#rite of the headless one

[asinusrufus]

"My Name is Heart encircled by a Serpent; come and follow me"

[spookygibberish]

Funeralworms comprise a genus of Juggernaut characterized by a heavily-built, serpentine form, the absence of eyes, a single pair of broad, paddle-like forelimbs, and a prominent array of individually articulated, crushing jaws. They are employed in the disposal of organic materials, the production of high quality fertilizer, and the reclamation of Ibis tissue from corpses. The latter function earning them a central role in Bibat funeral rites, hence the name.

In Bibat, it is believed that Ibis tissue, while a powerful creative force in life, is equally capable of corruption, especially when touched by death. It is therefor not adequate to bury the Ibistouched, since Ibis tissue, if allowed to decompose, has the potential to render the earth fallow and breed illness. By consuming the Ibistouched dead, Funeralworms collect the Ibis tissue from the flesh, freeing it from corruption, purifying it, and accumulating it in their bodies to be returned to the Oracle System. It is mandatory that the corpses of all dagnyds, Sansin, Thrones and Throne-children both headless and unbodied alike, be fed to the Funeralworm. This is not a necessary funeral rite for those who are not Ibistouched, but the devout often choose to have it preformed upon their death. If a funeralworm is not available, cremation is an acceptable alternative.

Funeralworms are semi-aquatic dagnyds that reside entirely in special pools (bymūt)constructed for their housing. At their least elaborate, bymūt are little more than shallow ponds dug into clay soil, but they are often encircled by a low, stone fence with an offering platform at one end, and a chamber for dung collection at the other. These pools are usually located several kilometers from areas of habitation, although many larger cities have grown to encircle bymūt that were originally constructed a more acceptable distance away. These tend to be the most elaborate of their kind, ending up with bespoke temple complexes erected around them. As the functions of the Funeralworm are deeply linked to Bibat customs, their husbandry is entirely handled by Sansin, though the service they offer is a public one.

The design of the bymūt is necessary for the survival of fully mature funeralworms, who are not only so large as to be incapable of freely moving over dry land, but risk being crushed beneath their own weight without the support of water. Newborn funeralworms, at about a meter and a half in length, are the most mobile of their kind, and often attempt to escape their bymūt to explore. This is usually permitted (with supervision), as such young individuals have limited processing capacity, and rarely exist in a context where the sole burden of waste management relies on them. Many Sansin are sympathetic to the plight of the Funeralworm, and see little purpose in restricting the movement of a creature which never approaches agile at any age, and for most of its decades long life will be confined to a single small pool.

Despite a life spent entirely in water, Funeralworms are entirely air-breathing, and are not particularly good swimmers. They are protected from flooding by the high fat content of their bodies, which renders them buoyant and unlikely to drown. The greatest risk floods pose is temptation. Rising water allows Funeralworms the opportunity to travel freely from their bymūt, and many die after becoming stranded once the water level recedes, especially those which are particularly old and heavy.

[umbralsong]

Lady Incognita

Cazador Szarr's "niece" is named Amanita Szarr. You can find her story scattered throughout the palace's attic, dungeon, and the House of Hope. She was a girl who grew up near Anga Vled raised by old servants. At 13, she was brought to visit her uncle in Baldur's Gate...

The day her entire family exposed themselves as vampires.

Alternate Text: An east Asian girl with medium-brown skin and dark brown then red eyes looks away from the viewer. One with brown, facing away. Twice with red and shoddily cut away dark hair, looking away in despair and notably darkened, red, downcast eyes and short hair. Once more with darkened eyes and a cloak and red eyes to match, long dark hair flowing from her hood.

Unfinished, but hey. I want to show fellow artists that things just don't come to you. Sometimes, you have to work the lines and paint until they do. Use Glaze to protect your art from AI scrapers.

The notes you can find in order:

Alturiak 1477 Tarsakh 1477 Mirtul 1477 Kythorn 1477 Flamerule 1477

Please read about issues with Cazador's depiction [here]. Thank them for their kind contribution and show support.

Donate to Gaza here: https://gazafunds.org/ Support good causes with a click here: https://arab.org/ Ceasefire Now: https://ceasefire-now.com/ Donate to the [Sidewalk School] [Pay your rent], settlers. [KOSA Resources]

The city palace, straddling the wall between the Upper and Lower City, was more than creepy, it was somehow chilling.

Cazador Szarr the Avid rose to power in 1296. She stayed at the estate for at least four months before she was killed. She was turned in Kythorn 1477, 15 years before the start of the story.

'Uncle' Cazador made me a vampire, but I refused to participate in the family rites. He gave me the Hunger but he could not break my will. He had Blovart imprison me in the attic. I weakened. They sent up human blood, and eventually I drank it. For a year, they stopped sending anything. I tore at the walls in frustration. Then they sent up a bound captive.

Cazador's favorite punishments are cruelty, hunger, and isolation.

His staff, "Woe:" The gentle tap-tap-tap of a staff on stone sparked terror for all in Cazador's palace. It signalled an approaching storm, and all they could do was shrink into the background and pray its wrath would not fall on them. His dagger, "Rhapsody:" Cazador's love of poetry arose after he read on the naked stomach of a dead child in his homeland. The child was hung from the lowest branch of a tree. Cazador read the poem, and looked at the child, and he knew that here was the artform for him.

Her coffin is on a wooden table overlooking a window. There are chains by her bed, a candle, and a skull. There are three skeletons in the attic, one headless with a crossbow and garlic cloves in their cage.

I succumbed. I am a vampire, and damned. I curse the name of Szarr and reject it. Now I stay in the attic by choice and write my little histories. I am Lady Incognita. Amanita is no more.

I think the snippets of her story were so impactful because of the complete betrayal. The fact her family were never around. The fact they lied for her entire life. The fact they forced her to transform, which we know from Astarion's partial ceremorphosis dialogue is incredibly painful:

Player: Unlike you to be so unwilling to receive a new power... Astarion: That was before I knew the cost. Before I knew it meant transforming into some grotesque beast. I remember how it hurt when I turned to a vampire. My body writhed and warped while I was utterly helpless, the grip of death owned my heart as it beat its last. I - I don't want to turn into anything else. I can't do that again. I can't watch my body be taken over. Player: You're afraid? Astarion: I'll happily murder my way to whatever powerful artefacts we can make use of. Point at the back and I'll stab. Just don't ask me to sacrifice my body. It hasn't been mine for so long.

We know thematically there is a parallel between vampirism, abuse, and sexuality. Cazador appeared to lose interest in his 'niece' altogether. Nonetheless, he locked her into an eternal childhood under "true vampirism," never to grow to adulthood, and denied her a "typical" life forevermore. There is something particularly grotesque about that.

Astarion: Nearly two hundred years and I never came back. Not since the night I woke up down there. I had to punch a hole in the coffin and claw my way through six feet of dirt. Then when I finally broke the surface, retching up dirt and congealed blood, Cazador was waiting. From that day on I was his. Until today. Player: You were never his. Whatever he had, he took by force. Astarion: Maybe, but he did take it. There's almost nothing left of the person I was. Just a name on a rock. For nearly two centuries, I stalked the streets like a ghost while the person I was lay here, dead and buried. Now I need to figure out who I am. What I want.

We find The Tourmaline Depths in the room beneath Cazador's room. She wrote Diseases of the Blood to tackle vampiric illness. She wrote the names of ruling vampires, their titles, and their successors. She is, what, 28?

I like to think she knew all of Cazador's secrets, from the corpses in the suspended cages to his dungeon. I'm impressed by her mental fortitude in the face of such odds as a child and young woman. I'm impressed she chose to do what she loved, escaped, and became such a relevant figure in the study of vampiric physiology. I wish we knew her better. I wish we had the opportunity to meet her.

She is the historian who sullies his name and documents his endless crimes. She escaped. Cazador underestimated her.

[a-french-coconut]

Drew Tanaka (part 1)

I've already posted some extracts but I wanted to keep writing the fic here (:

A first punch leaves the mirror shattered and her fist bloodied.

There’s a traitor. 

An another one sends flying all the beauty products standing on the shelves of Cabin 10’s bathroom. 

“-Oh my gods, honey, are you crying ? What happened ? 

-Charlie is— oh Drew I… it’s all my fault but he told me he—

-Silena, what happened to Beckendorf ? 

-HE’S DEAD DREW ! He… he blew himself up to sabotage Luke’s armies because someone told him they were coming ! Oh no, hum, forget I said anything sweetheart, okay ? The counsellors are supposed to keep it secret ‘cause we wouldn’t want to cause a panic right ? Hey, Drew ? Are you listening to me ? You can’t tell anyone about this you hear me ?” 

A third punch lands on the wall, bruising severely Drew’s knuckles but the pain is better than what’s she’s been feeling since Silena slipped up. 

There’s a traitor, there’s a fucking traitor who wants them all dead, they killed Beckendorf, they probably killed Lee and Castor and they will kill everyone else if Drew doesn’t find who it is. 

There’s a scorching inferno in her heart. She never suspected she could hate someone she doesn’t know with such passion (oh buy you know them don’t you ? Odds are the traitor already talked with you, laughed with you, trained with you.).

Before she can break her hand landing a fourth punch, someone knock on the door and ask if everything is all right. 

“No” she wants to snarl back, “we are all going to die because of some heartless monster !” 

Instead she just responds with a sharp “everything’s fine, coming out is a few minutes. Can’t a girl finish her makeup in peace for gods’ sake ?”. She hears an offended huff and she knows she’s alone again. 

No matter what other people think, Drew Tanaka is nor heartless nor a bitch. She might lack some basic empathy skills but last time she checks, she’s not responsible for everyone’s feelings just because she’s the daughter of the goddess of Love. Plus, Silena is empathic enough for the both of them. Except that she’s been a mess of tears and chocolate for the last two days and just like that, pure white-hot rage burns from her heart to her veins, a firestorm blazing in her blood and igniting her whole body aflame. 

Drew cares about Silena. She’s the one who welcomed her with a warm smile and chocolate gifted by her father. She’s the one laughed with as she told her stories about Sasha and the one who held her after she saw his headless body on the ground during the Battle of the Labyrinth. She’s the one she yelled at for thinking herself above the Rite of Passage and continuing dating Charles Beckendorf when Drew had to break the heart of his best friend only for him to die two weeks later. Silena is the sister Drew loves and adores, all resentment and bitterness melted away by those blue eyes and kind smile. That means that the bastard who got her boyfriend’s sister killed is going to pay for what he did. 

For Drew is the daughter of Aphrodite Areia, the warlike goddess. 

Every monster and demigod who dare venture in the Midtown Tunnel is shot down by Drew and her siblings. Her arms ache from stringing her bow far too many times and the occasional stab for those getting a little too closer. Love is as compassionate as it is merciless and Drew has no qualms in slitting an enemy’s throat (they will join the other ghosts in her nightmares), not when she hears Silena’s mourning cries in her ears. She wonders where her older sister is right now. The girl disappeared hours ago, going back to Camp to convince Clarisse to come fight with them. She’s sure her sister managed to convince her, the stubborn daughter of war loves Silena as much as she does. She is proven right when she hears whispers of the girl warrior dragging a drakon behind her (she does not know of the blue-eyed girl whose face has been deformed by acid, a silver charm bracelet found on her arm).

The moon slowly bows to the sun as she disappears and the sky turns a bright summer blue. The fight is over for now, the only moment of peace found in death because no one would dare attack when each side recovers their friends and siblings’ corpses from the battleground (not when they could be the next body lying on the ground), ensuring them proper funeral rites. 

part 2 posted !

[talonabraxas]

The Bornless Ritual

The rite has borne various titles, such as the Bornless One, Liber Samekh, and the Preliminary Invocation.

“I summon you, Headless One, who created earth and heaven, who created night and day, you who created the Light and the Darkness; you are Osoronnophris whom none has ever seen; you are Iabas; you are Iapos; you have distinguished the just from the unjust....”

Art: Jose Gabriel Alegría Sabogal.

Text from the Greek Magical papyri

[mermaidsirennikita]

Any monsterfucker romances recs since Halloween is upon us?

I haven't read a ton of monster romance, but I'd recommend these"

Hollow by C.M. Nascosta seems like necessary Halloween reading for me. It's a two-story bind-up in which one of the stories involves Katrina falling for the headless horseman and looking for a way for them to be together... Kind of a dark way.... And the other of which is Ichabod Crane getting railed in a locker room by two headless horsemen. I am not kidd.

Then there's Nascosta's Run, Run Rabbit, my favorite things she's done, about werewolf lawyers fucking nasty because they hate each other and then falling in love by accident. This is VERY wolfy, and involves some shifted sex, which is why I'll include it under monsterfucking (which I see as something separate from like, normal paranormal romance that has more humanoid characters).

How to Marry a Marble Marquis by Nascosta is a historical monster romance in which the (human) heroine is trying to find a husband, and seeks help from a slutty gargoyle marquis who is totally fine with her using him to get off while he's sleeping (and also a statue), among other things. Historical romance girlies, this is for youuuu

A Lady of Rooksgrave Manor by Kathryn Moon is a polyamorous erotic historical monster romance. The heroine is a sex worker who takes on the job to sleep with monsters and keep them happy, but she ends up making a real relationship with... a handful of them. I think there's a sphynx, a vampire, a Jekyll/Hyde type, a gollum, an inviisble dude, and... I think that's it but I HONESTLY can't be sure. The Basilisk of Star Manor is set in the same world, but the heroine only handles one guy. A basilisk.

Bound to the Shadow Prince by Ruby Dixon is a fun fantasy romance in which the hero is a GIANT GARGOYLE THING. And also a virgin! The heroine is a princess who must fulfill this like, ancient rite thing by staying locked in a castle with him for... seven years, I wanna say? But then they get horny. As one does.

And then, if you are down for more conventional paranormals... Immortals After Dark has vampires, werewolves, ghosts, demons, witches, sorceresses, that one guy with wings, valkyries, succubi.... It's just got a lot. Lothaire awaits, people. Every romance reader has gotta read Lothaire. (Unless, you know, it would be harmful lol.) Come on now. Everyone says you've gotta read for the blood blowjob, but A Hunger Like No Other has a blood blowjob. Lothaire has a blood 69 lmao

[shady-tavern]

Preview of "Doll House" the February Patreon Short Story

(warnings ahead for implied murder and attempted kidnapping, please take care of yourselves)

*.*.*

There was an old, abandoned manor outside the town, the road leading up to it overgrown and half swallowed by vegetation. There were plenty of rumors surrounding it, that years ago a powerful sorceress had lived there and one day she had vanished without a trace.

Other rumors said the place had belonged to a terrible woman who kidnapped people off the streets to turn them into monsters and one day the gods had struck her down, banishing her from this world.

Some whispered that the manor had been a meeting place for an obscure cult that wanted to revive a dead god, complete with blood sacrifices and ritual chants.

But no matter the rumors, they all had one thing in common: the manor was haunted.

Plenty of friends dared each other to set foot into the manor, it was practically a rite of passage at this point. But no matter who went inside, they all ran back out screaming, terrified down to their bones and a number of them had returned bleeding and bruised. 

Some babbled about headless creatures, the next talked about living shadows and others again whispered that there was a terrible prince of the underworld calling the manor home, his hair red as blood.

You remembered a year when the mayor had decided to get the building either torn down or renovated, but no matter who had shown up, be they priests or adventurers, they all had been chased from the manor without fail, refusing to go back in. 

These days there was a standing order to leave it be, the mayor hoping that the manor would rot and erode away and one day it's inhabitants would be gone with it.

You had never set foot into the manor yourself, too busy working and running errands for your parents, but you had glimpsed it a few times here and there when you had visited a neighboring town. 

It was a tall and ominous structure and after every storm it looked just a little more worse for wear. Mostly though you put it out of your mind, you had other things to worry about than a building that didn't hurt anyone so long as they didn't set foot into it.

"Welcome home," you heard your mother call out as you entered the house. "Would you join us in the kitchen? A potential husband is here to see you!"

You bit back an aggrieved sigh, a dull headache immediately starting to pull at your temples. For weeks now your parents were of the opinion that you had to get married regardless of your opinion on the matter. 

In your opinion, they were miffed that their neighbors had made such good matches for their children, marrying their sons and daughters away to merchants and rich farmers and even the daughter of a famous adventurer in one case. 

You, on the other hand, had no desire to marry and most certainly not when the other person was a stranger. You wanted to marry for love, which was a sentiment that had brought you quite the derisive lecture from your parents.

Love didn't matter when money and stability could await you instead. They conveniently didn't mention their envy for those around them with good fortunes or their jealousy if someone did better than them. Your parents were braggarts who liked to spread tall tales about themselves in the tavern, at market day and with any travelers they spoke to.

You knew they had been richer than they were now once, but had gotten tricked to give up a chunk of their savings, after which they had been forced to give up a number of luxuries as a result.

It had left your parents bitter and angry and since they hadn't managed to get their fortune back on their own, they were counting on you to do it instead.

Their bragging had brought people to their doorstep to meet you and ask for your hand, but, well, you were very ordinary. So ordinary in fact that plenty of people had described you as quite plain in the past. Mediocre at best.

Taking a bracing breath, you took off your cloak and boots to put on your house slippers instead and you walked into the kitchen without a smile on your face. You weren't going to lie to these strangers who had gotten lured here by your parents' promises of your talents and gifts and good looks.

The thing was, you did have a talent. A little spark of magic that no one knew where it had come from, but your parents hadn't hesitated in selling your services to anyone who wanted to pay enough. Anything that had broken you could fix with just a touch of your hand.

So far, the lack of good looks and the kind of dowry your parents had boasted about had ensured that all prospective partners had bowed out graciously. Rather quickly even. 

The fact that you didn't want to get married had caused a number of them to leave as well, citing that they did not desire a spouse that would end up resenting them for taking away their choices.

When you saw the man sitting across from your parents at their table, you knew immediately who he was. There had been rumors surrounding him for months now, whispers about the exiled lord turned merchant. The wealthiest merchant of their lands, the man whose fingertips supposedly turned copper to gold.

The man who was rumored to collect magical folk to take revenge on the people who had ousted him from his position on the king's council. Who had taken his nobility away from him.

You met his gaze, cold and calculating and pleased and you knew with a bone-deep certainty that he'd wed you. No amount of plainness, no lack of a generous dowry and no refusal on your end would change that.

"My dear," he said, all refined grace and gentle tone and sweet smile and hungry eyes. "You are truly radiant."

What a fucking liar. 

"Your fiance is truly generous," your father said with a jovial tone and equally hungry eyes. "He's paying us your dowry in exchange for a swift marriage."

The former lord kept smiling like the sweetest, gentlest man and you knew to others he would have looked like a dream. Rich, rather good looking and with plenty of business connections for his wealth to keep growing.

"No," you said, lips numb and your heart pounding in a way that carved fear into the inside of your ribcage with every beat. "I don't want to marry him."

The looks your parents sent you almost made you flinch, threatening and dangerous, their smiles suddenly made of blades.

"There will be a wedding," your mother decided firmly and the former lord nodded amiably, like you hadn't said anything at all. "We will meet you at the temple tomorrow."

Your father got up, his hand clasping your shoulder. What would have looked friendly and encouraging to outsiders was in truth a painfully tight hold that kept you from escaping.

You barely heard the rest of the conversation, your knees feeling faintly weak. A part of you reasoned that there was no need to be this scared. That it was a bit nonsensical in fact. You had heard nothing but rumors about the former lord and rumors were hardly ever completely true. He had been nothing but polite and even as he left he offered you a little bow.

But your gut instinct was yowling like an angry cat, raking sharp claws down your spine in warning, tugging at your innards, demanding that you escape. Get away.

You held carefully still and said nothing when your parents berated you sharply after closing the door behind their guest. You stared at them blankly, fingers cold and shaky. 

They started to talk about all the fortune you would bring them, that you had to think of your parents for they had raised you, after all. Weren't you going to be a good child, they loved you after all, didn't they?

The cold numbness was replaced by a sudden surge of anger. It burned the ice away and gripped your heart, made your spine snap straight and your lips itched with the instinctive desire to pull back and bare your teeth.

"I'll head to bed," you said, interrupting their lectures and cajoling and needling. Their guilt-tripping, as if you had been at fault for all their bad decisions in life. As if, by them deciding to have a child, you had signed a contract to be at their beck and call.

You went into your room, closing the door behind you a bit sharply, ignoring their huffs and reprimanding remarks. You heard muffled steps before the door got locked from the outside.

You were angry enough to scream.

Exhaling explosively, you started to pace, wrangling the anger and betrayal and hurt writhing through you under enough control that you could think. You eyed your window, gauging if you could squeeze outside and escape.

You should run, even if you had no money on you. Your ability to repair all kinds of things should help you with landing a job somewhere, or you could exchange your skills for money like you had done your entire life. Only, this time you'd get to keep the money instead of handing it over to your parents.

Swallowing, you stood still for a long moment, weighing the unknown of the large world out there against the marriage to a man who would marry you against your will. In the end, it wasn't much of a decision.

You grabbed what things you could gather without drawing the attention of your parents by making too much noise. The last thing you wanted was for them to catch on and nail the window shut. 

You very gently opened your clothes chest to grab a change of clothes, using a jacket to knot everything into a semi-practical bundle. There wasn't really anything else you could take, not with your small, practical backpack hanging on a hook by the front door, along with your cloak and shoes.

You sat on your bed and waited, heart pounding strongly. You waited until the sound of dinner came and passed, until you heard the steps of your parents as they headed to bed and then you waited a little more. 

You waited until the moon stood right above the house before you eased the window open. Gently and carefully, bit by bit, so it would be as quiet as possible. Peering outside, you forced yourself to wait another moment to see if the shadows would move or someone's steps would rustle the grass growing in the yard. 

You listened carefully for someone's breathing and shifting, any hint that someone was waiting outside to stop you from escaping. You didn't put such a thing past your parents.

But there was no one, at least no one you could see. With the bundled up clothes tucked under one arm, you carefully wriggled outside, bare feet finding cool earth and faintly damp grass.

Your heart was pounding hard enough that it felt as though you held a giant drum between your ribs. Slipping away from the house on quiet feet, you only allowed yourself to exhale with relief once you climbed over the fence to reach the neighboring yard. All you had to do now -

Hands grabbed you, one clamping over your mouth to muffle your startled yell and you were hoisted off your feet like you weighed nothing, pressed against a broad chest.

"I was hoping you'd run," you heard the former lord's smiling voice ahead of you. He addressed whoever had you in their grasp. "Let's leave before the parents wake up, don't let that one get away."

With rising horror you quickly connected the dots. The former lord would kidnap you and this way he wouldn't have to marry you or pay your parents for your hand. He could play the snubbed fiance tomorrow at the temple and leave with a swish of his fancy cloak and a scathing comment. Your parents would be fuming, but they wouldn't find you.

No one would, if he took you and before long, everyone in town would assume that you had run, disappearing into the big wide world. And under any other circumstances, they would have been right.

No matter how hard you fought, the arms that kept you clamped against a stranger's chest were as immovable as iron bars. The hand covering your mouth gripped you so tightly it was going to leave bruises, your jaw hurting.

"What a fiery spirit," the former lord laughed quietly once he reached an alley between houses, a carriage waiting for him. "That's going to be very useful, please hold on to that."

It sounded mocking and in the dim lights of the carriage lanterns, you saw the way he grinned at you, condescending and triumphant. The carriage door was decorated with a rearing horse with two blades crossing behind it, the metal shining in the low light. It looked like a coat of arms, which wouldn't surprise you, considering the man in front of you was a former lord.

He opened the carriage door with a fancy little flourish and your captor managed to wrangle you inside with minimal trouble, mostly because when you tried to put a foot against the carriage frame, you realized that they would absolutely just shove you in and break your leg in the process if you didn't move it.

Apparently, so long as you didn't die or grew unfit for work, it didn't matter if you got hurt.

You got tossed onto a seat and the carriage door was slammed shut before you so much as scrambled into a sitting position. You heard a lock click and two people climbing onto the coach. 

Within seconds the carriage lurched into motion and you found yourself falling back against the cushioned seat, head spinning and fear clawing your insides to ribbons.

You had to get out, you had to escape, but when you threw yourself against the carriage door as best you could, it held strong. Your hands scrambled around in the dark, fingertips trying to find some kind of weak spot, any kind of weak spot.

You felt panic and despair beating higher and higher, like an injured bird caught inside a room, frantically bumping around faster and faster with increasing helplessness.

Until your fingertips found a small corner of where the window used to be and a plank of wood had been nailed onto it instead. You dug in.

By the time you managed to pry the edge away, your fingertips were bleeding and everything hurt, but it didn't matter. It didn't matter when you managed to put your whole weight behind it and slowly pry the plank of wood away bit by bit. You had to be careful not to grip the nails that poked out on the other side of the wood.

 When at last you pulled the plank full away, you were covered in sweat and you realized the carriage had left the town behind. Peering outside carefully, you saw the lights of the town growing further and further away, the forest rising dark and ominous to the right and left.

The carriage had to slow down now, however, to avoid accidents and that was probably the best chance you were going to get. Tossing the board aside, you reached outside to grope around for the handle of the carriage door. You found it, along with the latch that kept the door locked tight.

Fumbling that open, you waited until the carriage slowed a little further to round a bend in the road before you yanked the door open. You still fell more than you jumped outside, but that didn't matter, not when you managed to roll to your feet again almost immediately without hurting yourself.

You heard shouts behind you, the door banging noisily against the carriage and you didn't waste another second to sprint into the forest as fast as your feet would carry you.

You heard the sound of someone hitting the dirt behind you and heavy steps following, your heart racing faster and faster and you suddenly, viciously understood how hares must feel fleeing from hunters.

You certainly felt like a prey animal, running and leaping over roots and branches, your body feeling lighter than it ever had as your panic pushed you onward faster and faster, desperation sharpening each and every single one of your senses.

You had no idea how you avoided running into trees or tripping over roots, but you couldn't avoid the wrought iron fence that suddenly loomed out of the dark. You slammed painfully into it and the second your fingertips found something to hold onto you hauled yourself up.

You reached the top just as someone slammed into the fence a little to your left and you didn't dare look back and check, instead you just jumped down the other side.

Staggering upright again you started sprinting for the large house looming ahead, the manor – that manor, the haunted one, you realized – your breathing as fast and heavy as your heartbeat. 

The manor might be your only chance to escape. Even if you had to face down whatever lived there, be it ghosts or demons or other horrors, they might take care of your pursuer as well. You had to bet your life on that, or you'd end up back in that carriage.

The property truly was as overgrown and rundown as stories had said, the steps leading up to the front door uneven and worn and dead leaves crunched under your bare feet. The front door wasn't locked, to your immense relief and you threw it open, rushing inside and immediately you tripped over a fold in the foyer carpet.

Sprawling down painfully, you scrambled to get up, hearing heavy steps pound up the stairs behind you. You did look back now and you got a glimpse of your pursuer, of the blank mask that covered their face. It was too flat to allow any space for the nose and there were no slits to peer through. It was just one solid, thin piece of metal.

Instinctively you knew that whoever that was, whatever that was, it wasn't human. It might not even be alive. You stumbled back without looking away, your heart now pounding painfully hard, each beat feeling like the fall of a hammer against the inside of your ribcage.

You stared at the thing heading for you as unerringly as a force of nature, when all of a sudden, a large shape dropped to the ground between the two of you with a heavy, loud crash that even the thick foyer carpet couldn't fully muffle.

When the shape straightened, you stared up at an incredibly tall person with strong shoulders and a dancer's grace. Long legs and long hair that shimmered a dark, bloody red.

"You are not welcome here," a smooth, steady voice said, a man's voice, and you saw a blade glint as the man shifted his arm. The blade in his hand was lowered but at an angle that would allow a quick upwards sweep. "Leave or we'll make you."

There was a beat of silence, weighty and tense and you noticed another moving shape along the ceiling, just barely visible in the dark. Your pursuer stood still, motionless, before taking a single, firm step forward.

*.*.*

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[xenogirl8]

As Capital marches headless

The Leviathan lies dormant ever watching sleepless dread

All problems find they magnetize to that great horrid head

The Gaia body stands abused by shrugging Atlas’s flaw

So that even liberal freedom-speak must one day talk of law

We’ve lost our friends to reason and we’ve lost our hands to rhyme

We lose our vital seasons as we contemplate lost time

Tomorrow’s world must than be built by ashes of today

If all you have is fear to bring, then I suggest you pray

As Capital strides headless all the Anarchist shall scream

“Onwards faithful soldier, our dead god then is our king”

So tell the parents, and the children, science is our rites

And we brush our teeth with plastic and then sing ourselves goodnight

If once a lifetime every soul did dare to have a dream

Clear-view you honest traitor, your critique shall set us free

[der-unverantwortliche]

NESTLED IN DREAD: THE ART OF HARRY MORRIS

It would appear that Harry Morris has the maximum contempt for reality. On the other hand, he has performed the service of distilling away its dross in order to picture its essence: pure dread. So this contempt also pays homage to its object, honoring it with scorn and raw exposures. No decor­ative comforts are allowed in his work, no natural light of day, no human reference points. No, no, no--the cry of a mind protesting its dreadful revelations and at the same time finding them well worth the revel. Dread: both reality and escape from it. Dread: both the sum of things fled from and the ticket out of town. Not to mention the ultimate destination. Next stop, the Haven of Dread. It is not fear that inhabits such a series as Scenes from Lautreamont's Maldoror. Fear implies hope, and these images are as far from hope as they are from the morning newspaper and the evening news, as well as from all the daily agitations which fill the hours between. Neither is it shock or fright, horror or terror that forms the center of these scenes. Or rather, such states so permeate Harry Morris's collagework as to institute them as the norm, to expand these irruptions in reality until they come to fill every square inch of it. And thus reality's volatile moments are smoothed out into an even atmosphere of dread, a climate of all horror and no hope, a place where nothing bothers to move toward or away from doom and desolation. Every­thing already lives there, and there is nowhere else to turn. This is, above all, a stable universe; its scenes, in dread, are forever fixed. Let us look at some of them.

One of them could be called "Bedside Scene." The "action" is all crammed into the corner of a room where leaden walls meet: one wall displays two four-paned, shutter-type windows; the other wall reflects eight ghostly segments of those panes, through which shine the lights entrusted to illuminate an eternal blackness. (Those two staring pinpricks in the night beyond the windows might, after all, be a pair of moons.) Below all this window business, of which more later, a pallid-faced thing with eyes like huge jeweled broaches lies bedridden. Another thing, with a tiny beaked head out of which grow great corkscrew horns, is nursing the thing in the bed, feeding it a serpentine fluid which gushes from a ruddy-textured bulb. A third thing, headless in the lower right foreground, motionlessly looks on. All three of these things were once good women of the Victorian epoch, this is meant to be known. But whatever identities they may have formerly possessed, whatever creditable activities they may have formerly been engaged in, they are now freaks in a mysterious world where they are compelled to carry out a mysterious ritual--automatons performing the rites of dread. Impossible to tell if this scene depicts a perennial situation of panic or one selected from an infinite series of emergencies. In either case, a reassuring constancy is supplied by dread, the dread which is forever. It is always there watching, like those cosmic dots peering in the windows. Yes, the windows. Where they lead is one of the most engrossing questions of Harry Morris's work. They are not like the windows we know, which always give out onto scenes we know, or think we know. These windows give out onto different scenes. Sometimes there is the suggestion of the star-speckled hollows of space beyond the windows, the vast vacancy of infinity. Sometimes there is only a cluster of splotches or an infernal glare, cluttered cul-de-sac. Whatever the backdrop, open cosmos or blind alley, it is an uneventful and unpopulated empti­ness. Nothing and no one resides there, except perhaps a few eyeless entities of a vaguely destructive bent and demonic mysteries as strange as a thunderstorm in outer space. So don't stray too many steps beyond the scene before you. As in a dream, what you see is about all there is to see. And like the windows of a dream, these windows lead, if anywhere, merely to another set of windows in another dream.

The next scene—think of it as the "Mummified Wonder"—appears to be about shadows and light and bandages. But possibly the first two phenomena are merely variant forms of the third. Shadows as a first-aid for dreadful illumination. Light as a fine white gauze hiding a great gaping wound that bleeds blackness. What gashes are hidden beneath this wounded one's wrappings? Such dread in her eyes. Or are they his? This is part of its wonder. But what good or evil would it do for this creature to be one or the other? In these scenes, all differentiations and categories of the waking world are defunct or irrelevant. You may be man, woman, or child across the street of sleep, but here--in the land of dread--you are just one more object among many. Is that you tapping on those windows back there? Welcome, sweet companion, dear old thing.

The last collage to be examined really begs to be given the simple title "Empty Rooms with Decapitated Head." Perhaps this is the same head that was stolen from one of the things in the "Bedside Scene." (Harry Morris's universe seems to have its own laws of conservation of materials.) But actually there are two heads, are there not? That is to say, a head within a head or a head behind a-mask; possibly the relationship is that between core and covering, or could it be some twisted evolution or decom­position going on here? Look at the apples at the base of its neck! Apples, or some kind of bulbous fruit. (Another link with the "Bedside Scene"?) Whatever they are, tempting they are not. At least not in the usual way. Attention should be paid to the windows, once again, and then expanded to take in the whole cryptic architecture of this scene. More than walls seem to have been knocked out, more than rooms have been sunken and split­-leveled. Is this place some hybrid between cathedral and condemned house? Despite the windows and doorways, these rooms offer no way in or out. Cer­tainly not to the wide awake wanderer, that much is sure. But perhaps a sleepwalker could get up those stairs at the back, could climb into the disintegrating glare of dreams. And perhaps only an experienced somnambulist could step out that door at the left and actually end up somewhere. And the artist of these scenes is both. Dream overlaps dream. Dread piles on dread. Thanks to the art of Harry Morris, pure dread finally possesses a geog­raphy, a home deep in some interior landscape where we watch ourselves rave in scenes of contorted glory, where we watch ourselves sleep in the paradoxical peace of perdition, and where we watch ourselves watching ourselves with the infinite eyes of dread.

Thomas Ligotti

[koggthryn]

xii. asters & goldenrod

once, we lay with our skin stripped off us in a field, the grass growing up around us two, your jacket bleeding out beneath our bodies. we watched the wind mills turn over, the cattle slide down into valley villages with butchers and cleavers, the aster and the goldenrod root in the heavens above, rotting there. we exhaled exhaust and moaned against our mouths until the sorrow left us. OH OH, OHHHH GOD. we curled together, strong knees and proud chins and jaws, set. AM I HOPELESS? HAVE I DONE THIS TO MYSELF?

xiii. lamprey

she has learned of cain, condemned, and sinned against her own brother with the jawbone of an ass, blood under nails and adolescence brought to an end. she has been taught to unhinge her jaw and grown to shed skin in sunday school, has tasted the real paleo diet—plucked a lash from her eye, pierced a nail in the rind, peeled the flesh from her thigh—her moon-hungry pack of teeth have sunken into the pungent and the spiced, the wet meat smell of memory in a fine china skull.

xiv. final rites

YOU HAVE RETURNED. YOU HAVE RETURNED. they found your skin smoldering out back, where the dog pisses against the fence and motor oil leaks into the yard. they called in every prayer tree over the phone lines, bowed their necks and heads and lives over you, and the preacher didn't shut his eyes—how lustful—didn't even blink. he pleaded for your soul and made sure you knew it. SHE IS RISEN, PRAISE THE LORD.

xv. trespassing

you're out when you're not supposed to be, tipping your head back, back, back on the church's stoop and looking up. looking, seeking, searching, you find hollow-eyed grief gazing back down, the crucifixion looming over you. the garden angel out back is cracking, paint peeling from its cheeks, from her cheeks, but the wood carving of christ himself, christ almighty himself, doesn't bleed. doesn't cry. and you, you cry: LOOK AWAY LOOK AWAY.

xvi. below

and below us, below us garnets churn, minutes unfurling like leaves. we are still waiting. we are still watching out truck windows, watching our faces grow dark in the side mirrors, watching the statelines and welcome centers and exit signs all blur together.

xvii. not a lover

the story goes like this: she looked away for more, and he went missing instead. right there, quick and quiet. light bends and withers around the hole left in this town, avoiding his empty seat, the road sign at his bus stop, the boots left molding on his front stoop. they'll say her name was carved into his gut or wrist or web page. they'll say you can see her calling for him in the tree line, with the strange eyes of a goat. and when he turns back up, if he turns back up, he's lighting up sheet music and staring through cops, face wretched. calling himself PRAGMA LIBER. updating his status just the one time: ONLY HERE TO PROMOTE A SONG. THIS COMMIE PLATFORM CAN SUCK A MOTHERFUCKING DICK.

xviii. study group

WHAT'S YOUR NAME, AGAIN? she wants to apologize, wants to say KATHRYN LAUREN, but KATHRYN LAUREN sounds like windchimes and rose water, like a mother's hopes and dreams, and she is more of a million spider march down the back of a gas pump. she is houses that look like faces and bitter pine needle tea she steeped as a child, was baptized in as a child. she is wild blackberries and clotted blood, ripped-up psalms and an incisor for the tooth-fairy, a headless doll trailing the undergrowth, hand in hand with her. IT DOESN'T MATTER, she says. IT DOESN'T MATTER. WHAT UNIT SHOULD WE START WITH?

xix. vantage

and besides, you breathe differently down here.

xx. rosary

in a box by the bed, there's some tinny sound. our father, and his father before him, left us their dog tags. DALE LYNN. PROTESTANT. we remember his singing in church. we remember his weeping. PORTER, LEONARD. some rust and rot. a dent in the name. we can wait with them, can count every pearl in the chain, keep the seconds in hand, feel them move through us. the days, the months. this is religious, this careful observation of time. and in a darker place, with dust storms and corpses curling into one another, our father counts the pearls. our father before him counts the pearls.

xxi. questions to ask your mother

mom—the word MOM hides a prayer: PLEASE, LOOK AT ME, AFTER ME, PLEASE LISTEN, LISTEN TO ME, PLEASE, PLEASE STROKE MY HEAD, WASH MY BACK, LET ME STAY IN YOUR HOME TONIGHT, PLEASE FEED ME, FEED ME, FEED ME—and you never stop calling her MOM. when you are her height, when the garden angel fractures its wing and cheekbone in a move and dad shoves his hand in your mouth, index and middle finger in the shape of a gun, when the ambulance comes for you and you change your name for the twelfth time, she'll scream THIS IS HOW YOU TREAT ME in your face. you'll want to break the entire length of your life over her head, want to ask DID YOU BRING PRECIOUS THINGS INTO A HOSTILE PLACE OR HOSTILE THINGS INTO A PRECIOUS ONE, but you'll only scream back WHY WON'T YOU JUST HOLD ME?

xxii. observer

look away, please. look away.

'23 september prompts days 12-22 | @nosebleedclub

[ivy-kissobryos]

Salut. A long time ago you recommended Seven Spheres by Rufus Opus in a reading list, but only very recently I was able to actually read it.

I send this ask hoping that maybe you'd be comfortable sharing your experience with the rituals of the book. The author presents the planetary initiation in such a dramatic reality-altering process that I find it a bit hard to put my faith in it at times, so again, if it's okay by you, I'd love to hear your experiences with it.

If I were to be frank, I didn’t follow the instructions exactly as per Rufus Opus’ writing. Although to be fair,I honestly can’t seem to recall instances where I’ve ever performed any ritual exactly as written (aside from certain rites from the Greek Magical Papyri), so this isn’t Opus’ fault or anything. As someone who works extensively with the planets and stars in my practice, I can say that Opus’ rituals are theoretically sound and should provide good results. There are just some things I prefer to change about the rituals. So, what I’ve done is take the concept behind Opus’ workings and devised rituals of my own.

In other words, I think Opus’ rituals can be life changing if you adapt it to suit whatever paradigm you’re working from rather than doing things by the book. For example, some things I changed is that I used hymns from the Picatrix rather than the just the Orphic Hymns. As a witch with a Patron who rules over the night and the stars, I also found it much easier to include Him in the ritual rather than following the original script which calls upon just Christ who I respect but hold no allegiance to.

It should also be noted too that the AOTH ABRAOTH BASYM ISAK SABAOTH IAO section of Opus’ script is directly lifted from the Headless Rite of the Greek Magical Papyri. I don’t know why Opus didn’t explain how he adapted that from the PGM and his reasonings, but I can assure you too that the Headless Rite is incredibly effective in many uses.

But to directly answer your question: even though I can’t claim to have done Opus’ rituals as written, I can confirm via my knowledge and experience with planetary magic that Opus’ ritual are theoretically sound and should provide results. I have taken the backbones of Opus’ method and adapted them for my own needs. It is my take that any intentional and direct engagement with the planets when done properly can be life changing.

This is because planets are gods, if one is approaching planetary work from a perspective of astrolatry rather than pure, planetary magic without any faith involve. Surely you must’ve heard tales of how working with, let’s say, Hekate have changed people’s lives. It’s the same with planets, especially if you approach them asking them to “initiate” you. In this case, the planets will often cause you to lose things in their sphere which does not serve you (Venus breaking off certain friendships or relationships in your life, Jupiter causing you to change jobs etc).

And it is this point that I wish to promote my pamphlet detailing my workings with Venus and an angel of Venus here: https://www.hadeanpress.com/shop/venus-as-mother

Planets can and do cause upheavals in your life.

Thus, I would recommend that — if you don’t already have an established practice in sorcery or planetary magic — you try one of Opus’ rituals as written and see how it goes. The rituals are exceedingly simple, requiring not much materia nor time. There really isn’t much to lose (unless you somehow manage to offend a planet but that’s beside the point). Then, play around with the ritual structure and personalize it to you.

[ambiguouspuzuma]

Heading home

Of course, a headless horseman never is. The poor creatures are always found laden with the part they never missed, still bearing its burden, just in the wrong place. The crook of an arm, perhaps. The grip of a calloused hand; or resting on the slight curve of a hip, like one of the village girls collecting water from the well.

Heavy lie the arms that bear their own crown. They travel as Perseus, with the gorgon's head tucked under his arm; as the Green Knight, returning from the feast; as a martyred saint, a cephalophore, decapitated and depicted as such. They bear their wounds for all to see, proud or ashamed - and sometimes with an axe in the other hand, just to hammer the point home.

There's a superstition about vampires: cut the head off of your dead, the villagers say, and prevent them coming back to haunt you. In truth, it's the only way to ensure that they will. Ghosts are said to linger because their lives are incomplete, their business unfinished, their souls disturbed. The headless dead are themselves unfinished, and they remain in search of someone who can make them whole again.

It's a traumatic experience, decapitation. Even post-mortem, spirits don't feel right leaving a body in that way: the dead need to be put to rest, and are known to haunt their open graves, their desecrated tombs, until things are put rite. Until then, they live a lost existence: headless, heedless, roaming far across the land in the faint hope of one day finding peace.

None are content with their new lot - tethered to existence, untethered to their body, always moving, never to move on - but the strength of their reaction varies. Some are merely frustrated. One horseman may be seen with his head in his hands, worn down by the burdens of its skull and the restless eternity it brings him. Another may turn violent, taking revenge against his executioners - and some completely lose their heads, creating likewise broken victims of their own.

That is why I have to stay. I appreciate your offer to resolve my own trauma, I really do; you're right about my unfinished business, and one day I intend to complete it for good, and move on from your mortal plane. But just as you found me, I seek out the horsemen: those unfortunate souls whose problem is harder to fix. No living surgeon can work with ectoplasm, you see. Their needles pass directly through the skin, and not in the way you'd like them to.

How many surgeons become ghosts? I'm the only one I know, and I've been looked since before you were born. It might be that I'm their last hope, you see - these long-dead hands the miracle to reunite their broken parts, to suture fully severed necks, to end a century of wandering and finally lead them home. That's why I'm here, as I'm sure you'll understand. I have to stay, or else they always will.

[santoschristos]

The Headless One

The rite has borne various titles, such as the Bornless One, Liber Samekh, and the Preliminary Invocation.

“I summon you, Headless One, who created earth and heaven, who created night and day, you who created the Light and the Darkness; you are Osoronnophris whom none has ever seen; you are Iabas; you are Iapos; you have distinguished the just from the unjust....”

Art: Jose Gabriel Alegría Sabogal.

Text from the Greek Magical papyri

[hadit93]

Hi Hadit, hope you are doing well.

This ask might seem weird to you because you believe in putting the effort in mundane affairs before turning to magic, but do you have a spell that can get me out of a rut and make me proactive and energetic temporarily (For a week or two)?

I have adhd and acute depression and although I am mostly high-functioning (I have a full time job, continuing my masters, practice magic, and cook and clean everyday) and I have been unable to even get out of the bed, do the simplest chores, or even reply to texts or calls lately.

I need to get a job (and probably do a spell or two to boost my job search) asap and catch up on my chores, but forcing myself to do anything is resulting in horrible panic attacks. This usually happens to me every year and it goes away, but I can't be a sitting duck waiting for it to pass this time or I am gonna be unemployed soon. I mostly work with planetary and Goetic spirits. Sorry for the long ask.

TIA for your time; take care.

So obviously ignore my advice and seek the advice of a medical professional first and after that try implementing my advice.

So in terms of magic helping your mental health and symptoms of ADHD, there is not really a spell or ritual that is going to do that. A good daily practice may help this over time. I recommend regular cleansing, regular energy work, regular invocation of the highest, and meditation. As someone with ADHD you may struggle with meditation ,stick with it if you can. It doesn't matter if you are distracted, what matters is the effort of bringing back that attention over time. It is stretching a muscle.

It sounds to me that the depression is effecting your life more than your ADHD at the minute. Working with the above may help that, however, working with the solar force will also help. You could do this in many ways, I would find some herb that is safe to ingest that is solar in nature and safe to infuse in high-proof alcohol such as vodka. Chamomile is a good option, rosemary too, Create a tincture and also have a crystal to charge too. Charge the crystal with your own intent and also the solar force in a ritual. Place the crystal in the tincture (make sure the crystal is not toxic first! Citrine would be my choice) and allow it to brew for a couple of weeks. Place a drop on the tongue whenever you feel like it or on a regular basis. Every morning perhaps- just a drop, nothing more.

I wish I could give you a miracle one shot magical cure for your problems. But I do not have one. These things take time, there is no cure for depression or ADHD, there are simply treatments. This is because there is no single cause for depression and we do not even know the cause of ADHD nor what truly exacerbates it within individuals. But the solar force and regular cleansing will help over time. Meditation will also help too.

My advice after this would be to stop trying to do everything at once. Write a list of tasks you want to accomplish. Then order these in easiest/shortest time to hardest/longest time. Then start tackling them in that order. Make a list of rituals/spirits you can work with to obtain these things in order. Not all at once, you cannot sort all your life out at once. It takes time.

Don't beat yourself up it is hard to overcome depression. It is hard to muster up the strength and discipline to battle that part of yourself. It may seem stupid to you or to others around you, but as someone who has battled their own demons I know the struggle and I commend you for enduring it so far and seeking out help when you need it.

You may want to perform a formal cleansing ritual (this could look like anything, every tradition has them. I am talking something more than an LBRP though. A self exorcism might be good- the headless rite may be a good choice too, or liber samekh. You may also want to perform a road opening ritual- I am unsure who you work with. For me I would take a few coins to a crossroads and ask Hekate to open the ways for me so that my influence may flow freely in all directions and leave a coin in each pathway as well as a boiled egg. There are many crossroads deities who would be good for this too. You can also google road opening spells, there are loads to choose from.

Raphael may be able to help. I would not recommend involving goetic spirits for help with mental health. Unless you already have a good working relationship with one of them who can help. Eventually Bune can help with your finances and your job hunt when it comes to conquer that task.

And I will finish by saying if you need help seek it out from a doctor. Therapy is brilliant. Medication is great when you need it to get unstuck from a rut. Don't rely on magic, it will help, but dealing with issues on the same plane they are manifested upon is always best. The mental plane is conquered through words in therapy, the physical plane by medication, meditation, and exercise. The spiritual plane will trickle down to both of these, but it may be more subtle and long-term than direct.

Good luck, I am sure you've got this!

[muchadoaboutjax]

moving on was always easy for me to do (it hits different 'cause it's you) -> rax

tagging: Jax Beiste, Riley July @rileyjulypsu location: psu building a timeframe: oct. 14 2024, lockdown day two warnings: none summary: comforting your ex girlfriend during a lockdown after three years of not seeing her? what could possibly go wrong?

Jax Beiste

Jax was doing her best to keep a level head despite the fact the situation she found herself in. One of her father's sayings was ringing in her head: "don't be the first headless chicken to start running, be the rooster" which while not making a lot of sense, did bring her some comfort. Still, Jax was stressed, not only was she indefinitely locked down to wait out and earthquake (nothing that new to a California girl, but still pretty stressful), but it just so happened that she was locked down with Riley of all people. It wasn't that Jax wasn't happy to learn that Riley had moved out to LA, but she knew that for whatever reason, her brain and her sensibilities went out of the window the second she and her ex were in the same room, and despite knowing how it always ended, Jax found herself drawn to her ex for reasons that she couldn't ever explain. Maybe that was why she was approaching her now with a bottle of water in hand, or maybe it was simply the fact that Jax could see that Riley wasn't doing so good herself, clearly worried about the fact she couldn't get in touch with her siblings. She knew how close Riley was to them, that she was about the nearest thing to a mother those kids had ever had, and not being able to check on them in a situation like this was probably incredibly distressing for her. It wasn't like Jax loved not being able to contact her own family, but it was different for Riley and she knew that. "Hey…" She smiled softly as she reached Riley, passing her the bottle of water, "Are you okay? Sorry, stupid question…"

Riley July

This was not happening. LA was supposed to be her place, her new start and chance to reconnect (and keep an eye on) her siblings, her escape from New York. But no, she was really reconsidering changing her mind right now. Fuck LA. And fuck earthquakes. She had no idea where her siblings were and that was the worst thing. Riley had spent the best part of nearly two hours pacing back and forth trying to call them over and over again until noticing that her battery was at 15%. Sighing to herself, she knew she needed to stop, just in case some service came back. But at least she wasn't on her own. She didn't know any of these people but at least it was company. Well, she did know one of them. It must have been karma or maybe lady fate playing a trick on her to have her locked in here with her ex, Jax. The one person that Riley could never stop thinking about, her eyes searching her out constantly throughout the day. They both didn't know what it was, but they couldn't stay away from each other. But now wasn't the time. At least that's what Riley kept telling herself. Keeping her eyes locked to her phone in case it rang, she heard the steps coming towards her and knew exactly who it was. Glancing up at Jax and then the water she hesitated, but then took it. She needed to stay focused and keep eating and drinking. "Thanks." She mumbled out and took a sip. But then Riley looked away. "What do you think?" Then she sighed. "How are you?"

Jax Beiste

Jax winced a little at both her own dumbass question and the sharpness of Riley's response, rubbing the back of her neck sheepishly, "Pretty stressed? Kinda grumpy? Same old, same old either way…" She joked weakly, shrugging a little, "I'm okay. You forget I lived in San Fran for most of my life, and now I live in LA, this is not my first earthquake rodeo. Think of it as an initiation rite, you're not a true California girl until you've been through your first earthquake." She was the way that Riley was clinging to her cell phone, barely dragging her attention from it and it made her expression soften. She hated seeing her so obviously distressed. "Here." Jax reached into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out one of the wireless charging packs the first responders had given them, "Just promise me you're not going to sit here and play Angry Birds on your own all night okay?" A pause, Jax gently nudging Riley with her shoulder, "Eileen will call the second she can. They all will."

Riley July

Riley turned to glare at Jax, but softened slightly as she actually looked at her. Always had the ability to take her breath away. "You know me so well." She quipped back with a shrug of her own. "I'm seriously regretting moving here if this is going to keep happening." Then she sighed. "I suppose it's still slightly better than New York though." Her siblings being the reason. The phone was clutched to tight in her hand that it was a surprise that it didn't break. She was ready to throw it across the room but then Jax had handed her a charging pack and Riley took it eagerly, equipping it to the phone straight away. Then her lips twitched up into an amused smirk. "Do people really still play that?" Making sure the phone was definitely charging, Riley placed it on the floor next to her. "I just need to know they're okay." She replied, her tone tense. "Especially Eileen, she's the baby and as much as I love her she is easily led and if she is with people who can take advantage of her… I just need to know she's okay."

Jax Beiste

"I do." Jax agreed, feeling her cheeks tinge a little at the thought of just how well she knew Riley but forced herself not to dwell on that thought any longer. Dwelling on those kind of thoughts always caused her problems, "I mean… it's not a weekly occurrence, if that makes you feel any better? Just… every so often. Most of the time it's a little wobble and people get on with their day." Her smile grew a little easier, "Well I'm glad you're in LA. Y'know, for your siblings I mean, I'm sure they miss you." She had back pedalled quickly, but a lump still formed in her throat. That was definitely not what she meant. Not entirely anyway. Jax laughed a little, nodding, "Yeah? What do you think I do to kill time when I'm waiting for my next class to show up?!" Her expression softened, sighing a little as she ran a hand through her hair, "I get it. I haven't been able to stop thinking about Malea, she's so small, and I can't get through to Immy to check they're both okay, it's driving me nuts. But spinning out on your own about it isn't going to change anything, you just have to have a little faith Riles. Because Eileen is an adult now, I'm sure wherever and whoever she's with, it's all going to be okay."

Riley July

"It doesn't make me feel any better. But, its better than nothing." And Riley crossed her arms over her chest as she raised an eyebrow. It wasn't missed on her that Jax was glad she was here in LA and she felt her heart almost jump out of her chest. "Well they've told me they're glad. Whether they actually are or not is another thing entirely." Then she bit on her lip as she thought over what she wanted to say next. "At least some people are glad I'm here for certain." Riley snorted out a laugh and shook her head. "You're ridiculous." But there was a very fond smile on her face and the tone was only teasing. Then there was a frown on her face. Jax's niece of course, she would be caught up in all of this too along with her sisters. "They'll be okay. All of them." She stated firmly, shifting her body to look at her ex. "I know I need to have faith in Eileen and I do, it's other people I don't trust Jax. People are cruel."

Jax Beiste

"Which is Riley speak for 'thanks Jax that made me feel a little better'." Jax quirked her eyebrow a little, shaking her head. She'd always been good at deciphering Riley, which is why her cheeks were getting redder now, shuffling a little on the spot, "I'm sure they're glad to have you here, they adore you Riles." The words "who doesn't?" died on her tongue as she occupied her hands with playing with the water bottle label instead of reaching out to Riley. "You're ridiculous." Jax pouted a little, giving Riley a gentle shove, expression sobering again as she nodded, "I know they will. Still doesn't stop you worrying though does it?" With Riley facing her now, Jax could feel her heart pounding, wondering just how long it had been since they were this close, and wishing the thought didn't fill with her with both excitement and fear. Her stomach dropped at Riley's words, "I know… am… am I one of those people?"

Riley July

Riley rolled her eyes but didn't argue. Jax really did know her that well, dating someone for two years will help with that. "I hope so." She sighed. "I've tried so hard to make them the people they are today and not turn out like our mother. I can't fail them." Anyone else and she wouldn't be sharing any of this, but Jax already knew all of her secrets and all of her shit, so why hide it? She shoved back, a smile growing on her face. "No of course it doesn't. Like we said, our siblings are adults, doesn't mean we don't worry." Was Jax moving closer? No, must just be a figment of Riley's imagination and she shook her head to clear it. They couldn't do this, not again. "Are you a cruel person?" She asked confused. "Of course you're not Jax. You're amazing."

Jax Beiste

Jax scoffed, "Please, there's no danger of you, or any of those kids turning into Cassandra July. Or of you failing them, you have spent your entire life taking care of them, and if any of them decide to be ungrateful about then I'll set them straight for you." Despite everything that had happened between them, Jax found herself really grateful that Riley could still talk to her like this. God only knew she needed someone to be vulnerable with. Jax felt it then, that pull inside her that she tried to ignore whenever she was around Riley, that magnetism that got them into trouble time and time again. Riley seemed closer than before, and even as she watched her shake her head, Jax couldn't seem to make herself move back from her. "I just… I know when everything was going wrong, when we were back in New York I said some things I still regret, and… I'm not amazing. But I'm glad you don't think I'm cruel at least…" Some of the tension eased from her shoulders as she let her eyes meet Riley's, feeling her mouth go dry as she did. She really should move back.

Riley July

"I hope not. Hell I pray every night to whoever is listening that they don't turn out like her." The mention of her mother's name made her flinch, but she knew Jax never used the name to make her suffer on purpose. "Do you think I try too hard?" Riley asked, but then stopped herself and shook her head. "Nevermind." She bit her lip as she listened to Jax talk, the fact that she was talking herself down was killing her. "No Jax, it wasn't you. It was mainly me, you know what I'm like. I never made things easy for us, ever." Riley loved her, but she just had too many demons that she was fighting all the time. Hesitantly, she reached a hand out and placed in on Jax's shoulder. "We both said and did things we regret, and I don't know how I'll ever make it up to you."

Jax Beiste

Jax frowned a little at her question, shaking her head, "Hey, no, don't do that." It always used to infuriate her a little when Riley suddenly backpedalled on talking about her feelings, "You do not try too hard. Sometimes you forget to take care of yourself, but trying too hard? Never. They're really lucky to have you." "It wasn't, I was… I don't know, over the top? Clingy? Kind of a jealous bitch?" She managed a weak smile, hating the thought that Riley had been blaming herself for their break up all this time, "I know I kind of smothered you a lot, and that's on me, not you." God, Jax knew that there was something powerful between her and Riley, there always had been, but she had grossly underestimated how much of it remained after all this time apart. As her hand rested on her shoulder, Jax felt as if a jolt of electricity shot through her, the crashing reality that she had never stopped loving Riley hitting her. This was not the time for this realisation, nor was it even remotely a good idea to open that Pandora's Box again, and yet.. "You don't have to make it up to me. It's water under the bridge, ancient history… as long as you can forgive me that is?"

Riley July

She crossed her arms over her chest and listened to Jax's words. In a way she was right, but was Riley going to listen? Probably not. "But I don't have time to look after myself, I have to look after them." And she sighed, they were just going to go around in circles on this all day she could already tell. Plus they had just talked about her siblings being adults, they didn't need looking after as much any more. "Over the top and clingy? Maybe. Jealous bitch? Yes, but we were both easily jealous. And maybe I wasn't clingy enough." Riley just shrugged, it was all over and done with now. But it still didn't mean that she didn't miss it. "I know it might have seemed like I hated it, but maybe I needed it Jax. I mean you got me to stop drinking and that probably saved my life." Her hand slowly trailed down for her ex's shoulder to her arm. Maybe she shouldn't be touching her like that, maybe she should let go and pull away. But she couldn't. Because she loved Jax. "I forgive you. I forgave you the minute you walked out the door, the minute you ended things. I could never hate you Jax."

Jax Beiste

Jax rolled her eyes a little, knowing her ex-girlfriend all to well. It was the same argument they'd had time and time again when they were dating, but Jax knew better than to try and press this issue yet again. Whether she liked it or not, Riley's lack of ability to put herself first was no longer her problem. "I mean you could have been a little less repulsed by my touch…" Jax managed a short laugh, a sad smile tugging at her lips as she ruminated over the years they had spent together, surprising herself with how she had forgotten just how good it felt to be in Riley's presence, even after everything that had happened. "I never thought you hated it, we were just two different people Riley… and you saved your own life, you put in the hard work, I was just there to cheer you on. I still am if you need me to be." As Riley's hand trailed down her arm Jax had to suppress a shiver as memories flashed through her mind, memories of what it was like to have Riley touch her, memories that would only lead to making very questionable choices. But despite knowing that, Jax felt herself leaning into her touch, a lump in her throat as she pursed her dry lips. "Which time?" She mumbled, shaking her head a little, "I could never hate you either Riles, even after everything, you… I never stopped caring about you, you know that right? I didn't leave because I stopped caring."

Riley July

Riley snorted out a laugh too and shook her head. "I'm glad you didn't think that, because I didn't hate it." Her eyes searching Jax's face. "I needed it. I needed you." Needed, not need. Because Riley refused to admit that she needed anyone now, she could do this on her own. But with Jax saying that she would still be there if she needed her too made Riley falter. She was only so strong. But no, they couldn't fall back down the same rabbit hole that they always did. And now her ex-girlfriend was moving closer, and Riley's eyes fell to her lips. "Every time. Every time you left I forgave you. And I hope every time I left, you forgave me." Her jaw clenched at Jax's words and her eyes moved back to hers. "I… I didn't know that. I just thought you didn't care any more. You still care? I still care." And it was almost as there was a magnetic force between them that was pulling Riley closer to Jax.

Jax Beiste

The past tense made Jax's heart clench. Needed. Riley used to need her. But Jax had messed that up at every possible turn, and now here they were. As her eyes searched her face, Jax tried to her best to keep her expression neutral and supportive despite her very complicated feelings, and offered her a small smile. "I needed you too Riley. Don't ever think that I didn't." Jax didn't miss the way Riley's eyes wandered to her lips and it caused her cheeks to flush, feeling herself falling into that same trap again but seemingly powerless to stop it as her fingers drifted forward and brushed against the back of Riley's hand that wasn't resting on her arm still. God they were getting so close… "I don't know what I did to deserve all that forgiveness. God knows I messed up so many times." This amount of eye contact was killing her, especially when they were this close to each other, and as she tried to break it, her eyes find Riley's lips instead. Dammit. "No, no Riley, I left because I cared. I cared way too much and you deserved better. You do? Even after everything I've done?"

Riley July

"But why? How? How did you need me? I couldn't give you anything useful." This was a mess. Just like their relationship had been over the two years, and all the years that followed where they'd continuously end up in bed together. "It wasn't just you that messed up, it was both of us. We're adults we can both admit that we were in the wrong." Her grip tightened on Jax's arm. "But of course I forgive you because I love you." Love, not loved. Now Jax's eyes were on her lips and Riley swallowed hard. "I still care." And she dipped her head, moving in closer.

Jax Beiste

"Are you kidding?" Jax scoffed, shaking her head a little, "Riley I was so lonely in New York… you gave me everything, you gave me a lifeline. You…" She inhaled for a moment, trying to stop herself bursting into tears. Jax had never meant for this to get so heavy and deep, but after three years of not seeing her and now being forced to spend every second of the day with Riley, all these feelings that she thought she'd moved past were bubbling to the surface, "You never treated me like I was broken. You just loved me as I was." She sniffed quickly, desperate not to fall apart, to not lapse into old habits either, but the hold Riley still had on her heart was far stronger than she could have realised before being here in front of her again. The grip on her arm tightening made her heart skip, but not as much as it did when Jax heard her say "I love you." I love you. Not I loved you, I love you. "I love you too." She whispered, heart in mouth as instead of pulling away from Riley she leaned into her, forehead almost touching hers, "I don't think I could stop caring if I tried."

Riley July

A lifeline. Just what Jax had given to Riley, apparently Riley had given that in return. It's not like Jax hadn't appreciated it, but with all of Riley's issues of self loathing and low self esteem, she never felt like any worth to anyone. Not to her siblings, and definitely not to Jax. "You're not broken Jax, I would never treat you like that. Everything you've been through in your life, you're so strong." Three years they'd been apart with Riley trying to convince herself that she was over it, but right now it had felt like three minutes and every single emotion she'd ever felt for Jax was slamming into her at full force. And with that every single rational thought had left her head, and all that matter was them. "I love you Jax. I will always care about you." And then she's leaning forward and pressing her lips gently against her ex girlfriend's.

Jax Beiste

Jax had always known that her deep seated need to fix everyone wasn't healthy, and that it was a big part of the reason that their relationship had fallen apart, but for Riley it had been almost instinctual, like a primal urge to protect her from everything, including herself at times. But for herself? Jax had let herself stay broken, had known it every time she looked in the mirror, but hearing Riley say that she was strong, that she hadn't seen her as broken made her resolve crumble. Tears slipped down her cheeks as she shook her head a little, and as Riley's lips met hers she let out a soft whimper leaning into the kiss and responding in kind. Time stood still for a moment for Jax as she lost herself in how good it felt to be kissing Riley again, at how right this felt… but her brain caught up to her, and suddenly, she remembered how this always ended, pulling away quickly with a soft sigh, "Riley… I-"

Riley July

She really didn't realise how much she had been craving the feeling of Jax's lips on hers again. Three years apart and she'd not really been with anyone else, because that one person for her was still on her mind. And now here they were, finally back together. Riley let out a soft sigh and wanted to wipe away the tears that she could feel on her cheeks. But then everything came crashing to a halt as Jax pulled away. Riley's eyes snapped open and she looked at her ex-girlfriend in horror. "I shouldn't have done that." That was an understatement. What an idiot. She and Jax were never going to work things out or get back together so why fall back into this situation again. "I have to go." She stumbled to her feet and looked back at the other woman. "I'm so sorry Jax." And then she was gone.

Jax Beiste

Jax watched Riley go, open and closing her mouth as more tears started to fall, unable to speak or do anything but sit there as she scrambled away from her. This was exactly what she wanted to avoid, what she hadn't wanted to happen when she and Riley reunited. But it was what always happened, they'd get drawn into each other, they'd do something stupid, and then… someone got their heart broken. "Fuck." Jax hissed, wiping quickly at her cheeks, pushing to her feet. Following Riley would only make it worse, but that didn't mean she didn't want to. "God fucking dammit…"

[mrsemilybartrum]

What if Arya didn't actually kill the REAL Night King, like in the show? What if she killed... the real king's son? What if Bloodraven made all this happen to become King through Bran? These characters are from A Song of Ice and Fire by George R.R. Martin... but I thought of this plot twist.

Arya sat in her captain’s chambers as the storm raged outside her cabin door. Even though she could still see the lightning flashes and the crashing waves from inside her quarters, the way she slammed her door was as if she were slamming the door in the tempest’s face herself. A bold crack of lightning took her back to Winterfell and Bran sitting under the wierwood tree. She shivered at the thought, as if she could still feel the cold from the Ice King.

Ever since she slayed the Night King, she’s been having the same dream. It’s not every night, but it’s frequent enough that she now draws sketches of scenes that only exist in her slumber. Once, when Arya was asked by one of her crew members why she made sketches of such monstrosities, she just shrugged and said “Maybe drawing them out while I am awake will stop me from dreaming them when I am asleep.”

Arya argued that Targaryens were infamous for visions and dreams and prophecy. After all, she killed the Night King herself with the very blade that Aegon the Conqueror had his Ice and Fire prophecy etched into. She shivered and then shivered again when the thought came to her.

What if the Night King isn’t dead, really? If Jon could be killed and resurrected, why couldn’t the Night King be resurrected? But I saw him shatter into a million and one pieces of broken ice when I stuck him with the pointy end. I killed him. I brought an end to him, not the other way around.

Arya would often overthink things. She would overthink so much that she would get herself all but convinced the real Long Night is still to come, that she needs to turn her ship around and go back to fight with – more so for – Winterfell. That Bran would need her from King’s Landing. Jon, the rightful king, would need her skills at the Wall. Yet, still, she would not turn her ships around.

Her ship was built not long after the Settlement of the Seven Kingdoms. Bran the Broken, whom she only referred to as ‘Bran, my brother’, had issued its building and even made her exploration an official order of royal decree. Arya would be required to return with 75% of her treasures and wealth to render back to the Crown Estate. She kept the remaining 25%, of course. For which she would be paying her crew, continuing her missions, maintaining her ship, and anything else she saw fit.

Suddenly, Arya realized she must’ve fallen asleep. She was no longer in her quarters on her ship. She was back in King’s Landing, the day her lord father Eddard had been beheaded by the Bastard King Joffrey.

The Bastard Kings; Joffrey and Tommen had been called that by highborn and smallfolk alike after the Settlement of the Seven. It made no matter to her. She never got to mark any of their names off her list by her own rite; Cersei allegedly died under a shower of stones and in the arms of her brotherly lover, Ser Jaime. Ser Jaime died the same way as Cersei, allegedly.

She watched this time as she saw her father’s head hit the ground. She didn’t hide her face in the Traveling Crow’s chest this time. She watched with eyes wide open. And then, she saw it.

Her father wasn’t dead anymore. He was somehow standing right next to her as his headless body lay up on the stands. Arya looked to the right of her, where her dear father stood. His head was back on his body, but you could see the marks where the sword sliced it clean off. She couldn’t speak. She just stared in awe.

Just as soon as the joy hit, the dread hit, too. ‘Am I dead, father?’ she asked Eddard.

‘No, child, you are not dead. But you have been touched. You are now connected to the same network that Bran your brother uses. You keep having the same dreams, don’t you. It’s why I am here.’ Her father answered her.

‘But why bring me to this moment, now? Father, I do not want to see this again. Please, let us go somewhere else.’ She begged him, as she hated that day worst of all. He told her to watch again, but this time, he wanted her to use her mind and thought to turn the blade into soft wool.

She didn’t know if she could do that, and she wanted to ask Father if he had tried going to Bran before he came to her. Before she could, he answered her as if he could read her mind.

"Yes, I asked Bran. He told me to ask you for him. He said to ask you myself, and if I were strong enough and wise enough to get you to do your part, he said he would gladly do his part. Now, my beloved daughter, will you do your part?" this version of her father asked her.

She agreed to do her part, but she was suspicious and didn’t really expect to get her father back. Her mother had been turned into an evil undead woman bitter from loss and love. What would the trauma turn Eddard into?

She watched again as her father was about to be executed after a set of lies promised by Joffrey the Bastard King. As Ilyn Payne’s sword came swinging down on the back of Eddard Stark’s neck, it turned into a snake.

The viper bit Payne and Joffrey both before the Hound could pull Eddard out of harm’s way and cut off the head of the snake. A viper’s bite can be cured if the person has the antidote on them. It is known that women of Dorne wear crystals of anti-venom around their necks, next to their hearts. So do the men.

But this was King’s Landing, and by the time the closest maester could appear with an antidote, both the king and the executioner were now dead. Eddard Stark was freed after Joffrey revealed his true colors. His own mother counted it a blessing since it stopped the North marching down for war.

She smiled, and she felt strong. But something felt wrong… like a part of her soul was dying inside of her. Like a part of her humanity was just traded for this costly exchange. One that couldn’t truly happen. What was that crashing noise?

Arya must’ve drifted off. She woke up, clearly shaken after having the dream of her dead father guiding her to use magic to change the fate of time. She stood up to stretch after being cramped up in that captain’s chair. She walked over to the glass wall of wonder.

She could see the shadows of sea monsters and sharks alike in the far-off depths of the water. Making part of her boat with fused glass was her favorite feature. For Arya, it was like becoming her own version of a mermaid. She could see the ocean floor while being safe.

Occasionally, she would see something that looked like a humanoid fish person swimming beneath the glass bottom of her quarters. This was the only place in the ship, save for the kitchen floor, where there was so much to see. She would remember the stories of the Deep Ones and shiver.

She stood and stretched her legs and hands, and she clasped her fingers together to cradle the back of her head in her palms. What was she doing out there, really? She had been through so much, and she had no idea what even mattered anymore.