrified almond-brown eyes hold deep sorrow and guilt, voice trembling. A small, shaky step forward. "Wh..W-What happened to you..?" And then the poor hamster bawls, hugging the horse's foreleg due to being unable to reach the rider.

—"Chippy is sorry for holding a grudge against you! Youh-You don't deserve to be murdered by this evil gorgoon-!" 

—"Hey! I'm not evil! It's just me, sir Valen-- I'm not really a gorgon! I'm only disguised as one!" 

—"Hey.. Come on-" Sliding off of the saddle and crouching to one knee by the sobbing mummy, the headless horseman- or captain- places his hand on the acorn-knight's shoulder with a reassuring smile. "I'm not actually dead, it's just a costume with some effects. Same as Valen." Sniffling and wiping his tears with the back of his arm, Chippy looks up.

—"..Really? But-But..You two look so-" Captain Sinbad's smile turns chipper, hazel eyes holding a glimmer of pride.

—"Convincing? Yup, it's thanks to Pirin." As helpful support, the 'evil gorgon' whose name was cleared slides in to add his own praise with a smile. The hamster's eyes flit up at him, now full of amazement at taking in their altered appearances once more. This time calmer, knowing that it's just very realistically made costumes. Peeking at the fake cut neck with sparky curious eyes then grimaces with a shudder, put off by the incredibly well replicated wound and flesh, severed vertebrae. 

—"Yes, he helped us fit for the festival. You should have seen him with the paintbrush--It's impressive what a little make-up can achieve! It was bit of a challenge, to bring a ferocious beast and a headless rider to life with pigments and hand-made, thrifted materials that have been lying around.. But he managed masterfully! With our attire and make-up doing the heavy-lifting, the magister doesn't need to expend a lot of his magic. Only for special effects to finish the look and give that vivid feel of realism." 

"Woow..Pirin really did do an incredible job!" The familiar is practically starry-eyed, now smiling wide with fascination. Sinbad lets his hand fall from the mummy's shoulder, resting the elbow on his knee. 

—"...I did the best I could with what I had on hand. If it wasn't for Vala, Mirael and Earl Ludovic's quick response to my letter, their insight--I wouldn't have achieved such results. I owe them a big favor for helping me on such short notice. So it's really team-work, with me doing my best to cobble it together." Valen lifts his hands and shoulders as if in a shrug, giving a light shake of his head with a smile then lets his hands fall back to his sides. 

—"There he goes again, deflecting compliments. Seriously, Finch, you're being too modest." I can agree. And second this. "Accepting a compliment from time to time won't knock you over. If anything, you should take credit for your deeds. Like how the Whispers' leader said she would sing praise and let your name echo through Rustport. You are one of the heroes, aren't you?"

Chippy looks up, and his smile drops. Still hasn't gotten over how convincing the three's costumes and make-up are. The four jointed, skeletally thin black arms move involuntarily with the movements of the felled star's real arms as he crosses them. One of the fake hands holds a slim bone needle and a thin thread in the other, the lower sets of arms moves down. The venomous spider teeth sticking out of his mouth and dark, faceted eyes, sternum sticking out in red like how his spine partially does--The hamster shudders. 

—"Valen, I'm reminding you that I didn't save Rustport, I helped save Rustport. It's not the same, and without my adventuring party I wouldn't have gotten to the end point. I'm not being overly modest or humble. I'm simply saying how it is, no lies." Sinbad steals a brief glance over at his companions and inwardly groans. Here we go again...

Both are right and wrong. 

This is just one thing neither appears willing to ever let go. Well, guess it comes with the territory huh? Can't have sunshine and rainbows all the time.

Besides, not like he hasn't 'bit' himself and get into this same squabble with the 'Magister'--In the early days of the grand journey. Plus some other ones. However over time learnt to let this one go, agree to disagree and that's that. ...And still spar, refusing to back down on other matters. A story for some other time.

The sailor and acorn-knight's gaze briefly flicker back and forth between the bickering duo, the former making a note to break it up after a moment. 

—"It is still tomayto-tomahto in the end, however. Backhand me or don't, no one looks into the small details and intricacies as you do, nor will bother making the difference. As far as people are concerned, you are a hero and did save the town, period.

Besides, you will have a target on your back either way for simply thwarting someone's plans while doing your job. So don't try to use that argument. Why..won't you accept the praises you are willingly offered? Why do you insist so vehemently on denying or downplaying your due part? It's like you're as allergic to compliments as you are to being idle." 

—"I told you way back and I'll say it one last time: I can't in good conscience take credit for the entire group, as if I did everything by myself. It's not right, and I refuse to do it. To the people, it doesn't matter, fine. It does, to me. End of story." The gorgon's smile wavers and he sighs, running a hand through his hair in frustration. Looking back at the black widow perched on the horse's flank peering down at him in quiet, irritated defiance, he opens his mouth to object. Counter. Then pauses, a confused scowl on his face. The fake mage narrows his eyes, body subtly tensed. Kind of like a cat before a fight.  

—"Here you go. Happy Fall Harvest!" The second hero of the port reaches into his bag, fishing out a rainbow trout. He holds it out for the mummy to take, the rolled up rodent smiles at him, taking the fish and chirps out a happy "Thanks! Happy Fall Harvest to you too, Sinbad!" Just as two more people approach with a little 'fairy'.

Watching the ginger and white little scamp bound off to his owner, waving his 'prize' in hand excitedly, the headless horseman looks over the trio's costumes. Certainly nowhere near their level of 'immersion' but it works. The man is dressed as some kind of black Mauler who seems to be a god..?? And the woman holding onto his arm, lantern on a stick in hand is..some kind of fox spirit. Yup. Definitely doesn't scream couple. They look pretty cool, kinda cute how they match. Who is the curvy lady next to Merlin?

Standing up, he takes hold of the steed's bridle. Just in case it gets startled by something. Can't have a horse and a black widow go missing, can we? 

"Chippy there you are! Don't run off so far like this! You scared me!"

"Sorry, Magister.. I found Sinbad and Pirin, Sir Valen is also with them! They look really cool and scary!"  

"So Valen managed to weasel out of Hogan's sight...clever Romeo."  "Huh? He's not dressed as Romeo, he's a ferocious gorgon! ....Mirael, why did you chuckle? Magister, did Chippy say something wrong?" 

"Oh Chippy. You didn't say anything wrong. Mirael and Magister Merlin are...simply amused at an inside joke. Nothing to worry about."

"Oh." 

—"Alright you two, 'nough barking. We've got some company." The knight gives up whatever he was going to say, returning to his usual self as he shifts his attention to the couple and the 'fairy'. Pirin looks at the three with a polite smile, more per the Magister's direction than the woman, body language relaxing.  

—“Magister Merlin!” --Pirin and Sinbad shoot him a glance as if to say ‘Valen!’, the Solitaire however misses it, continuing to talk like he does. “It’s great to finally see you, and the Scarlet Witch as well.

The festival is rather different here than in Holistone, quite in spirit if I dare say! It’s not the usual suspects only-- there are a variety of mythic or monstrous personages, and the Winter chill really elevates the atmosphere! I don’t have any fish to exchange, however I do have some candy.”

—“It sure is, sure it. The variety is much appreciated.” -The Magister gladly takes the offered sweets, glancing up at the other two with a wave for friendly ‘hello!’. A twinge of small jealousy sparks for a second at how realistic the monstrous designs are. Looks like my little familiar has flexed his prowess… I forgot how mighty a Burning star can be, actually is. A gorgon, a headless rider and a black widow, those eight faceted and dark eyes positively unnerving with their stare.

And here I am, cosplaying as Anubis like I bought the costume for cheap at the Velvet store. ...Not bad. Guess I’ll have to step up my game with my Shapeshift spell. “Nice illusion, by the way. I’m almost jealous how you pulled it off! Care to swap trade secrets?”

—“Thanks! Our Dove really outdid himself with the make-up and costumes, all made from thrifted or scavenged materials! Fully hand-made, from start to finish. The only illusion Pirin cast is for the special effects, like the snakes and slitted pupils. Magi-” Some passer-by’s cast a curious look at their little group-- A tan, weathered palm clasps over his mouth.

—“What my friend meant is, magic can only get you so far. There’s something..special about making it yourself.”

Merlin’s face curls to one of sheer surprise behind the jackal headdress, mouth very nearly dropping to the floor. So it really isn’t one big spell-- Taking a double look at the ghoulish trio, the infamous Arch-magus of legends is left...at a loss. Besides her, the fiery Kitsune lifts her eyebrows, mouth falling slightly open in shared surprise mixed with a level of- Well, impressed. More than at the costumes and realism achieved.

—“Oh my! He truly has done a wondrous job!” Her full lips curve into a smile, saphire eyes gleaming subtly with proud mirth as she takes a moment. Appraise, appreciate the result, one she contributed to as much as Lady Vala and the late Earl. “I didn’t quite understand what Pirin was frustrated with, during our corresponse—Expressing how his smudging and color-blending technique is not on-par and it looks awful.” So breath-taking and alive, replicating both the monstrously horrific and the charming beauty in one mesmerizing blend.

‘I wouldn’t say I’m completely new to working with make up per se. However I still have more to practice, was wondering if you would be alright with giving me some tips? Feel free to cover both the basics and advanced—Actually, no, please cover the more advanced.’ 'Please excuse my informal and rushed penmanship, I am in a hurry as I work on an ambitious project. My aim is to bring a gorgon, a headless rider and a Black widow to life, with only readily available materials. The costumes have been largely figured out, however the make-up is troubling me vastly. Regards, Pirin'

—“I’m glad my tips were of help. The results are positively radiant! Seems like I may have to take notes on this technique myself. If, you wouldn’t mind, of course. You pioneered it, after all.” Valen steals a glance up at the spider perched on Arthur’s flank with a smug ‘I told you so’ grin. His smirk softens, lilac eyes holding an ember of affectionate appreciation and endearment at watching their ‘arachnid’ or Jorōgumo shy away. The extra arms shift with the movements of his real arms and hands, one of the free hands moves to cover the side of his face, the other lowers—the one holding the needle. A lovely hue of red dusts over the ghostly features.

—“Please..”

[autumnistic-danmei]

Fantasy FengQing One-shot

Idk I just pulled this out of my ass, so enjoy I guess. XD

This is from that one random Fantasy AU I posted about a little while ago btw. F u n.

Feng Xin was starting to think that this wasn’t such a good idea. He had been wandering through the uninhabited eastern forests for over a week now, and he had quickly come to the realisation that he was not suited to a nomadic lifestyle. He was dirty, sweaty, tired, and he was getting dangerously close to being completely out of food.

God, I miss the castle… He thought to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose as he pushed through another patch of tallgrass. The tough fibres of the plants scratched at his legs and tickled his arms, but he knew he had to keep pushing forward. Who knew what kind of snakes, rats, or if he had particularly rotten luck, feldgeister, lived in these abandoned crop fields.

Eventually, Feng Xin safely found his way out of the field, but once again, he still saw no signs of civilization. As a royal beast tamer, he was used to residing in areas with villages and roads abound, but now, after the fall of Xianle… He found himself lost and alone, with no king to serve.

Well, not completely alone. A few weeks ago, Feng Xin had encountered an odd man who refused to remove his hood and mask, and ever since that short, frustrating, interaction, he had spotted the same man multiple times in the woods. Somehow, the man almost always managed to disappear before Feng Xin could talk to him, but through the few short interactions he had managed, he had found out that the man’s name was Mu Qing. The name sounded familiar.

Another odd acquaintance of his was a black cat. It seemed to be following him, judging from exactly how many times he had encountered the creature, but it didn’t seem to have any malicious intent. In fact, the fluffy animal was quite friendly, cuddling up to him at times or sleeping beside him at night. Feng Xin was pretty sure that it was not a normal cat, because it was easily the biggest cat he had ever seen, and it sometimes showed some very odd behaviour, but really, he didn’t mind the company, so he wasn’t going to ask.

Unfortunately, neither of them seemed to be nearby at the moment, so he would likely have to spend this night alone.

Feng Xin sighed, then just sat himself down on a flat rock and set his bag down beside the small tree nearby. He only had a few small chunks of flint remaining, so that was just another thing for him to stress about before he could find his way back to civilization.

He just stared down at the ground for a few minutes, starting to regret his decision to “start a new life” by walking off in a random direction and just hoping that he found people. When he finally turned back to his bag, planning to just set up a small fire and eat some food before going to sleep, he found that it was being dragged away by a disgustingly large rat.

Yeah, he definitely regretted it.

As the unnecessarily large rodent continued to pull at his bag, Feng Xin reluctantly got to his feet and drew his bow out. He had just notched an arrow on the string when abruptly, a large black shape fell down from the trees above.

Feng Xin blinked, mildly confused, as he watched the black shape and the oversized rat tussle for a few seconds, but he quickly realised what was happening. The unknown shape was that odd black cat, seemingly having come to his rescue when it saw his bag being stolen by the rodent.

The fluffy creature eventually sprang off of the rat, hissing indignantly, before it calmed itself down and began slowly to lick the thick blood off of its paws.

The little guy gave me a heart attack... Feng Xin thought, putting his bow down and sliding the arrow back into his quiver as he did so.

He approached the large feline and affectionately scratched it behind the ears, chuckling. “You’re still following me, huh? Y’know, I should probably give you a name…”

The cat glanced up at him, its steely grey gaze looking almost incredulous, but it didn’t respond, and just went back to calmly grooming itself. Feng Xin ignored the cat’s odd look, writing it off as just another weird quirk that the fluffy feline had. He stared down at the cat for several seconds, thinking through a few possible names, before he glanced at the dead giant rodent and decided on a name.

“How about ‘Fu Yao’? I think that’d fit you pretty well, little guy.” Feng Xin asked, knowing that he would receive no response. The cat just blinked at him again before simply tapping its head on the palm of his hand, letting out a quiet chirp. He chuckled, a slightly giddy grin spreading across his face as he happily continued to pet the cat, enjoying the warm purring sounds he was receiving.

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, Fu Yao started to paw at Feng Xin’s bag, mewling loudly. He chuckled, untying the strings for the cat and just watching with a warm smile as the cat dragged out a strip of dried meat and started to take small, dignified bites of it.

Feng Xin grabbed a strip of meat from himself, tearing chunks out of the tough flesh as he watched Fu Yao’s slow nibbling with mild amusement. He has better manners than I do…

He continued to silently eat for a few minutes, pulling his blanket out of the leather bag at some point, which Fu Yao proceeded to immediately claim as his own. Feng Xin chuckled fondly, waiting another few minutes, he just awkwardly cleared his throat and glanced down at the black cat.

“Have you ever run into that weird guy in a cloak?” He abruptly asked, and when Fu Yao just blinked back at him, he added, “His name’s Mu Qing, apparently, and… He confuses me. He might be stalking me or something, but I have zero clue why, and he refuses to say anything.”

The cat just blinked again.

Feng Xin rubbed the back of his neck, then slowly laid down on the blanket covered rock beside Fu Yao. “I don’t really know what he looks like, either. It’s just a bit odd…” He trailed off, glancing at the cat again before laughing quietly, shaking his head. “I don’t even know why I’m talking to a cat about this.”

There was a brief moment of silence before Fu Yao climbed onto his chest, kneading Feng Xin’s tunic with his black paws before curling up and burying his fluffy head in his own tail. Feng Xin sighed affectionately, then just resigned himself to his fate as a mattress. He rested his head back against his bag and allowed himself to properly relax for once, his eyes slowly drifting shut.

…

Feng Xin awoke to the sound of birds chirping and insects buzzing overhead. As he cracked open his eyelids, he squinted slightly in the bright morning light, blinking rapidly to adjust his eyes. It took him a few moments of confusion to notice it, but soon enough, he came to the realisation that Fu Yao was gone. Did he just come here for food…?

The brunette sighed, shaking his head, then just slowly sat up and began to put his stuff away into his bag again, preparing himself for another long day of walking.

As he haphazardly shoved his blanket into his bag, he began to quietly talk to himself. “…I’m pretty sure Fu Yao just wants my food, but hey, at least he’s nice to me.” He snorted, then added wryly, “Unlike that little fuck with the fancy mask.” 

After a few more minutes of reluctant packing and stretching, Feng Xin was back on the road. Thankfully, he found an overgrown dirt path running close to a river, which he decided to follow just in case there were people at its end.

He continued on his trek, still feeling very dirty, but thankfully much better rested. That was until he spotted a shape moving through the trees to his right. Oh, come on. What is it this time? Feng Xin rolled his eyes, but he prepared his bow and arrows just in case.

Slowly pushing plants to the side, Feng Xin peeked through the trees to see what the shape was. It’s probably just a buck or something. He thought to himself with an internal sigh.

He was proven wrong very quickly.

Staring at him like a deer in the headlights was Mu Qing, his ornate steel blue mask held in his hands. His grey eyes were wide, and all colour drained from his face for a moment before he quickly schooled his expression and shot the bow in Feng Xin’s hands a wary glance.

“You?!” Feng Xin blurted, raising his weapon slightly.

Mu Qing took a step back, snapping. “What about me? And put that thing down, I haven’t done anything to you!”

Feng Xin was about to reply, before he realised that the other man did have a point. “I… Okay, fine, but you still need to answer my questions!” He snorted, lowering his bow.

Mu Qing raised an eyebrow, then crossed his arms and responded, his voice dripping with venomous sarcasm. “And why is that? It’s not like I’m a criminal. Walking through the Feywild isn’t illegal, is it?”

“...The what?” Feng Xin responded quietly, his eyes widening slightly.

The man standing before him ignored his expression of shock though, just rolling his eyes and putting the mask back on. He seemed alarmingly unbothered for someone who had just stated that he was currently in the Feywild, and that just confused Feng Xin even further.

Feng Xin’s mouth opened and closed several times as he watched Mu Qing turn around and start to walk away, his mind buzzing with confusion.

“H-Hey! Wait up! What did you say?” He yelped, running after Mu Qing as the masked man swiftly walked in the other direction. “Where are we? Why are you following me?”

Mu Qing didn’t spare him a backwards glance though, instead just walking even faster as he snapped back. “Well, I’m obviously not following you right now!” Noticeably, he didn’t acknowledge any of the other questions.

It wasn’t long before Feng Xin gave up in his pursuit. Mu Qing was moving impossibly fast, and soon enough, he straight up just hopped into a tree and began to flee through the branches overhead.

He stared at Mu Qing’s retreating back, his amber eyes still wide with confusion and a little bit of fear. What? The Feywild? There’s no way… I haven’t seen a Fey even once!

He blinked several times before he crossed his arms and began to walk down the path again. That's bullshit. He's just trying to scare me...

Right?

[choccyhearts]

i think renfield would love having a pet ^_^

in my ongoing series (which i promise i will update by the end of the month!!!), renfield has a little bond with a sweet cat name cheddar

and it makes me think that i think he would love to have a little animal friend

i think having something to take care of would fulfill that need he's been conditioned to have after taking care of drac's needs, but it would also be beneficial for him

having a pet would be a daily reminder that there are good aspects of life and things to be grateful for

i think a cat is the most obvious choice; he'd get all the nicest cat toys and beds, a huuuge cat tree (like one of those bougie ones that literally look like trees), the nicest food and dish, a water fountain, he'd spoil his cat rotten

he'd definitely get a harness for walks after seeing other cat parents do the same. i also think he'd get matching clothes, like sweaters and halloween costumes

but i could also see him with a sweet little bunny. he'd like having a herbivore since it'd be a nice change to only have to cut up vegetables and create colorful meals. i also think he'd like the quietness of a rabbit, enjoying they're soft grumbles and teeth chittering

he would definitely have it free roam and would allow it to play wherever it'd like. i think he'd get a kick out of watching it binky and hop around

but i could see him with a tiny little rodent friend too. maybe a hamster that he gets a giant enclosure for. he'd probably find those videos online of people making their hamsters spaghetti and pancakes and such, and he'd absolutely do the same

or if he had a rat and let it crawl on him while he lounges on the couch. he'd sympathize with how misunderstood the poor creature is and vow to make it happy

just get this man a pet!!!!!😭😭

[devious-crow]

tale of a dream

across the room, a corner shines

im glued, no rules, and no foresights

its tiny, scorching with the essence

the hippocampus wakes - it senses

a little rat, of cruel fate

in lab it's born - to desecate

and not for it to spread such hate -

the little mind apart they take

im lost, they tower over me

just watching, never hear my plea

I want to go, and see the sun

the water, blue and black, divine

the flood then came, men ripped apart

turmoil, fear, black rot in heart

somehow I breathe, it feels as i

have breathed the first time in my life

im led to sea, it's deep and sharp

a maze unraveled by the gods

a trident sweeps right by my ear

the bubbles form a path linear

the seahorse glides across the plain

unworried waves on top my face

I start to choke, air leaving me

they stare, im caged, I'd never leave

I wake, in song between my eyes

im in my room, unchained, alive

ive never been to sea, or maze

no evil scientists have grazed

im human, flesh, and blood and bones

and yet I long for something more

ive always longed, unsatisfied

as if I'm stuck, it feels as i

was meant to be among the gods

or little mice among the rats

or little leaf beside a tree

but human is the thing I'll be

one day I may make peace with it

patch broken heart, and feel compelete

no rotten thoughts, my eyes will gleam

with happiness, and so sincere

and maybe I don't need to fix

be fixed, like im a broken disk

a broken plate to throw away

that is not me, my tale still may

be changed, and written in azure galore

in greens and blues, with joyful mourn

and boring quests, relaxed, and sore

I have so much i can learn more

the little things, they hide away

in such plain sight, and everyday

you learn to find, untie, and feel

the joy of little things - it's real

no need to sleep entire days

to hide away yourself, your face

in pillows soft, the blanket warm

please stay and bask in sun some more

[cocrante]

A Shadow in the Night

trigger warning: blood, dead animals

summary: in a peaceful mountain village is hidden a dark secret, which will be discovered by the hands of three overly curious boys

note: this is a story that I wrote when I was 17 years old and happened to refound. It was my first horror story, and I wanted to translate it :) I hope I haven't made any mistakes, and that everything is written well

THE MORNING SUN HAD TAKEN ITS PLACE IN THE CLEAR AND CRISP SKY. Only the continuous rush of water from a stream at the bottom of the forest served as background noise, along with the chirping of birds that playfully chased each other on the highest branches of those green trees on the hill.

In the nearby village, the church bells were ringing for a wedding, their sound carried by the wind to the highest peaks. It was a special day, a young couple deeply in love had decided to seal their feelings in a pact of eternal love.

The whole village was in great celebration. Dances, songs, and laughter were the protagonists, accompanying the newlyweds throughout the day. At least until the arrival of the evening.

The air grew colder, and in the sky — mingling with the evening's fire — bright stars had already appeared. With their arrival, a family decided to stop in that mountain village, to breathe pure air, far from the noise and frenzy of city life. They had three children, not too different in age and with fair cheeks. Three boys with hair as black as night. Only one was already in high school, the other two still in middle. They took a room at the little but cozy hotel in the center of the village. Their suitcases were still full, just a quick change of clothes, a visit to the bathroom and then all of them fell under the sheets.

The following morning arrived imminent, the sun kissed the room a gently spring breeze danced, causing the curtains to sway, carrying the sweet fragrance of flowers. The mother couldn't help but wrinkle her nose as the breeze brushed past her. The children had already dashed outside, eager to explore every nook and cranny of the little village. To them, every street seemed new and full of potential discoveries, but nothing caught their attention too much. It was a small town, like many others they already visited, although there was still something unknown to them lurking behind it.

Driven by the curiosity to make that place no longer hold any secrets for them, they unanimously decided to climb the nearby hill, ascending even further into the dense forest. Their parents, upon waking up, paid little attention to the disappearance of the three children. They were accustomed to exploring the places they visited and might return only after the sun had set.

Meanwhile, the three children climbed swiftly, staying close to the trail, gradually distancing themselves from the hustle and bustle of life below. They entered the heart of the forest, surrounded by the chirping and rustling of tree branches. They ascended further until they reached what appeared to be a small, ancient little cottage, made of stones and now overgrown with annoying vines. The door was barred with several beams, now riddled with termite holes. A push from the eldest brother sent it crashing down with a resounding noise.

The interior, shrouded in darkness, reeked of mold and urine; there was something rotten that tainted the atmosphere — a horribly strong and acrid odor. Even the windows were barred with beams, denying even a glimmer of light entry. It was like someone had intentionally concealed the house and sealed it off from the outside world. Nevertheless, the three boys mustered their courage, pressing on into the small, creaking parlor, illuminating their path solely with the light of their cell phones. They swallowed hard at the sight of dead rats and desiccated spiders. Some rats, still writhing in death, oozed warm blood from their bitten bellies. The younger ones huddled behind the eldest, taking great care with each step they took.

There was absolutely nothing in that terrifying house, but they felt a chilling grip on their necks, and before it could tighten to snuff out their lives, they ran out as fast as they could. The sky was unusually dark, as if a mysterious eclipse was occurring. The moon was devouring the sun, and swiftly, before it could fully consume it, they descended the hill, retracing their earlier path. In the distance, a branch snapped, and flocks of birds that had been resting on the trees scattered as if frightened. A chilling wind swept along the bodies of the three boys, who ran swiftly into the village. They didn't utter a word, and they didn't look anyone in the face. What they saw up there remained a secret among them. In the square, everyone was watching that spectacle, exclaiming in pure astonishment, and then, when the sun returned to illuminate the land, the villagers resumed their usual work, unaware that old house had been opened.

Strange rumors circulated about that house, the most well-known legend was that a man, whose name and face were long forgotten, centuries ago had made a pact with demons. Weary of aging, he gave them his heart and soul in exchange for the gift of eternal life. But the ritual was interrupted. When people discovered this, they condemned him to the stake for heresy and for being a loyal servant of the Devil. Before he died, he swore vengeance and that one day his body would walk the earth again, reclaiming what had been taken from him. Out of fear, the early inhabitants buried all the remains beneath the man's house, sealing it with ancient prayers in the hope that his evil, vengeful soul would never escape again. But inside the house, strange occurrences began to take place, with noises and moans echoing throughout, even though it was completely abandoned.

The seal was then broken, and the soul returned, roaming in search of blood, claiming the lives of the descendants of the villagers, feeding on their souls and their hearts, which would grant it a new form and the immortality it had long coveted. Forever becoming a lurking shadow in the cold and mist of the night, finding no peace except for resentment and vengeance.

That night, a gray veil descended, a strong wind hissing loudly, only the round moon illuminated the somber village. It crept through windows, spreading throughout the room, seeking out anyone residing within. A chilling scream echoed, and then silence fell. On the bed lay an unmoving body with a hole in the chest, from which still flowed warm blood, pumped by the now-stilled heart. Lights flickered on, and others arrived, screaming together, and before expiring, they saw its shadow slithering inside them. Before taking their final breath, its cold, bloodshot eyes watched them collapse to the ground and then vanish into the thin air.

It became a ghost town, and even now, if you listen closely, you can hear the cries of despair from those specters who will find no peace and desperately implore to cross the boundary that will lead them into the afterlife

↬ masterlist

[fairest]

Killing Child at Zoo

There’s little hope. Although I heard Eileen Myles writes a big novel. I often return to them in moments of world fury. In the opening essay from The Importance of Being Iceland, Myles talks about how music can “circulate melancholy” more effectively than writing. When I was 25, Jeff Tweedy told me I wanted

a good life with a nose for things fresh wind and bright sky to enjoy my suffering

so that’s what I aimed for. And that’s what I got.

I keep seeing religious people. The Amish on a casino bus. The Sunday suits in the Naf Naf Grill. A man stops me outside Buffalo Exchange and asks, “are you Jewish?” I used to think, I’m only culturally Jewish? Now I think, I’m Jewish ungenosideickally?? There’s this billboard on I-55 that says, Cultural Jews got sent to the gas chambers, too. La-dee-da.

Outside the police station, a huddle of migrants. Casualties of Operation Lone Star. The older kids compare scooters, the babies wear candy cane jammies a month early. The parishioners cook the food. The lines get longer. The mayor has to do something. With good works, without weapons, Chicago fights the war brought to us by Catholic Charities of San Antonio.

A tart espresso from a suburban coffee bar. The Persian and/or Israeli girls I lusted over in the Best Buy walk out with a TV on a dolly. I stood behind Chromebooks to get a better view of their outstretched necks, gold earrings, furry purses, the heavy sweats tucked into Uggs. The daughters of Zion are haughty, the prophet Isaiah wrote, and the Lord will discover their secret parts. The scribes probably got hard every time they recopied those words. I know I do.

Out here in Niles, all is mall. I could start 200,000 wars. The local businesses shed hours, raise prices, clean Uggs. The diner says OPEN on its curbside sign, as if to remind customers and also the staff. Niles reminds me of “Hot Rotten Grass Smell,” the opening track on Wednesday’s Rat Saw God, and this Hopperesque lyric of Karly Hartzman’s:

neon sign at the nail salon turned off and the streetlights turned on.

I get back in the car singing a different song. The song that drove her crazy in 8th grade.

At the playground, I’m thinking about Billy Woods and his kid, the last verse on Maps. Woods sings, of his child, “Anything at all could happen to him.” There’s another Woods verse, in this warm vein, on the new Armand Hammer:

I write when my baby's asleep I sit in the room in the dark I listen to him breathe I walk 'em to school, then the park Hold they little hands when we cross the street I think about my brothers that's long gone and this was all they ever dreamed People I lost to COVID-19 but it ain't do a thing to the fiends.

I chat with a Dad whose wife is boring, and he’s also boring, and I don’t remember their names but I remember his wife’s extreme bob. What did the children do before they had these leaves to roll around in? I’m only good with the names of people I love. One day I’ll forget those, too. If I learned how to pronounce Fyodor Dostoevsky, I can learn how to pronounce…

In Washington D.C., residents are stealing toilet paper. This is the closest drugstore to the Catholic University of America, where this week, at the Novitate conference, intellectuals fulfill their contractual desire to discuss René Girard. The bill says, We Buy Diabetic Test Strips, the title of the new Armand Hammer. I wonder if any of the Novitate participants will end up at this black CVS and scurry back to the white light of Catholic University plenaries, to speak coldly about desire.

Our D.C. hosts, like most petite Romans we know, work for the bomb makers. They tell us this neighborhood is killing trees to build townhouses that start in the low $800s. The death of the trees fucks with the runoff from the storms, Kate says, giving us grape leaves, and the storms worsen every year. Kate’s into trees. Her cheeks the color of the Japanese maples that stretch over our courtyards back home. Because of the Israel-Hamas war, Kate isn’t quite speaking to her parents. Or her sisters. Or maybe even herself. Betsy and Kate met on Birthright. I like to think they kissed the same Egyptian dragster.

In the Naf Naf Grill, Diana tells me all the “stuff in the Middle East” made her want to watch Schindler’s List. The “stuff in the Middle East,” I say, picking sumac onions out of my falafel bowl, makes me want to watch Lars von Trier’s Nymphomaniac. Particularly the scene when Charlotte Gainsbourg wraps herself in Saran to stop masturbating. When I see Netanyahu, well, at first, he looks exactly like Putin. At first, he looks like Patrick Bateman, when he kills the child at the zoo, because Bateman, like Netanyahu, is “unable to maintain a credible public persona.” At first, he looks like Charlotte Gainsbourg masturbating herself out of plastic. At first, he looks like Yul Brynner’s hardened heart. At first, he looks like the toilet paper when it’s still got a little bit of shit on it. At first, he looks like Biden’s unwaxed floss with little bits of hot dog in it. I watch The Godfather. Find a shrink-wrapped copy at Rattleback Records, the Coppola restoration. Biden and his cronies are like Don Zaluchi in the meeting of the five families. They want to “control war as a business. Keep it respectable. We would keep the [drug] traffic,” Zaluchi says, “in the dark people, the coloreds. They're animals anyway, so let them lose their souls.”

A date with Taylor Swift: The Eras Tour. I photograph Betsy and Leo in front of a spray of pink and purple balloons. I say, three separate drink cups. I say, the popcorn already has butter on it. I’m cold because I’m still sick. Unproductive coughs.

In the theater, Leo whispers in my ear, “Is Taylor Swift still alive?” How easy it would be to take my child’s life. How quickly he would disappear. Taylor Swift, though, will not disappear. Then again she’s a woman. Anything could happen to her. She’s one of Bob Dylan’s “six-time losers” hanging around Matthew Gasda’s theater. She’s Gasda’s “Big five novelist with a forthcoming debut (typically less daring than her conversation).” Or, as Swift herself puts that, “the jokes weren’t funny I took the money.” Even at this late date, running across the stage. A goddess of forms and surfaces. Like the star in Ariana Reines’s poem, “Mistral”:

Don’t you see That between the people who want To be machines and the machines That want to be people women Are still, still at this late date Running?

On the plane back from D.C., I’ll read Sam Kriss’s laborious (in the sense of, “requiring considerable effort and time”) article about René Girard. I like to read Harper’s on planes because the altitude makes me dumb. I’m a frequent flyer. I’m a lifelong subscriber.

To Harper’s, Christian Lorentzen posts a letter from Rome. He informs us, “Nothing matters.” Another Catskills Gaza one-liner. On the ground, I read his pitchy (in the Myles sense that “writing for pay is a little ‘pitchy’”) piece on Don DeLillo. The Bookforum pages, soaked in Canh Chua Tom broth, lay flat on our kitchen island. What is the systems novel? Is it polytheism? “The war over the appropriation of Jerusalem is today’s world war,” wrote the prophet Derrida. “It is taking place everywhere, it is the world, it is the singular figure of the world’s ‘out of joint’-ness today. The three messianic religions embroiled in rivalry are directly or indirectly mobilizing all the powers in the world and the entire world order for the ruthless war they are waging against one another.” Leo sees the picture of Don DeLillo in a pink button-down and asks, “Daddy, is that’s you?”

In the intro to Pathetic Literature, Myles writes that art is something with “secondary meaning.” We locate that meaning at the National Gallery, when I open the roof patio door and Betsy spots Katharina Fritsch’s Hahn/Cock. How could she miss this ginormous blue chicken. It reminds her of her father, who died suddenly. She breaks down for what feels like an hour. Enough time for me to run out of cold breath making sure Leo doesn’t break anything by Robert Indiana. Katharina Fritsch couldn’t have known her chicken would offer my wife the release she’d been searching for all morning. In the art game, you can’t distribute “secondary meaning” evenly, and every player rolls for broke.

Walking in Bowmanville, at an unemployed hour of afternoon, the child’s dress reminds me of some modern wing painter. The blues could be Kandinsky, the powdery reds Belle and Sebastian. The child gathers orange and gold leaves in a silver kitchen colander. The grandmother says, “Hello.” The thought enters my head that I can steal this child, murder this grandmother, kill the child, too, bury it by the Metra tracks. Nobody’ll find me. Circulate melancholy. It’s genre fiction baby killers get caught.

“Killing Child at Zoo” comes later in American Psycho. Patrick Bateman, “unable to maintain a credible public persona,” is sleeping in “twenty-minute intervals” after eating one of his impossible foods, a salad with “foie gras vinegar.” He heads to the Central Park zoo. The surrounding buildings, like Trump Plaza and the AT&T building, “heighten its unnaturalness.” After calling a bathroom attendant the n-word, Bateman sees a mother breastfeeding, which “awakens something awful in me.”

He perks up when he spots the child. Offers him a cookie. “But before the child can answer, my sudden lack of care crests into a massive wave of fury and I pull the knife out of my pocket and I stab him quickly, in the neck.” When the child’s mother, “homely, Jewish-looking, overweight,” finds her dying son, she makes a sound Bateman, if not Ellis, “cannot describe,” and this monotheistic sound is the sound in my head as I spare the grandmother and child.

Bateman reasons it away, typical for him, in one of American Psycho’s Victorian moments of accountability.

Though I am satisfied at first by my actions, I’m suddenly jolted with a mournful despair at how useless, how extraordinarily painless, it is to take a child’s life. This thing before me, small and twisted and bloody, has no real history, no worthwhile past, nothing is really lost. It’s so much worse (and more pleasurable) taking the life of someone who has hit his or her prime, who has the beginnings of a full history, a spouse, a network of friends, a career, whose death will upset far more people whose capacity for grief is limitless than a child’s would, perhaps ruin many more lives than just the meaningless, puny death of this boy.

In The Missing of the Somme, Geoff Dyer and chums do a car tour of the Western Front. They eat. Drink. Make jokes about Wilfred Owen poems. It rains. It’s cold. In Ypres, they stay in an “expensive cheap hotel” with “towels the size of napkins, burn marks on the dresser.” Dyer quotes the writer Stephen Graham, writing about the post-war Ypres of the 1920s, when “death and the ruins completely outweighed the living. It is easy to imagine someone who had no insoluble ties killing himself here, drawn to the lodestone of death. There is a pull from the other world, a drag on the heart and spirit.”

I could kill myself in Gaza. Are there reasonable flights? At first, Netanyahu kills comedy, like Kramer saying the n-word umpteen times. There were many words that you could not stand to hear,” Hemingway wrote of World War I, “and finally only the names of places had dignity.” To native English speakers, who rarely suffer but protest much, Gaza is a graffiti-sounding word, like Even or Once or demise stylized as Dmise. I saw Dmise above a Chinatown garbage can. At least we can pronounce Gaza, unlike Ypres.

No matter what Leo hits, I let him run the bases, get his home run. Then I get my chance at bat. But when I run around the bases, Leo just stands at 3rd base, waiting for me to come home. Before I can, he tags me out.

“I think my strategy is better than yours,” he says on the walk home. This is the first time I hear him use the word strategy and one of my thoughts is, post your child’s revelations online, like Don DeLillo wearing his pink shirt.

I press Leo on his strategy. “Well, Daddy, your strategy is just, chase me. But you never catch up. My strategy is, stand and wait to get you out. My strategy is better than yours.” So my child does understand war.

Suddenly Zionist friends who moved to Townhouse, California. When will the suffering cease? The husband and I saw Father John Misty once. When Misty sang “Total Entertainment Forever,” which begins

bedding Taylor Swift every night inside the Oculus Rift after mister and the missus finish dinner and the dishes,

in Milwaukee, I felt the absence of the horns that play on the studio album. My friend didn’t. Not all of us circulate the same melancholy. Still, I miss him. I miss those abandoned futures.

[romanishin]

little prince's evil brother

i met a prince, a boy, on a planet in the void, somber that he was, life's story he recalled.

"a brother that i had - twin, too be exact - stole from me my joy, ignorance he, asshole, grabbed.

reality's what he left, and i knew, as i was born, that life is pointless. where do i go henceforth?

oh, i want to wring his neck, tie his stupid little legs to a horse's cock and run it over rocks.

a man from your planet, he met him once or twice, he taught him with delight to find the kid's kink to flight.

how to cover one self in a plastic see through bag, like food that you preserve - everything's shiny from inside.

this man, he wrote a book, became the hero of the court, praised he was by all for saying what everyone'd hoped.

a motto of hedonistic mob has taken over the idle world: life has no point, might as well enjoy the moment's joy

but tell me please where does it go if no one has a goal does one even exist?

dumb brother never learned of life deeper than pencil's lead. an elephant inside a snake? fuck, give me a break!

somewhere, as he smiles in the palace of his own esteem, shallow as a lie it is, he gleams over our naive demise.

and now your kind is tied - hands to bed of silky sheets = caressed by hungry flies until forever they fall asleep.

tell me who is evil then, me or that loser's taint? my twin without concent, or one who loves truth's scent?

find a goal, don't be listless, then you'll enjoy all life's distance. everything deep will not seem lost, as, you guessed it, it has a point!

i hope he shits his blue pants - full of it he is more than you'd want. i hope cosmic wind lifts him off his feet with the scarf catching on a tree."

and so was the tale told by this evil boy; prince's lost myth told without being coy.

i asked him what he'll do, what he'll live for, can he spread his word to the human sort?

he did let loose a laugh, said: "you already lost, men will never choose to pay the heavy cost.

i rather spend my remaining beat to chase the rotten rat, slap his fake imagination dead before he ruins another's lot."

me, i didn't write a book - he never told me to, and, really, after all, who wants to hear this crap?

and now, i am back on earth, sitting in my two by three cage, bottle never seems to fill, fuck, does this rhyme anyway?

[deancodedinthewater]

The Benders Part 3

Dean was not sure how he and Kathleen had ended up getting coffee instead of her arresting him but here they were, both carrying travel cups of coffee instead of him being dragged back to the station.

“Hey, Officer?” Dean asked as Kathleen sipped her coffee. “Look, I don’t mean to push my luck.”

Kathleen gave him a look over the rim of her cup that he thinks was supposed to be annoyance. “Your luck is beyond pressed.”

“Right,” Dean agreed but he kept going anyway. “I was wondering- why are you helping me out, anyway? Why don’t you just lock me up?” Sue him for wanting to know how they ended up here.

“My brother,” Kathleen said with a long sigh. “Riley disappeared three years ago. A lot like Sam.” She turned away from Dean. “We searched for him, but- nothing. I know what it’s like to feel responsible for someone, and for them to-” She stopped abruptly. Dean hadn’t realised she had also stopped walking. He turned to her a few steps ahead but averted his gaze when he saw she was wiping her eyes with her free hand. “Come on,” she said once she had composed herself. “Let’s keep at it.” She got in the car and Dean could do nothing but join her.

-

It wasn’t much further along the road before Greg spotted something. “Wait, wait wait- Pull over here,” he demanded and Kathleen slowed down. “Pull over!” She shot him a glare for that but she did pull over. As soon as the cruiser stopped Greg was out the door. Kathleen hurried to follow him but he hadn’t gone far, just to the edge of the forest where there was a dirt track leading deeper into the trees. When Kathleen came up beside him, Greg said, “It’s the first turn-off I’ve seen so far.”

“You stay here,” Kathleen told him as she checked over her equipment. “I’ll check it out.

“No way,” Greg said and he kept pace with her as she moved to go down the dirt track.

“Hey.” They both stopped right on the treeline. “You’re a civilian. And a felon, I think,” Kathleen told him, firmly. “I’m not taking you with me.”

“You’re not going without me,” Greg insisted. Kathleen sighed, she was worried he’d say that.

“Alright,” she said, reaching behind her back with one hand. “You promise you won’t get involved? You’ll let me handle it?”

“Yeah,” Greg said a little too quickly. “I promise.”

“Shake on it,” Kathleen said, extending the hand that she wasn’t holding behind her back to him. Greg hesitated for a moment and she hoped he hadn’t caught on to  what she was trying to do. He took her hand and Kathleen smiled. Whilst there hands were still clasped she pulled her other hand forwards and slapped a set of cuffs around Greg’s wrist.

“Oh, come on,” he complained.

Kathleen dragged Greg back to her car and cuffed him to the door handle. She started to walk away but stopped when he spoke again.

“This is ridiculous,” he said, waving his free hand at the door. “Kathleen, I really think you’re gonna need my help.”

“I’ll manage,” she told him as she locked the car. “Thank you.”

The last thing she heard as she walked away was. “Why did I stop carrying hair pins?”

As she walked down the private road, Kathleen passed several broken wagon wheels and a rundown barn. She made a note of the barn and kept walking until she came to an equally rundown house. The front porch looked completely rotten and so when she stepped on it she did so with caution. It held her weight. She climbed the front steps and knocked on the door.

“Hello?” She called. “Anybody home?” A filthy little girl cracked the door open and glared up at her through a rat’s nest of unwashed hair. “Hi, who are you?” Kathleen said, holding her badge up.

The girl tilted her head and stared at her with big wide eyes. She stepped closer and examined Kathleen’s badge. “Who are you?”

“I’m Kathleen, I’m a deputy,” Kathleen answered, pocketing her badge. “What’s your name?”

“Missy.”

“Missy,” Kathleen repeated. “That’s a pretty name.” Missy just kept glaring at her. “Missy, is your mom home?”

“She’s dead,” Missy said with no emotion. Kathleen startled back at the abruptness of it.

“I’m sorry,” she said, though Missy didn’t seem to care. “What about your dad?” Missy shook her head. “No? Can I come in for a minute?” Missy shook her head and moved to block the door. And okay, she knew when to back down. Not going inside. “I just want you to look at a picture. Is that okay?” Missy stopped moving and Kathleen took that as a yes. She pulled out Sam’s picture and held it out for Missy to see. “Have you seen that guy? Look at the picture.” Missy turned her head and looked. She smiled wide, showing too many teeth. “What?”

“That’s gonna hurt,” Missy said. Kathleen turned to see what Missy was looking at and found herself face to face with a man nearly twice her height and broad as a barn. He was just as filthy as Missy.

-

Pa had heard something up near the house as he was returning from the hunt and it set his teeth on edge. As he moved towards the house he grabbed a shovel one of his boys had left out, as a precaution.

On the porch he saw some cop talking with his daughter and he was having none of that. The cop was showing Missy something and that ain’t a good sign. Pa came up behind the cop and raised his shovel.

“That’s gonna hurt,” Missy told the cop as she grinned up at him.

The cop turned on her heel and Pa swung his shovel at her. She crumpled to the ground.

“Missy, sweetheart,” Pa said to his youngest. “Go tell your brothers I wanna see ‘em.”

“Yes, Daddy,” Missy said before she scampered off to find the boys.

-

Back at the car, Dean was digging through his pockets. He found an old hair tie that had probably been buried deep in one of Dad’s pockets since Dean was six years old and first hacked his hair off with a pair of scissors. But a hair tie wasn’t gonna pick a lock. Giving up on the pockets he started looking at his surroundings. Nothing on the ground that could be useful.

When he turned his eyes heavenwards, to pray for his own demise or a way out he wasn’t sure, he noticed the antenna on the back of the car. He pressed himself flat to the car and reached for it, but it was just out of reach. A screeching, whining growl filled the air and Dean knew that sound. The pickup.

“Oh, son of a bitch,” he growled as he stretched as far as he could. He could feel his shoulders burning and the joints in his fingers spreading. The sound of the pickup grew closer. Dean’s shoulder blade clicked and he made contact.

The noise of the pick up had ceased and instead he heard the metal on metal screech of a gate opening. Then footsteps. The antenna fell to the ground and Dean collapsed to his knees to get it.

-

“Well, I’ve never seen him so angry before,” Lee said as he and Jared made their way out of the compound and onto the main road. 

“We ain’t never been followed by the police before, Lee,” Jared snapped back.

“Ain’t that the truth,” Lee replied as he spun the cop’s keys around his finger. “We takin’ this sucker out back with the others?”

“Don't know what else we’d do with it,” Jared said with a shrug. They rounded the cruiser and Lee frowned at the handcuffs on the door. He didn’t really know what cops did with their cuffs so he shrugged and opened the door.

-

Kathleen woke up in a cage, most of her gear stripped and her hair down. Her head was pounding. She groaned and rubbed at the lump on the back of it. God, it felt massive like a cartoon.

“You alright?” said a voice nearby. Kathleen’s eyes shot open and she saw a tall man in the cage next to her.

“Are you Sam Winchester?” she asked as she rushed to the bars to get as close as she could to the other captive.

The man frowned at her, a wrinkle forming between his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

“Your, uh-” God her head was pounding. She hoped it wasn’t a concussion. “Your cousin’s looking for you.”

“Thank god,” Sam said, gripping his own bars. “Where is he?”

“I-” Why did she do it? “I cuffed him to my car.” Sam sighed and sat back in his cage. He looked like he was about to say something else when the door opened and in came Greg. He looked around for a moment with his face a picture of disgust. She didn’t think someone who dressed like he got his clothes out of a dumpster could be a germaphobe but the reaction he had to this place kinda made her think he was one.

Then Greg saw the cages. “Sam!” He exclaimed and next to her Sam smiled. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” Sam said. Kathleen could hear the relief in both of their voices.

“Damn, it’s good to see you,” Greg said as he came closer.

Kathleen only had one question for him. “How did you get out of the cuffs?” Greg turned towards her and it was like he was seeing her for the first time. As if he’d been so focused on Sam that the rest of the barn had faded away. Kathleen decided not to comment on how weird that was.

“Oh, I know a trick or two,” he said and she just stared at him. He knew that wasn’t helping his case, right? “Alright, let’s get these open.” He examined the locks on both cages and whistled. “Oh, these look like they’re gonna be a bitch.”

Sam pointed to a beam in the middle of the room. “There’s some kind of automatic control right there,” he said.

Greg glanced at her before he lowered his voice and asked Sam, “Have you seen ‘em?”

“Yeah,” Sam replied, just as low. Did they think talking low would magically make it so that Kathleen, all of 4 feet away, couldn’t hear them? “Dude, they’re just people.”

“And they jumped you? Must be getting a little rusty there, kiddo,” Greg said as he made his way over to the control panel. From Kathleen’s perspective he was just pressing random buttons. Didn’t seem like that would be too effective. “What do they want?”

“I don’t know,” Sam said, shaking his head. “They let Jenkins go but that was some sort of trap. It doesn’t make sense to me.”

“Well that’s the point,” Greg said. “You know, with our-” He glanced at her again. “-usual playmates, there’s rules. There’s patterns. But with people? They’re just crazy?” Crazy? If anyone was crazy it was these two. 

“See anything else out there?” Sam asked.

“There’s about a dozen junked cars hidden out back,” Greg said, gesturing over his shoulder. “Plates from all over, so I’m thinking when they take someone, they take their car too.”

Kathleen’s heart dropped. She gripped her bars tighter. “Did you see a black Mustang out there?” she asked, hoping that Greg would say no. “About ten years old?”

“Yeah, actually, I did,” Greg replied and from the way he reacted she knew she’d given too much away in her face. “Your brother’s?” All Kathleen could do was nod. “I’m sorry.” They all paused for a moment. Kathleen felt as if the cousins were feeling the pain of her brother’s loss just as strongly as she was. Greg twisted the ring on his finger, perhaps that was from someone he had lost. “Let’s get you guys out of here,” he said, shaking his hands out and moving to get a closer look at the control panel. “Then we’ll take care of those bastards.”

He stopped. “This thing takes a key. Key?” He looked at Sam.

“I don’t know.”

“Alright, I better go find it,” Greg said as he made his way back out of the barn.

“Hey,” Sam called before he got to the door. Greg stopped and turned. “Be careful.”

Greg grinned. “When am I not?” He disappeared through the door.

“How about always?” Sam said to the closed door.

-

Dean snuck his way into the ratty looking house and really, really wished he didn’t have to touch anything. These people had clearly never heard of dusting. Or just cleaning for that matter. Everything was covered in a layer of grime so thick that Dean couldn’t even tell if the shelves beneath were made of wood or metal. He flicked on his flashlight and tried to pretend everything was clean. The light did not make it better. The shelves were filled, top to bottom, with jars and bottles. Dean looked closer and nearly gagged. Those were absolutely filled with human body parts.

“Yikes,” he said as he moved across the room. On a wall he found a collection of Polaroid pictures. Itching showing the same two men in various poses next to or holding corpses like prizes. One picture in particular drew his attention and Dean lifted it gently. In the picture, those same men were holding Jenkins like he was a large fish they had just caught. “I’ll say it again- demons I get. People. People are crazy.” He turned and found himself at the foot of some stairs, which he climbed as quietly as he could.

At the top of the stairs Dean found himself in a living room with an open archway leading into the filthiest kitchen he had ever seen. A record player somewhere was playing something loud enough to be heard over the sounds of someone butchering something in that kitchen.

Dean crept closer to the kitchen. He bumped into something that rattled. “What the fuck?” he whispered as he reached up to stop what appeared to be a windchime made of human bone from making anymore sound.

He needed to be armed. With anything. Dean glanced around for anything he could use. There was a wooden pole leaning up against the wall. That would do. Hopefully the reach would give him the advantage over the butcher’s knives. He kept moving towards the kitchen. On a table, just inside the archway, he could see a small tray with a set of keys on it. If he was lucky, very rare, then those would be the keys he needed.

He peered around the archway to see that the man in there was engrossed in - Dean looked away as he raised a saw - butchering Jenkins. He crept closer to the table and very gently lifted the keys, trying to keep them from rattling. Once he had them in hand he noticed just what was sitting next to them. A jar filled to the brim with human teeth.

A floorboard behind him creaked and Dean spun around. A girl, just as filthy as the house, stood behind him with a knife raised.

“Shh,” Dean said, not sure if he was talking to her or himself. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I know,” she said with a vicious grin before darting forwards and pinning Dean’s jacket to the wall with her knife. “Daddy!”

“Fuck.”

“Daddy!” The kid yelled again. Dean pulled the knife out of the wall. Two sets of footsteps came charging down the stairs. “Daddy!” The two men from the polaroids came running at him. One grabbed him from behind and the other came at him from the front. Dean used the leverage of the one behind to kick the one in front with both feet. 

The one behind him threw him into a wall and Dean dropped the knife. The other ran at him again and Dean redirected his momentum to the ground. He turned to punch the other but he just shoved him back into the wall again.

“I’m gonna kick your ass first,” Dean said, pointing at the one that kept throwing him into the wall. “Then yours.” He pointed at the other. He readied for the fight but both of them just stared at him with smug grins. Something smacked him on the back of the head and the world went black.

-

When Dean came to he was tied to a chair and there was a crick in his neck. He rolled his head and tugged at the bindings, trying to relieve the pressure when he registered that his captors had been talking.

“Come on,” said one of them. “Let us hunt him.”

“Yeah, this one’s a fighter,” said another. “Sure would be fun to hunt.” A third laughed at that - presumably the one that had hit him over the head.

“Oh you gotta be kidding me,” Dean said as he tried to twist his wrists free. “That’s what this is about? You yahoos hunt people?”

The older one came closer and leant over him. Dean leant back as far as his bindings would let him. “You ever killed before?” he asked.

Dean laughed, it was an awkward sound. “Well, that depends on what you mean.”

“I’ve hunted all my life,” the older one continued. Dean wanted to laugh again. This guy had no idea what was out there to hunt. “Just like my father, his before him. I’ve hunted deer and bear- even got a cougar once. Oh boy. But the best hunt-” he grinned at Dean, showing all of his nasty teeth. “-is human.” Dean disagreed with that. The best thing he’d ever hunted was a werewolf. That one had been an adrenaline spike. “Oh, there’s nothing like it. Holdin’ their life in your hands. Seein’ the fear in their eyes just before they go dark. Makes you feel powerful alive.”

“You’re a sick puppy,” Dean said despite knowing hunting gave him that exact feeling. Hunting monsters was sometimes the only thing that could make him feel alive. But other times that mere fact made him feel like the monster. Like he was going to be on the receiving end of a hunt. And what do you know? Here he was.

“We give ‘em a weapon,” the older one continued. “Give ‘em a fightin’ chance. It’s kind of like our tradition passed down, father to son. Of course, only one or two a year. Never enough to bring the law down. We never been sloppy.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean said, eyes tracking the utter filth of the room and the people within it. “Don’t sell yourself short. You’re plenty sloppy.”

“So what? You with the pretty cop?” The little girl looked up at her brothers with that sadistic grin on her face. Dean did not want to know if that is what he looked like when he was her age and coming home from his first hunt with blood all in his ginger pigtails. “Are you a cop?”

“If I tell you,” Dean said, looking up at the father of this group with a defiant smile. “You promise not to make me into an ashtray?” One of the boys marched over and punched him for that one.

“Only reason I don’t let my boys take you right here and now-” Dean looked both boys over and, he had to be honest, he wouldn’t pass on them. If they had a shower first... “-is that there’s somethin’ we need to know.” The old guy walked over to the lip fireplace and pulled a poker out of the hot coals. The end of it glowed red.

“Yeah,” Dean said, shifting his gaze from that glow to the face of the guy holding it. “How about it’s not nice to marry your sister?”

“Tell me,” the man said, moving closer. “Any other cops gonna come lookin’ for you?”

“Oh, eat me,” Dean said and then his eyes widened in horror. “No, no, no,” he backtracked, twisting away from them. “Wait, wait- you actually might.” One of the boys grabbed Dean roughly and turned his head towards the hot poker.

“You think this is funny?” the older guy said, moving until the poker was just brushing Dean’s cheek. The heat was making his eyes water. “You bought this down on my family. Alright, you wanna play games?” He lowered the poker and Dean let go of a breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding. “Looks like we’re gonna have a hunt tonight after all, boys.” He turned back to Dean. “And you get to pick the animal. The boy or the cop?”

“Okay, wait,” Dean said, trying to twist his head out of the grip of the man behind him. No give. “Wait, look, nobody’s coming for me, alright? It’s just us.”

“You don’t choose,” Hannibal Lector’s grandpa said. “I will.” He placed the still hot poker on Dean’s chest. It burned through his t-shirt. Dean screamed.

“You son of a bitch!” Dean yelled as soon as the metal was removed from his chest. He could feel the charred flesh. He hoped it wouldn’t need hospital treatment. The poker dropped back into the fire. But it was back in Dean’s face and freshly red hot before he knew it.

“Next time,” the man on the other side said, twitching the poker where it hovered barely an inch from Dean’s eye. “I’ll take an eye.”

“Alright! The guy! Take the guy!” Dean yelled, straining to get out of the hold on his head. The poker was dropped back into the fire again. The boy behind him let go.

“Lee, go do it,” said the horror movie reject actively torturing Dean as he pulled a key on a chain from around his neck and handed it to the kid that hadn’t been holding Dean still. “Don’t let him out, though. Shoot him in the cage.”

The kid nodded and walked out the door as if he had been given any other chore. Fuck, people probably would see him like that. Blindly following Daddy’s orders despite how fucked up they might be. Dean pushed that into a box in the back of his head with the rest of his childhood trauma.

“What? I thought you said you were gonna hunt him,” Dean said. “You were gonna give him a chance.”

“Lee,” the dad called and the boy stopped in the doorway. “When you’re done with the boy, shoot the bitch too.” Leed nodded and left with a rifle held ready. The old guy turned back to Dean. “Better clean this mess up before any more cops come runnin’ out here.” Dean really hoped they could get out of this one.

-

When one of the men came back, Sam was on high alert. He stuck the key in the control panel and turned it.

“What are you doing?” Sam asked. The man said nothing. He held a rifle in one hand as he keyed something into the panel. Sam’s cage door swung open.

Sam backed up as the guy approached and his foot hit that bracket he had pulled off. He stooped down and grabbed it as the guy pushed the cage door further open and aimed his rifle right at Sam’s head.

“Hey!” Kathleen yelled from the other cage and the guy glanced her way. Sam used the distraction and threw the bracket at him. His aim went wide and he shot the wall.

-

Dean heard the gunshot go off and thrashed in his bindings. “You hurt my brother and I’ll fucking kill you, I swear,” he yelled. “I’ll kill you all. I will kill you all!” The older guy stood up and walked towards the open front door, ignoring Dean as his two kids just laughed at him.

“Lee!” he called out into the woods. There was no additional gunshot.

-

Sam threw himself at the guy and pushed him to the ground. He snatched the rifle from his hands and hit him over the head with it until he went still. Sam took a gasping breath and test fired the rifle. Nothing happened. “Damn,” he said, tossing it aside.

-

Pa was worried that Lee had gone and fucked up again. It’d be just like him to make his mess even worse. “Lee!” he yelled again but Lee still did not answer. “Jared, you come with me. Missy, you watch him now.”

Missy grinned and held her knife towards the cop they had tied to the chair as Jared grabbed two more guns from the wall and followed him out.

“Lee, where are ya?” Pa said as he and Jared entered the barn with their guns raised. “Lee!” It was darker than usual in the barn and when Jared flicked the light switch nothing happened.

“They must’ve blown the fuses.” He flicked it again, just for good measure. Pa shot his eldest a dirty look and then marched over to the control panel. He keyed in the code for locking the cages but nothing happened. Someone had broken his tech and someone was going to pay for that.

“They can’t have gotten far,” Jared said as he came up to Pa’s shoulder.

“Then why ain’t you lookin’ for ‘em?” Pa snapped and turned. They made their way into the next room over, where they stored their hay. Something rustled.

“You hear that, Pa?” Jared asked, raising his rifle.

“They're here alright,” Pa agreed. Both of them moved into the room proper. Jared made his way over to the cabinets across the room and Pa started climbing the ladder up to the loft.

Jared heard something. A cabinet door opening or closing, he wasn’t sure which. He turned, gun held tight, and moved over to the nearest one. He held his gun at hip height and fired for as many rounds as he had. Once the magazine was empty he threw the tattered door open and found nothing but farming tools. The girl cop fell onto his back and wrapped her arms around his neck. Jared struggled against her, dropping his empty rifle. He managed to throw her off.

In the loft, Pa had found the boy. He chased him through the rafters, shooting at him. The kid escaped each shot and Pa growled. The kid threw himself down the ladder. Pa followed, shooting again only to miss.

“You stupid bitch,” Jared said, picking his rifle back up. He aimed for her heart.

“Hey!” the guy yelled as he dropped in. Jared turned his gun on him instead and fired. What he thought had been an empty magazine turned out to have one remaining bullet. The kid dodged and Jared’s shot hit Pa instead as he came down where the kid had been. Pa collapsed but Jared did not have time to worry about that. He moved to follow the kid, attempting to load as he moved.

Jared couldn’t see where the boy had gone. He turned on the spot, trying to catch sight of him. Something grabbed his gun from behind and yanked it out of his hands. The world went dark as the kid hit Jared over the head with his own gun.

-

Sam locked Jared in the cage Kathleen had been in as Kathleen herself stood over the patriarch of this awful operation. She held the rifle the man had been using against them aimed right at his chest.

When Sam joined her, she nodded her head at the door. “You go ahead,” she said. “I’ll watch over this one.” Sam stared at her, not sure what he should do. “Go!” Finally, he nodded and left.

“You hurt my family,” the guy on the ground said. “I’m gonna bleed you, bitch.”

Kathleen stared down at him. “You killed my brother,” she said, tearfully. Her fingers tightened on the rifle.

“Your brother?” the old guy said, with a laugh. “Now I see.”

“Just tell me why,” Kathleen demanded.

“Because it’s fun,” he replied, laughing even harder. Kathleen stared down at him dead eyed and fired.

Masterpost

[deathswcrn]

All thoughts of telling Eskel that she could make sure he wouldn't pay a penny for gear repairs (or she'd hang her father from his ears from a tree - a joke, but a well-meaning one) evaporated. She was tense, eyes fixed hard upon the Skelligan across the room, who weaved around tables like he owned the place. Given their reputation up and down the coast as a people, Breina figured it was a deserved reaction.

The sign Eskel laid on the tabletop was as a gift from the Gods. She put her head down, acting for all she could like a drunk taking a nap between rounds, her eyes none-the-less fixed on the window nearby as her escape route if they spotted and recognised her.

"-- Skelligan, just like us," Breina heard as she leaned in close to the Supirre sign, her eyes closing as she focused on his words. "Little rat of a woman. She was in my warband, she crossed us, and now she thinks she can slink away like a coward. So if you've seen her... now would be a good time to start talking. Before my friend here-" he gestured a man to his left, who Breina knew liked to harass back-chatters during raids, "-takes your tongue."

The voice, the face, Breina knew it well, and cold settled into her spine to hear the rasp of his voice again. She'd never liked him as a leader, even though she'd joined up to get out of her father's shadow to make her own wealth and fortune. As an enemy, he was going to be worse. His name slipped out of her mouth like she was spitting out rotten fruit. "Canute the Gull. So named, 'cause like a seagull, he's unflinchin' and vicious about takin' what he wants from you." She rolled her jaw in her mouth, teeth grinding in fury.

Neither she nor the Witcher were dying to Canute. She wasn't dying for someone else's treason and she refused to pull someone else into it, either. "Quietly," she said. "No risks. They ain't gonna let me just go. He wants my blood." Jutting her chin, she gestured to Canute, who was managing to intimidate locals by just hovering over them and smiling. "Stay out of his way. He won't hesitate to pick a fight. If he asks about me, just tell him I left town north. Follows the path I've been takin' so far."

She placed a coin next to him in the hopes it'd keep his tongue in his mouth, sliding off her stool and pulling her hood over her head. "For a drink, on me. Meet me later at the signpost outside town, south, past sunset. They'll be too pissed drunk to make trouble by then. I'll get out of Canute's warpath an' get us a boat."

Then she made a beeline for the stairs, intending to slip out of an upstairs window.

"I can agree to those terms, for the preliminary stage of the contract. We can iron out the remaining details when we get there and I assess the situation. If the price is an issue, I can accept discounts, goods and valuables for selling as well as coins. Alternatives. Open to bartering. Good to head to the docks any time, arrange a voyage to the islands. Can leave those details to you, your home, and you're liable to be on better terms with local sailors than I tend to be. Might take some convincing for them to let one of my kind aboard... unless they are smart enough to know how useful we are against the inevitable sea monsters attacking their ship. Never know, with how superstitious you seafaring types can be."

Eskel's deep, calm, faintly amused voice allowed at last with a slight nod and a chuckle to the dark haired young woman, after some consideration. Already the prospective job was looking up... which of course meant it had to complicate itself further in no time at all. Then the door to the inn opened before more could be said, two pairs of boots entering, and the atmosphere of the place suddenly shifted, as it had when he himself had arrived earlier. His viper eyes looked up from the bar, noting them... two arrivals that made her curse at his side... and at first sight the pair of men were unmistakable, even before their accented voices spoke, clearly to his enhanced senses, even with their distance. More island folk, this far inland. No possible way it was just a matter of coincidence, especially given her reaction. He looked between them talking to some of the nervous inn customers, then to her concentrating hard on the counter before them. He didn't need to be an occult detective, which he was, to put two and two together. At her question, he answered her quietly, scratching his itching cheek scars absently, speaking for her alone to hear him... an idea coming to mind simultaneously.

"Glancing around the tavern. Asking around about a fellow islander. Friends of yours, I take it. Here, if you want to eavesdrop on them with nobody the wiser. Feeling generous, so this one's on the house. Lean in close to this Supirre Sign, and you'll hear it all as if you were standing next to them."

The Witcher arranged their drinks and dishes in a way that concealed his actions... he lowered his hand to the surface of the counter, arranging his fingers properly and concentrating... beginning to draw the small glowing yellow magical Sign upon it with his fingertips. When the basic Sign was cast, appeared, remaining on the surface, the sounds of the visitors accented voices became audible to just the two of them clearly over the din and music of the place. While they listened to the new arrivals, he idly reached for his ale and took another drink, keeping his senses sharp and the pair of warriors positions marked, for if the islanders tried turning the evening bloody. He had no particular desire for trouble... but when had that ever stopped destiny and the Path from delivering it to him? In this case, it was in his best interests to get involved instead of stepping back and looking the other way, given it involved a contract and his livelihood. He wasn't about to look the other way... his guild and the Path meant more to him than one of the countless, endless blood feuds among the islanders. If need be, if they forced his hand, he would resolve the conflict for the Skelligers by speaking the language of violence they understood and respected most. Sipping from his drink, he murmured to her quietly between them.

"If you can resolve this matter with your brethren without bloodshed, by all means. I might be able to, with one of my Signs... but it may go south, if these people see me using magic. Just as likely to turn this tavern into a bloodbath as to scare everyone away. They could be looking for an excuse to try lynching a mutant. How do you want to play this?"

@wolfsbarbaren

[firstginger]

Hi there! I’m not sure if you’re still into daemon stuff or if you still make suggestions, so feel free to ignore this if not lol. I was wondering, what forms do you think would suit a blunt and stubborn INTP person who is stoic and quiet until excited, then enthusiastic and chatty?

what a great description!

i was thinking about forms that really emphasize the Ne aspect of the INTP; i usually see forms like reclusive wildcats, small birds of prey, and snakes suggested, which fit the most stereotypical INTP enneagram 5 persona, but probably less so you. i have a few suggestions, so let's jump in!

galidiinae my top suggestion is galidiinae, comprised of vontsira and non-true mongooses. i thought they could be fitting for the INTP, as these species typically live in pairs or small groups, are independent and tenacious hunters, and are territorial over their restricted habitat — though they're also notoriously playful and excitable little animals. i wouldn't describe them as aggressive or assertive, but their territorial nature would definitely check the blunt category; they have extensive vocalizations that they use to communicate about boundaries, disagreements, group get-togethers, and even excitement about successful foraging. the ring-tailed mongoose i think is a good candidate, particularly if you're someone who likes to be busy and adventurous in your comfort zone. the giant-striped mongoose is more cooperative, open-minded, and loyal, while the broad-striped mongoose is going to be more introverted, guarded, and determined.

rodents i kept circling back to more independent rodents for you, because i think they can be both defensive as well as energetic and excitable. my first thought was actually the north american porcupine. they're introverted and certainly have the blunt and stoic part down; when threatened, they will bristle their quills, clack their teeth, and release a rotten odor. compared to the vontsira/mongooses, this form is going to fit someone who's more introverted and independent, protective and territorial, and unambitious. however when north american porcupines are brought together in captivity, they're actually pretty socially tolerant and like to playfully wrestle with each other. they're a really vocal species though so either way i'd expect this individual to be unafraid of speaking up whether their feelings are positive or negative!

porcupines aside, i was also thinking about woodrats (packrats), tree voles, and the armored rat. woodrats i think particularly are fitting since they're notoriously excitable, noisy, and boisterous — hence the reputation of a packrat! they're also solitary and relatively territorial, typically not instigators (they tend to space out their territories) but very willing to defend their territories through aggression, foot thumping, and scent marking. the white-throated woodrat is going to be pretty similar to this but just to toss a few others out there, the bushy-tailed woodrat is going to be more active, defensive, and status-seeking, while the desert woodrat is more private, avoidant, and prepared. the key largo woodrat i just thought was super cool because they build massive wooden nests that they pass through generations.

the red tree vole was my chief suggestion for tree voles, they're relatively introverted and like their comfort zone; they tend to avoid attention and confrontation, though they can get easily stressed and wound up when forced outside the familiar. if they're a little too passive for you, the closely-related heather vole is more blunt and boundary-keeping, though good at reading the situation and not biting off more than they can chew. tree voles might not be as enthusiastic as you are, but as they tend to be very precise and dutiful in their behavior, they could be seen as particularly into their passions. and finally the armored rat is introverted and inventive, naturals at planning ahead and quite particular. they have some fun behaviors that i thought might feed into your chatty side; they're particularly excitable when worked up, known for making a "whee-unk!" noise and springing into the air. they're also going to be more active and ambitious than the vole and porcupine, more similar to the woodrat.

other this form might be a little bold, but you might also consider the tasmanian devil, as it really embodies the blunt and stubborn persona while also being someone who's expressive and energetic. the biggest caveat is that the tasmanian devil is really drenched in confidence; they're a self-assured introvert, not someone who's compelled by social anxiety or conflict avoidance. i think this would be a great form to look into if you're someone who's socially open but gets irritable when drained and needs their alone time, hardy and ambitious and doesn't like to be controlled, obsessive and excitable over their interests, and are happily opinionated and proud of their beliefs. they might be more INTJ but i figured i'd throw it out there because they're one of my favorite animals and i haven't gotten to suggest them yet! the wolverine also would be in this vein: rather independent but loosely loyal to their loved ones, straightforward and blunt due to their confidence, tenacious and ambitious, though also playful and capable of being roughly mischievous.

hope this helps! :)