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nightlyrequiem · 2 months ago

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DIGEST

"Just the scattered remnants of a society frozen in its last moments."

Chapter 1. The Night Eats the World

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w/c- 2,663

Humanity has fallen, rotting monsters roam about freely, and you were bit. However, when the fever passes, you're alive and whole. For now. Soon the wound begins to fester, and you need to venture outside to get antibiotics or risk succumbing to an infection anyway. Though it turns out the dead aren't the only things you have to worry about.

A/N- Chapter title is from a 2018 French zombie movie. I wrote a zombie one-shot awhile ago, this isn't connected to it. No use of the word zombie because I think it sounds dumb

Tags/Warnings: Tags Will Be Updated as Story Progresses, WLW, Dysfunctional Relationship, Gore, Apocalypse/Infection AU, No Use of The Word Zombie, Violence, Gore, Angst, Valeria is a Bad Person, Seizures, Mild-Body Horror, Horror, Thriller

The city is alive with terror. The last time it ever will be, like a star at its brightest before it dies out. From the third floor in your apartment, you listen to the gunfire and screaming. You hide in your closet and cover your ears but the sounds of your neighbors tearing each other apart travels through the thin walls. It's the sound of the end. Screams of animals that know they'll never made a sound again. It becomes impossible to distinguish the screams of the living from the dead.

Your neighbor is calling for help. Her voice is loud and eerily high pitched. The only sound in the in the world. Unnatural, like a voice in the vacuum of space. Between wet sobs she calls out. Repeating herself. Don't open the door, your nerves tell you. There's something wrong, but you open the door anyway. You want to help her. You didn't realize the dead could talk.

You jerk awake. Peeling your sweaty face away from the cold bathroom tiles. Head spinning in protest. You tremble and wheeze for breath, body aching all over like you were beaten with a sledgehammer. You breathe out shakily and recoil at the smell of vomit. Your left bicep throbs painfully as you force your way to your feet, gripping the bathroom counter and hoisting yourself up. The action makes your vision swim and you have to take a second to compose yourself. You reach out in the dark - your candle having burned out some time ago - and fumble for the hand towel. You wipe your face clean and sit back down.

It's been three weeks, you think. The passing of time doesn't mean much anymore. You should have succumbed to the illness by now, but you didn't. Though you didn't escape unscathed. Patches of skin on your back and most notably around the bite have darkened, starting to necrotize. You've been wracked with chills and seizures, getting weaker and weaker as the days go by. You struggle to think about much, but one thought consistently floats through the nearly empty void of your brain: antibiotics.

You know that if you stay here, allow yourself to rot in your dark bathroom, you will die. And so, you force yourself out of the bathroom. Unnerved by the silence. There's a pharmacy about an hour walk away. It would be faster if you drove but when you peek outside and see how packed the streets are with abandoned cars, you know it's not possible. Your vision blurs and you stumble into the wall. You probably aren't fit to operate heavy machinery anyway.

You dig around in your cupboards for food. A lot of it has gone bad, but you find something canned, too out of it to read what it is. Only lucid enough to claw at the lid like an animal, peeling back the tin and feeling revulsion at the smell. You're so weak and hungry that you ignore it and dig your fingers in, feeling mushy moist chunks of... whatever this is. You scoop out the beige contents and shovel it into your mouth, unable to taste it.

You spend the night huddled over the toilet, shaking and puking. Maybe it's what you ate, or maybe it's the infection. Either way you're paying for it. You feel a little stronger the next day though. Able to walk around with a little more ease, albeit still very stiff in the hips. Your gait is similar to that of an infected. Halting and jerky. You empty a bag, dumping its contents onto the floor. You move around your apartment, gathering everything you think you'll need. The backpack, a kitchen knife, a water bottle - you only have two left, you need to search for more while you're out. Since there's no power, electricity, or running water, you can't get anything from the taps.

The next day you stand before the front door. Locked and barricaded. There's an ominous trail of red leading to it. Dried into the very fibres of the carpet. You struggle to move the table you pushed against the door, partly because the loud scraping noises make you cringe and partly because you're so weak, that a simple table is proving to be too much for you. When it's out of the way you don't open the door right away. The thought of doing so giving you overwhelming anxiety.

You open the door, realizing your mistake when your neighbor 's head swivels to look at you unnaturally. Her eyes are unfocused and bloodshot, scabs spread out across her face. She's in the end stages of infection. Open sores visible on her neck and chest, patches of skin blackened with rot. You quickly slam the door shot but your neighbor throws herself forward, arm shooting out and catching in it. Her wrist makes an awful snapping sound and you let go of the door in surprise.

Your skin crawls when you touch the doorknob. You stare off, losing track of time momentarily. You snap out of it and twist, pulling open the door. Your eyes immediately gravitate to the still shape at your feet. Barely visible in the light pouring through the window behind you. What's left of her head has blonde, patchy hair. You step over her. There's nothing you can do for her now. You creep through the darkened hall, flashlight in hand. The circle of light shakes with your hand, betraying your nerves. There are a few bodies on the floor. Torn open and half eaten. The smell is pungent. Overpowering. Death lives in these halls. You are an intruder.

The door flings open and a hard body barrels into yours, knocking you to the ground. Teeth snapping at your face and upper body. Pain blossoms in your left arm. You grab her by the hair, tearing out clumps with ease. You throw her off of you, arm burning up. You grab the nearest heavy object, a decorative brass rat statue, and slam her upside of the head with it, cracking open her skull like an egg and spilling out the pink yoke of her brain. You hit her again and again. Until there's nothing left to hit. You shove her into the hall and slam the door shut.

There's more carnage and tragedy on the stairs. It makes you sick, almost scares you back into your apartment. You stop dead in your tracks. In the landing between the stairs to the second floor and ground floor, are three people. Huddled together. Some of them twitch and tremble when you shine the light on them so you quickly shift it away. They don't move towards you, just keeping themselves pressed to the wall. They're in various stages of decay. You press close to the railing, sure that at any moment they're going to wake from whatever sleep they're in and swarm you.

You make it downstairs. The lobby isn't any better. In the darkest corners you can see the standing shapes of more infected. In that strange, hibernating trance. You hurry outside. When you exit the building, you're overcome with extreme nausea. The sun feels like it's burning you and you instinctively back up into the shade. It takes a few moments to adjust to the light, that moment of instability passing. The streets are devoid of life. Just the scattered remnants of a society frozen in its last moments.

You step out into the light and cringe at how unusually hot the sun feels. You venture out into the streets. Car doors have been flung open and left that way in people's haste to escape the chaos. There are more bodies strewn about. But the most troubling thing are the abandoned tanks left behind in the streets. You walk past storefronts with smashed in windows and shelves turned over. Having to frequently rest in the shade when the heat gets to be too much for you. You pass by one store and stop. The entire place is filled with infected, almost spilling with them. Huddled together and pressed against one another so tightly that the ones further back become hard to distinguish from each other.

You don't stick around for long. Your hour-long walk turns into two and half hours because of all the breaks. But you finally make it to the pharmacy. Exhausted, sweating, and feeling sick to your stomach. Not being able to rush into the dark building to rest feels like torture but you can't risk disturbing any potential infected inside. The glass has been shattered but like a few other buildings, the windows have been boarded up. The place is a mess. Light fixtures shattered and dangling from wires. It won't be too long before gravity wins, and they fall completely. Bottles and magazines have been tossed about. The place is in disarray and you'll have some problems finding antibiotics in the mess.

You close the door behind you and wander in. Flashing your light around the room nervously. It smells of rot - everything smells of rot - but the scent is faint. Not like how it was in the hallway or lobby of your apartment complex. There's nothing dangerous inside, which is a good thing because you're not sure you have the energy to make the journey back home by tonight. You rummage around through bottles like a squirrel looking for nuts. It's a harder task then it needs to be. The muscles in your left arm are weak and stiff. The infected bite mark throbbing painfully in time with your heartbeat.

You keep searching for as long as you can, but you're struggling to catch your breath, and it feels like the blood is pooling in your head. The door is closed but you're so weak that you don't think you could go over and close it if it were open. You slump against the wall and close your eyes. They start stinging and you begin to cry. The weight of the end pressing down on you heavy. You never thought it would feel so... lonely.

* * *

There are maggots in your arm. Growing fat on the flesh and muscle. You keep plucking them out, digging deep to get rid of them but they just keep coming. You pull and pull. Tugging out veins and tendons to get to the worms. Cold metal taps against your forehead and your eyes fly open. You're blinded by a light and jerk your head away, eyes squeezing shut.

"I thought you were dead." The light speaks. It's voice is low and feminine. Accented. "But then I thought, you looked too... whole to have been caught by boogeys." She says, sounding amused. You're still too out of it to comprehend that it's not really a big ball of light speaking to you.

The woman taps your face again.

"You don't look too good, Mija." She doesn't sound particularly sympathetic as she says it. "La Santa Muerte is watching over you. Looks like you only have a few hours before you walk with her."

You mumble incoherently.

She chuckles quietly. The sound is mean and mirthless. "Give me your bag, you won't be needing it anyway."

The light hurts.

You reach out, trying to grab it. Or push it away. Your fingers move through empty air. And like magic, the light shifts to the side, out of your face.

"Oh." She says. "Oh."

You try to swallow but your throat is too dry.

"No wonder you look so sickly. Crawled away to die in the dark. Must be an instinctual thing, boogeys like the dark you know." She hums. The woman is nothing but shadows and vague lines. Trying to make anything out just hurts your eyes.

Outside, you can hear the rapid shuffling footsteps of the infected. That's the only sound some of them make, but others cry out. Words they may have said right before they died. They meant something once, but they don't mean much now.

"Dios that looks nasty." The woman mutters. Staring down at your festering bite mark.

"It's had some time to get nasty." You find your voice.

"Oh it speaks!" She exclaims quietly. She bends down to eye level, her facial features becoming a little more visible from the flashlight. She has the look of someone that revels in another's pain.

"How long ago did it happen, hm?" She asks.

Yesterday. you almost say. You catch yourself, feeling confused. No that's not right. You struggle for the correct time. "Weeks ago." You mumble. Your words slur and bleed together but she understands all the same.

"It doesn't take weeks, try again." She says.

"Weeks ago." You repeat. Sure of it. "I died for a couple of days but then I woke up again." You ramble.

The shadows under her eyes darken with her furrowed brows. A warm hand grabs your chin and lifts it. That offensive light is back. burning your retinas. You try to shift away but she holds you still, fingers forcing your eyes open.

"There's nothing wrong with your eyes." She remarks, confused. One of the first symptoms of Ruberoculus is red irritated eyes from stressed blood vessels popping. It's how the infection got its name. Your eyes bled for four days before the itching and swelling went away. You stayed sick though.

You sigh and slap her hands away.

"They went away." You say.

"The red doesn't just 'go away.'" The woman says irately.

"Do my eyes look red to you?" You ask, glaring at her. She flashes you, again.

"... You were really bit weeks ago?" She asks curiously.

A yelp from outside startles you. "Yes." You grit out. "And now it's infected and I need antibiotics or I'll die anyway."

She flicks the light into your eyes yet again. Just to amuse herself this time.

"That so?" She murmurs.

"Stop that." You snap.

"How lucky for you that I have some antibiotics left." She tells you slyly. You don't like her tone. There's nothing kind about this woman.

"..."

"Being able to be bitten and not turn is very useful." She says casually. "You can take more risks."

Except you can't. Immunity to turning isn't immunity to sickness. You're still halfway dead. As far as you know you'll turn anyway. And you certainly wouldn't survive being swarmed and eaten alive.

The stranger sets down her flashlight and shrugs off her bag. Rooting around inside and pulling out a bottle. She shakes it in front of you.

"I took a few to clear up some strep I had awhile back but there should be enough to fix you." She says, popping off the lid and grabbing your wrist. She pours a couple pills into your hand. You down the pills. The action feels like slitting open your palm to make a blood pact with a demon. She smiles.

"I saved your life, you owe me now, I think."

You glare at her. "I don't owe you anything. You were going to rob me." You say.

The woman gently plucks the bottle from your hands. She doesn't stop smiling. "You don't have much choice but to stick with me." She says calmly. "You're going to need to keep taking these if you want to get better, and you won't find any here. I already looked."

You consider her words. Knowing that she's right. About needing to continuously take the antibiotics to survive. Maybe she's lying about there not being any left here but you look at the gun gripped in her hand. She'll probably force you to go with her regardless. Dejected and without any other choice, you don't respond.

"What's your name?" She asks you.

"Do names matter anymore?" You reply quietly.

"If I'm asking then it does."

Another wave of nausea hits you and you shut your eyes. You're too unwell to reply with snark or wit so you just tell her. She repeats it and then shares hers.

"Valeria." She says.

#valeria garza #valeria garza x reader #cod mw2 #modern warefare ii #valeria garza cod #valeria garza x fem!reader #cod mwii #cod x reader #valeria garza x you #cod #cod au #cod x you #cod modern warfare #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #modern warfare

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sammybeann · 5 months ago

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Dean knew just the amount of whiskey it took to have Sam incoherent, knew just how many beers Sam needed to guzzle down to have him on the verge of blacking out and he held that knowledge close to his heart.

Dean had just picked Sammy up from Stanford, Jess had burnt to a crisp on the ceiling, dad made his hasty exit from the world and Sam was a shell of himself. Broody, moodier than usual, closed off.

It was the wrong time to tell Sam how he felt, the feelings that had been festering like a necrotic hole in his chest since he was old enough to realize what love versus lust was, so what else could he do but get baby brother so hammered that he couldn't walk straight, push him back into the mattress of whatever sad excuse of a bed in whatever sad of excuse of a motel they were in and take advantage?

Was it really taking advantage, though? Dean wondered with his tongue shoved into Sam's slack lips, his brother far too intoxicated to reciprocate. Sam wanted this too. He had to of. This was just Dean making the first move, dipping his toes in the water. A practice run. What Sam didn't know wouldn't hurt him. That's what Dean told himself, at least, as Sam was vomiting up big brother come the next morning that he didn't remember swallowing the night before, Dean's fingers rubbing comforting circles into Sammy's back as he grumbled about not remembering a thing, how he'd never drink again.

He always ended up drinking again, though. Dean made sure of it, and if he questioned why his ass was sore the night after, Dean had no qualms about making up a story that Sam had fallen ass first onto a metal rail from the bed.

Sam would understand one day should he find out, but for now, Dean had no problem deluding himself as he poured another shot down his baby brother's throat.

#Creep Dean at it again with his bullshit #tw noncon #sam winchester #wincest #dean winchester #sam and dean #sammy #spn #supernatural #samdean #creep dean #dean being a creep #wincest fic #Wincest drabble

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matthew2641 · 2 months ago

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A Baptism in Blood: The Nihilistic Purification of Hannibal

The notion of forgiveness, as expounded through the discourses of theological and moral philosophy, is a sacrosanct act of severance - an ontological renewal through which individuals extricate themselves from past transgressions and recalibrate their moral and spiritual equilibrium. In the Christian paradigm, absolution is more than a juridical reprieve; it is an act of divine purgation, not merely pardoning sin but obliterating it, restoring innocence and severing its corrupting power. However, in Hannibal, this notion is deliberately perverted: forgiveness is not a liberation but an instrument of subjugation. Here, absolution transforms into an ouroboric rite - a macabre liturgy in which supplicants become ensnared within a necrotic lattice of control, culpability, and annihilation.

One aspect in which this perversion manifests is within the series’s rich visual and symbolic motifs. The sumptuous meals that Hannibal prepares are more than just indulgences of the flesh; they are sacraments suffused with an unholy grandeur. Such lavish repasts exist as malevolent doppelg��ngers of the Christian tradition of the Eucharist, meant to symbolise transubstantiation of Christ’s flesh into a vehicle of grace, Hannibal’s consumption by contrast, is a damnation - devouring rather than sanctifying, his victims desecrated in an unctuous theatre of aestheticised predation. Moreover, the recurring image of water furthers this inversion. Initially invoking the cleansing imagery of baptismal purification, water is rendered an agent of chaos. No cleansing flows from its depths, only a primal abyss, harkening back to the amniotic void. The act of submerging oneself in water, often shown as violent or disturbing, mutates into a harbinger of failed renewal. In this universe, salvation is not a promise of true spiritual redemption, but a bitter mirage that remains forever out of reach.

Nowhere is this corruption more evident than in the complex dynamics between Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham, and Abigail Hobbs. These relationships transcend simple character interplay, becoming a dialectical struggle for domination - a form of esoteric communication in which forgiveness is neither beatific nor emancipatory, only a talisman of domination. Love, by extension, is not an unblemished vessel of tenderness; rather, a festering wound aching with ruinous yearning. Encumbered by self-interest, mutual defilement, and the inexorable erosion of the self.

Will and Hannibal, though seemingly poised at opposite ends of the moral spectrum, perceive Abigail not as an autonomous individual but as a conceptual artifact. She is a spectral effigy of lost purity - an ersatz daughter for Will, and for Hannibal, a revenant for his beloved Mischa - a fulcrum upon which their competing theological visions pivot. The visual syntax of the series accentuates the dissonant and impossible nature of her position - she is placed in spaces of tension, at the margins of the frame or physically estranged from the protagonists, yet never truly outside of their gravitational pull. In this way, her existence is marked by the temporal stasis of purgatory: a suspended, interstitial space where she remains forever on the cusp of identity, never wholly belonging to either father figure, and yet, inextricably tied to both.

Christian eschatology heralds forgiveness as a conduit through which the soul is restored to its Edenic purity. Yet, Abigail is a soul exiled from such simplistic dualities, contesting this purity model. Neither wholly victim nor unrepentant perpetrator, she is caught between the inherited monstrosity of her father and conscious agency. Through an awareness of this fact, she seeks not purification, but survival. Will seeks to absolve her in Potage (S1E3), reflecting the previously outlined transactional view of absolution: “You’re not your father. You’re not the monster he wanted you to become.” Here, Will assumes the role of a Christ-like redeemer, his forgiveness appearing as a salvific benediction meant to deliver her from the taint of her father’s sins. However, this is a forgiveness steeped in self-deception, for Will, pardoning Abigail is not a divine absolution but a desperate invocation of lost agency, an illusory salve for his own complicity in the horrors that have shaped her existence. His forgiveness does not cleanse - it merely recontextualizes, a futile endeavour attempting to transmute guilt into grace. This aligns with Freud’s concept of repetition compulsion, wherein trauma is unconsciously reenacted in a doomed effort to master it. Will is no benevolent saviour; but a man entrapped in the recursive architecture of his own psyche, seeking in Abigail the scaffold upon which to reconstruct his fragmented self. Abigail, like Will, remains trapped in the moral ambiguity of her actions - a state of perpetual suspension denied both salvation and damnation. Will’s ultimate descent into annihilation, culminating in his sanguinary embrace with Hannibal in The Wrath of the Lamb (S3E13), is the apotheosis of this compulsion. His self-immolation is far from an act of transcendence, but an ecstatic obliteration - an offering of the self upon the altar of a love too corrosive to sustain anything but devastation. By embracing Hannibal and consummating his surrender to the abyss Will conflates destruction with agency.

Hannibal, in contrast, reframes Abigail’s trauma as an inheritance, her father’s sins are not burdens to be expunged, but rather emblems of a greater power. In Potage, he tells her, “You accepted who he was. You will always have that over Will. You already knew your father. He had to wonder.” Rather than offering liberation, Hannibal reshapes Abigail’s identity through his forgiveness, binding her to him, not as an act of grace but of possession. Unlike Will, who seeks to absolve Abigail of her past, Hannibal weaponizes it, turning it into the foundation for her rebirth under his guidance. In this respect Abigail, too, finds herself in the circuitry of repetition compulsion. Having been raised in a world where survival meant complicity, she may have found Hannibal's tutelage familiar. In helping stage her own death, she attempts to reclaim agency, denouncing emancipation in favour of continuity through submission to a structure she understands and now believes has the means to navigate, a fatalistic embrace of the cycle. Abigail’s transformation from victim to willing participant in Hannibal’s world marks her final, tragic rejection of Will’s version of redemption. She no longer seeks forgiveness in the traditional sense; she seeks something more elusive - her own place in a world devoid of clear moral absolutes.

Hannibal, however, is no supplicant. He does not yearn for forgiveness as a means of redemption; he demands it as an enthronement. His lament to Will, “I let you know me. See me. I gave you a rare gift, but you didn’t want it,” is not merely an elegy of rejection but an indictment of disobedience. For Hannibal’s desire is not purification but acceptance, and thus his transgressions are not aberrations but testaments to his divinity, earning exaltment. In this way, he is not simply a perversion of the Christ figure - he is a parodic Messiah, a devouring wolf clothed in the sheep's vestments. For Hannibal, forgiveness is not an act of grace but a mechanism of consumption: to forgive him is to surrender, to relinquish oneself utterly. Will, though a long faltering disciple, eventually succumbs to the ecstatic inevitability of this theology in Mizumono (S2E13). During which he allows himself to be gored in a "strange surrender," as Bryan Fuller describes it: "He allows the gutting. He almost feels as if he deserves it in light of what he’s done; he’s betrayed Hannibal." An oblation offered in penance for his own betrayal. This is not a fault in his forgiveness, but its consummation: an eschatological revelation in which he does not simply forgive Hannibal, but surrenders to the all-consuming sanctity of his doctrine.

Abigail’s final moments in Mizumono serve as the ultimate repudiation of Christian forgiveness. Her resurrection, a grotesque parody of divine rebirth, is devoid of redemptive meaning. She is not restored to life in a triumphant sense but merely to become a pawn in Hannibal’s grand tragedy. When Hannibal slits Abigail’s throat, it is not an act of wrath but the fulfilment of his twisted liturgy. He "saved" Abigail, in the sense that he let her live under his wing, but her existence was always contingent upon his will and in failing to become his ideal, she is excised with the same clinical elegance with which she was preserved. In Christian doctrine, failing to receive divine forgiveness results in eternal separation from God. Hannibal, as an almost godlike figure in his own narrative, enacts this separation with brutal finality. This slaughter consolidates the theological schema Hannibal wishes to impose upon his world, that there is no celestial amnesty as we understand it, no boundless agape through which the fallen may be redeemed - there is merely possession and excision. The very method of Abigail’s undoing, the languid incision across her throat, mimics the Christian iconography of the Paschal lamb, a sacrificial archetype of innocence. Though, unlike the sanctified oblation of Christ, Abigail is stripped of volition and thus redemptive teleology; not martyred but discarded, reduced to an ornamental casualty in Hannibal’s cathedral of ruin. As her body was cradled against the cavernous dark of her surroundings, the composition recalls the Pietà, yet absent of its sublimity. This is not the Madonna lamenting the body of a crucified Son, but a predatory deity relinquishing his broken creation with preordained savagery. Then, as the desecration is completed, Hannibal steps into the storm, allowing for the rain to baptise him in an additional blasphemous mimicry of penitential ablution. But this is no true purification, no soul is made luminous beneath the torrential downpour, it simply erases. A nihilistic effacement washing away all false pretences that both Will and Hannibal had married themselves to - that Abigail might yet be redeemed, that Hannibal might be anything but consuming.

In the wake of Abigail’s death, Will is left to contend with the futility of his forgiveness. His attempts to redeem her, to offer absolution were rendered impotent. Abigail had not only failed in being liberated but had the tragedy of her existence prolonged. Such profound inevitability led Will to become more amenable to Hannibal’s version of forgiveness, and ultimately submit himself to it fully. In the grand design of Hannibal, forgiveness does not sever the shackles of guilt - it tightens them, binding its recipients in the recursive waltz of moral contamination. In this exquisite distortion of Christian sacrament, lies the surest route of destruction.

#hannibal #hannibal lecter #hannigram #will graham #abigail hobbs

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scuttlingcrab · 2 months ago

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BoneDaddy prompt because I’m also suffering the brain rot!! Emmrich tending to a nasty slice on rooks ribs, tender kisses and then… well, who can say where it leads. But, you know. Nothing cures wounds like tender breathless make outs and orgasms, as they say.

Thank you so much for this prompt @keepingupwiththekardamomme! I took a few liberties with this one, hoping to save some of the smutty stuff for a later post, but this includes lots of sexual tension and wound tending after a near death battle with darkspawn. Just another day for the Veilguard. I hope you enjoy and please send me more!

(Also this was heavily inspired by this amazing post by @sailorsatina!)

Summary: Emmrich and Rook are fighting for their lives in the Hossberg Wetlands, barely escaping a sea of darkspawn. After saving Rook from the brink of death, they share an intimate moment discussing some of Rook's past scars and perhaps what the future may hold for them both.

Notes: A continuation of the last story, the Perfect Teacher.

You can find it on AO3 too.

BTW! I'm open to receiving any/all prompts on Emmrich, so please send away! xx

Old Wounds

(Image via oni-ino)

First came the explosions, the blistering blight erupting, the ground quaking from the deafening thunder of a horde of darkspawn emerging from pools of corruption. With them arrived the screams, the chaos, and the abject terror.

Emmrich Volkarin was haunted by the shrieks, the hair on his arms standing tall. If he had known any better, he would’ve listened to that sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, the one that was clawing at him from the inside, warning him to take flight. Flee you imbecile! Get as far away from that wretched growth as possible! Run or you’ll die here, you’ll die, is that what you desire? RUN!

He was accustomed to his fair share of horrors during his tenure in the Mourn Watch, most of which precipitated from the transgressions of mortalkind. Even so, nothing could have prepared him for the atrocities that were Ghilan'nain’s creations.

These animated sacks of flesh, haphazardly thrown together from a hodgepodge of heads and torsos and limbs, were ghastly abominations. It left a sour taste in Emmrich’s mouth at the notion of how they came to be, the lack of respect for each vessel that once harvested souls of the living - it went against everything he stood for as a necromancer. And yet, there was nothing he could do to help these creatures but obliterate them. Over and over and over again. Stuck in this perpetual state of fear, of helplessness.

These darkspawn had an uncanny intelligence, going far beyond being mere puppets of Ghilan'nain. When Emmrich got too close, fighting toe-to-toe, more times than he’d like to admit in the recent days; their deep-set eyes, glazed over yet frenzied, glowered at him. As if they were searching his very essence for something to claim, to infect, to turn him into one of their own. Some of them knew how to counter his attacks, to dodge his necrotic spells. They were learning, adapting, at an alarming rate. And they’d do anything to rip him apart. Emmrich gulped, an ache in the back of his throat as he tried to soothe these blasted nerves.

Rook, Davrin, and Emmrich were in the Hossberg Wetlands, sent out by the Grey Wardens to investigate some recent disturbances in the area. They had followed a trail of blighted roots to a cliffside, discovering a massive boil sitting in the centre of some ruins. It pulsed irregularly like a festering wound, the rotten stench making it increasingly difficult for Emmrich to keep his breakfast down. As soon as they approached it, the air changed, growing heavier as darkspawn sprouted into existence, more boils forming around it. The group were separated instantly in an attempt to eradicate the increasing number, to keep the blight at bay.

Rook and Davrin were at opposite sides of the ruins as they continued to repel their own swarms. Emmrich couldn’t tell if their work had any impact at all on the blight, how long they had been fighting for, or if they were about to be overtaken … swallowed whole by the corruption…. He had never seen so many darkspawn in one place, and they were all charging towards him. Him! A professor with no inclination of battle tactics, whose only proper tussle was once punching a fellow colleague, twice, for accusing him of plagiarism. And he would’ve punched him thrice more if given the chance…

With each burst of necrotic energy, Emmrich’s limbs grew heavier, his fingers twitching in an effort to keep his staff held high. Behind, to the right, up above, and back behind, to the left, the right, the left ! Everywhere! His pulse raced, the sound of his heartbeat thrashed in his ears, drowning out the howls of the darkspawn. No rest, no moment to breathe. Go. Move. Dodge. Back! He knew he was exerting himself too fast, his mana depleting quicker than a sinking boat without a hull - but it was impossible to do otherwise if he wanted to survive.

The darkspawn pushed in closer, manically swinging their weapons, ripping off parts of themselves to throw at Emmrich like spears. He took a step forward, his foot wobbling as a rush of wind slapped his cheeks, barely ducking in time to miss another clawed attack. One more step to the side and he was teetering, spots of black peppering his vision.

“Assan, NOW!” Davrin boomed, his voice cutting through the bedlam.

Assan shrieked in response, the griffon diving from above and scorching the earth in front of Emmrich, incinerating the darkspawn that had been breathing down his neck. He fell to his knees, panting, cold sweat building at the crook of his neck, as he stared at the blackened ground in front of him.

Oh thank the…

The ground vibrated again. Thump. Thump. Thump! Each tremor made its way through Emmrich’s fingers as he gripped the dirt, travelling to the very tip of his skull, his teeth rattling. Thump. Thump. Thump!

By the time Emmrich could pull his head up, the dread was already pooling in his chest, his body locking in response. An ogre bolted in his direction, parting the darkspawn that remained with each stride as it picked up momentum.

Was it Rook’s shouting or the guttural howls of the ogre that came first? Emmrich couldn’t recall. He inhaled sharply, bracing himself for the incoming blow.

Rook slid in front of Emmrich just as the ogre’s club swung at him. She released a pulsing surge of magic to shield the attack, a purple orb hugging them both. Its club met the shield, and it somehow held, ripples from its impact coursing through the mana.

Swipe, after swipe, after swipe. The ogre was relentless. It hammered down on them, each blow weakening the shield, leaving it closer to splintering. Rook tensed, gritting her teeth as she concentrated on keeping it together. Emmrich squeezed Rook’s shoulder, hoping to pass along any energy he had left…

From the corner of his eye, he spotted a small crack forming underneath the ogre. It grew, quickly travelling to the edge of the cliff. More fissures formed, each one bigger than the last, until the ground crumbled. Emmrich didn’t have time to gasp, to scream, let alone think of any last regrets, before the earth fell away. The ogre disappeared into the darkness below them, Rook slipping from his grasp as they both joined it… falling…. falling… falling…

***

“Emmrich. EMMRICH!”

Emmrich’s lungs burned as he gasped for air, liquid spewing from his mouth. His eyes shot open, blurry, stinging. He pulled at his armour, struggling to free himself from the confines of his clothing. Too much! The fabric felt foreign against his skin, weighing him down, the pressure mounting, mounting, mounting!

The world soon came back into focus and his breathing once again slowed. A shadow loomed over him, their shape, their features becoming more distinct with each inhale, each exhale… It was Rook. Rook. She knelt beside him, one hand pressed against his chest, the other cradling his head.

“Thank fuck.” She blurted, staggering to her feet.

Emmrich rose, leaning on his elbows, coughing up any remaining fluids. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in… It was wet. Everything was… clammy. Why was he drenched? He blinked again, looking down at his hands. They were submerged in shallow murky water, along with the rest of his body. He was sitting in a pool of it, one of the countless marshes in the Hossberg Wetlands.

“I… Rook, I’m in your debt.”

“You can thank me later, Emmrich. We’re not out of this yet.” Rook extended her right hand, eyes fraught as she scanned their surroundings. “Can you get up?”

He paused, eyebrow raised in question before grabbing hold of her hand. In one swift motion, she hoisted him to his feet. Emmrich reeled slightly as he found his bearings. Rook grimaced at the movement, clutching both fists as she turned, preparing to march the opposite way.

“It seems so, yes. But are you alright? Let me–”

“We need to go. More are coming.”

“More?”

As if on cue, high pitched screeches came from behind them. Emmrich jerked his head back, eyes widening as the recollections of the past few hours resurfaced, jolting his memory of the severity of their predicament, the consequences if they failed, the darkspawn…

The cliff where they had fallen from was ablaze, the fire roaring, devouring the blight as the flames licked high into the sky. A flood of darkspawn ran down the precipice, falling on top of each other as they fled, giving the illusion that the mound was increasing in size. Assan circled above, every so often diving at the waves of darkspawn and calling out to his master.

“Davrin…” Emmrich began, “Is he…”

“Alive. Yes. He’s finishing the job. He’ll be able to find us when it’s safe… I hope.”

Emmrich nodded, there was no time to doubt. The sounds of the approaching darkspawn grew louder with every second wasted and Emmrich loathed the thought of having to fight any more in his state. They started running, sloshing through the marshes. His bones ached, a stabbing pain spreading from his ribs, worsening with each stomp. He kept his eyes on Rook as they continued, her movements stiff, posture slouched, dissimilar from her usual gait. She was wounded, but he couldn’t discern the severeness, not while they were still in danger.

Everything around them blended into one as they ventured deeper into unfamiliar territory. One decaying tree after another, passing identical ruins, and bog after bog after bog… it was growing increasingly difficult for Emmrich to make sense of their surroundings. Any signs of the darkspawn that had been chasing them vanished however, silence enveloping them save for their own ragged breaths, as it all became a distant thought. A nightmare.

“Do you have any idea where we’re going?” Emmrich asked eventually.

Rook didn’t respond. Strange. She was always so quick to retort in that humorous way of hers, and since their impromptu dance a few nights back, she had offered him more banter than usual, riddled with innuendos; an added layer compared to how she spoke to the other companions. Instead Rook swayed, clutching her right side as her movements slowed. She stumbled, falling onto the closest tree to keep her upright.

“Rook!”

She raised her hand in protest, shaking away any kind of help from Emmrich as he approached.

“I’m fine. I…need, I know how…”

Rook slumped forward and Emmrich caught her before she fell to the ground. He helped her back to her feet, breath catching at her disposition. Rook’s face was pallid, lips tight. She winced with each gulp of air, her eyes flickering as she struggled to keep them open. Her short plum coloured hair was knotted around her forehead, now near burgundy from the blood and dirt that caked it.

“Have to… can’t…if we…”

Rook pulled herself out of Emmrich’s arms in an attempt to walk on her own volition. She immediately keeled over, crumpling into herself as she cried out in pain.

“No more heroics, please.” Emmrich whispered, carefully picking her back up. “We must seek refuge, it will give me an opportunity to tend to your wounds.”

Rook looked up at Emmrich, head lolling, eyes glassy as she laughed at his words.

“Oh do be serious, Rook. You’re–”

An eerie, primal howl filled the air, unlike any of the other sounds that came from the darkspawn he had encountered so far. He instinctively held Rook closer, not wanting to let her go, as his mind theorised a thousand variations of monsters, ghouls, or other atrocities that were likely coming in his direction.

“Run…” Rook whispered.

“I… yes. We run! Of course. Hold on, Rook.”

Emmrich cleared his throat, taking a deep breath as he steadied his core. He lifted Rook, carrying her in his arms as he darted forward. It was sloppy but they were moving, as fast as he could manage. The pain in his chest was unbearable, the world around him uneven.

“You need to h…”

“Hush.” He responded, out of breath, “save your energy.”

Emmrich rushed towards an approaching rock face, nearly slipping when his boots met the muddy rocks. His eyes searched for any sign of cover, a hide-out, a cave, or possibly… Yes! A cabin! A small dilapidated cabin sat atop a small hill, nestled against the base of another crag. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do. He sprinted towards the structure, and within a matter of seconds was inside it. The cabin was small and most importantly, vacant - of mortals and monsters. A single bed sat against the far wall, with a tiny stove and kitchen near the door.

He delicately placed Rook down on the bed before barricading the door behind him, finding whatever furniture and abandoned items he could to shove against the entrance. Much good that would do, really, with an enormous hole in the ceiling and a single gust of wind likely to knock down the entire structure… but it gave him peace of mind.

A long moment passed, Emmrich waiting on bated breath for another noise, for something to burst through the door… but it was silent. Emmrich leaned against the wall, letting out a long pained sigh as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. His chest throbbed, he could feel his sides swelling. Likely a broken rib, or two.

“Where…” Rook whimpered, her words barely audible, but Emmrich spun around, rushing towards her.

“I’m here. We’re safe. We’re safe. For now.”

Rook’s eyes were closed, but she smiled faintly. Her skin was paler than Emmrich would’ve liked to see on someone who was still living. She was shivering, sweat collecting on her forehead. He placed his hand on her cheek and recoiled.

“You’re boiling, Rook. This is… far worse than I thought. I will need to act fast. Do you trust me?”

She only groaned in response, eyes still shut.

“I will take that as a yes. Now brace yourself Rook, and my sincere apologies for any pain this may cause.”

Emmrich lightly rearranged Rook’s body so she was lying straight on the bed. He searched her person until he found a standard dagger, unsheathing it.

“I’m going to take off your armour, which may cause some discomfort.”

Emmrich used the dagger to slice through Rook’s leathers. He peeled away the first two layers of protection, and what garments remained underneath were drenched in blood. He cut the tunic in two until her top half was bare before him. Rook writhed in pain with every slight movement, digging her nails into the bed as he worked.

“Oh, my dear Rook…” Emmrich shook his head as he discovered a gaping wound on her side, spanning from her underarm to the middle of her ribcage. “With my current limitations, my healing won't be the strongest. But rest assured, I will do my best.”

Emmrich hovered his hand above the wound. He moved his fingers in slow circles as if stirring a cup of tea. He closed his eyes, searching deep within himself for an ounce of mana left, anything that he can use, hoping, praying to whoever might be listening, that there was some power not expended.

His fingertips glowed as flows of green magic poured into Rook’s side, the wound gradually closing, turning into a long raised scar as the skin reformed. Without notice, Emmrich’s focus faltered, cutting him off from the source. He collapsed on his knees, clinging to the bed.

Rook opened her eyes, colour steadily returning to her cheeks as the remnants of his mana coursed through her body. She turned to him, brows furrowed in concern.

“Emmrich…”

“It seems I’ve… I’ve exhausted myself. I did what I could, but you must rest.”

“You’re mad. You should’ve sorted your injuries first.”

“Nonsense. Mine are inconsequential.” Emmrich lifted himself so he was now sitting on the corner of the bed, running his hands through his hair to regain any semblance of balance. “It's been... decades since I've healed a wound with that intensity. I’m afraid I might’ve left a scar.”

He glanced at her side, his cheeks burning at the realisation her upper body was still exposed.

“Oh, how dreadfully rude of me, here…”

Emmrich quickly gathered some of the discarded bedsheets and handed them to Rook, bowing his head in an apology.

“It’s OK.” Rook murmured, slowly sitting up. She took the sheets from Emmrich, loosely covering the front of her chest. She flinched, her side still tender, as she looked down at the freshly healed wound.

“I don’t mind. The uh, scars, I mean.”

“It will make quite the addition to your collection.”

“Oh, yeah. Hard not to notice them all, I guess. I’ve got so many.”

“I find them beautiful, Rook. Our flaws hold such unique truths. Stories of victories, resilience, pain, redemption. Even the most minute blemish can tell us so much about how a person lived.”

Rook smiled, placing a hand on his forearm.

“Usually I get annoyed with fancy talk, but there’s something about you that… I just… well, I could listen to you yap all day about scars, or anything else for that matter.”

“Ah, speaking of which, may I inspect the wound, there’s something I–”

Rook’s words, although they weren’t as scandalous as some of the previous things she’s whispered in passing, hit him like a boulder. He paused, back straightening as he looked at her. Her smile had grown, cheeks flushed. He tilted his head in hesitation, checking her eyes on the off chance she had also obtained a head injury.

Emmrich cleared his throat, his mouth was dry. Again. An annoyance, truly, as he found this a constant side effect whenever he was alone in her presence.

“Your wound, Rook. May I?” He gestured to her side.

Rook nodded.

Emmrich ran his fingers over the scar, ensuring there were no mishaps, no chance of it ever reopening. He hummed in approval, quite satisfied with his work, despite the shoddy circumstances. And yet, when he was done, his fingers lingered on Rook’s skin. He couldn’t bring himself to remove them, instead he slid his digits down her side, tracing them along every scar he could find.

“Your scars…” Emmrich whispered, “may I see more?”

Rook shivered under Emmrich’s touch, but she turned her back towards him, showcasing the vast expanse of scars and blemishes that covered her muscular frame. Emmrich suppressed a gasp, his fingers trembling as they followed the different shapes and textures, leading down to her tailbone.

“How exquisite…” he whispered, “like a painting. A work of art.”

His eyes greedily absorbed the scars, trying to savor the moment, capture the intricate details on every aged wound, the variations in colour, the raised lesions, recognising the types of weapons, spells, that might’ve caused them.

“What a life you’ve led, Rook. I've only a few scars, due to… more unfortunate occurrences, and no doubt less grandiose from all you’ve experienced outside the Mourn Watch.”

He leaned in closer, to inspect them, his body temperature rising along with the temptation to kiss her… to replace his fingers with his lips…

Emmrich stiffened, shaking his head in shame as if he had committed some heinous crime. But it might as well have been, letting these emotions get the best of him, under such damning events. This was not the time, nor the place. And this was absolutely NOT how he conducted himself! You dolt! What kind of gentleman would he be if he succumbed to his lust, these emotions… he’d be no better off than some of his former lovers.

As he attempted to remove any trace of vulgar thoughts from his mind, one scar in particular caught his eye. A pale circular lesion that covered nearly her entire left shoulder blade. He traced circles around it, massaging the skin, as Rook melted into his hands.

“Tell me, how did you get this one?”

“Um… that one… oh! A bar fight, ha. Hanged Man in Kirkwall. Went there with Varric once to follow a lead apparently, but between us, I think it was for a book signing.”

“Book signing?”

“Mmm. Remind me, Emmrich… to show you some of his books when we’re back at the Lighthouse. You might be shocked to know what Varric gets up to in his free time.”

“Ah,” Emmrich hesitated, removing his hands from her back. “Did you want to talk about Var–”

Rook spun around, leaning towards Emmrich in an attempt to kiss him. Their lips almost touched but she winced at the last possible moment, holding onto her side as she collapsed on top of him. Emmrich nearly fell off the bed, cringing from the embarrassment and pain from his ribs.

“Rook.”

“Too much?” She steadied herself, looking back at him sheepishly.

Emmrich stared back at her, narrowing his eyes in disappointment, but ended up softening under her gaze all the same.

“I’ve thought about this moment…” Emmrich turned away, sighing dramatically.

“Aw, what? You mean tending to my wounds? I knew you were charming, but this is a whole new level.”

“No. No not that. I’d enjoy nothing more than to… to share this moment with you further, Rook, but my dear, you’re still wounded, you’ve lost blood… It would be unbecoming. And until we’ve returned to the Lighthouse your safety is my greatest priority.”

Rook giggled, leaning in again, but Emmrich held her steady.

“Later, Rook. When you’ve fully recovered, I’d love to broach the topic again. Properly.”

“Sorry. Was worth a shot… I guess I ruined the mood, huh?”

“Well, you could say…”

Their moment ended abruptly when another animalistic shriek cut through the air. But this one was familiar, aggravating even, the same one Emmrich had heard repeatedly since joining Rook and her team.

“Could that…”

“Assan!” Rook screamed.

The griffon’s call came again, its sound getting closer. Emmrich jumped to his feet, rushing towards the door.

“I for one am looking forward to getting out of here and having a nice, warm bath.”

“Emmrich?”

As he turned towards Rook, the moonlight filtered in through the broken roof, evelopping her in a soft glittering spotlight. She was still bloodied and had a mere bed sheet draped around her bruised and battered body. Even so, the sight of her caused his pulse to start racing again, a shiver coursing through his soul. There was a shifting feeling in his heart, a pang, that worsened the longer he looked at her. Rook. The most magnificent woman he had ever seen.

“Thank you.”

Emmrich returned her acknowledgement with a bow.

“We’re even now, I suppose.” Emmrich said, beginning to unassemble his makeshift barricade. “Until the next time one of us gets into trouble.”

“Well then, I’ll just have to bring you on every excursion from now on.”

“I’d quite like that, actually.”

“Good.”

Emmrich caught himself smirking, not so much at the notion of endangering himself continuously, but at the prospects of the future, and their budding relationship.

#emmrich dragon age #emmrich x rook #emmrich the necromancer #emmrich volkarin #da4 emmrich #dragon age emmrich #dav #dragon age veilguard #dav fanfic #emmrich #emmrook #datv #assan the griffon #davrin x emmrich #darkspawn

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xxxsharpcheddar · 1 month ago

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I've noticed something about people who've experienced great pain in their lives.

They have two options.

They let their suffering continue. They pretend to be healed, but it's only surface level. They use their circumstances as an excuse for their behavior. They become the perpetrators. They become the villains. Their pain was too great, their suffering too pungent. The damage done to them permeates every meaningful relationship they hope to have. They wonder why they're so broken, why they don't deserve happiness. They're stuck in the cycle of manipulation and masquerading. "What did I do to deserve this?" Another failed relationship. Another disappointment. And another...and another....

Or...they do heal. They vow to never put another human being through the pain they've been through. They work on cutting away the necrotic tissue instead of letting it fester. They develop empathy and compassion. But, they have to set boundaries, because the villains take advantage of that. They have to protect themselves. They must, because no one has in the past. They vow to give themselves the love and kindness that was withheld from them. They vow to share that same grace with the world, because it can be a terrible, awful place. But they also know it can be beautiful, wondrous.

Oh, the dichotomy of humankind, the contrariety of the healed and unhealed.

I hope you choose to heal.

#ignore me

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necrotic-nephilim · 6 months ago

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i personally have very complicated feelings on the Gotham Knights video game and the routes it takes with characterization. i think it has a charm to it and it goes in an interesting direction with everyone (especially within the confides of the plot of the game) but it does have certain moments that veer painfully fanon for me. (such as: the dialogue where Tim drinks too much coffee) it's an interesting story for what it is but i don't view it comics-based for characterization and therefore don't care to interact with it much for like. fanfic purposes.

that *said* though. i do have to give the game some kind of credit for giving one of the top five JayTim moments that lives rent free in my mind. every since i played the game, the cutscene lives in my mind daily. it's the specific cutscene where Jason and Tim are arguing about whether or not Jason's non-lethal bullets are too dangerous for the field, and the argument leads to TIm *standing in front of the target* Jason is shooting and telling Jason to shoot him. it lives rent free for me. i never stop thinking about this.

the absolute certainty Tim has that he is in no danger standing in front of Jason, who has a loaded gun pointed at his face. the way Jason *hesitates* for just a moment before lowering the gun. he thinks about it for just a second. Gotham Knights JayTim seem to get along very well and can rely on each other, but Jason still clearly holds a bitterness about his death and Tim that flickers through in some lines of dialogue under the guise of jokes. especially since this game deals *heavily* with concepts of Pit Madness causing an altered state of consciousness, i think it's believable that occasionally, Jason fights the urge to fight and hurt Tim for the feeling of being replaced.

i like their tension so much in this canon. they get along but you can *tell* Tim is afraid of addressing Jason's trauma or even addressing Jason head-on, and Jason leans into spooking Tim about it. which isn't very comics feeling in their dynamic, but it is an interesting way to place their dynamic if you're playing with a more timid Tim who's newer to the role of Robin. (which he seems to be in-game) he really doesn't want to offend Jason, or worse, piss him off. but he'll still face Jason head on for things like this, while completely aware of what Jason could be capable of.

and Jason seems very protective of Tim and respecting Tim as a Robin in typical Jason fashion. if Tim pushes, Jason *will* relent. he knows this is a kid who's proved himself and should be treated with equal respect, sometimes even more than Dick and Babs do in-game.

so for all that to culminate in Tim stepping in front of Jason's loaded gun that he *knows* is on the edge of being too dangerous, just to force Jason to listen? it's the most unhinged way Tim could've gotten his point across in this scene. he was literally daring Jason to hurt him and playing with a very dangerous fire. but he did it anyway bc he believed he could make Jason heel just at the thought of hurting Tim. and he was *right*. they're gay and i'm feral ty.

#necrotic festerings #jaytim #tim drake x jason todd #gotham knights game #i hate their character designs for what it's work #BUT the size difference. jesus.#anyway i could write a gotham knights jaytim fic i think #i'm *very* unsure the ages intended for these characters #bc tim certainly seems to be intended to be a teenager #whereas jason seems in his 20s so i think it's a gap that's bigger than the comics #which also makes it fun. usually you don't get a ton of age gap with jaytim they're just under 2 yrs apart #but this tim is definitely still a teen and jason is an adult.#and seems to enjoy being a bad influence on tim in the game so #there's such good fodder for some dead dove shit #anyway the funny thing is i like this game #you don't want to know how many hours i've played it #it's just best treated as a seperate iteration of the characters than being an adaptation of anything #esp since they're *so* vague and waffly on jason's backstory #as well as not giving a ton of info on how tim became robin #you assume it's similar to comics but some details leave gaps in the timeline. so idek #probably not somehting meant to be thought about too hard.#but i'm an overthinker at heart.#my point is they're gay. this is gay. it baffles me ppl don't look at this as the gayest shit alive.#tim daring jason to shoot him is the most tim drake thing in this game #well that and tim wanting to make a talon in the belfrey.#also NO one say a word about the gif quality /lh #i had to make it MYSELF #i do everything around here to show off their gay shit #sorta tempted to just make a masterpost of “every gay ass interaction between jaytim”#bc i've seen some clips from the titans show

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punderdome · 8 months ago

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The Fine Print: Chapter 8

Summary: Tav seeks out a set of Infernal translations from the Archivist.

[AO3]

Rating: 18+, Minors DNI

Chapter 8: The Archivist

Tav woke alone in the Archduke’s chambers. She was stiff and slightly sore but knew what she had to do. Raphael enjoyed it when she spoke Infernal to him. How much? What could she convince him to do using the Devil’s tongue? What would the devil's tongue do if she spoke the Devil's tongue?

First, she needed a competent translator that wasn’t her husband or his incubus. Since she had negotiated for the ability to speak to the staff, the Archivist was her best bet for a translator, but he had never even looked at her before. There was no way he was going to translate filthy lines unless she managed to gain some rapport with him.

Tav visited the archives after breakfast.

The Archivist was pouring over a tome and making notes on the side about a pair of gauntlets sitting on his desk. They hummed with Weave and required a thorough characterization.

“Good morning,” Tav greeted warmly. For the first time, the Archivist looked up at her and caught her gaze. He seemed displeased by the interruption but completely unwilling to express it to the Master’s wife.

“How may I assist you, my Lady?” he asked patiently.

“What is your name? I’m Tav - Tavara,” she corrected, unsure if he would ever consider using her name or if titles were all she was going to be given.

“Kilzire Ozvius, Master Archivist of the House of Hope,” he returned the gesture. “Now, what can I help you with, Lady Tav?”

“I am trying to learn proper Devilish Infernal, can you help me with a few translations?” Tav held out the Infernal copy of the book on Asmodeus that he loaned to her a few days prior. The Tiefling considered her question for a brief moment before he nodded. He gestured for her to show him the passages she was struggling with.

“I have been struggling with this passage that describes Asmodeus’s true serpentine form. I initially read this as ‘wounds dripping of acid black blood’ but the Common tongue version says ‘a series of never-healing wounds that exude blood blackened by sin and torment.’ Can you help me understand the difference?” Tav requested.

He took a second to understand her request before going through the section rune by rune. “I see,” there was a look of slight hesitation in his eyes. “So you’ve never studied Devilish Infernal before?”

Tav swallowed. “No. My lack of study is what led me here.” Kilzire had a look in his eye that twinged with embarrassment, though whether it was from her husband’s view on Tiefling Infernal or some sort of forbidden knowledge of how she actually became the Archduchess, she couldn’t say.

He pointed out the runes that described the blood of Asmodeus. “This word means never-healing wound in Infernal, but in Tiefling Infernal it means just wound.” He gave her a different word in Infernal to indicate that the wound could be healed, then added a suffix to indicate that the wound was in the process of being healed.

“May I have some parchment and a quill, I would like to take notes.” She wrote down the new terminology along with other examples of various types of wounds that may or may not be healable, in the process of being healed, mostly healed, failed to be healed, festering, fouled, necrotic, infected, and filled with devilish black pus. He went through and explained the subtle differences between them, often with only a single letter difference or a change in inflection or tone marked by the slight changes in angle of the letters.

“In spoken Infernal, your original reading would be sufficient to communicate most of your ideas, but written down or in a contract, the translation provided would be the correct way to interpret the writing.” Kilzire walked out from behind his desk and into the stacks. He returned with a relatively thin book bound in brown leather.

“Wound Treatments for the Front Line of the Blood War?” Tav asked as she read the title on the cover.

“Should you wish to practice your new knowledge,” Kilzire explained briefly.

Tav realized how much of his time she had used, and she only asked for clarification on a single word. “Thank you, Kilzire.” She collected the two books and her notes and returned to her room.

She lay the books on her table. She had an eternity to learn to properly read the works in front of her. It was the only way she was going to be able to correct her mistakes.

That evening, Tav was summoned to dinner with her husband in the dining hall.

The table was set with entirely too much food for the two of them to eat but nowhere nearly as lavish as the feasts for their first days of marriage. She stood alone in the dining hall to wait for Raphael. He came from behind her, probably having relocated from his study.

“Dear husband, how was your day?” Tav started the pleasantries. She took an offered elbow, and they sat together at the dining table.

“Quite challenging, I’m afraid,” Raphael responded, starting to serve himself a large portion of some sort of dark meat that dripped black juices as he cut into it. Tav declined to serve herself from that platter.

“With contracts?” Tav probed. She took a buttery roll from the breadbasket and noticed an unappetizing yet familiar meat stew lurking behind it. A platter of whole roasted fish on the table seemed like a safe choice.

“I was repairing the Orb of Karsus,” as he spoke of the artifact, Tav could sense his frustration as his knife cut deeper and more firmly into the flesh in front of him.

“I see, I’m sure it will be done soon enough,” Tav offered politely. “Whenever it is ready, I’m curious to see it.”

Raphael chuckled slightly. “How did it feel when it was within you?” he asked, taking a sip of wine.

Tav cocked her head slightly, startled by his question. “I didn’t know that it was there, but for me I guess it felt more like an ache.” She brushed her fingertips over the scales on her sternum. “Like my stomach was upset because I consumed too much whiskey or that sensation when you poke at a bruise.”

“Such an adept description, I felt a similar sensation upon testing it. I shall have it complete soon, and then I will show you its dark beauty.”

When they finished eating, Tav took Raphael’s offered elbow and they strolled through the corridors together. Tav pulled him gently towards the balcony that they had fucked on the day prior. He chuckled and raised an eyebrow.

“Again?” Raphael teased.

“I didn’t really get to look at the horizon last time, as I was preoccupied,” Tav teased back. She smirked at his radiating smugness. She paused and gave a short chuckle. “And yes, that position did feel very good,” she added, trying to play coy. “Perhaps we should do that again,” she suggested with a smile. The growl in Raphael’s chest was almost imperceptible.

Tav gazed over the reddish horizon at the low, inhospitable rocky mountains. The land was jagged and barren, it was hard to believe that this was the site of so much conquering and conflict. This was the place her dear husband wanted to claim. This was the place she would eternally call home.

Raphael offered her a hand to lead her back to their chambers. Tav was lost in thought as they headed back to his bedchamber for the evening. They walked together in silence, her hand wrapped around his arm at the elbow.

She was starting to observe how Raphael took her contact. The Infernal flirting was hot and exciting. Direct requests were met with more challenges and demands. When he fingered her it was an ‘indulgence.’

When they entered his bedchamber, Raphael wasted no time undressing her as soon as the latch clicked shut.

“Why don’t we take our time?” Tav suggested as Raphael slid her smallclothes down her thighs. “We can relax and savor it.” Her suggestion gave him a slight pause. Now that she was bare, he lowered his mouth to hers and started to kiss her softly and slowly.

Tav took her time exploring him over his clothes. She was hoping that he would find the experience enjoyable enough to reciprocate.

“Come,” Tav bade him, grabbing his hand and pulling him to the bed. She motioned for him to lay down, but he stayed standing. Alright, standing it would be.

Tav circled around to his back. She let her hands roam softly over the Infernal ridges hidden by his doublet. She gently ran her hands through the hair at the back of his neck. She stroked the skin of his wings gently, feeling the softness of the greater membrane and gently contrasting it to the firm leathery skin that covered the bones and muscles beneath. She wrapped her arms around him from behind and felt a deep, contented hum emanate from his chest.

Raphael sighed slowly, as Tav started undressing him. She undid every button on his doublet slowly, and removed it from his body. She unlaced his undershirt, tracing over his chest with her hands lightly, trying to tease him, and a quick tension in his breath indicated it was working. He pulled the undershirt off over his head and discarded it.

Tav rested her cheek against his chest as she started to trace the hem of the waistband of his pants with her fingertips, eliciting a breathy growl from her devilish husband. She unlaced his pants and slid them off, leaving both of them bare.

She met her husband’s gaze. He was eager and hungry, with an erection to support that assessment. Her hands gripped his shaft and gave a few eager pumps, and deep groans emanated from his Infernal chest.

Tav took his hands and placed them over her breasts, encouraging him to touch. She grabbed one of his hands and moved it to her ass, encouraging him to squeeze. She moved the hand that was groping her ass between her legs, encouraging him to stroke. She moaned into the sensation of Raphael pleasuring her.

Within the next ten seconds, Raphael had decided foreplay was done, and Tav was deposited on the bed for the evening’s activities.

***

Tav visited the archive the next morning. She was prepared with the first test of what Kilzare was willing to translate for her, and it was prudent to start with something benign. The Archivist was in the process of cataloging old tomes.

“Good morning, Kilzare,” she greeted warmly.

“Good morning, Lady Tav. Did you need something? More reading materials perhaps?”

“You know well enough that I am trying to learn Devilish Infernal, can you help me with a phrase?”

“Why of course, I speak all forms fluently,” he asserted gently with a smile.

“Can you teach me to say ‘I want you to kiss me all night’?” Tav requested.

He laughed and gave a bright smile. “For the Master of the House, I presume. I’m sure he will respond well to your gesture of romance.” He spoke the words in Devilish Infernal, and Tav took detailed notes, documenting the word differences between the translation she anticipated and the one she was presented with. “Should you require additional reading materials or inspiration, that section contains poetry and there is a section in the back for romantic classics of both Faerun and the Nine Hells of Baator.” Tav smiled at him sweetly.

She pointed out a section of his translation. “And this word, how does it mean ‘all night?’” she asked for clarification repeating the confusing part of the sentence.

“Without the suffix, it means ‘at nighttime’ but with the suffix it means ‘for all nighttime.' As you can gather, that doesn’t get much use here in Avernus.” Tav laughed, nodding at the clarification.

“Thank you, Kilzare.”

Tav smiled to herself as she walked the corridors of the House of Hope. The Archivist had been willing to translate romantic lines, so there was a chance he might be willing to assist her with a more carnal set of translations. Still, this evening would be a small test on how willing Raphael was willing to follow verbal instructions or requests before he lost patience and claimed his pleasure.

***

The test of Raphael’s patience and interest had not gone well. Tav whispered in Raphael’s ear, “I want to kiss you all night,” in a voice as seductive as she could make the harsh language sound. He grinned and was highly amenable to a passionate make out session on the settee, for a while at least.

His control over himself for quite some time, and he even managed some light groping while keeping his composure. Before long, he had dumped her on the bed and was quickly unlacing her corset. His mouth was still on hers, locked in a deep kiss and a low groan emanating from his throat. Then, they fucked. Twice.

Raphael lay wrapped around her, running his claws through her curls. “My love,” he whispered in her ear before they fell asleep.

The next morning, Raphael had left to finalize contracts in his study, leaving Tav free for the day to visit the archive at her leisure. Maybe a more seductive statement would lead to a better outcome.

Tav walked into the archive, and saw Kilzire taking copious notes on a scroll over something he had been reading. He gave a slight smile as she approached.

“Good morning, Lady Tav, how may I assist you?”

“I need a Devilish Infernal translation of something. Can you help me smooth out the language?”

“Why yes, of course. Whatever do you need?”

“I need you to teach me to say ‘I want you to trace my entire body with your tongue, ” Tav explained.

Any warmth that had been in his guise or his voice immediately vanished. “You must be joking.”

“Not in the slightest.”

“You realize that there is an entire section dedicated to erotica right over there! ” He pointed wildly at a back corner. She would have to investigate it later.

She steadied her emotions. “Will you help me or not?”

“Yes,” he bit back, rubbing his temples in an act of self soothing. He gave her the correct translation and slumped over his desk.

“Thank you,” Tav said quietly as she left the archive. Kilzare irritably waved her away with the back of his hand.

After dinner that evening, Raphael eagerly took her back to their bedroom to continue celebrating their honeymoon.

Tav whispered the Infernal line to Raphael telling him how she wanted him to trace her entire body with his tongue, and he immediately leapt at the opportunity. He was attentive and eager, holding, kneading, stroking and licking. They both gave warm moans of arousal as he traced each of her nipples slowly. He just couldn’t make it any lower than that. As soon as his tongue finished tracing both breasts, it was time for sex. He just couldn’t wait any longer and was eager to be pleasured.

Tav finished herself off that night while Raphael was asleep, curled tightly around her.

She would have to think of other things much filthier to compel her husband to follow her instructions in his bedchamber.

***

After a tenday of honeymoon beddings, the appropriate number of nara root tea doses, and Kilzare’s flustered breakdowns, Tav sat frustrated at her vanity in her room, preparing to meet her Lord husband for dinner.

He wanted her every day, and usually twice. He had never once given her an orgasm. The times she was close to coming when they fucked, he finished too quickly for her to reach that peak. He didn’t like it when she touched herself, and he always swatted her fingers away from her clit when she stroked herself. It was like he was jealous that her hands could give her pleasure without him being involved.

She couldn’t just ask Raphael to eat her out. Everything with him was a negotiation. If she asked him to pleasure her with his mouth, he definitely would demand she did the same to him in return. He wouldn’t even finger her to orgasm, and there was no chance she was going to suck his cock if he wouldn’t put in the minimum amount of effort when they fucked.

Tav wasn’t sure the Infernal seduction phrases were working on her husband. They seemed to only make him more eager to discontinue foreplay and move straight into fucking.

There was a knock at her door. “My Lady, the Master of the House has requested you join him for dinner,” a maid relayed through the door.

“Very well,” Tav responded through the closed door. She donned a red dress and the silver bracelet Raphael gifted her as a wedding gift. He had enjoyed fucking her several times while she was wearing only the bracelet.

Raphael stood waiting in the dining hall. “My beloved,” he greeted her magnanimously, grinning ear to ear.

Tav smiled nervously. “You seem delighted, husband. Are contracts going well?”

Raphael didn’t answer, he pulled back a chair and motioned her to sit. Tav sat down and allowed him to indulge her. He took his place by her side.

“I have mended the Orb of Karsus, and this merits a celebration.” He poured two goblets of wine and passed one to her.

“Well, now you are in possession of the full Regalia of Karsus. So much power at your fingertips,” Tav complimented. Powerful fingertips that couldn’t be bothered to bring her to orgasm.

“It is indeed, my love,” Raphael grinned. “The godlike power of the Regalia will enable me to take over the nine Hells.” He grabbed portions of the meat dishes nearest to him. Raphael cut into the toughest cuts with glee.

Tav served herself vegetables and a dish she was confident was beef. “I have full confidence in your abilities,” she offered up in conversation.

“When I have spent more time exploring the power of the Regalia, I would love for you to see a demonstration.”

“I look forward to it, husband.” Tav took a slow sip of her wine. If Raphael had the Regalia already, maybe the Hells would leave her alone. She was clearly not a threat. There was light conversation as they finished their meals.

“I have a gift for you, my beautiful wife,” Raphael moved behind her. He snapped and an object appeared in his hands that Tav couldn’t see. He extended something around her neck and she immediately recognized the coldness of jewelry. “I asked for five pendant rubies this time instead of one.” He idly grasped her hand that bore the ruby bracelet from his wedding gift. He turned her wrist over several times. “One gemstone wasn’t enough.”

Tav brought a hand up to her throat, feeling the coldness of the silver. “Thank you, dear husband.”

Raphael extended a hand. “Shall we go to bed?” he asked with a grin. Tav sighed and took it.

***

Tav was pretty sure her plan wasn’t going to work, but at present she had no better ideas. Maybe she could have a reliable way of making him come quickly when she just wasn’t excited about her husband’s affections.

Tav entered the archive, and Kilzare gave an audible groan.

“I don’t want to hear it, my Lady Tav,” he protested.

“Raphael needs to hear it, Kilzare.”

“Hells, what do you want me to translate now?” he demanded, the look on his face indicating that he was eager to get back to his work and to put the very concept of his boss having active nether regions out of his mind.

“ ‘Give me your fingers, so I can show you just how much I desire you,’ ” Tav answered in an absurdly straightforward fashion.

Kilzire stared at her. His mouth tightened in a deep frown.

“I studied at the top universities to be competent enough to serve an Archduke of the Hells. Now, here I am, doing this,” he lamented.

“Think about it,” Tav started with her prepared argument, “has Raphael hurt you or threatened to hurt you since we started our honeymoon? Who has he flayed?”

His eyes hit the rafters and he swallowed slowly in a deep show of indignity. “No one, Lady Tav.”

“Do you want to keep it that way?” Tav inquired.

Kilzare took a deep sigh before translating the sexually charged statement for her. He gave her the phrase in Devilish Infernal, and Tav took detailed notes about each word choice he made. There were only a few small adjustments from the initial translation that she had fabricated earlier. “Can I just translate them in bulk?” he asked with a twinge of disgust.

Tav sighed, trying to respect his boundaries but also trying not to betray the real reason that she needed the phrase list updated daily. “Not really,” she grimaced.

Tav’s assessment of her husband’s reaction to infernal seduction turned out to be correct. He was never going to do what she asked, and it made him too excited to last long. Tav utilized the second half of the effects many times, much to her displeasure.

***

One night, Tav woke to cambion claws gently tracing her naked curves and a very hard erection pressed into her lower back.

“Raphael?” she asked, still slightly sleepy. He hummed a throaty acknowledgement into her ear. They were spooning, with Raphael draped around her and caressing her with his free hand. The one laying beneath her grasped her stomach.

“There you are, my dearest. I was just admiring you.” His fingers traced circles around her nipples, making them hard. Tav sucked in a breath of anticipation.

Raphael traced his forked tongue down the back of her neck. His tail had crept all the way up her thigh and squeezed gently in a subconscious rhythm. He left kisses down her back and shoulder.

Tav moved to try to roll under him, but his tail and the arm stroking her wouldn’t let her move. “Naughty, eager Little Mouse,” Raphael whispered in her ear. “I want you just like this. A slow, languid bit of pleasure for us to enjoy.”

Though he held her facing away from him, she reached back around him to grab his ass and run her hands over the ridges on his hip bone. He raised his hand to trace a claw over her jawbone, and Tav lifted her top thigh, so his legs could entwine with hers. He shifted her so that the arm that rested under her was able to assist in soft caresses. Tav brought her hand to her clit and pressed in firm, slow circles. She let out a soft, breathless moan.

His free hand grabbed his hardness and pushed it between her legs, waiting to enter her. Tav quickly tested how wet she was.

“Not yet, I’m not wet enough,” she breathed before going back to touch herself. Raphael continued to kiss her back and shoulders, though they became staccatoed instead of soft with an undercurrent of frustration. As Tav let out another soft groan of pleasure, Raphael replaced her hand with his and took her place pleasuring her. She could feel his restlessness pulse through his tail and his erection between her legs.

Tav pressed two fingers into her entrance and scissored and thrust them in a rhythm she liked. The moan she let out was no longer soft or breathless. Raphael grabbed her hand and removed her fingers. He brought her slick fingers to his mouth and licked them clean.

“Now?” Raphael asked softly with an air of tension in his voice.

“This feels so good, finish me,” Tav moaned as Raphael continued to stroke her.

He stopped stroking her and ran his hand over her breasts. “Such a greedy, greedy Little Mouse,” he growled in response. Her husband thrust deeply into her. He was slow and languid as he moved with a consistent rhythm.

Tav angled her hips properly for Raphael’s movements, and he began to take his pleasure in earnest. He held her tightly within his arms, one hand gripping her hips while the other wrapped around her torso with his hand gripping between her shoulder and collarbone. She enjoyed the joining and the pleasurable way his ridges dragged within her, but this angle refused her friction where she wanted it.

Tav reached between her legs to stroke her clit. Her breathy moans met Raphael’s. After a few more thrusts, Raphael grabbed the hand stroking her clit and removed it. He replaced her fingers with his own.

“I am your pleasure, my Little Mouse,” he growled into her ear. He gave a few more thrusts before coming inside her. “My beloved,” he purred in her ear. He held her tightly and fell asleep again still inside her.

It had been two tendays of their honeymoon trying to get Raphael to do anything to please her. The Infernal flirting and seduction had only served to wind him up more. He didn’t actually listen to anything she asked for or consider anything she wanted. It was so much simpler for him to buy her things and fuck her rather than to try to build some sort of actual relationship. S he really was just an object to him, exactly what Haarlep had told her. She was his new sex toy. That was all she was ever going to be. Forever.

Tav closed her eyes tightly as the cambion lay wrapped around her and softened inside her. Sleep was not going to come easily. She had a new plan, and she had to begin tomorrow.

She was going to find the divorce loophole for her contract.

#bg3 raphael #raphael x tav #raphael bg3 #raphael the cambion #bg3 the fine print

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kingcunny · 5 months ago

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Tbh i always tought Vis had some type of Diabetes type 2, but because Westeros is a medieval society thet didn't had our confiable metformin and insuline 😔👌

i think that is what hes supposed to have! diabetes is kinda the stereotypical ‘fat king disease’ and it would not be diagnosable or treatable in that time.

also supported by the fact that diabetes can cause heart and lung issues, viserys complaining if chest pain and shortness of breath.

also the fact that his illness was adapted into leprosy for the show. i know diabetes=leprosy SOUNDS crazy but hear me out. over time high blood sugar can damage nerves and blood vessels, leading to neuropathy (lack of feeling) and poor bloodflow in the extremities. people with diabetes also often have trouble healing wounds. these things combined leads to the phenomenon of the ‘diabetic foot’. diabetics getting injuries on their feet that they cant feel, that wont heal on their own. if untreated the wounds can fester and ulcer. this is why you sometimes hear about diabetics getting their feet or legs amputated.

now what does leprosy do to the body? the bacteria attacks the nervous system (+respiratory system, skin and eyes). leading to neuropathy. it can cause lesions and rashes on the skin, that due to nerve damage may not be noticed by the patient (as well as any just, regular injuries) left untreated… again. opportunistic infections, wounds festering and necrotizing… leprosy doesnt cause your limbs to rot off but it can prime them for the infections that will.

until diabetes gets BAD its not a very visual disease, but once it does well… the physical symptoms look very similar to leprosys

#maegorsbignaturals #viserys i targaryen #asks

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dragons-bones · 6 months ago

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FFXIV Write Entry #16: Scorched and Chipped

Prompt: third-rate || Master Post || On AO3

---

Synnove’s eyes popped open at the first sip, and she set down her mug.

“Halulu.”

Her tonberry assistant grunted.

“Halulu.”

“What.” The tonberry finally looked up from the stack of papers she was grading.

Synnove shook the mug at her, the gentle sloshing of liquid loud in the otherwise quiet office. “What the fuck is this?”

Halulu stared at her. “Coffee,” she said, as flat and emotionless as a knife blade.

“No, this is an abomination,” Synnove said. “This is burnt, and oily, and yeasty, and bland all at the same time. This is the result of a roaster who doesn’t give a damn. Or someone put all the defective beans into a bag instead of the trash. I would not serve this to fucking Gaius Baelsar. I would not serve this even to Bahram Zarir.”

“I am trying to break you of your gods-awful Death Wish addiction,” Halulu snapped.

“And you do that with another good coffee,” Synnove whined. “Full-bodied, low acidity, notes of chocolate and toffee. Where did you even get this swill?”

“Guild stores.”

Synnove cringed. “Definitely someone put defective beans into a bag, then.” She might be the only one in the Guild who ever consumed the high caffeine monstrosity produced by a Cieldalaes consortium, but her fellow nerds all appreciated good coffee and tea to keep them fueled; there was a reason they leveraged their first purchase rights for those above most other goods coming into the city. Combine that with one of the baby assessors possibly not doing a quality check before purchasing from the merchant…

She dropped her head to her desk, cheek pressed against the wood, and made the biggest, saddest eyes she could. “Pleeeeeeeease may I have good coffee?”

Halulu stared at her, eyes narrowed. “You are pathetic.”

“I am desperate. And also in charge of Range scheduling for next moon.”

“Finally, bribery.” Halulu hopped down from her chair and shuffled for the door. “I want the entire eastern side of the island for two days.”

Synnove raised her head up, brow furrowed. “…What do you need the entire eastern side of the Range for two days for?”

“Fester and Necrotize variation testing.”

That she didn’t need the Farm obviously meant not the epidemiologic elements of the spells. Hmm. That was potentially a really, really big boom.

Synnove had not had a good boom in a while.

“You find me really good coffee,” Synnove said slowly, “I’ll give you three.”

Halulu cackled, and left the office to tromp down the tower to raid the mess hall stores.

#ffxivwrite2024 #final fantasy xiv #ffxiv #oc: synnove greywolfe #oc: halulu halu #dt's writing

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thedragonagelesbian · 3 months ago

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chariot, hermit and temperance for cyrus!

yippee!!

Rook Tarot Ask Game

The Chariot: How does Rook fight? What are their preferred abilities and damage type?

Cyrus is as ever the frontline board-and-sword tank, holding the line between his enemies and his allies (what's that loghain quote... i want to lose nothing else. i want a a line, clearly drawn, that i can defend). His abilities are split through the Survival, Mourn Watch, and Grey Warden trees (with some late-game splintering toward Weapons for the bleed stacks), mixing heavy defense with necrotic/fire damage depending on the enemy type & leech such that he's v self-sufficient by late-game (and needs to be, since he's carrying around a sword that won't fucking let his allies heal him & is devouring his soul................). Titan Stomp & Reaper are almost always in his load-out, the former for crowd control and the latter for applying siphon.

The Hermit: When Rook is alone with their thoughts, what do they think about? Is solitude a blessing or a curse for them?

Um well there's this gaping, festering wound of grief in his soul that he is literally incapable of perceiving but he can almost sort of feel its agonizing emptiness when he's alone, so. He tries very, very, very hard not to be alone.

Temperance: What does Rook do to deal with the stress of their situation?

Prayer + meditation + exercise, activities to center his sense of place in the world, both physically in his body and spiritually in his connection to his ancestors and to something sacred & loving beyond him.

#rook!cyrus #dragon age veilguard spoilers

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anikabooker · 3 months ago

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WASTELAND;

TWs ⸻ body horror, blood, mental anguish, hallucinations, pain.

She was burning up; sweating and shivering pressed against the cold wall. There was a silver tray with food at her feet. She’d rather die of hunger than eat whatever that psychotic bitch had prepared for her. The longer she looked at it the more it seemed like something she chewed up, spat out and put back on a plate. Her bare foot kicked the tray, sending it flying and crashing against the metal door. She'd survived on pieces of bread she kept by her mattress, whenever they brought her some.

She didn’t know night from day. Didn’t really care for it, either. It was the same hell — over and over again. Like being stuck in an endless nightmare. No matter how much she pinched herself, she couldn’t wake up.

How long was this going on for? Had it been a month already? Judging by that wound on her arm, it’s been more than a couple of weeks, because the flesh had begun to fester, some kind of white goo was oozing out and the skin felt hot to the touch. The pain was getting worse. She was suddenly grateful to live in the dark. Without light she wouldn’t be able to see the red worms and their little, white heads moving in and out of the necrotic tissue. She wouldn’t be able to watch how the infection would eventually (if it hasn't already) spread to her arm, swallowing it whole, destroying it nerve by nerve, eating away the memories of holding a paint brush, wielding a weapon, caressing her mothers face for the last time. She couldn't remember what any of that felt like.

The memory of his touch would decompress. Fall away like dead skin.

Sweat rolled down her forehead, heavy lids struggling to remain open as eyes tried to focus on what seemed to be a reappearing shadow — coming in and out of view like it was still choosing who to morph into — what agonizing combination of features would torment her most. She had dreamt of her father, and how scared he must be for her. How they only now had reunited, only to be pulled apart once more. She had dreamed of Valka, and how she'd let her down. Foolish, stupid, downright idiotic. Is that what you've been taught, Anika? All you've known is death. Least you could've taken from her was how to avoid it. There was a dream in which her sisters died over and over again, and each time it was by her hands. And another one where there was water — so much of it. She was swimming at the Carson beach where the water was clear and cold. Just as she remembered it, all those years ago. She dreamed while she slept. But she was awake now, wasn't she? A phantom was coming together slowly with shadowy limbs and lungs that breathed life. A face with washed up blue eyes, and a voice too familiar not to recall the lips it belonged to.

‘You don’t look so great.‘ Reid said, and even as a shadowy thing, his gaze was slowly dismantling her. Perhaps because the memory of his stare still lingered in the back of her mind. ‘Fuck you.‘ ‘You almost did.‘ ‘Fuck you.‘ she spat back louder. ‘Why am I here, Anika?‘ ‘To kill me, I hope.‘

He paused, then clicked his tongue in the most irksome manner. ‘Can’t. I’m not real.‘ Then she watched him evaporate into dark smoke. Mercy was too big a favor to ask from a ghost. Yet a silent plea lingered on her tongue. Put me out of my misery— He'd kill her quicker than those worms would. He'd kill her before any of her other misdeeds would catch up to her. Perhaps that was some fucked up form of divine justice; the woman who took all, had nothing to herself, and the moment she found something it was bound to kill her.

She blinked slowly, in and out of awareness. Blood soaking the bandages making her nose wrinkle at the stench. Her head lulling to the side. Then she saw him again — so close, she almost flexed the fingers she thought she still had to touch him. He brought out a cold hand to brush the moisture from her face — a ghostly kind of touch that she allowed to linger, mostly because her body was fucking unresponsive. Blood loss has made her hallucinate before, but never like this. ‘You can't die in here. It's pathetic, even for you.‘

Tongue wet her parched, chapped lips. ‘What the fuck do you care?‘ The laugh that followed was low and hollow, filling her up with dread. He opened his mouth, closed it, the edge of a smirk was fighting its way across his lips — like he was a shapeshifting thing. Tearing itself between who he was and who she wanted to turn him into. ‘You fucking mute or something now?‘ she groaned. ‘Came here to torture me, then go on—‘ ‘You're doing all that on your own.‘ ‘Shut up.‘ she winced. ‘Drink the water.‘ ‘Don't tell me what to fucking do.‘ Her voice was raw, tearing up her dry throat. She'd slam her head against the wall repeatedly until her skull had cracked, if it meant she didn't have to listen to him anymore. If it meant he'd seep out of her head the way blood would out of the wound. Yet, she barely had the strength to keep her eyes open.

Shadows danced across the walls. They melted into him. Molded into different kinds of shapes, people, beings — tall, small, large or slim. Stop. Sweat soaked through her clothes. Her face white as snow. She could feel herself fading, like the last feeble flickers of light at the end of a dark corridor.

‘Don't die, Anika.‘

#self para #**#bitch is going through it #tw: blood #tw: body horror #tw: mental anguish #tw: hallucinations #tw: pain

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opheliajupiter99 · 1 year ago

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Enodi: The Faceless Clown (Might get sad and Lovecrafty)

Enodi.

It wasn't the poor little bard's real name, of course. He'd forgotten a long, long time ago - instead, he made up a new one. He picked Enodi, not for any real good reason, simply because he thought it sounded funny.

It felt like 'funny' was what he was supposed to be. He could recall oh so very little, he had only the barest little traces of memory, floating about in the blank void that was his mind, and the little bits and pieces that the townsfolk recalled about him.

He sat upon the edge of the fountain in the center of town, just thinking, as he stared up at the sky. It was a routine thing for him, and on his foggy morning in particular, he was recalling what the townsfolk had told him, about the faithful day he first recalled...well, anything.

Apparently, he was a travelling bard, ever so long ago, entertaining crowds with jokes, and smiles, and songs, with a lute in one hand and a flute in the other. Then one day, when he stopped to perform in this very town, he joined a group of adventurers to take part in a quest on the outskirts of town.

The people of the town that witnessed him and the others said that they wondered why he did this, as he seemed woefully unprepared for combat. Some guessed that perhaps it was because the quest was -supposed- to be very simple, so perhaps he thought he wouldn't have to do anything too taxing.

Others still, however, think it had something to do with the young Wood Elf that was a part of the band of the adventurers. They seemed to know each other, and the woman looked remarkably like the young bard, the occupants of the tavern they visited thinking it likely they were siblings. Perhaps his dear sister had convinced him to accompany them on this quest?

Whatever the reason, they left later that day, and were found early the next morning on the outskirts. Or rather...what was left of the party was found.

The entire adventuring party, beyond Enodi, had been slaughtered, butchered beyond recognition like they were nothing more than sheep ravaged by a passing wolf. Those that stumbled upon the sight could never get the image of poor little Enodi, laughing madly as he sat in a sea of carnage and gore out of their nightmares.

Enodi was alive, but the healers of the little town were quite baffled. Not just because the rest of the party was dead, but because of the state the Wood Elf was in. Necrotic scarring and festering was all over a good chunk of his body, though oddly, it didn't seem to be spreading, staying in specific areas, as if those parts of his body were hit by some kind of spell.

The worst area of this was by far his face - or rather, where his face used to be. His face was not just mangled - it was gone. No nose, no eyelids, no lips, no cheeks, just rotten, festering flesh, teeth fully exposed into a macabre smile, and eyes wide and manic, a horrid yellow color rather than a natural white to his eyes.

No matter how hard the healers tried, they could not get the necrotic portions of his flesh to regrow. He was even sent off to a large healer facility in a neighboring town once, in the hopes they could do something, or at least ease it somewhat, but alas, that failed as well. He still had his ears, or at least most of them, and he had his hair, it was merely the front portion of his face that was gone. The only boon, if it could be called that, is that the man felt no pain, likely due to the nerves dying in those areas.

He also, of course, lost any and all memory of not just what happened that night, but his entire life. He couldn't recall his name, where he was born, what he'd done for a living, he couldn't even recall his dear sister, though perhaps given the circumstances that last part was for the best.

To this day, no one has a single idea what could've possibly happened that night. The quest was merely to investigate a man by the riverside, who had been acting very oddly lately. It was figured that at most they would have to drag him back to town kicking and screaming, if he had gotten dramatically worse, or at the least he would've been completely reasonable and gone back to town on his own.

There are hints as to what could've happened though. The horrid affliction placed upon Enodi could've only been done by a true master of dark arts, and the dramatic damage to Enodi's memory and sanity on top of that - as well as the quite worrying whispers the bard reported hearing on a near constant basis - have made the townsfolk worry deeply that it could've been an Illithid, or better known to the average person as a Mindflayer.

But of course, that merely raised more questions. If it -was- a Mindflayer, why in all nine hells was the man still alive? He'd been examined for a Mindflayer larvae behind his eye, just in case, and nothing was found, and beyond the necrosis and clear mental instability, he showed no signs of developing mutations.

The healers of the town's best guess is that a horrific curse was placed upon the party, and he had simply managed to survive the torturous affliction by some wild miracle of chance.

Enodi cared little for all that though. He quite loved his life, even if most people he interacted with were either terrified by him or disgusted by him, or some combination of both, or simply pitied him. As long as he could entertain people in some regard, he was fine. And besides, he had mask; a comedy/tragedy mask that was among the various things he was found with that night, as well as his lute and flute, which by some miracle he still remembered how to play.

The music was one of the only things he could remember, as well as his love for entertaining. So now, he performed, mostly in the town but sometimes would travel, doing clown acts, singing, and attempting to play his instruments. They sounded...unique, to put it politely, especially his flute, as playing a flute without lips didn't exactly produce the best sound, and the rot upon his hands made playing the lute rather awkward, but he loved playing them so very, very much.

As far as he was concerned, his life was perfect. Yes, he was rotten, yes, his friends and family were either dead or long since forgotten, yes, there was a constant flow of maddening whispers echoing through his head that made it quite difficult to sleep, but he was oh so very happy.

Was he overjoyed because he was insane? Oh, most certainly; but he was overjoyed, and that was much better than some could boast.

#dnd oc #dungeons and dragons #enodi #lovecraftian horror #dnd fanfic

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