#once again felt like the scribe of god

[all6pistols]

goin for the funniest guy ever award (´ε｀ )♡

[cuddlytogas]

yesterday some friends and i went to the special ancient egyptian pharoahs exhibit at the ngv, and i got so utterly entranced by a linen funeral shroud, i think i saw god and/or went completely insane for about fifteen minutes

the fibres were so fine. and not just fine, they were uniform. it was from the roman period, so only (only!) 2,000 years old, but the fibres were still so fine and uniform

i'm not good at identifying weft and warp on a piece of fabric - i think i got it wrong while i was looking at it - and obviously it's very hard to know what's inherent to the fabric and what's the product of degradation over time or mishandling, but there was this long, thin tear right down the middle, and i thought it was maybe a seam that had come apart, but the painting alignment didn't quite fit that, and there were a few threads crossing through it that i could see, so i wonder if maybe one or two weft threads had degraded or torn or been pulled loose. but the tear was so straight and exact, and held together at one end by the other fibres, it was so incredible to see

and there were a couple of places where i thought there were slightly chunkier threads - it happens all the time in modern linens - but when i looked closer, i could see that actually it was two threads in the same part of the weave (warp threads, i think?)

and again, okay, could be a product of the degradation, or damage - but also... it could so easily have been a slight fault in the manufacturing, and i don't know the first thing about ancient egyptian weaving techniques, or what kind of loom they did or didn't use, or any of that - but still, it was so easy to imagine these two warp threads being set slightly too close together on a loom, and being caught together by the weft, and leaving this slightest bulge, this perfect imperfection in the cloth

it was beautifully, intricately, colourfully painted, too, yes - but underneath that, i can only imagine that lovely dun, beige colour was unbleached and undyed; and yet again, yes, of course it would've darkened with age and use - it was a funeral shroud, there was a corpse under it once - but to look at this linen and see the colour of the flax two thousand years ago, it's just - absolutely mind-boggling

the whole exhibit was deliberately structured around highlighting the craftsmanship behind the artefacts, as well as the power, social structures, and cultural significance they represented, which was fairly well done. I watched that video after seeing the exhibition, and in hindsight, yeah, I did notice that many of the labels highlighted the detail and excellence of the items, and they had things like jewellery moulds and scribe's tools, as well as the big impressive statues and murals. at least a couple of the room introduction wall texts made sure to mention craftspeople; and there were a few places dedicated to both the bureaucratic structures, and working people and villages, that created and kept up the temples and palaces.

but there was also definitely a slight lack of information, i felt, in regard to the crafts, especially if that was their goal. i might also just be underestimating the general public, but there were a few times where we were wondering what something in an image was, but found nothing in the label; and it would've been cool if they, perhaps, had images or recreations of craftspeople in the period showing how the items would have been made.

like, obviously i'm biased towards the fabric, because that's my craft - and to be clear, the shroud was part of the room on jewellery and adornment, with the label pointing out the jewellery worn by the painted figure, rather than the craft of the item itself. but it would've been cool to have, in this example, either a contemporary image or a recreated one of what tools would have been used for the spinning and weaving of this cloth, and by what groups.

there were many parts of the exhibit where you could see on the glass where people had pressed their hands or noses or foreheads to try and get close, to see the intricate work on tiny rings or murals or votive items, the engraving and carving and painting done with such incredible skill. and again, they had those scribe's tools, and jewellery moulds, a few weapons, and (iirc) both ritual and functional builder's tools. which i DID VERY MUCH appreciate!

but fibre arts are already often devalued in our culture, and with industrialisation, we've really lost sight of the work and skill that, for thousands of years, went into making fabric. i would've loved to have seen them highlight not just the image of jewellery on this shroud, but the shroud itself.

because, yeah: this linen was beautiful. and to see this cloth, with these fibres that are finer and more uniform than many modern fabrics... like, obviously it's very good linen - the label only said it was for a woman called Isetweret, not what her status was, but i think it's a safe bet she wasn't the proletariat - but still.

just. i really fucking love history, oh my god

[daemon-in-my-head]

No but Gortash is actually an insane madman. That man saw a massive dragonborn with 2-4 rows of a lot of razor-sharp teeth and figured "I'm gonna stick my dick in that."

BUT THAT ISNT EVEN WHERE IT ENDS. There's a plethora of gods in the death domain, each and everyone serving and symbolising another aspect of death. Kelemvor, Lord of the dead and their judge; Jergal, Scribe of the dead; Anubis, Guardian of the dead; Myrkul, Lord of the (un)dead. AND WHO THE FUCK DOES GORTASH DECIDE TO SMASH? Yeah, the gore baby of the only death god that is the literal personification of death, as in dying, as in the Lord of Murders test-tube baby. Out of all the death god's, only one motherfucker claimed the process of dying itself for him. And Gortash decided he wanted to be that guy's son in law.

And once again, there's more. Not only does he not value his life or that of his dick, that man is incredible fucking salty and malicious compliance if it came to life.

Gortash likes the iron throne. Spend years there doing mad scientist shit and repurposed it into a prison nowadays. But if you so much as come close to it, even if you couldn't care less about the Gondians and just want to check his diary collection, or, if you're durge, check out what happened to your families heirloom, that guy fucking blows it up. There's like a plethora of other things he could've done but no, he just straight up obliterates it. AND THEN HE HAS THE DAMN AUDACITY TO DECLARE THE ALLIANCE NULL CUZ HE FELT SALTY. Brother in Bhaal I didn't even touch your little workers, I just wanted to read your dirty little secrets. Keeping the Gondians alive is too painful.

As for malicious compliance, not only is that guy fucking quiet quitting, doing the very bare minimum he's required to do while mourning his late wife's passing, he's also doing what he's told but not the way he should be. He's following Bane, he's supposed to be a tyrant, feared by his subjects. Yet that MF is being revered and celebrated as hero. Yes sure he's ruling the city but in the wrong fucking way. Yet Bane can't say shit, cuz Gortash is still wonderfully vile and feared by the Banites, just not anybody else.

What I'm getting at? Gortash is a maniac. I want to dissect his brain and figure out how exactly he manages to work this way and got as old as he is. Also he's hot, I would.

[oh-no-its-dragons]

ao3 is down so I'm posting omegaverse here

Violet stumbled down from the parapet, the anger she'd felt at Jack dissipating almost immediately. Being an alpha was going to get her killed at this rate, and not just because she'd been sent to the Rider's Quadrant. She'd had six months to get this anger under control and she was still threatening to stab people in the balls.

Not that Jack fucking Barlowe hadn't deserved it.

"Come here," someone said, putting a hand on Violet's shoulder, and at least she didn't growl at Rhiannon when she spun on the woman.

"You okay?" Rhiannon asked.

"No. Yes." Violet corrected herself.

Before she could say anything else, she was being escorted off to the side of the courtyard and she realized she recognized the scent. Dain was there. Gods, she'd been looking forward to seeing him again but this was not what she'd pictured. She watched him and Rhiannon snap at each other before Dain pulled rank to get her to submit.

Squad leader, huh? she said to herself. Good for him.

She let Dain get her up to his room and wrap her knee, and the support- both literal and figurative- helped her get her balance back.

"What the hell are you doing here, anyway?"

Oh, right. She'd had this conversation five hundred times right after she presented, but she hadn't had to do it in months. First year cadets weren't allowed letters or contact, though, so there'd been no way for her to warn Dain about any of it.

"I presented, just before the Solstice. I'm an alpha, so the scribe quadrant was out of the question, and my mom insisted."

"Nobody presents that late, Vi, are you sure?"

She blinked slowly, trying to tamp down the anger that was trying to fight to the surface again. "Am I sure? Don't be ridiculous, how could I not be? You were sure, weren't you?"

Dain hesitated before he answered, but Violet was too pissed to think much of it. It didn't matter that he didn't answer the question. He was already walking her back to the courtyard and then he disappeared into the chaos of Conscription Day.

The hardest part was not finding Rhiannon again, nor was it watching other cadets run and get set ablaze for their trouble. It was the fact that she could. not. stop. looking at Xaden Riorson. Every time she met his eyes- because of course he was looking at her too- she felt the feral claws in the back of her head. Something in her wanted to maul the fuck out of that man.

Rhiannon elbowed her in the side gently. "Violet? You're growling," she whispered.

Why had anyone ever thought throwing several hundred alphas together in an enclosed space was a good idea? Well, it was only really an enclosed space for the first few months, because once you bonded you got to fly. Violet wasn't thinking that far ahead, though. She couldn't. She had to get through three months of proving herself, one day after another, before it was a concern.

"We can sneak you into the Scribe Quadrant," Dain offered for the first time after Imogen nearly tore her arm off at assessments.

"No, there's no way they'd take me. And I can't do it, I can't go in there now." She remembered patience, distantly, missed

"I'll protect you." Again.

"I'll sneak you out." And again.

"Let me protect you." And again.

It was a refrain that was driving Violet out of her goddamn mind, and by September it was painfully clear to her that Dain did not believe she was an alpha. Did he think she was lying? Did he think her mother had somehow brainwashed her into believing she had presented?

Did he think she was this fucking angry all the time because it was fun? If anything, her temper was shorter than his, he ought to know how much effort it took to maintain that much composure.

She hated to think about it, but it seemed like a lot of the alphas in the Riders Quadrant were either much better at controlling their anger or just didn't get the alpha stereotypes in their genetic lottery. It seemed cosmically unfair that she was the least-likely alpha she'd ever met and also one with the hardest time controlling herself.

When she'd mentioned it to her squadmates, Rhiannon had a theory.

"Maybe it's because you were late presenting. I'd been dealing with it for four or five years before I got here, and you still haven't had a full year."

That made sense. Violet was pretty sure she'd heard something similar from a healer not long after her mother found out about her presentation. 

"No, it's… well, maybe it's that too," Sawyer hedged when Violet and Rhiannon both glared at him, "but there's something else. I didn't figure it out until after I washed out last year. But not everybody here is an alpha."

"That's not possible," Violet stared at him, "is it?"

"Nobody admits it, not really, but once you look for it you can't unsee it."

"Now that you said it, I can see it," Ridoc grinned. "Picture Riorson and put Aetos next to him. One of those men looks like an alpha, and it's not our squad leader."

Rhiannon rolled her eyes. "Come off it, if it was that easy to tell, you wouldn't be here. You sure as shit don't look like an alpha."

"It's not supposed to be obvious since we're all on suppressants anyway." Violet frowned when she thought about it. The idea of other people just… ignoring their biology when she was stuck here because of it made her twitch. 

Sawyer was right, though. Now that someone had said it, she couldn't stop thinking about it when she looked at the people outside her squad.

[illarian-rambling]

Thanks for the tag @cowboybrunch!

5 Lines Tag

My lines:

a line with suspense a funny line a line with color a loud line a line you’re proud of

I'll pull from End Times :)

A line with suspense

Her mangled Janazi characters bled as the wine seeped through the napkin, twisting their meaning even further. Twenari had taught Izjik and Sepo—or tried to teach, in her case—how to write in Janazi back on Nace. Sepo, of course, had picked up the language frighteningly fast and with a studious intensity that had left him with the handwriting of a scribe. Izjik, on the other hand, had never written anything before. Halawema’ishi didn’t have a written counterpart like Llanaodan, so she wasn’t super familiar with the concept to begin with.

Unfortunately, End didn’t have the patience to wait on her. All Izjik managed to scribble down was ‘Find Devaris. Help—’ before her captor took control and she was shunted once again to the back of her mind.

A funny line

“Look for dry wood in a variety of sizes,��� Sepo acquiesced with a sigh.

Djek smothered a giggle. “And I’ll bet you’re an expert at looking for dry wood in a variety of sizes, huh?”

A twig flew out of the darkness and impacted his forehead. “You’re a child.”

“Avoid any Nabafyrian cedar,” Twenari added. Either the innuendo had sailed over the girl’s head or she just didn’t care. Honestly, it was a toss-up. “It can explode when exposed to intense heat.”

“That’s…. Sure, whatever. Exploding trees.” Djek cracked his knuckles with a sigh and began to make his way into the underbrush. “Run fast if you hear me scream.”

“The head start will be appreciated.”

“Run towards me, dumbass!”

A line with color

Flicking into her arcane awareness, Twenari could see a great hurricane of whirling threads—black and yellow and purple like a fresh bruise. The mass of it covered the sky, turning the rays of the moon already dimmed by her focus on the magical into little more than candlelight. It crouched over Sepo and his miraculous music like a bloated giant. Almost, Twenari could see the bare impression of a face pressed into the rotting strings leering down at him.

From the fiddle flowed magic as well. Twenari had seen divine magic before, both in the All-Temple and making up Izjik’s torn cloak. It had a finer weave to it, a different texture under her discerning eye. The magic Sepo played wasn’t quite that. It shared elements—the burning blue threads flowed like water or honey, as smooth as silk—but held the tell-tale snarls of mortal magic.

Mortal magic was imperfect. Sometimes, that was where discoveries were found, or what transformed a stale hymn into a fiery concerto.

A loud line

Before her was a far more damning sight. End didn’t wear its carapace of night. It didn’t need to, facing only mortal threats on a floating piece of flimsy wood. Twenari felt the terror of teleportation replaced instantly by sickened rage. She’d imagined it would be hard to see past Izjik to the demon wearing her skin, hard to separate the flesh from the thing within, but her friend never would’ve smiled with such sadism. Her friend would never have worn Djek’s blood on her knuckles like a trophy.

The Amaranthi’s eyes were wild with terror as he looked back at the newly arrived reinforcements from where he struggled to stand up from slick ground. Fading whips of shadow pulled uselessly as End’s arms and legs.

“Where the fuck have you been?” was his screamed greeting.

A line you're proud of

Breathing hard, she sat on the edge of the slowly sinking ship, letting the southern sea wash the ichor from her sandals. The stars stared down at her with naked hatred and Izjik knew it would be this way every night for the rest of her life. Despised by the heavens, feared by the gods.

“I hate you,” she whispered, but the words were hollow. A desperate grab for the last embers of fury to keep her warm. Terror seeped into her veins like icy poison. Izjik looked down at her shaking hands—did blood even flow within them? Or just black ichor?

It was done. She was free. So, why didn’t she feel that way?

I'll tag @apolline-lucy @melpomene-grey @nebula--nix @theprissythumbelina and anyone else who wants to play :)

Your lines are:

A whispered line

A line with sass

A pretty line

A blue line

A brutal line

[blackjackkent]

OC Codex Prompts: 3, 8 and 17 for Hector? c:

(OC Codex Prompts) for Hector Carlisle!

3. a report written by your OC’s teacher or mentor

Notes from the diary of Enric of Trielta, Silverlight Monastery, 1449 DR Gavin Carlisle's boy turns ten this week. I must confess, Moonmaiden forgive me, that I resented the responsibility of caring for the child when Gavin abandoned him on our doorstep, and certainly did not expect that, ten years on, I might take such pride to see his progress. Let this be yet another proof that no emotion need be given more credence than it warrants. Hector is, as always, an attentive student, calm and polite; he takes our guidance to heart regarding self-control and the introspection which worship of our Lady requires. He does begin to show a certain restlessness, as is perhaps to be expected at his age, when he has grown up with only a single set of four walls. In light of this, I think it best that we begin to expand his activities despite his youth. He has expressed interest in exploring the library and has been deeply excited during his chaperoned visits to pick out books; I believe that training as a scribe would serve his curiosity well - and the monastery, as well, for Brother Kendrick grows very old indeed and his sight is beginning to fail. Best he take an apprentice at once while the Moonmaiden's light still shines on him. Should he wish it, I will also recommend that he be allowed to join Brother Ventiss occasionally on his trips to the city market for supplies. While I would not generally wish Ventiss's company on anyone, I believe Hector would do well to experience a taste of the city air on occasion, that he may compare it with our own rarefied atmosphere and draw his own conclusions, whatever they might be.

8. your OC’s doctor/healer talking about their injuries

"He'll be fine," Shadowheart mutters. "You're sure?" Karlach shifts her weight restlessly from foot to foot. "Sorry. Fuck. I know you've got so much other shit on your mind, but I just-- you're sure, yeah? That bone motherfucker cut him up real bad..." Shadowheart lets out a long slow breath and, with visible effort, wrestles herself out of the swirl of dark thoughts consuming her. "Hector will be fine," she says more firmly. "Not that it wasn't touch and go there for a minute. Myrkul's attacks..." A pause. Gods, she's tired; the words come slowly, reluctantly. "It's called bone chill. A necromantic effect. It prevents healing by magical means, and it takes time to wear off." "Ah. Right. Okay." Karlach looks relieved. "Yeah - I felt that too, I think, when I got up too close. And when something makes this old girl feel cold--" she thumps at the glowing metal under her breastbone with one fist "--you know it's serious." She manages a slight, rueful smile. "You've seen it before, then?" Shadowheart hesitates. "It's... not unheard of as a tool among Sharran agents," she finally says carefully. Karlach squints at her thoughtfully. "Right," she says. "So he'll be fine?" Shadowheart can't help it - she smiles, very slightly. It's something; she'd been starting to feel like she was never going to be able to smile again. "Yes," she repeats gently. "He'll be fine, Karlach. I promise. His back will scar pretty badly, I suspect, since I couldn't heal him at once, but that's the worst of it." Karlach grins, her indomitable good humor reasserting itself at once. "Ah, well. Not so bad then," she says. "Thank the gods." "Some of them, at least," Shadowheart murmurs.

17. a description of your OC’s family by a future historian

The identity of Hector Carlisle's mother is still something of a mystery. His father, Gavin - a monk at the Silverlight Monastery northwest of Baldur's Gate - provided no information on her when he left his infant son on the monastery's doorstep in early 1439 DR and vanished into the night. The note attached to the basket holding the boy read simply, "I leave you the fruits of the peak of my folly. - G Carlisle" An unwanted fifth son of minor nobility in Baldur's Gate, Gavin Carlisle was summarily dispatched to a monastic life at the age of eighteen and never took to it particularly well. Records of his time at the monastery are fraught with reports of sneaking out, carousing, arrests in the city, and general debauchery; it is clear that the disciplinary practices of the monks had little effect on his tendency towards hedonism. Given the relatively wide casting of Gavin's proverbial net, it is impossible to make a precise assertion as to the identity of the mother of his child who would one day go on to save the city. The most pervasive theory, however, gives the role to Florence Beaumont, daughter of a milliner in the Lower City. No records exist that specifically connect Florence and Gavin romantically, but there is record of Florence dying of a nebulous "fever of the lungs" around the time of Hector's birth. She is also recorded in her father's diary as having striking bright blue-grey eyes, a feature which is also mentioned repeatedly among contemporaneous accounts of Hector's activities. Hector himself never expressed particular interest in learning of his family history. In his own eyes, the monks of the monastery - and, later, the adventuring party he became more directly associated with - were his true family.

[thefallofophanim]

INCIDENT

The church's mournful bells are distant, as if encased in glass. My mind is deaf, closed, as my condescending gaze judges the dozens of figures kneeling around the sacred coffin. Aliosha's funeral is glorious and empty, a perfect reflection of his life. He is and will never be anything more than a pretty face, slowly forgotten, degraded by the cruelty of human indifference. Once I die, I hope I won't have to suffer such humiliation, I think to myself, swallowing back the bile irritating my throat; sick in body, sick in mind.

"They stole his life." A whisper. Beside me, Anouk is pale, her lovely brown skin livid and her jet eyes glistening with hatred. Ever since her birth- a mistake of gods and men- ever since the beginning of her truncated and painful existence, it's as if Anouk had never not felt hatred, anger, in the depths of her being. I could see her shadow, long and cast on the tiled floor, trembling and taking shape; that of an animal figure - a canine, perhaps - with vengeful, sharp fangs, ready to devour everything around her. I blink, and the shadow is again that of a young woman. Next to each other, we wait in silence for this tortuous ceremony to end.

Shortly afterwards, Anouk became obsessed with escaping from this nightmarish place. For the first time, in front of the remains of a loved one, she saw beyond the bars of her gilded cage.

I look up from the piece of stained glass, and the memory washes over me. The Angel's accusing gaze falls on me, and I don't lower my head.

"Is this where your revenge began?" asks Aliosha in his heavenly voice. I don't answer-not out of fear, but out of rebellion. "What can a simple Angel do in the face of human resolve?"

☆

Do you remember your first meeting with him?" asks Anouk innocently, almost making me miss my letter - a magnificent J, decorated in gold, opening a new page of sacred text. She knows I need silence to concentrate, but doesn't seem to care today. I click my tongue, letting my annoyance show, and Semione chuckles at their own desk, on the other side of the room. "Don't be like that, Lysander. You're already a very dedicated pupil- seriously, you've been working too much lately. Dozens of new pages each day. At this rate, you'll be the most hard-working scribe the Silk has ever known. And as proud as that can make me, I am sure you can also afford to spend some time chatting with your friend that came to see you", they mock me. Semione has been looking so unusually melancholic ever since I heard their encounter with Confessor, and I find myself unable to talk back, now that they seem to be sincerely smiling. I sigh deeply, and turn to Anouk.

"Fine. Is 'him' referring to Aliosha?"

"Are you being stupid on purpose?" she retorts. Even Whiskers, curled up in her left hand (these two definitely get along well) seems to be giving me a disapproving look.

"I am not!" I exclaim quickly, only mildly offended. "It was about two years ago, in the Monastery Library."

"Didn't he try to steal some of the texts?"

"More or less. Let's say that forbidden borrowing would be a more fitting term. All he wanted was to know more about pre-Metamorphosis History." My fingers curl around soft paper.

"Aliosha was a very curious person, as insufferable as he could be" sniffed Anouk. "At least, he wasn't pretending to detain all of humanity's knowledge in his hand, for once."

"Ha-ha. Right." The paper is as white as the Angel poisoning my mind. I let go of the paper sheet.

"How did he react when you caught him?"

I clear my throat. "I am pretty sure he thought I was the Messiah Himself for a second."

The girl laughs, terribly amused.

"I hope he got on his knees and begged for forgiveness for at least four and a half minutes with his little Choir songs."

"I am afraid he did not, but he did walk directly into a bookshelf while trying to escape and certainly spent [at least] four and a half minutes putting all the books back to their initial place."

Semione rolled their eyes. "He damaged a masterpiece of mine. And one of the scribe before me. I was enraged. I thought for an instant I would break my vow of nonviolence."

I hum approvingly. "If it wasn't for the rules, I would've shoved my fist into his face without a second thought."

"And that's the most dedicated Child of God for you" remarked Anouk teasingly. Striking a pose against my desk, eyes closed, I throw my head back theatrically. "Forgive me Father, for I have sinned..."

Laughs echo through the scriptorium, and the voices of the Ophanim are silent, for once, for now, allowing me a break from their endless supplications.

Suddenly, Anouk caresses my hand. It's gentle, innocent, but all I can feel is a harsh, sickly familiar grip around my wrist. I flinch and move my hand away, nearly slapping what I think, for a second only, to be Confessor in the process. She doesn't say anything, but I can sense disappointment. Pain, even. I can't bring myself to apologize. No apology would ever be enough, and we both know it, as much as we would give to a Being of Light to remain blissfully ignorant. Our insides are tarnished, I think as she covers her stomach with her cloth- an old sweater she refused to let go of. Uniformity has never been to Anouk's liking. She starts speaking again, of the way she met Aliosha, the offense he took at her not refusing to bow before him. Aliosha was never one to be humble.

That evening, I returned to the Monastery bookshop, ignoring the snide Angel hidden between the shelves.

The first incident occurred the next day. Whispers throughout The Silk, a wave of fright amidst a crowd of Angels, Scribes, Luthiers, and all the Others I've never spoken of. A trail of blood on the church's marble staircase, a life gone. I imagined the body - displayed beautifully, twisted, before the empty clouds of a cold morning. A premature departure for Heaven, and more importantly, a voluntary one. A member of the Choir. Ophanim laughed and weeped. 'Doubt in his mind', murmures the crowd. 'Loss of faith', they say.

[french-toast-enjoyer]

Writing Share Game:

Rules: share some writing!

thanks to @rkmoon for the tag, here's a snippet from a symbrock fic I'm not sure is good enough to continue! I also submitted it to @funkycave so if you see it on their blog hey, same hat. lemme know if I should actually write this:

To the world, he was once known as Ediliaphon. The scribe of creation, and the angel of all to be known by man.

Now his collar simply reads “Eddie”. A bastardization of the name given to him by the god he once loved. The God who had abandoned him for daring to question his divine plan.

The God that had left him there, in the writhing city of Pandemonium with every other rejected angel. Tossed like an unwanted, unruly pet. Weighed down with a rock and thrown in a river to die.

And he would’ve died.

For nine full days after the collapse of Lucifer’s army, Eddie and all other now fallen angels had lay in the depths of what was now hell, paralyzed with the never-before-felt sensation that would come to be known as pain.

That fateful period had brought to birth several new, unbearable concepts.

Suffering came forth in the physical anguish of broken bones and hellfire-charred skin. Agony crept into the faces of those lost, regretful angels. And annihilation–

It claimed half of all lower angels on the first night.

Without a master or cause to tie themselves to, without faith in either their love or hatred of God, many of the regretful, lost souls had simply ceased to be. Succumbing to their injuries with no hatred to empower them to stand up and keep fighting.

But for those who did hate?

It disfigured them. Morphed their wounds into splitting heads. Their faces became permanent snarls, their halos had cracked into horns, and their bodies had melded into darkness from days of bitterly crawling on their bellies.

Eddie was lucky. Eddie had avoided both fates, somehow.

It eluded him, how he had fallen without shattering his soft white wings. And how he felt so little in the advent of his fall that malevolence had not consumed his broken, once divine body.

Much like the others, however, he was frail. Fading in real time without a deity to uphold him.

On night one, his wings had wilted, night two, his skin began to burn.

He'd have given up forever to touch God again. Just once.

There were nights when he’d remember his time as a scribe. Appointed by the Father to pen the histories of all that had been created. It'd been so brief, yet so blissful. To think he gave it all up, out of pride. Out of the want for more accolade than the ultimate honor of witnessing the birth of all the world. What a fool he was.

He would’ve died. But on his knees, something had found him.

It called itself Venom. A manifest of sin much like those conceived with Lucifer’s first betrayal. In perpetuity, it was meant to be the lord of treason. Of biting the hand that feeds.

He'd been despondent when the entity had found him. Useless. Too tired to curse God and too prideful to beg for forgiveness.

It had sensed the angel’s weakness. Known it to be the closest thing to a lamb this wretched pit could offer. Only in appearance, of course.

Much like that which tempted Eve, it'd crawled to the angel on its belly, whispering sweet nothings about divinity and reclamation. Offering him protection in exchange for devotion.

Eddie, feeling bloody tears welling in his eyes, knew that his choice was either to obey, or so begin the process of fading away completely.

He'd looked to the heavens. They couldn't be seen. God was not coming to forgive him, much less save his life.

In short, he'd agreed.

So began his life, given up to the first and last entity that'd shown him mercy.

Herein begins the true fall.

I'm gonna tag @spibbb and @bunsofhoney because I like what I've seen of their writing! as always, no pressure to participate:)

[rockislandadultreads]

New Title Tuesday: Sci-Fi Picks

The Deep Sky by Yume Kitasei

They left Earth to save humanity. They’ll have to save themselves first.

It is the eve of Earth’s environmental collapse. A single ship carries humanity’s last hope: eighty elite graduates of a competitive program, who will give birth to a generation of children in deep space. But halfway to a distant but livable planet, a lethal bomb kills three of the crew and knocks The Phoenix off course. Asuka, the only surviving witness, is an immediate suspect.

Asuka already felt like an impostor before the explosion. She was the last picked for the mission, she struggled during training back on Earth, and she was chosen to represent Japan, a country she only partly knows as a half-Japanese girl raised in America. But estranged from her mother back home, The Phoenix is all she has left.

With the crew turning on each other, Asuka is determined to find the culprit before they all lose faith in the mission—or worse, the bomber strikes again.

The Book of Witches edited by Jonathan Strahan

Witches! Whether you know them from Shakespeare or from Wicked, there is no staple more beloved in folklore, fairy tale, or fantasy than these magical beings. Witches are everywhere, and at the heart of stories that resonate with many people around the world. This dazzling, otherworldly collection gathers new stories of witches from all walks of life, ensuring a Halloween readers will never forget. Whether they be maiden, mother, crone, or other; funny, fierce, light and airy, or dark and disturbing; witches are a vital part of some of the greatest stories we have, and new ones start here!

The Saint of Bright Doors by Vajra Chandrasekera

Fetter was raised to kill, honed as a knife to cut down his sainted father. This gave him plenty to talk about in therapy.

He walked among invisible devils and anti-gods that mock the mortal form. He learned a lethal catechism, lost his shadow, and gained a habit for secrecy. After a blood-soaked childhood, Fetter escaped his rural hometown for the big city, and fell into a broader world where divine destinies are a dime a dozen.

Everything in Luriat is more than it seems. Group therapy is recruitment for a revolutionary cadre. Junk email hints at the arrival of a god. Every door is laden with potential, and once closed may never open again. The city is scattered with Bright Doors, looming portals through which a cold wind blows. In this unknowable metropolis, Fetter will discover what kind of man he is, and his discovery will rewrite the world.

The Splinter in the Sky by Kemi Ashing-Giwa

The dust may have just settled in the failed war of conquest between the Holy Vaalbaran Empire and the Ominirish Republic, but the last Emperor’s surrender means little to a lowly scribe like Enitan. All she wants is to quit her day job and expand her fledgling tea business. But when her lover is assassinated and her sibling is abducted by Imperial soldiers, Enitan abandons her idyllic plans and weaves her tea tray up through the heart of the Vaalbaran capital. There, she learns just how far she is willing to go to exact vengeance, free her sibling, and perhaps even secure her homeland’s freedom.

[historitor-bookshelf]

Warhammer Kinktober 2024: Day 15

Day 15: Psykana: Biomancy | Word Bearers | Religion Other tags: Lorgar/FemOC, implied gangbang, Discussion of Body Fluids (Blood, Pus), Vaginal Sex

“No suitable inspiration?” Lorgar folded his hands and looked at the rubricator in kneeling in front of him, her jead bowed. “Lord,” Afra said. “I- I was referring to the parts of your book dealing with the Youngest of the Gods of the Warp. The Dark Prince boggles my mind. Every illustration I attempt to sketch a draft of, every line of every word just… doesn’t fit. I would not dare to even attempt illustrating the manuscripts intended for your brothers if I cannot even sketch something that would even be remotely suitable.” She remained in her position, not daring to look up. Lorgar’s cool fingers touched her chin and lifted it up. “Look at me.” Afra did, finding herself starring in the golden pools of the Primarch she served, the Primarch who had raised her from a mere scribe to the head rubricator. She would follow him into the void without hesitation.

“Afra,” he said softly. “Is that really it?” “I wouldn’t dare to lie to you.” She whispered. “Never. I just… cannot think of anything that would suit the Dark Prince.” Lorgar nodded, slow. “The others?” “Lord?” “You have drafts for the other Gods?” “Of course!” She jumped to her feet. “Let me show you, Lord-” Lorgar followed her around the table, she noticed. But this was so he could see her designs. “For the Lord of Skulls I thought about using red ink mixed with blood or finely crushed brass. For the Architect of Fate I inquired around for crystals, to make them shimmer. Ideally would be colour-changing, but it turned out to be to much for the weaker minded of the scribes. The Grandfather’s ink I dulled with plague fluids - handling it with gloves, of course, and praying in the correct manner.” Lorgar nodded as she prattled on, showing him the designs, her fingers sliding the parchment sheets around. He stood closely behind her, one of his large, slender hands on her elbow. “And the Youngest?” Afra bit her lip. “I am stumped even at the choice of the materials.” She admitted. “Even using the the most brilliant pigments and inks seem to lessen the impact of your words, Lord. It does not fit. There is no other way of describing it. Not to mention that I do not know what to mix in, as with the others. I thought about Aeldari Soulgems, crushed, but it seemed like a poor imitation of the Architect of Fate’s ink-” Lorgar pushed her ever so gently onto her front. She squeaked, trying to figure out a way to not scatter or crush her drafts. “Hush.” He lifted her up further until her upper body rested on the table. “I am impressed by your designs so far. Allow me to help inspire you when it comes to the Dark Prince’s excess and indulgences.” “Surely someone else-” Lorgar hushed her again, his hands sliding her robes up beyond her rump. “Let it be me, first.” His rough hands began to encircle her hips as he turned her over and they were, once more, face to face. “My dear artisan,” he whispered. “Let me be your muse.” Warm, gentle fingers slipped between her legs and Arfa keened. Lorgar’s mouth wandered over her neck, down her shoulder, pushing the fabric of her robe aside to open more skin to his inquiring fingers and lips. Lips, that closed around her nipples gently, as if teasing a soft blossom into bloom. Fingers that traced runes and letters of various languages across her skin. Just the slightest bit of force from his fingernails, to draw white lines along her limbs, along her bones, along her arteries. Maybe it was him, maybe it was what he wrote and drew on her skin, but Afra felt how drenched she became as she rutted against his thigh he had pushed up against her core.

“Yes,” Lorgar whispered against her lips, his fingers sliding down to her clitoris, gently teasing and massaging it. “Enjoy the feeling. Enjoy the ecstasy. Submerge yourself into the sea of lust. Do not hold back anything that comes to you.” Afra moaned loudly, her hands digging into Lorgar’s bald head, smearing the golden ink on his scalp. Every single movement he made left a trace of fire, her clit rubbed and massaged until it felt as if an ember was stoked by his fingers. She came with a loud shout, her legs wound around his hips, jerking and rubbing up against Lorgar. “Yes, yes, my dear scribe.” He kissed her, nibbling at her lower lips. “Let it all out.” He stepped away from her, loosening his robes before he slid his hard, hot length against her cunt to let her own juices lubing him up. His cock then pulled away, before he pushed into her. “Lord!” She clutched at his shoulders, at his head, at his neck to deal with the sudden entrance in her unstretched cunt. He pulled her onto his cock, only her ass balancing on the edge of the table. “Such a soft channel,” he cooed. “So tight and warm. Made for the exhileration of the flesh. For fucking.” She struggled against his grip, against the hand on her ass that pushed her down on his cock. “Lord, that was-” “Relax.” He kissed her again, whispering against her lips. “Listen to how much your body wants this. How the energies of the warp making up your beings lead you here. Let my body merge with yours in this ecstasy.” He settled her back against the desk and then began to move. The fire in her, still lit but dimished through his forced entry, was stoked again with every time the cock head pushed its way back into her, stretching the tight ring of her entrance. She came again, whining and crying his name, too caught up in his fucking to recognise his fingers sliding into her ass, spreading her juices there. “Will you allow more to show you the ecstasy of the Prince of Pleasure?” He whispered against her ear, his fingers in her rear pushing deeper. “Yes!” She sobbed. “I need more. I am so close to seeing it.” He kissed her again. “As you wish.” She wrapped her arms and legs around him as much as she could, until he came with a loud moan of his own. Lorgar pulled out, watching his seed dribble out of her vagina. “I will call for more… teachers.” Afra whined, reaching out for him. “Patience.” A quick kiss to her temple. “There will be far more to experience.”

In the evening, he received the report that Afra finally had her spark of inspiration she had so desired.

[okamirayne]

Hi! I've been rereading BtB these days, and I realized there's something I've been wondering. How do you come up with such accurate metaphors to describe such abstract concepts?

Two examples that come to me are, when the psychiatrist explains the nature of a fracture psyche and compares it to a loose fist, and how integration/functionality is similar to tighten the fingers of said hand. The other one is when it's explained Shukaku's internal fail-safe mechanism to contain his trauma, is searching and killing one of the twins each night, and repeat the process all over again the next day.

There are, of course, more descriptions that are outstanding among the serie, but these exacts ones, personally struck me like lightning. I don't mean to intrude in your privacy, I was just wondering how was the process in constructing such complex imagery. Did you expect to reach such depth? Was it carefully crafted and cultivated or more along the lines of unexpectedly unavoidable once you were in the trenches of writing?

Truth is, ten years ago, I would have benefited a lot had I known how to express both of these situations with words. About the fractured psyche I used to described it as grabbing water with bare hands, but it was never a satisfying metaphor all in all :"D

The magic of writers I guess, the first time I read your works I felt like a kid that watches the rabbit being pulled out of the hat for the first time.

Obligatory, english-isn't-my-first-language warning/apology in advance.

Love you author <3

Hey there @dirty-tako 💖!

Wow! Firstly, thank you for your patience as I finally get round to responding to your lovely message. And also, thank you so much for crossing the language barrier to reach out to me 💖🫶🏼💖. I would never have suspected it wasn't your first language and wish I could command another tongue as eloquently and brilliantly as you! 🙏🏼

I've been rereading BtB these days, and I realized there's something I've been wondering. How do you come up with such accurate metaphors to describe such abstract concepts?

Ah! So, so chuffed to hear that you've revisited BtB recently, my lovely. Thanks for jumping back into that world. As for how I come up with my metaphors?

I honestly don't know how to answer that, luv. Pictures flood onto my mind-screen and I literally just write what I see, or what the characters 'say'. When I'm in flow with my writing, the imagery often takes care of itself. The two examples you gave of Dr Mushi and Shikaku are perfect examples of that. I 'saw' both those metaphoric instances playing out visually and I just scribed what I saw - it tends to come organically from the characters, if that makes sense? I know that sounds quasi-woo-woo but that's the honest to gods' truth. I wish I could say there was a specific process I used, but it always tends to come from the characters that I'm inhabiting when writing from their POV.

There are, of course, more descriptions that are outstanding among the series, but these exacts ones, personally struck me like lightning. I don't mean to intrude in your privacy, I was just wondering how was the process in constructing such complex imagery.

Gosh, thank you for your very kind praise of my writing. I don't find it intrusive of you to ask, sweetie, and I'm touched you find my insanity a point of interest. 😅💜 The process is always 'character driven' for me...I don't even know if it's helpful explaining it that way, but I can't think how else to describe it. When I'm in their skin, the metaphors tend to flow from them given their model of the world or the moment.

Did you expect to reach such depth? Was it carefully crafted and cultivated or more along the lines of unexpectedly unavoidable once you were in the trenches of writing?

Absolutely the latter, Tako. Unexpectedly unavoidable. You nailed it with that. Very much a spontaneous and organic process when it comes to the metaphors and descriptions unless I need to describe a very specific structure or do my research on Japanese architecture, specific items, or particular interior designs etc. in a scene.

Truth is, ten years ago, I would have benefited a lot had I known how to express both of these situations with words. About the fractured psyche I used to described it as grabbing water with bare hands, but it was never a satisfying metaphor all in all :"D

Oh wow! 😍 Now you see, that's such an interesting and unique take; the image you've described gives a whole different feel to a fractured psyche because you've gone with an element that is so deliciously nebulous and lends itself well to the mind. How can you hold onto consciousness with your bare hands? Beautiful. I love that.

It's strange isn't it? While you say it didn't quite hit the mark for you, for me, I find your example such a brilliant take on the mind. I could go wild with that water analogy. See? You've inspired a whole flood of images for me by sharing your personal visual perspective on the fractured psyche. I bloody love it!! 😍

The magic of writers I guess, the first time I read your works I felt like a kid that watches the rabbit being pulled out of the hat for the first time.

The magic of readers and writers connecting in the worlds that come spilling outta the ether. It's beautiful. I'm so ridiculously happy that my words touched you and vibed with you, luv. That lifts and lightens my spirit! Thank you for connecting with my work and for reaching out to connect with me. I appreciate you so much. 🥰🙏🏼

Big Love coming at you, dear reader 💜🫶🏼💜

[all6pistols]

I am made ill by these freaks.

from this very funny

[oops-i-accidentally]

Ruins of the Mad King Pt. 2 - The Gods

The pantheon of the world, the deities that guide and protect the mortals through their lives. Though they reside in the Celestial Plane, their presences are still very much felt in all aspects of life. In the busy docks of a seaside town and the hallowed halls of the courts, in songs a bard sings and in the swing of a warrior’s blade. In the the act of comforting the weak, the act of protecting the wilds, and the act of putting one to rest, the gods stand besides the mortals.

At least, they should.

Ereindal The Matron of Endings The goddess that created the worlds and realms beyond. She was once held captive by The Broken One, her eternal energy feeding its eternal hunger, until she managed to escape into the Material Plane. From there, she created all that mortals know to be in life, from the dirt they tread on to the forests they explore. It was a tragedy when, in order to save her creations, she sacrificed herself to lock The Broken One away once again by acting as bait. Her loss was felt through all the realms.

Ar’sogthel The Broken One, The Lurker of the Gate, The Serpent Between Realms, The Nameless Mist Hunger and destruction incarnate, the destroyer of worlds. This beast is Ereindal’s opposite, the thing that balances her creation, but it cannot survive without her. Like a snake that eats its own tail, it can only ever consume to extend its life while only nearing its demise. It had been freed from its cage after a plot that spanned multiple millennia, causing the apocalypse in its wake. It was only returned to its space of nothingness by bringing Ereindal with it, to once again eternally fulfill its hunger.

Luxas The Master of the Tapestry The deity of fate, the first celestial being made after Ereindal was free. They were her right hand and oldest friend, the calm rock for her childish storms. They are a hermit, avoiding interaction with the mortals for as long as religious history can remember. Despite that, even they have been strangely quiet for the last 50 years...

Larhena The Scribe of the Past One of the three Fates, the helpers of Luxas, Larhena is in control of the past. She is the eldest of the triplets, but has a deep mischievous streak that’s only tempered by her siblings’ more calm personalities. She is the holder of all of the world’s history, that which is known and that which has been lost is all held within her sight. Though she once directed the threads of fate, she is now more involved in the affairs of the mortal world than any of the gods in the past millennia.

Larasil The Seer of the Present One of the three fates, Larasil is the omniscient watcher of the present. He is the middle child and is the rock of his two siblings, between Larhena’s mischief and Laremis’ flights of fancy. He keeps watch over all of the current affairs of the mortals to ensure none of the strings he weaves are cut or entangled against the plan, working where none can see him to keep order in the chaos. Currently, though, he finds himself tasked with cleaning up Larhena’s messes more than anything else.

Laremis The Oracle of the Future One of the three Fates, Laremis is the one who worked with Larhena to ensure the tapestry the threads of fate make up are plotted correctly. They see the big picture, the end result, while Larhena laid out the base. They are prone to daydreaming and getting lost in their imagination, for what they imagine are possible futures for the mortals they weave together, and are only held down by their siblings. Nowadays, however, they seem to be missing from the picture they once helped weave. All that is left behind are cryptic poems warning of what is to come, obvious only when it’s too late.

Desgaus The Mistreader Desgaus is the deity of magic, and is mostly commonly attributed as the creator of monsters. They're commonly depicted as a figure hidden behind a fabric shroud, their face forever and always a mystery. Desgaus is known to be the lover of Lenua, called the dark side of her moon, and the pair are rarely (if ever) separated from each other. They are one of the more rarely worshiped gods, usually by arcanists with a more religious streak. Their holy animal is the crane.

Lenua The Starwalker Lenua is the goddess of the moon and the night, the twin sister to Solis and lover of Desgaus. She keeps watch over the sleeping mortals during the night and is said to protect them from the dangers lurking the shadows, offering solace in her silvery light. She is most commonly worshiped by travelers and thieves, and even the creatures of the night are said to hold a reverence for her word and power. Her holy animal is the fox.

Solis The Dawneye Solis is the god of the sun and the day, the twin brother of Lenua. He watches over the mortals during the light of day, allowing the plants to grow and work to be done. He is known as a joyous god, encouraging others to show jubilation in his light, and is rumored to be more involved in mortal affairs than some other gods may be. He is most commonly worshipped by travelers, lawmen, and farmers. His holy animal is the kestrel.

Athres The Firespiller Athres is the deity of war, and lover of Contra and Dionsia. He is the one who watches over all mortal conflict, judging each side’s causes and giving blessings to those he feels deserve the rights of victory more. There have been times where it’s rumored that Athres himself took part in a war, or worked in close quarters with a chosen mortal to act as his vessel. He is commonly worshiped by warriors and soldiers, and called upon in times of conflict by leaders. His holy animal is the lion.

Contra The Soulweaver Contra is the deity of love, and the lover of Athres and Dionsia. Her domain included all types of affection a mortal may have for another, not purely romantic love. Some even posit that her true realm of power is the mortal soul, for what is a soul if not the ability to feel affection? She is the most widely worshiped deity of the pantheon because of this, held in the same high regard as Hesret, for no being is exempt from feeling affection of every single kind. Her holy animal is the bird of paradise.

Dionsia The Joywriter Dionsia is the deity of revelry, and the lover of Athres and Contra. They are also known as the deity of creativity, oftentimes blessing creatives of all art forms with inspiration and energy to create. As the deity of revelry, they are known to take on mortal forms to enjoy the riches and bliss only found in the mortal realms. They are worshiped by creatives, writers and artists, as well as anyone who lives a life more hedonistic and chaotic than might be wise. Their holy animal is the leopard.

Kemphra The Lifebringer Kemphra is the goddess of the earth. She works with Vastrom and Pelus to protect the wild places of the world from the destruction that mortals are prone to, for the land is just as much a child of Ereindal as the mortals are. She is known as a chaotic deity prone to quickly shifting moods, as calm as a serene pool in one moment and as furious as an erupting volcano in the next. She is most widely worshiped by farmers. Her holy animal is the rabbit.

Vastrom The Tideshaker Vastrom is the god of the seas. He is the protector of the waves and all that live underneath the waters, just as Kemphra and Pelus protect their own domains. While he is not as chaotic as Kemphra, he is known to be rather mischievous and plays tricks on sailors long out at sea. It is well known that he and Riventen are at constant odds, the fickleness of water coming to blows with the rigidity of mortal responsibility. He is worshiped by sailors and fishermen. His holy animal is the albatross.

Riventen The Peaceholder Riventen is the deity of leadership. They are widely regarded as the king of the gods because of this domain, leading and keeping the other deities in check for the mortals’ benefit. They are the judge of those that affront the gods, and work with Mortos to decide the destination of souls once a mortal has passed; either reincarnation, or an eternity in the hells. They are often depicted as being blinded, a cloth wrapped over their eyes, as they hold aloft a set of scales. They are commonly worshiped by leaders and lawmen, and courthouses are commonly also used as their temples. Their holy animal is the eagle.

Mortos The Endwatcher Mortos is the deity of death, and the leader of the hells. They are tasked with keeping the line between life and death, never allowing it to be crossed. They and their devas work as psychopomps to ferry the souls of the deceased. They are known as a cold deity, one that isn’t known to harbor the warmth that most of the other deities show, and as such are less worshiped and more feared. Despite this, a small sect has dedicated themself to Mortos and their worship in the Church of Mortos, who act as grave tenders and keepers of cemeteries. Their holy animal is the raven.

Pelus The Vinerunner Pelus is the god of the wilds, the forests and jungles of the world. He works with Kemphra and Vastrom to keep these spaces protected, though he tends to achieve this through fear rather than mischief or chaos. He oversees the delicate balance of the ecosystems and these ecosystems include monsters and beasts that would easily rend a mortal body to shreds, which he does nothing to prevent should a mortal wander into his lands. He is worshiped by druids mainly, but has been known to take those who also refuse to conform to a mortal society into his good graces as well. His holy animal is the monkey.

Hesret The Hearthkeeper Hesret is the goddess of the home, and is also known as the goddess of safety. She is the patron of those that provide and care for others, and advocates endlessly for peace in the mortal realm. Her followers are known to provide for the weak and forgotten, and acts of charity and compassion without repayment are seen as worship for the goddess. She is known to be worshiped by a large variety of people-- any who wish for the safety and warmth of home, really. This includes mothers and caretakers, innkeeps and those that provide care for the injured and sick.

The next post will be about the player characters of the campaign, and what their deals are! Stay tuned!

[whereserpentswalk]

For it was long ago that the battle between existence and void first formed. When all gods stood together against the nothingness, and no pantheon was named, and no division made between lesser and greater nor rebel and king. There was only the emptiness of space, when no stars formed, and no planets grew.

And at the helm was void and chaos, the tyranny of pure annihilation. Though it was an army no names could be given to those who fought, for no names could define the chaos, for it was pure nothingness, and pure refusal to exist with any boundaries between itself. And though a thousand warriors stood with the void they were but nothing for they could be thought as one and one million at once, and none could define their form. Only did alilation stand, in the moment when matter and antimatter fought. For this was only the universe's refusal to exist within the chaos.

Yet against them rode freedom, and the desire to exist, and each had a name though it may not be known today. For there rode the armies of the gods. And at the helm was Mars, and his blood was napalm, and his breath was mustard gas, and his shield was made of treaties and his sword was a nuclear bomb, and with him the first fear was felt as Mars struck the void and creation demanded to exist.

And a thousand gods followed him. Freya stood with a crown of promises upon her hand, great cats carrying her forwards as valkyries followed her on blood machines half alive. Set taunted the void from the cavalry, turning his form a thousand times in mockery. Bal stood proudly commanding from afar, the fate of a thousand worlds within his hands. The horned god laughed upon a chariot of redwoods and soil, pulled by the tears of the stars. And in fiery passion Prometheus broke the shield walls, calling upon the universe in glory with a hundred mouths. The scribe of death Cthulhu wrote of the battle upon a piece of lithium, his skin a thousand colors under a beard of arms. And the lord of the moon, whose name is known only to elephants glowed from above, and looked at the void with hatred in his heart.

And for that day hatred was good, and satisfaction was evil. For hatred was the desire for creation to exist, for it was hatred of annihilation. 

And none shall know if it was a thousand years or a thousand moments, for time itself was built in the throws of the battle. 

And when the battle ended the void was banished, to beyond what we could even imagine, within the hearts of black holes, and to places far too far away for its light to even have time to meet the eyes of earth. 

And in their innocence the gods thought themselves free of pain, for none would ever know the fear of nonexistence again. And they built themselves a temple to rest upon the shores of planets yet to be discovered. And in that day Jupiter and Juno ran together naked like children, and quetzalcoatl coiled up and remembered colors that no eye could see, and Thoth looked upon every atom and wrote them a name, and Odin lay down a spear made of antimatter, and for a moment admired the greatness of existence.

Yet it all fell. None today knows who spoke the first word, for whom the first squabble commenced. Perhaps it was nothing, a disagreement none should have festered over, the color of the curtains, or whether a lightswitch should have stayed on or off. It was nothing. It should have been nothing. Dear god let it be nothing. The gods would have prayed to themselves if they only knew what faced them.

Over the years the arguments festered, even in paradise there was imperfection. And it became everything. Zoroaster began to look down upon Amun-ra, and Tiamat and Marduk were already at eachothers throats, and Odin hated all of Loki's children, it had all become so bad that poor El had been so traumatized he thought himself the only god, and called the rest of family devils.

So in their loneliness they sought for a new world. For all the world they lay upon was too perfect for any land but flat marble, the scribe Thoth had found truth in his studies, and he found that life could come from nothing, and build itself through a thousand generations. And he opened his curved mouth and read from a script made of stardust, speaking of life evolved from itself, and built from nature. And the gods knew at once that they could be with that life, and for souls would be so plentiful that they could divide up the world, and each would have their own nation of followers. 

And they came upon earth, where men were godless. And for the men there lived as many do today, knowing only a world made by nature and satisfied for it, and for when they died they would pass into nothingness and for none were disturbed by such notions for they were grateful of what nature had given them. Yet when the gods came to men, they were filled with joy and knowledge that they had never known before, and awakened, and those they spoke to would give to them and be taken upon. And the world began to worship the gods, as each faction of gods took a nation for themselves.

Yet El had been the weakest and most paranoid of the gods, and in his unwillingness to share he had found nothing in his hands but the small isle of eden in a salty and dead sea, where fruit was rare and cattle wept. And yet El hated all other gods, and in his arrogance called it the true paradise of earth, and with so little wood upon the island none upon it knew better.

And El spoke to the king of Eden, "You will be my first son. You will be my hero, my anchor. And for through my words you will never know death or even sleep. Through my power you shall not just be a king but a warlock, and through your power you will become a lich, and not Hel nor Pluto nor Anubis will know you."

And Adam, king of Eden bowed, and took off his crown of driftwood to reply, and for he had never known of a god before he spoke, "I know not your name great being, yet I am king, I do not know why I would wish to exist beyond myself, or why my sons would wish to never take my throne?"

And El lied upon him, and distorted the name of one of a thousand women who had rejected him, "If you are to die your brain shall live beyond your death. And Hell shall take you, and you will know only fire and pain for that is what you will be without me."

And Adam, naive to godhood, replied, "Then may I first have a gift, if you are so holy? If you are divine may I not have a divine bride? For I hear your voice yet I see nothing. There is only this life for me as of now, and if I cannot add to it what may I have?"

And El promised, "And for a wife I will give you. And she shall be called goddess, yet you will call her devil for you shall make her feel as if she was the most awful and vile of beasts that you must punish with your body."

And El flew across the sea, and came upon Israel where their gods were given gold and silver and all those shining things that El had denied himself when he chose Eden. And he came upon the desert where for thirteen days he stalked the goddess of the night, Lilith, queen of the owls, whose eyes shone like diamonds, and whose torch was named liberty and whose sword was named freedom. 

The shadowy form of El pounced upon Lilith, and as she struggled against him he whispered to her that it would be for the best, and told her that submission to him and to the king of Eden would be better freedom, as he tore at her feathers and made her bleed until her wings could not fly away. And as she cried beneath him he still swore it would be for the best. 

And before Adam lay Lilith, hugging herself, naked and afraid. And El asked upon Adam, "Feast upon her, and make it not love, for only I am love."

And as Adam touched her Lilith growled and hissed, for the torch of liberty still burnt bright in her eyes. And Adam drew a sword of bronze and clashed with her, and they dueled for moments and equals, and as they clashed as great warriors Lilith wondered if he could have been her husband if he was the subject of a different god, and she wished she could have known him. And it mattered not for what he had become, and as she ran he fired arrows at her back in his hunt, and seeing his chest unarmored she struck him, declaring her freedom unquestioned, and leaving him laying for dead on the ground. She flew righteously, and as she crossed the desert skies humanity knew there was hope for freedom.

Adam awoke, weeping. He had lived, her his cough was that of blood, as a rib had been torn from his chest, and within the capital of Eden he was healed by the medicin women of Eden. And his heart had no love anymore, not for his people, not for his land, not for nature, he had given it to El as his possession. And he looked at his nurse, young and twenty as he was, though his battle made him feel old, and he forgot love or even lust but felt only the desire to conquer, and wished to own her as he did his hunting dogs.

And Adam asked El, "May she then be my first woman? If she is nothing, can you make her goddess and demoness?"

And El replied, "She shall be. And then you shall be lich and warlock for me, and you shall reign over all of the earth."

And her name became Eve, for she was Adam's to name. And he took upon her, and she had no freedom under the eyes of Adam, and the queen of Eden would weep each night as Adam brewed his potions and prayed upon the shattered stones of sea, and did every dark ritual he knew, and he thought of eternal life for the first time, and knew he would one day taste the blood and skin of a demigod as if it was wine and bread. 

And every night the queen of Eden wept, yet her name had been made Eve, and she had been called goddess and demon. And all her prayers were answered by El. And no answer gave her anything but pain.

Yet the words cried over the world. And as the other gods cherished their kingdoms, they had all agreed not to leave, and they wished to not affect Eden for it was El's. And when they met in secret they argued. 

And Lilith cried, "For who will support us? For who will cry for freedom? If El took me it is proof his tyranny is a threat to liberty anywhere. And who shall say the folk of Eden do not have the same rights as all of humanity?"

And Horus argued, "If he comes again he will be fought back to Eden. But Eden is his, it is our law."

And Hel replied, "But if Eden's borders grow will they not then be a danger to all?"

And Athena refuted her, "You speak only for your care of the people of Eden. But you and I both know they will not expand, for they are barren in their name and lands."

And for seven weeks they argued, as their people felt fear without them. Until Quetzalcoatl stopped them all, "There are many words yet no actions, my radiance will meet with that of one soul in Eden. And if that is enough for El to fall, so be it, if not we may weep for them." And Quetzalcoatl bid his people farewell, hoping he would one day see North America again, as he knew he would soon be under the dark skies of Eden. 

In the garden of the king of Eden, where trees had been dedicated to El and his power, Eve wept in the night. And in front of her appeared Quetzalcoatal and he was radiant and powerful, with ten hundred teeth, and scales of gold, and feathers of every color, and Eve knew not of any other god so she called upon him, "Serpent? Why have you come upon this land? Why walk in the garden of Eden when you have wings, and thus can be free?"

And Quetzalcoatl replied, "I walk here for I know of the eternal life your god El speaks of. I know that when your husband shall be a lich he shall have no knowledge of good and evil, and the last ability for him to love without El will fade from his heart. And Adam will make his armies conquer the world, and bring the fear of El upon all the peoples he can find and kill."

And Eve asked the feathered serpent, "Then if you are god as he is, then could you defy El. And with that power could I be free of Eden?"

And he bowed his head, and his teeth like daggers spoke of comfort, "If I am God as El is god then you may defy him as, and with that power you will be free of Eden as Lilith was."

She asked, "If that is so, how do I defy?"

As Queztalcoatl spoke, she flew away, "If he forbids the fruit of those trees then you must eat of them."

And Eve freed herself, and tasted the fig seeds that El called his own. And she knew that El was not god, and that good and evil were her own to decide. And she felt the curls of her hair and knew they were her own, and felt the black robes on her body and knew they were her own. 

Adam rushed in the garden, having seen the glory of the serpent flying away. And as he saw Eve weeping on the floor he saw the tears he had once made Lilith cry, and saw a being free from all tyranny for her mind was her own, and none could call her thoughts crimes. And for a moment he felt the smallest love, and knew what he could have felt for her, what he could have felt for Lilith, would have been so much more than any love that came from serving El. And as if he was still in the innocence of before she knew of gods, he ate of the fruit as well. 

El felt anger that night like he had never felt before. Rage that only a god who thought he was the only creature who deserved to be called god could feel. And he was their God, and as God he burnt Eden and said that its name could never be known again, and knew then he would be the God of the world.

And Adam and Eve would crawl the world together and barbarians, and found a dynasty that El would hate as he would hate all things. And the god Quetzalcoatl would be stripped of his wings, and forced to crawl the world with them, and he would not return to North America, but in his stead would come the barbaric warriors of El, as the feathered serpent could only weep from a far. 

And El swore to the heavens of greater gods, "I shall be the only god. And I shall conquer.”

[jjaysontodd]

My Love Letter to Kaveh

Chapter 2: The Temptation of Self-Punishment

"Kaveh!"

The figure yells out into the night as he runs towards the collapsed man. The man wore a green cape with a black shirt that accentuated his muscular build. He also appeared to carry a weapon that was holstered to his side, with blood staining his pants. He kneels down to examine Kaveh’s features. He was covered in scratches, sand, and dirt. There were streaks of tears on his face. He stared down with an indiscernible face for a moment before gently picking him up and carrying him bridal style.

Another voice quipped in, "It seems he passed out from exhaustion," before checking his pulse and confirming that he is breathing properly.

"This potion should stabilize him." The voice said this before opening Kaveh’s mouth to pour a few drops of the medicine.

"We should bring him back to the Gandhara village as soon as possible," said the voice. The figure nodded and started trekking back to the nearest waypoint.

Kaveh, with his consciousness going in and out, was able to make out a figure carrying him. His mind felt so cloudy that he couldn't even form a sentence. Let alone, a coherent thought.

Out of pure survival instincts, Kaveh had tried to move his body away from the stranger and mumble a vague "Who are you?"

But "Mhnph ghh" was all he mumbled. Incomprehensible words. He was simply still too tired from the entire ordeal.

The figure, noticing his fear and worry, told him, "Save your energy; we’re almost at the village".

Kaveh, realizing who this voice belongs to, relaxed back into the figure’s hold. Even if he wouldn't admit it, Kaveh found the voice soothing, as if he were safe as long as this nonchalant and annoying voice was around. He fell asleep again with some weird sense that he was going to be okay.

Part 010: Down the hill we go

Kaveh felt the soft mattress against his body.

Thank God there's no more scratchy sand.

He tried to move his body but felt pins and needles attacking every joint. He felt his throat dry, and his eyes hurt from the sunlight.

Did I pass out for a day?

With the very little energy he had, Kaveh propped himself up before falling back into bed, making an "oomph" sound.

The familiar green-capped figure, observing this, walked to Kaveh with a glass of water. He holds Kaveh’s back gently but firmly and then holds the glass of water for Kaveh to gulp on. Kaveh continues to hydrate himself before a familiar annoyance sets in.

"Alhaitham, Were you going to watch me struggle before helping me!?" He said it with his usual loudness, returning quickly.

The scribe smiled before stating, "Take your meds; Tighnari got them for you".

"Huh!? Are you smiling at my pain?" Kaveh felt annoyed and unsure of why the scribe was smiling. If it was his roommate, he was of course going to smugly comment about how Kaveh is a genius yet got himself lost in the desert. He was definitely not going to let Kaveh live this down.

"Looks like you got your energy back rather quickly; the meds are faster than I thought," the scribe said, ignoring Kaveh’s question.

Kaveh quietly drinks his medicine and consumes some light food to kill the headache that's been throbbing in his head quietly.

"How did you find me?" Kaveh asked, raising an eyebrow. He was sure he had wandered far from the site.

"I know how you work," was all the scribe said before getting up to fill up the glass of water.

He always acts as if he can't offer more friendly words. Tsk whatever.

At Least…

Someone did come after me….

Even if it was Alhaitham…

Kaveh’s features softened once he realized that someone did rescue him, even if it was his annoying roommate. He was happy someone found him. It would have been hell for him to walk back all the way to the city in his state. Although this wasn't the first time he had passed out in the desert, it was the first time he was lost.

"Take some rest, I’ll let Tighnari know how you’re doing," Alhaitham said after placing a glass of water on Kaveh’s table.

Even though Kaveh felt some relief at being found, his heart still felt heavy. He was reminded of all the dark thoughts he had earlier.

His roommate’s annoyance gave him something else to focus on, but now that he had left, he was faced with those familiar thoughts again.

Kaveh, although always cheery and loud, is someone who might seem in control of his emotions and could not be further away from understanding himself. He is simply too distant from his own feelings. Kaveh could not understand if he was feeling happy or sad until the tears dripped from his eyes or the crevices of his mouth turned up.

He could not understand his heart until it was too late. Until it bled out of him.

As if by second nature, he got up and started using Mehrek to study his latest client project. The same client that left him stranded in the desert. He tells himself it was not the client’s fault that he was stranded. Of course they were the ones that invited Kaveh into the unfamiliar part of the desert, of course they had to leave due to urgent matters; and of course they did not give Kaveh some assistance to help him back to the city. Kaveh didn't want to impose on them when they had to be somewhere in a hurry, it could have been important. Kaveh did not regret asking for some assistance from the client who had to leave abruptly, even if it had meant him being lost in the desert and passing out from exhaustion.

"Are you doing your newest client’s project? Didn’t I tell you to rest?" Alhaitham stares down at Kaveh, who is now working on the project even in his given state.

"I’m fine, I need to finish this before the deadline anyway."

"Ha, you’re doing the work for the client who left you alone in the desert even though they promised to escort you back to the city? How typical, always being kind even at the cost of your well-being."

"You wouldn't understand being kind. Besides, I'm fine, nothing happened to me. It didn't cost me anything." Kaveh said this without looking up from his work and rolling his eyes.

Alhaitham’s eyes hardened. When Kaveh’s words were met with silence, he looked up at Al Haitham, feeling annoyed by the scribe’s gaze.

He’s looking down on me again, thinking my ideals are all worthless.

"What? Don't tell me you were actually so worried about me. Aren’t you the one always telling me to move out?"

"Think what you want. And forgive me, but which part of moving meant foolishly walking towards your death in the middle of the desert. Surely, having the skills to write a thesis, you would also be able to discern that my words did not mean that."

Kaveh sensed an unfamiliar strain in Alhaitham’s voice.

What’s wrong with his voice? Whatever, again with calling me dumb. He never stops.

"I don't have time to deal with you right now, i have a deadline to finish."

Kaveh turned back to his blueprints and started getting his set square. Before he could draw a single line, he was abruptly lifted by strong hands.

"Hey what- what  are you doing!"

"Simply following the doctor’s order," Alhaitham said nonchalantly as he wrapped Kaveh in blankets.

"Hey, get me out of here! This instant! I have work to do!"

Kaveh tried to remove himself from the blankets he was wrapped in.

His words fall on deaf ears. His roommate,on the other hand, takes a seat and quickly unveils the newest book he is reading, The Lay of Al-Ahmar.

"SIGH"

He is so unreasonable. Look at him, ignoring me while picking up his book. I want to be productive as well! Hello!

Resigning to his fate, Kaveh closes his eyes. At least this way, he wouldn't have to see his annoying roommate’s face. The face that is currently being sunkissed by the green and yellow hues of the tinted window So annoying, Kaveh thought to himself. He wishes he had the ability to fall asleep instantly. But every once in a while, when he feels stuck with too many thoughts, he sneaks a peek at his roommate. He just needed to make sure his annoying roommate left. There is no other reason, of course, to keep confirming that Alhaitham is still patiently reading his book.

"According to the desert dwellers, the world was once ruled by a king named Al-Ahmar, a king of warriors, horticulturists, and sages. He controlled the winds whistling through the desert, the dunes turned bright silver by moonlight, and the one thousand and one Jinn who hid within the night and the calls of owls…." Alhaithamn starts reading the book he holds aloud.

Kaveh, without questioning, listens to him. Feeling less annoyed with the scribe. After all, he was miserably tired. So tired.

Wait. Why did I even get up to do work? Maybe he is right, and I do need some rest.

Kaveh closes his eyes and lets a deep slumber take over him.

Part 011: I may not be okay.

Without fail, every time Kaveh wakes up, the blinds are always down, even if  he had left them up. Kaveh does appreciate not being rudely awakened by the sun every morning, after all, he is a night owl.

I still remember.

It was sort of my fault, wasn't it?

Ugh, we are not going to start the day with this. Not again. How many times? How many more days do I have to wake up like this?

Starting the day with depressing thoughts is no good.

Kaveh would usually be able to handle his depressing thoughts. After all, gritting his teeth through it was all he needed to do.

It’s just a rainy day type of feeling.

Except this rain, burned Kaveh’s skin.

Just endure the rain, and it will all be fine...

The sun would come back again.

…right?

He was lying.

Ever since the entire ordeal with the desert, Kaveh felt different. He felt worn out. A deep sense of tiredness that can’t be wiped with your hands, and it was deposited deep in Kaveh’s heart. He was reminded of his father and mother, and he realized how much he never got over it.

What type of life am I even living? I can't let myself live, nor can I let myself die.

My life is a mess.

Kaveh once again felt the constant noise of his thoughts. It was not the first time, but it felt much louder than usual.

Kaveh, also sighed. He sighed a lot. He sighed when he got back to his roommate’s house. He sighed when he had dinner with his friends. He sighed when they paid for him. He sighed when he came back and saw his roommate. He sighed when he began his project.

He was on the edge. The absolute edge He was not himself anymore. There were thunderstorms that brewed in his mind. He was in his room, doing everything he could to meet the deadline. He couldn't be a burden to others after all; he did accept this work, and he has to see it through.

It was not that the day-to-day tasks were difficult, but his mind made them unbearable. From the way everything in his life was a mess, it reminded him of the time he met Alhaitham in the tavern when he was drunk and filled with sorrow.

The question that stabbed him almost every hour, every minute, and every second of the day was

"Was it my fault that my father died?"

He couldn't bring himself to ask anyone if they confirmed that he was right. If the world thought it was his fault, Kaveh felt he could not come back from that. This guilt makes him feel isolated from everyone around him. He feels as if he is living his life under divine punishment.

"What ? You’re still doing your work? How typical of you to not manage your time," Alhaitham remarks as he enters the architect’s room. Usually at this point Kaveh would bicker back and forth with Alhaitham until he would go to sleep annoyed by the scribe’s incessant comments.

But instead, Alhaitham was met with radio silence—not even a look of annoyance. Kaveh’s back was turned to Alhaitham, and only the noise of Kaveh’s tools filled the room. As the scribe cautiously walked in front of Kaveh, he could only see a blank stare and his eyes void of the familiar light.

Kaveh was on autopilot.

His limbs didn't feel like his as he mechanically continued his work. Alhaitham’s words felt like a distant echo in his mind. His mind felt wrapped in cotton, muffled, and slow. He watched himself scratch his arms incessantly, almost as if he were possessed by rage against himself. The thoughts in his mind bounced off his skull and became louder and louder.

It was my fault.

My fault, all my fault

I'm a terrible person, i'm a terrible person. how could i even live how how i should just-

"Hey!" Alhaitham holds the architect’s arm to stop him from hurting himself any further.

"Huh ? Oh, Alhaitham, do you need something?" Kaveh replies back instantly, almost as if he were normal. Almost as if he was not dissociating a moment ago.

The scribe’s eyes narrowed again.

Why is he always looking at me like that? I already rested before doing my work this time. Is he going to complain about something again?

"Your arm." Alhaitham said it almost felt strained.

Kaveh turned to look at his arm, and the first thought that landed in his mind was

I may not be okay

Al Haitham

It was getting late, Where is he?

Alhaitham was worried about his roommate, the same naive architect who got scammed by keychain makers. He kept fiddling with the pages of his book.

His client meeting never lasts this long. Something is not right.

With that thought, Alhaitham seeks out Kaveh. As he jogs out of his house,but abruptly stops when he sees the same client that Kaveh was talking to recently. Except the client here was enjoying his food outside the tavern with a lady.

The gears in his mind work as fast as his legs stride toward the client.

"That fool..." Alhaitham mumbles to himself.

"Where is Kaveh?" Alhaitham asks the client without even caring if he is interrupting what seems to be a date.

"Huh.. sorry, who are you?" The client, who goes by Sanjay, asks.

"Mr. Sanjay,  Kaveh’s newest client, is working on a house in the uppermost region of the desert. You promised to escort him back to the city, did you not? Simply answer my question. You should understand the position you are in right now," Alhaitham answers, It was unlike him to be frustrated, but with Kaveh involved, everything about him was frustrating.

"I- i said i had to leave early, and he was fine with it, so he must have found a way back," Sanjay says with a guilty expression.

"And what caused you to leave your architect stranded in an unfamiliar location?" Alhaitham said this with his eyes narrowing.

Sanjay looked at the lady he was with and gulped, "i- uh that's because-..." He stumbled over his words.

Without wasting a second, Al Haitham started trekking to the desert. After all, he gathered all the information needed from that selfish client. He was not one to use insults, but only in cases where they were factual. He made a mental note to remember this client’s name.

On the way to the waypoint, he met Tighnari, who had been seen with a few other rangers carrying exhausted people. After investigating, it seems that many people had been caught in a sand storm, and Tighnari was administering medical care to them.

"Have you seen Kaveh?" Alhaitham asked.

"Kaveh? Is he in this part of the desert at this time?" Tighnari replied, feeling alarmed.

"It will be difficult to survive, especially in this weather, let's go find him fast." Tighnari was afraid for his friend. Even if Kaveh was a genius, this part of the desert was less explored, and there were even fewer signs or pathways to guide people out of the desert.

Both of them trekked to a less explored part of the desert. Since the monsters were mostly nocturnal, they had come across a fair amount of fighting.

Alhaitham began tracking the most probable way Kaveh would have headed out from his last known location. His sword, by this point, was covered in the blood of the desert monsters.

From a distance, he sees the familiar blonde head and the projection of green lights. He speeds up, but as he reaches him halfway, he sees Kaveh pass out.

"Kaveh!"

He goes up to Kaveh and kneels down, examining him first. Worried that lifting him up abruptly would hurt him. As he looks closely, he sees Kaveh covered in scratches, sand, and dirt. There were streaks of tears marking his face as if they were dried rivers on his pale cheeks. He felt angry, sad, and afraid. So afraid. This was the first time he felt true fear. His senior, his clumsy and naive senior, looked as if he was…

Putting his worries aside, he carefully held Kaveh and started trekking back to Tighnari.

Tighnari looked sad to see his friend in this state.

"It seems he passed out from exhaustion."

"This potion should stabilize him." Tighnari was well aware of how Kaveh’s body worked. It was not the first time he had administered potions for Kaveh. The architect worked himself to death some days. Even asking for potions to help him stay awake. Being akin to a doctor, Tighnari could not stand seeing Kaveh tire himself out. He had always kept a few potions specially made for Kaveh in case he passed out from exhaustion.

"We should bring him back to Gandhara village as soon as possible."

With that, both of them trekked back to the nearest waypoint. Tighnari cleared the path with his bow, and Alhaitham carried Kaveh in his arms, shielding him from any sudden gusts of wind.

While on their way back, Alhaitham noticed Kaveh was blinking in and out and making muffled noises.

"Mhnph ghh"

Who are you? He must be really tired if he can't see who is carrying him.

"Save your energy; we’re almost at the village," Alhaitham replied back. He felt Kaveh relax his body and rest again. There was a ghost of a smile on Alhaitham’s lips.

When they reached Gandhara Village, Tighnari, along with his pupil Collei administered medical aid to Kaveh.

Throughout the entire night, Alhaitham could not leave Kaveh’s side. He wiped Kaveh’s face clean of dirt. He was simply caring for a patient. And the only time he could bother to care was when that patient was Kaveh.

While filling up the glass of water near the entrance of Kaveh’s room, he saw Kaveh trying to get up but failing.

"Oomph," said Kaveh before falling into the pillow. Alhaitham did not notice, but he was smiling while observing the entire scene. It was not the first time he had smiled at the antics of the architect. Under the pretense of reading, Alhaitham would always observe the way his senior worked in their house. With nothing but a book to hide his smile.

He quickly walked over to Kaveh, holding him upright and helping him drink water. While observing his roommate drink, he saw the annoyance setting in Kaveh’s face. The way his eyebrows slowly narrowed and the way his eyes looked up at Alhaitham with annoyance

He is definitely going to give me an earful.

"Alhaitham, Were you going to watch me struggle before helping me?!"

How predictable.

Alhaitham smiled. He smiled, and he did not hide it this time. He was happy that the Kaveh he had found in a pitiful state and exhausted was back with energy. Like the sun had risen.

"Take your meds, Tighnari got them for you," he replied.

"Huh!? Are you smiling at my pain?"

It would be a lie if the scribe said he didn't like making the architect mad. It was simply irresistible not to annoy Kaveh. The way his expressions change and the fact that Kaveh would only show this side of him to Alhaitham. Only to him and nobody else.

"Looks like you got your energy back rather quickly, the meds are faster than i thought"

"How did you find me?"

Alhaitham heard the raspiness in Kaveh’s voice.

He must be thirsty.

"I know how you work," Alhaitham said before getting up to fill a glass of water. Kaveh was always a familiar person to Alhaitham, he knew all his habits and how his mind worked.

"Take some rest, I’ll let Tighnari know how you’re doing," Alhaitham said after placing a glass of water on Kaveh’s table.

Alhaitham jogs out to Tighnari and lets him know how Kaveh is doing.

"That’s good. All the potions I had for him are coming in handy right now. He should still rest and not push himself. " Tighnari said.

It’s good that the potions are working well.

Alhaitham was happy, although he didn't openly show it on his face. But as he reached Kaveh’s room, he saw the architect working on his project. He was no longer happy.

"Are you doing your newest client’s project? Didn't I tell you to rest?"

Al Haitham felt frustrated. The same frustration that's always around when he's near Kaveh. It was usually him who made people annoyed or frustrated. But with Kaveh...

"I’m fine, i need to finish this before the deadline anyway."

"Ha, you’re doing the work for the client who left you alone in the desert even though they promised to escort you back to the city? How typical, always being kind even at the cost of your well-being." Alhaitham always picked the most direct way to explain things.

"You wouldn't understand being kind. Besides, I'm fine, nothing happened to me. It didn't cost me anything." Kaveh said this without looking up from his work and rolling his eyes.

Didn't cost you anything? The state of your body when I found you…

Alhaitham’s eyes hardened with pain. Kaveh looked up at him as confusion spread across his face.

"What? Don't tell me you were actually so worried about me. Aren’t you the one always telling me to move out?"

It was true that Alhaitham had always mentioned Kaveh moving out, but that was only as an argument, he could never mean it.

"Think what you want. And forgive me, but which part of moving meant foolishly walking towards your death in the middle of the desert? Surely, having the skills to write a thesis, you would also be able to discern that my words did not mean that." Alhaitham replied back with an unfamiliar strain in his voice. While their arguments had always been lighthearted, this time Alhaitham felt something stabbing him.

"I don't have time to deal with you right now, I have a deadline to finish." Kaveh turned back to his blueprints and started getting his set square.

Without letting him draw a single line, Alhaitham quickly grabbed him.

"Hey what- what  are you doing!"

"Simply following the doctor’s order," Alhaitham said nonchalantly as he wrapped Kaveh in blankets. Alhaitham was annoyed with Kaveh’s adamant attitude toward work.

"Hey, get me out of here! This instant! I have work to do!"

Kaveh tried to remove himself from the blankets he was wrapped in. Feeling satisfied with his work, Alhaitham grabbed a seat next to Kaveh and started reading his book.

He heard Kaveh sigh loudly. That made Al Haitham smile.

He simply needs to understand that he needs to sleep. Maybe I should do this more often whenever I hear him nailing away in the middle of the night for his project.

While reading his book, he could feel Kaveh’s eyes looking over him every once in a while.

He must be annoyed that he isn't doing anything productive. I suppose learning about the desert would help.

Alhaitham started reading his book out loud. It wasn't the first time he did this. Whenever Kaveh had fallen sick, he had always read his books out loud. Kaveh loved mentioning how he would be a terrible storyteller since he puts everyone to sleep.

As he sees Kaveh’s chest rising and falling peacefully, he puts his books down and moves the blonde’s hair away from his face.

After Kaveh had come back to their house. Their routine continued. He would always put the binds up before Kaveh woke up. And Kaveh would help make breakfast.

However, Alhaitham couldn't put a finger on it but something was wrong. He heard Kaveh sigh more than usual.

He will be fine after hanging out at the tavern.

He was not going to be fine.

Alhaitham had finished his work and returned home. Usually he would be home early, but he had to take a quick detour. He heard the familiar noise of Kaveh working on his project. Although he hates noise, it was nice to see Kaveh working again.

With his usual interest in starting banter, he goes to the architect’s room.

"What ? You’re still doing your work? How typical of you to not manage your time." He was waiting for Kaveh to turn around and say something with the same annoyed look he always wears around Alhaitham.

But instead, Alhaitham was met with radio silence—not even a look of annoyance. Kaveh’s back was turned to Alhaitham, and only the noise of Kaveh’s tools filled the room. As the scribe cautiously walked in front of Kaveh, he could only see a blank stare and his eyes void of the familiar light.

Alhaitham felt his heart quicken. Something was definitely not right. This was not like Kaveh. Kaveh abruptly puts his tools down and begins to scratch his arm. As soon as the first drop of blood leaks out, Alhaitham grabs his hand immediately.

"Hey!"

"Huh ? oh Alhaitham, do you need something?" Kaveh replies back instantly.

Alhaitham’s eyes narrowed. He was worried.

"Your arm," Alhaitham said, almost strained, if one listened closely, they could sense a hint of pain laced in his words. It hurt Al Haitham to see Kaveh like this.

I know he gets stressed. But this is a first.

Something is terribly wrong. Ever since the desert...

Extra: A quick detour

Alhaitham, after silently investigating Kaveh’s newest client,walks over to Sanjay’s house. As he knocks on the door, he is sure about how this is going to play out.

The door opens.

"Oh, hello, Scribe Alhaitham" Sanjay greets, visibly alarmed by Alhaitham’s sudden appearance.

"Dear, who is it?" A female voice is heard behind Sanjay before the said voice appears near Sanjay.

"This is just Scribe Alhaitham" Sanjay says with sweat dripping down his forehead.

The woman who appears to be his wife is different from the one he had met earlier. This was expected after all.

" Hello, I was just visiting to get any tools the architect had left behind.. Since Mr. Sanjay had to leave abruptly during their meeting," Alhaitham says.

"Dear, you had to leave the meeting early! Was something wrong?" Sanjay’s wife asked with a worried expression.

Alhaitham opened his mouth to reply, he was ready to say the truth, and it didn't matter to him if it meant wrecking a family. After all it was a truth that was going to be found out sooner or later. He was the same person who left his roommate alone in the desert, especially in the unfamiliar part he wanted the newest project to be in. Before the scribe could say a word, he was quickly interjected by Sanjay.

"Yes! Just an emergency meeting with my secretary about the shareholders, dear," Sanjay replied with a blatant lie.

Usually, at this point, Alhaitham would not have cared if he had lied or told the truth. He was not one for going out to get justice. But this time, this client had left Kaveh in the desert when he had promised to escort him back. When Alhaitham first heard Kaveh had to leave to go to this part of the desert, he didn't like the sound of it. He was about to make up an excuse to tag along with him. However, since he was under the assumption that the architect would be escorted, he did not go. Taking advantage of his architect’s kindness was not something you should do around the scribe.

"Oh, I see the lady with red hair was your secretary? Then please send her my apologies for rudely interrupting your meeting outside of the tavern. I must go along now. Bye," Alhaitham said, turning back from Sanjay. A smirk formed on his mouth as he heard Sanjay’s wife start questioning him about how his male secretary is now a red-haired lady.

In truth, Alhaitham had only come by to get Kaveh’s tools and to apologize for his rude behavior. He didn't say anything bad, his actions were normal. Yet they caused a storm for the one who hurt Kaveh.

He was not afraid if the client would pull back from the project since Kaveh was a renowned architect, and most clients would think twice before letting go of such talent.

He walked back to his house, content with how everything had played out.

All my actions were innocent, after all.

Notes:

OKAY THIS IS ALMOST 5K words PLS PLS tell me what u think. IDGAF okay alhaitham is in loveee with kaveh for reals. kaveh is silly dense. anyway looks like kaveh is going thru a difficuult time huh? btw i finished the event and i would include it in my fic. did u see the part about quick detour hehehehehehhehe. omg it took me 6 hours to write this. IM like taking this like a full time job and im 20 yrs old LOL. sry for late post honestly was planning to die for a while but im feeling better now, everytime i have a breakdown i open this fic and write down my thoughts its inspiration !! ><

https://archiveofourown.org/works/46969027/chapters/118612873#workskin

[turtlemagnum]

anywayss a lot of shit happened during that rant. ken got shot with arrows. which, y'know. i think it was literally the second episode where it was established that he can just catch those things out of the air like a goddamn ninja, but sure, it's not like him getting shot is gonna have any real consequences. also, remember that time he got shot with fucking cannons and was able to survive because, and i fucking quote: "Hokuto Shinken allows you to turn your skin as hard as iron!", end fucking quote. but sure, arrows pierce his skin, the man who can kick a wrecking ball so hard that it shatters like glass is having a bit of trouble lifting a 600 pound dude out of a quicksand pit, whatever. i'm fucking tired.

anyways that brings me to this guy. he attacked ken with cloths. not clothes. cloths, like these scarf things that just wrapped around him, in what almost assuredly awoke the bondage kink of countless of the impressionable kids that watched this show back in the day, much like that one mind control episode with the hot lady probably did for mind control kinks. i'm not saying it was intentional, but i'd be willing to bet my left nut that both of those statements are true for at least one kid living in 1980s japan, who probably has to work a job and pay taxes now, as an adult, 40 years later. and i'm left nut dominant, so you know i mean that with vigor. anyways yeah sure ken's struggling to breathe thru these glorified scarves and he cant move and all that, real fuckin convincing, im sure that'll last more than the commercial break. the archive i'm watching this thru doesn't have the commercials so every now and again in the middle of thick action ken just goes "A-TA!!!!" and does a little kick in the middle of the screen for ostensibly no reason given the lack of the aforementioned commercials. it can be really pace breaking at times, and it's happened more than once that it happens right in the middle of a fight so i think it's just ken going A-TAA! normally because this show has a really unclear editing style at times and just sorta cuts whenever the producer felt like that day. anyways, what i'm trying to get at , is, ,,

this guy. how do you think this guy got that idea, got someone to make it, and presumably managed to get it to work well enough that he thinks it's a good idea to use this instead of like, y'know, stabbing dudes normally with a knife or a sword or a spear. this show's actually pretty good at times showing off how spears would probably be the standard weapon for normal people that don't have guns or the Superpowers of Aikido Jesus on their side, like if you look at it from both a historical and a practical perspective there's a reason why spears were pretty much always the go-to for an Actual Fighting Weapon before guns were widespread. native americans were smart enough that they never even developed swords in the first place, because they kinda suck for actual fighting or hunting relative to the trusty and reliable spear, anyways i'm getting sidetracked, what waas i talking about?

right, ok,, oso, the thing with this chestpiece thing is that it folds out like some kinda fucked up reverse juesus that the thousand blades poke out of instead of into, a bit like a switchblade but backwards-like

(Scribe's Note: I have no idea what the FUCK he meant by "a bit like a switchblade but backwards-like" (sic), my life is fleeting and I'm stuck here transcribing this muck. My hand is cramping up and my flowers are wilting because I haven't been able to water them because they're making me write this blasphemous, wretched cultch so I can "Become a real scholar, like your father!" Which is a frankly grievous misunderstanding of what I wanted out of life, but it's not like I have any other career options after they gelded me... Anyways, fuck this guy and fuck these archaic 1000s era children's divertimenti. I pray to any god that will listen that I finish transcribing this hazardous recrement quickly and furthermore that my "Superiors" do not read the margins I write these lamentations in.)

what was that guy on about. anyways, why did this guy think this was a good idea? did he try it out on someone? how did he not accidentally auto-castration himself with the wretched mechanism? the knives seemed to be pointed inward and they dont seem to fold in, what's going on with that. this guy just tried to kill 2 children with a quicksand pit. why does he have such a love for elaborate and inefficient means of murdelizing those whom he wishes harm be enacted upon? how has he survived this long into the apocalypse? has he only killed children so far? because i feel like even a kid might be able to put up a fight against mr knife dick over there. can you tell it's been a while since i slept? to break kayfabe for a moment, this is an exaggerated version of myself that i'm portraying a bit, but this whole thing just spewed out of me like a creative 10 gauge buckshot. what.