#nothing grows in corpses sequel

[sseanettles]

For the WIP ask game, oh you know I'm going to ask for more on Ruin. 😁 This series is my Dreamling life blood at the moment.

ohhhhh @windsweptinred yes, yes indeed, I did know you were going to ask for more on Ruin, but what to give you, what to give you, what to giveeeee youuuuuu....

you know what. you have been my biggest champion of nothing grows in corpses and this AU-verse as well as my buddy in "actually Hob and Dream are incredibly cruel and destructive and selfish people and we shouldn't whitewash that, it's a feature not a bug." So I think I'm gonna quickly do some typing and give you That One Fucking Scene where everything falls apart and we hit rock bottom as a reward. (this is a first pass draft below the cut so apologies for any errors or slight OOC-ness)

Gwen has been planning to leave Hob for a couple months now, as it has become clear that this is a dysfunctional dynamic that Morpheus and Hob can’t help but be bound to. She got a job offer at a university back in the States anyway, and he needs to stay here. What she’s planning to tell him (and what she’s practiced with Matthew) is a variation of “Morpheus needs you, and you need him. I need someone who can be present for my lifetime. Because I only get the one.” But then, Destruction comes for dinner. She never gets the chance to use it.

BIG spoilers and long excerpt ahead for ruin (of bitten lips and broken hands). The chapter song will be 2WEI's cover of Crazy for those who like to play along. and...tag warning for gore, violence, and discussions of assault. Talking about Nada's canon gets harder after all the NG fuckery but in light of that especially, I do not shy away from it.

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Hurt him, the voice, that voice, seethed within him—gnashing its teeth with black eyes and paper-white skin and hair as black as the pitch that filled the throats of animals and men mired alike in its fields until there was nothing left to do but gasp for air and die. Simpering, sickening, make him SEE—

Make him see that which he proclaims he loves in the blackest of mirrors.

“I killed my son, yes,” Murphy agreed, proclaiming the words with something that could almost be called pride, and he saw the flinch in Hob’s eyes as he spoke. Saw the confusion, the uncertainty at his delivery in response to what the man had intended to be context to behavior, not proof of Morpheus' malice. Oh, how blisteringly wrong the low-born idiot was, and when he continued, there was no more Murphy. There was only the truth.

Only Morpheus.

“But I disowned him first.” He stepped closer. Gadling’s balance tipped further, unsteadied. Morpheus’ lips curled, baring teeth like fangs, and he let that light into his eyes that he had kept smothered for so long in this suffocating home: that light of Endless righteousness. “Left him dismembered and begging for the mercy of death and refused him it when I was one of the few who could grant it.” He guided his advance by the backs of the stools at the kitchen island, by the chair Destruction had left pulled out at the table when he had bid his farewell, both too early and too late in his departure. He closed in on Gadling like a predator, like a spider upon a web the humans were only now seeing had been spun about every inch of their home far, far too late. “And when I did grant it?” Was he smiling? Grimacing? Laughing with the tears of the unhinged and anguished in his eyes, with the heat of a manic king? Morpheus could not tell, but his face was doing something, his blood boiling in his veins with the same wild, untethered thing that twisted within him in the way that Destruction laughed and laughed and laughed and— “I did not do so until it served my purposes.”

Gadling looked distinctly ill. Gwen was not far behind him, her normally warm cheeks taking on a decidedly more ashen tone as she stood there with one hand still braced on the counter, near the cutting board and the barely touched bird sliced open upon it.

Perfect. Ill was what Morpheus wanted, disgusted was what he wanted. Enough of this charade, of this pretending. Gadling wanted to preach of his missteps, of betraying his evolution? Gadling wanted to scold him? In the same breath that he championed themselves?  Their journey?

Then, let the charlatan face that which he upholds.

“I damned a woman to hell for no greater crime than refusing to love me,” Morpheus spat, drawing closer still, his hands clawed and shaking. Gadling stood tall, unmoved not with conviction but with the paralysis of the doomed deer in the headlights of an eighteen-wheeler. But there was no truck, there was only his Stranger before him, stooped and unfurling like a kettle about to explode. Morpheus’ words came faster, unraveled, more impassioned. “Condemned her for thousands of years—starving, alone, tortured, in agony for millennia.” Hatefully. “For exercising her right to consent!”

None of this was news to the immortal; he had seen it himself in the prison of Fawney Rig. And yet, Gadling’s face had grown as flat as stone. He scarcely seemed to breathe, and somehow the dispassionate response only fueled the molten rage burning away the fallen Endless’ insides. The heat fissured through to the surface, turning his skin brittle and fractured until it was tearing him apart. Morpheus laughed, his eyes creasing, and something as searing as acid cut its way down his cheeks as he did. He dragged himself forward another step by the guideposts of the furniture. His hands shook. His legs trembled in kind, and he forced them to steel.

“I let a universe burn into madness because I could not kill a single child, my pride and my principles were to great a treasure to me,” he intoned, slowly drawing his stooped height up to its full towering form. “I rotted in a glass and iron sphere for a century rather than succumb to my pride and plagued the world with my absence! Robbed millions of their lives, robbed the Kincaid family of normalcy and joy!”

He was so close to Gadling now. Close enough to strike him, and he threw a hand toward the man—a damning, condemning jab, as the furnace blew.

“AND YET YOU FAWN OVER ME, EVEN NOW!” Morpheus bellowed, and Gwen screamed at his sudden, uncharacteristic roar, something clattering across the counter behind Gadling’s back. The mercenary seemed to grow taller and broader at the sound, interposing himself squarely between them.

Between the halves of his heart, Morpheus sneered, and went for the kill, grabbing the man by fistfuls of his shirt front.

“YOU!” Gadling grunted, startled, and took a half-step back only to come up short beneath Morpheus’ stunning strength—an evolution he had kept a carefully guarded secret in this prison of a home. Gadling’s eyes flashed, taking him in head-to-toe in the manner of a soldier, a killer, and not a friend, and Morpheus’ eyes burned brighter at the returning grip that seized his wrists on fighter’s instinct. He laughed again, mocking, scything, aching. “My only friend,” he sneered, almost sing-songy, fracturing, and once again the acid cut its way down his sharpening face, “a human who profiteered over the slavery of other humans, the chattel of Africa—”

He felt the shift in the man beneath him. Felt the grip go from steadying to defensive, from stilling to get the fuck away from me, and he struggled to hold fast as Gadling tried to push him away.

“—who acquired a wife and son as if they were naught but more trinkets to collect—” Gadling tore his hands free and slammed him back a few steps with open palms to the chest—his face, god his face, it had gone pale, his eyes wide, red, stop, stop, too far—

Morpheus caught his balance easily; his stance braced, battle ready, to Gadling’s own, and he glared blindly into his friend’s setting face.

Destroy him.

“A GLUTTON!” he finished in a roar. “And yet!” Morpheus spread his arms, laughing, laughing, laughing—crying, you are crying, stop, breathe— “He preaches to me!”

Gadling was trembling. Head to toe, the man was trembling, his face going from pale to now dark with abject rage, his hands curling into fists, his arms tensing to iron in turn, his back heel grinding as his knees began to bend, and Morpheus’ chest heaved. His mind had gone fuzzy and beyond the bounds of control or sanity. He knew where to go next. He knew, precisely, where to go next, where he had to go next, to destroy this man at his very core, to take a sledgehammer to the last, threadbare beam holding his illusion together like glue and tape—

Destroy him.

He took the breath…

Destroy me.

And the plunge to follow.

“And your latest conquest?” Morpheus prompted with a mocking, taunting saunter back into the man’s reach, a chin jerked toward Gwen where she was still ducked behind him. “Is she merely a method by which you can alleviate your guilt or—”

Pain split across Morpheus’ mouth, his lip scything open on his teeth that knifed with white-hot pain all the way through his skull as something cracked, his nose shattering into a spray of hot blood and crunching agony—

His head snapped back, and he hit the ground just as hard, the air and his words knocked from his chest in kind. And as the stars and the tears cleared from his eyes, Morpheus worked himself up onto his elbows. Gadling loomed above him. His right hand was splattered with their blood, split where the knuckles had struck teeth, and his chest heaved, setting his whole body trembling with the depth of his fury.

“YOU DO NOT SAY THAT ABOUT HER!” Gadling’s rage shook the very rafters, echoed clear out onto the street even through the closed windows, left their ears ringing, and Morpheus lay beneath it in silence, slowly touching a hand to his wounded face. “YOU DO NOT SAY THAT ABOUT ELEANOR! YOU DO NOT SAY THAT ABOUT ROBYN! YOU DO NOT SAY THAT ABOUT LIZZIE!” He paused, his breath stuttering, his body shaking so terribly that for a moment words failed him until his teeth bared in a clench. His eyes glittered. “BUT YOU ‘SPECIALLY DON’T SAY THAT ABOUT HER!” His hand swung around to point toward the last place he had seen Gwen, the rest of him remaining fixed upon his Stranger, and he glared down at the man beneath him as if he could not fathom his very existence, as if he were a wholly alien species, unknown and unknowable to him, disgusting. Incomprehensible. “AFTER EVERYTHING SHE’S DONE?!”

What an impressive display for such a hypocrite, Morpheus glowered back at him. He lowered his hand from his nose and lips as he forced himself back up into a reclined seat, balanced on a single arm with his weight tipped onto his healed hip. His fingers were coated in rapidly darkening red, and he felt the blood coursing down his face, soaking into the black of his shirt, never to be seen again, and spattering the wooden floors. He spat out a mouthful of blood, licked his lips with a reddened tongue, and looked up.

When he did, it was not at Gadling.

“Has he told you?” he panted, his eyes dark, his voice a sickening combination of goading and truly wondering. “Has he told you all he did on those ships of his? To your ancestors?”

Gwen gulped and stepped back from him on shaking legs, jumping near out of her skin as she hit the cabinets, and immediately swung the carving knife to point down at him, gripped in two trembling, pale-knuckled hands.  

Murphy just laughed, fragile and mad and mocking.

“Do you know, truly, the man with whom you share your bed?” he pressed and saw in his periphery the way Gadling’s expression changed. “Or has he got you fooled with his stories of woe and regret?”

His final words grew wicked and sharp, deriding, and his matching gaze slid from the shaken Gwen to Gadling as the man let out some kind of twisted, whimpering exhale.

His face…his face was a most exquisite betrayal, as if Morpheus had just plunged a knife into his very heart down to the hilt and twisted. His hands had gone limp at his sides, the fingers still trembling but slowly unfurling from their fists. His shoulders still heaved with battle breaths, those gulping, grounding things that filled your head with oxygen and your limbs with energy, yet every bone in him seemed to be fracturing. Every muscle seemed to be losing its strength, and his eyes….

His eyes were so very filled with heartbreak.

“…How could you say that of me—”

“Were you on the ships?”

Gadling froze at the sharp, wavering demand, his own achingly genuine question to the man he had laid out on the floor dying on his lips. And he followed Morpheus’ unblinking, dark eyes to slowly, oh so very slowly, turn on his heel.

Guinevere stood where she had been stood before, backed against the cabinets with the knife held before her in both hands. But where once she had been terrified, defensive, holding the room at bay with shaking hands, her stance had firmed. She was no longer recoiled against the wood but braced against it. Her eyes had recovered some clarity, some strength, and both sharpened the longer the silence dragged on. Her grip on the blade adjusted, eased from throttling to sure.

“What?” Hob asked.

Her eyes never wavered from his, and she took a step forward, gesturing between him and Morpheus with the blade. The silver gleamed in the warm glow of the island lights, and Hob watched it move with a prowling of disquiet deep in his gut.

“You told me that you profited off the slave trade,” she accused. “That you owned the ships that stole my people across the Atlantic, took cotton one way and my ancestors the other. And I thought…” Hob watched her, held her glittering gaze with quiet somberness. Her chin trembled on her next words, the shine in her eyes brightening. “I let myself think….”

“But the shit you’ve described,” she gritted out and swiped at her eyes with her free hand, “the things you knew they did…” She pointed to him with the knife again. Took another step forward until she was standing alone on her own strength, with no wall to hold her.

Gadling did not move so much as a finger; his breaths grew careful, damp. On the floor, Morpheus grew extraordinarily still, shrunken back toward the floor, as if rendered to stone, and watched all that was unfolding with unreadable eyes.

Guinevere no longer held the room at bay.

She just held the room.

She took another step forward. And she repeated her question, the wobble in her voice worsening even as she tried to embolden her stance, tried to square her shoulders and stand tall.

“Were you on the ships?”

Robert Gadling beheld the woman he loved, with her microbraids and her beautiful, dark skin that smelled of coconut oil and her earth-after-rain eyes and the stray bits of paint around her cuticles that she hadn’t quite managed to clean away. He beheld her height, her strength, her soul, her gorgeous face that had the most beautiful smile and laugh now caught in a horrible moment of realization and denial. Her artist’s hands that were now clenched around an implement of cooking turned lethal weapon….

He slowly raised his hands to his shoulder. Her chin shook and then clenched shut, and she shook her head in a vicious denial.

“Gwen,” he started, quiet, apologetic, placating, and she took a final step forward, bringing him to a standstill with the point of her carving knife.

“WERE YOU ON THE SHIPS, YES OR NO, GADLING?” she screamed.

Silence rang in her wake. Morpheus’ heart was in his throat, his words all dried up inside him as if they had never been there to start with, and he watched Gadling’s back as the man took a deep breath and slowly released it. He could see Gwen’s control spiraling, her mind buckling under the realization of what was coming, the inevitable truth, the truth Morpheus had forced to the surface. Her second hand came up to support her wrist, to steady the blade, and the tears in her eyes neared the tipping point. But still Gadling did not speak. He only stared at Guinevere, held her anguished eyes, held his hands where they were at his shoulders, and breathed.

What was he thinking? What was he doing, what was he—

Robert Gadling beheld the woman he was partly responsible for creating, seeing through her to her mother, her grandmother, her great-grandmother, her great-great-grandmother—to whoever it was that his industry had kidnapped from her home, whisked away to be little more than an animal bound in servitude and cruelty until death. The true answer to her question was a complex one. It was a simple one. And there was a way to say it that would shatter her heart but end with the knife clattering from her hands to the floor as she sobbed and wailed and screamed at him to get away from her as he moved on well-meaning but ill-timed intent to comfort her. There was a way to handle this that did not end in brutality.

But the corner of his mouth itched to smile, to crack open wide like the pavement artist and laugh and laugh until he cried, until he sounded manic and battle-mad and hollow…so very hollow.

There was a way to handle this that did not end in brutality.

But that was not how Robert Gadling wanted this to end. And so, with his last full, painless breath, he answered Guinevere’s desperate cry with the bluntest, simplest truth he could. He gave her a small, sad, I’m so sorry, love, I’m so, so sorry smile—a tragic acceptance, an I forgive you for what you’re about to do, an it’s okay.

He shook his head. Let out that breath in a heavy, sepulchral sigh.

Where you on the ships, Gadling, yes or no?

“I started it all.”

The pause as Gwen processed his words, as she struggled to parse the reply to a yes or no question, as she realized what he had just admitted to, the implications of it, seemed to last an eon. The way her face frowned, first in bafflement, in dismay, in refusal, in rage, in anguish—all the stages of grief switching between each other like a flip book repeating endlessly, mis-bound in the wrong order—it filled Hob’s heart with a sickening lead. But in truth, it took no more than a breath, for he had not completed his next inhale before her tortured countenance made its choice.

And on the floor, Morpheus’ heart stopped beating as Gwen loosed an anguished, desperate scream. It echoed from her very soul, raked its nails up her throat as it tore from the fibers of her heart. It spilled the tears from her eyes, left her eye-teeth bared like fangs, and the grief of generations turned to pure anger as, in a single, life-changing moment, their beloved lady of Camelot moved.

Gadling let out a strangled, animalistic wail of pain as a single line of slicing agony split open his abdomen, and he stumbled back, crashing into the island counter and the stools, as his hands clutched for the source of the pain and immediately found themselves full of something writhing and hot and thick like sailing rope. Something that could not seem to stop expanding, that just poured and spilled, meters of it, endless—

The scream came again, and he forced himself to meet Gwen’s hate-blinded eyes, forced his arms to remain at his eviscerated gut, cradling his spilled intestines rather than defending himself, as she followed him down and stabbed the blade down again.

And again.

And again, and again, and again—

They hit the ground in a tangle of limbs, a wet splat of blood and viscera and flesh and bone, and Guinevere was left straddling a mess of blood and gore where once there had been the man she had loved. His gut had been split from nearly hip to hip, leaving his innards to spill out, to entangle his hands and bind them in his own sinew and flesh. Even now, she could see the intestines moving, the peristalsis causing the organs to shift and squirm in his twitching hands like snakes. His eyes were still open, still blinking through the blood spray that had flecked into his lashes. They looked agonized, terrified, yet somehow accepting all the same. His mouth, filled with blood, continued to try to swallow, to push the pulsing crimson from his airway with his tongue to no avail, and when he coughed, weakly and growing weaker, the blood sprayed and bubbled. His ribcage, riddled with holes, sputtered and quaked as he tried, even now, to breathe through lungs that could not expand, could not deflate—that could only drown and drown and drown. His legs beneath her twitched and kicked, desperate for air, for the fear to be gone.

Drowning, he had once told her. Always hated drownin’ the most.

And as she stared down at him, she saw not the individual pieces of horror detached from context, not the murder of a man who had had it coming for centuries, not the murder of one of the founding fathers of chattel slavery, not justice. Not peace.

She saw the crimson-soaked blade clenched in her shaking hand yet held aloft for another strike. She saw her other hand fisted in the ribbons of his shirt, a shirt they had picked out together last summer break. She saw the blood drenching her clothes, her thighs, could taste it in her mouth.

She saw Robert.

She saw Robbie.

And Morpheus watched the scene in silenced, terrified horror from his paralysis on the floor as Gwen’s mask of rage faltered to a mirror of his own, and she began to wail. Her hands clapped over her mouth, smearing her face with Robbie’s blood, the killing blade still clenched tightly in her fist. She pushed herself off of him, slipping on and crashing to the blood-soaked floors in the process as her sneakers transformed to ice skates in the viscera.

“Uh-uh,” she begged, whimpering, shaking her head desperately, “nuh-uh, wh-what did I—wh-what did I—no! No, mm-mm, no—” The word drew out in a choked-back wail, and she scrambled to her feet, fleeing, as she saw the tears falling from Gadling’s eyes that watched her even now. “No! Nononono—”

And, the knife still clenched in her hand, Guinevere bolted.

[coralinnii]

Congratulations on reaching 2.7k followers! I’m not really surprised, as your writing is phenomenal. Would it be ok to request a continuation of two of your Legend has it... Twisted Halloween series? Specifically, Kalim and Sebek. They were my favourite of the series, and if I remember right they didn’t do well in your polls for this year’s Halloween event. If you already have them ready for Halloween then, just accept my congratulations and have a wonderful day. Thanks for your writing, it all ways brightens my day.

❋ Legend has it… ❋

↳ Sequel to the Twisted Halloween series

feat: Kalim ⭑ Sebek

genre: angst, tragedy, horror

note: sequel to Kalim and Sebek’s vers. in the Twisted Halloween series, no pronouns used, zombie?Kalim, reader is unstable in both vers., soldier!Sebek, ghost!reader in Sebek’s ver., pregnant!reader in Sebek’s ver., mentions of violence and worse in both vers., use of weapons for violence, average word count 700 words

This got darker than I intended…much darker. I cannot stress this enough.

Please regard the warning and make the best choice for yourself. I rather that you draw your own boundaries than for people read my stories. Remember, your mental health is more important than the latest update.

WARNING. Sebek’s story is set during times of war, in which great carnage, cruelty, and inhumane treatment of people occurred. The story reflects the inhumanity of this setting. While I believe in not erasing or running away from the brutality of violence and war, I understand that it can be extremely discomforting and triggering. Viewer discretion is highly advised. By clicking keep reading, you agreed to proceed while understanding the content of the story.

2.7K Followers Writing Event

Kalim felt cold if nothing else. He didn’t know what to expect the moment he closed his eyes, all he hoped was he’d managed to hold on just enough to let you get far away from danger, from what he will become.

He felt lost in the dark, in an almost unreal state of life. Was dying supposed to feel this way? Unsure of what to do, Kalim waited…for something…or nothing.

Then, Kalim felt something. A heartbeat. His own.

It pounded weakly against his heart, like it was out of practice. A beat, then another, and soon a rhythm began.

This beautiful beat started to grow warm in his stiff body, a tingle of a glow spreading through his chest and into his extremities.

“Kalim, wake up” a voice called out to him, tired and desperate but to him, it was the most beautiful sound in the world, because it was your voice.

Warm, rough hands encased his own as felt warmed by the gentle touch. Memories slowly trickled into Kalim’s thoughts, his dark vision filled with sweet smiles and better days. He saw images of you, though his thoughts scattered and he wasn’t sure what he remembered, but that lively warmth he felt seeing you was all he could focus on.

He needs to see it again, your bright smile. He wants to reply to your urgent calls to him. With the strength he thought he lost, the snow-haired man struggled to open his once-white eyes.

Through the blinding light, his eyes finally adjusted to see his memories come to life. Before him, you stood by his laying body with relief washing over your tear-stricken face.

You weren’t alone, however, In contrast to you, the people around you stood in the back, watching the miracle (whether good or bad) before them. Jamil stood between you and the wary strangers, carefully watching for what they might do in hasty fear, and ready for what Kalim (or you) might do.

“Kalim...” You whispered, oblivious (or purposely ignorant) to your precarious surroundings as you jumped to embrace Kalim’s revived corpse, as though you were used to the stiffness of his body. You had no fear left in you, all you felt was joy that your beloved could hug you back. Kalim, though confused, instinctively held you like it was ingrained in his body.

“This is madness!” One of the strangers screamed out, pointing his gun at the monstrosity in your arms. “You’re crazy if you think that thing’s human! There’s no cure, why can’t your crazy brain understa-”

Bang

The survivor screamed out once more in agony as the gush of blood escaped the fresh wound on his calf. The surrounding survivors jumped, either towards their injured comrade, away from him to stir clear of your target. The smoke hissed from the barrel of your gun, the same one Kalim left for you that horrific day.

“Shut up.” The cold tone in your command chilled the audience, not a soul dare to move in fear of incurring more of your wrath. “I promised to bring back those we lost to this cursed virus.”

Caressing Kalim’s cheek which still felt a little cold to the touch, you smiled once more before an icy chill took over your expression, a glare enough to freeze your followers to their spot.

“You followed me because you dreamed of a miracle to bring your friends and family back,” you scanned the anxious looks of your followers, most with guilty expressions over their greedy desires to regain what was lost in this wretched world, just like you. “I show you the breakthrough all of you waited for, but you dare to deny the results?”

You furiously fought back zombies at every corner while you dragged the possessed Kalim back to the safe zone. You spat in the face of the soldiers that refused to let your boyfriend join the survivors. You spent countless nights testing every theory and concoction for a glimpse of progress. With every failure, with every descent to madness, you’ve gotten closer to your miracle.

You’ve dreamed of the day you could return to your happier days, and nobody will get in the way of it.

You grew worried for your green-haired husband but tried to remain calm, if not for you then for your child who is growing steadily in your stomach. You spent the days caressing the warm bulge of your belly, the blanket that Sebek had clumsily knitted for you laying comfortably atop of you.

Typically, you would do your chores and tend to the fields but your family were very accommodating, taking over your responsibilities while caring for your needs. Your younger relatives would tease you, laughing as they told you that Sebek would scold them incessantly if he thought they weren’t tending to you as they should. You laughed along with them.

Then, large ships were seen coming to the shores of your village. You first thought that your husband’s troops returned and with the help of your family, you rushed along with the other villagers to welcome the allies.

Except they weren’t your allies.

Men dressed in unfamiliar attires lined themselves intimidatingly, weapons in arms. They announced that the nation that first promised your hometown’s safety has yielded to their enemies in return for their own safety, and that your village was henceforth under the control of their empire.

All the able men, both young and old, were forced to the fields to gather supplies and the women were made as servants to the invaders that destroyed their homes to build unfamiliar buildings. Even those with children such as you were not spared as you were used as hostages, forcing your families to comply lest they want you and your child’s blood to spill. You felt burning anger building but you instead bit your tongue, your family begged of your compliance, for your innocent child’s sake. Your family tried to console you, at least they spared harm to your unborn child, your relatives would say.

Until the invaders heard wind of who the child’s father was.

A child of the enemy nation, with a devoted lover and family. To them, your family were harbourers of the monstrous enemies, procreating more of their disgusting race. To the invaders, for the sake of the victory of their righteous nation, they must purge the savage bloodline.

Your screams tore out your throat as you begged for the soldiers, for anyone to stop the carnage before you. You were forced to watch along with the crying villagers as your family and many others were cruelly eliminated by the invaders’ hand.

You were dragged to the center of the bloody ground, where your people’s flesh and blood coated the once vibrant greenery of your hometown. The leader of the soldiers coldly dropped a dull knife near your kneeled form.

“That wretched parasite, or your life. That is your choice”

They thought they were being merciful. Should you choose to pierce your child, you had a chance to escape your own death. These soldiers had nothing against, only your child. The child that you wanted to introduce to your husband, looking forward to the day where you could see Sebek nervously trying to hold your child but melt once he felt the bundle of joy in his arms. These horrible men know nothing of the promise you made to your husband, to be by the shores to welcome him with your child wrapped in that messy blanket Sebek made for your precious baby. These foreigners called you barbarians, all while proudly carrying swords stained with your people’s blood.

Through your tears, inhuman rage indulged your soul. The stench of death and the cries of your neighbours as they begged for their lives devoured your sanity. Grabbing the knife before you, you gripped the dirty weapon in your soiled hands and with all your strength, you plunged it…

…into the leader’s heart.

In your blind wrath, you couldn’t even feel the assortment of swords piercing your body. Your eyes blazed with anger as you twisted the knife further your cursed torturer.

“M-Monster!” The wounded leader cried out, his body turning cold over the horrifying sight before him. The once fragile looking barbarian morphed into something inhuman. Your eyes turned into an endless void and your tears turned the same inky black running like blood down your cheeks.

Your vision was red, before it turned black. The last thing you remembered before falling into a sleep-like state, was gently caressing your wounded belly.

You woke up once more in an eerily silent field. Confusion initially filled you until the silent atmosphere broke as a loud child-like cry resonated. You looked down to your lap, and smiled wistfully.

“You must be cold, my child.” Undeterred by the wounds on your body, you started to walk towards your old home, ignoring the scattered remains on the fields. “Come, let’s go get your blanket. We need to welcome your father when he returns.”

[moonlit-aura]

i think The Powers That Be (the big media) are failing to understand that not everything has to be a franchise. not every n years old piece of media needs a reboot, or a version in a different medium, a sequel or a prequel or a midquel, or a live action version.

and i think that we're seeing this at it's worst right now with things like the minecraft movie that is lacking soul enough that it makes our animal brains shriek and recoil because the uncanny valley sense lights up - but not in an 'it's a mask or a doll that's close to realistic but not close enough' way but in an 'oh my god, this is a corpse' way. it's shaped like something you love but doesn't act like it, doesn't move like it, doesn't feel like it. the main component of what made it it is missing. it's entirely money-motivated and we can tell just by looking at it, it's like a zombie.

(putting most of the post under the cut because it got like. long long. embarrassingly so.)

it just kinda feels like we're mid-stagnation of culture. original stuff just isn't being made as much anymore because it's seen as "risky" by the industry. and there isn't even any experimentation going on, just adding on things or getting rid of stuff, and the goal of all this is to make the final product more Digestible, but the side-effect is just this blandness. you're adding water and taking away the seasoning because what if it's too salty for some people, what if it's too spicy because some are more sensitive to that than others, and you end up with a vaguely tasteless sludge. nothing is gained. there's just a ghost of an aftertaste.

and the executives that mainly decide on all this want to continue doing this so much, and for the audience to be like little money-generating sheep blindly watching the same thing over and over again. but unlike sheep, we cannot regurgitate the same thing ad infinitum. we don't have the stomach for it. there's no substance and, arguably, no art in all this.

eisner was kinda onto something when he said that to make money it's necessary to make history and art, and some kind of a statement but it kinda feels like they're trying to skip this step, just keep serving us the same thing. but even the most delicious food, given enough time, gets old and boring, grows stale, and, eventually, goes bad and spoils.

i think that all that is additionally sad because it will inevitably lead to the current media cannibalizing themselves. they're already reaching for laughably young cultural texts like moana and harry potter. what will they do once they catch up to the point of history we're at right now?

[onestormeynight]

Robin Gets A Sequel

With the girls at school and his wife at work, Robin decided to take the day to go fishing. There were several spots he was really interested in visiting between Brindleton Bay and Willow Creek. He took Costello with him, unwilling to leave the dog alone in their house.

Disinterested in staying in one spot, Costello investigated the nearby reeds and shrubbery. He scared off a flock of seagulls and a particularly ambitious squirrel before wandering, filthy, back over to Robin.

"Ah," Robin said. "Well, there are worse things."

Costello shook some mud off of him and onto Robin.

"Yes, quite."

Growing up, Robin had heard people say some crazy things about a particular tree a neighborhood over from his childhood home. He knew there was a fishing spot nearby and decided to investigate the old tree on his way there.

"Interesting," he muttered to himself. The bark seemed to hum under his palm while he took in the various fungi growing from the twisted trunk. "So very interesting..."

Finding nothing else out of the ordinary about the tree, Robin enjoyed a few more hours of fishing before heading home to greet his girls.

"You can't be serious," Rosie groaned.

"I think they look great!" Robin said. "What do you think, girls?"

Nellie gave him a dark side eye while Ida beamed.

"I think they're cool, Dad!" She squealed.

"See, Rosie? Ida likes them."

"Can't you get a fish tank like a decent human? I'm just not sold on corpses on my walls."

"Let me have this."

Rosie rolled her eyes. "They are not going in the bedroom and that's final, don't ask me."

It was a house divided over the fish being mounted on the walls.

((prev)) ((next))

[mareenavee]

It's WIP Whenever Time Again!

Hi. So Wednesday arrived ridiculously fast, didn't it?

I've been tagged for this by the amazing @saltymaplesyrup, @oblivions-dawn and @thequeenofthewinter! Thanks for reminding me what day it was, I was completely unaware LOL

Tagging the fantastic @paraparadigm, @thana-topsy, @changelingsandothernonsense, @snippetsrus, @wildhexe, @elfinismsarts, @nuwanders, @miraakulous-cloud-district, @throughtrialbyfire, @expended-sleeper, @kookaburra1701, @archangelsunited, @dirty-bosmer, @viss-and-pinegar, @ladytanithia, @polypolymorph, @gilgamish, @tallmatcha, @rainpebble3, @late-nite-scholar, @greyborn2 and YOU -- yes, I know I haven't caught all of you in my tags, but I do wanna hear from you, so feel free to tag me back!

I have been BUSY lately with tons of prompts and some ask answers in prose and so I have a smattering of WIP fragments from different projects. SOME are gonna be sequel and/or spoiler territory for World. I'll mark them! Below the cut! THERE IS A LOT. 845 words or so, total.

1) In the Woods Somewhere - a ghost story told about an alternate version of Valenwood where the Wild Hunt went horribly wrong. 145 words.

They tower over all around them, monsters ever shifting from creature to terror and back again, mindless in their fury. All antler, exposed bone, sharp fangs and strips of rotting flesh held together with vines and thorns. If the pallid light of the bioluminescent fungi hits their talons just right, it might look like ebony daggers. But these? They are far sharper, designed to rend flesh from bone—to leave you as nothing but fertilizer for the soil in which new, gnarled trees might grow. There is no care—only malice, forms twisted by violence and starvation. In the darkness, all you can see is the red of their eyes which never leave you as you wander. They stalk through the night as if all living things are prey—as if all that remain in their realm have been deemed the enemy.

And they do not hunt alone.

2) By The Break of Dawn - A collab with @thequeenofthewinter and, for the art side of things, @thana-topsy (: Spooky, Doomed World sort of chaos. 182 words.

[Lydia] struck in the opening Uldwin had given her. She threw all of her fury behind the one movement she’d have time for. That which gave her the strength to drive her sword through his spine was not Aedric in origin, but she would take it, if it meant ending Uldwin’s suffering. She could almost hear Meridia cackle as the holy fire erupted from Dawnbreaker, enveloping his corpse. The stench of dry, burning flesh seared her nostrils and made her eyes water worse. Tears trailed through the ashes and dirt on her face as that which once had been Uldwin collapsed onto the floor at her feet. She withdrew Dawnbreaker with a sickening crunch which turned her stomach. The icy light where his eyes should have been blinked out. It was just as it had always been when fighting draugr.

Uldwin had been more than a draugr, though. He was her brother, in all ways that mattered. Neloth had taken him from her, and now it was time to pay for his crimes. Lydia would not let him escape her ire again.

3) And I'd Like To Say You're Never on My Mind - a fragment in Athis's POV, and is a SPOILER for World. 135 words.

“But you’d already made your choice long before.”

Amazing how easy it was to weaponize words. These, too, cut him as he spoke. He watched as she struggled and failed to hold back more tears. She could have just said instead of leaving him alone in what had once been their home to pace nervously, imagining the million ways she could’ve died. He felt hollow, but resisted once again the urge to wrap her in his arms. She didn’t need another chance. He’d given too many, and lost too much of himself in the process. 

Nyenna did, at least, have the courtesy to nod. She swallowed hard. “I’m so sorry, Athis. I didn’t mean—”

“—you did. You did mean it. Because you always had a choice. And each time you chose anyone else but me.”

4) Untitled Sequel - Teldryn's POV observing his daughter, Eris Sero, after being away from her for three years. Spoilers for World and the Sequel itself. 183 words.

“Ata!” she said with her usual bright smile. Her voice was slightly deeper than the last time he’d seen her, with more of a Winterhold brogue than he’d ever get used to. She regarded him briefly with her one good eye, its vermilion color brought out by the wine red of her mage's robes, then turned her dark eye to him. The grin faltered for a second, and then she reasserted it, shaking her head as if to dislodge a thought. Unnerving, whenever that happened. She dropped her bag there by the railing and rushed to him.

“Hla’sil,” he sighed, and enveloped her in his arms. She’d braided back her white hair, but, just like her mother’s, curls always escaped. He flattened out the shock of black strands that tended to fall into her face and kissed the top of her head. She’d only just turned twenty eight. What was that in human years? Gods, but time didn’t make any sense and passed like the flowing of a river. Ninteen, or there about. Too young for this kind of chaos. She’d always been.

5) Untitled Sequel - Eris's POV on another character, Nammu, technically not an OC. (: Spoilers, major spoilers, for this sequel. 200 words.

The Vision this time didn’t really match the ascetic monk sitting cross-legged before her now, but that didn’t matter much. She knew there was something other about him, even though he pretended to be just another Ashlander wanderer. He had magic, though, and, as Alma would say, the more of that, the better. Ata, she knew, would wholeheartedly disagree. In fact, her mere suggestion of Nammu meeting Ata back at the inn in New Balmora would likely cause problems. She just had a feeling about it, coming from the same place as the memories earlier. Weird.

Nammu stretched as he stood, leaning on a plain wooden staff. Unenchanted. Uncle Neloth would have tutted, calling it a wasted resource, but he was not here now. Nothing on Nammu was actually enchanted at all, come to think of it. Not the plain brown cloak, or the simple linen clothes, nor the dust covered boots. Not even the two lacquered wooden amulets he wore around his neck, one each with the Daedric symbols Ayem and Seht burned into them respectively. Maybe he meant to enchant them eventually. They looked more like mementos, to be perfectly honest, but she was not about to pry.

[phanfictioncatalogue]

Teen And Up Rated (4) Masterlist

part one, part two, part three

Antisocialites Watch A Wilting Flowers (ao3) - det395

Summary: Phil’s an emotionally attached and loving vet and Dan’s the drained receptionist with no dreams at the animal shelter who reconnect over the poor, hurt puppy dropped off. Dan’s boyfriend is their boss.

A Right Wrong Number (ao3) - husbants

Summary: Dan texts the wrong number after going on a date. Lucky for him, the wrong number is a kind man named Phil. And then they keep texting.

boys they wanna paint me (ao3) - chickenfree

Summary: It’s not like Phil’s never had a boy stay over, but they’ve never done this.

Details of an Asteroid (ao3) - dantiloquent

Summary: “If you think about it, aliens probably believe in us, too. We’ve got our own intergalactic cheerleaders.” When Dan and Phil keep bumping into each other, they eventually give in to chance and start talking. Soon enough, Dan makes a home at the library Phil works at, and they talk about nothing and everything so often that there is no going back. The two survive the future just fine, until they learn the flaws of leaning the weight of your existence on someone else’s shoulders.

do you feel it too? (ao3) - heartsopenminds

Summary: A bad break-up has left Phil scared of getting his heart broken again. He’s not ready to date, but he’s missing the easy affection of a long-term relationship.

Cuddle therapy might be the perfect way to get what he needs, with no strings attached. But what happens when that’s no longer enough?

In Bloom For You (ao3) - parentaladvisorybullshitcontent

Summary: In which Phil’s an ex vampire hunter who’s entirely too preoccupied by Dan’s dimple and his eyes and his laugh to notice the fact that he might actually be in love with a vampire (Sequel to Hanging Out With Corpses)

In Which Dan Returns to the Hundred-Acre Wood (ao3) - husbants

Summary: Growing up comes with changes, Dan’s familiar with that. More responsibility. More difficult relationships. Less time running around with your favorite stuffed bear named Winnie the Pooh.

When the first day of year thirteen is finally here, Dan’s life is flipped on its head. He meets Phil, the new boy from the North, and he’s immediately smitten. Dan hates that the world doesn’t like boys that like boys, but maybe a visit to the Hundred Acre Wood, Pooh thinks, will help Dan realize that it doesn’t matter what the world’s opinion is.

is that as good as it gets? (ao3) - dvp_95

Summary: Having Dan around makes it all so much easier that Phil can't imagine a life without him now. He fits into the places where the rest of Phil should be, allows Phil to settle into shape around him.

Let Go Of The Reins (ao3) - natigail

Summary: Dan did not want to go home to his parents’ house the summer after his first year of studying law - which he was failing at - so when a friend suggested a simple job that would keep him busy for three months and give him a place to live, he couldn’t say no. Granted, shovelling horse shit wasn’t glamorous and he was afraid of horses, but the Lester Stables had other things going for it.

Phil was newly graduated with a video editing degree and moving home to his parents’ horse stables, even if he still would not get back on the horse since what happened earlier in the year. He had a complicated relationship with horses to begin with and he had decided he was done riding. When the new stablehand help arrives, Phil finds himself going out to the stables more often despite trying to stay away.

Love is Just an Empty Word You Say (ao3) - starrywrite

Summary: (tw) Phil had gotten so used to being single, but that didn’t mean he wanted it that way forever. Insert Leo, who sweeps Phil off of his feet and steals his heart, and it doesn’t take long for Phil to come to the conclusion that his new boyfriend is an angel. But Leo’s halo and wings aren’t a good enough disguise for the devil inside.

Mind Reader (ao3) - orphan_account

Summary: Dan’s head was always filled with noise. He’d been blessed/cursed with the power to read minds, but not the power to control it. He heard the thoughts of everyone near him, and the constant voices in his head were close to driving him mad.

That is, of course, until he met Phil Lester, the only one who could make his mind go silent.

Piece by Piece (ao3) - TwistedRocketPower

Summary: Phil has learned that the problem is, once it’s all over, you feel like nothing. They’ve trained you. They’ve worked their way inside every single part of your brain until you don’t know who you are anymore. So the hardest part is finding yourself again. It’s learning who you are, because you have only been what they wanted since they became a part of your life. It’s terrifying, and Phil isn’t sure if he’ll be able to do it.

Ridingstone Hall (ao3) - QuietBubbles

Summary: The turn of the 20th century. Much to his surprise, Daniel, an ordinary orphan, secures a position as tutor to an affluent family in the country. However, this stroke of luck soon runs short as he is thrust into a world eternally on the brink of scandal. Warring parents, unhappy children-and the eldest son, miserably engaged to a socialite, soon begins a beautiful secret scandal of his own…

scratch bark bite (oh, love me, i lied) (ao3) - Tarredion

Summary: Music & Drama teacher Dan Howell has a well-known rivalry with his coworker, English teacher Phil Lester.

An unforeseen event flips everything Dan thought he knew about Phil and himself on its head. Slowly but surely, the grudge withers, and the two of them cross the line between enemy and friend. But what will happen when their true intents and feelings get revealed? And was what they had ever really a rivalry? Was it even mutual?

Stirring In Love (ao3) - andthenshesaid-write (ladyknight1512)

Summary: When Phil applied to be a contestant on the Great British Bake Off he didn’t even expect to make the long-list, let alone make it into the actual tent. But make it he does and there he meets Dan, a baker unlike Phil in every possible way. After a rocky start, Phil realises that maybe he can learn some things from Dan after all, and the biggest things have nothing to do with baking.

The Prince and the Youtuber (ao3) - koleen

Summary: Dan Howell is the Prince of England and the first grandson of a late King, and Phil Lester is a famous Youtuber who turns out to be the first grandson of a late King’s Hand, the best friend of the late King. On one night of celebration of their daughters’ pregnancies 18 years ago, the best friends made a drunken pact to marry their first grandchildren to each other the year they both turn 18, completely forgetting to consider that their first grandchildren could both be male.

to all the people i’ve loved before (and the one who actually made me fall in love) (ao3) - natigail

Summary: Phil doesn’t crush on people often, but when he does the emotions seem to overwhelm him. The only way he knows how to deal is to write love letters. They were never meant to be read. 

The most recent letter threatens to ruin his relationship with his big brother Martyn, so in a fit of panic, Phil finds himself turning to the boy who was the recipient of the very first love letter for help. Even if he is Dan Howell, the school heartthrob.

to let the light in (ao3) - cityofphanchester

Summary: Searching for a fresh start after a decade of dead ends in London, Dan becomes obsessed with a storytelling show on Rossendale Radio and a voice that hasn't been broadcast in years.

Unforeseen Firsts (ao3) - intoapuddle

Summary: Dan's studying at Manchester University. Phil lives in his first proper flat. One evening Dan catches Phil doing something a bit embarrassing.

(when you gonna realise) it was just that the time was wrong (ao3) - The_Blonde

Summary: “His notebook is divided into five columns, as much as he can remember. I’m with Dan. I’m not with Dan. Dan is far away from me. I love him, but I shouldn’t. I love him, but I can’t. Dan Howell; an impossible boy turning up in all variations of impossible dreams. The whole reason. The loss of something that you never quite found in the first place.”

Or: Phil works in a coffee shop. Or at an animal sanctuary. Or at a university. Maybe he’s a Youtuber. Maybe he runs an editing firm. Sometimes he’s in the 1920s. In all of these places he has dreams. In all of these places he is in love with Dan. It’s just trying to work out which time is the right one.

[shinozaki-ayumi]

whats ur opinion on the whole 'corpse party is just a never-ending constantly-remixing timeloop' thing? i personally appreciate it because it lets you view character developments not just between one game(and its sequels) but multiple versions of a game/manga.

take yoshiki for example, in the timeline from C-P -> Musume -> CPBCRF/BoS -> 2U -> BD and all its timeloops inbetween.

c-p yoshiki raises SO many red flags (for example the whole attempting to murder satoshi out of jealousy thing... in TWO separate endings) so to see him be... kind of the straight man now shows how The Incident, their experiences, and the loop melts and morphs them-- even though time isnt REALLY passing, theyre still growing and changing.

additionally its how i justify naomi and satoshi growing a bit softer and more timid (can you have PTSD if it hasnt happened yet? the answer is yes!!) and ayumi growing a bit more coarse (SHES SO SICK OF TIMELOOPS!!) yuka doesnt change lol she learns nothing ♡

idk sorry if this is outta nowhere or weird! but ive heard a bit about this theory and wanted to know ur opinions on it since i enjoy the way you interpret copa :}

Not weird at all I love talking about CoPa!!! :D

Long response so it's under the cut!

So I REALLY like this theory. I'm weirdly picky about how I interpret Corpse Party canon though, so for me, there's two versions of the story. One of them, and the one I tend to base my personal headcanons and general understanding of the characters on, is JUST the "correct" ending route of Blood Covered. That's the one I hold as the "real" story, I guess? I always liked how neat and tidy it wraps up, to the point that I don't even like to acknowledge the following events (aka Blood Drive lol). I think it works really well as a standalone, almost traditional ghost story (AKA appease the spirit and everything is ok, minus some Emotional Trauma).

BUT since Book of Shadows is a thing, time loops are baked into Corpse Party canon. So I have a second, alternative view of the series that functions similarly to what you described!! In which every wrong end in Blood Covered, all of 2U, and all of Book of Shadows actually happens, as a symptom of the time loop ending in chapter 5. I like to imagine that eventually, out of pure (subconscious) frustration, they push through it and only AFTER experiencing all the "wrong ends" do they get the "correct" ending and appease Sachiko, allowing them to move on to Blood Drive. They just don't know it on a conscious level lol. Granted this kind of breaks the rules set by the games (since Satoshi is aware of the time loop occurring in both Blood Covered and Book of Shadows), but uh...

What I hadn't really considered was adding in all the endings from Corpse-Party 98 and the mangas... While I think I still personally prefer limiting my personal "canon" to the PSP era onwards, I definitely think it makes sense to incorporate the entirety of the very extensive Corpse Party library!! CP98 in particular sticks out to me because I love a lot of the really dramatic endings in that game and I kind of wish they carried over to the PSP remake lol. And like you said, adding CP98 to the overall timeline really lends itself to interesting character development... Considering the ending in that game where Yoshiki disappears (or potentially kills himself?) after Ayumi dies to the anatomical model, my heart kind of aches at the thought that after seeing her die so many times over and over again he eventually becomes the ultra-protective version of him we see in the "canon" endings of Blood Covered and Blood Drive :')

So I think I may start at least incorporating the original game into my understanding of the time loop canon!

[dianight]

I've done a reread of dunmeshi from chapter 52 (where the anime ends) and we just got confirmation that season 2 has started production.

A minor thought: it will be as good (if not better) than everyone insists it is. It is going to be annoying, but it's a good story and the praise is deserved.

Other thoughts, with spoilers:

Kabru is actually right in that the world ending was his fault for not letting Mithrun kill Thistle. While his reasoning at the time was solid, banking on Laios like that was a massive gamble.

We never see the demon eat Marcille's desire to arrange her hair, no doubt a tasty meal... So I wonder what other "minor" desires he could have eaten off her or Thistle.

All demons are part of the same being (hardly a being, more like a force of nature or even a concept) and they share memories yet are different individuals.

Even while in mortal danger, Laios never stopped trying to understand the demon to find a way to overcome it. They were just that delicious huh?

Thistle dying(?)/completely giving up is what lifts the spell that sunk the kingdom. I always assumed he dies right there, but a poll about who could be his caretaker after the story made me check to make sure and it's not confirmed. He just doesn't need anything anymore...

Marcille did nothing wrong. I know it sounds like a meme but given the circumstances it was literally impossible to get any other outcome. It was her or Laios.

After the demon eats Thistle desire to live (?) (the big one that looks like some manysided crystal) he grows in size from a goofy face to the form he keeps the rest of the series.

Just like the goat with Mithrun, eating Thistle alone was actually not enough to break through the dungeon and reach the surface.

The panel after Marcille carries everyone's corpses inside after fighting the rabbits and she lays down crying is heartbreaking. Did you even stop to think about what it would be like for me to be surrounded by everyone's dead bodies...? Her literal worst nightmare made real.

If all demons share their memories, is getting one of them enough to stop all others? Or do they now know their own weakness? Can anyone else even digest, let alone eat their hunger?

I'd like to see a sequel where Izutsumi goes beat up the sorcerer that transformed her.

Chapter 87 remains the best one in the series.

[redstuffs-ig]

okay FUCK IT time to ramble about my weird lil OC verse / story project. TW mentions of child death

so for context I should clarify where the inspo came from: I was listening to Creature Feature obsessively, as any fan of spooktober should, more specifically The Greatest Show Unearthed and its sequel, The Greatest Show Unearthed Returns. Both are bangers, check em out, detailing the story of a travelling dark carnival that murders kids and them returning for a survivor long after their first show. I had been thinking of this premise for a bit now, but with the help of a friend I managed to work out a lil story of sorts!

Eleven-year-old Norman Barclay lives an ordinary, albeit boring life in a small, dying town. With nothing to do besides watch paint dry, it comes as quite the surprise when one day, his friend Devin presents him with a pamphlet to the so-called Dark Carnival, a travelling freakshow setting up on town for one night only. The two sneak out to the town's outskirts without their parents' knowledge, as the pamphlet advertises, reaching a massive fairground that wasn't there the night before. Here they meet the Ringmaster, a charismatic showman with a sense of otherworldly mystique to him. Checking the tickets of the two gleeful boys, he introduces the show as "The Terrifying Dark Carnival", a land where fear and fantasy come to life, and where their every wish can come true, for a price. Absolutely captivated with the supernatural attractions and fascinating freaks, the boys gladly indulge in every show the fair has to offer, from fortune readings by a sightless witch to feats of unearthly acrobatics by a troupe of skeletons. They also meet the performers, each more strange and weird than the last: Characters such as Marvelous Mortimer and Giggles, a dynamic duo compromised by a thin, lanky magician and a brutish, hulking clown; Tiffany Saint, the ringmaster's lovely assistant who seemed to exude charma and safety; the Formidable Viktor, a powerful strongman with arms so wide he seemed closer to a gorilla than a human, and the Monster Of A Thousand Beasts; a horrifying chimera of different animals that was kept around like a taming act.

They separate some time into the fair, but when Norman heads backstage to find Devin, he discovers a horrific scene: His friend's mangled corpse, with the showgirl looming over it, mouth unhinged and lined with horrific, jagged teeth. He runs out of there, using a vat of acid to disorient that monster as he escapes, only to find the carnival deserted. The entrance is locked by a gate, set to open when the show departs at the end of the night. Surviving the troupe for hours, Norman is constantly observed by the Ringmaster from his platform, as the entire cast seemed to transform into horrific demons before his eyes. However, Norman somehow kept dodging death, to the growing irritation of the sinister Ringmaster. In the final hour, the man himself stepped off the stage to hunt him down, but just before he can, Norman escapes.

The experience would haunt the sole survivor for fifteen years, during which he would research the Dark Carnival extensively: Record of a travelling band of demons posing as performers stretched back to medieval times, from European city centres to the islands of Japan. Plagued by horrific nightmares, the circus would call to him long after its departure. However, now a grown man, Norman would never expect to find a ticket for an exclusive performance by the Dark Carnival, in town for one night only, just for him.

Deciding to confront his fears, Norman headed for the carnival at the same place where it all began, fifteen years ago. Face to face with the Ringmaster, he was surprised to find the snake-like man grinning ear to ear at his arrival. He greeted him like an old friend, almost excited to subject him to one final nightmare. Unlike last time, the troupe was angry, wasting no time in hunting him down: They remembered the one that got away, and Norman remembered them too, foiling them with snarky taunts rather than terrified whimpers. And the Ringmaster grinned.

As the final hour set in, Norman returned to the centeal grounds to a gut-wrenching sight: The troupe lay slaughtered and mutilated, the Ringmaster standing proudly above the corpses. He clapped at Norman's arrival, calling for an encore, brimming with pride at the sole survivor's daring and cunning. Face to face with the architect of the nightmare, Norman steeled himself for the final showdown, but something made him pause: His entire adult life had been a long, waking nightmare ever since that horrible day, and he had never found peace in the world of the living. Even if it had shattered his mind, there was something alluring about the Carnival. Something dark and wretched, planted into his soul fifteen years ago and now festering deep within him...

The Ringmaster grinned.

whew that was a lot lmfao- Yeah uh. Just felt like sharing!! Me and my pal duke are obsessing over this so now we expose you to it too lol

[sparxwrites]

the whole world, i fear

(a sequel to "wearing thin"; this will make very little sense without reading that first.) cw for suicide attempts, self-injury, temporary character death, and amnesia / memory alteration [ao3]

Build for us, the Watchers say.

Grian, on his knees under the hot midday sun, says nothing. His hands, shaking, are caked with sand and dirt. There’s sweat on the back of his neck, caught in the gold of his hair. The corpse, curled beside him in the sand, is colder than it has any right to be.

It has no right to be cold. Not when the sun is so high and so hot. Not when Grian’s own pulse is beating like an accusation in his ears. Not when it looks like, for all the world, Scar could simply be taking a nap.

Grian says nothing. He has no words. Just unclean hands, and a corpse, and a waiting grave.

The moon unfolds once more, huge and heavy under the midday sun. The weight of its eyes on him, Watching, is almost unbearable. Build for us, Xelqua.

No, says Grian, because there is nothing else to say. His voice sounds almost as hollow as the denial itself. They’ll get what They want in the end. They always do.

The Watchers say, If you ever want to see your friends again, you will build for us.

Grian looks at their tower on the mountain. At the sand beneath his knees. At the fields of lush wheat not twenty feet from the shallow grave he’s scraped into the dirt. He looks at the blue, cloudless sky, at the hot midday sun. He looks at the full, Watching midday moon.

He looks at the corpse by his knees.

It’s sun-warm, but not person-warm, and so bewilderingly still. He can feel it leeching warmth from his hand, when he presses a palm against pressed one bloodied cheek. The jagged wound across its throat stares at him, stares at him, yet another accusatory eye.

Yeah, he says. Okay. I’ll build for you.

-

Weeks after Scar first dreams of the desert, he finds the mansion.

Mumbo’s there, too. Unsurprising, really. Mumbo’s always places he shouldn’t be, where you wouldn’t expect him to be. And always places you would expect him to be. Mumbo’s always places, really, in general – though it’s not usually his fault. Usually, it’s because he’s been dragged there by– by–

[By ▋▋▋▋▋.]

By someone, anyway. Today, though, he seems to have very successfully dragged himself somewhere unexpected, all on his own. Scar’s almost proud. They’ll make a troublemaker of him yet.

Scar, says Mumbo, like he’s not surprised to find Scar here.

Mumbo, says Scar. He finds he’s not surprised to find it’s the three of here, either.

Two of them. Just two of them. Not three. His dyslexia’s branching out into numbers, it seems.

They stand together, in silence, amongst the jungle trees, for a long time. The mansion looms over them – enormous, unfinished, abandoned. It is beautiful. It is exquisitely crafted. It is somehow very, very wrong.

Is it yours? asks Mumbo. He says it like he already knows the answer.

Scar shakes his head. He doesn’t bother asking if it’s Mumbo’s. Mumbo doesn’t build like this. And, besides – he knows it’s [▋▋▋▋▋’s] not Mumbo’s, just like Mumbo knew it [was ▋▋▋▋▋’s] wasn’t his.

Mumbo touches his moustache, twisting the tip of it between thumb and forefinger. They both stand, watching the mansion a little longer, like it might grow a mouth and talk to them. Might offer up its secrets.

It’s probably nothing to worry about, says Mumbo, eventually. Maybe it spawned in naturally? Mojang might be trying out something new with the woodland mansions. Or maybe X had some trouble with some of the data packs…? Or it’s one of the others. I bet that’s it, actually. I bet this is for some secret future event someone’s setting up. We’re probably

It’s not a woodland mansion, and it’s not from a data pack, and it’s not from one of the others. Scar doesn’t know how he knows it, but he knows where this building is from. It belongs to the desert that’s been haunting his dreams for weeks.

It’s probably fine, says Mumbo, and then, We should probably still go, though. Because, you know. Spoilers, and all that.

Scar doesn’t bother to call him out on either of the the obvious lies.

-

They place a shovel in his hands, and Grian realises what they mean by build for us.

They want him to build them a new server. They want him to build them a new landscape. By hand. Thousands of blocks. Hundreds of thousands of blocks. Millions. All done by hand. They want it dug to bedrock and built again, from the ground up, the whole damned space between the four walls They use to keep him caged in, like an animal, like a rat, like a monkey that is dancing for Their amusement as They watch and watch and Watch–

When he realises what They are doing, what They intend to make him do, he kills himself. He forges a sword, a short and jagged thing, and drives it through his own throat. He dies choking on his own blood, and thinks, as he exhales wet crimson in a final dying breath: Is this what it was like for him?

He chooses not to respawn.

He respawns, regardless.

His death does not stick. They do not allow it to. The moon Watches as he is dragged back to life, netted thrashing in the golden light of the respawn, midday-high and malice.

He comes back bloody, wild-eyed, shaking. There is still dirt under his fingernails. There is still blood in his lungs. There is a scar on his neck, crimson-new, livid, carved into the same place he had opened up Scar’s neck with a blade. That act feels more and more like a mercy kill with every passing beat of his reluctant heart. Feels more and more like his own damnation.

The shovel is still in his hands.

-

Scar goes back to the mansion. Against his better judgement, he goes back. The thought of it itches at him, then niggles at him, then starts to consume him during absent periods of waking. Not at night, though. His nights are reserved, as always, for dreams of the desert.

He has convinced himself, in his absence, that it might really have been a pre-generated structure after all. That Mumbo had been right, and that there was some explanation for it, some perfectly normal explanation. That returning would show him this, and would free him of his worrying, and would let him lay down the unease he’s been carrying like weights at the foot of the building’s front door.

There is not a normal explanation. He cannot lay down the weights

The mansion is hand-built. He walks its halls, its various floors, its rooms. The details are all wrong for something made by the universe, all right for something made by [▋▋▋▋▋] a player. The back is unfinished. There is a chair pulled out of the kitchen table, a kettle on the stove, an empty coffee cup left carelessly on the table.

It might be a leftover, from someone on the server before. He grasps at the idea with both hands, desperate, as he stands in the kitchen. This should be a new server, but someone might have been here before. Xisuma, as much as Scar loves him, is not the most competent admin. There might have been someone here before.

There is mould growing on the bottom of the coffee cup, thin and fuzzy green-white.

Scar wonders, idly, how long it’s been there, to grow mould. Then he wonders, not at all idly, how long mould lasts when it is grown on coffee dregs. He wonders exactly how long they’ve been on this server.

He does not like the conclusions his common sense brings him too. He does not like the way this place makes his brain feel stretched thin, pressed-against, straining. He does not like the way his skin prickles, like there are eyes on the back of his neck.

Like someone is Watching him.

The eyes fade when he leaves. The wrongness lingers. That night, his dreams are different.

Still, there is the desert. Still, there is the mountain, the fortress, the gold sand-wheat-halo. There is a llama, as there often is.

But, in this dream, there is also a moon.

The moon is made of eyes, and they all blink at different times, unharmonised. The moon speaks in a voice that makes the fine bones of Scar’s ears hurt, even from a distance. And then the moon is no longer the moon, it is a person, and it is the moon, and it is eyes-wings-shapes-pain, and it hurts to look at. Scar cannot look away.

In his dream, the moon Watches him back.

-

Grian builds. He does not know how long it has been, since he started building. He doesn’t dare think about how long it will take him to finish building. His hands are bloody, blistered, callused. They shake as he sets another block down, and then another, and then another. Lines upon lines of them, layers upon layers.

He pauses, to wipe the sweat from his eyes. His jumper is gone, discarded somewhere under the heat of the sun. The tank top underneath bares his shoulders, arms, forearms, wrists to the high, hot midday sun. To the Watching midday moon.

Sunburn crawls across his shoulders, the back of his neck. Scars, new and red and angry, crawl vertical up to the crooks of his elbow. There are too many of them to count, rivers of ragged, overlapping lines. They match the one across his throat, as red as blood, twice as rough to the touch.

He’d hoped, each time, that this time the death would stick. Each time, he’d hoped in vain.

They’d started taking the swords he made away from him, after the tenth time he opened up his wrists. They’d confiscated his iron entirely, next, when he made buckets and took to drowning himself in them. They couldn’t stop him throwing himself off the cliffs he carved into the landscape, but they could force featherfalling onto his boots, until it became almost impossible to fall far enough to truly die.

He’s discovered, through experience, that he cannot starve to death here.

He’s taken, recently, in the absence of anything else, to sharpening the edges of his shovel. The angle’s all wrong to get it at his throat, but he can manage his wrists just fine. The skin parts easily, there, well-worn, eager to open under the slightest pressure. As if his body, too, wishes to die, not just his frantically screaming mind.

It takes a little longer, with the wrists, but that’s fine. It’s not like he doesn’t have time to kill.

He still respawns shaking, though. The moon still Watches.

He hardly notices its gaze any more, though. He hardly notices anything, any more. Hardly feels anything, any more.

He places another block. He sharpens the edge of his shovel blade, absently, against a nearby chunk of deepslate. He places another block. His forearms itch. The new shovel should be just about sharp enough, now, he thinks. He places another block. He pauses.

Pressing blade to wrist is more a reflex, now, than anything. It’s just muscle memory. Instinct. Mindless.

They must want to take the shovel from him. They must. But They can’t take it from him. Not yet. He’s made sure of that. There’s still sand left to dig, and so gets to keep his shovel. He gets to keep his one way out, even if the out is for a minute, a second, the barest fraction of a second, before they wrench him back. He gets to keep his shovel. Because there’s still sand left to dig.

Or, at least, he tells himself that’s why he’s left the desert ‘til last.

-

Are we missing somebody, Mumbo? asks Scar, over his sixth finger of whiskey. There’s a slight slur to his words. It’s the only reason he’s brave enough, stupid enough, to ask the question that’s been haunting him for weeks now. Haunting him just like his dreams of the desert. When he looks down at it he golden liquid in the crystal tumbler reminds him of the midday desert, of sun on shifting sand and overripe wheat and a halo of golden hair around [▋▋▋▋▋’s] someone’s head.

Mumbo blinks, once, a little stupidly. What? he asks.

They both know he heard perfectly.

Scar shakes his head. Downs his whiskey. Pours himself another finger, and swirls it around the bottom of the tumbler. The circle of it, the circle of gold, reminds him of– Doesn’t matter, he says. Ignore me.

They sit in silence for a while, with their drinks.

I don’t think we are, says Mumbo, eventually. His nose, and the tips of his ears, are very red. His eyes are a too shiny. The chair to his left, the third chair in front of his fireplace, is empty in a way that feels significant. I mean. Who else would there be?

I don’t know, says Scar. No. You’re right. Stupid question. Who else would there be?

Neither of them sound convinced.

-

Grian finishes building. The server is new, lush, filled with trees and grass and rivers. Mountains, too. The waters are full of fish, the land full of creatures. Below the dirt, ores lace through the rock, abundant. It is beautiful. It is a paradise. It is soaked through to bedrock in Grian’s blood.

There, Grian says. His voice is dead, flat. Unlike his hands, it does not shake. I built your bloody server for you. Enjoy. Now let me go. He puts his jumper back on, rolls the sleeves down to hide his ragged forearms. There is a scar across the front of his throat, wide and livid, that even the rollneck of his jumper cannot hide.

Oh, no, says the moon. It has no mouth – only eyes, eyes upon eyes upon eyes, always watching and watching and Watching – but still it smiles. Whoever said anything about letting you go?

You did, says Grian. There is dread in his heart, bile in his throat. His wrists itch. You said you’d let me go.

We did not, says the moon. We said you would get to see your friends again. But don’t worry. We always keep our promises.

-

>Smajor1996 has joined the game

>Rendog has joined the game

>InTheLittleWood has joined the game

>PearlescentMoon has joined the game

>SmallishBeans has joined the game

>EthosLab has joined the game

>ZombieCleo has joined the game

>Bigbst4tz2 has joined the game

>TangoTek has joined the game

>BdoubleO100 has joined the game

>LDShadowLady has joined the game

>ImpulseSV has joined the game

>Skizzleman has joined the game

>SolidarityGaming has joined the game

>MumboJumbo has joined the game.

-

Grian does not cry. He does not scream. He does not fall to his knees and weep.

His breath catches in his throat, instead. He is forced to stillness by his own terror, his own exhaustion, his own disbelief. He stands there, trembling, wild and shocky as an animal fresh-caught in a trap. He presses the sharp edge of his shovel to his wrist, on reflex.

There is a name missing from the list.

He waits, barely breathing, barely daring to hope. Maybe he has been spared. Maybe he, amongst all of them, has been spared– Maybe one of the others, the new ones, was taken in his place– Maybe, maybe, maybe–

-

Scar falls asleep in his bed.

When he wakes up, he is not in the jungle. He is not in the desert, either.

He is, instead, somewhere else entirely.

-

>GoodTimeWithScar has joined the game.

-

>Grian was slain by Grian

>Grian has joined the game

-

>Server: Welcome to Last Life!

[mrultra100]

Ultra's Ramblings- The WWD '13 Retrospective

“Every fossil tells a story… even if said story is a bunch of jumbled-up nonsense”

As hard as it is to believe it, this month marks the 10 year anniversary of the Walking with Dinosaurs movie, which originally came out in theaters all the way back in 2013. I’m just as shocked as you all that this damn thing’s been around for an entire decade now, but nonetheless, I feel like a quick article is in order to describe some of my personal thoughts on the movie, and how it could’ve been great.

For those who don’t have context for this mini-retrospective, along with the film in question, this was a movie adaptation of the much beloved Walking with Dinosaurs mini-series made by the BBC. The documentary set out to show off the lives of dinosaurs, along with the other animals that they shared the world with during the time. Unlike later nature documentaries like the Planet Earth series, which focus on various scenes of different animals living in the same type of habitat (Deserts, Islands, etc), WWD’s episodes respectively set themselves in a single location, with the focus being on a central animal. New Blood focused on Coelophysis in Arizona during the Late Triassic, Cruel Sea showing off Ophthalmosaurus living on the Jurassic islands that would one day become Europe, Death of a Dynasty being focused on T. Rex in Hell Creek before the KT extinction, etc.  While the science behind this show hasn’t aged well during the nearly 25 years since its release (coughcough150tonLiopleurodoncoughcough), the storytelling present throughout the 6 episodes were beautifully crafted. And that aspect of the franchise stuck around for the various sequels and spin-offs that would follow in the years since. This thing even got a stage show for Darwin’s sake! It’s safe to say that, as the first big paleo-documentary to come out after Jurassic Park, WWD has left a pretty big impact for paleomedia as a whole, one that we’re still feeling to this very day.

With all of that said… where the hell did the movie go wrong? To answer that question, some history is needed. Back when this film was first announced, the plan was for the movie to have no dialogue (aside from the narrator, obviously). It would’ve been like a theatrical version of the original show, if it wasn’t for the hivemind of brainless, money-grubbing executives at Fox, who saw the movie in its early stages and thought “Hey, why not add in a bunch of unnecessary voice overs, dumb jokes, and pointless pop songs into this film?” It felt like they were trying to cash off of The Land Before Time, despite that franchise being a zombie begging to go extinct at that point. And thus, that’s how this film was hijacked to be nothing more than brainless nonsense aimed at little kids. That just not only feels disrespectful at the franchise as a whole, but it’s also disrespectful towards children. I, along with many others, grew up with the original series growing up, and they had things like a pair of cynodonts eating their own babies, the Liopleurodon suffocating under his own weight on a beach, a recently-hatched Gastornis being eaten alive by a swarm of giant ants, the gorganopid’s mummified corpse during the early Permian segment in Monsters, Chased by Sea Monsters ending with an entire horde of mosasaurs converging on the Ancient Mariner (And possibly devouring Nigel Marven and his crew), among other things. Yes, this movie had a few frightful moments, with the biggest being the forest fire scene, along with Patchi and Scowler watching their own father get killed off by one of the Gorgosaurus during the aforementioned fire (And that scene didn’t felt forced), but a good portion of the time, it’s just unfunny jokes and pop songs.

With all of that said, while much of the film reeks of suck, there are some good things to be had here. Firstly, the animation. As much as I wished they used props and puppets like in the original show, the animation still holds up well even after 10 years. The dinosaurs blend with the live-action environments, and for the most part, they still hold up with scientific accuracy. Another point to bring up is the setting that this movie takes place in. Keeping up with the tradition of the franchise showing lesser-known animals and ecosystems, this film is set in Alaska, 70 million years in the Late Cretaceous. During this time in Earth’s history, the dinosaurs that lived here had to deal with long summers, where the sun didn’t set for months. On the opposite side of that, the winters that followed were freezing, with the moon looming over the dinosaurs’ heads for an equally long time. It was a tough place to live, and the dinosaurs who lived there adapted to live in the cold. Not only are species like Pachyrhinosaurus, Gorgosaurus (which was renamed as the more-fitting Nanuqsaurus in the Prehistoric Planet re-cut), Edmontosaurus, Edmontonia, Chirostenotes, and more were showed in the film, they looked gorgeous with their designs.

And as much as this film’s humor is child-friendly to an excessive degree, I do have to admit that I liked Alex a good bit. Don’t get me wrong, a good portion of his jokes are some of the lowest common denominators I’ve seen in a film, he still had my interest a good bit. The scene where he helps Patchi realize that living for something he loves is better than dying in vain was one of the few times where the film felt genuine and not-forced. If the dialogue wasn’t so riddled with brain dead humor and had a vibe more like a mix of both the original show and Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron, I certainly would’ve liked it more. Back to Alex for a bit, my final comment about him is how I feel he might actually be a sort of god…

…I know you’re about to laugh at me for saying that one of the characters in a bastardized movie adaptation of a beloved paleodoc is a god, but hear me out a bit. At the start of the film, he telepathy talked to some kid in the modern world as a crow, morphed into an Alexornis and flew off into the Cretaceous somehow, is able to break the 4th wall multiple times, was somehow able to rewind footage of the film itself, even fade out of existence at the end of the film. I might be crazy for this, but Alex might be some sort of all-powerful, telepathic bird god. How else can he talk without his beak moving? That right there is the magic of a literal deity, and we should've all realized this back in 2013 and given him the respect he deserved! THE TRUTH NEEDS TO BE MADE!

Amen, sorry for all of that. I went a bit crazy back there. Getting back to the topic at hand, those are my thoughts on Walking with Dinosaurs 2013; A film based on one of the most legendary paleomedia franchises, but was ultimately wasted potential by out-of-touch parasite executives. They went and turned the WWD brand into a laughing stock, and it still stings to this day. All of this makes me appreciate modern paleodocs like Prehistoric Planet and even Life on Our Planet from Netflix even more. At least they both had visions that weren’t dabbled with alot. All of this were my personal thoughts on the movie, so if you want more in-depth looks into the movie and its history, check out the videos made by Kody Cook and Rickraptor105, along with the Letterboxd review made by IsaiahCTorre. They all made great reviews discussing what went wrong with this fossil. Oh, and speaking of fossils…

Ę̴̘̖͎͇̹̲͇̱̞͇̺̫͎̲̟͖̰͚̰̰̥͈̣͔̰̬̹͔̥͙͋̀̊̌̎̈́̋͛̊̓̂͛́͒͛͑̉͛͒̑̂̉͛̀͆̀̀̾͗̄̈́͛͋̈́̆̊̌̂͐̈́͆͌͊̕̚͠͠͝͝͝ͅͅͅV̷̧̢̢̨̧̡̢̛̛̟͇̘͔̣̭̤̰̠͖͚̝̲̳͚̹̖͍̖̮͇̞͈̺̝̹͔̻͚͚̠͈̥͕̠̱̤̦͍̺͐̏͝ͅͅȨ̴̡̛̯̘̟̯̙͍̖͔̯̰̭̬͍̯̮̗̞̣͕͔̮̦͚͖̰̱̼̺̖̲̻̪̹͈̫̤̭̙̠͓̦̬͎̩̉̎̿̂̉̏́͒̅̅̒͋̑̇͊̈́̈́͋̒̌̓̕̚͜͜͝R̷̡̡̨̡̖̠͓̼̪̖̗͎̝̱͍͚̼̱͖̩̖̻̠̝͍̗͈͕̘̹̼͕̲̦̞̩̘̱̭͇̪͖̗̫̤͇̰̳̊̋̀͜Y̸̨̨͓̘̯̖̰͎͇̙͕̓̆̓̈́̂̽̌͜ ̶̡̧̡̡͉̙̠̯̳̥̗̲͙̲̲͎͉͚̱̼̹̯͇̱͙̹̫̘̺̗̤͉͍̙͕͚͍̂̾̔͒͒̈́̕̚͜͠F̸̯̜̞̮̪͉̲̟̯̗̹͕̝͖̜̳̼̠̳̰̖̆̔͗͒̂̌̀͌͘͝ͅͅǪ̸̢̧͓̰͔͖̞̙̮̳̗̠͚̼͇͎̮̪̥͉̬̰͉͕̙̲̹̤̤͔͚̦̫̮̪̳̻͖̦͌̀̍̿͒͗͜͝Ş̴̥̻͖̬̣̬͖̜̹͚͎̘͕̞̪̎̎̎͝S̴̢̡̯̲͔̙̥̱̮̘̣͎̣̖͕͈̥̪͈͉͎̮̼̦̣͍̫̜̈́̇͒̈́͛̆͗̒̔͑̀̈́̎͌̿͒̿̽̊̌̈́͐̈́̈́̒͑̈́͗̈́̈̿̈́͛̋̊͋̇̀̚͘̕̚͘͘͜͝͝I̵̡̛̠̿́̀̄͒̎̑͂̑͆͊̀̾̏̚͝͠L̷̡̢͎̘͈̥̲̄̎̆̀̓̿̔̋͛͐̓̚̚ͅ ̶̨̢̡̨̛̛͔̱̬̱̙͓̫̦̦̹̬̠̞̻̻͈̝̰͔͇̙̦̥̫̰̠͉͎̩̦̱̠̼̪͆̄̓̇͌̎̍̿̈́̂̎̄̀͆̓͒̽̒͌̄͛̅́͊̉̾͂͜͝͝T̷̡͓̤͙̺̖̻͎͓̭̠̤̄̑͒͐͊̊̃̂̐̑͋̅̄͋̐̓̊̿̎̋́̈́͌̈́̈́̆̎͐̅̓̓́́̅͋̾͋̈́̄͒̏̈́̏̚͘͝͠͝Ȩ̵̢̨̧̨̛͙̪̹͔̗̣͚̺̠̲̖̪̤͙̩̟̠̳̱͖͚̳͗̊̂̒̿̒̂̃̾́͛͋͆̾̊̐̓̃͋̃̅̐̓̍̃̀̒͌̆͗̐̒̆̄͋̄͂̓̂̅̎̀̚͘̕̚͘͜͝͝ͅL̵̢̛̜̯͈̮̎̽̆̎̑̒͑͋̽̀̈́́͛̌̊̂̉͆̓̈́͆̀́͂̇͐̅̉̈̋̓̿̆̔́͑̈́̾̆̈́͐́̇̽̎̽̒͘͠ͅĻ̶̨̨̡̢̧̡̧̛̛̱͇̥͙̬̦̪̪̥̼͔͔̰̻̥̠̲̹̳̗̗̪͇̲̗̞̜̤̘̟̙͉͎̱̬̥͗̈́́̐̑̓̀̀̆̆̈́̒̊̊̒̈́̀͂̅̋̈́̄́͒̉́̃̾̆̈̓̈́͑̆͋̋͝͝ͅŞ̸̨̢͖̙̩̻͇̞̞̳̅͆̄̃̍̍́͛̈̎͋͌̇̍̊̍̋̑̋͘ ̶͔̹͇̠͈̠̭̑̄̇̔͛͌̈̉̔͒̄̚͝͠͠͝Ȁ̸̧̡̧̛̙̘̞̦̫̤͕̰͓̙̱̗͎͕̝͋̾̇̈́̄̃̓̓̈́̔̀̄̓͆̕̚͜͜͠͝͝ͅ ̶̨̢̡̢͔̦̖̪̱̥̣̭̝̥͙̱̝͇̦̠͆͋̀̊̚S̵̡̖̙̟̻͙͕̖͕̙̣̻̩͚̥̼̪̞̈̓̆̑͋̅͑̃̍ͅŢ̴̧̨̧̢̧̛̛̛̠̮̙̪̯̱̳̗͙̣͔͉̳̟̳͈̝̻͕̼̬̱͕͎̤̼͔̖̳̄̾̓́̓͆̐̇͗̈͗͛͒͂̊̈́̍̇̄̊͌͜͠͠͝͝Ô̸̙̥̦̍̇͌̈́̑̅͂̋̎͆͂͛̎̊̇̽̊̆̿͠͝͝͝Ŗ̶̢̛̘̜͕͉̹͕͎͎̹̯͈̤̼̲͈̪͉͆̆̽̅̑̑͒̓̈́̽̽͐͆̽̀͂̋̒͌͛͗̂̔͌̀͋̈́̏̋͌̆̀̚̕͘͘͝͝͝ͅͅỶ̷̧̡̛̫͕̳̼̘̗̝̭͓̪̦̝̗̱̗̞̦͓̻̝͖̻̰͈͉͉̼͚̘̗̬͈͙̔̎̈́̅̂͗̌̑̌̌͂́̐̐̉̑͗͂̑͛̏͒͋̄́̓̾͊̾̊̅̍͆͒͋͗̕̕ͅͅ

[sseanettles]

nothing grows in corpses (in the earth of me)

dream x hob gadling | mature | Finally cross-posting my take on the fandom classic of the show progresses as the comics do, even to The Wake. Until Death resurrects Morpheus and forces the choice of "redemption" upon him instead of suicide. It goes...horribly. No good. Very bad. Instead of learning the lesson, Morpheus (in his infinite wisdom) opts instead for a highly effective existence strike until one day Hob Gadling stumbles upon his ghastly handiwork and immediately decides that this just won't do. Man Who Refuses To Die vs. Man Who Refuses To Live: fight.

Dead Dove, Do Not Eat for the following: graphic depictions of starvation, illness, suicidal ideation, self-harm, blood and gore, loss of autonomy, etc. etc. This is some classic old world whump, folks! But I promise it's also supremely healing in the end.

CH. 20: meteorite song | 2.3 k | AO3 link | prev part

(or: the one where it ends. for now.)

Morpheus woke in a gasping, harrowing rush that turned into his releasing sobs of the Dreaming, and he was greeted by an immediate cacophony of startled screams, shattering glass, and several toppling thuds. There was the smell of leather, of binding glue, of paper and paint and tea and Chinese take-out. The ceiling above him was pale with dark, exposed beams lit by amber lamps. Gadling; it was Gadling’s flat, Gadling’s ceiling, and that meant…he was awake.

“Fucking shit, Endless!”

Home.

Two sets of footsteps barreled toward him, a body hitting the floorboards beside him while another vaulted onto the sofa, making him bounce. Constantine’s face loomed above him, her hair pulled back into a ponytail that couldn’t quite keep her bangs out of her wide eyes, and…her bangs.

His already thudding heart sped faster, adrenaline cutting the fog of his brain like a blade and staying his tears with dread instead.

“Robbie!” Gwen was calling somewhere to his right. “Okay, Robbie, you did it, come on.”

Constantine’s bangs had not always been that shape. How long had they been in the Dreaming? How long had Gadling—

Constantine rolled her eyes with a scoffing smirk. “Oh, calm down, you. Trimmed my hair in the loo just to fuck with you.” A groaning burst of a laugh punched from Morpheus’ ribs, and he tipped his head back into his pillows as he gripped Constantine’s arms as if she were the last thing keeping him tethered to reality. “Welcome back. It’s been five days.”

Five days. Five days.

“It’s done, Robbie. Now, wake up!”

Constantine looked to the floor beside them and stilled. “Shit.”

“Robbie,” Gwen begged, her hoarse voice rising to a shout, “wake up!”

Morpheus’ dread returned like a grave swallowing him whole, and he turned his head.

Hob Gadling lied upon the floor amid Constantine’s magics, his eyes gently shut, his skin clammy and pale from the sweat that clung to his shirt and dampened his hair. Gwen knelt at his head, pounding his chest and shaking his shoulders, but his head only lolled lifelessly to the side beneath her frantic touch.

Loud and bold and full of irreverent life…now little more than a body.

“Gadling.” His hoarse call shook like a child wandering lost in the night, drowned beneath Gwen’s continued shouts. And as Constantine struggled from the bed to run to Hob’s side, Morpheus pulled himself to the edge, stretching with a groan for his friend’s unmoving form.

“Gadling,” he panted and finally grabbed hold of the front of his shirt. “Gadling.”

His mouth was blue.

“ROBBIE?!” Gwen screamed. “Wake him up! He was supposed to wake up, wake him up, Constantine—”

His mouth was blue, his fingers, his feet; his eyes were sunken; his chest did not rise, did not fall, and Morpheus pulled tighter, dragging himself closer as his own limbs struggled to remember how to move after five days of stillness. 

No, no, no, no, no. He took a quaking breath.

“HOB!”

o\\__oOoOoOo__//o

Hob stood in the reshaped fields of Fawney Rig in his form of six hundred years past, staring into the distance where the grasses changed and the air grew salty and fresh as the earth rose and dropped away into seaside cliffs. That dreaded house stood tall an equal distance behind him, once more content to be nothing but old stone and wood empty of all but memory. He shook his head in disturbed marvel as the sun began to set.

“Really?” He turned to his companion. “All of this for something that simple?”

Dream of the Endless joined him, the wildflowers turning to watch his passing and the butterflies and bees flitting at his heels before dispersing into the air.

“The will to live, the drive…” A faint smile played at his lips, and he regarded the human beside him with an awesome sort of pride. “The understanding of the miracle that is life, Hob Gadling, does not come as easily to all as it does to you.”

Gulls called overhead, and as they both looked up to their passing, Dream took a step. When Hob looked back down, he found them atop those distant cliffs, gazing upon a stretch of beach he had not seen in near a year.

“Life holds within it its own reason, its own purpose,” Dream continued in a murmur and watched the birds glide for the edge of the world. “Its joy, its wonders, its tragedies and pains: all of it together is the answer to itself. The answer to Why?”

A lump formed in Hob’s throat as he spoke, and he took in the splendor of it all: the shining sands, the gorgeous hue of the sea even as the setting sun lit it aflame, the heart-like roar of the surf as it came and went and came and went, the swaying push of the wind heavy with the scent of salt and flowers, the ice-plant and their blooms at their feet, the sun-warmed earth, the pipers that chased the surf and the gulls that flew lower to the water in perfect formation, the driftwood trunks of long-gone trees that melded into the beach with new life sprouting from them like fossils reborn….

It was the world. And it was beautiful.

Dream watched the peasant from 1389 beside him watch existence, the wind tangling his once-more wild hair and beard, and the sun caught off the wetness on his cheeks.

“I admire you,” he said, “endlessly, for how viciously you have grasped and held to that truth.”

Hob Gadling looked to the one who was both mere boy and impossibly ancient cosmic creature in the same breath with a ridiculously stunned look on his face and let another wave of tears slip silently free. And as Dream reached gently for his shoulder, touching down upon him with the absolving grace of a King, Hob scrubbed his tattered sleeve across his face. They stood like that for some time until Hob’s tears dried, and Dream took back his touch to clasp his hands at the small of his back. The sun, which should have set by now, still hung at the same low point in the sky, partially submerged beneath the sea.

“Morpheus has always been one for melancholy. To get him to release that…to open himself to what can be….” Dream shook his head. “He will think he has accomplished it just by this. So much more is to come in his journey.”

Hob sniffed and set his jaw.

“I know,” he agreed and looked to his arm in surprise as a tentative touch crept about his wrist.

Dream was holding to him hesitantly, his head tipped in gentle query and his eyes so innocently wide. He pulled, not very hard, but just enough to make his wish known, and Hob moved easily until they faced one another.

“Would you walk with him still?”

“Oh, yes. Always.”

The sun began to move once more in the sky, sinking to its sleep. As the brilliant colors struck upon Dream’s visage, turning his blinding white a myriad of autumnal colors, Hob saw something flicker in those eyes. Something tugged at his lips, furrowed his brow, and his touch shifted on Hob’s arm without releasing. He did not hold him any tighter; he just did not let go and seemed to be trying to drink in as much of the contact as he could, memorizing every stitch of the medieval fabric and the warmth of the body that carried impossibly on beneath it.

“Can…” Hob hesitated and then took the plunge. In for a penny, in for a pound, wasn’t he? “Can I hug you?”

Dream blinked at him and seemed to, in that moment, remember himself. He began to straighten his posture, and his cadence stiffened in kind to that of the young monarch still navigating his function.

“If that is something you wish—”

Hob closed the space between them in a lurch and pulled the boy into a hug so tight it would have bruised anything with true form. But Dream of the Endless was not that, and nothing Hob could inflict with his own flesh and bone could physically hurt him in any true fashion of the word. He knew that now. And so, he held tight enough to suffocate, locking his arms around the kid with hand on wrist, and rested his head heavily upon his shoulder.

“Don’t forget the lesson yourself, yeah?” he managed through his gummy throat.

Dream’s hands settled along his back in a far gentler return embrace. His hair was as soft as silk, as light as clouds, as his head tipped a bit against Hob’s own wild waves.

“Someday, I must,” he said, and the human once again struggled to swallow past the lump rapidly expanding in his throat. “That is my tale.”

“Ach,” Hob scoffed and sniffled again, squeezing the boy tighter as he willed his voice to hold and his tearing eyes to dry. “You never know. You might change it this time ‘round, yeah?” He pulled away, clapped Dream on the shoulder, and busied his hands that were drenched in the invisible blood of countless with tidying the lad’s regalia in his wake. He glanced to those eyes that saw all and gave him a wink and a lopsided grin as he worked. “Don’t want to be back here in a few hundred thousand years with your successor, chasing you through dreams and trying to clobber you with the same lesson, now do I?”

Christ. The shock that lit in the boy’s eyes at Hob’s joking, yet fully sincere promise was a horse’s kick to the chest. It softened his enigma of an expression, wounded him with a kind of disbelief—a truly startled you would do that? For me? that betrayed his being’s fundamentally delicate sense of self-worth like a glimpse of some passing shadow beneath a ship on the farthest, loneliest reaches of the sea. But it was a brief thing, that slip, and Hob watched as it transitioned from that startled astonishment to fond exasperation.

And call him cocky, call him arrogant, but Hob would’ve told anyone who asked that that look was mostly fond.

“Perhaps, Hob Gadling,” Dream of the Endless said with that slight smile, that mix of affection and annoyance, and Hob knew what was coming next. He nodded his farewell, his permission, and took a small, shuffling step back. “But for now, this dream…”

And in that breath of a pause, Hob was seized by the sudden need to see it all. He looked to the sea, to the world, to the sun as it finally slipped into the waves, and there were whales breaching, birds making their last few passes in the surf, insects beginning their nighttime serenades and…and there was everything.

Hob closed his eyes as the last of the sun’s rays outran its darkening like the shine of stars in the night, faintly smiling all the while.

“…is over.”

o\\__oOoOoOo__//o

Hob woke with a gasping inhale that lifted him from the floor, and somewhere above him Constantine let out a mighty swear as she heaved Gwen back to safety. A pale hand gripped the front of his shirt in a shaking fist, twisting the fabric in frantic need as Hob continued to gasp and seize, and he grabbed at it with his own fumbling, disoriented hands. He grabbed the arm that continued above it, and he tracked the touch back to his Stranger’s eyes with a watery gaze of his own as the man hung off the edge of the bed to reach him. His breaths evened as oxygen returned to his blood, and he saw the same relief shudder through his dear friend at the sound. 

His Stranger turned his face into the blankets bunched beneath him; his grip in his shirt adjusted but did not ease.

Hob reached a little higher, cupping that raven head, and tucked his fingers away into his hair.

It’s okay, the gentle caresses whispered. I’m okay.

Those thin shoulders began to shake. His fist twisted in Hob’s shirt until his nails tore the fabric.

There’s nothing more to hide, his silence soothed. Nothing to fear that I’ll judge or hate you for.

You are seen. You are known. And I am still here.

Slowly, a degree at a time, his Stranger turned his head within Hob’s touch until he could meet his eyes. His skin was blotchy and wet, his eyes swollen and red. So very truly human after so long. Hob swept his thumb across his cheek on instinct, trying to clean away the tears and snot.

It’s okay.

“Morpheus,” the Stranger croaked against his palm with hiccoughing breaths.

Hob stilled and hardly dared to hope.

“…What?”

“You…you may call me…Morpheus.”

Hob’s tears spilled over as his face split with the biggest, most radiant smile Morpheus had ever seen upon him, and Hob deepened his touch to cradle his head. 

“Morpheus?” he asked, just to be sure, still catching his breath. His friend nodded. “Yeah?” Morpheus nodded again, and as Hob lurched into him with an overwhelmed laugh, he reciprocated the awkward embrace that wrapped about his head and shoulders and left them each collapsed into the crook of the other’s neck. He felt Hob’s mouth on his throat, grinning still, his hot breath shaking with the heartfelt tears that yet fell. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that, Morpheus.”

Morpheus closed his eyes. Tucked his face down into Hob’s neck. 

He could not yet find it in himself to smile. 

o\\__oOoOoOo__//o

In Destiny’s garden, the eldest Endless paused in his maze, and he stared at the end of the page before him in near disbelief followed by a pulse of pride that dissipated quickly into his usual stoicism.

And he finally, finally turned to the next one.

[tlgpandoramia]

Neon Blood : The First Chapter

Just the first chapter of my new book. Currently it's the second draft, however I still didn't decided entirely about many things, so It may drastically change it in the future...Or Not XD Any (kind) feedback it's appreaciate it. OBS: It contains several spelling and grammar errors.

Welcome To Near Dark

Great and creatives mind preaches about the Devil and evil in the form of a horned man, that the world started as a ball of nothingness, beginning when the first human were born...A little egocentric thought, it isn't?

The devil can be quite a genius, tricking people to believe that It doesn’t exist, alive in the mind of the faithful that if though they pray for Its destruction, fear gives birth to strength, after all it’s a standard human thing to ignore the fact that if you despise something, then you’re acknowledging its existence. A perfect disguise for a world where no one believes the very thing in front of their eyes. Think about it, a perfect disguise, for the evil to do the Devil’s job.

Mary Shelley once said ‘’No man chooses evil because it is evil; he only mistakes it for happiness, the good he seeks’’. Few blood-hand individual will see themselves as doing a genuine macabre thing, instead perusing the path of justifying their actions, either by using the excuse of a god complex, or just for fun, true evil draws in the weakness of the unfaithful.

How easy it would be to tell a tale and make as if some guy in a jumpsuit, or a creepy clown acted as the antagonist bogeyman in my closet, after all many children are scared by that. When I came to be, Father called me a perfect angel, saying how pretty those bright blue eyes were, or the pretty ginger flocks coming out of the skull. An ordinary man, disguising himself as an angelic persona with fluffy white wings, yet later that child grow to be a girl and she started to see his true self, a definition of deception and pain.

I could indulge in a story about some child that got crushed by an incoming truck and left on the scorching asphalt. However, nothing worked as in the movies, as she learned why fiction is called fiction, no reanimated corpses attempting to eat your brain, werewolves howling under the moonlight and ripping humans apart, or the cliche that danger is outside and lurking in the dark.

Sometimes it happened in the dark, I would cry and beg for someone to be telepathic and read my thoughts. Father loved horror movies, he used to tell stories about shadow like beings living in the house, and locked me inside a dark closet just for the laughs.

‘’You talk and our family’s over, you don’t want that, do ya?’’ the raspy tone still plagues my mind, in special during the night. A perfect child, quiet, intelligence, non problematic and quite independent, yet I had to act as a the clumsy and silly girl that would fall and injured herself in a daily basis.

Now I’m seventeen, just achieved that milestone last year February’s, although no pride behind it, I saw more disgrace, poverty and pain than an experience slash horror protagonist, no scary slasher killed me, in the final scene a random car appeared and picked me up. On the outside a neutral persona, yet inside things were different, screaming, crying and laughing, all in the same time, and in the same order.

Things changed, and the prophecy of the family being separated came true, although I stayed in the good guys side, it could a case of Freddy and Frank, that returned to the sequel to suffer the same fate in a different place, nevertheless it feels that a mantle of fog envelops me and prevents anyone to see me the same way they did before, it can be so cold and lifeless inside of it, a feverish dream, or a summer afternoon nap, nothing has the sensation to be real, a collective madness that involves my brothers and mother, a dream sequence of some kind, although it sound absurd, not a single souls enjoys when everything’s perfect and the character realizes that it happened during a dream.

No demon or haunting are present in this plot, I’m haunted, okay, yet not by some gray skin with spiked fangs. It may be wrong to think, but it would’ve be easier if the haunting stayed physical, the screams and traumas caused more injuries that the metal leash or the slaps, no one wishes to hear from their parent that they were a mistake, that nobody would missed me, Father acted cruel without trying, or he tried to offer a lesson about real life.

The Dilemma that ‘’if it’s bad, why not leave?’’ can be common, and I have an answer for it, a caged bird that lived its entire live inside bars sees flying as an illness. If Shelley’s quote has real knowledge, then it means that father held no evil inside of him, trying on his own way to prove a point of view.

By thinking about it, I can’t shake the thought that no one stood up for me, how wrong its to think it, even as a intrusive emotion, I didn’t asked for help, feeding the foolish judgment that somehow any of the three could notice it. Kids dream about strong heroes flying and save them, later in life that children becomes the adult that were their ideal savior. I don’t feel like one, or capable of aiding that little girl, to be honest from time to time I tend to still be scared of the past.

I had mother in my thought when the decision to reveal what happened won, I didn’t wished for her to remain married with that boomer, yet the doubt that she would take his side and refuse to believe in my version kept me from sleeping for many nights. Telling that a child is bad when it isn’t changes their soul, starting as a thought, then confirmation and last, vengeance, when the wish of wanting nothing more that to be evil comes over.

I didn’t turned into a slasher. However I didn’t gained justice for ten years of abuse, we just left it all behind in Detroit, hoping that moving somewhere else could help all four of us.

She couldn’t afford Las Californias, or a one bedroom house anywhere in the country. We were lost, they all enjoyed our old home and it broke the younger one.

As a child, I imagined how the sea and a beach would be, photos could’ve helped, if only people without a neural implant could access it. The sea fascinates me, how life began in it, so full of life and history, a living poetry of billion of years.

For three days and three nights we stayed in cramped hotels that smelled as if a chem party happened there, I preferred to stay on the chair instead of sleeping on those bed sheets, imaging the beach waves and how it could feel during late evenings, more that once I caught signs of people meant to be road killers, yet much less charming.

Mother talked about that town hundred of times, describing it as the perfect haven for the punks and wires, a woman born and raised there, leaving it behind for some steam surfer guy.

The trip proved to be brutal to mother’s wallet, and for me, since I have a bad breath dog breathing on my neck for hours.

Both boys kept going on who should decide the radio song , quite annoying bantering, songs changing every two minutes, until one of the great lords decided that it’s worth to be played.

‘’In the web that is my, I begin again…’’ Mom hums to the song coming out of the dusty radio, she has her moments, sometimes longer that usual.

‘’Nope’’ Jesse leans over, pressing the button and changing station for the fifth time.

‘’Come on, that was rad in my time’’ the next music station proves to be boring to both boys, two industrial guys cringing over the slang and non synth wave song.

‘’Not yet’’ the two syncs their voices, Mom sighs in defeat, pressing the button three times until a rock music plays, something about a teenage frankstein.

Xeno stretches its paws, forcing me to further shrug my legs, between the travel from that creepy hotel and the three hours on the highway my poor lower limbs took the worse, not to mention wearing a long skirt had been the stupidest thing ever after the name Jesse gave the dog. It feels that every lower muscle cramped and shrink, January should've been colder, winter and all, yet the climates changes, plus the local humidity made everything worse.

It amazes me how neither of them bother to ask ‘’Are we there yet?’’, classic line in any horror movie, a family moving into a chaotic and fisherman town, to live in a decayed overpopulated building, still requires a decent author to make things interesting, it could have some dark romance, and no computer generated imagery, or that virtual reality images, I’m a practical effects girl all the way.

‘’Look, jus’ a little longer’’ Mom points to the neon billboard on a small island a few meters from the shore and the coastal rocks.

It says ‘’Welcome To Near Dark’’, a turned off neon LED banner, daytime reduced it to a giant glass letters, erasing all the traces of the images.

‘’Real niche, Mom’’ Jesse adjust the headphones that ran out of battery hours ago’’It smells funny, fish, and oil, and fuel…’’

‘’Jesse...’’Mom rubs his left arm, glancing back at Michael and I, she told so many tales about this town, conjuring images of a true Las Californias haven experience’’I know things are awful, like totally gnarly, but I think that you’re goin’ to really like here’’

Mom optimism can make a corpse believe in resurrection, it makes my heart twitches, almost if it would hurt if I chose not to believe, as if she speak it enough times it will be true.

The air’s hotter, cursed be humidity, making my hair frizzy and reducing my head size. A fresh breeze comes from the sea helps to fend off the thick warm air, Michael has a stoic expression, yet this type of weather its his thing, how Jesse and him would spend hours in the backyard old pool, the horrible combination of aromas is just a side effect for him.

For me it plays a different role, as the sun only purpose is to burn my skin, causing some friendly fire on my exposed forearms.

And so it begins, the first sights of civilization of Near Dark, which promised nothing and delivered everything, a kaleidoscope of styles and bizarreness. People driving convertibles, whooping and hollering at anything that has legs, pedestrians showing middle fingers and shouting bad names, cursing the driver’s family down to their first generation, a few throw things at it, a true free for all, a true beach town experience, the weakest here could send the strongest from Detroit to a clinic.

To add further, sunburn skins and bodily implants seems to be the fashion, plus a notorious clothing shortage, a lady wearing a yellow fluorescent bikini spins around on a Rollerblade, waving at the upcoming vehicles and just acting as the standard gore character that get kill in the first forty minutes.

Tourist and locals alike passes by the street, carrying their frozen treats and ice cream cones melting on the two afternoon sun, a thrill of sweat grease on the sidewalk, it should be the least of the contamination worries, as the gutter are filled with wasted cigarettes, discarded food packaging and plastic, I can imagine the state of the water drainage system, at least no one will flow down there.

Mom flags the pedestrians, giving time for the crowd to disperse, some do just that, allowing us to pull over and enter a side way to some rinky dink gas station. Others are not so polite, screaming at mother to be careful, a guy punches the hood, not hard enough to cause a full argument, yet loud enough to make her apologizes. He passes by my window, although the wagon truck is tall, I just sink lower on the seat to avoid eye contact, a gang of Nazi Runners, mowhanks, loose tank tops, thick gloves covered by spikes, shoulders pad meant to tackle on their victims and the surgical implanted enhance eyes, dark silver goggles scanning me and waiting for a breach to engage in their illicit hobbies.

As soon as the wagon parks, Jesse jumps out, dragging Xeno along by the leash, running to the opposite side of the station.

Although Michael’s my brother which I love with all my heart, being alone with a male a few centimeters away sparks an unsettling sensation, he breaks the uncomfortable mood between us by distancing himself.

‘’Hey, you saw that thing on the sign?’’

‘’What?’’

‘’Nevermind’’ Michael sighs, leaving the car and entering the gas station, just standing there without any goal.

My knees twinges on the chance to be stretch, however the humidity is worse outside, forcing me to shield my eyes from the sun and the breeze of warm wind. The beach has a second sea, this one of people, some laying on the hot sand, cooking alive while others are enjoying the water, most of the frequents are tourist, it can be spotted with ease due to eye squinting and expensive sunglasses, over the years pollution made the sun increased its radiation rays, or whatever its called. People passes by and throw glares at me, the worst part is how I can feel the sweat sliding on my legs below the socks, lack high knees frying my skin, can’t blame them for the crooked eyes, I would do the same if someone’s wearing fluorescent bikinis back in Detroit.

Mom fills the car with gas, giving me an accidental high from the smell, natives from here drinks fuel as part of an initiation ritual, how she knows this is beyond me, although I can guess the answer for this enigma.

On the outskirts, three older teenagers ignores the beach across the street, instead diving in the dumpster, Jesse run past it, pointing beyond the city.

‘’There’s a freakin’ amusement park there, look, Mom!’’

At the distance, a glorious roller coaster shape decorates the horizon, even two enormous spotlights simulating eyes of some sort, below it a large construction gives access to the pier, beach and a coastal mall. The whole place’s sleeping, the glass signs and billboards, plus it lacks crowd, although Jesse’s swooning over the sight, Mom’s unphased, mere giving him an agreement and focusing her attention to the gas pump.

One of the teens falls on the floor, laughing about it and complaining about the cement hardness, only to dive right back in. A faded green hair girl pick a white and red fast food package, taking a piece of a half eaten pie, biting it as it’s a delicacy of some sort.

Runways escaping from someone or something, those three could’ve been Michael, Jesse and I, Mom worked hard to prevent that, pointing us to the right direction and creating an environment where we could talk to each other, instead of dwelling within our heads and battling it alone.

Near Dark it’s full of this type, overpopulated it, one on every sidewalk, some better dressed, a few with implants, yet all carries the same essence, a dozen bleed with the background, attempting to survive and just go on another day.

As I open my bad, the wallet beg for some content, it’s being a whole month since it saw money, yet a single ten Neodollar chip remains, the last memory from my collection sold two months ago.

Mom expressions frowns, yet she makes the choice to handle over her last chip to those teenagers, urging Jesse to approach.

‘’Jes, get those kid this for some food’’ although Jesse don’t challenges her orders, yet gives me a side look when I also give some chips for the homeless youth.

He opens the mouth for a split second, a single word coming out, however Mom rubs his shoulder, although he’s reluctant, Jesse budges, giving the chips to the teenagers, signaling that the task went smooth. It mesmerizes me how happy those kids are by receiving the chips, jumping around and teasing each other by touches and playful punches, waving at Mom and screaming around.

‘’Thanks, cougar, you’re ten!’’ the green hair one performs a gesture with both hands, Mom face lights up on the compliment.

No doubt that those chips will be quite useful for them, buying food for tonight or maybe rent some place to take a shower, nevertheless we could’ve used it as well.

Jay insist on going into the amusement park as a reward from following the command, circling around the car and putting Xeno back inside.

‘’Come on, I’m more desperate that a brain eater zombie in a influencers party!’’

‘’Later, zombie punk, Grandma’s watin’ for us’’

A convertible full of Runners approaches, the beat coming out of their speakers vibrates the wagon interior, at least it look that the group’s having fun, unlike me, being burn alive by the scorching seat. Michael has the right idea, getting the key for his motorcycle on the wagon’s cart, a true classic from decades ago, a custom Cynthia Davidson model, bough in a junkyard and customize to his taste, the memory of Jesse bringing the possibility that it could’ve belonged to someone that died in an accident cheers me up a little, he cherishes that motorcycle so much, and to think how he tried to sell it for money.

The remain of the city follows the same pattern, crowds of gangs, runaways, guys and gal rocking ripped bodies , turned off neon billboards and a awful brightness for a place that has the word ‘’dark’’ in its name. Ahead of the park the avenue gives access to several residential streets, the terrain so flat that I can see homes miles away, Mom calls it the ‘’Diamondback’’ where the rich lives, near the beach and the city’s center, the poor lives near the mountains, and below.

Jesse seems unpleased by the idea of meeting Grandma, crossing the arms and shaking the legs, to be honest, I can’t recall much of her and I understand his disinterested by it, she meet him the day he was born , almost fifteen years ago, even leaving the in the same day, Grandma refuses to leave the house for the past fifty years, she didn’t even show up for mine or Michael birth, so one can imagine everyone surprise when that old lady ring our apartment. Although, it seems cruel of a grandparent to do such thing, she never hide the distance between us, her and mom had many issues and it strained further the day she discovered about Michael’s pregnancy, I still remember the day she call and mistaken me for mom, ‘’Hey, did you or the kids die yet?’’, when a negative answer came, the call ended.

It must be hard for mom to have no one else to turn to help, forced to live with her three children in their grandmother’s house in some backwater Las Californias town. However, its amazing how Grandma agreed to offer us shelter in the first place. I have the best memory between the four of us and even with this quality, I recall little of her, a reddish brown hair woman with the same eyes as mine, although I’m not expecting a graceful elder lady serving milk and cookies, I hope that we ain’t digging yourselves in a house that will be plagued by constant discussions, it may be a sign of weakness, yet I no longer can’t take violence and screams, at least for the next months.

The stimulating from earlier vanishes as quick as it came, turning into the only clues of nature in this place. Bleached from the sunshine, overcrowded by rangy flora, almost if this place segregates from the rest of the city, who could’ve guess that’s the same location from forty minutes ago, a harsh, yet positive chance, I only hope Michael didn’t forgot to put on googles. Following an inclined road, and a eerie view of a ravine by the right, the Andrei matriarch house shows itself by the cliff. Large wooden poles laying around, forming symbols that fails to be familiar, some are craved to resemble animals, one type is the trident poles, it means ‘’Algiz’’, belonging to the Elder Futhrark runic alphabet, its use to offer protection and security, surrounding the fence project that seems untouched in decades. A six foot pentagram forged in metal hangs on the arc by the entrance.

Mother parks the car in front of the eight steps wood stairs leading to the porch, a delicate two people size swing agitates by wind, no doubt Jesse’s thinking how much this resembles the Knowby Cabin, although it’s larger and with luck no evil book in the basement. A shed ahead seems to act as a garage, however its impossible to go any further, as all manners of bizarre symbols and ornaments blocks the passage, some are unfinished poles or craving of the symbols around the property. Dolls head are hanging on the trees, their eyes replaced by shards of mirror, crosses made of wood circles around, either grandma’s trying to keep the evil in, or out, guess we’ll see soon.

This house, or cabin, it’s something else, to be mild. The design dates back to the two thousand, yet the construction pattern from the today is strong with this one, large windows, brown and neutral colors, lack of vibrant ones and a double glass door featuring seven tiles in a pair of segment top and solid, whatever it means, I read once about it in a magazine that explained about it, it was the same door, it seems heavy and sturdy, way to thick for the house of an elder lady edging her eighty years.

All is so quiet, Mom stares around, from her blink less eyes she’s expecting something to occur. Michael climbs down , going a few steps ahead before freezing, staring at the porch hidden for my vision.

A pair of legs sprawled out, wearing a worn out slipper. On the floor, Grandma’s impaled by a short wooden pole, right through her chest. The body lies below an aluminum plate, crushing the fragile body, a brick broken in half close to her head indicates how it happened.

An absurd amount of crimson blood overflows the porch, dripping on the stair as he eyes are wide open, and the tongue already purple, spread out on the right corner of the lips. Michael pupils dilated as if he saw his soulmate, while Jesse quint ahead, shaking the head and sitting on the part of the porch untouched by the substance. Mom sighs and kneels.

‘’Mom?’’ Michael’s unruffled about it, stepping back.

‘’Great, she died, how’ bout we sell this and go back to Detroit?’’ Jesse ignores a answer and takes Xeno out .

‘’Syrup mixed with red dye’’ Mom wheeze in disappointment, showing us the scheme, as the stake proves to be a mere piece of foam ‘’Mom, get up’’

The former corpse comes to live, removing the false eyeballs and laughing, like if anyone found it funny.

‘’Did a damn good job this time’’ the elder put her glasses back on, coughing the red syrup that invade the mouth.

Mom embraces her, still it doesn’t make the situation better or helps me to forget about the silly prank. The air get stuck in my throat, as if invisible hands strangulates me, I could pay the same way, fall on the floor and pretend to be dead, that would make us even, good thing Mom gave me such a good education.

She opened both main door, allowing the boys to bring in the boxes. Unpacking it’s the easier part about it, every appliance and furniture we owned was sold to either pay the lawyers or the bills, plus most of our belongings were left behind. We couldn’t afford a true moving trailer to bring everything, so everything ended up on the general store balcony, not even Jesse rare comic books escaped the fate, good thing Mom raised us in a bohemian style, avoiding implants, neural links and eletronics, instead letting us focus on physical things, I still remember about high school, while the others had their fancy neural implants, I resorted to dusty books fabricated in the past century, a few nicknamed me ‘’Time Traveler’’, teasing all the time about the peculiar way my family lived, I don’t miss school or technology.

The last books in the wagon are the rest of my books and Mom’s vinyl collection, tunnels to the past. Weird how much life changed over such a short time, it feels scary to be on this highway, things can go over the weather so quick, I had good memories about those vinyl, if only Dad hadn’t blighted it, once he kicked the door of my room because the music was too loud, wielding that leather leash that hurted so bad, the metal parts were heavy and wide, meant to cause bruises and with enough force, broken bones, the final hit would hurt me the most, as if each hit I would shrink, getting smaller and smaller, the final one gave me some nasty purple bruise on the back of my neck, a soreness that last for almost one week, in a few occasions I would catch my reflection during shower and see the damage on my back and shoulders , one more reason for a silly teenager to be disgust with her body.

‘’You alrigh’?’’ Mom pulls me off the trance, petting my shoulder and smiling, I know she means well and I’m not ashamed to talk about feelings, yet I can’t shake off the feeling of shame, as if she knows something quite embarrassing about me, I don’t want people pitying me or mentioning all the time what happened, on the other hand there’s nothing I wish more that to be given a lot of attention.

‘’Darling, you’th only woman that got nothing in a divorce’’ Grandma smokes a jet, grape flavor, a horrible smell raises.

‘’I know, but the guy had nothin’ to take, and I didn’t wanted a huge fight’’Mom takes off one box, putting on the floor before organizing everything in a weight order’’We didn’t need more fight’’

That’s my queue to leave, before they starts to referring to me in the third person as if I’m not present.

Inside, those two are already jumping around and exploring the first floor. Two bathrooms, one upstairs and other below the stairs, four bedrooms and a thick door blocking the access to the basement, eight padlocks and four locks, none of the fancy electronic codes or locks, just the vanilla way people used to do it. A woman living in a isolated house on the hill inviting people to live with her, talk about The House On The Skull Mountain.

The place’s a mess, to be delicate about it. Melted candles stick on the chandeliers, long ago since cleaned, weird symbols hanging around the living room, plants with vines and covered by thorns, the awfull scent of religious aroma and the essence of jet grape smoke. A true alternative nightmare, to add further, the huge statues of owls and wolfs don’t make things better in any degree, up on the wall a taxidermy head of a bear stares at me all the time, as if those glass eyes are following each step, and watching over the entrance.

It’s cozy, won’t lie about it, a certain charm mixing several styles and delusions. Aside from how muddle the house is, it’s clean enough, the wood floor shines and the decoration has no traces of dust.

Every room is a living tomb.

[blueskittlesart]

So I have been reading you BotW/TotK analysis and I have gotta say that your insight is really impressive. I do have 2 points to make on the subject. Assuming that Calamity Ganon’s (the one that is fought in BotW) purpose is to draw attention to the underground (where Ganondorf’s corpse is) than that has some terrifying implications to how he operated in BotW. If there hero and Princess were successful in sealing away his calamity (which they were), than there is no way that someone like Zelda, who has both curiosity and altruism in spades would ever leave this problem unresolved. She would be determined to seek out the source of the calamity to make sure that no future generations would ever suffer as she and Link did, which in doing so would likely break the seal that was on Ganondorf. And if they failed to stop the calamity than Ganon wins and the calamity would destroy Hyrule (accomplishing his goals).

In regards to TotK, I do believe that Zelda will be physically incapacitated (either dead or in a stasis like state like in SwSd), though she will likely be involved spiritually as there is many ways she tan grow as a character (especially if there are flashbacks to the events 10,000 years ago, and even if she does die, resurrection is something that is present in Zelda so I doubt it will be a permanent death). I have a feeling that the ending will be bittersweet with both Link and Zelda surviving and perhaps breaking the curse of Demise. However I can see the Kingdom of Hyrule being annihilated beyond recovery, bringing additional meaning to “Tears of the Kingdom.”

Anyway love reading your thoughts and predictions of the game, makes the wait for May a lot more bearable.

yeah as to your first point that's exactly what i think is going to happen! because these games operate cyclically when predicting these plot points i'm constantly thinking about what has precedent, and there's a notable precedent in previous cycles for the princess's attempts at resolution to unintentionally lead to more problems for hyrule, forcing the princess to confront her own lack of agency and experience. I think that the calamity is playing into zelda's curiosity and moral compass specifically in beckoning her and link deeper under hyrule castle, knowing that she won't be able to resist trying to confront the problem once and for all but lacks the knowledge that might keep her from unleashing human ganon accidentally.

as for your second point, i sincerely doubt that death going to be zelda's fate in totk. call it optimism, but considering how she's been written up until now i can't see a way that death, even temporary death, would bring a satisfying or thematically cohesive end to her character arc. this is a girl we've seen do nothing but struggle her entire life. She is so, so, SO strong and stubborn and persistent that to cut her life short at seventeen (mentally. we're not getting into the 100 year gap here) just seems like an openly cruel treatment of a character so central to the game. A more cohesive end to her story, narratively, would be to allow her to live and heal when the game is finished, and i hope & believe that this is the direction totk will go. Zelda was the driving force for everything that happened in botw. she is the beginning and end of these games. to remove her from the final chapter completely would be a detriment to both her character and the game as a whole.

I also don't quite agree with the idea that the end of totk will be the complete destruction of hyrule. botw is, at its essence, a story about growth and healing. its characters convey this theme on a smaller scale, but more largely, botw shows us the ways in which hyrule grows and heals around destruction and calamity. to end its sequel with destruction and no hope of recovery is to trample over what made botw so impactful. in my perfect world, totk will end in much the same way as botw--with the promise that link, zelda, and all of hyrule will continue to grow and heal.

[chloesolace]

Book Review: "The Cruel Prince" by Holly Black

Spoiler-free

Genre: young adult, fantasy • Triggers: murder, death, suicide, graphic descriptions of corpses, bullying, child abuse • Year of Publication: 2018

Plot: ★★★

Characters: ★★

Writing Style: ★

Re-Readability: ★★★

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General Thoughts

I want to start this by saying that I really wanted to like this book. Unfortunately, I ended up hating it. The plot is incredibly interesting and the idea of the Faerie world super engaging. However, everything that I liked about this book ends exactly there. I really did like the plot and all the ideas Black had, however her writing is simply not for me. But let's get into the review, and please, remember this is purely my subjective opinion. This book is widely popular, so it has found its audience for sure. I just wasn't part of that, and that is okay. Nevertheless, I wanted to share my thoughts.

Plot

As I said above, the plot is the book's strong suit for me. Despite the fact that, keeping faerie's hate for mortals in mind, it would have made more sense to me had Madoc killed Jude and Taryn then and there in the prologue. Why does Madoc take Jude and Taryn with him to raise them? It would only make sense to kill the children that blossomed out of a union such as their parents, without giving too much away. Is it fae customs not to? Is it some sort of personal ego problem he has? Is it empathy, despite the obvious “monster”-like personality? It is never fully explained to the extent where I could say “Ah, yes! That makes sense.” (Maybe it is explained in the sequels, I can’t say).

Another thing that made no sense to me was when the spies captured Cardan. I won't get into too many details to still keep this spoiler free, but there was this one occurrence I really had trouble finding realistic. In that scene, the spies, the ones with the actual experience and training, let Cardan go to have a drink with him. Because he is oh, so charming. Keep in mind, Cardan is the only one who can seal his brother’s reign, which would be bloody and cruel (I think the book’s title refers more to his brother than Cardan. I won't say which brother though). It seems like a completely illogical plot device to show how amazing Jude is and how she knows everything better than the others. You know, the actual spies. Even if they don’t care what happens to Faerie or its king, I find it very OOC for a spy to free one of their captives, especially to have a drink with him. They should be able to resist Cardan’s "charm".

Still, even with these inconsistencies, I thought the plot was engaging and interesting. The whole setting, a human girl growing up in the faerie lands who sort of has to navigate this world where even the food could kill her any moment, sounds very intriguing. I also loved how the faerie's around her manipulated her despite the fact she was the only one able to lie.

I do, however, want to state that this is not an enemies to lovers in my opinion. The romance is merely a sub plot anyway and did not really do it for me, but Cardan e.g. kicking dirt in Jude's food is bullying, nothing more. To me, this is a bullies to lovers if anything. Still, the main plot saved the book for me, but unfortunately it was not enough for me to continue the series.

Characters

This is where the story really begins to crumble for me. I barely liked any characters. Probably the only ones who did not annoy me where Vivienne and Cardan, but only in the second half of the book.

Let’s start with Jude, since she is the main character. It might be because I am in my 20s and she is still a child (16 or 17 I believe), but Jude annoyed me so much. The only thing that made sense about her was the fact that she wanted to prove to herself and the fae that she was worthy. Which, after living in a world that tells you you are dirt is understandable.  I will get more into the writing style later, but it was so dry and emotionless that it made her sound like some robot, programmed to do only one thing: prove to the pretty fae that she’s worthy. Not to mention, it also made her sound very immature. Jude gets praised by the book community for being this super strong heroine that is super relatable and people can look up to - but I just saw none of that. Instead, I saw an insecure child trying to be included in things that are too big for her. When I mentioned this to someone they asked me if I read a lot of YA because "this is what YA heroines are like". I do, in fact, read a lot of YA and I can still say that Jude felt way younger than she was supposed to be. Comparing her to other YA heroines who are roughly the same age only strengthens this for me.

Let’s move on to Cardan. In the first half of the book, I wished someone would just punch him. When he was actually being punished later on I honestly didn’t feel bad for him. He treated Jude like shit, which, yes, I know, was the whole point but again, he did it in a very immature way. I’m thinking about the time he kicked dirt into Jude’s food or wanted her to kiss his feet. However, I later saw that this made sense for the character. He is insecure because of the way he grew up; isolated, lonely and faced with punishment. And in the second half of the book he was actually likeable as well. Cardan feels like the only character with actual depth. Where Jude had potential, Cardan had execution. However, Cardan and Jude’s immaturity made me uncomfortable as a reader sometimes. Mixed with the dry writing style, I could not help but imagine them as way younger than they were, all while they were making out and killing people or running around with a sword. 

Madoc. Oh, Madoc. How I dislike this character. Nothing about him made sense to me. He is a huge hypocrite. What exactly is his motivation? Everything was justified by him being a "monster" by nature, but that just didn’t satisfy me. First of all, "monster" is a very subjective term. No one is ever truly evil, and I would have just wished that Madoc wasn’t so one-dimensional. It made reading the entire arc that involved him hard. And if he really is a monster, why was he so nice to Jude and Taryn? Maybe I missed it somewhere, but I am really not sure why he didn’t kill the twins on the spot when he saw them (it's not a spoiler, this is literally the prologue) and only took Vivienne, his actual daughter, back to Faerie. I suppose taking the twins was meant to show he actually has depth to him, but the repetitive "he’s a monster" with absolutely no evidence for that claim ruined it for me.

This is something which Black does quite often, by the way. She makes a claim about a character but then gives barely any or no evidence at all to support this claim and the reader is simply expected to believe her.

The Writing Style

For me, a book has to have a healthy combination of dry and lyrical writing, so it doesn't reach either purple prose or sahara territory. The Cruel Prince's writing style is very dry and straight to the point. This can work to increase tension during a dramatic scene, but using it throughout the entire book does exactly the opposite. Some people will still like that, which I can respect. However, for me it was just boring to read and, to repeat myself once more, it made Jude sound very immature. Why? I can’t say for sure. But what I know is that in writing, everything has an effect on the reader. The writing style, the scenery, hell, even the metre. The writing style in this book simply had this effect on me. 

Another thing that I didn’t like was the several occasions of telling and not showing. Black mentioned three times in just a few pages that Jude and Cardan were enemies and they hate each other. We got it, okay? There is no need to repeat it a million times. Perhaps she wanted to portray it as Jude telling herself they’re enemies and that she can’t pursue him, but it really did not seem that way to me and it unfortunately annoyed me.

Re-Readability

I think this a book you can definitely re-read if you liked it. It can be fun trying to look for clues within the narration that point to the big twists in the end. I personally just cannot put myself through this book again for all the reasons mentioned above.

Conclusion

I really cannot understand the hype of this book to be honest. Yes, the premise is interesting but the rest just does not do it for me and comparing it to other YA books, it felt incredibly immature to read. I am almost saddened to say that I regret spending almost ten euros on a copy of this, but what's done is done. I do, however, love the aesthetics of the book and will always stop to like a video of the wonderful cosplayers dressing up as the characters.

[party-gilmore]

To PROPERLY follow the tradition of Die Hard, considering Violent Night is of course the spiritual sequel bastard love child of it and Home Alone, we now of course need a sequel with higher stakes.

May I propose: Jingle Hells.

[spoilers for Violent Night below]

During the events of Violent Night, an ancient enemy of Nicumond the Red, sleeping/locked away, deep within the earth/ancient vault prison, begins to stir.

His enemy has spilt blood again, for the first time in millenia... He can feel it. The stains of his past seeping into the frigid ground, vibrating the threads of destiny tying the two together.

Enraged, not so much at the fact that his enemy still lives and breathes but more because Nicumond has dared to pretend to be something else, to have hung up his hammer for so long, to have run from their eternal struggle...

After an X year long struggle to free his bonds, fueled by a renewed and raging thirst for vengeance, he BURSTS forth from the earth and streaks across the sky through the glimmering trail of the aurora borealis and a conduit, looking to all like a red comet burning away all the glimmering blue and green.

Santa is unprepared, unready. His adventure a few years past, he is no longer actively repressing his memories and accepts that they are part of him, but has still tried not to tap into the violence any more than absolutely necessary. Perhaps a scene or two of Mrs. Claus recognizing the restlessness in him now that it's been awoken, and doing her best to help him express it - pulling him away between breaks for axe throwing and mead, or some fun flirtatious sparring, a couple of other cute couples scenes that are just... sliiiightly violent. in adorable ways (with I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus playing in the BG) - so that he exercises it a little and gets it out just enough it doesn't bottle up and explode.

But it's not enough to fend off his ancient enemy with multiple millennia's worth of rage and vengeance.

After a brief battle, he's dragged down between the cracks in the earth, between the thin slots in the very dimensions themselves, molten rock sizzling and hissing as the craggy ravines begin to seal themselves up behind to leave only the corpses of his elven color guard littering the room as evidence - but not fast enough to avoid Mrs. Clause, jovially entering the room with a tray of cookies.

The platter clatters to the floor, cookies crumbling and scattering everywhere. She takes in the scene, hand to her heart, eyes darting as her brain processes just what's happened.

Then we hear the music change and see her eyes grow stony cold and those low drums from the Nicumond The Red score on the original OST pick up but it's a slightly different melody/song used for her theme and we get the dramatic montage of her braiding her hair and putting half of it up and now for the first time we see the shaved and tattooed side of her head and strapping her Good Boots on and swapping out the floofy dress for war leathers and furs and she grabs her husband's hammer in one hand and her own ornate axe in the other and it's full on silver haired visible buff strength under rotund fat and I can not stress this enough sexy as fuck

Anyways that's the plot of the second movie, she's gotta fight his minions through a couple layers of Holiday Hell to save her husband being held captive by Some Guy He Literally Hasn't Thought About In Millennia And Honestly Kind Of Forgot About And Can't Even Remember His Name, But Who Is Convinced They Are Archenemies With Massive Beef.

Layers include but are not limited to:

Black Friday at Walmart

Creepy Desatured Foggy Massive Christmas Tree Forest Canopy With Ornament Rigged Up Ass Shrapnel Grenades That Explode in Puffs Of Bright Neon And Shattering Glass And The Sound Of Bells, Having To Leap From Huge Branch To Huge Branch As She Fights With Nothing But Eternal Dark Fog Below Shoild She Fall

Silent Hill Style Abandoned Mall Christmas Village

A Distorted Memory Of A Happy Family Christmas Dinner Designed To Try And Trick Her Into Stopping, To Lure Her With A Dream Promise Of Peace And Happiness And Family And Everyone All Okay And Back Home Together (something something tragic child related backstory? a lost sheep son seeming like he's finally come home? a daughter who fell in battle?) That She Has Manage To See Through And Then Kill Everyone She Loves Even Though She Knows It's Not Real It's Not Real Its Not-

Inside A Snowglobe That Keeps Getting Jostled and Shaken And Turned On It's Various Sides For Sick Matrix Style Gravity Changing Fight Scenes

Interspersed with increasing comical scenes of meanwhile back at Hell HQ, Santa is tied up and bloody and frantically wracking his brain and trying to ask leading questions to figure out who the FUCK this guy torturing him IS without clueing the obvious megalomaniac into the fact he's... got no fucking idea.

The big key point the MOST important part of the movie is the way Santa's face lights up and the way he looks at his wife when she kool-aid man's through wall to save him all bloody and clothes torn and hair in disarray and wild eyes, just the biggest brightest most utterly devoted 'I love a woman who can kick my ass' expression possible in the history of time and space.