#rites of despair

[asailorsdrunkeneulogy]

FÓRN || 涂地

[gerrysroots]

Ok disembodied voice trapped in a computer with no way of communicating with the outside world or the other voice that got trapped after you both attempted to escape the Horrors.

[saltedteas]

I need to post more about my lobcorp run honestly

[writing-for-life]

The Endless Are Not Their Opposite--They Only Define It

I read quite often, on here and elsewhere, that the Endless are also their opposite (@tickldpnk8 and I were just talking about an interesting thread on Reddit), so I just decided to speed-complete this one and get it out of my drafts before it dies in there (so not as much in-depth as originally planned, but sometimes, you just need to run with it 🤣).

The Endless are not their opposite. They define it. It’s a (in my mind, and I’d love to hear what you think) massive difference. And they define their opposite by their absence. If they truly were their opposite, it would give very different meaning to canon, and if we were to do so, a lot of it wouldn't make sense in my view.

Dream is not also reality. He defines it. He is, and forever will be, unreality. It is his absence that defines reality. A dream that becomes real isn't a dream anymore--it's real. That’s the main reason why pulling the ship into reality in Overture weakens him. If he were reality, he could have just snapped his fingers and make it happen. If he were reality, a lot of his problems wouldn't be... well, problems. The fact he is (a) D/dream is pretty much why all his relationships are doomed to fail. Dreams don't last. Dreams are forever strange and can't be truly known.

Delirium is not also sanity/clarity. She defines it through her absence. And when she pulls herself together like in Brief Lives, it hurts her "muchly". It is immeasurable pain for her because it is what she is not and cannot be for any extended period of time without hurting herself.

Despair is not also hope. She defines it via her absence. As long as you hope, you don’t despair. If Despair were also hope, we would not have 6 issues of Overture very clearly showing us who and what H/hope is. If Despair were also hope, we wouldn't need a little girl called Hope reach out her hand and touch Dream—he would have a sister who could do it. But the only time Despair shows up for him, so to speak, is after he killed Orpheus—make of that what you will.

Death is not also life. She defines it. The fact that she is there at your beginning does not mean she is the one who gives you life. She is there so you will remember her, always (and especially when she takes your hand), hence you will cherish life. She does not directly give life to immortals either--they are immortal because of her absence, because she withholds her gift, like she does with Orpheus and Hob (the Eblis-situation has nothing to do with anything in my mind and is linked to a funeral rite, and we are clearly told it is not something she usually does [“it’s been so long”], or is remotely comfortable doing. It is just that she is the Endless that is most life-adjacent and hence the one who will have to do it. Just like Dream is the most reality-adjacent and hence the one who has to pull the ship).

Destruction is not also creation. He defines it. He is what gives us the blank slate, he is what makes creation possible, he is what starts the cycle and ends it, but he is not creation himself. Keeping on destroying makes creation impossible. There needs to be a pause, a break for creation to come to fruition—the absence of destruction. If he were also creation, he wouldn't create so badly (to the extent that it is canonically turned into a running gag), and being around him and seeking him out wouldn't be an issue. But it is.

Desire is not also hatred (I’m still not sure if hatred is really the opposite of desire, but I’ll run with it because that’s what Gaiman chose). They define it via their absence. You know how Dream doesn’t want Desire in his life anymore after one major spat (whether he had reason to or overreacted isn’t really the issue). And what feelings are often left in the absence of Desire? And what does Desire feel and gets themselves tangled up in because they are pushed away and are basically not acknowledged/desired by their own sibling despite constantly trying to show him they are important (desire is not just a sexual thing, people, get your mind out of the gutter 🤣)? Yeah, about that one… There is definitely a different type of enmeshment here which sometimes seems a bit plot-hole-y to me, but I think that might be down to the fact that Desire is the chosen antagonist (and even that, only to a degree until they aren’t). Even so, it still makes sense.

Destiny is not also freedom. He is the absence of it. All paths lead to the same end. Or a decision you make was the decision you were going to make all along, and what looks like a different ending was the ending that would have happened anyway. And even if you choose, the book will start to make that choice destiny again. Only Delirium knows what’s not in his book, and in this universe, the only true freedom is not bound by any rules, logic or sanity…

[etchedjade]

The Blood Rite. Nesta. Emerie. Gwyneth.

My contribution for @valkyrieappreciationweek! Day 2 - Nothing Can Break Us. Hope you enjoy!

Reference: “Courage, Anxiety, Despair: Watching the Battle” by James Sant (1950)

[eluxcastar]

Hello Riri! :]

I'm in my platonic harbingers with a child reader era, and you're one of the few people I follow who writes platonic stuff on an occasion. So here's my request!

Here's the small storyline I have. Reader is the child of a god (you're free to decide what they are the god of, if you want) who is extremely well known around Tevyat, and puts on a very intimidating and serious presence. Yet one unfortunate day, the readers parent dies, so now they have to take on their legacy at a too young of age. Making them grow up out of their childhood much faster and pressuring them into becoming exactly like their parent. Cold, intimidating, and serious.

And out of all the mortals the reader has met, the harbingers are who they find comfort in. They could be lecturing some other mortal one minute, and the next minute, they see one of the harbingers. They're grabbing them by the hands, bouncing on their tip toes with a bright smile.

(Hope you're having a good day! And please don't overwork yourself<3)

Fatui harbingers with a child god

── ୨୧：fatui harbingers & reader

୨୧﹑synopsis :: child reader taking over as archon and basically immediately proving why child rulers are a bad idea but it's ok because it's cute and endearing

୨୧﹑genre :: fluff

୨୧﹑content :: gn reader, god reader, signora might be ooc tbh I struggled to think for her, not proofread

୨୧﹑words :: 3k

this has been in my inbox for some time, even though I've really wanted to do it for ages. I'm sorry honey it took me a while to get to it. the description of their parent at least to me was giving mr zhongli when he was morax and I immediately thought of the ramifications of him faking his death in the rite of descension which makes me wanna write something else BUT THAT'S FOR LATER

I meant to post this four and a half hours ago but suddenly it was like twice the length I thought it would be and uh yeah that was not the plan but enjoy the food served hot and fresh

There has hardly been a moment of grief since you were orphaned, and the people are turning to you for their next overseer. You, small, fragile, and ill-prepared, are the one they wish to see take up the pillar left in your father's wake. You weren't ready, and maybe you never would've been, embraced by the caring side of your well and truly mellowed-out father and cherished by the people as the child of the nation.

Your transition from people's treasure to people's guide was jarring, and you're still not used to it. You move with what pleases and hide what brings deep frowns and disappointed eyes. The people no longer want a child but a god. They want their pride, once a god who had walked by their side for millennia, now the passing generation of a god as the mantle shifts to his blood.

It's hard not to notice what they make you, now the spitting image of your father, though you can only parrot his earned wisdom and show a brave face to keep the nation from despair.

You have but a single ally—the Tsaritsa—someone whose messengers approached you to ask for your father's gnosis and who gladly agreed to offer you an invitation to Snezhnaya at your request to speak to her personally, quite honestly not knowing how to say that you frankly didn't know what to do with the gnosis. Though you could keep it, you're unsure how to harness its power, wield it, or even control it. Your father was strong, you're not.

She is an intimidating presence but gentle. She knew of your father for as long as she had been an archon—though they weren't on good terms toward the end—perhaps you could understand her more than he would. He was the original archon in his seat, but you are an inheritor like her. In her lands, you are the careful balance of both a god and a child, spoken to with the grace of a higher power but the softness that is befitting to a young child.

It is as you are.

Tartaglia is the first to seek a test of your strength, though you wish not to hurt him and convince him to wait. So long as the answer is someday, he allows you to let him down easily and settles at indulging your requests to join the snowball fight you noticed him having. You want to join in, fidgeting and with your gaze flickering between the smiling children and your feet. You push away your every want to join them and play as well, but remind yourself of the people who would scorn you. It's unfitting for a god to behave like an immature child, you remind yourself, but every hope of remaining steadfast to that is gone as Tartaglia notices you watching.

His offer is merely that—an offer. He speaks with a snowball forming in his hands as he approaches, his thick coat engulfing his form and the red scarf bundled around his neck to keep him warm. You have to look up to meet his eyes, playful and perhaps a little mischievous. Tartaglia holds the snowball out to you as if it were his peace offering.

"You look like you want to join the fun. Care to throw a snowball or two with us?"

"May I?"

And with that, you take his offering.

Pantalone's musings and the intentions of his gifts are not beyond you. He means to win you over and perhaps spoil you a little. It is coddling, and you notice it. He wants what he wants, and he will get it out of you, but it is also not beyond him to recognise that you are...naïve, endearingly. Pantalone can lavish you in fine silks all he wants, but you have received many offerings, so they don't particularly sway you as he had hoped, and he moves on. Your true weakness lies in children's toys, the many things you have been denied since you have been forced to steel yourself. The smile that twitches at the corners of your lips as he presents you with the first is enough to confirm it.

Toys are made for children; though you try to deny it, you are still a child at heart. Gifting a child a toy they will try to pretend they don't cherish but will protect with their life is perhaps the quickest way to earn their favour. He watches as you fiddle with the arms of the plush cat when you think nobody is looking, asking it questions and then responding to yourself in an all-too-dedicated voice you put on for this cat. 

"Oh, Mr Cat, would you like some borscht too? It's very good."

"Yes, please, I would love to try some!"

Pantalone admittedly can't deny that you come with your own charms.

Signora spoils you what many of your aids have tried to before you, the chance to fix your hair, marvel at a pretty lady and wish you were half as sophisticated as her. She is your role model, second only to the Tsaritsa. She is beautiful and elegant and willing to teach you her ways as long as you continue to show up as cute as you are. Fix your posture a bit, head up, and walk everywhere with purpose, even if there isn't one. She has mastered the art, and you want it. Pantalone has his own appeal, a sophisticated man who learned through blood, sweat and tears, but there is something so distinct about Signora that makes you run to her at your first problem of presentation.

Like your mother, she will take you by the hand, lead you to a mirror, straighten your back, tilt your head up by the chin, and tell you to look at yourself now. Each time, you stare dumbly in awe of her reflection standing behind you, observing you like something precious, and it fills you with the confidence you need to heed her advice. It doesn't occur to you that Signora looks at you that way only because she thinks you're cute in your efforts, but too much like a child who got into their mother's perfume to be taken seriously.

"How others see you is important. Do you think they want to see their god with their back slouched and head hung? Hold your gaze above the people."

"It's-- well, different. I think I just look tense."

Sandrone has also come to realise that your weakness lies in toys, though she will not admit to aiding and abetting Pantalone's endeavours to find you a plushie. Instead, she shows you Katheryne. You have seen Katheryne before; you are sure of that, and that is only confirmed as Sandrone informs you that she exists in every branch of the Adventurers' Guild, including the one in your homeland. Katheryne is your access to knowledge, and the Northland Bank is your connection to Snezhnaya. Sandrone offers you comfort, the path that will lead you back to where help is and where you can go when you become overwhelmed by responsibility.

She likes your company, a reluctant admission that does not come cheap as she bargains your silence with the knowledge that she's aware of your liking for your cat toy. The embarrassment that overwhelms you is palpable until she offers you her workshop to play when your quarters are so overcrowded by your aids. You couldn't come to Snezhnaya alone for your safety, and it leaves you stranded without a moment of peace at times.

"Really?...and I can just, stay here? For as long as I want?"

"Isn't that what was offered to you?"

"Well...yes, thank you."

Scaramouche, whom you meet adjacent to Sandrone, is ill-tempered in the presence of others but a tad nicer when it comes to you. He does not drop his rough-around-the-edges personality to melt his heart out of his chest for you, but you manage to strike the perfect cord in his to gain liberties others cannot, having him share sweets with you. You learned at one point he really doesn't like them, leading you to wonder why they suddenly appeared ready and available for you to stuff your pockets full and snack on them when nobody's looking. You earn his favour through endearment and talk to him like he's normal because he is.

He is the child of a god, though in a different capacity to you. He was not loved quite so dearly by his mother and cannot share with you the pain of losing someone who treasured you. He was merely abandoned. There is the vague part of you that shuns the idea his softness is pity, sympathy even, as you're stuck stumbling through the world alone. It is all too familiar to him, and if candy will make you smile at him so cheerfully and hug him so tightly, then candy is a simple trade-off.

"Are you sure you don't want any? These are yours."

"Sickly sweet things make me feel like my teeth are fusing together. You can have them."

Pulcinella reminds you of home, the trinkets gathered on a whim that he keeps, the years showing through the rooms dedicated to him as you notice things your father told you of in stories. These are stories that Pulcinella will start off on without prompting, indulging your curiosity before you even lowered your guard enough to show it and casually enough that you slowly ask more. Every item holds a story: what it is, how he obtained it, why he kept it, who it was for. You see many such things around what used to be your house, but you don't know all of the stories, treasuring the ones you remember.

Pulcinella doesn't recall every story either, as some of your pointing and questioning is met with remarks of how long it has been. It is the only thing you feel you share with him, a living space filled to the brim with memories. Many of your trinkets don't belong to you, but his do, and it's nice to hear someone tell you stories again as he lets you pick from the collection of sweets in your pockets to eat when it suits your fancy.

"What about this? It reminds me of a lumenstone, the ones from the chasm."

"It is, and it came from Liyue when I asked that one of my subordinates bring it back for me. You must have a fine eye for these things."

"Not really, only lumenstone and noctilucous jade glow like this."

Arlecchino's offering to you is company, and plenty of it. Children who are so far removed from the stretch of news beyond the issues of the Steambird they manage to get their hands on that they wouldn't know your face from a haggler on the street. Father brought a guest to play with, and that's what matters as they induct you into their games, teach you the rules, and regard you exactly as they regard every other child their age. You are given the choice to simply become nobody, and you love it. Though you were once only a child, you were still the child of a god, and everyone knew it. Now, you elicit excitement only because someone new enters their lives, someone to learn about and befriend, merely a guest their father brought them.

Despite her sharp exterior, she is sweeter to you than you expected. You thought Arlecchino might be scarier, meaner, harsher, but she softens when she speaks to you. It is not with the cutthroat demeanour she holds speaking to the Harbingers and lacks a degree of the stern attitude she fronts to the children. You are not the average child, and it's necessary to treat you with some degree of respect, but you notice she's gentler with you than others, and it almost makes you feel special.

Columbina has sung you to sleep many times during your stay; her voice is sweet and more than enough to calm you. You let her hold your cat plush and dance with you in the hallways with the excuse you need knowledge of these things should you aspire toward being an archon, even if spinning around until you fall on the floor from dizziness and burst out laughing is a tad non-traditional. Columbina can see things others can't notice more than the human eye is capable of, and you'd rather not know what that's like. Something in the way she speaks tells you that it's hardly adjacent to anything human, closer to you, but still quite far off. It's interesting to hear the strange things humans have no business knowing.

Your hand is grasped in Columbina's, her fingers holding you tenderly. Her eyes are partly obscured beneath the lattice of a mask she wears. You're not sure if you could really call it a mask. She steps back, tugging you with her, and spins you in time with the steps she takes, each accompanied by a shift that forces you to keep up with where she moves, her other hand on your shoulder. It is the closest you will get to proper dancing, though merely a fool's waltz. You can't dance; being spun down a hallway while you struggle to match her movements feels much like you imagine a waltz would.

"It's not really proper dancing if we have no pattern to it."

"There is no such thing as proper dancing. If you'd prefer it, I could sing."

Dottore is someone you did not expect to be so open to the idea of you, and your assumptions were proven correct by his apprehension to engage with you. He is curt with you at best and avoidant at worst. You are a child filled with the yearning to touch everything that doesn't belong to you, desperate to hear too much about the things that don't concern you. You are young, needy, and with no concept of what is beyond you. Dottore's unique abundance of knowledge is appealing to you, however. He knows things your father did, many of which he didn't tell you, but Dottore will, so long as it gets you to sit still and stop interrupting him. You may be convinced you have pocketed your unnecessary emotions away, but he has seen you, and that is an insulting lie.

Your wants are written on your face plain as day, so long as people pay enough attention to you to care what you feel. He does not especially care, not for the child of a god, but it helps to know what you want to stick your nose in most. It helps to know how you benefit from him, and on luckier days, you might even catch him in a better mood when he is willing to indulge your interest in his knowledge. Your capacity to understand, let alone remember, hardly worries him.

"So you have clones of yourself? And they just...work for you?"

"Not exact clones—segments. They have wills of their own and use them as they see fit."

Capitano is strong, a man of few words, and he does not abhor your presence quite so strongly, nor does he indulge your more childish desires. What you get from Capitano is respect, the highest honour you can get from his book in your eyes, and it comes from your perseverance. You're running around working so hard when you're so young, and you deserve a break sometimes. You deserve a quiet place to curl up in the corner with that cat he's caught you hiding under where no one can bother you, and maybe with a few sweets you always seem to have these days. That corner still does not exist, though he will find you one if you want it. 

You show no signs of slowing down, are energetic and eager and are far too committed to the act of being something you're not to listen to him when he tells you to rest. Gods must all be fickle. The most he can do for you is make sure you're safe and happy as you will be in your position, maybe wipe your hands of powdered sugar when you find pastries at the market you want and recklessly eat them without thinking of how you'll clean up short of wiping the remnants on your clothes, but you'll never do that as you are.

Pierro once made you nervous. He is a stern, serious man who never smiles. Pierro is steadfast in loyalty and never wavers, which is precisely what you have begun to aspire to be now that that is what has been asked of you. You could never hope to replicate the kind of dedication he has, and perhaps that is part of what sways you. Though you have become so comfortable behaving childishly around some people, you fear you may never be around him, whether because you fear his disapproval or yearn for his approval. Despite that, he is arguably who you trail around behind most, quiet, observing, trying to figure out how to copy and apply what he has to yourself.

It settles the quick realisation he reminds you most of what the people saw in your father. Someone like him is someone people envision fostering a nation to prosperity, and you fight your own subconscious to keep all of your slipping habits, making sure he never sees you sneaking candy, hiding your cat plush from him, refusing Tartaglia's every offer to play games around him. You're not sure why you think that will make him like you more, having long ago gained his favour, unable to notice the faint smiles and the conscious effort to make you believe he doesn't notice you out the window barreling snowballs at Tartaglia.

You are still a child at heart; he is just about the last person you can hope to hide that from.

[makingqueerhistory]

The Diary of Vaslav Nijinsky (Unexpurgated)

Vaslav Nijinsky (Author) Joan Acocella (Editor)

A uniquely personal record of a great artist's experience of mental illness

In his prime, Vaslav Nijinsky (1889-1950) was the most celebrated man in Western ballet--a virtuoso and a dramatic dancer such as European and American audiences had never seen before. After his triumphs in such works as The Specter of the Rose and Petrouchka, he set out to make ballets of his own, and with his Afternoon of a Faun and The Rite of Spring, created within a year of each other, he became ballet's first modernist choreographer.

For six weeks in early 1919, as his tie to reality was giving way, Nijinsky kept a diary--the only sustained daily record we have, by a major artist, of the experience of entering psychosis. In some entries he is filled with hope. He is God; he will save the world. In other entries, he falls into a black despair. He is dogged by sexual obsessions and grief over World War I. Furthermore, he is afraid that he is going insane.

The diary was first published in 1936, in a version heavily bowdlerized by Nijinsky's wife. The new edition, translated by Kyril FitzLyon, is the first complete and accurate English rendering of this searing document. In her introduction, noted dance critic Joan Acocella tells Nijinsky's story and places it in the context of early European modernism.

(Affiliate link above)

[ohwormwood]

breaking down over in stars and time's use of tarot cards

[woe, spoilers be upon ye!]

[no seriously, this contains spoilers for the entire game. proceed with caution]

BECAUSE IF I HAVE TO BE TORMENTED BY THIS KNOWLEDGE, THEN SO DO YOU.

Act 2

Six of Swords

Transition, change, rite of passage, releasing baggage

Siffrin is, in the start of Act 2, beginning a new journey. This card is pretty self explanatory, but also is a form of major foreshadowing. Six of Swords has a heavy implication towards evolving and bettering yourself as a person, going on a journey that is absolutely essential to growth. Whether or not this journey is at all pleasant is entirely left up in the air, but given the rest of the game, it’s more of an indication of hard-won lessons.

Siffrin asks “How does the boat not sink?”, which is kind of hilarious, given that they end up almost sinking into complete despair by the end of the game, only saved by getting help and changing, completing their journey and starting a new one.

The Star (Reversed)

Lack of faith, despair, self-trust, disconnection

Stars play a huge part in this game (it’s literally in the name), so this card felt kind of inevitable. The most important part of this card is that it serves as a sort of omen for what is to come. In Act 2, Siffrin is blissfully unaware of the overall impact this will have on his psyche, of the turmoil it will bring him. But the most important part of this card for me is the idea of loss of faith. The very first line in the reference site’s description is this; “The Star Reversed can mean that you’ve lost faith and hope in the Universe”. This is likely indicative of the gradual crumbling of Siffrin’s hope over the course of the game. The site also notes that “You may be desperately calling out to the Universe to give you some reprieve but struggling to see how the Divine is on your side”. Siffrin pretty much does this in the latter half of Act 3, as things become more and more hopeless. This is, for lack of a better term, a test of faith. Given how the Change God mocks Siffrin for the Universe never talking to them directly, this is nailed home pretty hard. But, in Act 2, a lot of the concept of The Universe and Wishcraft isn’t introduced, so this serves more as a premonition than anything else.

Another note: Loop. Loop is a star. Or ate a star. Either way, they have a deep connection with stars (and The Universe as a result). I bring this up because of the general meaning behind the UPRIGHT version of this card, which is a sign of hope, faith, and guidance. Loop serves this purpose throughout the game as Siffrin’s “helpful companion~”, so the connection here there is nice. But the entry states this; “When confronted with a challenging situation, you can either crumble like The Tower or stand firm in your conviction that the Divine is everywhere”. Because of the 2 Hats situation, we know that where Siffrin eventually overcame the challenges of The Star/The Universe, Loop did not. Instead, they made one last plea to the Universe for help, and The Universe listened. But we know the obvious twist of fate here is that Loop is literally helping themself by helping Siffrin. They gave in, crumbled, and lost their faith in the end, only to be the thing that helped Siffrin keep theirs and eventually free themselves. 

Ace of Wands 

Inspiration, new opportunities, growth, potential

Most of Act 2 Siffrin is spent with this idea in mind. At this point, Siffrin is pretty lax about the true meaning of the loops, believing them to be an opportunity to beat the king, each loop full of potential to achieve their goal. But the twist here is that for the Ace of Wands, there is always potential but never a guarantee of success. Siffrin experiences this first hand at the end of Act 2. 

Eight of Pentacles

Apprenticeship, repetitive tasks, mastery, skill development

Another nod to Siffrin’s frame of mind in Act 2. The slow mastery gained through the overall leveling system in the game actually accomplishes this card’s meaning pretty well- you repeat everything, over and over, and it is only when you master it that you are able to defeat the king. Siffrin notes a lot that in a couple of loops, he will likely be able to remember interactions by heart, and some he actually does recall completely, like when the very first interaction with Mirabelle in Dormont at the start of each loop. He’s essentially memorized the script, mastered the actions, the choreography, and now is faced with the fact that he has to do it over and over again. It will turn into monotony by proxy of being so familiar and easy. 

Siffrin also notes that “they seem happy to be working”, which is another nod to how he sees the loops towards the start of the game, less of a curse and more of a boon that requires effort to properly utilize.

Act 3

Two of Swords

Difficult decisions, weighing up options, an impasse, avoidance

There are a lot of hard choices to be made in Act 3, so this likely isn’t referring to any one instance. This is where the Eight of Pentacles card comes back into play, in a sense- there is still more to learn here, more to master, but a lot of that requires decisions that have greater weight than those in Act 2. People’s lives are at stake. However, it is only by doing this and making hard choices that Siffrin eventually learns more about Wishcraft and the way things work in the loops. 

Interestingly, when Siffrin describes this card, they describe someone holding scissors. An intersection of 2 blades, but the thing here is that no matter which side you’re on, they can still cut you. Alternatively, this could just be a representation that Siffrin, who is the main Scissors Craft user of the party, is the one stuck with these decisions. 

Six of Pentacles (Reversed)

Self-care, unpaid debts, one-sided charity

Siffrin is the king of never giving themself proper self care. They are also the king of tearing themselves apart to give everything they have to the party. They are willing to sacrifice everything they have for a “perfect ending” where everyone is happy… everyone but themselves, that is, because they do not receive the same fulfillment in return. They give and they give and they give, but the party does not give in return, not in the way they need. Not soon enough to prevent them from falling apart at the seams over it. 

The note here mentions that it shows “someone walking on the sky and offering flowers to sky people”, but then when flipped shows “the man is touching the ground, and giving flowers to normal people”. This kind of struck me as strange, as no matter what orientation the card takes, they will always have their feet on the ground. This also isn’t the last mention of sky people, but I haven’t really delved deep enough into theories about that to understand what that really means in the context of this card.

The Hermit

Soul-searching, introspection, being alone, inner guidance

Hilariously, this is something Siffrin completely lacks for most of the game. They avoid thinking about themselves and their own sense of self for a vast majority of their character arc, and it isolates them. While this card means well in its message of introspection, it’s also key to note that this withdrawal from the outside also can lead to being alone with your own thoughts, something that Siffrin experiences more as the game continues. And their refusal to acknowledge what they want almost breaks them. 

The loneliness aspect of this card is further hammered home by the fact that Siffrin says “they look sad and alone”.

Five of Wands

Conflict, disagreements, competition, tension, diversity

Misunderstandings and miscommunication is at the heart of this card. And oh boy, does Siffrin deal with a LOT of that in the loops. My brain immediately goes to the whole “touch therapy” arc and Siffrin’s refusal to clarify that they don’t dislike touch, which eventually leads to Memory of Touch. It’s also a bit of foreshadowing of what is to come, especially in Act 5 and the breakdown of the party’s trust in Siffrin because of their break in communication and understanding with each other. 

Siffrin asks “Why are they fighting?” when this card is drawn. The answer is that they don’t really understand themselves. This is conflict driven by a lack of communication and understanding of the other parties at hand. As the description for this card says, “No one is listening.”.

Act 4

Eight of Swords

Negative thoughts, self-imposed restriction, imprisonment, victim mentality

Act 4 starts with Siffrin experiencing quite possibly one of the worst endings to the loops he can imagine, so it’s safe to say that at this point, their deterioration is rapidly worsening. They begin to spiral, and the idea that there is no way out begins to appear. However, the main crux of this card’s significance is that there is a way out, but it lies in freeing oneself. There is a gap in the swords, and if one was to take off the blindfold they could get out. The description of this card calls this “imprisonment”, which ties in pretty nicely to one of the screens you can get when you loop back; “You are in a prison of your own making”. The description for the card also reads “You surrendered your power to an external entity, allowing yourself to become trapped and limited in some way. You may feel that it isn’t your fault – you have been placed here against your will”. This is heavy foreshadowing for the idea that Siffrin’s own wish to The Universe that got them trapped in the loops, not the wishes of The House or The King. 

Siffrin asks “Why is he alone?” when drawing this card, which kind of projects onto themselves. They feel alone, they feel trapped, and they believe that there is no one who can help them, but that isn’t true. They have the ability to change things, but they are afraid. 

Ten of Swords (Reversed)

Recovery, regeneration, resisting an inevitable end

There are good aspects to this card, but the main focus in this case is likely the idea of resisting the inevitable. This is pretty much what the whole deal with the Head Housemaiden is, the repeated attempts to find some way to change something that, by the nature of the wish, cannot be changed. And yet, Siffrin is unable to let go of this. It’s also noted that this card represents past trauma that is still being carried around and still hurts the bearer. Siffrin spends this Act searching into their past, tearing up painful memories (or lack thereof) in the process. They carry the burden of being without a true geographical/cultural home to go back to. They cannot let go of this, nor do they want to. But the card’s description notes that “these old pains need to be dealt with once and for all. It may be difficult to delve back in, but it's the only way to release yourself of this pain and allow it to pass from your life”. In a lot of ways, this nods to the avoidance of pain that Siffrin displays when they are unable to cope with their trauma from the past and the loops. It is only through promising to tell the party their wish and deal with the pain and fear of their trauma that they can move on and begin to heal. This card pretty much represents the whole crux of the story’s meaning. 

Five of Pentacles

Financial loss, poverty, lack mindset, isolation, worry

Loss is a major theme of Act 5. The loss of memories, the loss of a home, the loss of faith, and, perhaps most importantly, the loss of hope. The card’s description says “You no longer feel safe because it has all been stripped away from you in one blow”, and this is pretty much what happens. Siffrin is in a crisis. They are exhausted, they are alone, and they are profoundly terrified of what that means. At this point, they are searching for help desperately, but are unable to ask for it. This card explicitly deals with fear of rejection and reaching out for help- the situation is dire, but, as seen with the card’s depiction of lit church windows, there is help nearby. The issue is that one must be willing to accept it. There is fear that you may lose something important- in Siffrin’s case, his found family- but there is no telling if that will actually come to pass. 

To further nail the loneliness aspect of this card home, Siffrin says that the figures on the card “probably don't have any friends”, something he starts to believe in the latter loops as the group loses their identities to the script. The in-game card also is different from the real card, and is said to show empty glasses, a pretty on-the-nose reference to Siffrin’s “glass half empty” mentality as they lose hope later in the game.

The Hanged Man

Pause, surrender, letting go, new perspectives

The Hanged Man gets a pretty bad reputation if you don’t really understand what it means. It’s a card about acceptance, pausing, and entering a new phase in life. But this change is heavily implied to come via unfavorable circumstances, situations outside of one’s control. The description says that when a person is unable to pause when they need to, unable to stop their actions, “The Universe will probably put things on hold for you, in the form of continued obstacles, ill-health, and breakdowns”. And this is pretty much what happens in Act 5. Siffrin is ground to a screeching halt by their own body, exhausted, starving, and mentally/physically fatigued to the point of actual sickness. On the topic of “surrender” and “giving in”, things get more pointed. Siffrin gives in to Mal Du Pays (very ‘L'appel du Vide” style), almost dying as a result, but then conversely gives in to the party’s urges to tell them what they wished for, to let go of their fear and stop looping. 

Siffrin notes that the Hanged Man “Look(s) like they're about to die, but they're smiling”. This is more of a connection to the end decision of Siffrin to let go of the loops and tell the party about their fears. They are facing down something that they are terrified of, something seemingly insurmountable, but rather than continue to fight and avoid letting go like Loop did, he instead chooses to surrender and tell the party.

Act 5/6

The Fool 

Beginnings, innocence, spontaneity, a free spirit

There are two versions of The Fool, technically. In Act 5, if you take the card and inspect it immediately, Siffrin will give a manic laugh and tear it to pieces. In a lot of initial interpretations of the card, some people will assume The Fool to be what the card says they are- a fool, someone stupid and tricked and hopeless, about to send themselves to their doom. But the reality is that this card is not really about that- it’s about new beginnings and the start of a new journey, but specifically through a leap of faith- a leap of faith that Siffrin has to take at the end of Act 5. While he is going through The House during this act, however, he is unwilling to accept this advice, either because it is misinterpreted or consciously, and instead tears it apart.

When the card is examined after the game, rather than during the final loop, Siffrin seems to recognize the card for what it actually means. He says “It's a traveler. He seems to be starting a new journey”. Siffrin’s title in the Profiles is literally “The Traveler” (alongside having the Traveler’s Hat), so this is a direct statement of new beginnings for the party and Siffrin’s life, a new journey they are taking with their family rather than alone. 

-

annnnd that does it for me, i've spent no less than two hours writing and researching for this post so ima go take a nap now, gnight

[serpentface]

What are Faiza’s thoughts/feelings on (presumably?) seeing human sacrifice performed, or in theory, irt her religious beliefs?

It's a little complicated, but less than might be assumed.

This IS something she's witnessed personally, and been involved in the process (not participating in the rites themselves, but in organizing them). But she has no sensitization to it- she's grown up seeing people executed, regular everyday animal sacrifices, and the yearly dry season human offering. It's something that is entirely separated from the concept of murder (which is regarded as abhorrent, as murder is in basically every culture (it's just that definitions of what types of killing is and is not murder varies)) and nothing disturbing or unusual in of itself.

It's a fairly small part of a much broader framework of religious practices that she ultimately does not believe in. Her reaction is more 'this doesn't actually have an intrinsic point, but it is what it is and has some practical benefits'. Her views on the Wardi faith are conflicted but overall positive. Even if she doesn't Believe in 90% of its core elements, she sees it as Beneficial- it's the Only thing that unifies the entire Imperial Wardi cultural sphere. This is important to her both on the level that Imperial Wardin is a tenuous union of city-states and tributaries and dozens of peoples and that its stability relies on its shared religion, and that it's a grand equalizer- its benefits cross class and ethnic lines within this rather broad cultural sphere.

So like, when it comes to humans being ritually killed, she doesn't think there's a still-extant God that enters their bodies or that their deaths materially enable the seasonal cycles to continue and bring the rains back. But she does think it has a Point, in the same capacity that she doesn't believe most of the core tenants of the faith have material reality, but the religion's role in society has material benefits. It has a point, and it's not murder, so she ultimately has little beef with the concept.

The instance where it crossed the line to 'this is fucked up' is in the context of the drought. With the drought intensifying, the usual one-off one-person annual dry season offering was extended to dozens of people (which Was officially condoned). In addition, as the years went on and civil unrest intensified, there were instances of civilian suicides and murders that were clearly attempted offerings (as well as suicides and murders that were at least loosely Framed as offerings but definitely weren't). In the fifth year, over a hundred Ephenni Galenii offered themselves up in an independent mass-offering (condoned by the priesthood but not by the Usoma). And yet the drought wore on.

THIS all was disturbing to her. This wasn't the faith functioning as intended, this was symptomatic of impending collapse. This was a waste of life that was TRULY for nothing. The officially condoned sacrifices were clear and desperate flailing by the Usoma and/or priesthoods to spiritually address the drought and famine (in addition to really, really poor attempts to practically address food and water insecurity and social unrest), and the civilian sacrificial murders and suicides were this unrest and mass despair crystalized into horrifically needless, pointless death and brutality. (These civilian killings were widely seen as horrifying by devout believers as well btw, just because human sacrifice exists in a culture doesn't mean people think religious killing and suicide is Okay And Normal In Every Situation)

The horror of All That was one of the motivating factors in her role in organizing the pilgrimage as a more controlled, intentional, and directed use of religious practice to reassure the public, that would also attempt to practically re-unify the divided priesthood/military/royal family. The seven-beast offering is a long established concept (rather than desperate flailing of 'add more people to the dry season offering' or 'get a hundred Galenii to drown themselves in a muddy riverbed'), the pilgrimage format is a public show of unity and requires significant internal diplomacy to function.

---

I'm also going to just like take this opportunity to clarify her worldview:

She ascribes to a culturally specific form of atheism that posits that God fully, permanently died in the act of creation, Its death kicked off the cycles of the world as we know it but Its spirit no longer has any capacity to interact with the world. The existence of a creator god is reckoned as self-evident, but its continuing presence in the world is disputed. Therefore, the vast majority of religious practice (which is entirely built around interactions with God's continuously cycling spirit) has no intrinsic effect.

This stems from a niche branch of materialist Burri and Wardi philosophy. It's a very uncommon belief (and has its own subvariants- some extreme materialists dismiss the existence of the soul itself (God died and there is no soul so It's Gone) and some that characterize God as merely absent (God died and Its spirit is absent from the world, in the same capacity that the souls of the dead are absent from the world once they successfully move on) (Faiza falls into the latter camp). The heavy prioritization of orthopraxy over orthodoxy means that a person holding these beliefs in of itself is not often going to be a major cultural issue so long as they perform expected practices, but standards of orthodoxy are higher in the priesthoods and like. Her entire role is as a priestess. It's not something she can be open about. It's also not something she can talk about with any of her personal relations (she was introduced to the concept after maintaining contact with her childhood tutor and regularly discussing philosophy with him, but the guy was elderly and died when she was in her mid 20s.)

This translates to her being more open to questioning other elements of her cultural framework, but the rest of her worldview is fairly normative, there's nothing else she rejects as thoroughly as the continuing existence of God. She believes in the soul, ghosts, evil spirits, luck, curses, and spiritual pollution (though should be noted that the Ways she believes in them are influenced by a materialist philosophical lens, and as such her interpretations are non-standard). She also thinks there's some truth in the folk magic practices that attempt to influence luck and curses (these traditions rarely actually involve God in their framework), and the ones she rejects are on a more typical class-aligned basis of being 'Foolish Commoner Superstition', not in a 'magic is not real' capacity.

So like it's a mixed bag where she thinks the religion itself has material points and value, and she takes pride in being an Odonii. But she's still locked in a life of performing endless rites that have no internal meaning to her and give no sense of comfort beyond self-assurance that they're for a greater good, giving hollow reassurances to her religiously paranoid brother and not being able to fully connect to her extremely devout true believer sister. It's isolating, and it wears on her.

[gabessquishytum]

Dream is ambivalent about A/B/O genders. He's seen enough shit in the universe in billion years, current human civilization doesn't even come close to his definition of 'strange.' Still, he tried on various genders like clothes (he feels most comfortable being an omega), and even hoped in secret that Calliope would be amenable to mating when they got married. He breached the subject very tentatively, found out she was not delighted by the prospect of being tied to an Endless at all, and they never touched upon it again. Their marriage crashed and burned soon anyway, so it must have been for the best. After their reunion with Hob post-fishbowl, Dream decides to take him up on his offer to meet more frequently and drops by. The timing is unfortunate (or fortunate, depends on the point of view!) as his human alpha friend turns out to be in the middle of his rut. And maybe Dream is not versed in human communication and rites, but even he understands that it's better to leave and return next week. Which he is about to do before Hob very enthusiastically jumps his bones. Dream is extremely confused and tries to talk Hob out of this endeavor - he believes Hob is not interested in him like THAT, but Hob is as single-minded as only an alpha in a rut can be and showers Dream with all the words of passion and praise his fevered brain can come with. When he drops the l-word, Dream melts and gives in. They spend Hob's rut together, and Dream is on cloud nine: he feels cherished, desired, and, above all, LOVED. So when Hob suddenly bites him, Dream is not opposed at all. Alright, it'd have been better etiquette if they had discussed it beforehand, but Dream currently is more occupied being happy because 1) his love is requited; 2) Hob wants him as his mate! The problem is, Hob'd have never dared to jump his Stranger like that, let alone do anything to him. He hoped that if he's lucky, maybe he can try to court him…in 500 years or so. To him, all that occurred was just a feverish rut dream. So when Hob comes to his senses once his rut is over, he finds a very fucked out Dream looking at him with heart eyes in his bed, sees a fresh mating bite on his neck…and panics. Dream immediately comes to the conclusion that Hob already regrets their mating and dissolves into sand, retreating to the Dreaming before he starts crying in the presence of this human - his mate - that humiliated him so. Chaos ensues!

Oh dear. These idiots! They're both as bad as each other, really.

Hob is just horrified that he'd done that to his stranger - to Dream! It's totally taboo to bite someone without even talking about it, and they certainly didn't do that. Hob doesn't even know if Dream wanted it! Wait - what if he started crying and disappeared because he didn't want it!? Hob ends up running to the bathroom and throwing up at the mere idea. How could he do such a heinous thing to the man he loves?!

Meanwhile Dream is flooding the dreaming with his tears (yes, literally) because he thinks that his mate regrets everything and probably hates him. How can he face Hob ever again? He'll have to, because they're mated... if Dream goes into heat, he'll need Hob. Being without him simply won't be an option.

Desire, Despair and Death are all sitting in the threshold and collectively groaning because the idiots are idioting. And Matthew has had enough of trying not to drown in the dreaming, so he makes an executive raven decision and heads to the waking world.

He immediately confronts Hob (who is still panick stricken and white as a sheet) about why he rejected the boss?? And Hob just gapes at him like "rejected??? i thought i assaulted him!!!" Matthew face-palms. Face-wings. Whatever. He tells Hob to go the fuck to sleep and fix things.

Easier said than done. But Hob eventually gets to the dreaming, swims through the tears, and finds his poor miserable mate curled up on his throne. Dream doesn't look up at all until Hob nuzzles his mating bite. The flood recedes a little bit. And Hob tries to explain as tenderly as he can, why he freaked out when he woke up.

Dream falls even more in love with him, honestly.

And three weeks later, they spend Dream’s first heat with a mate together in Hob’s bed. It's everything he's ever wanted. And Dream gets to bite Hob, giving his alpha a perfect mating bite to match his own.

And yes, Matthew gets so many raven treats as a reward for his service to his King.

[audreyscribes]

What do you think of the idea of a demigod child of Rhea? How would Mr D, Chiron and the campers react to them? Would their Olympian siblings acknowlegde them in any specific way or just be indifferent to them?

I have a headcanon that while Mr D, isn’t the biggest fan of demigods he’d have a soft-spot for the child of Rhea. Because she in some myths raised him, cured him of madness brought on by Hera and also joins him and his followers in their parties.

Love your blog so much btw❤️

Immediately everyone paused to stare at the demigod of Rhea. Not because the child of Rhea is anything wrong but it’s more so the fact that Rhea hasn’t been seen for a millennia by anyone aside from her direct 6 Olympian children maybe, so for her to go out and have a child with a mortal in that time is mind-boggling; almost unfathomable. 

The appearance of the demigod of Rhea would be the few times and everyone’s waking realization that Mr.D’s behaviour and attitude to them was all a lie, when he breaks for the Rhea demigod because yeah, not only she cured him of the curse of madness by Hera, but also taught him in religious rites which helped solidify him as a god. So there’s a sense of responsibility to take care of this demigod but also it’s a child of Rhea. So who knows what’s going to happen; especially when he will technically be in charge of you. 

It’s pretty hard for the Olympians to not notice the child of Rhea, especially the first 6 Major Olympians, that they have a new baby-sibling who is also a demigod. A squishy, half-mortal, half sibling. However, it’s very hard to criticize when the child of Rhea is basically just like her, which is very hard to argue against. 

There would be questioning of who the mortal parent is, how they were worthy of Rhea’s attention. But the bar is low for whoever the mortal parent is cause clearly they didn’t eat the child as soon as they were born unlike Kronos. The most important thing to happen is that Zeus isn’t the youngest sibling. Which isn’t good, because Zeus despite being born the youngest, will probably not be happy losing his very, long, youngest sibling rank and all the attention it came with it, especially with how he defeated Kronos.

Especially if the child of Rhea is a boy. 

Much to the glee of Poseidon and Hades, who is overjoyed but is hit with despair when he realizes he will have to see to his half-sibling when their time runs out. 

If the child of Rhea is a girl, there’s less reaction from Zeus but he will still not be happy. In return, Hestia and Demeter just cooing and coddling their youngest sibling and I think Hera might actually enjoy being an older sister; that is still motherly in a way. Hopefully.

As for the immortal grandchildren of Rhea are confused because technically the demigod of Rhea is their aunt/uncle but they’re so young, small, and weak (cough Ares), but take it in stride when eventually that is a good thing…

Cause I have a feeling because this child is their mother’s child but is also a demigod…they have complete ability to call out their behaviour when one of the gods do something, and they can’t really do anything because Rhea would not be happy. You’ve heard, “I’m not angry, I’m disappointed”, now imagine Rhea being THE QUEEN of that, delivering that statement this demigod child also able to make the gods feel that.  Much to the delight of a rotating number of gods. 

{ Thanks for asking and have a nice day! ヾ(•ω•`)o }

[fangsandfracturedhearts]

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 4: Little Lamb

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 6K

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]

As soon as you make it out of the city and find a secluded spot, the weight of it all finally crushes you. You fall to your knees, broken, and the sobs come violently, ripping through your chest. Your body trembles with every breath, and it feels as though your eyes are burning from the flood of tears that won’t stop. Each one comes too fast, too hot, like they’re trying to cleanse something far too deep to ever be washed away.

Of course, he had moved on. Found someone else to... entertain. Just thinking the word makes your stomach twist, a sickness that strikes at the very core of you, hollowing you out. You gasp for air between sobs, shaking your head as if you could rid yourself of the thought, of the image.

Did I really expect anything different?

Raphael’s words echo bitterly in your mind, “The arousals of man will return to him.” A cruel irony, those words. You can’t help but scoff through the tears. Except for that one night—the night you agreed to become his spawn—Astarion had barely touched you, as if you were too unworthy.

You’d told yourself it was complicated for him, that he just needed time. Maybe you even believed that, like a fool. But now? Now you can’t help but wonder if agreeing to be his spawn had disgusted him. Or maybe... you think bitterly, maybe he just prefers warm flesh. Now he’s bedding that—that harlot!

The word scrapes through your mind, and another wave of anguish pulls at you, so strong you can barely breathe. You collapse forward, knees pulled tight to your chest, arms wrapped around them like they could hold you together. You rest your head on your legs, eyes squeezing shut, as if by blocking out the world you could somehow block out the pain. But it’s relentless, an all-consuming misery that sinks its claws into you and drags you down into the depths.

How many times do I have to lose him?

The hunger gnaws at your insides like a starving beast, but you hardly notice it anymore. Your stomach spasms, retching dryly as your body demands sustenance, but you ignore it. Your limbs twitch sporadically, muscles convulsing in desperate need, but you can’t bring yourself to hunt. You just sit there, drowning in your despair, too tired to care.

When did I become this hollow shell?

You were never like this. You weren’t born into comfort or privilege—you fought for everything. You survived every hardship that came your way. You have the blood of dragons in your veins, an unyielding fire that has carried you through life’s trials. Whether through diplomacy, persuasion, or sheer force, you had always faced adversity head-on.

But now? Now, you felt empty. That fire, the one that once roared so fiercely, had been snuffed out, leaving nothing but cold ashes. You think back to when you first met Astarion, back on that beach, his dagger pressing into your ribs, threatening to gut you. You’d been seconds away from turning him into a charred husk before your tadpole flared, dousing your flames and forging a connection you hadn’t asked for.

And now look at me.

You don’t know when it happened—when that inner flame started to fade—but you know it’s gone. All that remains is a void where your will to survive once thrived. You sit there, trembling  on the ground, staring vacantly at the skyline as dawn threatens to break. The first rays of sunlight creep over the horizon, their golden glow peeking up.

You almost consider it—letting the daylight take you. Letting it burn away what’s left of you. Maybe it’s better this way, you think, eyes fluttering closed.

But then, Shadowheart’s words echo in your mind, as clear and fierce as the day she spoke them. “I will kill you, Astarion, even if it’s the last thing I do.” The conviction in her voice had been unmistakable. If you don’t return, she will go after him, no matter the cost.

And it would cost her.

The thought jolts you from your despair. Your will to live might be buried beneath the rubble of your broken heart, but your concern for your friends is still alive, still burning. The weight that had kept you pinned to the ground all night suddenly lifts, and before you know it, you’re on your feet, running.

You reach the house quietly, slipping inside like a ghost, hoping Shadowheart is still asleep. But as soon as you step into the main room, you find her pacing, her brows knit in worry, her fingers aglow with divine magic. At the creak of the door, she whirls, her eyes wide, a gasp of relief escaping her.

“I was almost out of my mind with worry!” she exclaims, her voice trembling with barely-contained distress.

You lower your head, the guilt settling heavily in your chest. “I’m sorry.”

“Wait... what’s wrong?” Shadowheart’s eyes flare with fury, her voice sharp and demanding. “What did he do to you!?”

You can’t answer right away. The words feel lodged in your throat, heavy and unmovable, so instead, you let your back slide down the rough wooden door. The splinters catch on your robe as you sink to the floor. “Nothing,” you mutter, more to yourself than to her. “Nothing I didn’t bring on myself.”

She’s not having it. “Did he hurt you?”

Yes.

You shake your head, but you can’t meet her gaze. The truth lies there, buried beneath layers of denial, too painful to dig up. “No.”

“You’re lying.” Her voice softens but doesn’t lose its edge. She knows you too well. “Tell me the truth.”

“He didn’t hurt me,” you repeat, the lie bitter on your tongue.

He broke me.

Her anger falters as her eyes flicker to your face, noticing the tears spilling down your cheeks. She kneels beside you, her voice gentler now, “Tell me what happened.”

Your throat tightens. The words are too raw, too close to the surface, and you’re terrified of the flood that will come if you open your mouth. “Another time,” you whisper. “Can we... please drop it for now?”

She studies your face, suspicion clouding her features, but she gives a curt nod. “Fine.”

The tension hangs between you like a storm cloud, her anger simmering just beneath the surface. You can see it in the set of her mouth, the tightness in her jaw, the way her fists clench at her sides. Her heart pounds loudly enough that you can feel it like a distant echo in your own chest.

“Please,” you say quietly, “don’t go looking to start a fight with him.”

She huffs, folding her arms across her chest. “Why are you still protecting him? What has he done to deserve such loyalty?”

“Astarion doesn’t need my protection,” you reply, your voice flat. “Not anymore.”

Her lips press into a thin line. “I’m sure he believes that.”

“Shadowheart, please,” you plead, your voice barely above a whisper.

She exhales sharply, but the tension in her frame loosens, if only slightly. “Fine.” Her tone is resigned, but her concern cuts through the bitterness. “How’s your wound? Do you need more healing?”

“I’ll be alright,” you say, though the ache in your side tells a different story. A burning, gnawing pain that hasn’t subsided, and it takes every ounce of effort not to wince. “I heal fast.”

I should, anyway. But the wound still throbs, as if it’s deeper than flesh, something even time can’t mend.

An uneasy silence stretches between you, a gulf of unspoken words and emotions neither of you knows how to bridge. Shadowheart watches you carefully, her concern palpable. Finally, she breaks the silence. “And the hunger?”

Your head snaps up at the question, and the response comes out harsher than you intended. “Keep your distance.” The severity of your own voice startles you, and you wince, regretting the way it sounded. “Sorry,” you mutter. “That didn’t come out right.”

She nods, understanding etched in her eyes. “I understand.”

Pushing yourself up from the floor, your body protests with a sharp sting as your wound pulls painfully at the movement. You grit your teeth, refusing to show the discomfort. “I think I’m going to get some rest.”

“Good idea,” she says, her expression softening. “You look terribly pale.”

You manage a weak smirk. “Imagine that, a pale vampire spawn,” you murmur, but the humour feels forced.

Turning away, you make your way to your bedroom, though the ache in your body is nothing compared to the weight on your soul. You crawl into bed, hoping for trance, for oblivion. But it does not come easily. When it finally does, your rest is haunted by twisted echoes of memories, dark figures, and sharp words playing out in the theatre of your mind, making even sleep feel like a battleground.

You’re back in camp, curled up in your tent, but sleep evades you. The city looms near, a storm cloud of uncertainty casting its shadow over your thoughts. Your draconic fire pulses restlessly over your fingertips, its warmth a familiar comfort. Each flicker is hypnotic, the flames twisting and dancing with the rhythm of your breathing. The ancient heat of your ancestors radiates from your skin, a tether to something primal and unbreakable. You toy with the fire, willing it higher, lower, brighter, dimmer—playing with its intensity in a controlled, measured cycle, like a heartbeat.

“Neat trick,” a voice purrs, cutting through the stillness. “What else can you do with that fire of yours?”

Astarion pulls back the flap of your tent, the flickering light of your flames casting a crimson glint in his eyes. His gaze locks onto yours, a smirk playing at his lips.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks, his tone light, teasing.

With a sigh, you let the fire flicker out. “No,” you admit, your voice quieter than you intended. “Successful hunt?”

“Your necks may rest easy tonight, if that’s what you’re getting at,” he replies, the amusement in his voice unmistakable.

“Astarion, I didn’t mean—”

He cuts you off with a low chuckle. “I’m just playing with you, my dear.”

He crouches down beside you, taking your hand in his. His touch is ice against the feverish warmth your flames left behind, sending a shiver up your spine. His fingers are delicate but firm, a dangerous combination you’ve come to know too well.

“Come, my love,” he murmurs. “Why don’t you join me tonight?”

You blink, caught off guard. “Join you? Where?”

“In my tent.”

You hesitate. “That’s not necessary.”

“Please?” His voice softens, coaxing, but there’s an edge beneath it, something insistent. You can feel the weight of his gaze, the pull of him, as though refusing him would be impossible.

Your eyes narrow slightly as you study him, probing for the familiar mask he wears so well—the practiced charm, the smooth facade he uses to manipulate. But you find none of that now. He looks relaxed, almost... sincere.

“I’d really rather you disrobe me for real, beautiful,” he says with a smirk, his tone laced with mischief. “Come.”

Alarm bells blare in your head. Something feels off, but you can’t quite put your finger on it. “Astarion...”

“My sweet, sweet girl,” he murmurs, his hand still gripping yours. “Do I look uncomfortable to you?”

You bite your lip, shaking your head. “No.”

It’s true—he doesn’t. His expression is calm, and maybe that’s what perturbs you the most. He isn’t hiding behind his usual mask.

“I want you close tonight,” he continues, his voice like velvet. “Are you truly going to deny me the pleasantries of your fine company?”

You start to rise, and he rises with you, his hand still holding yours. But before you can fully stand, he gives your arm a sudden, firm tug. You stumble forward, falling into him.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, his breath ghosting across your skin.

Then his lips crash against yours, gentle at first, but quickly turning hungry—desperate. His mouth claims yours with a ravenous intensity, as if you’re the only thing keeping him from withering away. His kiss is all-consuming, and the heat of it stirs something deep within you. Your body presses against him involuntarily, desire awakening in you like a firestorm.

He groans against your lips, a sound that reverberates through his chest, vibrating against yours. His tongue parts your lips, exploring, tasting, and you feel yourself melting into him, swept away by the urgency of his need. Every touch feels electric, sparking your arousal into a visceral torrent that you can’t control.

When he finally pulls away, you moan softly, your eyes still closed, your breath ragged. “Not fair,” you murmur, the words slipping from your lips without thought.

Astarion chuckles, low and dark, his lips brushing your ear. “Oh, darling,” he whispers, his voice sending shivers down your spine. “Don’t fret. I’m not done with you just yet.”

You jolt awake, nearly launching yourself from the bed. Your breath comes in ragged, panicked gasps—an unnecessary reflex, but one your dead body refuses to forget.

He was so gentle, so sweet… and I ruined him.

Groaning, you collapse back onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling. You raise your hand, eyes tracing the pallid, unnatural tone of your skin. It’s a shade that reminds you daily of what you’ve lost—the warm glow you once held, now replaced by the cold sheen of undeath. Desperation claws at your chest, and you seek solace in something familiar, something you can still control. You reach for the Weave. Fire springs from your palm, a flickering blaze born of your draconic blood. The flames dance and climb over your hand, licking at your fingertips, bringing a fleeting sense of comfort.

This is mine. No one can take this from me—not even him.

Your focus is broken by the sound of frantic pacing below. The thud of footsteps echoes through the floorboards, accompanied by the steady drumming of a heart. It pounds in your ears, its rhythm growing louder and louder, stirring something deep and dangerous within you. You extinguish the flame, relinquishing your hold on the Weave, and sit up. The wound in your side protests sharply, sending waves of pain radiating through your torso, but you shove the sensation aside, forcing yourself to concentrate.

You rise from the bed, but your limbs feel clumsy and uncoordinated. A stumble here, a near fall there—it’s like your body is betraying you.

I’ve never been graceful, but this? This is new.

There’s no time to dwell on it. You quickly dress and move to the top of the stairs. “Shadowheart? Are you alright?” you call down, voice laced with concern.

Even from this distance, the scent of her blood calls to you. Your body tenses, trembling with the effort it takes to resist. You clench your fists, eyes squeezing shut as you silently beg any God that hasn’t abandoned you for strength.

“No. I need to speak with you urgently. Can you come down?” Shadowheart’s voice reaches you, tense and filled with unease.

No, you think. I shouldn’t.

“Yes, but—” You hesitate, trying to fight back the hunger gnawing at your insides.

“I will keep my distance,” she assures, cutting off your protest.

“Get your weapon,” you plead, feeling your restraint slipping.

She scoffs lightly. “I trust you.”

Gods, she has no idea how good she smells.

“Please, Shadowheart,” your voice wavers, the rawness of your desperation seeping through. “It’s... really bad today.”

There’s a pause. “Fine, if you insist. But I’m not afraid of you.”

You should be. Your hunger digs deeper, its talons shredding your insides, making your limbs quake with need. Dark, repulsive thoughts slither into your mind, seeping into the cracks of your control. Gods, the pain. With shaky steps, you descend the stairs. Each movement sends sickening cramps through your gut, and the scent of Shadowheart’s fear grows stronger. Her heart races, the sound booming in your ears like a thunderstorm, and you can hear her lungs struggling to keep up with her rapid breaths.

This is how Astarion always knew when I was upset, even when I told him I was fine. He could hear it, feel it, the whole time. He’d tried to explain this to you, time and time again, but nothing compared to the reality of it—the sharp clarity of the moment when you hear every sound, smell every emotion.

By the time you reach the bottom of the stairs, your hand grips the banister so tightly the wood groans beneath your fingers. It’s all you can do to focus on that sensation—the rough texture, the solidness of it—anything to keep you grounded.

Shadowheart stands on the other side of the room, her weapon in hand, as she promised. The sight brings you a strange comfort.

"Are you alright, Shadowheart? You don’t sound like yourself.”

"I received a letter from my parents. They’ve requested that I see them. It said it’s an urgent matter."

You remember Shadowheart’s mother had fallen ill months ago, her recovery stunted by whatever mysterious ailment plagued her. Despite your urging for Shadowheart to stay with her parents and help, she had stubbornly refused.

"You need to go to them," you say gently.

She nods, though hesitantly. "I know. But I’m not keen on leaving you alone."

"I’ll survive," you assure her with a faint smile. "I’m well equipped to take care of myself, as you know. Besides, if I recall correctly, vampire spawn are rather difficult to kill.”

Shadowheart narrows her eyes. "Not if Astarion comes for you.”

A bitter chuckle escapes your lips. "Astarion’s preoccupied with a new toy at the moment. I doubt I’m even a second thought to him.”

Her brows arch in surprise. "What? A new spawn?”

"No," you shake your head. "She’s still... alive. For now, anyway.”

Concern softens her features. "Are you okay?”

She pities me. The thought makes you grit your teeth, but you push it aside. "I will be. Go see your parents, Shadowheart. It sounds important. Please don’t let me keep you from living your life.”

"Yes, I think I should," she says, though her voice wavers with hesitation. "I won’t be gone too long. Stay out of trouble, will you?”

You offer a casual shrug. "No promises. Trouble tends to find me.”

She shoots you her best disapproving glare, but you can see the faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

"I’ll behave. Now go," you say, waving her off.

Without another word, Shadowheart starts bustling around the house, gathering her things. The rhythm of her heartbeat quickens, filling the room with its pounding drum. You grip the wooden banister tighter, feeling it splinter under the force of your hand. Every thud of her pulse hammers against your restraint.

"I’ll be in my room. Travel safe, Shadowheart." You retreat quickly, before the bloodlust takes over.

Back in the confines of your room, you bury your head under every pillow you can find, trying to muffle the raging noise inside your mind. But it doesn’t stop—the hunger gnaws at you relentlessly, scratching at your control. In desperation, you dig your nails into your legs, carving deep, bleeding lines in your flesh, just to feel something else. Anything else.

A soft knock on the door. "I’m leaving now. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

You groan, barely able to manage words. "Just go, Shadowheart. Don’t worry about me."

Her footsteps echo down the stairs, followed by the door closing behind her. The house falls into blissful silence, and with her gone, the hysteria of your bloodlust ebbs slightly, allowing you to breathe.

Your eyes drift to the boarded-up window. The rough wooden planks hum faintly with warmth, a quiet reminder of the daylight just beyond. You reach out, your hand hovering over the boards, feeling the residual heat radiating from the sun’s rays.

And then your mind betrays you, pulling you into a memory you’ve tried so hard to forget.

Astarion’s arm around you, his grip firm yet protective. His eyes, glowing crimson, filled with something more than lust—something like affection. His thumb brushing tenderly against your cheek. It had felt safe. Until her. The woman with mulberry hair and piercing sapphire eyes. Her triumphant smile, her disgusting sultry strut.

You recoil from the thought, shaking your head as if that could rid you of it. Turning away from the window, you stumble, your ankle rolling painfully as you misstep. It should alarm you—this new clumsiness—but you’re too drained to care. Every movement feels like it’s siphoning the last of your energy, leaving you weaker by the second. You drag yourself back to bed, your limbs heavy and uncooperative. As soon as you lie down, the exhaustion claims you, and you surrender to the pull of your trance.

Your condition steadily worsens over the following days. Blood continues to seep from the wound on your side, showing no signs of healing. Dark streaks now stretch up your torso, down your side, and into your thigh, a sinister pattern that speaks of something far worse than mere injury.

You feel disoriented and weak, your vision hazy as reality ebbs and flows like waves crashing over a rocky shore. As you rise to check your bandages, your legs feel unsteady beneath you. The fabric clings to your skin, once again soaked in crimson.

I need help. Something is very wrong. Can a vampire spawn die from this? What ailments can kill one of my kind? There’s so much I still don’t know.

But you know someone who does.

With trembling hands, you attempt to re-bandage yourself, the motions awkward and sloppy. Sliding into a robe, you struggle with the laces, your fingers slipping and grasping at nothing but air as your vision splits into doubles, triples, and even quadruples. Each attempt sends your eyes crossing and your head throbbing like a relentless drum. Putting on your boots becomes a Herculean task; your knees tremble beneath you, and you find yourself tumbling to the floor again and again.

You should be terrified for your life, but instead, you waver between delirium and sheer incoherence, finding a strange amusement in your state. A giggle escapes your lips as you grin, trying to locate the right door handle amidst the fog clouding your thoughts.

The walk to the Crimson Palace feels long and grueling. Your feet barely cooperate, embarrassingly tripping over themselves as you stumble onto your hands and knees in the street. Thankfully, the streets are sparsely populated, most people preferring the bustling taverns scattered throughout the city. Those who do witness your awkward struggles can’t help but laugh at your ineptitude.

They think I’m drunk. The thought sends another fit of giggles bubbling up.

Rounding a corner, you prop yourself against the wall, gasping for breath—though you realize with a laugh that you no longer need to breathe at all.

I’m dead. More giggles bubble forth. Wait, where was I going?

You glance up and barely make out the silhouette of the Crimson Palace, its dark form looming against the overcast sky. The memory stirs, a distant echo in your mind.

Oh yes, to see my master, Lord Astarion.

Another chuckle escapes you, and you roll your eyes at the ridiculous thought. It sends your vision spinning, and you groan, forcing your failing body to keep moving forward.

Through the murky darkness, a voice calls out, “It’s so nice to see you again.”

You recognize the voice but can’t quite place it. Your mind sluggishly attempts to connect that familiar tone with a memory, but coherence eludes you. Squinting through the fog clouding your vision, you catch a glimpse of the colour mulberry.

It’s her.

“Ugh. Go away.”

Not her. Anyone but her.

She blocks your path, her presence a mockery of your state. “You don’t look so good, sugar,” she chirps, her upbeat tone making you want to retch.

I should kill her.

A sinister smile tugs at the corners of your mouth, and you struggle to suppress the feverish giggle that threatens to erupt. In your diminished and nearly incoherent state, she would be more likely to end you than the other way around, but it’s a lovely fantasy nonetheless.

You ignore her, clumsily attempting to sidestep her.

“I can’t help but notice you seem to be headed toward the Crimson Palace. Are you going to see Astarion?” She pauses for dramatic effect. “I’m not sure he’ll be up for visitors. We’ve been having so much fun every night. He is quite generous, but you would know all about that, wouldn’t you? Sweet thing, you know what I mean by ‘fun,’ right? Or would you like me to spell it out for you? Sex, sweetness. I mean sex.”

Despite your frazzled state, your heart shatters at the thought of him with her. A single tear escapes your eye, tracing a path down your cheek as the image takes root in your mind.

“I’d offer to buy you a drink, but it looks like you’ve had one too many already.”

Pure rage surges through your veins, igniting your palm in an instant as flames flicker and dance over your skin. “The only drink I would ever accept from you is your blood. Every. Last. Drop.”

You don’t typically feed on the blood of living creatures, but you’d make an exception for this wretch. Standing tall, your fury cuts through the haze clouding your thoughts, bringing clarity for the first time in days.

A menacing grin spreads across your face as you will the flames in your palm to grow into a massive, glowing sphere. “Or I could just reduce you to a heap of ash where you stand.”

The woman’s mouth drops open, her eyes widening as she stares at the fire blazing in your palm. “Pardon me?”

“I’m sorry, sugar,” you mock, “Do you need me to spell it out for you? I will kill you!”

“Astarion will not be pleased if you kill his lover.”

Her emphasis on the word lover makes your stomach twist, and you grit your teeth, your jaw clenching hard.

A sinister laugh escapes you as you fix her with an intimidating gaze. “Well, Astarion isn’t here to save you now, is he?”

You see her confidence waver; the broad, toothy grin that once adorned her delicate features falters under your dangerous glare. Her heartbeat quickens, its rhythm echoing like a grand symphony in your ears, the scent of fear clinging to the chilly breeze. To your great displeasure, she quickly regains her composure, her fake smile reappearing on her rosy lips as if nothing had happened.

“I’m sure we’ll meet again soon,” she says, her tone dripping with feigned friendliness.

It sounds almost like a promise, and you pray it’s not one.

“Surely, you should be in a better mood by then. Have a lovely night!”

The picture-perfect mulberry-haired woman swaggers off down the road, disappearing into the murky shadows of an alleyway. As the fireball hovering above your palm extinguishes, your fury ebbs away.

I should have eaten her.

The path to the palace door is long and meanders slightly uphill. The stupor clouding your mind rushes back as your adrenaline wanes, plunging you into that dreamlike state once more. Hesitation grips you at the threshold of the Crimson Palace.

You’ve escaped him twice already, and yet here you are, willingly returning to ask for his help. He would likely slam the door in your face at best—or worse, throw you into the kennels. The wound in your side throbs maddeningly, a cruel reminder of why you’re standing here in the first place.

Lacking the coordination for a proper knock, you slam the palm of your hand against the ornate door, the impact sending a sweet sting through your fingers. Moments pass in silence, the quiet stretching interminably with no response from inside.

Of course. You sag against the door, closing your heavy eyes with a weary sigh. I am so tired.

Suddenly, the hefty door swings open, and you stumble forward, unable to regain your balance. Astarion’s arms slip under yours, catching you mid-fall. “Little love, you simply must stop falling for me like this.”

He sets you back on your feet, his arm extending to steady you, but you push it away, still irked by your encounter with that insufferable woman. Without waiting for an invitation, you stagger weakly into the palace.

Astarion’s eyebrow arches at your awkward lumbering. “Do come in.”

“I hate her.”

“Who are you referring to, my dear?”

“That… that fucking trollop!” you spit, venom seeping into your words. The dim room sways around you, and your speech becomes slurred. “I’m going to eat her one day.”

His eyebrows rise in an annoyingly handsome expression. “Well, now I’m intrigued. Do tell me who you’re talking about?”

Jealousy burns hot through your veins. “Your… your purple-haired hussy!”

A wide grin spreads across his face. “I see. I knew you were jealous, but murderous? I’m impressed.”

His forehead furrows slightly as he cocks his head. “Although, you don’t look entirely like yourself.”

“Something is wrong with me.”

“Now that, my treasure, is something we can agree on.”

Rolling your eyes, you push on. “I need help.”

“Petitioning me for help, are you? Cute.”

You huff in exasperation. “You know what? This was a bad idea. I’m sorry to have bothered you.” You turn toward the door, stumbling awkwardly.

“Wait.”

His hand reaches out, tenderly wrapping around your forearm to steady you. You meet his gaze. Is that concern reflected in those deep crimson irises?

I must be truly delirious.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“The wound from the stake isn’t healing.”

His eyebrows furrow. “Show me.”

Your fingers fumble with the lace ties of your robe in a disoriented frenzy. The world sways around you like trees in a blustery wind. Cursing under your breath, you squint, trying to focus. Astarion steps closer, enough that you can finally see him clearly. He’s shirtless, his trousers untied at the front.

Good Gods…

“Have I ever told you how pretty you are?” you murmur dreamily, giggling at the sudden sense of freedom. You feel unburdened, as if a great weight has been lifted from your shoulders, free from the fear and sadness that once hollowed you out.

“Yes, I believe you’ve mentioned it a time or two, but please, do feel free to tell me again.”

You stop fumbling with your robe, looking up at him with doe eyes. “You’re beautiful.”

“You are in quite the state, aren’t you?”

His hands brush yours away as he deftly unties the laces of your robe.

“Hey… rude.” You stick your tongue out at him playfully.

As you lose your balance, your hand finds the smooth skin of his shoulder for support. His body tenses under your touch, muscles taut.

A sharp pang of guilt washes over you. “Sorry.”

You withdraw your hand, but he catches it, placing it back on his shoulder as he undoes the remaining laces binding your robe.

Astarion gently slips your robe over your shoulders, letting it fall to the ground around your feet, leaving you in your undergarments. His gaze fixes intently on the blood-soaked bandages wrapped carelessly around your abdomen.

“May I?” he asks, gesturing to the sodden dressing. “I need to examine it.”

“I can do it.”

He scoffs. “My dear, you can barely stand. How about you just focus on keeping that pretty face off my floor?”

You mimic his scoff but nod in consent. “I hate her.”

“Yes,” he chuckles lightly, “we’ve established that.”

“Do you love her?”

The question slips from your lips before you can stop yourself.

Do I even want to know?

His expression falters as if he’s tripped over your boldness. “Am I capable of love?”

“I don’t know. Are you? Loving your reflection doesn’t count.”

He smirks. “Hold onto me.”

“What?” you ask, confusion lacing your voice.

“Little love, you are not wearing those grimy boots in my house. They need to come off.”

“I’ll do it myself.”

“My dear, we’ve been through this. For once, will you just listen to me?” Astarion kneels before you, one knee on the floor. “Are you ready?”

Tentatively, you reach out, placing both hands on his shoulders to steady yourself as he lifts your weak, trembling leg and begins to slip off your boots.

“What are these?” he asks, glancing down at the jagged cuts your fingernails have made on your legs in a futile attempt to fight your revolting temptations.

“They’re nothing,” you reply, dismissing them.

Astarion studies the marks, running his fingers over the irregular gouges. He leans in closer, and you instinctively try to pull back, but he grabs your leg firmly, holding it in place while giving you a stern look.

When you stop resisting, he leans in and places gentle kisses along the long wounds, slowly trailing them up toward the apex of your thighs. You squirm under his touch, heat rising in your cheeks, but he stops short, teasing you. Moving to your other leg, he repeats the process, sliding off the boot while you use his body to steady yourself, trailing soft kisses along the cuts once more before pausing again.

Unable to restrain yourself, you let out a loud groan.

He rises to his full height, careful not to throw you off balance since his body is your only support. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” He motions for you to follow him deeper into the palace, but your legs buckle beneath you.

Before you can fall again, his arm hooks under your knees while the other cradles your back, effortlessly sweeping you off your feet.

“I can walk,” you protest weakly.

“Truly? Can you?” he replies, his voice dripping with mock melodrama. A laugh rumbles in his throat.

He’s having too much fun at my expense.

Astarion carries you through the familiar dark halls you once called home, moving with an agile grace. The floor barely creaks beneath him, his footsteps nearly silent.

Candlelight bathes the bedroom in a saffron-coloured warmth. The room smells pleasantly like finely aged brandy, bergamot, and rosemary. It smells of him, and that comfortable recognition envelopes you. Astarion eases you down on the fine, silk bed cover, taking care not to jostle you about. Grabbing a clean cloth, he wets it in the washbasin perched on a carved table. He crouches smoothly, positioning himself between your legs.

Oh…

Memories flash across your vision of him in the forest clearing, him in that bedroom the night he turned you, and heat pools between your legs. A needy groan escapes your lips as you tear your eyes off of him meekly. If your heart could beat, it would be battering against your ribs as if it were trying to rip itself from your bosom. A sensual chuckle rattles deep in his chest, fully aware of what he’s doing.

Oh, fuck.

You are starved for physical affection, having spent the last year distanced from your friends or locked away entirely. They had tried to comfort you, of course, but you couldn’t be trusted to get too close to anyone with a heartbeat. Except for a few brief uncomfortable hugs or reassuring squeezes of your hand, you haven’t been touched since before you fled this place. You craved it like the desert sands crave moisture during a drought.

You struggle to push yourself further up the bed and away from him. You squeeze your legs together, trying to shut him out. You feel too vulnerable, almost stripped bare with your legs spread, and entirely too aroused, given the predicament you currently find yourself in.

His hand grips your thigh tenderly but firmly, keeping it to the side and pinning you in your place.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he tuts, “hold still.”

You groan loudly and cover your face with your hands, surrendering to him.

“Good girl.”

With light, gentle strokes, he begins to wipe the smeared blood from your midsection, his brow furrowing with curiosity as he examines the injury. Blood continues to seep gradually from the wound, dark streaks spreading like inky tendrils across your ghostly skin. He presses his fingers into the gash, coating them in crimson.

You wince at the uncomfortable pressure. “What are you doing?”

His crimson eyes lock onto yours with an intensity that makes you hold your breath—a reflex you can’t shake. Bringing his fingers to his mouth, he sucks on them, all while holding your gaze. It’s oddly sensual until his face twists into a grimace, and he spits your blood onto the cloth.

“Poison. You need an antidote and rest, pet.”

“Don’t call me ‘pet.’”

“I’ll call you whatever I like,” he hisses.

“Why do you do this?”

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he pouts sarcastically.

“Don’t you? You swing from one extreme to the next so fast I can hardly keep up. One moment you’re nice, and the next, you treat me like a possession.”

He frowns, his gaze unwavering. “You do belong to me. I made sure of it.”

He’s trying to get under my skin.

“Yes, you did. Are you proud of yourself, love?”

“Indeed I am.”

You grumble under your breath, “Pompous prick.”

He laughs, the sound rich and teasing. “Sassy tonight, aren’t we?”

"You didn’t answer my question."

A malevolent smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, reaching his eyes. “I rather enjoy you like this, you know.”

You swallow hard. “Like what?”

“Nearly naked, laid out before me on my bed, and entirely at my mercy.”

You level a glowering look at him. “You don’t scare me.”

If nothing else, your hazy mental state gives you a strange courage, or perhaps you’re just too far gone to feel fear. Either way, speaking your mind feels liberating. You have muzzled yourself too often around him, but now the muzzle is off, and your fangs are bared—so to speak.

“Oh?” he pouts innocently. “I suppose I’ll have to try harder, then, won’t I?”

“I suppose you will if that’s what gets you going.”

“I would be happy to demonstrate what gets me going.”

Astarion rises slowly from his crouched position between your legs, his hand gliding leisurely up your body, delicately skimming over every curve. You try to push him away, but it’s like a feather trying to displace a brick wall. His knee nudges your legs further apart, and he presses his hips against you, anchoring you between him and the bed. The friction is exhilarating, sending waves of need rocketing through you. You would be lying if you said his proximity was entirely unwelcome.

“When did you eat last?” he whispers, his lips ghosting over yours.

What a weird question.

“Why? What difference does it make?” You squirm beneath him, overwhelmed by the pressure of his body against yours.

“I have my reasons, darling.”

Your brow furrows in confusion. “Which are?”

“None of your concern,” he replies curtly. “When did you eat last? I won’t ask again.”

Do I dare? Yes. Yes, I think I dare.

You meet his gaze directly, challenging him. “None of your concern.”

Astarion scowls harshly. “Shall I force you to tell me, my sweet, sweet spawn?”

You scoff, rolling your eyes, though it makes your stomach lurch. Fighting the wave of nausea, you continue, “If you’re going to force me, then just do it already. I’m beyond sick of your threats.”

Abruptly, he pushes himself back, severing the decadent friction you had been savouring. He paces menacingly in front of you, a terrifying expression painted across his features. Astarion strides over to a cabinet and flings the door open with such force that it nearly comes off its hinges. He grabs a bottle and returns to you, his cold red eyes simmering with animosity.

“Drink this and get out.”

He tosses the bottle onto the bed beside you.

You finger it hesitantly. “What is it?”

“Antidote. Drink it and leave.”

“Fine.”

With that, Astarion vanishes into the shadows of the hallway. You raise the bottle to your lips and down its contents as quickly as you can, trying to minimize the taste. Unfortunately, it still makes you want to gag. The antidote works fast. You watch as the blood continues to ooze from your wound, but its flow begins to slow, the inky black streaks receding bit by bit. The haze clouding your mind starts to clear, and you find yourself feeling more lucid... mostly.

You manage to sit up on the bed, but your limbs are still weak, trembling, and uncooperative. Just as you wrestle with your balance, Astarion returns, tossing your robe onto the floor at your feet.

Once you get your boots on and stumble toward the door, you realize that dawn is creeping closer.

I don’t have enough time to get back.

“Astarion, dawn is soon. I’ll—”

He cuts you off, his voice icy. “Burn, yes. I am aware.”

I pushed him too far.

His brows draw down into a sinister glare. “Run, little lamb."

Big thank you to everyone who takes the time to read/follow/like/reblog/comment/etc -- I hope you're enjoying it as much as I enjoy writing it :)

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I have another with Spawn Astarion x Tav called -Shadows of the Past

AO3 [Crossposted]

[chimerahyperfix]

You are a scientist. You like testing theories, making hypothesis. Working with dangerous materials that get you scolded. You are a scientist, and you are also a writer! You’ve swung at a few things before: sappy poems, work papers, crab, you’ve even attempted a horror short at Mirabelle’s inquiry. You’re favorite thing to write, though, are just basic letters.

You like to write letters. It's easier, to you, to write your thoughts on a piece of paper and hide it somewhere the recipient can find than to tell them what you think face-first. You’ve done it for years, long before you even came to the House to learn about the Change religion. A childhood habit that’s rolled over through your life like a wave on the sea.

So, of course, when time begins to loop, you write. Many, many letters. They all get lost to time when it twists back, and now, many loops in, that leaves a hole in your heart and a spot in your brain you can’t itch, for the words of each letter are mostly forgotten before you fight the King. It’s… fine, you guess? You can word things as many ways as you need to. Anything described can be described some more, after all.

For the first handful of loops, you wrote the same letters. Rather sappy, lovey things, your specialty. The furthest depths of your heart smeared onto a page for eternity, for you love and love and love, and you want those around you to know it.

Though as time trudges on, the same twenty four hours over and over in a nice single circuit built for it to run through, built by wishes and stars and twisted leaf-baring branches, so do your thoughts; therefore your letters move so, too, to adapt. More theoretical things. Questions. Ifs, ands ors buts and whys. Sadder ones after the bad loops, wailing and endlessly upset and mourning those who froze and those who were killed for standing in the King's way.

They get angrier as time goes on. More enraged. Wrath melts into the corners, edges fold and tear and warp under the weight. You stop delivering them, because you're here in this time loop hell to protect the ones you love, and you'd just make it worse if you gave them a letter like that.

You write a scathing letter, once. You write it after an absolutely abysmal loop, ending with blood and tears and probably the loudest you've ever screamed. It flows onto the page easily, and you leave it out on your desk, because you were hungry and hadn't eaten that loop with how beside yourself stressed you were.

Mirabelle finds it. Asks you, quite worried, if you're okay. You must've said something, and it had to be bad, because she flinched away from you like you'd tried to light her ablaze.

You panicked. Time looped.

Never again.

You hide them, after that. Shoved in your pillowcases or in piles of books, stacks of other papers. In the barrels. When you write only one or two you shove them in a bottle and push them to the back of your potions.

You're a shedding snake, a leopard changing its spots. Time is your prisoner and you are it's, and that melts into you as a human being until you are flesh and blood and twenty four hours that shouldn't continue.

Words spill from you, your mind, onto the page. You don't read them anymore. Just write and write and write, and tuck them away and pray no one finds them. You long for the days you could sit and write sappy love letters-- and sometimes, you still do them, but they're tinged with something, regret or rage or the absolute despair you feel, they're wrong, so they're tucked away as well. Letters just wrong, noticeably so. You’d be asked what’s wrong. Cornered. You can hear it now, “What’s wrong? What does this mean?” And all you can think of is the horrors you’ve seen.

One of these loops, whenever you get out, you expect to have a pile of ramblings with time-burnt letters and tear-stained edges. Whenever you get out, if there are any, you'll burn them. As a rite of passage, or something. A Change. Because time changed you, and the less people have to know about it the better. You can't get rid of your rotten voice or the tiredness in your bones or the way your brain has twisted to think, but you CAN get rid of letters.

You like to write. The horrors you write, of twisted time and dying and what being frozen in time is like— it can go. No one needs to know. No one WILL know. It’ll all fall on you, like every other crabbing thing in the time loops. And that’s okay, it’s enough.

[meteorxiaowerr]

'till we meet again ─ ma chérie

pairing : neuvillette x f!reader

notes : 3rd time posting here and 1st time writing for neuvi sooo....AHSFHSFHFH

warnings : angst no fluff (?)

synopsis : the death of the chief justice's lover made him want to believe in the reality of reincarnation

fontaine felt colder than usual. the rain had not stopped pouring since the mornings spring

"hydro dragon, hydro dragon, don't cry" she says as she softly caress my face, even in her final moments

neuvillette's pov

"im sorry i couldn't stay forever, neuvillette." her eyes flickered slowly and weakly, trying to gather all the strength she had left in saying her final goodbyes

"there's no need to apologize darling"

"neuvillette, i hope that in my next life i would be able to find you even...if it was just for a brief moment"

"ma chérie...." my voice trembled as tears continuously streamed down.

"hush now, darling. hydro dragon, hydro dragon, don't cry." she smiles softly as she wiped the tears from outer corner of my eyes. i place my hand on yours and leaned in to your touch.

but alas, time is limited

i mustered all the strength and courage i had to say my final goodbyes to my beloved lover.

"ma chérie..... you can rest now" i whispered

her eyes slowly closed as her face started to relax in eternal slumber. the wrinkles the grazed her skin softened. the weight of her hand that gently cupped my face loosened.

there she was, her lifeless body laid peacefully on the bed they once shared.

"i am indeed very grateful to have spent my time with you, ma chérie."

"mama i want to play!" the child says as he looked outside the window urging his mom to let him go outside and play. "has the rain stopped?" her brows furrowed. "not yet..." "then you cannot play and go outside until the rain has stopped". the young lad whined at his mom's words. he looked at the gloomy clouds as the rain poured endlessly

"hydro dragon, hydro dragon don't cry!" thr boy cried out loud, hoping the hydro dragon sovereign could hear his plea.

it was an old fontanian belief, whenever it rained it meant that the hydro dragon was crying. well, that belief was indeed real as neuvillette's eyes watered with grief.

the death of his lover, his solace, his strength, his world, his everything. the pain ached in his chest as he gave you a proper rite of passage, the last time he'd ever see you.

"neuvillette"

"hm, yes dear?" he responded as his eyes were glued to the case file he was analyzing, still of course paying close attention to your words

"do you believe in reincarnation?"

he paused for a moment as he slowly looked at your direction

"im not quite sure. why do you ask, ma chérie?"

she chuckled "well, i think the idea of reincarnation is fascinating"

"what suddenly piqued your interest with reincarnation, dear?" his head tilted slightly to the side, puzzled as to why you suddenly had an interest in the topic

"oh nothing! it just, i want to believe reincarnation is real"

neuvillette's brow raised in curiosity

"oh? and why is that?"

"because if it is real, i wish to be reborn as your lover in my next life"

his eyes slowly widened at your words

"if it is real, then i'd be sure to find you in your next life and the next and your life after that." he smiled softly at you, reassuring that he'd find you in your next lives and love you all over again.

neuvillette sat down on the bed you once shared as he ruffled his hair in despair. the bed your lifeless body once laid in.

he suddenly remembered that conversation you two had in his office a long time ago. the conversation about you wishing that reincarnation was real. you hoping that in your next life he'd still be your lover and that he'd find you again.

"i will wait for you, ma chérie. ill come find you again, i promise." he whispered slowly to himself as he succumbed in his grief.

a/n : WOAHH 2 POSTS IN ONE DAY THATS CRAZYY 🤯🤯 this had been rotting in my drafts for a long time so i decided its time to finally finish it. anyways, hoped yall liked this, personally i really liked this one i hope yall did too!

[hatchetmanofficial]

(I love this question and I love your username!!!)

Thanks!

I like to think that Alan still has a part of him, that wants to weasel his way back into society, especially after meeting his Doe-eyes. But he can never have it. It's selfish of him to want.

Or Alan doesn’t believe that even if he can get away he can be redeemed/deserves it. Or could cope with being part of society.

Boss is unpredictable and very much so picks those who believe they are someone without a cause. I'd like to think that The Beast's song "Come Wayward Souls" applies to him.

I really enjoyed Over The Garden Wall, and especially Come Wayward Souls/Potatus Et Molasses. https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=hWgVdUv9UHo

It’s a shame the show got pulled from streaming services in a lot of locations.

TW suicide, death, religion feel free to ignore and delete this ask if it’s too heavy or triggering.

I watched Over The Garden Wall years ago and while I haven’t actually read The Divine Comedy/Dante’s Inferno directly… I need to as I’ve found a great VN that also derives from it called 10:16 …I seem to remember some analyses that describe the sin of despair.

(Makes sense. Catholics believe suicide is a sin.)

That is why blithe Greg was aided unlike Wirt. He is a child, innocent of the sin of despair, and in turn his seemingly random foolish actions stave off disaster, ie. dumping the coins from the ghosts creates a bonding experience while getting to Adelaide’s house so Beatrice can change her mind about betraying them.

(Also - that means they didn’t pay the coins to the ferryman to cross Acheron/the Styx! Charon’s Obol. Put into the mouth or on the eyes of the dead for that purpose. They also played a song for clemency like Orpheus.

Technically they haven’t paid for passage or received rites so cannot cross over into death and are trapped on the Earth side of the bank! Forced to wander/given more time before crossing. This may have been key to finally getting out of there. Though a villager in Harveston did say it wasn’t their time.)

And Greg is only ever in real danger when he loses hope, gives up and chooses to sacrifice himself for Wirt.

Wirt only breaks the curse when he has a realisation and dares to hope. To act. Otherwise he would have been trapped as the new employee, the new woodcutter/soul reaper/perpetuator of the cycle.

So… The Beast, and perhaps the Boss, do prey on despair and the lost. And potentially suicides but I’m not sure.

The Edelwood trees also recall The Wood Of The Suicides, which is yet another reference to Dante’s Inferno that I first encountered in The Sandman series. (Though those were in hell.)

So. With Over The Garden Wall being a child friendly allegory for purgatory or hell… I’m actually wondering if Carver, Alan, and Stitches may be dead without being aware of it? Or at least no longer strictly living, caught halfway in the liminal space of the uncanny town.

Stitches was constructed from the remains of three people. Carver doesn’t resemble his past self, retain much of his humanity or remember much about his life. 

Alan… was an unprepared 14 (?) year old runaway who was homeless for at least a year in Canada (?), which means he very likely experienced at least one bitterly cold winter without adequate shelter or clothing. Due to his genetic condition he may not have even been able to feel cold or pain to know how much peril he was in and find shelter, or he was lost.

I don’t know whether he was ‘rescued’ while still alive as an alternative to dying or whether he could have actually succumbed to exposure (or to despair in a tragic literal sense) and been found then.

I wonder if this is a Charon situation, if Alan replaced a disobedient employee and a future victim may replace him. (Perhaps Stitches is being lined up, or was created to watch Alan.)

Are the employees psychopomps? 

Or cultists enacting sacrifice?

Both?

In a way Alan cutting down people with his hatchet recalls the cutting down of the Edelwood Trees, that being a metaphor for death.

(I wonder if the choosing is similar to that of the employees - if he takes the despairing, those lost in life, or those who get lost in the forest. The victims are cut down with a hatchet, reaped to feed/fuel the Boss/the Beast.)

Which is more traditionally represented with a field of wheat being reaped by Death’s scythe.

A cornfield, another scary liminal space where people get lost, with similar reaping imagery, has also been associated with evil supernatural entities. 

A good example is He Who Walks Behind The Rows, implying an ancient evil god/cult worship and human sacrifice. Giving a hint of why the Boss might be making them do this.

Much in the way the Ancient Greeks believed they needed to placate gods and ghosts with blood.

Doe Eyes is a pull to humanity and life. Orpheus trying to lead Eurydice out of Hades. 

Or maybe the coworkers are just metaphorically ‘dead to the world’ through being taken in by the cult and largely isolated from society. (Stitches though is absolutely on some level dead or was never alive.)

I’m also seeing some Twin Peaks/Deadly Premonition parallels with forests/trees, weird towns, and another entity like BOB feeding on suffering.

I remember reading that the Boss may have been partially inspired by Bill Cipher too, so I’m wondering if the town is a little pocket of supernatural chaos. 

Bill (a yellow pyramid) was in turn inspired by Nyarlathotep, who liked to start cults and spread chaos and discord amongst mortals - and where Nyarlathotep is associated with pyramids The Boss is embodied in a similarly angular form of a diamond shaped sign. A yellow sign! 

The Yellow Sign is a symbol that is usually used by the Brotherhood of the Yellow Sign, a cult that worships the Great Old One Hastur. It is said that the symbol can bestow supernatural powers such as mind-control and possession, and is used to get people under the control of the King in Yellow.

Actually… Past traumatic event in Doe Eye’s life and (spoiler) aside, that may also explain Doe Eye’s nightmares and inability to sleep. As well as their pull to the forest.

So while I’m half recalling all of this or extrapolating from googled snippets maybe all of these things together are hints to the Boss’s eldritch nature.

However, he can still influence his employers. If he sees someone get out of line, he would simply have to put them back in place. Alan, however, never gave Boss any hassle, not even when he first found him. You could say he has a clean track record when it comes to his job. Until doe-eyes that is. When I say that Boss kinda has favorites. He truly does.

I think Alan was too young, beaten down and scared to rebel and so obeyed without question. I think the Boss liked that. Alan is wolf coded but was as obedient as a lamb. Or the Boss’s loyal dog, used to guard and attack.

I had a blast reading through all of this

thank you tumblr user krowspiracyanon!

[brabblesblog]

What if it was Ban’s turn to dog sit scratch at the Crimson Palace? I’m sure Lord Ancunín would LOVE that 😅

Love is made of fur and dander

Alright! First ask I'm answering. This is a nice, rather fluffy AA piece for fun. I hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.

The mutt's here. Here. In his Palace, in his home, tracking mud and fur and soil in its paws and gods know what else -

Astarion bites back the urge to yell at the wretched creature as it runs past where he's perched on his throne to Ban, who's seated on the floor, arms open for the mutt.

He sighs. "My dearest consort - you do realize how much fur this animal sheds, do you not? Do have some mercy on our floors and upholstery, please, and take him outside."

Ban looks up at him from the mess of white fur she's half-buried in, shooting him a small smile. "Oh, come on. It's only for a day, the servants can clean it all up afterwards, and the house will be none the worse for wear!"

He opens his mouth to retort; Ban gives him no chance. "Besides," she adds, "didn't werewolves use to live here? I remember seeing them the day we did the rite."

"They were a fairly recent addition by Cazador," Astarion replies, crossing his legs irritably. "Only summoned once I had escaped. And that doesn't trivialize any of my concerns; if anything it only proves them accurate - did you not see the sheer amount of fur littering the house that day?"

He's not mad, he thinks. Just... piqued. His beloved always has a penchant for loving strays. This dog, the owlbear that he worried would eat them one day, and, well - himself, if he's being honest.

Astarion watches more intently, leaning forward on his throne, watching his wife disappear into white fur yet again. He feels a slight pang of sympathy for the mutt, a creature who was picked up from certain doom by Ban, who's been given a new lease in life, who's been accepted by her, loved by her - and hopelessly loves her in turn.

Choosing to momentarily ignore that rush of affection in his breast the Ascendant stands and approaches the pair. The moment he's close he regrets it; Scratch immediately bounds towards him, standing up on its haunches in an attempt to lick his face. The dog's forepaws land on the cream lapels of his suit and he curses, despairing of what its condition will be.

"Gods! I've half a mind to drink you dry, mutt!" he hisses, only to be met by his wife's incensed glare. Ban calls Scratch back to her, and holds him protectively.

"Astarion," she chides. "He is a dog. He does not know any better."

"Yes, I am fully, painfully, aware of that fact - but look at my suit!" He gestures at the cream soiled by mud, the rest of the suit none too worse for wear other than for a smattering of dander.

She shrugs. "And so are my clothes. We can have it washed. Stop whinging." Ban finally stands, patting her thigh to ask the dog to follow her. "We're heading to the bedroom. I'd very much like to nap, and I missed cuddling Scratch like we used to in camp."

The Vampire Ascendant, the greatest vampire in all the realms, splutters at those words. Their bed. Really? When Ban has always been so precious about the sheets, asking him to remove your shoes, please and don't wear anything other than nightclothes on the bed, my love and yet she'll let Scratch stay there?

"Ban," he manages to grit out, jaw clenched. "The bed. Are you serious?"

"Oh, completely," she says, not even looking back. "You're free to join us, you know."

He watches them go, crossing his arms. No. Under no circumstances is he joining them. Never mind that they used to do that, back in their adventuring days, Ban wrapped in his arms while the dog slept on top of them. Never mind that it was comfortable, even nice - and oh gods, is he actually considering this?

Ban peeks her head out from the mass of white licking her face to see her husband walk in, a sullen look on his face. He's taken his clothes off save his underwear in some ridiculous attempt to save them, she realizes; she can't help the bark of laughter that crosses her at this.

He glowers, then sits at the edge of the bed. "I had nothing better to do, so I'll indulge you this," he grumbles, "but you can never complain about clothes on the bed ever again. Is that a deal?"

She frowns, weighing it; Scratch chooses that moment to bound over to Astarion again. Despite himself he lets his hand run through the dog's fur, the feeling of it sending him back to those days at camp. He absently cards through the white, coarse hairs, smiling a little.

"Fine," Ban finally says. "You can wear whatever you wish to the bed, but -"

"I know," he says, "no footwear of any kind is allowed; I am fully aware. You needn't remind me every single time."

She rolls her eyes. "Well you need reminding, considering how many times you do it."

Another sigh and he finally crawls towards her, grabbing her by the waist and tugging her close. He presses himself against her back, placing kisses down her jaw to her throat. "Can I tempt you into something a little more interesting than a nap, darling?"

She chuckles, and as she does Scratch settles over his usual spot on top of their legs; Astarion groans at the reminder.

"I suppose that's a no," he mumbles, and Ban's bark of laughter is all the confirmation he needs.

He lets out an exaggerated, long suffering sigh, then settles against her. "If only I didn't love you so much, Ban," he whispers right against her ear.

"Ah, don't pretend, Astarion." She turns to place a kiss on his lips, one he returns with eagerness. "We both know you enjoy this too."

He harrumphs, but knows the battle is lost. Not that he minds much, really.

This, after all, is nice.

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