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a-weird-cryptid · 2 years ago

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Not all is holy

A Magnus Archives based story/fanfic

Statement of Father Thomas Bright, regarding a confession made at the London Oratory. Original statement given January 14th, 2013. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, head achivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

Statement begins:

I worked at the London Oratory for over 30 years by now, taking over the position as a priest a few years ago, and I never had any issues with the confessions people made in the confessional. Sure, some might have been harder to handle than others, but nothing was particularly odd about them. The strangest thing I've heard until that point was a woman confessing me about her unhealthy obsession with buying expensive items and how it tore her marriage apart. She asked for advise and well, I gave some to her. Just like I always did. I was never one to judge the things I've been told. Simply accepting the story I was given, commenting on it, comforting whoever sat next to me, giving advice and so on...

That is until a few months ago. I believe it was on the 17th of November, 2012. A particular cold and busy Sunday. I still remember how exhausted I was from the day, even after the stressful part was over and all that was left to do is some preparation and organisation for the next few days.

It was already way past closing and confession time, I'd say around 08:00 pm, when I heard the heavy front door opening. I just assumed it had been the wind, since it started to pick up a lot during the last few hours. Even though I was sure I locked the door. But then I heard footsteps coming closer. I was concerned by that point, but I didn't though much of it. Still busy by my work I kindly told, whoever entered, that the church was closed and it would reopen the next morning at 7:30 am. But the footsteps were getting closer nonetheless. By this point more frustrated than concerned, I decided to make my way to the entrance, but to my surprise, I couldn't find anyone in there.

When I work overtime and alone in my church, I usually keep most lights on. Without them, it always makes the inside of the building look creepier than it already is. With all it's almost lifelike statues, that seems to stare right into my soul... Even after working there for so long, I still didn't get used to them.

I looked around, checked if somebody was hiding anywhere. I wasn't afraid, just... confused... I still couldn't find anyone, but there was this strange feeling of a presence. The same you get when you're watched behind your back. It felt strong and intimidating, sending shivers down my spine. I should have known that something was extremely off about the situation back then and there. But I just shrugged it off, blaming it on pure paranoia and the still open door with the wind whistling though it.

I made my way to it, my first few steps being unsure, but getting more confident the closer I got. As I shut down the door, locking it to make sure it couldn't open again, I started to second guess if that was a good idea... Still feeling this odd presence... Like an unspoken threat... Something that clearly means no good...

Being the believer I am, I quickly made a prayer, asking God for my protection, before moving on to go back to my paperwork. But I still couldn't shake off this sudden feeling. Of hopelessness... Perhaps even regret... Though I had no clue where it was coming from.

The presence continued to move, though this time without making a sound. And as it did, it seemed to pull me closer. As if I was attached to it with invisible strings. Slowly but surely, it made it's way towards the confessional, stopping as soon as it got inside. By this point, I decided to follow it, with a few feet of distance away from it at all times. Looking back, I don't even know why. It almost felt like my feet were going on their own... Or rather controlled by the presence...

The door of the confessional slowly closed. With a loud creaking, that echoed from the walls. Almost sounding like a choir. And I could have sworn at that very moment, I could hear the organ play ever so slightly...

It reminded me of Isaiah 6:1-4. In which Isiah described the throne of God, surrounded by an angelic choir, made out of seraphim, singing the same lines over and over again. They were the closest to the Lord, but I could tell for sure that the presence couldn't have been an angel. Or at least not anymore...

But then again, angels don't say "be not afraid" every time they appear to humans for no reason, so I thought. Leading to me making the foolish decision to sit down at the other side of the confessional. I had already convinced myself by that point that this must be a sign of God, a test, to see if my faith was still worthy. It needed my entire willpower to convince myself that I was in no harm, considering I was on holy ground and believing that an angelic being was sent to me. I couldn't have been more wrong.

Only after I closed the small door, I realized that the presence, whatever it was, must have tempted me to get in there, it already being too late to change my mind at that point. When I tried to open the door again, I was shocked to realize that it wouldn't open. Not locked by a key, or something standing in front of it... But held close by the pure willpower of what was next to me. I don't know how to explain how I knew it. I just did...

Of course I started to panic by that point, banging against the door, begging it to be opened again. To no avail.

That is when the presence first spoke to me. "Be not afraid.", it said, though I was certain it wasn't an angelic being by that time. I could hear it's voice echoing though my mind, giving me a headache, but it came equally loud from everywhere around me. Feeling like it filled up the entirety of the building. The church shook as it spoke, like during an earthquake, taking out all of the lights, leaving me in total darkness. I could hear how parts of the ceiling crashed on the floor, leaving dents in the wood and shattering the stone in the progress. I hold onto the wooden cabin for dear life, my heart pounding in my chest almost as loudly as the voice from the presence.

It was surprisingly calm though, I dare to say charming, even... In a way that made you feel lured in and tempted to follow whatever command it gives. Welcoming and warm, like a mother with open arms... Only making me even more cautious about whatever it was sitting next to me...

I tried to collect myself, holding tightly onto my cross I wore as a necklace, hoping that the Lord has heard my prayer, protecting me. My entire body was shivering, but not because of any cold. In fact, it was starting to get warmer. At first, I didn't notice it and if I did, I surely didn't payed attention to it. My entire body started to sweat. Just a little bit at the beginning, but then it got worse, as if I had a particular bad fever.

It was in that moment, that I decided to proceed like I normally would, asking the presence what's bothering it. My voice was mumbled and quiet. Unsure and hesitan. But the one next to me seemed to have understood it nonetheless.

It answered me, bringing the church to crumble down further in the progress and worsening my headache.

It told me about the war against God, the betrayel of his friend it lead to... And about the regret it feels for it. The shame... The sorrow... The pain that came with all of it... I almost felt sorry for it, if it wasn't for the unbearable becoming heat in the cabin and the feeling of the walls around me getting closer while the ceiling was crashing down on me.

I could feel that my hands burned badly. Just like any other skin exposed or otherwise. Peeling of my flesh, as if I had the worst sun burn of my life. I felt like I was burned alive, stuck in an ever getting smaller space.

I never had any problems with the size of the confessional, but during that moment, it felt like I had no place to move in, no place to get rid of the burning hot walls, them only tightening around me, taking away my space to breath.

Then the presence told me about the fall of Lucifer. And the, quite literally, hell of a place all of those fallen angels, lost souls, ended up in.

"But you already know all about hell and suffering, isn't that right, Father Thomas?.", it's voice echoed. I still remember the laughter that came after it, sadistic and cruel, like it was enjoying the pain it was inflicting on me. I don't know what I believe was scarier. It, or the fact that it knew who I was without me ever mentioning it. But I can't say I'm surprised.

As I cried in pain, begging for it to stop the torture, watching as black skin paled off my body, smoke started to come from my surroundings. If I didn't knew it any better, I'd even say myself. Like acid it burned in my eyes, filling up every inch of my lungs and eventually body. Caughing didn't helped either, only worsening the effect.

Then, the presence said something about advice, but I couldn't hear it anymore. Desperately trying to keep myself alive and stop my robe from catching on fire.

But the deal it offered me next I could hear loud and clear. My place in heaven, it return for me getting out of there alive. Without hesitation I agreed to the deal, just wanting for it all to end. For the overwhelming pain and heat to stop.

And it did.

Just like that I found myself back in the normal confessional. With the only evidence of it ever burning being a few marks and a faint smell of smoke. The lights were back on, as I could tell from the small gaps of the cabin's wood. I examined my skin, discovering that the burns were mostly gone, only leaving a few nasty ones here and there. Nothing of the blackened, peeled skin remaining.

When I tried to open the small door, I noticed it being unlocked again. Slowly I made my way out of the confessional, with my legs still shaking. I still felt the presence, though this time it seemed to come from the ceiling. I could hear the flapping of wings coming from the same direction. Then I heard a window glass shatter and caught a glimpse of what could only be described as a rotting angel. Before the presence was gone for good, leaving me standing alone in the church.

I didn't quite know what to do at this point, so I decided cleaning up the mess was as good as anything else. I also treated my left over burns with some wine, usually stored in the church for festival events. It wasn't the best desinfectant, for sure, but it was better than leaving the open wounds untreated. I believe my mind was too overwhelmed to comprehend what happened at that moment. All of the damage this... angel looking like devil... had done to the church was gone, as if nothing had happened.

After getting rid of the glass shards, I made my way to the confessional again. Trying my best to get rid of the burn marks. Which was surprisingly easy.

There was something else I should probably mention. When I checked the cabin the presence sat in, I found a large, white feather. Assumingly from it's wings... Which I decided to bring for... Well... This statement as well for further investigation...

Statement ends.

Well... this surely was unsettling. After questioning Father Thomas further, he stated that this incident was one of a kind and no further strange things happened during his work ever since. Though he seemed strangely exhausted when giving the statement, as if he didn't sleep properly for days, according to the staff.

Personally, I believe that the incident was most likely caused by just that. Exhaustion, a lot of stress and a lack of sleep over a long period of time. As well as the abuse of alcohol, more specifically wine. Said combination leading to those extreme hallucinations.

One of the staff members also reported to see some scarring on Father Thomas' arms. The type of which can only be created by a fourth-degree-burn left untreated by a doctor. The priest is also reported to be extremely interested in our further research. More so than most others giving statements. A few files about demonology, demonic possessions and exorcisms were stolen from the Archive, the day the statement was given, though the police found no evidence for Father Thomas to be responsible for it.

I can't say if this strengthens the evidence and truth of the statement given by him, though I think it's an oddly coincidence for sure.

I let Sasha do some research about the local news reports of earthquakes during that time, as well as any other reports of the London Oratory being destroyed.

Besides a few renovations that were made to replace and strengthen part of the churchs, damage that has mostly been made by time, she returned empty handed. No records or any kind point to the incident Father Thomas described.

Though one document of a renovation, made on December 1st, 2012, states that one of the windows of the dome had to be replaced, due to it being shattered. Most likely due to it being frozen and therefore easier to break. Assumedly done so by some kind of bird, since a few blood strains and feathers were found stuck on the remaining glass. All of which were white and of various sizes. The zoologist department of King's Collage confirmed that the ones found at the window match the one sealed in a plastic bag, which was given to us by Father Thomas after ending his statement. They didn't match any currently known species.

Personally, I don't believe this case needs any further investigation, but Tim seemed to be thrilled when the topic "architecture of the church" was brought up, although it was quick to fade when I explained to him that it was not one from Robert Smirk's design.

Nether the less, he insisted on getting some reevaluation on the case, so I just sent Martin. Though I most definitely believe it is just a waste of time.

End recording.

Author's Note:

Thank you so much if you've read so far!

I wanna give a HUGE shout-out to my friend, @sarah-kings, who helped me a lot with the final version of this story and it's titel, giving a lot of constructive criticism to my first draft. And even writing a bit for me, at the end of the story, regarding the part with Tim wanting to further investigate. Since I'm not too familiar with all of the different characters of TMA yet, only being at episode 18 of the first season (no spoilers please!). But I still wanted to include them.

I also want to thank them for continuing to drag me into this fandom. I listen to 2 or 3 episodes months, or even years ago. But never got really into it, since I didn't though it to be too interesting at first. But they told me it gets better, so I really hope it's worth to keep going.

Furthermore, I want to add that I wrote this fanfic in a way that makes it plausible for it to be canon in my own stories as well. If you're somewhat familiar with the Ocs I've introduced so far, you might even be able to put all of the puzzle pieces together. I will most likely add Father Thomas Bright to my official Oc list for the very same reasons.

For more original series, as well as reviews, discussions and similar, check out my master list of series.

#did I wrote most of this in 5h straight without any pause in the middle of the night till 4am?#only deciding to stop and go to sleep because it got late?#you betcha #the magnus archives #fanfiction #tma #the magnus pod #the magnus institute #tma fan content #tma fanfic #my ocs #father Thomas #helel

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unparalleledtomes · 4 months ago

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Not With the Eyes, But With the Mind (18+)

Ao3 Link

Pairing: Gale x OC Female Character

Summary: Against his better judgement, Gale's hopeless pining gets the better of him and he finally caves, treating himself to images of Noa and nearly nuking himself in the process.

Warnings: masturbation, smut, nudity, minors dni.

Word Count: 1900

A/N: did it take me over three months to write 1900 words? you betcha. will it take even longer for the next one? you betcha.

Gale lay in his tent next to a toppled stack of books. If he unfocused his eyes, allowed his mind to carry him home, he could almost picture the view from his tower through the canvas. It was the moonlight, the way it barely poked through the blue-green skin of his tent—it reminded him of evenings alone on his balcony just before a storm rolled in, and how the moonlight barely poked through then.

He tried to hold onto that image and the tranquillity it often brought him, but tonight the colour only reminded him of Noa.

How she poured wine from a bottle that glinted teal in the fire, a glass each for her and Karlach. Astarion nursed his own. But Gale didn’t indulge, too afraid of what might tumble from his mouth in the presence of his new friends, or those he hoped to call friends. The orb, too, clenched inside of him and there was a slight shake in his hands, a heaviness in his chest that felt like a threat.

“Come on, soldier. You’ve asked everyone for their life stories and haven’t said one thing about yourself.”

“That’s not true. Astarion hasn’t said anything.”

“I beg your pardon. I’ve said plenty. What more do you want?”

“Well, for starters, I’ve never known a magistrate so interested in bloodshed.”

“What’s life without a little danger, darling? Besides, you’ve rather impressed me these last weeks. Goblins and bugbears, those poor dwellers in the crypt. There’s plenty of blood on your hands.” He lowered his voice as he spoke, like the very idea of violence excited him.

Noa scoffed into the fire. “Not a thought that comforts me. Mark my words on this, night-walker. I’ve been around a long time—life’s easier with a sheathed sword.”

Gale smiled but Astarion flicked his wrist. “Spoken like a true, boring adventurer. I, for one, can’t wait to see what other massacres lie ahead of us. Gods know there’ll be plenty before our next sunset.”

Noa rolled her eyes. “Gale, how about you? How’re you faring under all these…oh, let’s call them adventures?”

“Well, it’s certainly a leap from the comfort of my tower. I’m far more used to a crackling hearth, a good book, and an equally soothing glass of Blackstaff wine.” The thought needed only to be spoken and he was back at home, all but felt the veins of mature pages in his hands before he let the moment pass. He raised a finger. “But, adventure never strays far from a talented wizard, as I’m sure someone of your demonstrable capabilities can attest.”

He wasn’t sure why but Noa laughed then, and the sound lifted some pressure from his heart.

Gale blinked at the tent. He breathed slowly and with some difficulty, torn between chasing away what he’d rather remember. But her image haunted him like a childhood mistake and it wasn’t long before the faintest thrum of lilac tangled in the moonlight, the orb stirred to life.

“Coming from the great Gale of Waterdeep, I appreciate that. It’s not every day a golden boy finds you impressive.”

“Ha, oh well, hardly a ‘golden boy,’ though my natural abilities did catch unequivocal attention from the most spectacular beings. That said, it does put a bit of pep in one’s step to know their name travelled across Faerûn, eh?”

Astarion audibly scoffed but Gale relished in the idea. He ignored the ignorance, forgave it even. It was the very same he’d dealt with all his life from those who could only watch as he mastered the Weave, destined for greatness—that of which he had in Mystra’s reverent embrace. His eyes fell to the snapping firewood. As quickly as it’d come, the thought soured.

“It has,” Noa said plainly.

“All good things, I hope.”

She brought the goblet to her mouth and held it there without drinking. “I’ve heard your story.” Her eyes flicked to his and they watched each other for an eternal second. A queer look accompanied her words, silent recognition piercing as a blade. “I’m really glad we ran into you, Gale of Waterdeep.”

Nothing existed but her face across the flames. He could only stare; he didn’t know what to say.

The need was in his hands before it was in his cock. He folded them behind his head and tried to focus on the dull ache of his knotted fingers. He blinked, inhaled through his mouth, but there she stood above the flames in a long stretch before bed. She reached to the stars and it was all he could do to avoid her silhouette as she bid him goodnight.

But alone now he snuck a boyish glance at the memory of her breasts. The orb burned through his tunic and onto the canvas above him, an aurora borealis in that Waterdeep sky, and he watched the colours billow until an intrusive thought of her naked made his ears simmer.

Energy crackled around his briefs, warmth pulsing between his legs with every unstoppable thought of her face, her eyes—one rich and dark as earth and the other obsidian as a mountainside. He thought of the freckles that spilled across her nose and wondered how many adorned places he couldn’t see.

Stop it, he thought. By the gods, stop it. But she didn’t leave and he wouldn’t let her.

When Astarion and Karlach eventually retired, he was alone. Flames lapped at the darkness and he curled his hands into fists to stop the shaking. Through the spots in his vision, a lantern burned from Noa’s tent and he watched her gently unwind her braid in the sliver of gold that shone through. When she lifted her shirt he looked away so quickly the whole world spun.

The orb radiated from chest to cheek with pain, a hellish prick of needles coursing through his hands. He breathed deeply, pleaded with his mind to free itself from these calamitous desires, but everything was black against the light of her face.

He didn’t want to will her away any longer—he wanted to touch gold.

His face burned, and with great shame he unlaced his trousers. The simple caress of fingertips made him shiver, his shaft already hard and leaking by the time he freed himself. He pinched his eyes shut and reconsidered the whole sordid indulgence but she immediately stood before him, smiled at him, and with the first timid stroke he nearly whispered her name.

Together they soared past the skies above him, their naked bodies entwined within the Weave. She outshone the stars, overthrew those swirling constellations he often dreamed of, and he could only float in awe of her. She bit her lip the longer he stared, a simple gesture that made him grin as he imagined a dahlia flush in her cheeks. It was enough to coax a faster rhythm.

Back in his tent the orb singed his chest but he ignored the fire to press his tongue into her mouth. It shamed him and even in his mind he hesitated, but she moaned and wound her arms around his neck until he relaxed. He tentatively twisted up and down and she inched closer to bite his lip. He trembled at the brazenness of it, but envisioned her leg around his hip, her fingers in his hair, and when she moaned again he started to pump faster.

With that same shy look in her eyes she squeezed the length of his cock. His head tipped back and she pressed a kiss to his neck so warm he swore he felt it. He stroked faster, grabbing her breast with one hand, cradling her head with the other, but it wasn’t enough. With a moan he multiplied, arms born from arms to have enough hands for every inch of her. Countless fingers caressed her back and gripped her thighs, touched her tongue and brushed the hair from her face, and in that paradise of starved simulacra all her moans rang out like music. Whether his hands throbbed from the orb or his grip on the bedroll, he didn’t know—all he knew was somewhere in those stars Noa belonged to him.

Wildflowers billowed in the camp’s lazy breeze and he felt it through the canvas, the way it quickly became her breath against his shoulder. His eyes watered from the choking pain in his chest but he’d let nothing take her, each stroke a blacksmith’s bellow that kept her image alive.

She rocked into him, slow and natural as a boat on water. The orb sizzled like a branding but he held her gaze, stroking until his back lifted off the bedroll. He tried to speak, to beg her not to go, not now, not when the world was so close to making sense again, but no sound came. Still she smiled and brought her lips to his ear, close enough to feel her breath, close enough to feel the tip of her tongue when she at long last whispered, “Gale.”

His eyes shot open. The Weave flowed from his pupils and drowned the world in lilac, droplets spilling down his fingers. He sat up and clutched his heart. Copper dribbled from his mouth and he coughed at the taste, a pounding in his head like a great aching heartbeat. He looked around, tried to catch his breath, but only coughed again.

He was blind. There was nothing but the Weave, so bright in his eyes it burned white. A terrible shiver ran through him and for a moment he thought the last thing he’d ever see was Noa’s face. He tucked himself back into his trousers and blinked again and again until the monstrous glow dwindled back to lilac, and finally to nothing.

With enough breathing the crickets’ song poked through the thunderclap in his ears and he steadied himself on one hand. Felt the soil beneath his fingers as the world retook shape. Focused on the toppled tomes at his feet as the vice loosened around his temple. He lifted his sticky palm without looking and lightly jerked his wrist, the Weave slipping over his skin like a glove before it disappeared again to take the mess with it.

But when that hushed breeze no more than a whisper rolled into his tent, he turned toward it, opening and closing his fist though he didn’t know why. Perhaps as a reminder of how foolish he’d been, that he’d nearly broken the promise he made to himself by doing something this stupid, by putting this many innocent lives in danger. He studied his hand, its shape mostly lost to the dark, and slowly opened his fist again. Perhaps it was something else.

An unwelcome wavelet of guilt trickled down his back and he cinched his tent closed, lying on his bedroll as if he hadn’t just tainted Noa’s trust or nearly blown away half the Sword Coast. All around was black and there was nothing he could do now but wait for the shadows to make sense, to watch the canvas overhead and see if he could return home.

And in time, he did.

He didn’t know how he’d look at her in the morning. How he’d look at himself. But in that quiet moment beneath the Waterdeep moon he remembered the way she looked at him, and sleep came easy.

#bg3 #gale dekarios #bg3 gale #gale of waterdeep #bg3 fanfiction #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 smut #baldurs gate gale #bg3 tav #bg3 writing #bg3 fanfic #galemance #gale x oc

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