#save me old man necromancer...

[klyukvav]

[elliottkay]

You ever miss your hometown so much during a pandemic that you wrote a whole novel about it with magic and car chases and sexy immortal mercenaries and a sketchy secret FBI task force and adorable cats and the sweetest monster-chomping ghost dog ever? Or is it just me?

GRAND THEFT SORCERY is out now! You can read chapter one for free on my website!

The vampire lord of Los Angeles is dead, plunging the nightlife into chaos. His subjects fight over his title and his missing treasure hoard. The conflict brings werewolves, sorcerers, and djinn close to open war.

Repo man Evan Murphy knows nothing of the supernatural. He only wants a roof over his head and food for his cats. When a risky job lands him in the dungeon of a Hollywood Hills necromancer, a forgotten god offers him the power to escape—making him the target of a beautiful immortal mercenary and every monster within a hundred miles. Evan’s new magic may save the city from its shadows, but only if he can save himself.

WARNING: Grand Theft Sorcery contains explicit sex, explicit violence, explicit criticism of American law enforcement, bilingual profanity, a meet-cute that ends in homicide, conspicuous consumption, Los Angeles, demons, monsters, cops, vampires, talent agents, tautologies, street racing, attempted murder, successful murder, axe murder, motorcycle helmet murder, matching basketball hoodies, carjacking, kidnapping, brief torture, discovery of animal abuse (past/off-page), destruction of evidence, rampant traffic violations, premeditated hotel reservation with Only One Bed, desecration of the dead, awkward meetings with the ex, awkward meetings with the ex’s mom, deadly bisexuals, hypermasculine podcaster trash, acknowledgment of white privilege, false license plates, conspiracy, squatting, looting, mauling, home invasion, trespassing, witchcraft, abuse of authority, aggressive generosity, arguable cannibalism, destruction of private property, search warrant violations, outright lies, phone hacking, petty theft, grand larceny, vandalism, arson, defenestration, resisting arrest, driving under the influence of existential shock, appropriation of queer meme culture, shooting, punching, kicking, biting, couch surfing, bribery of wildlife, old timey Hollywood stereotypes, internet sexism and exploitation thereof, unflattering implications about Heaven and angels, two entirely normal cats, and the Black Dog of the Mojave.

GRAND THEFT SORCERY stands alone as a thrill ride unto itself, yet it shares a world and characters with the Good Intentions series. No prior reading required, but GI readers will recognize events and a few very familiar faces. Again, if you want a good preview, chapter one is here on my website!

Cover illustration by Julie Dillon, title design by Lee Moyer!

[katakaluptastrophy]

You know when you're at a dinner party with God and things start to get...weird...? It's Maundy Thursday, and it's time for more Bible study for fans of weird queer necromancers!

It's currently Holy Week, the week where liturgical Christians reenact the events of Jesus' death and resurrection in real time. And today, it's Maundy Thursday, which commemorates the Last Supper, where Jesus ate with his friends before he was crucified.

Before we get to the Locked Tomb, what's so special about the Last Supper?

There are actually a few significant things that happen during the Last Supper, but this is where Jesus introduces the concept of communion:

Now as they were eating, Jesus took bread, and after blessing it broke it and gave it to the disciples, and said, “Take, eat; this is my body.” And he took a cup, and when he had given thanks he gave it to them, saying, “Drink of it, all of you, for this is my blood. - Matthew 26:26-28

This isn't actually the first time Jesus has told his followers they will need to literally eat him:

So Jesus said to them, “Truly, truly, I say to you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you. Whoever feeds on my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him up on the last day. For my flesh is true food, and my blood is true drink. Whoever feeds on my flesh and drinks my blood abides in me, and I in him. - John 6:53-56

If you're thinking that sounds a bit intense, you're not alone - the Bible says that "many" of his disciples left after being told that they were apparently going to have to eat Jesus to be saved and resurrected.

While many Protestant denominations take this symbolically, Catholicism teaches transubstantiation: that when the priest prays over the bread and wine at mass, they really do become Jesus' body and blood.

With this in mind, let's circle back to necromancers:

"Overseas to Corpus. (She likes the word corpus; it sounds nice and fat.)"

This is probably Corpus Christi College, Oxford (named after the Solemnity of the Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ, where the church celebrates the real presence of Jesus in the eucharist). The symbol of the college is a pelican - there's even a fabulously gilded pelican atop the sundial in their main quad.

What do pelicans have to do with the eucharist? Quite a lot, actually... The pelican is a really old symbol for Jesus, because it was believed to feed its young on its own flesh and blood in times of famine. The pelican on the Corpus Christi sundial is pecking at its own chest.

The pelican, like Jesus, was believed to give its own body to save those it loved.

Okay, so we've talked about Jesus, and weird cannibal birds, but why is this relevant to necromancers?

Specifically, the necromancer, the Necrolord Prime. John Gaius styles himself as "the god who became man", echoing Jesus as "the word became flesh". His entire pastiche of divinity is a sort of bootleg Catholicism. But while Catholicism posits Jesus' offering of his own body as foundational to the salvation and resurrection of humanity to eternal life, John's godhood relies the exploitation of other's bodies as the foundation of an empire of eternal death.

I've mentioned before in discussing Lyctorhood, how vampires have been understood to represent a sort of inversion of the eucharist because instead of consuming Christ's blood to receive eternal life in heaven, they consume other people's blood for an cursed eternal life on earth. John, and the Lyctors who followed him, gained power and eternal life from the consumption, body and soul, of another person.

In Catholic theology, Jesus offered his own body to degradation and death for the eternal salvation of humankind, but John forcibly consumes someone else's in service of his own apotheosis and immortality, dooming humanity in the process. He wants to be a Catholic flavoured god, but without the suffering that entails. But he's perfectly willing to outsource that suffering to others.

There's something just achingly awful about Alecto liking the feel of the word "corpus" - "body" - when she so hates the body that John constructed for her. John describing Alecto as "in a very real way" the mother of humanity and the mother pelican on the Corpus sundial rending her own flesh for her children. John forcing the earth into a personification of femininity and playing Jesus on another's sacrifice. His daughter, unwillingly trapped in her own corpse walking around with the wounds of her significant self-sacrifice like the resurrected Christ but yet again another body exploited by John in support of his performance of godhood. It brings to mind a very different fantastical engagement with Catholicism, where in the Lord of the Rings Tolkien - riffing on St Augustine - suggested that evil cannot create, it can only mock and corrupt. The ethics of The Locked Tomb may be messier than that, but there's something indicative in how John shies away from his creative powers - his abilities to grow plants, and manipulate earth and water - in favour of his dominion over death.

The metaphysical world of The Locked Tomb is clearly not intended to be the same as that of Catholicism. But with hindsight, perhaps John was onto something when he was surprised that he didn't "get the Antichrist bit" from the nun too.

John isn't the Antichrist. But he is, thematically, anti-Christ.

If we're talking about John and Jesus, there's also, of course, the question of Resurrection. But we've got to go through Hell and back before we get there on Sunday...

[grapebats]

save me old man necromancer…… old man necromancer save me

[lerulpes]

to the rescue (Emmrich x f!Rook)

A little something I had in mind because of the old man brain rot. Enjoy if you'd like to Warnings: mentions of blood

A wave of hand, a whispered spell, a spark of lightning, and the last enemy falls dead with a loud thud.

Victorious, Jezebel fixed her cuffs; she frowned when she noticed drops of blood all over them. Well, that'll teach her not to wear white fabrics on the mission.

Trying to compose herself after the fight, she took deep breathes a couple of times and looked around. No one was in sight; what a relief, she thought to herself. She wasn't ready to show it, but she was drained - both physically and mentally.

"We should move on," Neve's stern voice appeared out of the darkness. The detective checked if the assassins were dead indeed. "This alleyway doesn't seem like a good place to think about life, don't you agree?" She was right as always, but Jezebel couldn't force herself to move forward.

A gentle, yet firm grip landed on her shoulder. Emmrich's soft voice sounded distant. "Jezebel? Are you alright?" She turned her head to face him; hair slightly disheveled, a genuine concern on his face.

"Of course I am, I just need to..." Jezebel stopped when she noticed Emmrich's eyes widen. "What? It's like you've seen a ghost," she said with a smile. They both were Mourn Watchers, and seeing a ghost wasn't something extraordinary for them, but it still amused Jezebel to say so.

At this moment she felt a liquid on her lips. Jezebel brought her hand up to wipe whatever it is, but, seeing the liquid on her gloved fingers, she realised it was blood. Moreover, it was her blood.

The picture worked as a catalyst, as if this unawareness was keeping her from losing this last bit of power she had. Jezebel's knees betrayed her, and she felt like she would fall any minute now. "Shit..." she exhaled, bending forward.

Halfway down to the ground, Jezebel heard something else hit the pavement and felt hands around her body. When she managed to open her eyes, she saw Emmrich's concerned and focused face very close to hers. His hand touched her cheeks, her forehead, helped him expect her eyes; it would've been romantic if she wasn't on the verge of passing out.

"What's wrong?!" Neve picked up Emmrich's staff and stood next to them. Her voice, always reserved, now was filled with worry.

"She's exhausted. We can't move forward while she's in this state." Neve asked if he could do something. "I can, and I will if you'll give me some time." After these words Neve nodded and walked away to check if there were any pursuers, ensuring the safety.

The necromancer smiled softly. "Oh, mistress Jezebel, if you'll go on like this, I'll proscribe you stepping out of the Lighthouse." Jezebel managed to chuckle.

"Mistress Jezebel... sounds pretentious, don't you think?" She tried to rub her eyes with her hand, but Emmrich stopped her by catching her wrist. He planted a small kiss on her knuckles and let go of her hand.

"Please, lie still," his voice was still soft, yet commanding. "The spell will work better if you won't move." Jezebel felt healing energy flow through her body; the power she lost in the fight was slowly and steadily coming back.

"Alright, monsieur Volkarin," Jezebel closed her eyes and heard Emmrich chuckle. "I'll behave for now, if you'll promise me a kiss on the forehead for being a good patient."

When jokes like this were exchanged between them, Jezebel felt like she was walking on thin ice. Little did she know that Emmrich felt the same. At this point it was just a question of who was going to give up first and succumb.

Jezebel opened one eye. Emmrich was inspecting her face for signs of better state - indeed, her cheeks changed their color from deadly pale to her ordinary pale, and her lips regained some strength.

"The spell will work for about 15 minutes from now, but we've already achieved the main goal of saving you from dying or passing out big time. Congratulations, mistress. And, as promised..." He closed his eyes and planted a soft kiss on her forehead. Emmrich lingered for a moment too long. "A normal temperature. Spectacular. If you don't mind, I'll reward you for this with one more kiss." The necromancer pecked her cheek, provoking a chuckle from Jezebel - now it sounded like a chuckle of a healthy human, not a bark of a dying dog.

"Oh, Emmrich, you're the best healer in town," Jezebel grunted when the necromancer helped her to stand up. "Thank you. Please, tell me, my nose stopped bleeding, did it?" She recieved a positive answer. "Oh, thank you once again, Emmrich," she nodded her head to strengthen her words.

"Just doing my job, darling," the necromancer answered. The last word hopped off his tongue on it's own.

"Darling? I like the sound of that," she fixed Emmrich's hair, returning his touches. "I'll come up with something like this for you, professor, if you don't mind."

"I'll look forward to it, darling," Emmrich smiled. When she noticed the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes deepen, Jezebel couldn't help but smile in return. Something in the back of her head suggested she claimed his soft lips here and now, but Jezebel tried to perish the thought. Nevertheless, it was disrupted by Neve's return; she informed the group that the path was clear and they could go on if Jezebel was alright.

The next few minutes were walked in silence, but Jezebel muttered a silent "darling" to herself from time to time.

[mademoisellegush]

Enver Gortash, né Flymm: a tentative timeline

OR: I try to make sense of whatever the fuck is up with the Dark Urge's oiliest ex-fwb

enver flymm lives with his parents, sally and dravo flymm in the lower city, cobblers for generations, etc. he tinkers a lot, "traps and mechanisms", described as "needy, foolish, wicked, demanding attention, very crafty, smart boy - too smart" "He was always a little monster. Nasty to the core. He would've torn me and Dravo apart with his whining, his demands, the never-ending racket of him!" (note: they note that they made enver feel powerless, and this would have been the inciting incident that made him feel justice= revenge and fear)

the parents owe money to The Guild, the criminal organization that basically ran Baldur's Gate behind the scenes (everyone either owing them money or getting kickback / blackmail from it)

a warlock shows up and offers money for Enver. they sell their son to said warlock.

Enver seems to have changed his name then, either the warlock doing it or him denying the flymm name?

warlock then brings Enver to the House of Hope - I assume Raphael might have been his patron? which would mean raphael wanted enver from the start. Nubaldin, who used to work in the prison of the House of Hope, calls him "a mischievous little blot of a boy, who slipped through his fingers"

at some point during his stay in the prison of the House of Hope, Enver figures out about the Crown of Karsus held in Mephistopheles' vault. he escapes the house of hope

back in faerun's plane, he starts moving against the Guild. There's a report to Nine-Fingers, Guildmaster, of "upstart smuggler Enver Gortash making inroads on the illicit arms trade in the chionthar valley", though states it's more like "annexation", replacing the Knights of the Shield and the Zhentarim. definitely had a grudge to bear against them lol

Notes that seem to be from somwhere in this period of time:

"lavender scented diary of lady wisteria jannath" where hes like. seducing this old pariar for the diamond ring worth more than her mansion.

a letter to franc, a now deceased arms dealer, where hes like being a freak about how "weapons distributions continues like a parent saving their drowning child: swimmingly" and also how he loves "any man willing to birth a little more slithering wet malice into the world"

1482 DR (for sure, from dialogue with Karlach saying it's been ten years), he's selling Karlach (who looked up to and liked him !) to Zariel in order to get the prototype for his Steel Watchers. because i think he can't be satisfied with what he actually has, he wants *everyone* to like him, through being terrified of him and his weapons.

at some point, meets with the Dark Urge and ally together. they steal the crown of karsus with halsik's help. the Absolute hoax is put into motion

they get ketheric and myrkul in on it, after the crown heist, by digging isobel up so she can get necromanced.

Gondians fit here (as the note by Vance Farnol places it)

not too long before the game (at most a year? two?), orin poisons and tadpoles the Dark Urge and goes to Ketheric and Gortash to act as Bhaal's Chosen. Dark Urge becomes a test subject chew toy for Kressa Bonedaughter at Moonrise.

gortash tadpoles his parents "months" before the game, as sally flymm states if you talk to her.

My question: when did Enver Gortash find the Emperor/Balduran and bring him back under the domination of the Elder Brain, as part of taking down the Knights of the Shield? Or when he and the Dark Urge had acquired the Crown? does anyone have a screenshot of the interrogation sequence between those two?

(note: the emperor has a devnote for the emotions the Voice Actor was supposed to express when gortash proposes an alliance thats like. Yeah he's lying but i hate his guts, and you could always betray him first)

[resident-gay-bitch]

for the 21 q thing 1) James

2) Prongsfoot

3) I have so many controversial opinions-- I hate WS and Jegulus and i don't think they could ever really work. I don't like Remus much. I hate Snape. I think PF is the best ship. I don't like Jily. feel like James would have been a bit neglected growing up (bc I see his parents as like dumbles age-ish old). I think Remus and Peter and sirius were all inlove with James but James only was in lov with Sirius and that he (james) was the guy like everyone wanted and I think James was Voldy's kid. James is scottish

4) Sirius.

5) First came in 2019 (I only read fics then and had no idea that there was a fandom j thought people randomly made fics aboug HP lol) but then left and came back in 2022 (properly with knowledge of fandoms)-- both times thro WS fics that i abondened withint he first 10 chps bc I could not get WS at all. But i came and stayed for James both times.

6) Tall Sirius! With James being second and like 5 or so cm shorter (remus is so average hieght in canon that JK didn't even bother mentioning his height lol) like that dude could never be short. Regulus got the short genes j like he got the ugly genes :>

7) Prongsfoot

9) ooh I have a few-- Marauders Guide to Saving the Wizarding World Tattered I've never known colour (like this morning reveals to me) Professor Tommy Welcome to The Black Charade These Wounds don't seem to heal Never Leave I don't want to Listen Anymore Darkness Only For an Year Till My Last Breath

15) I like AUs a bit more, though I'm fine with canon compliant. fav AU is either Werewolf James, Vampire James, Royalty AU neglected James AU or Voldy is James' father AU (PF fics tho)

16) I started reading but then dnf it. I was given the impressiont hat ATYD was a prequel, and I'd even seen people say it was written by JK and completely canon and stuff, so I looked for it for two years b4 finding and dowloading it and the whole thing confused me so much. Orphaned Remus, Sirius and Remus' dynamic, Dyslexic Remus. I left it aft the scene where Sirius points out the book james wanted in the 6th I think chapter. tbh is I read it as a fanfiction i might have been less bothered and read for a bit longer, but the way it was presented and how long I'd waiting meant that I couldn't manage it bc i was filled with confusiont hat gave way to pure rage and hatered. It is a WS fic so tbh I was neve gonna finish it.

17) I feel like James would have been a bit neglected growing up (bc I see his parents as like dumbles age-ish old). I think Remus and Peter and sirius were all inlove with James but James only was in lov with Sirius and that he (james) was the guy like everyone wanted and I think James was Voldy's kid. James is scottish. I also like the thought of a vampire or werewolf James. And I think the Blacks were legimens/occlumens and Poitters were necromancers. James is ambidextrous, a mother hen and pretty good and is not good at asking for help (thinks he has to be there for others but that he doesn't deserve someone to be there for him). Oh and that James spent like 60% of his money in the war making sure everyone was alive an not dyign of dehydration or starvation or summat (my fav character is pretty clear lol)

20) is being a necromancer secretly a secret talkent (my HC for James/Potters)

21) I think Jily would have broken up and James and Sirius would choose to do some stupidly dangerous thing-- a curse breaker and a magizoologist or something like that.

Hellooooo, thanks for playing! I'm glad you're a prongsfoot enthusiast because I've been wanting to write some more prongsfoot recently and haven't had the energy to open up and work on my longfic for them, lol. Anyway, I'm gonna write some vampy prongsfoot for you :)

Warning, it gets a bit suggestive at the end sorry

🐾🦌🐾🦌🐾🦌🐾🦌🐾🦌🐾🦌🐾🦌🐾🦌🐾🦌🐾🦌🐾

James is fascinated by the tall, dark man across the pub.

He's got long hair, a set jaw, the most piercing eyes, is unequivocally handsome, and his blood smells divine. James hasn't smelt blood like his in a very long time.

He's been watching the man all night, as he dances and drinks and beats every man he challenges to an arm wrestle. James is under his spell, completely, without much worry about it at all.

He wondered, for a moment, if the man were a warlock, or perhaps a wizard, a spell caster of some sort. Though, vampires can sense the magic sorts from a fair way away, their blood smells metallic and rusted. No vampire wants to feed on a magic man.

So James is at a standstill, wondering how such a man has him this heavy under trance. It's almost embarrassing. Well, it would be if the man weren't so unbelievably handsome.

And James can't quite put his finger on why he's so familiar.

James knows that if he had ever seen this man before, he's sure he would remember it. He could never forget a face so charmingly perfect, never forget a smile so sharp. But there's something about him, something James can't quite place.

And so he remains stumped. And he stares, and watches, and daydreams all through the night.

He orders another drink, and looks back into the room to find he's misplaced his dark beauty. Frantically, he scours the pub with his eyes in hopes of finding him, of following him home and feasting on his sweet, sweet blood.

"Missed me?" A deep, raspy voice whispers in James' ear from behind, and he spins to find himself a mere breath away from the man he's captivated by.

"I beg your pardon?" James splutters out, already a mess somehow.

One thing James prides himself on is his ability and confidence to talk to people, to flirt with people, but there's something about this man. Something that's frying his brain.

"I hope you don't think you've been subtle." He smirks, looking James up and down as he sits dumbstruck on his stool.

He feels as though he's stripped bare under the mans intense gaze.

"I noticed you watching me hours ago. I was curious to see how long it would take for you to approach me." He leans in closer to whisper again, "I've been waiting, Vampire."

If James still had the ability to blush, he knows he would absolutely be flushed pink in the cheeks right now. However, he is un-dead, and so such a thing has not happened, and he has never been so thankful.

How on earth does this man know?

He stands up straight, holds his fore-arm out and pulls his sleeve up for James to see, and there, on his lovely, pale skin, upon his muscular arm, is a tattoo-- Or, rather, not a tattoo, but a mark.

A hunters mark.

Well, shit.

"Oh, well, would you look at the time. I really must be going now, farewell--" James tried, but he was immediately shoved right back down onto his seat.

"You're not going anywhere."

Bloody hell.

"I'm not here to feed, I'm just after a few drinks is all! Not a bad vampire, I promise."

"So that's not blood in your glass?"

James peered back at his glass on the bar and coward, "Well, not fresh blood."

"Hmm." The hunter nodded, squinted his eyes to assess, "It's my sworn responsibility to kill any vampires I come across, the moment that I do, you know?"

"So why didn't you?" James asked, finding the gall, "You said you noticed me watching hours ago, what took you so long?"

"Maybe I couldn't be bothered..." He muttered before a sly smirk appeared on his lovely, pink lips, "Maybe I liked the attention."

"Wanted a fight, did you? Wanted to see if I'd try and feed on you?"

"Were you planning on it?"

"Well, it depended." He began to ramble, hoping to find a safe rout out of this inevitably terrible situation, "Do you have low iron? Because you look rather pale, and low iron blood tastes terrible--"

"I don't get out much throughout the day." He interrupts, "A perk of the job, hunting you night creatures."

James studies him for a moment, the lack of distaste on his perfect face. The hunter is almost smiling, like he's enjoying this back and forth, isn't repulsed by James' mere existence like the rest of them.

And no wonder it's taken so long for him to realise the familiarity of the hunter, he's a Black. The Blacks have been hunting him for centuries, and he has their face, for sure, but he's never seen a Black wear any expression other than a disgusted frown.

It's almost charming, how different this one seems, even though he's planning to kill James tonight.

Why the bloody hell did he have to be attracted to his predator?

"How does it feel to be the fist Black to ever catch me, hm?" James asks, desperate to drag this out as much as he possibly can, "Centuries your ancestors have been itching to get half as close to me as you are right now. Your father, I'm guessing, the great Orion, almost tore the last town to smithereens on the hunt for me."

"Yes, it's all a little bit homoerotic, isn't it?"

James couldn't help but snicker at his joke, "Well, I don't know if I'd call it that, but sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night, Hunter."

"My family would be very proud." He answered stiffly, "They'd implore me to take over our Clan. I'd be Sirius the Victorious, a hero, my story passed down for generations. It would be... everything to the clan."

"Well, isn't that just neat?" James sighed, "I almost feel bad, trying to escape from you now. It would be rather depressing for you to get so close and then have to head home defeated, like every other hunter in your family, Sirius."

Sirius kisses his teeth, arms folded across his broad chest, and James spots a sheath with wooden bullets slung over his shoulder, and guns and spikes on his sides. He wonders if the hunter had been wearing them the whole time, or, if James had been so distracted by his mere beauty that he hadn't even noticed the obvious.

"Yes, depressing, sure." He mumbles, rolling his gorgeous blue eyes and sets a heavy gaze on James, "In a family like mine, eternal fame is not something to take lightly. To be the best hunter, means a life time of high expectations, and that sounds like an awful lot of responsibility and effort."

James raised an eyebrow at the hunter, "I'm sorry, I'm not sure I follow. Are you going to capture and kill me, or not?"

The hunter reaches a strong hand out, his finger tracing along the thin wire of James' glassess, over the shell of his ear, and up into his unruly hair before grabbing a fist full of it and pulling back.

"Ow--"

"Capture you, yes. To kill you though? Hm, well, that's undecided."

"Lovely." James groaned, rather confused at the combination of emotions circling through him right now; terribly afraid he's about to die, and rather flustered by this devilishly handsome man.

"Now, you're going to quietly follow me up to my room. If you dare make a sound, or so much as try to escape, I will kill you instantly, and I will make it hurt." He whispered, pointing upwards towards the boarding rooms above the pub, "But if you comply, you may get your chance to live."

James has never been very good at following instructions, he rather hates being told what to do. However, this charming man has him under wraps, and so, for once in his un-life, James does as he's told.

The pair of them make their way up stairs with kind smiles and head nods to passers by, and James longs for his half finished glass of blood on the bar, and prays that he is not about to die in a moldy little boarding room.

The room is full of weaponry, and James knows there is no hope for him now. He should have tried to escape when he had the chance, yet, he's an idiot, apparently. His brain turned to mush at the sight of one damming attractive man, who's about to be his demise.

Welp. He's had a good five hundred years, he supposed.

"I'm not going to kill you." Sirius says, as he binds James wrists together behind his back and shoves him into a chair, pouring himself a tall glass of whiskey, "Well, not yet at least. It really depends on how much you piss me off."

"Right, well, good chance I won't make it much longer than." James comments, "I'm known to be rather annoying. Big mouth, people say, been saying it for years."

"Hmm, charming." Sirius sighs, "My family, as you know, is renowned for hunting vampires, all our incredible feats over the years. We're bread to be the perfect hunters, I made my first kill at age five, I remember it vividly."

"Sounds tragic."

"It's... suffocating, all those expectations to be perfect, all these... responsibilities. I'm rather sick and tired of it all. My parents have been high on my tail about it for years. And slowly, I've been rebelling. I'm sick of all the murder."

"You want out." James wonders in bewilderment.

"Yes." Sirius answers, "To an extent. But I know it's stupid, I have nothing without them. But I'm through with them all. I want to see how hard I can push before they snap."

"Oh, you're acting out are you? Hmm, I remember my rebellious phase. Happened before I was turned, I said the fuck word to my parents-- terrible, terrible things. We were from high society, the fifteen-hundreds, it was rather inappropriate."

"Charming." Sirius hummed, sitting down on the edge of the bed across from him, "What had you watching me for so long tonight? You didn't know who I was-- if you realised I was a hunter you would have ran. So why?"

"Hm, you really want an honest answer?" James asked, and the man nodded, "Your blood."

"What about it?"

"It smells good." James grinned, "It smells divine. I've been dreaming about sinking my teeth into your neck and draining you of every drop." He chuckled to himself, "How tragic would it be for your family to find you dead at my hand?"

"So very tragic." Sirius said with a grin, and James' stomach begin to twist, "Which is why you're going to feed on me--"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Kill me or not, I don't care." Sirius shrugged, already unbuttoning his vest and removing it, along with his jewelry, a sight which has James rather flustered again, "Feed on me, make it known you were here. Seek them out and brag about it."

"Wouldn't that just be terrible for you?" James asks, eyes fixed on Sirius' broad chest as he unbuttons his shirt. He's covered in black swirly ink, and James is entranced.

"Perhaps. Though, not if you kill me." And with the most crazed grin James has ever seen, Sirius said, "Not if you turn me."

Oh bloody hell.

"Turn you?"

"Wouldn't it be fun?"

"I doubt that, Star."

Sirius stood up, unbuckling his trousers next, removing his shoes, "Leave your mark on me, Vampire. Make it stick. Make them pay for all the harm they've caused you over the years."

James snickered, "Hmm, revenge would be sweet."

"I could be sweet." He says, now completely naked, "Turn me, and I'll run by your side for eternity, protect you from their attempts to kill you. It will be the ultimate revenge for the both of us, for all that they've done to me to shape me into their killer. Now, the very thing they've sworn to kill."

"Hmm, love, I admire your ambition, and you're rather fit I must say." James nods, giving him a once over, "But I fear you're a little young for me."

"I'm twenty seven." Sirius mutters.

"I'm five hundred and sixteen-- or maybe seventeen now. What month is it? It's hard to keep track after all these years."

Sirius glared at him, "Turn me."

"Feisty, aren't you?" James said, "You just met me."

"I've been studying you my whole life." Sirius smiles, wanders over to lean into James' space, "I've been dreaming of you my whole life."

"Well, no pressure." James muttered, really quite surprised. This man has to be insane, dreaming of his enemy for twenty seven years.

James wonders if that's why his blood smells so sweet. Perhaps they're intertwined. Perhaps...

Every magical creature has one soul that they're designed for. One soul they're meant to stand by for all of eternity. One soul, instant attraction, a sworn desire to protect them at all costs, intertwined until death, and when one dies, the others life loses all meaning.

It's just... usually they'll pair with another magical creature. Not the one designed to hunt and kill them.

But maybe...

"Let me smell you."

Sirius isn't perturbed by this, and he leans into James' space, his neck bared for James to breathe in his scent. And it's perfect, brilliantly sweet, metallic and warm. He smells of everything James has ever dreamed about, he's what James has spent the past five hundred years searching for.

"Hmm, well, I suppose I was turned when I was twenty one."

With that, Sirius grins, climbs into his lap and kisses him. And Merlin, his blood tastes divine.

🐾🦌🐾🦌🐾🦌🐾🦌🐾🦌🐾🦌🐾🦌🐾🦌🐾🦌🐾🦌🐾

Hope you enjoyed and thanks for sending an ask!!! This was fun to write lol :))

[taevbears]

Magic Shop - 13

Every coin has two sides

⤑ pairing: OT7 x witch!reader, Namjoon focused ⤑ genre: magic au, romance, angst, hurt/comfort, found family, domestic/slice of life, action/adventure ⤑ rating: 18+ ⤑ word count: 10.3k ⤑ warnings: descriptive violence, body horror, near-death of a main character, prejudice and oppression of mages, heavy angst. ⤑ note: lol bc last week, i had already written out the entire chapter and just meant to edit and post it last weekend. but then another idea struck me while i was at work, and even tho i meant to just change ONE scene, it started leading to a completely different ending. so lol here i am, one week later, after rewriting half this chapter 💀 this chapter is also heavily inspired by "A Village Under Siege" and "The Attack at Nightfall" quests in Dragon Age: Origins + the world of necromancer bells from the "Old Kingdom Series" by Garth Nix

Chapters: Series Masterlist | 09 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15

From the distance, an old windmill is spotted over a hill. Its turbines spin slowly with the breeze, and the weathered bricks keep it standing tall after all these years. The distinct landmark signifies one thing.

Hawthorn Village. You’re finally here.

And it’s just as Namjoon remembers it.

Nostalgia hits him as you all cross the bridge that leads into the village. Thatched roofs and walls made of stone and wood. A large well near the center of the square where he used to make wishes upon as a kid. The elementary school he went to, the old church that his parents religiously attended, and the farmlands with livestock and crop mazes.

Much to his dismay, the aftereffects of the nightly terrors have taken its toll on his beloved hometown.

People are trying their best to get through another day, distributing produce to feed the hungry and burning the dead. A blacksmith with tired eyes insistently pounds iron with a hammer to make new weapons that will give them a better chance against the enemies. A militiaman tries to keep up morale, although most of the remaining men are just farmers and workers – none of them trained to fight. Survivors step out of the infirmary tents, wrapped in bandages but still in pain. A small child cries, looking for their parents.

Doom hangs in the air. Haunted and defeated are the faces of Hawthorn’s residents, as the looming threat of another unsettling fight is set before them.

“What’s happened here?” Seokjin asks one of the villagers.

A middle-aged man’s light up when he sees your group. “I haven’t seen you folks before. Have you come to help us? Did our notices finally reach someone?”

It isn’t long until the group is ushered to the local church. Gathered by the altar is the mayor of the village. Dark circles are under his eyes from sleepless nights, but he looks at you all with hope as the villager announces you’re all from a guild. Then, he explains to your party their dire situation.

Decomposing corpses return to life at night with the hunger for flesh, and they have been attacking this small village for the past few nights. From dusk until dawn, these attacks on Hawthorn are relentless. Each night, they come in greater numbers. Due to the necromancer and dark magic being involved, no one has been responding to their urgent calls for help. The local hunters have been summoned to the capital, and guilds often overlook their tiny settlement when they pass by.

All of Hawthorn fears that tonight will be the worst attack yet.

“You’re our only hope,” the mayor pleads. “Hawthorn won’t stand a chance otherwise.”

The Oathkeepers look at Seokjin, but his eyes are on Namjoon. He feels the rest of you looking at him too. As if it’s up to him to decide whether his hometown is worth saving, or if the quest at hand is deemed too dangerous to assist. Allowing him to back out now before they’re obligated to see things through, no matter what the risk.

“Of course we’ll help,” Namjoon decides without hesitation. “Tell us what you need.”

Tonight, things look pretty grim.

Morale within the village is at its lowest. After multiple perilous nights of terror and gruesome deaths, the ones still alive are worried they’ll be next. That nothing will remain of their beloved Hawthorn once the sun goes down.

“Someone has to know something about the necromancer. We have to find out who is terrorizing the village and what their motive is,” Namjoon concludes as you all gather outside the church to debrief. “We also need to help the residents prepare for tonight’s battle: teach them how to properly hold weapons, encourage every able-body to help with the fight, and inspire them to defend the land and their community.”

“Leave the villagers to us,” Seokjin offers, gesturing at himself and the members of his guild. “We’ll do our best to get everyone ready before sundown. You just focus on finding that necromancer.”

“Taehyung and I are going to look at their resources,” Hoseok informs, surveying the infirmary tents. “I might be able to make something for the injured.”

“We’ll check on the blacksmith,” Yoongi says, putting a hand on your shoulder. “He was in rough shape when we passed by. Half of the villagers aren’t wearing proper armor and are carrying broken weapons. Repairs need to be done if they want to stand a fighting chance.”

“Taverns are a great source of information,” Jackson mentions as he eyes the local pub. A smile touches his lips as he wonders out loud, “Maybe I can even convince the owner to give out free shots of courage to the fighters.”

“Then Jungkook and I will talk to the farmers,” Namjoon decides as he looks at his familiar, who nods his head in agreement. “The notice mentions that they’re the ones who suspect dark magic is at hand. Maybe one of them saw something that can give us a clue to where our necromancer is.”

With a solid plan set, the party breaks off to their assigned tasks.

Tonight still looks grim, but there’s hope.

With success, they might be able to turn everything around before nightfall.

“Any luck?” you ask when you see Namjoon and Jungkook circling back to the village square after a while.

“Not really,” Namjoon mulls with a sigh.

“They said the horde comes from all around the village. One night, they’re skeletons from the village’s graveyard. Another night, they’ve come from the nearby lake or from the thickets of the woods,” Jungkook explains with a frown. Whoever they talk to seems to have different descriptions of the undead creatures. “Most of the villagers are too busy trying to stay alive to keep track of what’s been causing the dead to rise.”

“They did confirm one thing, though,” Namjoon adds before he throws a glance at his familiar. “They heard the sound of bells.”

“Bells?” you echo, looking between them.

“It’s how the necromancers summon the dead,” Jungkook simply explains. “Without them, they’re just like any other mage.”

“Good to know,” you mutter, shivering at the thought of hearing strange bells in the middle of the night. At least, if nothing else, you’ll be able to take away their advantage.

Still, a mage that has the skills to control the dead must be incredibly powerful.

“How is everything here?” Namjoon asks as he looks around.

“Good. Jin is a natural at raising morale,” you reply, looking over to where a small crowd chants Seokjin’s name. The others in his guild have been teaching them how to use their weapons, and although they’re still clearly unskilled, their progress is still quite an improvement from before.

“Hoseok-hyung looks like he has things under control in the infirmary,” Jungkook points out. The nurses and patients around him are in awe at the simple potions he had given them, claiming that he must be a miracle doctor. They also look smitten over Taehyung, who’s soothing voice calms and comforts the bedridden a bit.

“Yoongi-hyung, too,” Namjoon notes when he looks at your familiar, sitting over an anvil and helping the blacksmith craft weapons of steel. With assistance, it seems like the blacksmith will be able to get repairs done in time after all.

Shouts and cheers from the tavern show that Jackson, somehow, persuaded the bartender to give out free ale to the villagers. Although tipsy, their spirits are high, and they seem eager to fight after a round of complimentary drinks.

“I’ll help Yoongi-hyung,” Jungkook states, interested in what they’re doing. He approaches the blacksmith, who seems elated to have additional assistance.

“We should probably check on Jackson. Maybe he’s heard something,” you suggest, turning toward the tavern. But Namjoon grabs your hand and pulls you back.

“Actually,” he starts, suddenly a little nervous. He takes a deep breath before he tells you, “There’s something I need to do first. Before it’s too late.”

At age thirteen, Namjoon awakened the power of magic. The feeling of bestowment is like fire. The initial spark of energy courses through his veins and spreads within him. Mesmerizing, alluring, and dangerous. No matter how much he reads and tries to understand his abilities, there’s always something new to learn, to incantate, and to master through his connection to the Veil.

Magic is both a blessing and a curse. Two sides of the same coin.

At first, Namjoon hated what he was. He hated that he became a mage.

Every night, when he was locked away in Alterwood Keep or WIndshire Tower, he questioned what he had done to be damned with such misfortune.

Magic is what burned his family’s home to the ground. Magic is what got him taken away from his parents, his friends, and his village – everything he knew. Magic is what lured the hunters into killing Ignis, turned Adriel into a beast, and shunned him from his home for so long.

The same home he stands before now.

“This is it,” Namjoon tells you, looking at an ordinary-looking house.

It’s been rebuilt over the years. Shabby, but somewhat similar to what it used to be. The curtains are identical to the ones his mother had put on the windows, down to the same shade of color. The front has pots of flowers that she liked to grow, and as the weather warmed, she’d smile as they began to bloom. Inside, Namjoon is certain he’d find a small collection of books his father would’ve read, and upon his favorite chair, he used to emphasize the importance of education and the pursuit of knowledge.

Your fingers thread through his. “Are you ready?”

He looks at you and nods his head.

At age nineteen, shortly after he was transferred to Blackstone Castle, he finally started to see magic as a positive force in his life.

Magic is what brought you all together, intertwining your fates with each other like red strings of soulmates. Magic is what makes the ordinary, unassuming shop at New Haven come to life and keep you all safe and happy. Magic is what brings him back to where it all started, with you by his side.

Years have passed since that fateful day he was taken from his parents. He’s started to accept that magic is a part of him. For all its wickedness and destruction, and all its serenity and wonder. Two sides of the same coin.

He just hopes, as he raises his hand to knock on the door, his parents will accept him as well. Magic and all.

The door swings open. An older woman stands on the other side. “Yes, can I help you?”

There’s a polite but cautious smile on her face, and deep dimples on her cheeks that match Namjoon’s. The resemblance between them is unmistakable.

“Hi Mother,” Namjoon greets her with his own nervous, dimpled smile. His hand squeezes yours for assurance. “It’s me. Your son.”

Confusion turns to recognition, which turns from surprise to disbelief. You watch as the woman looks at Namjoon like he’s a ghost.

“Y-You. You shouldn’t be here,” she stutters, lip trembling as her eyes water. Her hand is pressed to her heart as she steps away from the door. 

An older man notices his wife’s distress and comes to the door as well. He puts an arm around her and frowns at you two, not seeming to recognize the young man who has his height and strong build. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“Father, it’s me,” Namjoon tries to say, but his voice is small. He’s starting to think that this is a bad idea. “Kim Namjoon. I’m your son.”

Like the woman, the man is initially shocked by the news. But then, his eyes narrow at Namjoon angrily. “What are the likes of you doing here, boy? Don’t we have enough to deal with?”

Namjoon visibly stiffens at the harshness in his father’s voice. “I’m here on a quest. I’ve come to learn that our village is under attack.”

“My village doesn’t need your help!” his father yells, spit flying as he holds his wife protectively. “Magic is what got us into this mess! Magic will make things worse!”

“Let’s get out of here,” you quietly urge, frowning at their hostility.

This is like his nightmares. Their looks of hatred and disdain burn under his skin, searing themselves into his memories. It’s hard for him to breathe, it’s hard for him to think. Suddenly, he feels so small. Like he’s a child again, standing before the fires that destroyed his home and took everything from him.

“Get away from him if you know what’s good for you, little girl,” the man warns, finally noticing that you’re there. “He’s something Wicked. His magic put us all in danger and ruined our lives!”

“I’m sorry,” Namjoon chokes out. The words that he wanted to tell his parents after all these years. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Get out! Do not come here again!” his father interrupts as his mother bursts into tears, burying her face into her husband’s shoulder. He grabs whatever is closest to him and waves it in a threatening manner. “Get away from our house before you destroy it!”

Namjoon obliges, stepping away from the door. He looks deeply hurt as he tries again. “But Father—”

“Do not call me that!” he barks as he gives him one more hateful glare. “We don’t have a son. Not anymore.”

Then, he slams the door shut.

“That went well,” Namjoon comments, sarcasm thick in his voice. He sits on a broken crate in the alleyway the two of you end up in and sighs. “I feel like an idiot.”

Part of him had known that, maybe, his parents weren't going to give him the warmest welcome. Part of him even thought that, perhaps, his parents wouldn’t recognize him.

Still, it hurts.

It hurts that he had expected otherwise. That he had hoped his parents would listen to him and forgive him. That they’d come to accept him.

But they’ve made it more than clear that Hawthorn Village and the house he grew up in is no longer his home. And that the parents who raised him are no longer his family.

Namjoon always knew this scenario could’ve been a possibility. And yet, he foolishly wanted to be wrong.

“Joon…” Your voice calls out from behind him, but you seem at a loss of words.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he apologizes, feeling incredibly dejected as he keeps his back to you. “I shouldn’t have bothered. I should’ve known it’d be a waste of time.”

And it hurts. It hurts so badly.

Knowing that all his efforts to return home — and all the punishments he took for running away — were fruitless. That no matter how hard he tries to be good and understand his magic, nothing will change.

In the end, Ignis really died for nothing. And that’s probably what hurts the most.

Namjoon half-expects you to scold him for dragging you along. For you to comment how you knew this was a bad idea, and that you both have other important things to worry about right now.

Instead, you approach him and gently wrap your arms around his neck. Your body is pressed against his back, hugging him from behind. Neither of you speak as he stiffens under your touch. But he places his hand over your arm in a wordless request to stay.

And you do. You stay with him, kissing his tear-stained cheeks and wishing you could do more to comfort him.

But to Namjoon, this is enough. Being with you is more than enough.

When the sun goes down, the dead awakens.

Villagers of Hawthorn scramble indoors, locking themselves inside and barricading the doors and windows. The church bells are quiet, not to be rung until morning light. Everywhere is an eerie silence, and those left to fend off the inevitable enemies swallow their fears as they train their eyes on the horizon.

There, a green fog mixes with the misty air, and the putrid stench of rotting flesh slowly advances toward them. Death is coming, and with it, alarming numbers of the undead.

“All right, everyone!” the mayor begins, taking command of the last line of defense. The odds are heavily against them, but he has to keep up what little morale they still have left. “We’ve driven off this evil before. We can do it again for one more night. We fight, or we die trying!”

With that said, the villagers charge in. Battle cries ring out as they use their pitchforks, shovels, and scythes to attack the incoming herd.

But they only get so close before the fear sets in.

Death looks them in the eye. Corpses with lifeless, glowing eyes, flesh rotten and decayed, and bones visible as they unhinge their jaws and let out an unsettling groan.

Some of them flee the opposite direction, running away from their foes. Some stand frozen, panic seizing them in place. Some, unable to stand the horrid smell, drop their weapons and retch out their stomach’s contents.

The villagers don’t stand a chance.

Then, they begin to hear it.

In the dark, rural farmlands, the sonorous sound of bells toll. Yet, when their eyes gaze to the local church, the large brass on the tower is completely still. If it’s not from the church, where are the bells coming from?

A scream pierces the air. The mayor turns to see a woman swinging an axe around violently. Her eyes are wide with terror, fixed on something before her, but there isn’t anyone around her. She continues to scream at something to get away from her as she slashes the air.

Two friends suddenly turn on each other. The two men have been buddies for years, and it’s like they don’t recognize their friend. They have that same, wild look in their eyes as they grab each other and raise their weapons.

The mayor’s heart hammers in his chest as they turn against each other, mistaking alley for enemy. “Men, what are you doing? Stop it!”

But it’s too late.

Blood splatters. Followed by cries of agony.

Horrified, the mayor gets away before they try to hurt him as well. As he runs, he grabs a woman’s shoulders and tries to warn her not to listen to the bells. But when she turns to face him, her face is completely disfigured. The flesh looks like it’s melting off her skin, bone and muscle peeking as she smiles wickedly.

“What’s wrong, mayor?” the woman asks, but her voice sounds off. Another voice is layered over hers – deep and raspy, almost demonic – that clearly isn’t her own.

The mayor lets her go and shrinks back in fear. As he looks around, he sees that the undead have somehow surrounded him. They stand there and watch him with their lifeless eyes. Their rotting flesh. Pitchforks, shovels, and scythes in hand.

Mysterious bells continue to echo, drowning out his screams.

“Do you hear that?” Hoseok asks from beside you. The two of you are stationed a little away from the village, near a part of the woods that locals claim was one of the spots the dead have risen from. It’s foggy and creepy, and you’ve been eyeing the thicket and expect a horde of undead to stumble from beyond the trees.

But it’s been dead quiet.

Even as you hold your breath and stand perfectly still, you can’t hear anything.

“What is it?” you ask, your voice a whisper.

Hoseok glances over at you with a frown. “I hear the ringing of bells.”

The sound of footsteps crunching on leaves and twigs catch your attention. Seokjin calls out to you and Hoseok as he and Namjoon appear from the fog. “We need to regroup. Something is happening at the village.”

“What do you mean? Are they under attack?”

Neither of them answer you. The concern on both their faces only makes you worry more as you and Hoseok follow them toward the old windmill where the rest of your party is waiting. It’s a little closer to the heart of the village, and you can hear some commotion going on, like the villagers are in the throes of battle.

You spot Taehyung in his raven form, flying from the direction of the village and landing before you and Hoseok. When he transforms into his human form, he reports, “The recently deceased have risen, but they’re not the biggest problem.”

“Then who are they fighting?” Namjoon asks, eyebrows furrowing together.

Taehyung leans against Hoseok for support, bringing his palm against his forehead like he has a migraine. “They’re fighting each other.”

Silence follows the unsettling news.

Seokjin is the first to break it. “What the hell is going on?”

As if to answer him, you all hear it too.

The haunting, sonorous sound of bells in a nearby distance.

Hearing them sends a chill up your spine. And knowing that they’re beckoning death makes them even more terrifying.

“We need to get the bells,” Jungkook reminds you, turning away from the village to look you in the eye. “It’s the only way we can stop their madness.”

“We’ll have to be quick,” Namjoon agrees. “Or Hawthorn won’t make it to sunrise.”

There are seven necromantic bells. Each is more difficult to wield properly as their size and power increases. And, without proper care, the bells have a negative effect on the ringer that could backfire to certain death.

As you and the others approach the village, you hear the chime of the first bell.

It’s been a long day. Traveling the long roads to the village by carriage and on foot. Helping the residents prepare for the gruesome attacks tonight. Getting ready to face a powerful mage hiding somewhere nearby.

Sleep. The first bell sings. And you’re hit with a wave of drowsiness.

Yoongi catches you before you collapse on the ground. His eyes are tired, as if he hadn’t slept for days. In a slurred mumble, he commands, “Stay with me.”

The others aren’t faring any better. Long yawns and slow steps plague your group. Some of them look like they’re about to slump over and fall unconscious. You and the other mages ignore the lull of the bell and stay awake and alert. With tired eyes, you try to scan for the source of the sound and see a shadow slip into a building.

“There,” you point out, readying your wand. You follow after it with half your party close behind you. Seokjin stays behind with his guild, promising to catch up. Jungkook looks lethargic as he kicks open the entrance a few times before nearly tumbling inside.

A home abandoned is what you’re met with. The people living here seem to be gone, hurriedly leaving in the middle of making dinner. Flies swarm the rotting food, but it doesn’t look like anything else has been touched.

“Be careful,” Jackson warns, going further into the house. He uses his wand as a light, cautiously going from room to room to make sure the coast is clear.

It looks empty. But you know it isn’t.

You feel someone watching you all from the shadows.

When you turn to face the main room, your eyes widen when the figure emerges. Shrouded in tattered robes and carrying a bandolier of old bells is the necromancer. Deathly pale as a ghost, thin and bony like a skeleton, and decayed like the very creatures they summon. 

The necromancer — a truly Wicked creature — isn’t human at all. It’s a phantom.

It towers over you, face covered in darkness. In its hand is the second bell, which rings and beckons the dead with every step it takes toward you.

A burst of flames comes from your wand, aiming right at the necromancer’s face. Fire catches on its robes, but the necromancer seems unphased. Even as it’s burning alive.

Behind you, wooden boards split and break, and arms of the dead reach through the window to grab you. A startled scream escapes your lips when something does.

You’re pulled tightly to Namjoon’s chest as he leads you away from the doors and windows. He keeps a wand pointed at the necromancer as he holds you protectively. From your peripheral vision, you see Jackson, Hoseok, and the familiars trying to keep the horde out.

Distracted, you don’t notice the necromancer tucking the second bell away and taking out the third one from the pouch. With two hands, it rings the bell – up, down, left right – each toll causing different sounds from one bell, but they make a dancing tune that compels your legs to move on its own.

“Namjoon!” you gasp, trying to hold onto him. Mechanically, one foot marches over the other. Against your will, you leave his side. Neither Namjoon nor the other boys could stop you as their own feet seem planted in place, unable to move.

By its command, you spin around and start to slowly head straight toward the window, into the reaching arms of the undead. The boys call out to you, and you try to resist the magic. Every fiber of your being tries to hold you back from being torn apart by their greedy hands and mouths.

But your body won’t listen. You continue to march forward.

With all his willpower, Namjoon leans as far as he can and reaches toward you. His fingers grasp the back of your clothes and he yanks you backwards. You stumble a bit, but you reach back and cling onto him, anchoring yourself as he pulls you closer.

“I got you, baby,” he assures you, wrapping both of his arms around you.

Relief washes over your face, even as your legs continue to move on its own, you and Namjoon hold onto each other. With the wand still in your hand, you manage to point it at the necromancer and cast a spell of frost, just as it takes out two more bells.

The necromancer freezes. Icicles form around it for a few seconds before it shakes it away. Namjoon’s eyes widen when he realizes something.

Magic is very effective against the necromancer.

Just as he realizes this, the phantom necromancer starts to rapidly swing the bell in its left hand.

Whispers from beyond the grave seem to float around the room with the fourth bell, disembodied and ambiguous. The voices are in every direction, layered with the quick and steady rings. And Namjoon swears one of the voices is calling out to him.

His eyes look for who is calling him, and his gaze turns toward the crowd of undead by the window. Then, his eyes widen when he hears the chime of the fifth bell.

One of the skeletal remains starts to look familiar to him. The clothes are tattered and weathered, but the scraps of what’s left are the same from that day, slightly charged from when the hunters burned him. Flesh and muscle start to form around the skeleton, bringing back the teenage boy Namjoon once left behind.

Impossible.

Ignis, alive and well, is among the horde. His first friend since he’s become a mage.

“Namjoon,” Ignis calls out to him again. His voice is echoing and weak, but it’s still very much the same as he remembers.

Hoseok, and Jackson are looking in the same direction, stunned. Namjoon would’ve thought they’re also seeing Ignis until he hears the names they call out.

“Mina?”

“Adriel!”

A sense of confusion draws Namjoon out of the spell. He doesn’t see Adriel or Mina in the crowd, but he sees Ignis. Are you two seeing someone different?

Taehyung grabs both Hoseok and Jackson before they could step closer to the window. “Don’t. You’ll get hurt.”

Yoongi and Jungkook block the window as well, trying to keep you and Namjoon safe. He doesn’t realize it, but Namjoon’s grip loosens around you from the shock. The spell from the third bell still lingers, causing you to move away from him again, but Yoongi easily catches you this time.

“Is that—?” you begin to ask, but Yoongi shakes his head.

“It’s a trick,” he says as he tightens his hold around you. “Whoever you see isn’t there.”

Namjoon’s heart drops a little when he realizes the fourth and fifth bell must’ve brought back memories of a deceased loved one. An old friend to each of you that had passed on. Their voices. Their likeness.

“Hyung, you have to get the bells, Quickly,” Jungkook reminds him as he glares at the phantom necromancer. “Before it uses the seventh one. That’ll cause death to everyone who hears it.”

That means there’s only two more bells left, and the last one is deadly. If there’s a chance to stop the necromancer, it has to be now.

The necromancer tries another combination. It exchanges the fourth and fifth bell for the second and sixth ones. With the second, it’s able to summon the dead, beckoning them to come to it from beyond the grave. And with the sixth, it has complete control over them, binding them to its will. Within its shrouded face, its eyes begin to glow an eerie yellow the moment it wields the sixth bell.

Namjoon casts a bolt of lightning from his wand, but the necromancer vanishes before it hits. The bells ring somewhere that he can’t pinpoint, and he sees you and the others regain control of your bodies and try to look for the necromancer all over again.

“It couldn’t have gone far,” Namjoon reasons, scanning around. All of you are on high alert, wands ready to strike the moment the phantom necromancer appears.

Then, he hears the sound of wood breaking. More reinforcements join the previous herd and start to come inside. Namjoon completely loses sight of you and the others, using gusts of wind to blow the undead back and knocking them against walls and furniture. He calls out to you, but the disembodied groans, the stench of rotting flesh, and the sight of disfigured creatures keeps him from looking for you.

One of the creatures he comes to face is Ignis. Or at least, what looks like him.

“Stop. I don’t want to hurt you,” Namjoon says, pointing his wand at him. It feels like his Harrowing all over again. Being forced to face his biggest regret.

Ignis has his wand pointed at him as well. It’s a broken stick. The old, dirty clothes that he wears barely covers his chest and waist, but there’s a deep wound where the hunters have stabbed him through the heart. There are burn marks from when they had set him on fire.

Namjoon feels a burst of hot air as a fireball flies past him. He counters it with a water spell, dousing the flames before it hits him. The two elements collide as steam fills the room, causing Namjoon to lose sight of his old friend.

Sparks of lightning flash to his right, and he barely dodges an electrifying bolt. The attack hits a picture frame behind him, and the glass shatters as it falls on the floor. Wind sweeps up the broken glass and hurls it toward him, and Namjoon levitates the broken boards in front of him and uses them as a shield to protect himself.

Spells after spells become a dance between offensive and defensive attacks between Namjoon and Ignis. He can feel himself getting tired. The overuse of magic is causing his hands to blacken. He’s breathing heavier, and pain shoots from his arm when it got hit with a critical ice attack.

But Ignis is slowing down too. He’s proven to be an incredibly difficult opponent. But like Namjoon, Ignis is panting for breath and from the tips of his fingers down to his wrist is inky black of magic overuse. The wound on his chest expanded, bleeding heavily, yet he still stands. Stubbornly, he continues to point his wand at Namjoon, still wanting to fight.

However, Namjoon knows he needs to end it now.

While in battle, it seems like the others have taken care of the undead herd, but the necromancer’s whereabouts are still unknown. He can hear them shouting at him, but he doesn’t know what they’re saying. All he can focus on is the opponent before him.

Needing to end the fight, Namjoon tries a new spell.

Keeping his eye on Ignis, he slowly crouches and puts his hand on the ground. The earth moves beneath his fingertips, and covering the house are thick vines. They come from one side of the house, through the window, reaching across the floor and ceiling, and finally snagging Ignis. He seems surprised when they wrap around his wrist and disarms his wand, and around his ankles to immobilize him. 

The surprise turns to worry when one of the vines wraps around his neck.

Then, they begin to tighten.

Namjoon tries not to react as he watches his old friend die by his hand once again. He feels the sting of tears threaten his eyes as the wand falls on the ground and Ignis begins to choke.

As much as Namjoon wishes he could go back in time and undo his old friend’s death, as much as he’d like to think this is the real Ignis and not some undead creature wearing his skin, he knows his friend is long gone.

He points his wand at Ignis, the tip of it heating with a fire spell.

But before it’s cast, Namjoon is knocked to the ground. As he comes to his senses, he realizes three horrifying things.

First, the phantom necromancer had been there the whole time. It’s been ringing the bells, conducting them like a puppeteer. And Namjoon is its puppet with strings.

Second, it isn’t just Namjoon that was being controlled by the bells. His party has been immobilized, forced to watch as Namjoon fights Ignis. But Jackson – who was standing closest to the phantom – manages to break from the spellbound restraints, covering his ears to block the sound. Out of willpower and determination, he puts one foot over the other to sneak up on the necromancer. Until, finally, he yanks the hoister of bells before the necromancer has a chance to grab the seventh and deadliest one.

Third, the moment that the necromancer is no longer in control, Yoongi lunges at Namjoon with his hand curled into a fist. Jungkook manages to grab Yoongi’s waist, but they both topple over and knock into Namjoon. The three of them are on the ground, and Namjoon realizes that Hoseok and Taehyung are yelling at him too, but their voices are where Ignis is.

Or what he thought was Ignis.

It isn’t an undead creature caught in the vines of his spell.

It’s you. This whole time, it’s been you.

“Let her go, Namjoon!” Hoseok screams, trying to yank the vines away from you. Every time he pulls one away, another takes its place. They start to tangle around him and Taehyung as well. He can feel it grabbing his ankles and see it wrap around Taehyung’s hand as he tugs on the one around your neck.

Fuck, he doesn’t even know if you’re even breathing. Your body looks lifeless as they continue to constrict your chest and your neck.

Taehyung curses and tries to shake off the vine that’s spreading up his arm and toward his neck. Hoseok’s mind is spinning, wanting to use a fire attack to burn the vines, but afraid that it’ll hurt you and Taehyung. And Namjoon is still dazed from the effects of the bells.

Seokjin finally catches up after helping the surviving villagers. His eyes widen when he sees what’s happening and immediately rushes to you with his sword at hand.

“Hyung!” Taehyung exclaims as Seokjin carefully cuts the vines to free the three of you. Hoseok immediately catches you, and to his relief, you’re still alive. You’re still breathing, but barely.

“Is she okay?” Seokjin asks, his hand still around his sword. The Oathkeepers have jumped into battle with Jackson, trying to take the necromancer down with standard magic spells now that the bells are not with it.

“She’ll be fine,” Hoseok says as he sees Yoongi rush toward you. He hands you off to him. “Watch over her, hyung. We have to help Jackson.”

Yoongi merely nods. His hands are trembling a little as he holds you in his arms, taking you somewhere safe from the fight.

Namjoon finally snaps out of it when he sees Yoongi passing by. He catches a glimpse of you too, but Jungkook shakes his shoulder and urges, “Hyung, come on, let’s go. They need us.”

Slowly, Namjoon stands and his eyes narrow at the necromancer. The spells are aggressive as it targets Jackson, trying to get its bells back. The Oathkeepers surround him, protecting him as they use their weapons against the powerful mage.

“Push it toward the vines,” Namjoon instructs, and they do. Each swing of an attack that the Oathkeepers land, and each spell cast from Hoseok and Jackson causes the necromancer to step closer and closer to the vines where you were.

One of the vines manages to snag the necromancer’s ankle. Another starts to wrap around its arm. Everyone watches as a being associated with death struggles to free itself from the plants that are full of life. But that only tangles it up even more, constricting it until it can’t move at all.

Then, Namjoon stands before the necromancer. He still has a bit of magic in him, and with it, he unleashes a small fire. Just like he had accidentally casted all those years ago, when he first awakened his power.

This time, it’s with purpose as the flames engulf and destroy everything before him.

There’s an unnerving feeling that settles throughout the remains of Hawthorn Village.

All night, the Oathkeepers gathered everyone they could find and brought them to the church. They figured it would be easier to protect everyone if they’re all in one place.

Priestess and the faithful Devoted clasps their hands so tightly in prayer, their knuckles turn white. Mothers hold their young children close, comforting them as best as they can. Men guarding the inside of the chapel anxiously pace with their hands hovering over their weapons, anticipating that they’d be the last line of defense if your party fails to stop the necromancer.

It’s been a long night.

The fighting and shouting beyond the church door lasts for hours.

But beyond the horizon, there’s a silver lining of hope. Dawn breaks, and a new day begins. As the sun rises, so does their salvation.

Word spreads of what you and the others have done. How you all saved the village. How Namjoon defeated the awful creature that’s been terrorizing them.

“Didn’t you have a son named Namjoon?” one of the villagers asks, but Namjoon’s father shakes his head and denies it. There’s a frown on the old man’s face as others have gathered to talk about the news.

It’s finally over. Their village is saved. They’ve survived those perilous nights. And it’s all thanks to the guild that came to help them.

Stepping outside, the morning light greets them. Fighters return to embrace their loved ones after the long battle. Children cheer with joy for their heroes, and tears are shed from relief between reunited families and partners.

Among the fighters, there’s Namjoon and his group.

One of the boys – the one with a slender build and a sharp face – has you on his back. The others are worn and exhausted, but seem okay from the distance as they help support each other back to the village. And Namjoon, with two of his comrades holding him up, keeps trying to disregard his own injuries as he worries about yours.

The concern on his face, the remorse and sorrow in his expression – it’s just like when he was a kid on that fateful day.

“How do you reckon they did it?” another villager asks him, looking at the direction that Namjoon’s father is staring at. It would be easy to reveal the truth. That Wicked mages are among them, and the entire village would be full of distrust and anger toward them.

“Who knows?” the old man says instead, and turns away from the group with a frown.

Magic may have gotten them in this mess, but in an ironic twist of fate, magic is what saved them.

For the first time in days, Hawthorn Village is promised a good night.

The mayor and the surviving villagers hold a small ceremony to honor the deceased and to hail your party as heroes. It will take time for their tiny village to recover. Even with the threat of the necromancer gone, there’s still fear of the night and what it could behold. But the mayor is confident that they can rebuild.

You’re then taken to Hawthorn’s inn to recover. Luckily, no one else is severely injured, but you and Namjoon have the worst of it.

Hours pass, and you’ve yet to open your eyes.

“It’s not your fault,” Hoseok reminds him, wrapping a cloth bandage around Namjoon’s arm. “That necromancer made you guys attack each other.”

It doesn’t make Namjoon feel any better.

“I nearly killed her,” he laments. At Blackstone Castle, Hoseok once swore that if Namjoon ever hurts you, he’d kill him. Truly, this warrants his friends to turn against him like others have done before.

But somehow, they don’t.

Hoseok finishes up and examines his work. “To be fair, she did a number on you too.”

Namjoon is told to rest, but he can’t bring himself to let his guard down. He keeps thinking there must be a catch. That, perhaps, the others are still angry with him and are starting to resent him.

“Namjoon-ah, come eat,” Seokjin calls out for him, gesturing for the mage to sit at the table. He serves him a bowl of stew the innkeeper made. “Be careful. It’s still hot.”

“Hyung, are you healing okay?” Jungkook asks again – probably for the fourth time that hour alone. He frowns at the bandages Hoseok put on him, and there’s genuine concern in his big, doe-shaped eyes. “If you need anything, let me know. Got it?”

“Be careful, hyung. You don’t want to hurt yourself again,” Taehyung scolds when Namjoon nearly bumps into something. It’s the closest any of them have been stern with him all day, yet Taehyung frets over him like he does with you and the others.

Even Yoongi strikes up a casual conversation with him, flipping through a book of Devoted scriptures he’s found. “What is this garbage they’ve been teaching you?”

Namjoon frowns. “Hyung, what are you doing?”

“There’s nothing else to read,” he states with a scowl.

“I mean, why aren’t you angry at me?” Namjoon asks, his heart still full of guilt. You mean so much to all of them, and what he did is unforgivable.

“You didn’t mean to hurt her,” Yoongi simply replies.

“But I did it,” Namjoon protests, feeling a bit frustrated. He doesn’t get it. “Why are you all so nice to me after what I’ve done? Why don’t you hate me?”

Isn’t this how it always goes? Why is it so different this time?

“You’re family to us, Namjoon,” Yoongi tells him. “We could never hate you.”

Namjoon wants to believe that, but he doesn’t feel like he deserves to. Not after what he did to you.

Whenever he feels overwhelmed and stressed, Namjoon likes to run to clear his mind. Usually, it’s along the river near New Haven, where he can relax beneath the shade of a tree he liked afterwards. But as he lets his feet take him somewhere, he finds himself by the Hawthorn Lake.

Most of the villagers have gathered here as the late afternoon sun colors the skies with reds and oranges of twilight. To honor and mourn the lives that were lost the past few nights, they’ve decided to hold a small ceremony for them. And standing a short distance from them is a familiar face.

“Where’ve you been?” Namjoon asks, walking up to him.

Jackson is quiet as he watches them. The villagers pray and hug each other, and some sing hymns and play instruments by the shore. Paper lanterns are lit and sent off into the water, representing both hope and remembrance, as well as grief and loss. With the setting sun hitting the water’s surface, it matches the small flames being carried across the lake.

It’s a beautiful ceremony.

“I wish we could’ve done something like this,” Jackson quietly confides without looking at Namjoon. “For Adriel, Mina, and everyone else we lost at Blackstone.”

“We still can,” Namjoon tells him, facing the lake as well. It might be difficult now, but maybe when things settle down with the hunters, they could go back to the lake by the castle and hold a memorial for them one day.

Silence passes as the sun continues to sink. For once, it’s a peaceful evening. And the somber songs start to turn to ones of celebration as a relief washes over them. Tonight, they no longer need to fear the dark.

“You know, I wanted to take up this mission so I could bring them back,” Jackson confesses. “Adriel sacrificed himself to give us our freedom. I’ve been trying to enjoy the gift he gave us, but it isn’t fair that he’s dead while I get to live outside the prison he desperately wanted to escape from.”

Namjoon frowns. “Necromancy is dark magic, Jackson. What if it backfired?”

“I didn’t care. I would’ve used whatever they had to bring them back: bells, tomes, ritual circles,” Jackson lists as he looks at the stash of bells he’s been carrying with him. “Whatever it took. Wouldn’t you want to do the same for that old friend you told us about? The one you saw during the fight?”

Ignis.

Immediately, Namjoon thinks of how the bells convinced him that his old friend had come back. How it took his shape and form, and how it used his voice.

“If I did, he wouldn’t have been the same.” He’d probably be no different from any of the other undead they saw last night. A shell of a human with its spirit gone. A mere illusion of what he once was.

“I probably wouldn’t have been the same either. Had I tried, I would’ve lost a sense of who I am and become a monster like that necromancer phantom,” Jackson concludes with a frown. “That thing we fought… it wasn’t human. It was truly Wicked.”

“Yeah,” Namjoon agrees. The necromancer felt like it had lost its humanity a very long time ago, and now just wanders into towns and villages to torment and cause chaos.

“Here.” Jackson holds out the bells to Namjoon. “Make sure to destroy them.”

Namjoon takes it, and he can feel the weight of its power in his hand. “What’s your plan now?”

“Don’t know yet. But I’ll figure it out,” Jackson replies with a small shrug. “I might stay here for a bit and help them rebuild. The guys at the pub really liked me.” 

You’re not sure how long you’ve been asleep.

For a while, you drift in and out of consciousness. You feel the warmth of Hoseok’s healing magic before he applies an ointment to your wound. You hear the sweet tune of Jungkook’s song as he sings to you. You feel Taehyung brush the hair away from your face and press his lips against your knuckles. You hear Seokjin bargain with you – a kiss from your handsomest boyfriend if you open your eyes. When you do, you see Yoongi sleeping on a chair nearby, and you’re certain he hasn’t left your side since you were brought here.

But you don’t see or hear from Namjoon. You force yourself to sit up as the memories of last night come back to you.

In all the years you’ve known Namjoon, he’s always been a strong person. He has thick skin and a level head, and is eloquent and witty with his words. He shoulders a lot of the hard work so you and the others don’t have to. Whenever you need advice, comfort, or someone to rely on, he’s always the first person that comes to mind.

But Namjoon is also human. He can’t always be strong.

And while the details of the fight are still a bit foggy to you, there’s one thing that haunts your mind. The absolute horror on his face when Namjoon finally realizes it’s you he was attacking.

Yoongi stirs when he senses you’re awake. “Where are you going?”

Caught halfway to the door, you stop mid-step and ask, “Yoongi, have you seen—”

Just then, the door opens. Jungkook blinks in surprise when he sees you out of bed. “Oh? You’re awake?”

The others start to crowd in when they hear you’re up. You’re met with relieved sighs, lingering touches, and questions about how you’re feeling from all of them. But as you look around, you notice someone is missing.

“Where’s Namjoon?”

The boys look at each other, exchanging glances as if they don’t know what to tell you. Then, Jungkook speaks up. “He went to get some fresh air. He feels really bad about what happened.”

“I should talk to him,” you decide, determined to find him. You want to look for him anyway. “Do you know where he went?”

Soon, all of you are outside the inn. It’s incredibly empty by the square, and you learn that it’s because most of the villagers have gathered by the nearby lake. From what you’ve heard, it seems Jackson and Namjoon heeded over there as well.

“You’re the girl that was with that boy, aren’t you?”

For a second, you almost didn’t realize someone was talking to you. Then, you turn to see a familiar face. A woman that looked at you with terror and coldly slammed her door at your face yesterday. Namjoon’s mother.

“I am,” you answer, honest but a bit guarded. Now that you have a good look at her, you can see how much Namjoon takes after her appearance. He has the same high cheekbones, the same shape of her eyes, and the same deep dimples in his smile. She stares at you as well, but she doesn’t say a word. Self-conscious, you ask, “Is… Is something wrong?”

She blinks and shakes her head. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to stare.”

You don’t sense any hostility from her this time. Rather, you feel like she’s genuinely curious about you. Perhaps, after the battle and hearing people talk, she had a change of heart about her son.

“That’s all right. I must look terrible.” 

You laugh awkwardly, trying to dust off any dirt from your clothes and fix your hair. Magic helps make you look presentable enough to go out, but you’re still exhausted from fighting all night. Your spells are still weak from overuse, your current clothes are battle-worn, and you’re in a dire need of a bath.

“Actually, you’re quite beautiful,” she quietly admits, and you’re taken aback by the compliment. She looks away from you. There’s a sadness in her eyes as she asks, “How do you know him?”

She doesn’t need to name him for you to know who she’s talking about.

“We’re…” Friends? Lovers? Housemates? Family? “Together. He’s my partner.”

She still doesn’t look at you, but you can see the frown form upon her lips. “And you know what he is?”

“That he’s a mage? Of course I do.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

You blink at her, confused. “Why would it bother me?”

Her gaze lifts to meet yours, and she stares at you for a long time. It begins to occur to you that, although she knows that Namjoon is a mage, she doesn’t know that you’re one as well. To her, it seems outlandish that a human would willingly love a mage.

“He’s a monster. At least, I believed so,” she finally tells you. “I blamed him for ruining our lives. Don’t you know how shameful it is to have a child cursed with magic? The whole village shunned us for years.”

“Perhaps that’s a problem with your village’s beliefs and not your son,” you retort with a scowl. “His affinity to magic isn’t the only thing that defines him. He’s a good man with a kind heart, and while he’s many things, a monster is far from it.”

Remorse flickers on her face. “Forgive me. It seems you care an awful lot about him.”

“Of course I do,” you tell her so earnestly. “Whether he’s a mage or not, he’s still Namjoon. And I love him.”

Again, his mother stares in silence. She seems baffled, and, perhaps, a bit guilty. For a moment, she hesitates, and just when you’re about to walk away, she asks, “And… is he happy?”

You glance back at his mother. “You can always ask him yourself.”

“No, no. It’s too late for that now. It’s better that he doesn’t know I talked to you,” she backtracks, but there’s a small hint of relief to know what’s become of her son after all these years. “Thank you for indulging an old, shameful woman. I’m glad that he has someone like you who loves him for all he is.”

Night has fallen over the village of Hawthorn. But for once, it’s met with laughter and festivities of celebration. Jackson spots his new friends from the pub and introduces them to him. A guy named Mark invites them both for a drink and to hang out as the lantern ceremony continues.

The moon shines brightly as its light reflects against the lake’s surface, and the glow from paper lanterns being carried across the water is a breathtaking sight.

“Namjoon.”

But despite all the people and festivities around, all you see is him.

Namjoon leaves Jackson and the others and sprints toward you, but stops himself before he gets too close. His hand reaches out to touch you out of habit, but he holds it back. He swallows the fear and hesitation building within him before he plasters a nervous smile. “Hey, baby.”

You look him over, not saying anything at first. Your eyes seem fixed on the bandages he has around his arm. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

His smile fades. A short chuckle of disbelief escapes his lips. “How is that the first thing you ask me when I’m the one that hurt you?”

“You didn’t know.”

“I could’ve killed you!” His voice raises, causing a couple passing by to look at you two. He steps a little closer and frowns. “I’m sorry, baby. I swore to myself that I’d always protect you, and I put you in danger. I don’t ever want to put you in that situation again.”

“Namjoon…”

“So, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.”

You seem to know where this is going. He could see the shakiness in your breath and the way your eyes water. “Namjoon, stop…”

“I think it’s better that I stay here at Hawthorn.”

This decision didn’t come easy. But after hearing that Jackson planned to stick around, he figured he’d stay with him. Help the villagers rebuild. Reconnect with old friends and maybe even his parents. Make this place feel like home again.

It seems like a reasonable idea, but the hardest part is leaving you, the family you brought together, and the shop that became your home. As Namjoon stands before you, he knows he doesn’t deserve any of them. Not you, not the others, not the shop.

“You don’t mean that.” You’re crying now, and even as you wipe your tears, you can’t bring yourself to stop.

In all the years Namjoon has known you, you’ve always been a strong person. You carry an admirable confidence when it comes to your magic. You’re as kind as you are protective of the people you care about. You’re capable of handling yourself when faced with difficult situations.

Before he realizes it, he reaches out to you again. His hand cups your face and his thumb gently strokes your cheek, wiping your tears away. “I’m so scared of hurting you again.”

“And I’m scared to lose you.”

But you’re also human. There are times when you’re not always strong.

It dawns on him that you, like him, are terrified that your magic has hurt him. That you think the reason he wants to stay at Hawthorn is because you attacked him.

“You’ll never lose me,” Namjoon promises. Because he knows, even if you’re far apart, he’ll always think about you. In his dreams, in his thoughts. You’ve already claimed every part of him like a fire. “I love you.”

“Then don’t stay here,” you tell him. “Come home. With me.”

And it strikes Namjoon that this is what he’s been searching for his whole life. All the times he’s tried to return to his family, and all his efforts to understand his magic were to get what you’ve given him all along. Acceptance, trust, love. 

Namjoon nods his head, swallowing back his own tears. “Okay.”

“Okay,” you repeat, smiling with relief. And on that beautiful night, with the moon shining brightly and the paper lanterns glowing in the water, he kisses you.

Hawthorn is just as Namjoon remembers it.

The small, farming village with a tight-knit community. Every morning, the villagers rise at the crack of dawn, tending to their animals and crops, fishing by the nearby lake, and selling their produce at the marketplace. His parents still live here, and so do many of his childhood friends and their families. And when he looks around, he sees the familiar buildings of the old windmill, the local church, and homes made of thatch roofs and mud and stone walls.

Even when he was forced away, he couldn’t imagine anywhere else could be his home.

Years later, after finally returning to the village, Namjoon realizes he couldn’t be any more wrong. He had once thought – while trapped in a tiny room in Alterwood Keep – if he ever made it back here, he’d never want to leave. That this place was his village. This place was and will always be his home.

“Ready?” Hoseok asks, looking at you, Namjoon, and Jackson. The three of you nod as all wands are drawn over the necromancer bells.

With the power of four mages, the powers are sealed away and their tempting call to beckon the dead is nearly silenced. They look like ordinary bells, but should anyone try to ring them now, it’d be muffled and mute. Its effect is significantly weak with the magical seal intact, and the bandolier of bells tucked away in Jungkook’s pack.

“Let’s get out of here,” Seokjin decides once the spell is done. His hand slips around your waist protectively, weary eyes double-checking that none of the villagers have seen you guys use magic.

“It was nice seeing you guys again, man,” Jackson says, hand clasping Hoseok before he pulls him into a quick hug. He does the same to Namjoon and adds, “I’m glad you changed your mind. It doesn’t feel right to separate you all for some reason.”

Namjoon smiles a little at that. “Feel free to stop by at the shop anytime, Jackson.”

“I’ll know where to find you.” There’s promise in his voice that he’ll keep in touch.

Your party heads out of the village, receiving final thanks from the mayor and some of the other villagers for your help. Namjoon pauses when he sees his parents among them. His father merely nods at him and says, “Take care of yourself, Namjoon.”

“Thanks. You too,” he replies, a bit stunned. His parents leave it at that, shuffling away as Hoseok calls for him not to fall behind, but for Namjoon, that is more than enough.

When he catches up to you, you’re at the bridge that enters the village. He pauses and takes one more look around at the old windmill, village, and the farmlands. It really hasn’t changed that much since he was a child.

But Hawthorn no longer feels like home to him.

“Ready?” you ask, offering your hand to hold.

Around you, the others state how they’re looking forward to going back to New Haven. Yoongi complains that he needs a bath and a long nap. Jungkook wrinkles his nose at his muddy pants and mutters how he’s eager to start his meticulous laundry routine. Hoseok and Taehyung invite the Oathkeepers for food and drinks at the shop once you’re all back, and Seokjin complains how he’ll end up doing the majority of cooking.

Namjoon smiles fondly as he watches you all. Then, he nods and takes your hand.

These days, home to him is a small, ordinary, and unassuming shop in a bustling trading town. It’s a building that’s much bigger and more extraordinary on the inside than it is on the outside, with a tavern, a parlor, a mysterious door by the entrance that fulfills a person’s greatest desires, and bedrooms on the upper-floor curated to their residents’ tastes and styles.

Lately, home is waking up to bread baking and coffee brewing when Seokjin and Hoseok wake up early to start the day. It’s afternoons when he’s reading a book and listening to Yoongi playing the piano in the parlor, or Taehyung and Jungkook giggling as they play games with each other. Home is evenings when Jimin stops by with a bouquet of flowers for you, and all eight of you are gathered together for dinner as the weariness of the day melts away in each other’s presence.

To him, home is picnics by the river with you, basking beneath the sunlight of a gorgeous day. Home is debating what fruit is the best at the marketplace, and ending up taking home both of your favorites anyway. It’s childishly teasing each other with pranks and mischievous spells, and then finding ways to be in each other’s arms by the end of the day.

Home is with you.

Thank you for reading ♡ Comments & reblogs are greatly appreciated!

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[mask131]

More Conan thoughts:

Howard's weird play with old historical nations and gods of foreign religion mushed my brain at first, but once I got he wasn't actually using the gods or nations of the real-world and just borrowed their name for fantasy tropes (Set here is basically your typical flat "god of evil" present everywhere in cliche fantasy), it goes much finer

It is fascinating how the Conan tales are much more varied indeed than what pop culture reduced Conan to be (you have Conan explorer and archeologist, Conan robber, Conan bodyguard, Conan pirate on the sea, Conan king leading armies, Conan detective in a museum...) and yet are the most obvious form of formulaic fantasy ever (every time there's a sexy girl popping out of nowhere, Conan saves her and they have sex and she never appears again ; every time Conan must face a huge creepy snake or a huge creepy monkey ; every time there's an evil sorcerer doing evil sorcery and who Conan defeats by destroying his power source, all the bad guys come from Stygia, etc etc)

People also vastly underestimate how Conan tales are one of the most obvious source for the "Lich" archetype of modern days. The entire Lovecraftian circle was responsible for the shaping of the "Lich" in modern-day fantasy (not counting the Nazgûl or the folkloric precedents). But while Clark Ashton Smith was the one who popularized the use of "lich" for "corpses animated by magic" and who kept writing about evil necromancers raising the dead by thousands (see The Empire of the Necromancers, or The Dark Eidolon), Conan was the one who had to face extremely powerful evil sorcerers, who died thousands of years ago but now were resurrected by magic means, and who have all of their power and existence attached to a specific magical item that must be destroyed to vanquish them (like Xaltotun in The Hour of the Dragon).

Conan is such a strange double-standard character, or even world. You know, Conan as a king is tolerant of religion and lets all cults thrive due to his "barbarian" nature refusing oppression based on religion... but at the same time there are OBVIOUSLY evil and dangerous cults in this world where Conan cuts the head of their evil priests and prophets. Conan refuses to rape a girl and treats this as evil... and yet he also regularly kidnaps and "man-handled" women who just happen to fall in love with him at first sight. Howard tried to write "powerful" women characters who are pirate-leaders, and grieving queens, and barbarian women, yet they are also good old cliches of an absurd feminity... And oh yes, Conan's "barbarism", "barbarian" nature seems to have been completely invented by Howard to explain why he wanted a dumb brute of a hero entirely led by his muscles, his dick and his raw emotions, and yet also wanted a scholarly hero talking many languages, knowing well geography, good tactician, aware of History and even versed in the various religious rituals of the cult of his time. Because yes, Conan is a much more intelligent character than pop fiction made it to me... "Barbarian" in Howard words simply seems to mean - absolute raw strength and huge man-crushing muscles, is focused on getting girls and riches first and foremost, and doesn't let "sissy" - sorry, "civilized" - things like laziness, luxury or goodness gracious regular human emotions get in the way.

And that's the irony... Early Conan was a robber obsessed with getting riches and wealth, stealing precious artefacts and gems left and right... and yet he disdains luxury and insults riches as being for effeminate sissises and softening real men into civilizes ninnies. The "barbarian" ideal includes acting on raw emotion like anger or raw desires like lust, and yet the "civilized" caricature includes shooting down people too emotive, or people who lose their dignity or are "too weak" but letting their sorrow and fear take over aggressivity and pragmatism... As I said, Conan is shaped to be basically an heroic model, and yet he is also toxic masculinity in full swing. You all are trying to cancel Tolkien for being racist or misogynist - Tolkien is WOKE compared to Howard.

Also: The Tower of the Elephant is such a good story. For all of you who complain we don't see eldritch abominations in a good light, only as evil things - The Tower of the Elephant takes back an alien, otherwordly creature of forbidden knowledge from the abysses of time... And make it a positive, peaceful, sympathetic victim abused by humans and whose story is a true tragedy. In fact the handling of "eldritch abominations" in the Conan tales is interesting, as outside of the Tower of the Elephant (where you have a positive/victim "Lovecraftian" being) all Lovecraftian entities are either vaguely talked about gods that are not actual characters, or minor entities and demons that the sorcerers invoke to keep as mounts or bodyguards.

[tadfools]

bee hello!! <3 <3 do you have any hcs for astarion's birth family? supposedly if they're elves they could still be alive...

This is longer than I meant it to be but you said my name so I love you anon and have unlocked an info dump that I've been sitting on for 2.5 years. This got away from me but the tldr is his mama's are named Aneirin and Juliana

I actually have a fic cooking right now about after the game's epilogue with his parents in it. Not to get too sidetracked, but my Tav is a necromancer, their son is dead and yet apparently saved all of the gate so... they come a knocking under the pretence that necromancer brought their dead son back as a thrall, pain comedy ensues (it'll be great i promise)

Astarion's only about 240 years old if we're taking the time he's been dead into account (high elves reach full maturity around 100 if you go by 5e rules and can live up to an average of 750)

I think his birth mother is on the soft side of 500 and with him being a magistrate, the Ancunín's come from money. Despite him having a grave in Baldur's Gate, I think his family resides in Evereska (its a big elven city) I've seen a few people ruminate over the possibility of him being a moon elf but... I don't know, there's something about him being ripped from the sun in every possible way that means so much to me. There's a part with the dark urge where he talks about not giving up freedom for all the gems in Evereska (i'm paraphrasing from memory here) I used that as an excuse to have him be from that city

Aneirin is the name I'm using for her in the fic and I think before he was taken from the sun and put under so much stress that his hair greyed, that he looked just like her.

Beautiful brown eyes that shine like copper under the sun but meld into a rich earth in the night. Her suntan skin is covered in freckles head to toe, her long curly hair is always kept within a neat braid which is coiled into a bun at the base of her neck. There’s a streak of grey woven through the curls

She has always been a kind woman, born into the higher echelons of society, she married an older elven man quite young named Tiberius at her parent’s behest to secure a business merger. Aneirin refused to take his last name. While they were always cordial to one another, there was no love shared between her and Tiberius but the son they had, Astarion, was the light of her life. There was no greater joy than hearing that of her son’s laughter. He loved her dearly and had promised to answer the sending spells she would toss his way after leaving Evereska – until he abruptly stopped

I think the Ancunín’s are skilled wizards, though Astarion falls into the arcane trickster category for me. If during the game his last name was ever mentioned, I fully think Gale would have had a wash of dread flow through him. The family keep to themselves yes, but that name is known through higher arcane circles

Tiberius died when Astarion was just a boy, there were never any memories to solidify him as Astarion’s father. But there was a wood elf woman named Juliana who always had a mischievous smile that kept close to the side of his mother. She was the one who taught Astarion on how to pick a lock, to balance on the heel of his foot as to not be noticed. She was the one who showed him how to wield a bow – much to his mother’s chagrin

Juliana has wine dark hair and is hardly ever seen without a ring on each finger. Tall and lithe, she glides through the room as if she were a shadow. Mischief incarnate, little Astarion took to her like a duck in water

Juliana and Aneirin met in their twenties at a ball - or a banquet (the two can never remember) Juliana’s family ran a renowned winery, Aneirin always fancied wine. And while Aneirin’s title forced her to marry Tiberius, the two women were never far from each other. After his death, she became a patron of the winery

I have a story beat where at the Last Light Astarion picks up an old bottle of red wine absentmindly and in gilded font it reads ‘Aneirin Red: dagger sheathed bow no longer notched; may the sunlight guide you home’ It *failed skilled check* strikes no chord in his mind

[classicanalyzer]

The Calvary Has Arrived Thoughts

Omega taking the initiative to free herself and the other children shows how much she's grown.

ZILLO BEAST RAMPAGE. I love seeing the TK Troopers and scientists suffering. I wonder Hemlock's choice to send them to try to stop the literal Godzilla beast. I hope the Zillo Beast becomes the Apex Predator of Wayland.

Crosshair's trauma once again kicks in as they get in. I really like how Hunter and Wrecker refuse to let Crosshair go in alone and they'll face death together. As terrifying as the CX team is, it's creepy to know that they're a dark foil to the BB. I forgot for a moment that one of the CX Troopers cut off Crosshair's arms with my anxiety kicking into high gear. I'm also glad Tech is actually dead and not one of the CX Troopers. I really like the theory that the CX team could be Delta Squad and I really vibe with that. It would be poetic if they were in that case.

Omega’s confidence in herself and skills as she stays behind to free her brothers. Emerie Karr’s redemption was nice to see as she does everything in her power to save the children.

The Clone Rebellion or rather the Clone Prison Revolt happens! It's so satisfying seeing the Clones being able to fight back and kill those Stormtroopers. Likewise, it's horrifying some of the horrific ways some Clones are killed by the CX team.

Hemlock being stressed and frustrated is always fun to see. At that point, Tarkin is using this as an excuse to finally get control of the facility.

I love how Nala Se always planned to let herself be killed to destroy the research and prevent her knowledge from being used by the Emperor. It's a fitting end to her character who helped the Emperor get into power and for her to help frustrate the Emperor's Cloning plans. Likewise, Rampart's death is both hilarious and karmic. Kamino has been avenged.

The BB working together to survive against their dark foils is heartwarming. There are so many times one of them could've died but they all made it out. Crosshair looking at his specific dark foil in particular.

The confrontation and showdown in the rain parallels both S1 and S2’s finales (Kamino’s rain and Hemlock taking Omega) Scorch dying is so satisfying after his complicity in the crimes of the Empire against his own brothers. Scorch was also shot 5 times which was how many shots (stun that time) Scorch was taken down in S1. I love how much Hunter and Crosshair trust Omega in her plan without her saying anything other than gestures. Likewise, Hunter's trust in Crosshair to make that shot, which he did even without his hand. Omega's reunion with her brothers are everything to me. I hope the Zillo Beast (heard in the background) eats Hemlock’s corpse.

The first ISD in BB animation (outside of the tease in Tales of the Empire). Tarkin taking over the funding is so Tarkin. It's poetic that the Clones saved the galaxy by delaying Project Necromancer it's still being worked on in 9 ABY and given Palpatine's state in TROS, they did a really good job.

I'm so happy they got a happy ending. I thought we would get a bittersweet ending but it's nice to see everyone make it out. Seeing the final shot of the BB team minus Echo together on Pabu is so heartwarming. I wonder if we'll see what happens to Echo and Emerie in the future.

Older Omega and older Hunter! Omega joining the rebellion opens a lot of doors. We were robbed of seeing old Man Wrecker and Crosshair haha. I really hope the next animated show is a Starfighter one.

This show is so special to me. I'll put out a retrospective of the show one day.

"The Calvary Has Arrived!" Wrecker

Themes I noticed:

BB's theme, Omega's theme, Crosshair’s theme, CX's theme, Hemlock's theme, and the Clone's theme.

[meowcats734]

The midnight revelation was the first major lead we had on Jiaola's location, but it was still just that: midnight. Meloai didn't need to sleep, but Lucet had been practicing cold spells relentlessly, and Sansen was an old man who'd hiked through a supernatural blizzard while maintaining a permanent spell of futuresight. As much as I wanted to burst into the storm and save Jiaola myself, we were in no shape to go haring off into the wilderness just yet.

But I sure as hell couldn't sleep, so I decided to try and bleed off my nervous energy by honing my magic. I wasn't going to be able to mess with my friends' emotions for the sake of getting more attunements while they were sleeping, and besides, I'd run through pretty much every attunement that I thought I could get myself without being a massive dick to the people I cared about most. Giving Lucet a friendly prank-scare or sparking a little joy in Meloai's eyes was one thing—intentionally betraying Sansen's trust or snuffing out someone's sense of wonder was a step beyond what I felt I was willing to do in order to touch one more school of magic. And those were the tamer of the attunements I could try to grab for myself. I'd already picked all the low-hanging fruits when it came to attunement.

That being said, although my obsession with piling up attunements had paid off already with saving Mertri's soul, it was far from the only way that I could improve myself. Every spell I practiced, every memory I summoned into my soulspace, every demon I created and trained was another tool in my arsenal for the next time Iola or Mr. Ganrey or Odin showed up to ruin everyone's day. 

And besides... there was a very real possibility that I could do some good for the fallen while I trained my magic. So I told Meloai to keep an eye out and quietly slipped into the storm.

The blizzard had buried the once-fertile plains, swallowing everything from the tiniest of gnats to the light of day itself. Somehow, it almost felt fitting that even the sun would fade before the apocalyptic hailstorm. After all, what went better together than the cold and the dark?

Well. Necromancers and the dead, for one. Idly, I wondered if in some other life I would've answered something cutesy and trite like "peanut butter and jelly," or "puppies and cuddles," or "governments and corruption." Perhaps that other version of me wouldn't be shivering in sub-zero weather, a repulsion spell keeping the hail from caving in my skull, scouring the fields of the dead for souls that I could still knit back together.

Or perhaps that other version of me would have died long ago. Who knew. Not me, for sure; I wasn't an oracle. Maybe I'd ask Sansen to look into some alternate futures for the fun of it, when we were safely away from the center of a battlefield and everyone we loved was safe.

The blizzard may have been blinding to the mundane eye, but my soulsight had grown by leaps and bounds in the past few weeks, and I could see the constant puffs of death drifting up from the ground. There was where a family of mice starved to death, their sparkling souls shattering like raindrops on earth. Then was when a soldier had frozen, succumbing to the supernatural frost, a few glittering motes of fading souldust marking where he'd passed.

I stepped up to the body, closing their eyes with one hand. I wasn't here for the bodies, although I guessed that if there was anyone left to claim the fallen soldier as kin, I would happily reunite the two. As in, I'd bring the claimant to their slain family, not send them to the afterlife together. Man, people had held weird prejudices against necromancers for so long that even my subconscious felt the need to clarify. But the point was, the bodies of the dead weren't why I'd come out here.

I'd come here for the souls.

It was a feat of concentration maintaining the spell keeping the hail away while I worked another piece of magic: I had to simultaneously manage the bile of disgust pouring into the repulsion spell while digging out a shard of sorrow from my soul, slicing open a tiny rift between planes. The emotions I used to fuel my magic were rarely pleasant, and this was no exception.

But it would be worth it.

A sliver of the dead soldier's soul slipped from thoughtspace to realspace, and I concentrated, drawing it closer to me with the memory of a pair of tweezers. The sliver was barely enough to contain more than a moment of the soldier's life, but as the soul shard melded with my mind, a flash of memory shot through me—

"Leave me behind," I gasped, falling to the ground. "Get to the camp. It'll be faster without a wounded soldier weighing you down."

—and I swallowed heavily, taking in a deep, quavering breath.

Other necromancers might have tried to raise an army with the raw corpses left behind. But I was the greatest necromancer still alive beneath this unceasing storm.

I wasn't here to enslave the bodies of the dead.

I was here to remember their stories.

The greatest necromancers always were historians, after all. Any two-bit thug could raise a freshly-fallen corpse, but if you wanted to summon an army of souls bound to skeletons, there was no better way than unearthing a hidden mass grave from a war two centuries ago. I was a historian, too. Trying to catch the sparks of souls before they faded into thoughtspace.

I stood, narrowing my eyes, and plucked the memory back out from my soul. It was an art that I was still getting used to—anyone who would have taught me further soul manipulation was either as in the dark as I was, a mortal enemy, or dead—but with the help of a tweezer of soulstuff, I held the memory so that it barely skimmed the surface of my soul, still as fresh and perfect as the moment I'd absorbed it. The tracks the soldier's companions had left shone bright in my memory, even if they'd long since been swallowed by the snow, and I followed them like a dog on a hunt. Not that there were any living dogs within a hundred miles.

"Getting warmer," I muttered to myself. "Warmer... warmer... hot."

The memory ended abruptly, but it was enough of a lead that I could pick up the finer details. I was no tracker, but one of the soldier's companions must have been a fairly competent mage of freedom—now that I knew what to look for, I could see the telltale signs from here on out of where the path had been blown free of snow. I reached the end of the trail, hope rising. Maybe... maybe, for once in this fucking endless torment of chronicling the dead, I could actually save someone for once. I would dearly love nothing more than my power over death being utterly, completely useless.

"Warmer," I said, pacing towards what I dimly recognized as a snow cave—

And stopped dead.

Because my soulsight pierced all barriers as mundane as physical objects, and I could see very, very clearly that there were no living souls in the shelter.

Just the leftover fragments of shattered souls.

Despite my layers of thick mountain clothing, I suddenly felt very, very cold.

I trudged forwards, blowing aside the front wall of the shelter with a swipe of my hand and a pulse of disgust, to confirm with my eyes what my soul already knew. Two more soldiers laid dead, embracing each other beneath the snow.

Once more, I pressed against the skin of reality and made a single, incisive cut. The soul fragment that came through was disjointed, a mangled whisper, but still I made sense of the broken memory, disentangling it into a single sentence:

We died warm.

I fell still, standing beside the two frozen bodies, and some cold, calculating part of me wondered if a distant observer would be able to tell which of us were the dead and which of us were the living.

Then, mutely, I turned around to return to my shelter. It was time to put today's expedition to an end.

I was getting colder, after all.

A.N.

Soulmage is a serial written in response to writing prompts. Stick around for more episodes, or join my Discord to chat about it!

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[bioniclechronicles]

1, DK :)

When I reblogged that codex prompt list, I was not expecting someone to send one! I saved it for myself to use later, but I appreciate being asked :> Codex prompt for D.K. Enrought an overheard conversation about your OC

Codex Entry: The Laughing Necromancer Filed by Varric Tethras

"A shadow walks among us. Not the noble kind that shields the faint of heart, but the kind that whispers secrets to the dead and beckons what should not return." — Anonymous

A Conversation Overheard in a Tavern near Nevarra, as Recorded by Yours Truly

The Dead End, a dingy establishment on the outskirts of Nevarra City. Candles burned low, and the thick haze of burning incense swirled between patrons like restless spirits.

“You see him?” The man’s voice was a harsh whisper, heavy with the clipped Nevarran accent. “D.K. He’s back in Nevarra, they say.”

“The little green eyed freak?” his companion asked, leaning closer, her eyes darting toward the door as if he was about to come in any minute now. “I thought they sent him away? Some kind of punishment?”

“They did. Banished him. Told him to wander for a time, learn humanity or some such nonsense. Last I heard, he was seen in Tevinter. They don’t scare easy up there, but even they were keen to see the back of him.”

“So why’s he back? You don’t just offend half of the mourn watch and expect them to welcome you home with open arms.”

“Heard it was a funeral.”

Her brows were knit. “A funeral?”

“Yeah. His old mentor—the one who found him in the catacombs as a baby. Supposedly D.K. showed up at the wake. Didn’t say a word, just stood there, silent as his masters corpse, staring into the nothing. The others—well, you can imagine how they felt seeing him again.”

“I can imagine. Half of them probably think he’s got their names etched into some cursed jar.”

“More than half. And for good reason. You know the way most necromancers work—rituals, sigils, chanting like they’re rehearsing for a chantry choir gone wrong? Not him. He’s all smiles and games, up until he needs something from the undead. Then, the spirits just.. come to him. No summoning, no pleading. They speak to him, like they trust him.”

“Trust him? You’re mad. If the stories are true, D.K. doesn’t even trust himself. You remember what happened that one year your cousin met him? When you both went out hunting in that little sect nearby where he used to stay.”

He nodded grimly. “I doubt I'll ever forget it. The look of true horror in her eyes when she came back to camp.. She told me about how D.K. got jumped by a troop of bandits. They got the drop on him while he was studying some rotten corpses from their last attack. D.K. didn’t even flinch. He merely raised his hand with a big smile, and the soldiers, living and dead, turned on each other. What was worst came after..”

His companion grimaced heavily. “You don’t have to remind me of all the details..”

“But I’m thinking about it now! God.. She didn’t know what to do. She just stood there in horror as he.. played with them like they were some kind of—”

“Don’t say it.”

“Toys of his.”

There was a pause, and then the woman whispered, “Do you think he’s… you know…”

“What? A demon?” He chuckled, though there was no humor in it. “No. He’s flesh and blood like the rest of us. But he doesn’t care about the living. That’s what makes him dangerous. The rest of us—mages, necromancers, whatever—we cling to life, no matter how much we meddle with pain and death. D.K.? He doesn’t see the difference. He walks between the two like it’s the same street, and we’re all the poor fools standing in his way. I don’t trust most necromancers, but at least they’re predictable. D.K. isn’t. I’ll tell you this... if he ever decides someone’s better off dead, it’s not the dying you should fear. It’s what comes after."

Notes on Subject D.K.

When I first heard this conversation, I dismissed it as just another campfire story to scare kids with. But the more I dug, the more the pieces started to align. D.K. isn’t just a name whispered in fear—it’s a warning.

Raised by an obscure Nevarran sect, D.K. was left in the crypts as an infant, a test of the spirits' will. Whatever the spirits saw in him, it was enough to make the sect take him in. His methods, however, seem to have estranged him even from his own order. Sent into exile for reasons I have yet to uncover, D.K. has carved his way through the northern reaches of Thedas, leaving a trail of unnerving stories and uneasy allies.

This D.K. unsettles even the most seasoned practitioners of the occult. While necromancy is tolerated, begrudgingly, within certain circles, D.K.'s existence represents an abnormality to even that. He exhibits no loyalty to his own kind, nor any apparent moral compass. His motivations remain shrouded, his actions strange and unpredictable. Is he a prodigy of death's mysteries or a herald of something darker?

Let this record serve as a warning: D.K. is not to be approached lightly. The dead obey him without question, but no one—living or otherwise—truly understands his purpose. If you see him, keep wits about you. The dead might trust him, but the living have no reason to. 

This is clearly someone you’d rather have on your side than against it.

Filed under: Persons of Interest

[honeii-puff]

So in our dnd group last week, we were saving a village from a tsunami, and our Rat sorcerer got trapped in an invincible orb by our necromancer paladin (I'm a necromancer cleric) since he couldn't teleport with everyone. He found an old man he tried saving, and he rolled a nat 1 with a -1 modifier.

Our DM went onto his phone for a good few minutes, and our rat man failed so hard that he summoned the literal god of mercy and became a paladin.

Now, our other paladin and I worship the god of death, so we did some research (given by our DM) and he isn't just the god of mercy, oh no.

He's the god of light and life.

The dude failed so hard that he summoned a literal god who is the opposite of the two other religious members of our party.

Me and our Tiefling samurai were cackling from the other end of the table.

[bangtanloverboys]

the pet whisperer // kth

summary - after receiving a ghost egg as a reward from a quest, you go looking to help get it hatched. but instead of finding the doctor, you find his assistant

pairing - pet trainer!taehyung x pet owner!reader 

genre - fluff; wizard 101 au

word count - 1.5k

warnings - dip’s made up lore, friendships, quick mention of fear but nothing bad

guide - conjury = myth school; necromancy = death school; divination = storm school; marleybonian = british cat person

author’s note - this one is a tad short, as i just like the interactions and building up of the pet world. it’s just a little cute thing

the seven schools of ravenwood masterlist

Growing up there was one thing you would always ask your parents for every year for your birthday: a pet. It didn’t matter what type, it could’ve been a piggle, an imp, a dragon, a firecat, anything! All you wanted was your own buddy to train and hang out with. Unfortunately, your parents never liked the idea. Your father was allergic to feathers, your mother wasn’t fond of the idea of taking care of yet another thing on top of you and your siblings, and it was a lot of responsibility that you simply couldn’t handle at such a young age. So you shelved the childhood dream of having a pet, going through school and only gazing longingly at the other students as they brought their pets to school for show and tell or for dueling practice. 

Only after you’d moved out of your family home in Olde Town and gotten your own apartment in Firecat Alley did you finally revisit the dream. You had started doing oddball errands and jobs that other wizards refused in order to save up to help purchase a pet. It was by pure chance of luck that one of those little excursions had you being rewarded with a pet! A ghost egg, how fitting considering you’re a necromancer.

With the egg tucked safely into your pack, you approached the Pet Pavilion. You’d been down the street before as a younger student, watching some of the traveling animal shows that passed through. But now as a new pet owner, you felt a bit out of your depth and a tad nervous.

“Hey, can I help you with anything?” A voice pulled you out of your thoughts. The voice belonged to a (very attractive) blond man, no taller than you, dressed head to toe in blue and yellow; he had to be a conjurer. 

“Hi, I uh- I just got this ghost egg and I’m looking to hatch it.” You pulled your pack to the side, lifting up the lid to show the grey shell to him. 

“First time pet owner?”

You nodded. 

“Alright! So for hatching we’re gonna set ‘em up in the Hatchery then, it takes a couple hours but it’s sooner than waiting. This way,” he said as he started leading you up the stairs towards the large building at the end of the pavilion. “My name’s Taehyung Frogtamer, by the way.”

“Y/N Redwraith,” you responded as you followed him. Inside the Hatchery, sounds of electricity buzzed and lights flashed, catching you off guard for a moment. Along the side of the room were small seats where various eggs were placed, hooked up to a machine. On the floor was a large insignia for divination, leading you to believe storm magic must’ve helped power it all. Despite it being layered in magic, you couldn’t help but think it all looked like something you’d seen in an old book on Marleybone, a world filled with electricity and machinery rather than magic. You must’ve looked a tad unsettled as Taehyung pulled your attention away from them. 

“Don’t worry, this is all very humane and safe. Unordinary, yes. But all pets are healthy, trust me.” Even under Taehyung’s assurance, it was still a tad nerve wracking. The Pet Pavilion was still fairly new, so having egg hatched under assistance was still a relatively new practice. Especially for Wizard City.

“You’re the doctor, so I’ll trust you.”

Your words visibly shook him, as his mouth fell open to say something but before he could respond a new voice interjected. 

“Frogtamer is not the doctor.” You turned your head towards the voice, and on a platform was a Marleybonian dressed in a lab coat and other medical tools. “I am Doctor Purreau.”

Heat gathered in your cheeks, embarrassed at your assumption. “I’m sorry, he seems very knowledgeable and I’ve never quite been in here before,” you confessed, scratching at the back of your neck. 

“Hmm,” Dr. Purreau regarded you with a disinterested look. He didn’t say anything else before turning his back on your, looking back towards an egg that was strapped to a chair, watching it as it cracked and came to life. 

Turning back to Taehyung, he gestured for you to follow him to the other side of the hall room. “Dr. P is. . . he is a character, but a good doctor. Trust in the science. Now, I can still help you, if you’re interested?”

“Yes, thank you.” Taehyung looked to you then to your bag, slightly nodding to it. “Oh, right!” You reached into your pack, carefully pulling out the large grey egg. Slowly, you placed it into Taheyung’s hands. You watched as he delicately placed it into the chair, strapping it in. You gnawed on your lower lip as he began to hook it up the machine, lowering the metal headset down to the crown of the egg. The blond approached the side of the machine where a large lever was on display. 

Wrapping his hands around the handle, Taehyung looked over to you. “You might want to shield your eyes.” 

Doing as he said, your hands came up to your eyes as he lowered the lever. Bright flashes of lightning and claps of thunder filled your ears. You swore, it was so loud you feared you might’ve lost your hearing. But in a matter of moments, it was done! The room went quiet and you peeled your hands away from your eyes. Seated in the remaining bits of shell was the head of a ghost, its ghoulish hood looking around its new surroundings.

“Oh my stars!” You gasped as Taehyung removed the straps from its remaining bit of shell. It floated away from the chair, making a beeline for you. 

“Already knows their owner!” Taehyung cheered, smiling brightly at you as the small ghost did circles around your legs. “Do you have a name for ‘em?”

“Honestly? I don’t know. Do you have any ideas?” You couldn’t take your eyes off of them, smiling so hard your cheeks began to ache. 

“Well I have a cyclops named Sir Noodle, a piggle named Avery, a dragon named Stormfly, and a serpent named Shadow. So I’m not the best with name ideas as they’ll just sort of. . . pop up in my head and I just go ‘good enough’.”

“Hmm,” you got down on your knees, reaching out to the ghost. They reached out for your hand, a cool chill rushing through you as their disembodied hand grasped against yours. “Jeffery?”

You watched as Taehyung gave you a cheeky smile at that. “Just Jeffery? No titles or anything?”

“Nope,” you shook your head. “They’re just Jeffery.”

“Just Jeffery it is,” he said as he scribbled something down on a piece of paper before handing it to you. “Certificate of ownership and hatching certificate.”

“Thank you,” you smiled as you took the papers from him. 

“I’ll walk you out?” He asked, phrasing it as a question. 

“Please.” And so the two of you walked side by side out of the hatchery, Jeffery trailing close behind at your heels. 

“Ghosts will eat any food that other pets will eat; but they have preference for foods like penne dreadful, square watermelon, and dastardly radish,” Taehyung rambled as the lead you out of the darkness of the Hatchery and into the bright sunlight of the pavilion. 

“Duly noted, thank you so much.” 

“It’s my pleasure, I love pets and animals. It’s all I’ve ever dreamed of doing.”

“Really?” 

“Yeah, I mean, Dr. Purreau says I’ve got a knack for it.”

“And you being a conjurer has no impact on your ability to help hatch?” You asked, remembering how even though it’s a machine, it’s half powered through storm magic, opposite of conjury.

Taehyung stopped dead in his tracks, a confused look on his face. “How did you know I was a myth student?” You looked down to his robes, yellow and blue, the colors of the myth school before meeting his eyes again. Following your gaze, he caught on. “Oh! Sorry, I’m a fool, ignore that. But no, it doesn’t surprisingly. Guess it only impacts the battlefield.” 

User fluidity amongst opposite schools was rare, but not unheard of. You nodded, accepting the explanation. But you weren’t quite ready to say goodbye yet. “Hey uh, since Jeffery is new and stuff. Maybe you’d like to. . . I don’t know. . . have a pet playdate sometime? It’s alright if you don’t-”

“Yes!” He cut you off, his voice almost breaking. Clearing his throat, he spoke again. “Yes, I’d like that very much,” he said, his voice slightly deeper and more controlled. 

Smiling, you nodded. “Okay, meet in the Commons tomorrow? Noon good for you?”

“Perfect, I’ll bring Sir Noodle. He’s the most sociable. Him and Jeffery are gonna be fast friends, I know it.” He rested his hands on his hips. 

“Okay, see you tomorrow then.” You smiled as you started stepping away from him. “Say bye Jeffery!” The ghost made a small groan as they followed you. Carefully, you glanced over your shoulder, seeing Taehyung watch you leave. Once you were enveloped in the darkness of the tunnel, you turned around to see the conjurer doing a small happy dance. Cute, apparently good with animals, and a little goofy? You definitely were starting to like him.

[so-no-feint]

don't let go of me - Lilith x m!Reader

a/n: wrote more Lilith x Reader!! A small foray into some smuttier themes. I had a lot of fun with this one, I hope you all enjoy:) wordcount: ~9k cw: smut (minors dni, thanks), blood/biting kinks, angst, enemies to lovers summary: You weren’t quite sure where you first heard about the salvation of Sanctuary. Perhaps it was that raving old man outside the alchemist’s, or whispered rumors spread amongst the local guard. Rumors didn't do the Daughter of Hatred justice. (also on ao3 here!)

You weren’t quite sure where you first heard about the salvation of Sanctuary. Perhaps it was that raving old man outside the alchemist’s, or whispered rumors spread amongst the local guard. Word spread quickly — your small town in northern Scosglen had not much else to do besides work and gossip.

Sometimes travelers would pass through, bringing news from the rest of the continent. Some discussed their recently deposed king and his treacheries; others complained about their weariness. On rare occasions you’d heard echoes of a woman growing in power, inciting fear amongst the powerful and revolution amongst the working. “She has come to save us,” they would say in joy, as if their entire future had been safely secured.

What was her name? She had many, supposedly. What little information you could glean from these outsiders had resulted in a jumble of titles and names in your mind. Blessed Mother, Lylia, and most unsettling, the Daughter of Hatred. A strange way to address the one who was, supposedly, “saving” you.

To you, however, they were just rumors and tales, shared between hallucinating travelers as they crossed the vast expanse of emptiness to reach your village. A voice in the back of your mind would sometimes echo contrarian thoughts. What if they were telling the truth? If this woman was real, what did her salvation look like?

These ideas bounced around in your skull. The possibility of salvation seemed like a far-fetched idea, but at this point, you would believe in anything except for that damned Light. The so-called “angel” Inarius had wrought nothing but ash in his wake as he stampeded around the continent, disregarding the livelihood of those he deemed blocked his path. Farmland was scorched, burnt to dust by his knights most holy; the “heretics”, as they were called, were impaled on stakes and left to hang in town squares.

Those men and that immortal were fueled by their blinding pursuit of justice. How could you believe in something that agreed with killing the innocent?

And so your life went on, working the pitiful soil Scosglen offered until it became too cold to sustain crops, leaving you to visit the inn several nights a week for drink and talk. It was a peaceful, if not boring way of life. You’d never thought something, or rather, someone, would disrupt the monotonously secure life you lived.

And then the man called Elias visited.

He, too, preached about the Mother. Elias’ approach, however, was different from the rest of the travelers whose stories you entertained. Elias held conviction — no, confidence — in his speech. This man, dressed in fascinatingly flexible armor, knew something more than the rest who passed you by. Nothing was quite normal about him, and his eyes were no exception. Those deep black-violet orbs swirled with a power most men didn’t have.

You’d heard stories of mages and necromancers countries over, and whispers of the ancients who had saved man from the horrors of Hell. The Horadrim, you think. Whichever group Elias belonged to, he certainly wasn’t just human.

It had been perhaps thirty minutes since Elias had entered the inn, bouncing between patrons, talking to them like they were childhood friends. You stood along the outskirts of the group he was talking to, lost in thought as you watched his movements.

“So what say you, then?”

You were tugged back to reality as you looked around. All eyes at the table were trained on you, and Elias had his palm turned slightly upwards, pointing a finger in your direction.

“I—sure, yeah. Sounds good,” you stuttered. What were they talking about? It probably wasn’t anything important. You could likely get out of whatever it was in the morning.

Elias gave you a cold smile. “Wonderful.”

He gave a quick farewell before turning towards the door. Was he eyeing you as he left? You couldn’t tell in the dim lighting inside. Elias flung himself outside into the biting cold, his figure disappearing into the snowy winds as he walked off into the darkness.

You’re roused from your sleep by loud knocking on your door. Small rays of sunlight light up your little house as you sit up in bed, slipping on some warmer clothing as the winter chill begins to seep through your skin. Shuffling over to the door, you crack it open, wind buffeting against your face.

One of the men from the inn is at your doorstep.

“There he is! Oi, come on then,” he says, patting your shoulder. He’s applying pressure to you, trying to bring you outside with him.

Looking over his shoulder, you can see dozens of other villagers walking past him towards the mountains bordering your town.

You stutter in confusion. “I—what? Where?”

“Weren’t you paying attention last night, eh? Elias is bringing us to her!”

Your eyes narrow in suspicion. “To who?”

“You really don’t remember, do ya? It’s alright mate. Strong booze last night, heh,” he chuckles, nudging your chest. Before you can protest any further, he grabs your wrist and yanks you outside along with him. His grip is strong; stronger than you remember it being. He smiles silently at you, turning to follow the rest. There’s something missing from his gaze that tips your senses from unease to fear.

You walk, one foot in front of the other, until the cliff walls loom over you, blocking the sunlight from warming the air and ground around you. The temperature drop causes you to shiver a bit. The villagers were filing into one of the cave entrances that dotted the rock face, some carrying torches to illuminate the otherwise pitch-black walk through the mountain.

Eventually you can hear the echo of voices ahead as you enter an expansive chamber within the stone. The torchlight bounced off the walls, providing a faint red glow throughout the room, allowing the townsfolk to congregate in the middle and converse amongst each other. In the far corner you spot him. Elias leans against the wall, faintly smirking as more and more people arrive. He locks eyes with you, and you quickly avert your gaze.

Maybe he hadn’t seen you; you two were so far apart, he likely didn’t even notice—

You jump as a hand falls onto your left shoulder, spinning you around.

“Welcome to the ceremony,” Elias rumbles, tilting his head down towards the floor in deference. Or was it to mock you?

Wasn’t he just across the room moments ago? How did he move? You didn’t see him run or disappear, but his form was no longer leaning against the wall. Elias was most definitely in front of you.

“What did you do to them?”

“The villagers? I have done nothing. They have simply been set free.” His expression morphed into a dark smile as the words left his mouth. “It would appear that you have not, but that is no matter. It’s about to start. Come, sit and watch!”

Elias keeps his hand on your shoulder, exerting enough force that your instincts told you not to try and break free. You were by no means small, or inexperienced in combat — a decade of mercenary work and another of farming had broadened your shoulders and thickened your legs, and yet something about Elias had all of your hair standing on end.

The two of you circle around to the back of the growing mass of people, sitting slightly higher than the rest, providing an expansive view of the entire room.

“Enjoy the show. And good luck,” Elias whispers, dropping a small knife into your lap before vanishing from your side. You tuck the blade into your sleeve out of habit.

Looking around in confusion, and your eyes find his figure standing in the middle of the room, commanding the attention of everyone in attendance. His voice echoes loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Who would be so noble as to call out to Mother for us?”

A young girl excitedly shot to her feet, a strange gleam in her eyes. “Let me do it!”

Elias’ lips curl as he motions for her to stand next to him. He hands her an ornate dagger etched with symbols you don’t recognize. Bending down to her ear, Elias whispers something inaudible, and her expression goes blank.

As the realization hits you, the girl raises the dagger high into the air before plunging it deep into her chest, twisting and tugging as her chest is carved open and she collapses to the ground. The rest of the villagers watching the gruesome scene clapped and cheered as her life slowly spread out into an elaborate circle etched into the stone.

There was a low rumble as the air above the ground fractured and glowed with power as a doorway appeared from the girl’s blood.

Out of that doorway stepped something non-human. Demonic.

Your eyes widened, and you finally understood. The Mother. “Lylia”. Titles did not do her justice. Mephisto’s spawn, the Daughter of Hatred, emerged from the rift, standing tall and proud before the congregation. You had learned pieces of Hell’s history from your stints in mercenary work, stealing the occasional tome or fighting some group of cultists.

The “savior” so loudly praised was no human.

It was Lilith.

The torches caused her shadow to dance along the back wall of the cave as she spread her wings to their full extent. Despite the distance between the two of you, it felt as if she was staring into your soul while she surveyed the crowd. Her eyes, two multicolored orbs of power, pierced into each and every person gathered before her.

“Welcome, children,” she said, her voice razor-sharp against the silence that had fallen across the townsfolk. There was something irresistible about her voice and visage, an allure you couldn’t quite deny. Her purple and black dress flowed across her body, highlighting the ridges and curves that stretched across her skin. Lilith’s tail was held slightly above the ground, swaying absent-mindedly as she spoke.

“How pitiful that your chains have only been shed now,” she continued. “Sin is your birthright. It is only natural for you to reclaim it.” Her eyes darted around the room. “Sanctuary will not be saved by the weak. It will be freed by the strong.”

Her voice dropped a tone, danger lurking behind her words.

“Who among you is strong?”

Lilith smiled as time seemed to stand still. She reached out her hands towards the crowd.

“Show me.”

Chaos erupted as people began to fight and claw at those sitting next to them. You shot to your feet, scrambling back against the wall, trying to get as far away from the conflict as you can. The dagger in your sleeve slips into your palm, its handle a comfortable shape and weight. As your heart pumps into overdrive, sending adrenaline coursing through your body, your first attacker stumbles towards you in blind rage.

Your fighting experience takes over as your body moves on its own, stepping into his exposed side and quickly thrusting the knife into his neck. The man collapses to the ground, a gurgling mess of saliva and blood. You whip your head around as the scene before you unfolds. Dozens of villagers lay dead on the floor as the fighting spread across the room, while Lilith and Elias sat watching contently.

Elias motions towards you, and Lilith tilts her head in your direction. Your mind feels invaded and attacked. Is she looking into you?

You shout back into your mind, trying to lock your thoughts inside your skull. There’s no time to focus on her while there’s more active threats about.

The fighting continues on, until there are only four survivors left with you. Each of you are covered in blood and gore, reminders of the atrocities you have committed spattered across your skin. You recognize two of the others — one was the innkeeper, a chipped sword at his side, whose battle experience you had once encountered firsthand; the other was a farmhand you’d worked with on occasion, chest heaving, her eyes darting between the rest of you.

As you steel yourself for more attacks, the Daughter of Hatred breaks the tension in the room. “Well done, my children,” she purrs. “The weak shall perish, and the strong survive. Whatever the cost.”

It appeared that the others weren’t under whatever influence Elias had placed on the majority of the village. As Lilith stepped towards the innkeeper, he flung the sword with remarkable quickness directly at her chest. Her tail whipped around faster than your eyes could follow as she intercepted it mid-air, the would-be weapon clattering harmlessly to the floor.

She reached her hand out to the man, closing her grip around his neck and lifting him off the floor. At this close distance, you could see her power and size more clearly. Her muscles were taut like steel fibers, betraying the strength her body hid underneath the dress as they shifted with her movements. She towered over the rest of you.

“You would betray your own Mother? A pity,” she whispered, clenching her hand shut. The innkeeper sputtered out a cough which was quickly silenced by the crushing of bone and flesh as Lilith squeezed his neck inside her hand, dropping his lifeless body to the floor.

“Anyone else?”

None of you dared to speak.

“Good.”

Lilith walked towards the two survivors you did not know. As she came within an arm’s length, both of them turned and began to sprint up the incline towards the mouth of the cave. The Queen of the Succubi sighed, waving her hand towards Elias. He bowed his head once, before rematerializing in front of the fleers, lifting a shortsword from his hip. He slashed twice, cutting their throats open at the base, leaving them to drown on themselves as he walked back to Lilith’s side. Now it was just you and the farmhand.

Lilith approached the farmhand first, and you sighed in slight relief. At least you’d be last.

The Daughter of Hatred grabbed her hair in one hand, forcing her head to tilt up to look at Lilith.

“This will only take a moment, dear.”

Lilith knelt slightly, closing the distance between the farmhand’s lips and her own, forcing a kiss.

A kiss? Why a kiss? Was she not going to kill you? Your mind raced with possibilities. As Lilith made her way over to you, the farmhand’s only reaction you could see were her eyes locking with yours, a small shake of her head the only assuagement you could find in this bleak cave.

The Queen of the Succubi stood in front of you, trailing a finger up your arm, dancing across your skin. Her nails were sharp enough that you felt small cuts opening along the path her digits followed. “Interesting…” Her eyes scan your body, sweeping from your feet to your head.

She tilts your head to look into your eyes. You swallow hard. Lilith was toying with you, like a cat planning how best to torture the mouse it had just caught. Your strength and experience was nothing compared to hers — resistance was not an option anymore.

“Hmm,” she murmurs. “Strong muscles. A fighter, perhaps?” Her eyes lit up as the words rolled off her tongue, almost challenging you to attack. You clench your jaw, holding your tongue.

“Not talkative? A shame…” Lilith trailed off, circling around your back. She was drawing herself closer to your body, her hands exploring what exposed skin they could find. She traced down your neck and spine and walked along your shoulder blades.

You turn your head to look at her, charging your voice with as much hatred as you can muster. “What do you want, demon?”

One of her eyebrows — could you even call them that? — raised faintly. The ridges of scale and bone on the Daughter of Hatred’s face emphasized the mismatched eyes staring back at you, brilliantly blue and gray. Streaks of shadow fell away from her bottom lashes, spanning across her cheeks.

“I am offering mankind a choice: join me, and break free from the shackles the Heavens and Hells have set upon you in their Endless Conflict; or don’t, and fend for yourselves for the rest of eternity. A new Sanctuary will be created, home to the strong amongst mankind. Home to you,” she says, closing the remaining gap between your bodies.

Lilith stood nearly a foot taller than you, her wings held behind her back with elegance. Desire and acceptance nearly overpowered your mind as her scent wrapped around your head, a combination of earth and musk, dotted with the recognizable metallic smell of blood.

You utter a low growl. “And what do we get out of it?”

Lilith clicks her tongue, bending to your height. “Salvation.”

She strokes a hand through your hair, slowly pulling your face to hers. You had no idea what would happen if you accepted her now. Not like the Light would have protected you and yours, anyways.

A ‘sanctuary’ for the strong amongst men? Free from the ‘eternal conflict’? What did that mean? Those thoughts and others were silenced as the Queen of the Succubi pressed herself to your lips, and a sickening sweetness filled your mouth as her tongue explored yours. You tried to jerk your head back, but her grip was too strong; all you managed to do was break from the kiss, but not her grasp.

Lilith smiled against your cheek. “Don’t be so hasty, little one. I’m not finished.” She grabbed the back of your head with one hand and your side with the other, pulling you back into her cruel love.

This time, something told you not to fight it. This time you loosened up, just enough for her to notice. Her kisses grew more passionate, more violent. She bit your lower lip, piercing the soft flesh, letting out a faint hum of pleasure as she flicked her tongue over the blood seeping into your mouth. You pressed back in equal parts disgust and experimentation.

After what felt like an eternity, Lilith pulled away from you, leaving a confusing taste in your mouth of blood and sugar. Her lips, stained with a faint red, curled up into a smile. At first, you felt confused. That feeling morphed into a warmth, almost painful, that began to spread from your mouth and down your throat, reaching into the depths of your body, wrapping its way around every square inch of you it could find.

Was this what the farmhand felt? You almost wanted to fight it.

But why fight it?

The Daughter of Hatred’s invasion — no, exploration — of your body left a strange sensation within you after the warmth passed. You felt… aware. More aware of your surroundings, of your senses, of your strength.

Lilith narrowed her eyes on you. “So you chose correctly.”

Your gaze, somewhat unfocused, lands on her face. The rawness of all that you can feel is almost overwhelming.

Your voice is a low rasp. “Acceptance.”

“Perhaps the simplest way to unshackle your chains, my dear,” she says. Her figure is no longer imposing or frightening; quite the opposite, in fact. Lilith’s body, honed to perfection over the countless millennia she has seen, did not seem to tower over you. You felt a rising desire to submit, to let her consume you. It was inviting.

Your haze is broken by Elias’ voice grating against your ears.

“...Mother.”

Her eyes flick over to the kneeling man.

“Speak, Elias.”

“I shall take these two to the Exalted Terrace and initiate them appropriately.”

Lilith takes a small step backwards, pulling her dress away from the blood along the ground. “Good.”

He says nothing, bowing his head deeply. Elias motions for the two of you to follow him as he stands, but Lilith grabs your arm as you turn to walk with him.

She smiles cruelly at you. “You should listen to him. I don’t want your pretty face ruined from Elias’ punishments,” she teased. Her expression quickly hardened as she spun in the opposite direction, back facing you, and vanished into the open air in a whirl of red-colored petals.

The three of you pop into reality, the air crackling around you with energy as the portal you just stepped through closes. Elias had mentioned a terrace of some kind, but the scene before you was infinitely more beautiful than what you had expected. Lush ivy and unidentifiable flowers dotted trellises and sprawled along the ornately tiled floors. Fountains slowly sprinkle water into routes cut from the stone beneath your feet.

The air, however, betrays the horrors held deeper within the Terrace, in the pits of the mountain it was carved from. Blood and pain linger, a scent you have grown familiar with. You and the farmhand stood on edge; while Lilith’s control was spreading throughout your body, bits and pieces of the person you used to be remained, each and every one of them screaming at you to get out.

Elias says nothing, motioning for you to follow behind him as he weaves his way through a seemingly endless maze of stairwells and chambers, each one catching you off guard. Some were filled with bodily pleasures, men and women baring themselves raw in sex and indulging in the exquisite, aromatic foods and wines dotting the tables. Other rooms contained deep evils — summoning circles and sacrifices, the occasional scream of a victim and the following roar of a demon echoing down the hallways inside the mountain. Others still contained what you could only discern as rot, gore and viscera lining the unlit corners of these rooms, while the gut-wrenching smell of decay seeped into your nostrils.

The armored man holds up his hand, signaling you to stop. Your eyes flit over to the farmhand, whose gaze is set straight ahead and unfocused. Elias turns to you both, a faint smile spread across his face.

“I used to be a Horadrim, once. And how wrong I used to be.”

You’re not quite sure what to do with that information. The farmhand twitches subtly; this revelation had reached her in some way you couldn’t understand.

“Our Mother’s son showed me the proper way,” he spat. “The last fragmented men making up the Order are no more than pitiful excuses for protectors now.”

The Horadrim clears his throat.

“Circumstances notwithstanding, I welcome thee, Initiates,” Elias says with a low bow. Evil dances behind his soulless eyes as he raises to look at you. “It’s time for the training.”

The following weeks were, in all literal and derivations of the word, brutal. The first few days at the Terrace were spent doing what felt like grunt work: shuffling around bodies, cleaning the floors for the next ritual, and waiting on whichever people were lost in overwhelming euphoria during their innumerable orgies.

You had apparently passed whatever test he was measuring you against, and you were quickly inundated with markings and rituals to perform. Scars and twisted circles were scattered across your body, and a particularly intricate one stretched across your back. Elias made sure to never touch your face, but that restriction left the rest of your body open to his every whim.

Occasionally he would beat you, hard enough that you struggled and ached in every movement, but just light enough that he could do it again days later.

Your first summoning was almost autonomous — your mind had resigned you to a back seat as it executed its actions perfectly. You couldn’t stop yourself, only slow your movements. Vivid images of the sacrifice flashed through your mind: her naked body, with symbols and runes etched into the skin, lay mutilated beneath the dagger in your hand. Elias had instructed you to do something in a language the original parts of you didn’t recognize, but the rest of your mind did.

Nearly a month had passed of Elias delighting in your agonies until he pushed you over the edge. A summoning ritual he forced you to carry out had been too violent for your mind to suppress any longer. Once the sacrifice was made, you turned and threw the dagger as hard as you could at Elias’ form standing along the wall.

He dodged it easily, marching up to you and grabbing your neck.

“You will regret that,” he hissed. He delivered a swift punch to your lower jaw, knocking you unconscious. When you finally regained enough of your senses to be aware of your surroundings, you realized that you were restrained to a small cell wall.

You stared at the restraints and the cell itself before realizing you were not alone. The small and battered form of the farmhand laid in front of you on the stone floor, whatever fighting spirit and resistance she had when you both arrived now broken and dead. Her mouth was gagged, and her hands and feet tied together in an immobilizing knot.

You heard Elias before you saw him — the Horadrim dragged a blade at his side, scratching against the stone, until he stepped into what little light bounced around inside your cell.

“I will give you a choice, mercenary. Who pays?”

Confusion fills your mind as you stammer out a weak response. “What?”

“I said who pays,” he hissed. “For your transgression.”

Your mind crawls, trying to formulate an answer to him. What did you have to pay for? Why was she an alternative? You were the one who had thrown the knife.

“It should be m—” Elias cuts you off.

“Too late. I am choosing her.”

Elias rolls the farmhand over, and her breathing rapidly increases as he stands on her arm, exposing her wrist. The realization dawns on her, and then you, of his intent.

She screams, muffled through the thick fabric wrapped across her mouth, as Elias’ blade slams down onto the stone floor, cutting through sinew and muscle and bone, severing her hand. Her screams morph into aching sobs as the pain courses through her body.

You’re left little time to process as he steps over her, leveling the blade’s tip at you. “I think I’ll start with your eyes.”

Elias places the point at the edge of your vision, pushing just hard enough that the skin near your eyelids breaks and begins to bleed. He toys with it, lazily dragging the blade under your eye, carving into your check, then back up, holding the tip millimeters from your cornea. You see his muscles tense as his breathing freezes, lowering the blade to his side. Then you heard it. That all too familiar rattle of bone.

The Daughter of Hatred entered the cell, cramping the space as she slightly extended her wings. Something within you stirs at the sight of her. A desire, a necessity — like she was the food and water you needed to sustain yourself daily — blossoms inside your chest. Lilith, however, is not in a good mood. Her eyes are dark and narrow, focused on Elias’ figure before you.

Her voice was barely a whisper, but it hid a boiling fury echoed in her gaze and posture.

“What did I say, Elias?”

This was the first time you had seen the Horadrim feel fear. He swallowed once, before turning to face Lilith, kneeling into a deep bow.

“I believe I said that I don’t want his face harmed,” she bristled.

Elias said nothing. Lilith stepped to his side, crouching down to the farmhand’s arm leaking blood across the floor.

“Did you not deign to wrap it? Pitiful. Your grievances cannot come before our goals, Horadrim,” she muttered. Lilith moved her hand over the girl’s bloodied stump, a dull red glow emanating from her palm. The farmhand’s sobs had reduced to a stream of tears falling down her cheeks, dripping onto the stone under her head as her breathing slowly came down to a lower pace.

Lilith’s tone demanded attention. “Leave. I will deal with them.”

Elias stood, head still bowed, and quickly walked down the hallway before disappearing from sight. A small sigh escaped you, until you remembered who was left in the room with you. Your eyes darted between Lilith’s silhouette and the farmhand’s slow, ragged breaths.

Lilith lowered her wings, the muscles across her back and shoulders losing tension as she steps close to you. Still restrained, there isn’t anywhere you can esc— why would you need to escape? Lilith was here, and you were safe. The Blessed Mother had come to save you.

A sense of serenity washed over you as she stooped to your height, her hands coming up to caress your face as she inspected the damage Elias had done to you.

“She will recover,” Lilith says softly, still looking over your cuts and bruises. “For now she is asleep.”

The uncertainty of your own fate crept into your voice. “And what of me?”

One side of her mouth tilted upwards in a slight smile. “What of you indeed,” she said. The Queen of the Succubi turned one of her nails against your skin, tracing the cut from Elias’ blade with weapons of her own, engraving into you. A mark of her possession and power over you.

You whimper in pain as her nail begins to create a new wound on your other cheek. Lilith’s expression turns to a devilish grin as the cries escape your mouth. She’s enjoying this. Her hand slides up your face along the side of your head, her fingers winding their way through your hair.

“You’re doing so well, little one,” she whispers to you, her face mere inches from yours. So that’s what she wanted. Her breath overwhelmed your brain with its sweet intensity, as if you were surrounded by a thousand blooming flowers, as Lilith pulled your head forward to meet hers in a deep kiss.

Some piece of yourself locked deep inside your mind banged on its cages in protest to no avail. The rest of you felt like you had just inhaled fresh air after surfacing from being underwater for too long. She tasted like bittersweet fruits and love, a dizzyingly powerful combination that melted into your mouth. Your tongues mingled as you engaged in a back and forth of exploring each other. You pushed into her mouth, dancing across her sharp canines. She pushed back in response, each time nearly overwhelming you with her power. Her hands crawled their way from your face to your shoulders, and then your back, her nails scraping along the engravings and runes carved into you. The sensation was nearly overwhelming, and you let out a low moan in equal parts pleasure and pain. She responds in kind, vocalizing her excitement at yours.

Just as you begin to drown in Lilith’s love, she pulls back, one hand still gripping your hair firmly in her grasp. She tilts your head to the side, exposing your neck.

“This will sting,” she echoes into your ear, before dipping her mouth down to your neck. She plants a kiss under your jaw, and then pulls her lips back as her canines pierce through the soft skin beneath them. You grunt, your body shuddering slightly with the pain — it’s almost euphoric. Lilith wraps an arm around your torso and holds you still as her teeth reach their mark in your flesh, and she drinks of you. Oh, how wonderful it feels to serve your Mother.

Nearly a minute passes before she removes herself from your body, your blood dripping from her mouth onto her dress. She licks her lips clean of you, reaching behind your head to unpin the restraints holding you in place. Your light-headedness causes you to stumble forward into her waiting arms, catching you gently as you fall into her chest. Your eyes slide shut as the last of Lilith mixes into your bloodstream, coursing through your body, the final resistant pieces of you wilting in her presence.

The Daughter of Hatred stands to her full height, carrying you in her arms and raising the unconscious farmhand off the floor with her tail.

“There is much more fun I want to have with you,” she teases, gazing at your resting face. She scoffs once, turning to leave the cell and return to her throne.

Your eyes fly open as you bolt upright, instinctively covering your head and chest with your arms in defense of Elias’ unrelenting blows that never came. Lowering your hands from your face, you realize you’re not in a cell — you’re lying on a massive bed in an even more massive room, bigger than most you had seen in the Terraces since your arrival. Your chest is wrapped in bandages, and the hole in your neck closed, but the faint smell of blood hasn’t faded from your skin. The metallic scent winds your memory back to its last feelings and images before you’d lost consciousness.

The feeling of Lilith pulling herself off of your neck, your life pouring from her mouth and the wound she had opened on your body; her hands exploring as much of you as they could. A gentle warmth blooms in your stomach, clawing its way to your heart and throat as desire for the Daughter of Hatred permeates your entire being.

You shake your head and center yourself back into the present reality. Focus. You had work to do. You had to serve your Mother. You wanted — no, needed to be by her side, at her every whim.

One of the extravagant doors dotting the walls of the room creak open, revealing a succubus standing behind it. She quickly meets your gaze, her eyes locking with yours before she spins around and marches down the hallway outside. You say nothing in your confusion, instead sinking back down onto the bedding. It was impressively soft, and your thoughts wandered as you grew used to the comfort.

You didn’t have much time to relax as the doors swung open again to reveal Lilith walking into the room with you, shutting the doors behind her. She was no longer covered in armor, the lack of spiny bone and silver catching you off guard. Her purple dress was stretched tightly over her body, and the elegant curves of the Queen of the Succubi showed prominently under the fabric. Free from the armor, the movements she took towards you rippled with strength, the powerful muscles in her legs flexing with each step.

Lilith stands several feet away from the bed, resting her hands on her hips, pinching the clothing in even tighter. Your eyes dart down to the movement quickly before coming back up to meet her gaze. One of her brows was angled upwards ever so slightly in… mockery? Curiosity? Excitement? Her emotions were almost impossible to read behind her pale face.

She broke the silence first.

“I see that the soldier has recovered,” she teased, a slight smile spreading across her face.

You lowered your head in deference. “May I ask a question, Mother?”

You waited for an answer, but instead of speaking, Lilith’s palm reached under your chin and tilted your head to look at her. She had closed the gap between herself and the bed, now standing at its side.

Lilith’s voice flowed over you like honey. “You need not look away in fear. You’ve earned this.” Her last words echoed in your head and you nearly forgot what you wanted to ask.

“Why help me?”

“Don’t you remember? You still have to entertain me.” Her smile grew wider, conveying the truth in her words. But her eyes flickered something more sinister.

You move to hang your legs off the bed, putting Lilith between them. You ask the question that both of you were waiting for. “And what does that entail?”

The Daughter of Hatred’s excitement is unmistakable, and she bends down to you until your face is inches from hers.

“Do you want to find out?”

A thousand different scenarios play through your mind and your breathing quickens slightly. Lilith hovers above you, eerily calm, a gleam in her multicolored eyes.

Was this not the pinnacle of service to the Daughter of Hatred? You had the opportunity to offer up your entire being in her honor, allowing her to pore over you, finding every use for you she needed. Lilith had welcomed you as one of the first saviors of Sanctuary; the least you could do was give yourself to her.

So you nodded in silent affirmation, your walls crumbling, leaving you raw and open for her to ravage.

The Daughter of Hatred’s assault on your body was not carried out through lashes and strikes, but instead with gentle caresses. Her hands traveled across you, mapping out every feature they could find — the ridges of your cheekbones, the muscles curving from your neck to your shoulders, the old scars and fresh markings that dotted your skin. She felt all of them, felt all of you, until she wanted more.

Lilith kissed you with unbridled passion as she pushed you down onto the bed and climbed on top of you. Her legs straddled yours, trapping you under her as her lips worked their way around your face and neck. You reach your hands out to her face and she pulls back instinctively, just for a moment. The words come to your lips before you can stop them.

You pull your hands back and look at her. “Are you afraid?”

Lilith freezes, and you can see her jaw clenching. Her wings are held slightly above her back, unmoving and rigid. And you can sense it. Her sorrow and loss pours off of her in waves, choking the air around you, and that gleam in her eyes morphs into a flash of regret.

“There has not been an equal, in these moments, since Inarius,” she whispered, her voice breaking on the name as the chinks in her armor slowly surfaced. Your brows furrow in confusion. Inarius, the Angel-Commander? The self-righteous killer?

“He was my mate once. Ages past, at the dawn of your creation. We created you and yours,” Lilith continued, gazing back into your eyes. “We had a son. Linarian. And he was stolen from me. Stolen. By the very being that helped bring him into Sanctuary.”

Tears of anger slowly rolled down Lilith’s cheek as the memories she had suppressed boiled to the surface of her mind. She remains still over you as her breathing deepens, the wetness from her eyes falling from her face onto your chest. You raise yourself up once more, extending your hand to her cheek as you wipe away her sadness. Lilith presses her head into your hands, and the two of you sit in silence as her millennia of suffering and regrets shatter before you like glass.

The Daughter of Hatred leans away from you, putting her weight onto your legs as she sits back with her head held high. Several seconds pass, and the only thing you can hear is your pulse in your ears.

“Inarius is no longer here. My son lies dead. But I am not. I am here.”

She leans back into you, almost in… comfort?

“And so are you.”

Both of your fears are washed away by Lilith’s passion and your willingness to surrender to her. To you, she is an incomparable sweetness. Her thighs tense against yours as she moves around your body, planting her lips on every square inch of you she can find. And when she has exhausted all of your exposed skin, the Queen of the Succubi removes the bandages from your torso, strand by strand, devouring you slowly, savoring every bite. As Lilith drops down to your navel, you grab her horns gently and pull her up to your face to deliver kisses of your own.

She falls to your side and her dress tightens even more with the twists of her body. It’s your turn to explore; your hands crawl around her face, mapping the structure of her face into your mind. They reach to the back of her neck, and you feel the soft skin under your fingertips turn to scale and bone where her wings join to her spine. You travel back to her front, grabbing onto her chest in carnal desire.

Lilith lets out a low moan as she rakes her hands across your back and throws a leg over your side. She sits up, her lips pulled back in a smile, revealing her sharp teeth you are all too familiar with. She stands and turns around, pulling your legs towards her. Sinking to her knees, she leans against the edge of the bed, eyeing the growing bulge in your pants.

“Don’t worry,” she coos, her hands gliding from your chest to your waistband. “I’ll be gentle.”

Lilith slowly slides your pants down, enjoying your twitches of pleasure and impatience as your erection is revealed to her. She raises her eyebrows at your size, licking her lips at the thought of conquering your body for herself.

She drags her fingers lazily up and down your length, smirking as you shudder. Lilith moves close, planting a gentle kiss at the base of your cock before she slides her tongue to the tip. She kisses your glans with a devilish look in her eyes before opening her mouth to swallow your entirety. The wet heat of Lilith’s mouth envelopes your dick as she moves her head back and forth, pushing herself deeper with each movement. She swirls her tongue around your shaft as the tightness of her throat stimulates your head, sending pulses of warmth through your body.

Your breathing quickens as she pulls you to the brink of orgasm before she pulls your cock out of her mouth, taking a deep breath as strands of saliva fall against her chest. You’re almost begging for release. “Please, Lilith,” you exhale heavily.

A coy smile dances across her face as she strokes you with a tight grip, and then plunges your throbbing erection as deep as it can go, her nose pressing into the flesh below your navel. You cry out in ecstasy as your legs flex instinctively. Lilith’s hands press you down, keeping you still as your release floods into the back of her throat, and you can feel her muscles clamping down around you until she’s finished. She moans and swallows, her mouth relaxing.

You fall onto your back panting as Lilith pulls back from your cock, a mix of her saliva and your cum dripping from her mouth. Lilith hums in contentment as she pulls herself over you, kissing her way up your stomach. The blood in your lower body doesn’t drain away; instead, your erection grows even harder, almost painfully so. Her potent aphrodisiac took quick effect, the saliva covering your dick making you throb in want.

Lilith had straddled you once more, locking your face between her powerful legs. The Daughter of Hatred’s body was poised above you in all its divine beauty. Her breasts obscured the better part of her face from your vision as you could only see her eyes peering down at you. Dominating you.

She grabbed your hair with gentleness not to hurt, but to control. She bent over you slightly, spreading her wings to their greatest lengths.

Her voice was dripping with sin. “Your turn,” she purred.

Lilith moved your face to her sex, the intoxicating scent of her femininity overpowering your senses as the smell of sweat and slick infiltrated your nose. In one quick motion, Lilith spun onto her back, carrying you with her, putting you prostrated at her base. You needed no further guidance; it was time to please your Queen.

You brought your hands under and around her, gently caressing the inside of her legs. You started low — your careful kisses working their way up from the middle of her thigh to just outside her slit. You navigate your way around her with soft licks, burning the surface of her skin into your mind.

Lilith’s impatience grows, heavy breaths escaping her mouth as you circle your tongue around her clit, her hands raking themselves through your hair in pleasure. Your attention finally drifts into her as you dart your tongue in and out, first in careful laps, then in deep passion. Her wetness spills from your mouth onto your chin, Lilith’s sweet-sour taste melting on your tongue. You only break your pace to give attention to the rest of her, walking your lips up her stomach only for her to push you back down where you belong.

Lilith’s pleasure spills from her in slow moans and low curses in a language you can’t recognize. Her breathing quickens as you pull her to the brink, her grip on the back of your head firm. She presses you deeper into her, rolling her hips against your face. You glide your fingertips over the top of her sex, toying with her clit. Electricity wracks the Daughter of Hatred’s body as you push her over the edge and waves of pleasure light up her every nerve. Her moans rise in pitch as she crests, and her labored breathing slowly returns to normal.

There is an unspoken union between the two of you, inextricably linked through the sins of the flesh; through your mutual consumption of each other, through the devouring and savoring of the other’s taste.

Your cock throbs as Lilith motions for you to come forward, reaching for your face to kiss you. Your messes rub against each other, eliciting a low groan from your chest. She arches an eyebrow and grabs the back of your neck, pulling the side of your head to her mouth.

“I will conquer you,” she whispers into your ear. She nibbles on your earlobe and grabs your hard erection, directing it to her sensitiveness. Your tip rubs against Lilith as she toys with you, stroking her hand up and down your length until she finally grants the begging wishes falling from your mouth. You slide into the Queen of the Succubi, her slick folds enveloping your cock as you begin to thrust.

Your vocalizations of pleasure synchronize with hers, and Lilith’s impossible strength holds your body down against her own. Your mouths explore each other to their fullest extent, your tongues battling for dominance over each other. She pulls you into her as deep as you can go, your flesh slamming against hers. With each motion, Lilith clenches around your shaft, overwhelming your brain with endorphins.

Your pace quickens as Lilith’s nails dig into your back, her eyes begging you to continue. And continue you do.

Just before you’re about to finish, she pulls you down to her face and cries out in ecstasy, her own body shaking with yours as you paint the walls of her womb with white. She clamps her mouth down on your shoulder as you pulse inside of her, breaking your skin and biting into your tender flesh. The pain barely registers through the rest of your overloaded senses as your spasms stop and Lilith’s walls relax around your cock.

The two of you sit in silence as your heart race slows. You can barely focus, and your voice is low and gravelly.

“Oh my god.”

Lilith turned to you, a fire in her eyes.

“There are no gods here.” She lifted your head with a finger and you melted under her hardened gaze. There was power written across her face as she grabbed your chin with her thumb and forefinger, pulling you to your knees to follow her. Her nostrils flared as you knelt on the bed beneath her, the blood from your shoulder dripping from her mouth onto the satin under you.

“Good boy.” Lilith’s voice melted over you, pushing you into total subservience. You meet her gaze as she whispers sweet nothings into your ear.

“I may have use for you yet,” she says with a vicious smirk. She drags her finger up your chin, her sharp nail leaving a stinging cut in its path as she lets go of your face. The Queen of the Succubi walks back to her discarded robes, pulling them on in a neat fashion. The only evidence of what transpired was smeared across her red-stained mouth; the rest of you remained deep inside her womb.

Lilith takes a deep breath, examining the drying fluids on her hands. She shifts her eyes to you, laying on the bed and still recovering from her dominion over you. Her tone is commanding. “Behave.”

You nod your head as she turns to leave, but pauses before she exits the room.

“Make sure you clean up the mess. I don’t like my quarters dirty.”

You blink in acceptance, the door slamming behind her.

Lilith’s scents hover faintly in the air as you get to work stripping the bed and finding water to wash out both of your stains. You shut your mind off as you idly scrub, replaying the events prior.

You catch a flicker of movement in the corner of your eye. As you spin in its direction, a hand slides up around your face, clamping down on your mouth as you try to shout.

“Shut up! It’s me, you bleedin’ idiot!”

Your eyes grow wide as the farmhand’s voice fills your ears. You spin around in disbelief. She stands before you, alive, but you’ve seen her in better conditions.

“We don’t have a lot of time. There’s a way out, a back passage. I’ve tried exploring it before, but the succubi don’t like—”

You cut her off, holding your hand in the air. You’re confused: why does she want to leave?

“Didn’t she show you, too?”

“Show me what,” she asked in slight irritation, peeking down the hallway.

“The truth?”

The farmhand turns back to look at you, a mixture of pity and anger in her eyes that disappears as soon as you see it.

“I… yes, yes she showed me! That’s why we need to spread that truth to the rest of the outside world. Come on, now!” She hisses the last few words, grabbing your hand with her good arm, her malformed nub wrapped in front of her chest. The next several minutes were occupied by a rushed walk, until you arrived at crumbling walls down a dim hallway.

“It’s here. Let’s go, come on, hurry!”

She pushes bricks and stone aside, revealing a small tunnel just tall enough for you to crawl through. She vanishes inside, the blackness surrounding her form until the only indication of her presence is her breathing.

You follow on your hands and knees for an unknown amount of time. Eventually she gasps in relief as slivers of light peek through cracks in the stone ahead. The farmhand elbows away the choss, coughing away the dust as the rocks fall away before you. The scene in front of your eyes is a familiar countryside — you’re back in Scosglen, the mountains you first entered dotting the horizon.

“Listen, I’ve got a friend — look at me!” She slaps your cheeks lightly as if trying to re-energize you as your mind wanders back to your Queen. “I’ve got a friend that can help us, yeah? We’ll go meet him.”

She set off down the rocky hills you stepped out to, motioning for you to follow. Your head splits in a piercing headache, and then you’re brought clarity by Lilith, her voice serene in your mind.

“Go with the girl, Wanderer of mine. Trust her — but do not forget your pact with me,” she says.

You silently thank her, and finally address the farmhand directly.

“Thank you, N…” Her voice was on the tip of your tongue; you’d interacted dozens of times before. Why couldn’t you remember it?

Her brows furrowed in confusion. “...Neyrelle? Did you hit your head? What did the demoness do to you?”

Something told you to lie.  “I — I can’t remember.”

“Good thing this man can help you, then.”

“Who is he?”

Neyrelle turns towards the rising sun as beams of light break over the horizon and shine into her face.

“Lorath Nahr.”

With that, the two of you began to cover the miles of empty, silent wilderness between you and the nearest trade outpost. From there, Neyrelle had told you, you’d take a horse to Ked Bardu where the man called Lorath was waiting.

And so it was: that the two lonely wanderers seeking to regain their humanity together searched for the Horadrim Lorath Nahr, who would lead you to believe that you needed to help mankind fight against Hell’s threat. Each sliver of doubt you had was assuaged by your Mother’s voice in your mind. Your battles took you across the continent, joining forces with many allies and fighting against even more foes.

All the while, the Daughter of Hatred sat in her throne, watching over your every action; she prodded you with gentle affirmations in each and every direction she needed you to go. And when the time came for the Horadrim to battle Lilith, you had joined them to put her down once and for all.

The Queen of the Succubi, revealing herself to those who so wished her dead, simply smiled at their insults and aggression. She knew what they did not. Lilith’s eyes locked onto your own, her head held high as her gaze focused through to your soul.

Your sword left its sheath. Lilith laughed from the depths of her chest, a haunting mockery of all the effort the Horadrim had made to get to this point.

Burning hatred erupted from her, permeating the air around you all with its tension. “It’s time for you to serve once more, little mercenary.” The Daughter of Hatred smirked as she vanished in a swirling mass of blood-red petals.

It was finally then that Lorath understood what had happened as you stalked towards him, your arms poised for a killing strike.

He turns to you with tears pouring down his face, shielding Neyrelle behind him. “Why?”

You growl your answer back. “To please the Mother.”

Lorath looks to the ground, muttering under his breath. You pause just long enough to recognize the Horadric he’s chanting, shouting as you lunge forward into the open air where your victims just stood. Simple runes were carved into the stone under your feet and magic energy stained the air around you.

It didn't matter. Lilith had given you an order — you wouldn’t fail your Queen, no matter how long it took.

You had prey to hunt.