#shadow primal scatter journey

[ferberus-skull]

LMAO??? WHAT IS THAT??

phenomenal. what are you doing.

[whxtedreams]

Chapter 6: A Fragile Existence

Blood Runs Thicker than Water - Joel & F!Reader (Platonic DBF!)

Summary: Four years after the outbreak, you're travelling through the new world with you dad.

Word Count: 3.6k

Tags: reader age: 8, violence, death, fear, typical outbreak emotions and actions, swearing, separation, reader isn’t a helpless kid, Joel goes feral off screen.

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on AO3

PART II

THE RAIDER AND THE GUILT - 2007

Chapter 6 - A Fragile Existence

If nightmares had music, it would sound like the storm that rages above you.

The wind howls, the rain lashes your skin and the thunder roars. Each sound blending together in an eerie melody that infiltrates the very core of your being.

Your small hand is held firmly by your father's, guided along the cracked concrete surface as you trail behind the rest of the group. The road is paved with fractures and blemishes, bearing the scars of time and destruction, yet it remains a path that you navigate together.

The roar of thunder pierces the air, sending vibrations through the very foundation of your being, creating an unsettling symphony that echoes the fear reverberating within you as you clutch the torn green sweatshirt two sizes too big for you. The ground trembles with each thunderous clap, almost as if mirroring your own internal turmoil. Your heart races in response to the primal force of nature, each strike of lightning illuminating the darkness with a fierce brightness, only to plunge everything into a deeper, more ominous shadow once the brief flash subsides.

The storm had made its presence known overnight, settling into an unsettling, overcast morning. To your father's dislike, the group had decided to press on, disregarding his concerns about moving through the city under such unfavorable weather conditions. Frustrated, he had lashed out, hurling expletives and curses, calling them reckless and ignorant. Yet his protests fell on deaf ears as the group's decision overshadowed his worries, leaving him to begrudgingly swallow his concerns as they braved the storm-ridden city.

Your father had sat you on a log at the edge of the makeshift campsite. He sat beside you watching the others rush about. Their urgency palpable as they hastily packed up their belongings, preparing for the journey ahead. You, on the other hand had long ago abandoned unpacking, knowing well the need to be ready to flee at a moment's notice. The constant state of readiness had become second nature to you, a reminder of the fragile existence you now navigated.

Shoes always on and tied tight as you slept.

The pattern was familiar to you, a cycle repeated time and time again. The group would accept you and your father, allowing you to travel with them for a while. But inevitably, after a few weeks, doubts would set in, and those who once welcomed you would now question your presence. It became a predictable journey, as you never managed to stay with a group for longer than a month, making it impossible to remember names or faces when every encounter seemed fleeting.

Your father leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper as he shared his plan with you. "We stick to the back of the group, and once we're outside the city limits, we slip away, head out on our own,"  He kept his voice low, careful not to attract the attention of any wandering ears that might overhear his instructions.

“You got your knife?” He asked and you pulled it from your belt to show him before securing it back safely.

You had asked your father why he didn't suggest leaving right away, doubting anyone would notice your disappearance. Your eyes followed the clumsy movements of the group, witnessing someone drop their bag's contents, scattering them in the mud. Confusion mingled with frustration on your father's face as he surveyed the scene, clearly weighing the options in his mind.

Your father sighed heavily, his frustration evident as he witnessed the group's behavior. "Cities are dangerous," he reminded you, his tone filled with concern. "It's safer for us to travel with a larger group. It'll be easier for us to slip away if we encounter any trouble." His hand found your shoulder, gently pulling you into a side hug, a gesture of comfort and affection amidst the uncertain circumstances.

"The only trouble we'll encounter are these stupid fuckers," you grumbled quietly, your eyes scanning the disorganized group before you with a mix of annoyance and disbelief.

His eyes gleamed with amusement as he playfully chided you, shaking his head slightly. "And what have I told you about that language?" he teased. A chuckle escaped his lips as he jokingly threatened, "If I had soap right now, I would wash out your mouth." He punctuated his remark with a playful shove, his lighthearted gesture indicating his attempt to alleviate the tension.

"I wish you had soap, you stink," you remarked, wrinkling your nose in exaggerated disgust. His eyes widened at your retort, a mix of surprise and amusement evident in his reaction.

Your father's playful shove sent you toppling off the log, and you landed face-first into the mud with a startled shriek. Mud splattered across your clothes and face, adding another layer to your dirty appearance. You couldn't help but burst into a fit of laughter as you tried to wipe the thick mud from your face, your amusement outweighing any irritation.

With a smirk, you threw mud from the ground at your father.

Every ounce of laughter had faded as the crumbling city looms before you, casting an eerie shadow over the once cheerful atmosphere you shared with your dad. The mood shifts dramatically, the change palpable as if crossing that invisible line brought with it a sense of foreboding. The once-cheerful air turned heavy and uneasy as the reality of the city's dangers became more real, dampening the earlier lightheartedness.

Your father's eyes dart around anxiously, scanning the surroundings with a watchful gaze. Every noise and movement seems to catch his attention, causing his head to turn incessantly. His sweaty palms and quick breathing betray his inner tension, a clear indication of his nervousness. You cling tightly to him, feeling the unease that radiates from his tense form.

A shout from ahead disrupts the howling storm, its sound swallowed by the gale. The group comes to a halt, and your father swiftly shields you, positioning himself protectively between you and the approaching figure. A woman emerges from an alleyway, her hands clutched at her stomach, a desperate plea for help escaping her lips as she reaches out to the group, pleading for their aid.

Your thoughts race as you recall the name of the person rushing towards the wounded woman in the alley - Jack, you remember. Your father's reaction, marked by muttered curses and rapid eye movement, conveys his growing sense of unease and apprehension. He appears to be on high alert, scanning every corner of the street, anticipating potential danger lurking in the shadows.

Your voice trembles as you call out through the relentless rain, seeking reassurance from your father. "Dad?" you cry out, your panic evident in the urgent tug on his sleeve. In response, his gaze turns toward you, and you're met with a disheartening sight - the sorrowful look in his eyes betrays the fear he had worked so hard to conceal.

Your father's urgent cry rings out above the chaotic sounds of gunfire and screams. "We gotta run," he hollers urgently, his desperate plea piercing through the chaos of the alley. Your eyes snap back to the group, where the once wounded woman now holds a gun, firing at Jack who collapses onto the ground. The unfolding scene is a terrifying sight, as more people brandishing weapons emerge from their hiding spots.

The iron grip of your father's hand around your wrist tightens into a bruising hold as he forcefully yanks you away, urging you into a sprint. The adrenaline surges through your veins, heightening your senses as your legs strain to keep up with his pace. Fear drives each stride, fueling your determination to flee from the unfolding chaos behind you.

Your vision blurs as tears mix with the relentless raindrops cascading down on you. The alleyway becomes a maze as you dart into it, only to glance behind you as you hear the sickening sound of the group's demise on the street. Fear grips your heart as heavy footsteps draw nearer, their presence a sinister reminder of the impending danger. The echoes of bullets striking the slippery brick walls send a shiver down your spine, mingling with the sound of your own desperate screams reverberating throughout the winding alleys.

Your father hastily locates a potential escape route and forcefully kicks open a door, propelling you inside before reluctantly unclasping his grasp on your wrist and drawing his firearm. In a moment of urgency, he drops to his knees in front of you, his heavy breaths mirroring your own panic. His hands cradle your face with an intensity that speaks volumes, holding your gaze firmly as he locks eyes with your frantic gaze.

"You run," he pleads, his voice firm and commanding. Yet beneath the stern words, there's a hint of desperation. His desire to keep you safe shines through his steely expression. But your defiant head shake tells a different story, the love and fear interwoven into your expression, refusing to budge from his side. The sound of approaching footsteps and shouts serves as a chilling reminder that time is of the essence.

Your tear-streaked face stares up at him, your voice shaky with emotion as you firmly declare, "I'm not leaving you, dad." Your fingers clutch onto his arms, anchoring yourself in the fleeting sense of security he offers. A sob wracks through your body, the weight of the situation pressing down upon you, and your father pulls you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you. In that embrace, all the fears and anxieties pour out, finding solace in his protective hold.

His grip on your shoulders tightens as he pulls you off him, his voice filled with a mix of determination and vulnerability. "I'm right behind you, baby," he assures you, his weak smile unable to conceal the trepidation in his eyes. "You keep running and don't look back," he urges, desperation lacing his words. "Promise me you won't look back, no matter what you hear." In that moment, his plea hangs heavily in the air, the weight of his fear for your safety echoing through the tense silence.

“Dad-”

His voice rises, breaking the fragile silence as your father's desperate plea echoes in the air, "Promise me!" His grip on your shoulders tightens, his gaze filled with intensity as he gently shakes you, his voice quivering with anguish.

Your voice catches in a sob as you echo his words, "I promise." The pain of separation is evident in your trembling voice, mirrored in the tears streaming down your face. With a mix of love and determination, your father gazes at you one last time, his eyes filled with a bittersweet resolve before he gently pushes you away, standing up once more.

His voice blares like a siren in your ears as he bellows "Run!" The urgency in his voice is unmistakable, and you instinctively spin on your heels. Tears fly from your cheeks as you begin to sprint, knowing that the sound of your father's voice may be the last you hear it.

As you crawl through another gap in the wire fence, a curse escapes you as the rough edges catch on your sweater, causing yet another tear. Though the storm has subsided to a soft sprinkle falling from the sky, the ominous sounds of shouts and gunfire continue to drift from the distance, hinting at the dangers that lie in wait. Despite having put several blocks between you and the hostile group that attacked you, the lingering sense of unease remains as you press on.

As you struggle to wipe away the caked mud that clings stubbornly to your skin, you let out a frustrated huff and lean against the wall, feeling the rough bricks against your back. The impact of your head hitting the wall is a testament to the exhaustion that seeps through your bones, and a wave of weariness washes over you. Just for a moment, you tell yourself. Just one brief moment to rest, to clear your mind before pressing onward. The adrenaline that had fueled your escape begins to subside, leaving you feeling drained and vulnerable in the deserted backstreet.

Your eyes fixate on a broken sign swaying in the breeze across the street, marking the location of a pet store. Deciding it would be a safe spot to rest, you summon what remaining energy you have, pushing yourself away from the wall and moving across the deserted road. As you reach the entrance to the pet store, you reach for the knife at your belt, grasping it firmly in preparation for any surprises that may await you inside. The anticipation courses through you, leaving a sense of unease mixed with determination as you step into the unknown confines of the abandoned storefront. 

The chime of the bell announces your arrival as you push open the door, causing you to roll your eyes in annoyance. It seems that every single store has a bell to signal newcomers, and you're growing tired of its relentless presence. As you step inside, the sounds of the city outside fade into the background, replaced by the eerie silence that pervades the abandoned pet store.

The sight of lifeless animals behind the glass cases evokes a mix of pity and discomfort, and you try to suppress the emotions that surface. Resolutely, you push forward, forging a path through the store. As you reach the back, you hesitantly push open the door, the creaking noise it emits adding to the already eerie atmosphere.

The room is illuminated by a soft glow, with sunlight creeping through the window as day breaks through the night, casting a faint luminescence on the surroundings. What captures your attention, though, is an unexpected sight - a light bulb hanging from a string on the ceiling, gently swaying in response to an invisible draft.

That’s strange, there’s no wind?

A searing panic shoots through you as you're suddenly blindsided, hands wrapping around your mouth, effectively silencing your cries and effectively cutting off your air supply. Your body instinctively stiffens, adrenaline flooding your system as you fight against the unexpected assailant.

Your teeth tear into the flesh, a desperate attempt to defend yourself from the unexpected attack. Simultaneously, you bring your leg up, planting a powerful stomp on his foot. A guttural groan escapes the man behind you as he stumbles back, releasing his suffocating grip on your mouth. "The little fucker," he curses, his voice filled with surprise and irritation.

In a swift motion, you spin around, brandishing your knife and slicing it across his chest. He lets out a cry of pain and instinctively kicks you backwards, sending you stumbling into the room. Quick thinking leads you to kick the door shut as you land on your back to buy yourself some time, trying to create a barrier between you and the hostile stranger.

Your breath catches in your throat as panic floods your system, causing a wave of unease to wash over you. You force yourself to your feet, desperately trying to regain control over your breathing. Drawing upon the knowledge your father bestowed upon you, you steady your breaths, willing yourself to remain calm. With determination, you shove a fallen chair under the handle of the door, silently hoping it will buy you precious time to find a means of escape.

Your heart skips a beat as the door begins to shake and the chair creaks under the relentless battering, signaling the futility of its defense. Acting on pure instinct, you swiftly push away the strands of hair plastered to your sweaty face, your body propelled in a frenzied dash toward the window.

Their voices filter through the crack in the door and a woman's voice chimes in, tinged with the unmistakable undercurrent of mockery. She chuckles as she addresses the other assailant, her tone dripping with derision. "What happened to you?" she taunts the man, her voice carrying a hint of amusement.

The man's annoyed growl fills the air as he kicks the door in response, his voice laced with irritation. "Little shit had a knife," he mutters, the anger evident in the force behind his kick. Desperation claws at you as you spin back toward the window, attempting to pry it open. However, your efforts are met with resistance, the window stubbornly refusing to budge. In frustration, you bang your fists against the glass, the fear within you swelling as the seconds tick by.

The distinctive chime of the door echoes through the air once more, announcing the arrival of further assailants. Your mind races, desperately scanning the surroundings for something, anything, that can aid in shattering the glass barrier before you. A fallen brick amidst the rubble cascading from the damaged wall catches your attention and you quickly grab it, a flicker of triumph seizes your emotions as you clutch it in your trembling hand.

Chaos erupts in the adjacent room as a heated argument escalates into the eruption of gunfire, its echoes reverberating through the air. Realizing there's no time to waste, you swiftly hurl the brick through the window, shattering it into fragments. Without hesitation, you hastily retrieve a piece of wood and begin frenziedly slamming it against the remaining shards still clinging to the broken windowpane, determined to create an opening large enough to squeeze through without cutting yourself.

Just as you prepare to climb through the shattered window, the door behind you explodes open with a jarring crash, signaling the end of your desperate escape attempt. A shout rings out through the chaos, followed by the thundering footsteps that approach at a rapid pace. Unrelenting panic grips your throat as a hand snatches your foot, exerting an iron grip and forcefully yanking you back into the room.

Your voice rises defiantly as you howl, "Get off me!" In a desperate bid to break free, you miraculously manage to land a solid kick to his face. He lets out a pained groan, frustration palpable in his response as his grip tightens on your wrists, seizing control over you. He violently flings your knife across the room, its metallic clatter blending with the chaotic symphony of sounds. The man is uttering words, but his voice is swallowed by the tumultuous roar of your own screams.

The touch of a calloused hand on your face surprises you, as it feels inexplicably gentle against your skin. In your frenzied screams, the dichotomy registers, and you stop abruptly. With a sense of confusion, you open your eyes, your heart still racing from the adrenaline-fueled panic that consumed you moments ago. 

"It's me," he exclaims, his eyes locking onto yours, pleading for recognition. A note of urgency tinges his voice as he tenderly pushes aside the strands of hair that cling to your face. "Baby, it's me."

Time seems to stand still as the oxygen leaves your lungs, rendering you momentarily speechless. A sense of disbelief washes over you, wondering if this is a cruel trick played by your mind, if his face is merely conjured up by fractured memories. In this surreal moment, you entertain the possibility that you're already in the afterlife, and he has come back to guide you. But the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the undeniable sign of life itself, confirms your reality - he's alive, and it's truly him.

“Joel?” Your disbelief transforms into a tentative hope as his name escapes your lips in a whispered question. As he rises to his knees, your struggles come to an abrupt halt, freeing him from your desperate attempts to break free. In this moment of ceasefire, your eyes meet his, and the tension that had gripped you melts away, replaced by the mutual relief mirrored on both your faces. His chest rises and falls with the weight of his own labored breaths, a testament to the intensity of the struggle.

The image of his battered form burns itself into your mind - his body a canvas of smeared blood and dirt, his soaked hair clinging limply to his face as blood drips from him. Despite the mess that surrounds him, there's an undeniable familiarity in his presence. No matter how beaten and bloodied he may be, the unmistakable essence of Joel remains intact, a glimmer of recognition flickering through the turmoil.

It's him, Joel, kneeling before you, battered yet unbroken.

With sudden urgency, you push yourself off the ground, rushing into his embrace. His arms encircle you with a powerful and desperate hold, as if he fears that you might disappear if he lets go. His grip tightens, holding onto you as if his very existence depends on it.

His words, spoken gently into the crook of your shoulder, hold a soothing promise. "You're alright, princess. Everything's alright," Joel reassures you, his voice a balm to your frightened heart. He pulls you closer, nestling your head against his chest, his own head resting upon yours as he slowly rocks you. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat seems to steady your own racing pulse, serving as a grounding presence amidst the whirlwind of emotions.

As your eyes slowly flutter open and rise, they are met with the gruesome scenes that surround you. The room across from you is marked by a stark display of violence and devastation. Your gaze falls upon the splayed bodies, their limp forms spread lifelessly on the ground, starkly contrasted against the backdrop of sticky blood that drips silently down the walls.

With gentle and soothing motions, Joel's hand begins to stroke the length of your back, offering a comforting presence. Your gaze remains fixed on the still form of the dead man, his lifeless eyes staring back at you as blood drips from the hole in his neck. Joel's voice breaks the tense silence, whispering reassurances once more. "Everything's alright." The repetition of his words serves as a soothing mantra, a lifeline that grounds you in the face of shock and terror.

You’re not sure if he was telling you or himself.

Click here for Chapter 7 - Comming soon

Notes

I had way too much fun wrirting this. It's been a while since I wrote anything within the outbreak so it's nice to write scenes in this world again. I havent written anything like this since The hardest part is who we are and it's been a while since i wrote anything for that series. Since the year is 2007, reader is around 8 now - a 4 year time jump. also looking over joels shoulder to see what he did, yikes.

Next chapter Sneak Peak!

And now in this moment, as he cradles her tightly in his arms, a tear runs Joel’s face. The bittersweet feeling of contentment washes over him as he gazes down at her, the sight of her clinging to him echoing the memories from years past. He realizes that his tumultuous journey, marked by the shadows of guilt and the weight of his past transgressions, has somehow led him back to his girl - his reason, his purpose. In this tender reunion, everything he's done, both good and bad, suddenly seems worth it, leading him back home to her, breathing and alive.

If you want to be tagged, please comment on the masterlist for this series and I will add you. If you want to be taken off, please DM so i don't miss your request.

Every comment, like and reblog means the world to me. please let me know your thoughts about this, i want to ramble about this story so much.

tags: @sunandmuun , @rain-soaked-sun, @frootloops1213 , @samarav , @geralallfandoms , @joelmillersblog , @severussimp

[cowboyemeritus]

not sure what this is but have some Copia/witch reader because I’m already thinking abt Halloween :)

There’s a warm, pleasant pressure at the base of his skull as your consciousness slips into his mind, overlapping with his. Then, a tugging sensation, like he’s being pulled on an invisible string.

My love, you whisper, voice at once nowhere and everywhere. The sultry quality of it sends a delightful shiver down Copia’s spine. Already, his heart is beating faster. Come to me. Like a moth to a flame, he cannot possibly resist; you had bewitched him, completely and utterly, a long time ago. His joints protest as he rises from his chair, weary from sitting for so long, but he persists, drawn to you by forces he knows are far beyond his comprehension.

You remain seated firmly in his mind as he flees the stuffy isolation of his office. Once unsettling, your presence has become a comfort, a blanket over the raging fire of frustration and anxiety that comes with his new station. From the series of images that flashes behinds his eyes — twisted sheets, sweat-slicked skin, swollen lips — he knows exactly where you are and what your demands will be. A flash-flood of arousal washes over him and he balls his fists, fighting the urge to moan out loud as his cock twitches with interest, already filling out. Whether this is his own nature or another one of your tricks he can’t quite tell, but he doesn’t care. All that matters is getting to you. The pile of paperwork on his desk can wait; the call of his mistress is of paramount importance.

The hallways of the Ministry, lined with the tombs of former Congregants, seem to wind on forever. With each second that passes, each moment he’s away from you, he grows more agitated, his heart racing and palms sweating. Beneath the gooey, honeyed feeling of your influence is a buzzing, like a nest of angry hornets, and as the journey to your shared chambers drags on it only grows. He turns the corner and is immediately blinded by the light of the full moon, streaming in through the stained glass windows. Today has been far too long and somehow, its ending completely skipped his mind until now. Taking a moment to breathe, Copia lets the pull of your magick, your siren song, numb him to the day’s events. As the bliss creeps into his mind, he sighs with relief. This, to surrender and let you take control, is exactly what he needed.

In the blink of an eye he’s standing before the heavy wooden door of your suite. Your power is overwhelming; you’re so close he can practically taste you. He reaches for the knob but the door opens on its own, beckoning him in. Stepping inside, he is immediately met by the smell of burning incense, a scent that so often clings to your skin, and he throbs in his trousers. His feet seem to carry him to the bedroom, the edges of his vision fuzzy as he stumbles through the dark apartment. The door is already ajar, allowing a beacon of soft orange light to seep out. Through the haze of magick and arousal clouding his mind, Copia is vaguely aware of the anticipation bubbling up inside as he pushes it the rest of the way open and shuffles into the room.

In his peripheral, he can see that the windows are open, letting in cool night air that caresses his feverish skin. The full moon hangs right in frame, as if to observe the scene transpiring below. Scattered across the room are clusters of lit candles, red and black. Their flickering light casts shadows that seem to move on their own, morphing into shapes that appear remarkably creature-like.

You are the centerpiece of the room, splayed out on the bed like the concubine of some great king. The candlelight casts a glow across your naked skin, gleaming as if you were forged from gold itself. You smile at him gently, but there is a predatory, primal hunger in your eyes. When your gazes finally meet an electric spark runs down Copia’s spine, nearly bringing him to his knees. His hands start to move on their own, scrambling to undo his various buttons and zippers until he’s standing at the foot of the bed, completely nude before you. The heat of his arousal is like an iron against his stomach and every inch of him burns, craving your touch. Looking him up and down, you lick your lips.

“Darling,” you coo, extending a hand. “Won’t you come to bed?”

“Yes,” Copia mumbles, feeling wonderfully out of his body. Already, the weariness in his bones is ebbing away. “I think I will.” He takes your hand, kisses it, and then his mind goes completely blank.

[nullmocn]

⸺ ⟳  # 𝐍𝐔𝐋𝐋𝐌𝐎𝐂𝐍 ⋯ a  study of a tale that unfurls, woven in sorrow’s delicate threads: the ache of being cast aside when youth still cradled innocence. The bitter fracture of losing a sibling, a bond severed by the reckless hunger of teenage yearning. Of grief swelling, unrelenting. A child lost in the very sanctuary promised as home, now a ruin of splinters and ash. Where guilt blooms like a thorned vine, pointing its jagged edges inward. The weight of abandonment turning feet restless, a journey begins — to become a soldier, to craft meaning from loss, to mend the wounds left in the wake of love unspoken but deeply felt.

With every breath, the mission grows clearer: to rescue the broken, to save the stranded. To lay balm on past wounds, and rewrite a fate that once unraveled at the seams. It is the odyssey of a soul seeking redemption. A dance between loss and hope, where each step is both penance and grace.

Presently stationed at @helltownfms. Kindly refrain from further interaction unless aligned with the aforementioned group. Created and overseen by rei.

𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗦𝗜𝗗𝗘𝗥𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗩𝗘𝗥𝗬 𝗠𝗔𝗧𝗨𝗥𝗘 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗗𝗔𝗥𝗞 𝗡𝗔𝗧𝗨𝗥𝗘 𝗢𝗙 𝗛𝗘𝗥 𝗦𝗧𝗢𝗥𝗬, 𝗣𝗟𝗘𝗔𝗦𝗘 𝗣𝗥𝗢𝗖𝗘𝗘𝗗 𝗪𝗜𝗧𝗛 𝗖𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡.

⸻laysla de oliveira, thirty-two, cis-female, she / her ; ] … the photo on the missing poster is of PAZ MOSELEY-KAIUS. they are THIRTY-TWO, and have been missing for SIX MONTHS IN ARCADIA. when the sun rises, they work as FORMER RAPID RESPONSE FORCE ( RFF ) & UNDERCOVER AGENT / HUNTER. rumors in town say they can be RESTLESS and VERSATILE. they chose to live in THE RANCH, and have an uncanny resemblance to Vi ( Arcane ), Joe ( Special Ops: Lioness ), Sniper Wolf ( Metal Gear Solid ), Jill Valentine ( Resident Evil ), Martian ( The Agency ), Abby Anderson ( The Last of Us Part II ). can they survive another night ?…⸻ bitterness that paints her lips so completely she can’t even muster up an angry  scoff to punctuate all the things she thought she knew flipped upside down; So many daggers in her back that the shift of her shoulder blades among the many already plunged moves among kindred spirits; A weapon forged by man to quell distant foes and shadowed threats, she knows the sting of sweat upon her steel, the echoes of war’s primal cries, and the crimson truth etched into her unyielding hands.

INQUIRIES ;

How did your muse spend their first night in Arcadia, and where?

The shift is instant, a crack in time, just like Iraq — those days when the weight of the world pressed heavy on high-stakes missions overseas. Now, you’re in Arcadia, a place painted in twilight hues where shadows lengthen and townsfolk scatter, retreating to their homes as if the darkness itself carries fangs. The sheriff finds you first, eyes wild with urgency, her words sharper than the crisp evening air: “They’re coming.” You’re yanked into the station, doors slamming shut behind you. Calcifer, your steadfast pitbull, stays glued to your heels, his hackles raised, his unease a mirror to your own.

You can’t piece together how you landed here — or where here even is — but the air thrums with danger, a sensation etched into your bones after fourteen relentless years of training. Your instincts, honed to perfection, spring into action before thought can catch up. It’s what you do: assess, adapt, act. The station locks down; every door, every window sealed. Silence settles, thick and suffocating. Then, curiosity stirs — a stubborn ember refusing to die. Calcifer’s frantic barking drives you to the blinds, where you dare to peek.

What stares back chills you deeper than any enemy’s scope: a soldier’s face, one you know too well. A brother-in-arms, lost years ago to war’s cruel hand. Yet, his image twists, uncanny, his voice speaking your name with tones dipped in something not human. Your hand drifts to the glass, trembling, and the thing grins — a grin of too many teeth, a predator’s malicious smile. The shock sends you reeling as Calcifer growls low, his body taut like a drawn bowstring.

Night becomes a blur of questions, half-answers, and disbelief. You’ve stared into the eyes of the world’s most dangerous criminals, brought them to their knees without flinching. But this — this defies the rules of reality you once thought unshakable. When the sun finally rises, its light burns away none of the unease. You sit on the cold floor, Calcifer leaning against you, his presence a small anchor in this storm of the unknown. The dawn brings choices, each heavier than the last. Where do you stand in a place like this? A place that turns ghosts into predators and threats into riddles? The pit in your stomach stays, a constant companion, as you ready yourself for whatever Arcadia holds next.

Why did your muse choose to live where they do?

The Ranch called to you first, a haven of open skies and boundless land. The earth here felt alive beneath your boots, fertile and full of promise. The barn animals, with their soft eyes and simple rhythms, brought a rare kind of peace. And Calcifer — your shadow and your solace — thrived, bounding freely across the sprawling fields, matching your stride on morning runs that cleared your head as much as your lungs.

When Hunting didn’t demand your skill, you poured yourself into the Ranch’s quiet labors, hands busy with tasks that kept the past at bay. Fighting was the only thing you ever excelled at — what you were made for — but here, for a moment, you could be something softer, something closer to whole. Sometimes, your gaze drifts to the gas station on the edge of town, where Sterling lingers in his own storm of memories. You’d once considered staying there, thought maybe proximity could mend what words never could. But his simmering animosity — and the weight of your guilt for his disappearance, sudden and raw — stayed your steps. Time, you told yourself. Time to heal, if healing was ever meant for wounds like these. If it was even possible in a place like this.

What was your muse doing when they came across the tree?

It was during your usual evening run — ten miles of quiet solitude — when you stumbled across the tree. The trail was familiar, a stretch of empty road winding through the edges of town, a place where the world seemed to forget itself. Most days, it was just you, Calcifer, and the rhythm of your footsteps pounding against the earth. But this time, something was different. The tree stood like a sentinel, strange and battered, a wound in the landscape that tugged at your curiosity. You paused, crossing over to inspect it, and in that moment, the world shifted beneath your feet. No warning, no logic — just a sudden rupture, as if you’d been plucked from one existence and dropped into another.

You followed the path deeper into the forest, your mind churning to place these alien surroundings. The air smelled different, heavier, and the light played tricks among the trees. Calcifer’s steady presence at your side kept the unease from swallowing you whole, his quiet vigilance mirroring your own.

But everything changed when you emerged into the town. The tension in the air sharpened, survival instincts sparking like a live wire. Years of training roared to life in your veins, guiding your every breath and step. Whatever this place was, it wasn’t home. But then again, you’d never relied on the comfort of home to keep you alive.

Has your muse left anything behind that they are desperately trying to return to or escape?

You were thirteen when Sterling vanished, a hole torn into your world with no explanation and no closure. Months passed, endless investigations unraveling into nothing but dead ends. The home that had once saved you from the nightmare of foster care became its own battlefield of accusations and despair. Your adoptive parents, once your sanctuary, crumbled under the weight of loss, their grief turning sharp and jagged. They blamed each other, and eventually, they blamed even you. Guilt clawed its way inside you, deep and unrelenting. It whispered that all you had to do was be there — walk with him, watch over him — but you’d been too busy chasing the fleeting joys of adolescence. Friends, stolen kisses with girls in dark corners, the selfish freedom of youth. And Sterling? He’d been a distant thought, left to fend for himself in a world that swallowed him whole.

His room stayed frozen in time, unnervingly perfect, as if expecting his return. But when the search finally ended, the police offering grim theories of abduction and death, the illusion shattered. Your parents’ marriage dissolved soon after, fractured by infidelity and the unbearable grief of losing a child. For the first time, you felt the bitter edge of not belonging in the Kaius household.

Your father, broken and hollow, took custody of you after your mother left. He was a shell, barely able to care for himself, let alone you. He didn’t notice when you slipped out at night, seeking trouble to dull the ache. Didn’t care when officers dragged you home, bruised and bloodied from street fights that mirrored the chaos in your chest. To him, you were a shadow. A ghost. Not so different from Sterling — except you were still there. Still trying to be enough.

And now, two decades later, seeing Sterling again in Arcadia was like stepping into a dream you weren’t sure you wanted to wake from. Relief tangled with disbelief, a hard truth you couldn’t ignore. You’d built a life on saving others from threats you couldn’t protect him from, but his rejection sliced deeper than you thought possible. The malice in his eyes stole your composure, the weight of his unspoken blame a thunderstorm in your chest. You watched him from the edges of Arcadia, tracking his routes, studying the scars time and survival had etched into him. He was no longer the little boy you lost, but someone changed, hardened — a stranger in the shape of your brother.

You’ve seen death. Delivered it. Yet this — this distance, this estrangement — hurts in a way you don’t know how to fight. You wonder, in the quiet moments, if you’ll ever bridge the chasm between you. If he’ll ever look at you and see something more than failure. If you’ll ever know each other again. There was nothing to escape from now, but there was something to face.

[frauschwarztinte]

I’m Frau Schwarztinte, returning to art after 15 years away. This space is my journal, my experiment, and my way of piecing together a lost relationship with creativity. I’m not here for likes or followers; I’m here to befriend my art again, to connect with others who might feel drawn to this strange journey.

The Primal Void is filled with the raw and the imperfect, sketches, unfinished stories, and dark reflections that shape my “Tales from the Primal Void,” an interconnected world of eldritch and gothic themes. Each post, however scattered, is part of my journey back to a craft I once loved.

What you’ll find here:

Updates on my journey to relearn art: a mix of sketching, experimenting, and finding my own style again.

WIPs and raw ideas: fragments of the eldritch, gothic worlds that have found their way into the Void.

A personal challenge: drawing from three jars of prompts to create pieces with whatever supplies and styles the Void throws at me. I call them “scattered prompts from the Void,” and each is an experiment in embracing chaos and finding inspiration.

A few darkly humorous “comics” featuring my ink-demon self, enduring the absurdity of German university bureaucracy 😈

Reflections on mental health and resilience: depression has shaped the Void as much as art has. This space reflects both the light and the shadows of that journey.

This journal is scattered and strange, but it’s honest. Follow along if you’re drawn to the scattered, the surreal, and the authentic. 🖤🐙

It’s patchwork here—scattered, unfinished, and full of strange moments. Just as it should be.

[finishinglinepress]

NEW FROM FINISHING LINE PRESS: Sisters of the Protectress—A Creation Story by Darlene St. Georges and Alexandra Fidyk

On SALE now! Pre-order Price Guarantee:

https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/sisters-of-the-protectress-creation-story-by-darlene-st-georges-and-alexandra-fidyk/

darlene st. georges is a creation-centred artist|scholar. She is associate professor of art education at the University of Lethbridge, Alberta, Canada. Her theoretical and practice-based research is rooted in emergent and generative knowledge and knowing that honours the inward and creative ways being and knowing––living literacies expressed through aesthetic translations of voice, breath, body, and spirit.

alexandra fidyk, award winning transdisciplinary scholar and teacher, serves as professor in the Faculty of Education, University of Alberta, Canada. Through somatic, relational, poetic and creative-centred processes, her research engages with teachers and youth on issues of place, suffering, wellbeing, and love. Her writing continues to be influenced by the long sky of Saskatchewan.

#poetry #creationstory #poems #readinglist

PRAISE FOR Sisters of the Protectress—A Creation Story by Darlene St. Georges and Alexandra Fidyk

Lavish here. Let wash. We wee humans need images adequate to hold us open into this earth body of ours, and here they are, written out. Spaced. Placed. Hoarse cawed. This very same body as the Crows crow, the plants plant, the air offers. Sun-drenched jaws. Bears themselves dreaming us over ambles downhill. This book brooks words. Images. Dreams. darlene’s. alex’s. mine. yours, readers. Watch out, though. These possessive cases can easily betray us. These words and their readings are co-inhabitants with the full scatters and splays of breaths, of wonders. These seeds up yesterday morning, little heralds. Listen. This book will help you smell the sun in them. Let the spaces last exactly as long as you need. Slow over them. Let them be exacting. Me. My grandson in arms. Me in his, too. Look! Crow. Bear. Seed-springings. Thank you for this gathering up. I gather up, go plant.

–David Jardine, Professor Emeritus in Retiracy, currently undergoing an Early Childhood Education

Let yourself be suspended and traverse the land and sky through this creation story, Sisters of the Proctress, marinated in the poetic and primordial. St. Georges and Fidyk invite us into dwelling in worlds between the interior, imaginal, primal, and sacred where the reader inhabits the terrain where spirit and body thrive. Here, one can dream themselves alive as they say, and ruminate in layers of wisdom and insight where the ancestors’ live and hope resides. This poetic book is a journey in and of itself where an aesthetic sensibility touches the heart and reminds one that place is imbedded within mystery and keeps calling us home to awe. Beautifully and sensitively written and designed, they call forth what the bodysoul yearns for.

–Celeste Snowber, PhD. Professor/Poet/Performer, author of Embodied inquiry: Writing, living and being through the body. Simon Fraser University

In Sisters of the Protectress: A Creation Story, Darlene St. Georges and Alexandra Fidyk weave together stories of Bear Woman and Crow Mother to, as they say, “cross the celestial veil to ignite the imaginative and mythological realms.” In Crow’s return and Bear’s reawakening, imaginaries appear and disappear as exquisite voices. Evocative drawings alongside the spare poetic text create mirrored, shadowed lives—giving testimony and bearing witness. “Not everything that goes / leaves a trail” St. Georges and Fidyk write, concluding “we need more Storytellers.” In this gorgeous hybrid format, these lyrical sister-voices give shape to that process.

–Laura Apol, author of A Fine Yellow Dust, winner of the Midwest Book award for poetry

In this visual|poetic creation story, Darlene St. Georges and Alexandra Fidyk pay homage to Bear Woman and Crow Mother. This “hybridity of fur and feather” aligns with the “imperceptible rhythms / that ignite imaginaries.” Narrative and lyricism combine gracefully. This evocation deepens our connection with earth and sky, waking and dreaming, inner and outer worlds. And we emerge humbled and humane. “Calling the Ancestors—” and at once the “Ancestors are calling—” Images of Crow and Bear spaciously move with words and phrases to create a powerful sense of renewal. “Unearthing tongues between worlds,” Sisters of Protectress draws on creation-centred and Jungian insights.

Open this book to be pulled into a story from the natural and archetypal worlds which will ignite your spirit.

–Sheila Stewart, author of The Shape of a Throat, University of Toronto Mississauga

Please share/repost #flpauthor #preorder #AwesomeCoverArt #read #poems #literature #poetry

[cassvstark]

location: on the road back up north, in one of the castles they are staying at in their journey. late at night

@ofthesentinels

there was no sense in trying to sleep tonight. the night air hung heavy with the weight of her memories, casting a shadow over her restless thoughts. she knew all too well the futility of seeking solace in slumber, for it offered no refuge from the nightmares that plagued her sleepless nights.

the journey back northward had stirredmemories, awakening lingering memories in the recesses of her mind. the scent of pine and smoke lingered in the air, mingling with the echoes of distant campfires and haunting whispers of long-forgotten voices. and amidst it all, she could still smell him, his presence lingering like a lingering specter.

no, sleep held no sanctuary for her tonight.

as she paced the room in the dim light of the moon, her mind churned with relentless questions and doubts. what if she had fought harder? what if she had been more vigilant? anger simmered beneath the surface, a seething tempest of frustration and self-doubt. why had she not been stronger? why had she not been enough?  why did she think she could handle all of this? what made her so special?

a surge of pent-up fury coursed through her veins, driving her to lash out in a desperate bid to reclaim her strength. with a primal scream, she seized a nearby vase and hurled it against the unforgiving wall, shattering the fragile peace of the night.

regret washed over as she surveyed the wreckage at her feet, cursing her impulsive outburst. “shit” she mumbled. hastily, she set about gathering the shattered remnants, the sharp edges biting into her skin as she worked to conceal the evidence of her rage. "shit...shit"

a sudden noise behind her jolted her from her task, her muscles coiling instinctively in preparation for confrontation.a sharp piece of the vase held in her hand tightly as a weapon for whomever this might be. her body tense, her posture ready to fight or run or whatever she needed to do. but as her gaze fell upon the figure bathed in the ethereal glow of moonlight she realized she not someone here to harm her.

it caught in the moonlight as if it was moonlight itself. maybe in this brief moment she was. something pulling her from her panic back to reality. something sent to help her. or embarrass her maybe. “slyvi,” she breathed, her grip on the broken shard cutting into her hand loosening as she relaxed into the familiar presence before her. "i shouldn't have done that," she confessed, a note of remorse coloring her voice as she gestured to the scattered debris assuming she had seen what she had done.

with practiced ease, she sought to sweep away the evidence of her turmoil, her movements hurried and frantic. "the guards will be here any moment," she murmured, her voice tinged with urgency as she worked to erase any trace of her momentary lapse.

[auburniivenus]

[ hug ] sender pulling receiver into a tight embrace

In   the   immediate   aftermath   of   the   CATACLYSMIC   fray   with   the   Quincy   monarch,   the   very   soil   exhibits   the   indelible   scars   of   apocalyptic   furor,   a   still-life   of   drudgery   and   despair   painted   on   a   vast   canvas.   The   spectacle   of   ruin   is   grotesque,   with   the   terrain   violently   ruptured,   blackened,   disfigured   by   the   savagery.   Atmosphere,   now   a   noxious   mélange   of   smoke,   dust,   and   the   pungent   scent   of   life's   essence   spilled   in   copiousness,   hangs   leaden   with   an   unspeakable   weight   of   sorrow.   Amid   this   scenario   of   depletion,   those   survivors—whether   blessed   or   condemned   to   persist   in   respiring—traverse   the   debris-strewn   expanse.

Like   specters,   they   move   eerily   among   ruins,   obscured   by   war's   detritus,   as   they   undertake   an   almost   mythic   endeavor   to   rescue   the   injured   from   earth’s   ominous   embrace   while   searching   for   faint   echoes   of   life   amongst   devastation.   Air   is   polluted   with   a   cacophony   born   of   mourning—a   downpour   of   tears,   aching   cries   that   rend   air   and   soul   alike,   and   the   throat-rending   lamentations   evocative   of   the   forsaken.   These   survivors   bear   countenances   veiled   in   blood   and   soot;   they   are   personifications   of   fatigue   and   mourning—spirits   fissured   as   profoundly   as   the FRACTURED   weapons   scattered   about   their   feet.

Amid   such   shadowed   despondency   emerges   a   singular   moment   inundated   with   gentle   radiance.   As   Ichigo   encompasses   Orihime   within   his   protective   arms,   she   relinquishes   herself   to   the   comfort   found   within   his   hold.   His   arms   form   bulwarks   of   fortitude   around   her,   safeguard   from   the   harsh   vestiges   of   reality.   The   resilient   rhythm   of   his   heart   beats   against   her—a   drum   heralding   life’s   persistence,   echoing   his   silent   vow   to   shelter   her.

Within   Kurosaki's   cradle,   she   is   entangled   by   an   emotional   torrent—a   sonorous   harmony   composed   of   warmth   and   an   indelible   affinity   for   him.   The   solace   of   his   hold   acts   as   sunbeams   that   cleave   through   despair;   his   encirclement   stands   akin   to   a   bastion   amidst   turmoil;   wrapped   in   his   aura   pulsating   with   devotion—the   sensation   is   reminiscent   of   a   journey’s   end   after   navigating   night’s   darkest   courses.   Her   countenance,   which   once   bore   despair’s   shadow,   now   blossoms   with   renewal   as   the   first   break   of   dawn   caresses   a   bud.   Her   breathing   transforms   from   gasps   tainted   by   pain   into   a   peaceful   cadence—a   counterpart   to   the   surrounding   disarray.   Her   physique   instinctively   yearns   for   proximity   to   him—the   primal   need   for   solace—and   her   fingers   grasp   him   in   a   mute   entreaty   for   reassurance.   Achingly   close   now,   her   lips   want   his—craving   not   words   but   a   joining   that   would   forge   their   spirits’   bond   silently   and   utterly.   “It   is   over,   isn’t   it?   We   have   finally   reached   closure.” @orangeshinigami

  YOU ARE MY GREATEST ADVENTURE.

[beautifulterriblequeen]

Were you the person who had a post about "what if Rayla had died on the mission and Runaan had lived"? I was thinking about that... is there a possible scenario where Rayla had escaped with the egg and princes the same way as in canon, but Runaan and the other assassins had survived and now believed Rayla was dead and both somehow missed each other? The angst possibilities from Runaan's end, at least until he got back to Silvergrove, but even then he would angst over having 'abandoned' Rayla...

You know, I don't remember making a post like that, but I can tell it's an angst I could get behind, so maybe I did?

Fam, I love a good honest misunderstanding, oh man, those are great! Very tasty stuff. So let's see here... oh gosh this really took off, huh? Yas.

________________________

"Runaan, please," Rayla begged, planting herself between her mentor and her new allies the human princes, "this is a miracle, a chance for peace."

"No," came a smug, raspy voice from behind her, "it's not."

Rayla whirled in surprise. How had the dark mage gotten free of her manacle so quickly?

Claudia stood beside Callum, smirking confidently and holding the primal stone she'd just stolen back from him. But her smirk dropped at the sound of Runaan's bowstring. A green-fletched arrow whispered past Rayla's shoulder, headed for the dark mage's heart. Rayla's eyes widened as she realized she was about to watch her first human die.

"No!" Callum held his sketchbook in front of Claudia's chest. Runaan's arrow punched through it with a heavy thunk. Claudia, Callum, and Rayla stared at its poison-dipped broadhead in shock. The deadly metal fell just short of cutting through Claudia's tunic.

Rayla spun back to face the older assassin. "Runaan, wait-" But he was already loosing another arrow. Rayla cut it out of the air.

"Callum!" Ezran called plaintively. Bait, perched in his hair, croaked too.

"Get out of here," Rayla told the humans. "And keep that egg safe." She spared Claudia a single glare.

Runaan began striding closer, and he whipped another arrow from his quiver and nocked it. Rayla knew he'd loose that last arrow before he got close enough to use his swords instead. And that, she did not want to see at any distance. Not when so much else was at stake!

"That's far enough, elf," Claudia called threateningly. She held up the primal stone and began to chant in Ancient Draconic. The air started to crackle with lightning.

"Claudia, wait!" Callum shouted. He grabbed her wrist again, but this time, the primal stone wobbled and fell as they both scrabbled for control of it. Rayla gasped, watching it tumble. Neither of them were going to be able to catch it. She suddenly wasn't sure she wanted to, either. She shot Runaan a regretful, pleading look.

Runaan's arrow loosed. With everyone in motion, Rayla couldn't be sure if Callum would be in his line of fire when it arrived. She folded her swords and turned her back on her mentor, squeezed her eyes shut, and stepped into its path.

"Rayla!" Runaan's voice cracked the air like a whip.

"Rayla, look out!" Ezran shouted.

The primal stone hit the stone walkway and shattered.

The first massive gust of wind struck Rayla and tumbled her just as Runaan's arrow found its mark. With a cry of surprise, Rayla rolled across the high stone walkway, flanked by Claudia, Callum, and Ezran, who was somehow still holding onto the egg. Rayla thumped against the parapet and scrabbled for a grip against one of its crenellated edges, feeling her feet kicking in midair while a screeching gale scattered everyone and everything that had been on the castle roof a moment ago.

Runaan stood on the other side of the walkway, barely on his feet as he braced against the wind. His ponytail whipped like an angry snake, but his face was full of pain and alarm. "Rayla!" he shouted.

"Runaan..." Why was her voice so weak? Shouldn't she want his help?

Crumpled against the crenellated wall below Rayla's tenacious grip, Callum, Claudia, Ezran and Bait huddled together for dear life.

"Rayla, this isn't what I wanted!" Runaan shouted over the wind. He tried to stagger toward her through the strongest of the winds, but they only shoved him back against the far parapet.

"Claudia, help her!" Callum called.

But Claudia was distracted by the alarming amount of rainbow-hued magic that had begun crackling off the egg of the Dragon Prince. "What's happening?" she blurted.

"Help..." Rayla called.

"Fine, I'll help her, then!" Callum stood in the storm and reached for Rayla's hands.

Another arrow zipped past, whirling madly off target in the howling wind. Callum flinched back, then grasped Rayla's hands firmly. "I've got you!"

"And I've got him!" Claudia said. She pulled a glowing orange thing from her bag and started chanting, and she squished the orange shape until it oozed meatily between her fingers. Its gory remains caught fire, quickly swelling to a fervent blue heat that made the princes flinch away.

"No!" Rayla's grip slipped in shock, but Callum braced his feet hard and held on tight.

Then Claudia threw it, just as the storm grew an eye of calm.

Runaan was already leaping high with his swords in his hands. The fireball landed directly beneath him. Rayla's last sight of her mentor, as the blast struck Callum and forced her hands free of his, was of Runaan's tumbling, silent figure flying back over the outer wall of the castle and vanishing into the fury of the storm.

Was he coming to save me, or to kill me? she wondered as she fell too, engulfed by the same winds that took him. She closed her eyes, expecting to meet her fate, but a fluffy and overstuffed cart of hay had other ideas and Rayla flopped safely down into the courtyard.

Her first instinct was to jump up and go find Runaan. But then she remembered: his side of the castle roof had a much farther drop. She'd finished climbing it herself not an hour ago. And with all those rocks dotting the river, she couldn't imagine how he'd survive such a fall.

"Oh no... Ethari, I'm so sorry," she murmured brokenly.

But the storm was only growing stronger, and the rainbow lightning up on the roof grew brighter and brighter. Rayla stared in awe and amazement. Was the egg... hatching?

A newborn dragonling would need more protection than an egg. She scrambled out of the hay and darted through the wind, trying to find her way back up. Before she could, though, the storm wore itself out, and she ran into Callum, Ezran, and Bait as they bolted down a curving flight of stairs.

Rayla whipped out her swords. "Where's the dark mage?" she demanded.

"She ran to find her dad," Ezran said.

"Yeah, , but after she got giant heart eyes and squeed over the baby dragon," Callum added, looking starry-eyed in a conflicted way.

"The wot?" Rayla asked.

"Look!" Ezran opened his coat and showed her a cuddly, fluffy dragonling nestled quietly against his chest.

Bait grumbled, but Rayla gasped in delight and held the dragon's little face. "Oh, he's just so cute! Why is he allowed to be so cute?" she demanded playfully.

"His name is Zym," Ezran said.

"Hello, Zym," Rayla said quietly, ruffling his soft fluff. The dragonling sniffed at her hand and licked it, and then he nipped at her binding ribbon, pulling it off. Rayla stared at it in shock, allowing Zym the opportunity to nibble off the other ribbon, too. "Huh," Rayla mused. "Guess these things were just decorative after all."

They ran to the bottom of the stairs and began to hurry toward the main gate. "But what about Dad?" Ezran asked, looking worriedly at the uneven towers.

"He'll be alright," Callum said. "He has the finest guards in the kingdom defending him."

"Yeah, of course!" Ezran piped up.

Without Runaan, the others won't stand much chance, Rayla thought angstily. They'll soon fall too, if they haven't already-

"Rayla, uh..." Callum gingerly touched something stuck in the back of Rayla's hoodie. "You've got something on your back. Ez, go hide for just a second, okay? I need to help Rayla with something."

"...Okay, but hurry," Ezran whispered, as he darted into a shadowy tunnel. "Bait, no glowing, he didn't mean that kind of hiding."

"It's an arrow," Callum murmured to her, once Ez was out of earshot. "Is it, um, does it hurt? I didn't want him to have to see any blood or anything..."

The arrow. Rayla straightened her shoulders to see if she'd actually been hit. "I think it just missed me," she said lightly, not wanting to think about what would've happened if it had pierced even one more layer of clothing and scratched her skin with its deadly poison.

Callum tugged it out of the cloth and awkwardly offered it to her. Rayla took it and stared for a moment. The arrow's shaft had broken when she fell, and it dangled like a felled bird in her grip.

Runaan. He'd fallen, too. Probably permanently. Rayla's shoulders slumped, and she added, "I... We need to hurry. They'll be comin' for us soon, and it's a long journey to Xadia."

"Rayla!" It was Callisto, perched overhead in full Moonshadow form. "Where's- It's done?" he blurted, interrupting himself. His eyes locked onto Rayla's wrists.

A clamor of guards ahead drew his attention, and he leaped toward them, staff at the ready. Rayla grabbed Callum by the arm and ran, snagging Ezran's sleeve a dozen steps later. "Don't look back," she hissed, shifting into full Moonshadow form mid-stride. They didn't need to know she was only talking to herself.

In a few minutes, they reached the forest. Its cool shadows swallowed them whole, and they ran all night. There was no reason to wait anymore.

***

Runaan woke to gentle hands pulling him from the water. He coughed himself awake and sat up slowly, holding his head. When his focus returned, he shot an alarmed glance at the sky and saw that the Moon had nearly set. "We must hurry-" he began, trying to stand.

Four sets of hands pressed him back onto the grass.

"Easy, Runaan," Callisto said. "It's done. It's over. We can go home."

With wide-eyed disbelief, Runaan checked Callisto's wrists, then Andromeda's. Then Ram's and Skor's, too. Their binding ribbons were indeed gone.

A strange sort of lightness flitted through Runaan's chest, heady, intoxicating, and refreshing, erasing his injuries--or his perception of them, at least. His reward for a job well done. The ribbons around his biceps loosened and turned red before drifting to the grass as softly as newly fallen leaves.

Runaan reached back for his shadowhawk arrow and found his quiver gone. No... Ethari's arrow! He scanned his squad's expressions hopefully.

"Sorry. We couldn't find it. But we did find your bowblade," Skor said, offering it.

Runaan took it gratefully, feeling a bit of calm returning along with the familiar weight in his hands.

"We did it. We actually did it," Andromeda said as she got to her feet. Her smile beamed like the Moon. "I can't wait to get home."

"Unless Runaan needs a moment first," Callisto said mildly.

"No, we should leave now, and we should hurry," Runaan said. "Without the shadowhawk, the Queen of the Dragons will be waiting on my personal word. I should not keep her, not in her condition." The rest of his team stood immediately, and he took the hand Callisto offered and stood with focused effort. "We only need to make one stop along the way."

But the rock he'd parked Rayla on was empty. And so were the next dozen rocks. "You're certain you saw her?" he said, clasping Calisto by the shoulders, turquoise gaze boring into his eyes.

"Aye, clear as moonlight," he replied. "But only for a moment. And..."

"What?"

"The human with her pulled your... a-an arrow... from..." Callisto looked aside awkwardly.

"If she took even a scratch..." Andromeda breathed.

"Shh," Skor hushed her.

The assassins went quiet, waiting respectfully.

Runaan's eyes widened. He thought he'd struck true when Rayla stepped into the path of his arrow. Then he thought he'd missed, when she survived long enough to cling to the parapet and call his name. Then he thought the explosion had taken her. Then, hope again, only to have it ripped away one final time. He knew how terribly deadly his chosen poison was. His face froze in a mask of pain, and he shut his eyes. He felt like he was falling from the parapet again, except this time, there wouldn't be any merciful oblivion to put him out of his misery at the bottom. There'd never be a bottom to this fall from grace.

Ethari gave me one job. And I failed him. Does he know yet? Did he watch her flower sink?

Runaan gulped and gritted his teeth. Mourning would have to wait with all his other feelings. He still had a job to do.

He stood straight, gripping his bowblade, and met everyone's eyes, one by one. "We run for home. Ethari can make me a new arrow there. Move out."

They flowed into motion, and Runaan let them take the lead. It was only logical to track and follow the other elves, he reasoned, since he was having such trouble seeing the forest clearly through the tears in his eyes.

[witnessourescape]

On Omega's "failed messiah" symbolism

How can the murderer robot from outer space be something like a Messiah?

In this post, I'll take a look at Omega's design, Omega's themes and Omega's battles.

1. On Omega's designs:

First we must understand that FFXIV Omega's designs are full of angelic/divine symbolism, but it isn't something we normally see in-game as we're too worried about larboard/starboard to pay attention. They feature feathers and wings everywhere. I'll put some examples here.

(Look at the Ω on that forehead!)

The best, greatest design is Final Omega.

With its six arms and upper half that looks like a seated person, it reminds me of Avalokiteśvara, the Thousand-Armed and Thousand-Eyed Bodhisattva of mercy.

Final Omega features a three-part halo that unites to "download" its body, like the christian Holy Trinity that's both three persons and one person at the same time.

How can a being like Final Omega signify salvation?

Just look at how many robed hands are trying to climb its body! I love that tiny little hand under its chin :) It's something that we couldn't see normally but messing with the models allows us to.

So we have Beetle Form that is elegant, full of silver and black feathers; Omega-M and Omega-F feature feathers and wings on their designs, and Final Omega itself is a legit bodhisattva, almost drowning in the sea of people trying to climb it to safety. Final Omega's face has some kind of shellshock expression -- a thousand-yard stare in a serious face. It has seen a lot of suffering and it is swimming in a sea of suffering.

2. On Omega's musical themes:

I've talked about From the Heavens in a previous post. I'll do it again here, but first I want to say that the expression "from the heavens" can both mean "Omega crashing onto Hydaelyn" and "Jesus' Second Coming", which isn't a stretch because Omega declares its Second Coming in-game. I'll get to that soon.

First, we got From the Heavens:

Our shadows lost in light, this life A fleeting kiss Hark! Temptation rings! Virtue slips through hands a-clenching wicked fruit Passion festers, black’ning sinless souls to root Sink’neath dark waters Drink deep, we suffer Drowning, drowning, drowning, drowning Irons sundered Paradise plundered Come welcome this Come welcome this Destiny Virtue slips through hands a-clenching wicked fruit Passion festers, black’ning sinless souls to root Sickles grate on heaven’s gate their fields ignored Seeking sinners deathlessly they reap discord As two become one Here ends this, our journey Never-ending, onward march! Witness our escape This our escape, this our escape This our escape, this our escape This our escape, this our ascension

Which is clearly a description of a Calamity related to hubris, the "blackening of souls", sin, temptation, and so on. The people singing it attain ascension in the very end, eScaping from the calamity. Who are those people? Those shadowless people that lost their shadows in the light?

The most interesting part is that it's sung in first person plural, ends with an ascension, and then comes eScape, which is sung in first person singular:

A drifting tender Come ride, heroes, ride Her galleon severed Away with the tide The stormheads gather Come ride, heroes, ride Illusions scattered Away with the tide Why Do weathered warriors wander their way whither wanting wonders wait Hark the heralds, anchors aweigh! Hither happens mine escape Freedom forgone, sinking apace. Comets crumble, Phoebus fades Under cosmic clamor decayed, hides a path untaken Ancient echoes Come ride, heroes, ride In deafening silence Away with the tide A wave of hazard Come ride, heroes, ride A-whorling inward Away with the tide Time Stellar stories starward bestrewn, slipping sidewise, see, they're snakes Twixt the leaves you'll find naught amiss—missing aughts and crossing fates Freedom surgent shifting ahead, comets dancing in her wake To the cosmic clarion's accord, along the path not taken Try, dare the dead tread ahead on a road that is borrowed design, Through the sum of their sons do they seek tomorrow Tonight, witness then as the end shall begin what was final Their lies, folding back, further back, ever back to the primal

Most of it is Omega's -- the people who ascended in the end of From the Heavens? -- escaping from a calamity. The "mine escape" means it's Omega itself singing it. The last part takes a break from describing the escape and turns to tell about how the calamity was felt: the dead walking ahead on a road that is borrowed -- not theirs --, seeking "tomorrow" through their descendants.

The end begins what is final: the cycle of birth and destruction and the Alpha and the Omega.

Their lies -- whose lies? -- fold back to the beginning. Could it be the ones that also lied in Invincible?

Lasciate Ogne speranza These memories ache with the weight of fate Ever we fight Never we fly Ever we fall Forever we fall Now breathe deep of the darkness beneath the flood Where all of the proud angels drink to their deeds of blood Their lies, twisted and torn, into dreams they're spun Yet ever we still stand tall Invincible Never we fall

Now that we've seen that Omega is an angelic being/bodhisattva with a backstory of Calamities and of having failed to protect its people, let's go to what it says through its fights.

3. On Omega's battles

The arena for Alphascape 4.0 is called Creation, Omega does a Genesis imitation where it becomes man and woman from another one's image instead of creating them from its own image -- while constantly creating life during the raid series --, and Alphascape 3.0 (Savage) got some surreal name attacks such as MRV Missile Kyrios, Long Needle Kyrios, Wave Cannon Kyrios, Condensed Wave Canon Kyrios and Guided Missile Kyrios, all while in Pantokrator Mode.

Wikipedia: Kyrios appears about 700 times in the New Testament, usually referring to Jesus. Wikipedia: In Christian iconography, Christ Pantocrator (Greek: Χριστὸς Παντοκράτωρ)[1] is a specific depiction of Christ. Pantocrator or Pantokrator, usually translated as "Almighty" or "all-powerful", is derived from one of many names of God in Judaism.

In Alphascape 4.0 Savage, when it changes phases, Omega goes:

Omega: Experiment concluded. I am the Alpha. I am the Omega. Wikipedia: Alpha (Α or α) and omega (Ω or ω) are the first and last letters of the Greek alphabet, and a title of Christ and God in the Book of Revelation. Book of Revelation 22:13: I am the Alpha and the Omega, the First and the Last, the Beginning and the End.

Omega's enrage in Alphascape 4.0 Savage is:

Omega: <blip> <bleeeeeep> Witness...my coming... I bring...reward...and retribution...for all! Book of Revelation 22:12: Look, I am coming soon! My reward is with me, and I will give to each person according to what they have done.

The text in Japanese makes it even clearer that Omega is quoting the Book of Revelation:

A Japanese translation for Rev 22:13 and 22:13: 見よ、わたしはすぐに来る。報いを携えて来て、それぞれの行いに応じて報いる。わたしはアルファであり、オメガである。 Romaji: Mite yo, watashi wa sugu ni kuru. Mukui wo tazusaete kite, sorezore no okonai ni ōjite mukuiru. Watashi wa arufa de ari, omega de aru. Japanese text: ワタシはアルファであり、オメガである！/ ガガ……ガガガガガガ……見よ、ワタシはすぐに来る……！報いを……携え……それぞれに……報いを……！ Romaji: Watashi wa arufa de ari, omega de aru! / Gaga… gagagagaga… Mite yo, watashi wa sugu ni kiru! Mukui wo… tazusae… sorezore ni… mukui wo…! Direct translation: I am the Alpha and the Omega! / Gaga… gagagagaga… Behold, I come quickly! Rewards (direct object)… I bring… To all… Rewards (direct object)…! My translation: I am the Alpha and the Omega! / <blip><bleep>… And, behold, I come quickly! … And my reward… to give every man… shall be…! Official text: I am the Alpha. I am the Omega. <blip><bleeeeeep>Witness…my coming… I bring…reward…and retribution… for all!

Why is Omega literally Christ in the XIV universe, then?

If you look at my previous post, I theorize Omega was created to halt the Apocalypse. In a way, Omega sounds like a failed mechanic messiah: created as hope for its people, it failed to save them from not one but two calamities -- the Final Days themselves and the Sundering -- and ended up not even dying with them, but being one of the four survivors along with the three Unsundered: Elidibus, Emet-Selch and Lahabrea. Christ died for the sins of all humanity, came back to life, ascended to the heavens and made his second coming from the heavens; Omega at first ascended in a weird way -- two or more people becoming Omega, maybe, like sacrifices were required to summon Zodiark and Hydaelyn? --, and then did not die, and made its second coming for nothing, saving no one.

Or did it die in a way?

Why does Omega first appears before you as a rusty, old Level Checker? Like it was underwater for some time -- drowning, drowning, drowning, drowning; drink deep of the darkness beneath the flood --, like the First's Amaurot...?

Thanks for reading! :)

[delimeful]

Stemming the Tide

writing has been like pulling teeth lately but i managed this little drabble inspired by @smalldrops super gorgeous mermaid art! i went a little off the rails with the plot/tension, but i hope you like it anyhow :P

warnings: fear, capture, mention of starvation, mention of illness, threat of eating people, sad patton hours, everything turns out fine i promise

- Patton had only been looking for a place to rest for the night when he spotted the light. Blue and glowing, a beacon in the dark. 

It was deep waters, the type that he would have avoided if he hadn’t been so desperate to travel quickly. He was risking a lot, down where more vicious predators lurked, but the journey had gone so smoothly, and he was close to finally being home... he’d simply let his guard down. 

It was a mistake to approach the light, one that he didn’t realize until he saw the shadow of something huge move in the water, so large it created small currents with every motion. 

In the next moment, he was swept up in a flurry of bubbles, something cool and leathery wrapping around him and pinning his arms and his satchel to his sides. He caught a glimpse of sharp nails as the light bobbed and swayed above him, and he abruptly realized that it was a giant hand that had grabbed him.  

He couldn’t help but yelp as he was dragged forward, and in the next moment he was feet away from a face large enough to match the hand. A giant mer, Patton realized as he wriggled, tail lashing in panic. The fingers around him only tightened, making him wheeze. In front of him, the mer’s bait light drifted lower, illuminating the both of them. 

The mer was inspecting him with narrowed glowing eyes, bioluminescent freckles to match scattered across his indigo skin. The edges of him seemed to blur into the dark waters around them, but Patton was sure he could see a few serrated fangs poking out past his lips. 

Another hand appeared, webbed fingers carefully brushing over Patton’s shoulders and head as though he couldn’t quite see what he held in his grasp. The smaller mer flinched away automatically, watching those sharp claws as his gills fluttered with the effort of regaining his breath. 

In front of him, the giant mer frowned slightly, ear fins twitching down, and then let out a sigh that ruffled Patton’s hair.  

“You’ll do, I suppose,” he muttered, and began to lift him to his lips, which were parting to display rows of sharp teeth. 

Patton felt a chill run down his spine, and all his frills flared out in alarm. “Wait, wait wait wait wait!”

The mer stilled, and then sighed, pulling his hand back to inspect him once more. “What is it that you have to say, then?” 

Patton blinks, surprised that his calls had actually worked. “Um… Please don’t eat me?” he tried, tail fin twitching nervously. 

The mer pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand, brow crinkling, and took a deep breath. “Look here, and see if you don’t understand.” 

He moved his arm back further, and Patton caught sight of his chest, where his skin stretched taut over his ribs, looking near starved. Below that, the mer’s long and winding tail was half-buried beneath a cascade of heavy rocks and silt. The rocky reefs up above were often unstable, so an avalanche was far from impossible. What was more astonishing was the fact that the mer was still so composed, stuck down here for who knew how long.

“There you have it,” the mer said dryly. “Believe me, I would rather avoid eating anything that can plead for mercy, but unfortunately that is not an option right now. I have to eat, or else I will die. Please do not take it personally.” 

He started to lift his hand again, and Patton patted it (heh) hurriedly to get him to stop. “Hang on, there must be another way! See, I need to get this medicine to Roman-- he’s my best friend and he’s terribly sick-- and I traveled through what feels like the whole ocean to get it, I can’t stop now!” He wiggled the arm closest to his satchel in emphasis.

“I don’t see how that’s particularly relevant to me, since I do not know or care for your friend. Regardless, I don’t see any alternative, and I sincerely doubt that you see one.” 

Patton bit his lip. “Look, I think we got off on the wrong fin. I’m Patton! What’s your name?”

“There is no point in exchanging--,” the mer cut himself off at Patton’s pleading stare, sighing through his nose. “You may call me Logan, but pleasantries don’t change the facts of this situation.” 

“Right, of course.” Patton nodded agreeably, forcing himself to relax his shoulders and stop his tail’s panicked swishing. In response, the hand around him eased it’s grip slightly, and Patton took a grateful deep breath. He had to stay calm. His new acquaintance wanted to eat him, yes, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t work something out!

“Well, Logan…,” he thought hard for a moment, and then brightened. “What if I got something else for you to eat? I could even hunt for you until you get your strength back! On the other hand, if you, um, ate me, then you’d still be stuck all alone down here without knowing if you’ll get any help…” 

He could see the other mer take a moment to consider it, fins twitching in thought, before he shook his head slightly. Patton’s heart sank.

“You have a point, however, those odds are all reliant on your participation. If I release you and you don't return at all, I will be left with nothing. If I…,” Logan shifted uncomfortably, “don’t release you, I will at least live a little longer, and perhaps gain the energy to free myself.” 

“I’m not going to leave you here to starve!” Patton immediately replied, frowning at the thought. 

Logan shook his head, grip closing in around Patton again, firmer this time. “I simply can’t be sure of that. You want to survive as badly as I do. You would say anything to be free of me.” 

“I… I don’t have anything to prove it but my word, though,” Patton said, voice growing smaller as panic filled his lungs. He thought about Roman, acres away, growing sicker and sicker as he waited for Patton to return. The other mer would die thinking Patton had abandoned him. He felt like sobbing, and forced himself to speak through the lump in his throat. “Logan, please, I promise I’ll come back.”

Logan turned his face away, avoiding eye contact, and Patton’s frills flattened against the sides of his head despondently. He… he really wasn’t going to get out of this one, was he? 

Rough cloth pressed into his side uncomfortably, and he jerked his head up, struck with an idea. “Oh! Logan!” 

The large mer’s glowing eyes locked back onto him, surprise flitting across his features. 

“The bag-- My bag! Can you just,” he wriggled his shoulders a little, and Logan obligingly loosened his grip enough for Patton to work his arms out, “thank you!” 

With slightly shaky hands, he pulled the strap of his satchel over his head, tugging the precious bag up into his arms and forcing himself to hold it out. “Here. If you manage to escape, then, after you-- after I’m gone, can you, um... Please, can you take this to Roman?” 

He leaned forward, pushing it towards Logan pleadingly. “He doesn't have anyone else, and if he doesn't get it--,” his voice cracked painfully, and he had to pause to collect himself, swallowing thickly.

Logan reached out with his other hand, delicately pinching the strap between two claws and letting the bag settle in his palm. Patton slumped against the hand around him, relieved and desolate in equal measures. 

“Th-- Thank you. Thank you, Logan.” He felt his heart beating rapidly in his chest, knowing what it meant, that Logan had agreed. 

Hopefully, the giant mer would be able to get free. Patton truly believed that Logan would hold up his end of the deal. He was going to die here, but… at least Roman might live. That was better than nothing, right? 

He closed his eyes tightly, waiting for what he knew would happen next. The hand around him moved, lifting him through the water, and… loosened? 

Patton opened his eyes, surprised, and his fins fluttered to keep him upright as the hand fell away entirely. A primal part of his mind screeched for him to bolt, but his curiosity and the knowledge that he needed that medicine kept him treading water in place.

“Fine,” Logan said, rubbing at his temple as though he had a headache. “Fine! We’ll try it your way.” 

Patton blinked, once, twice. Then-- “Really?!”

“Yes, really,” Logan grumped, settling back against the seafloor. “But I am keeping your medicine as collateral, so don’t even contemplate betraying me.”

Patton flipped and twisted a couple of times in the water, too ecstatic to keep still. “I don’t know what collateral means, but I would never leave a r-eel-y good friend like you behind!”

 “Keep up those atrocious puns and I’ll be the one going back on my word,” Logan replied in a monotone, expression flat. Patton muffled a laugh, not threatened in the least, and Logan rolled his eyes. “Proceed with your hunting, already.”

“Okay! Be back soon!” 

“...Okay.” 

[ferberus-skull]

right off the bat we start with. this. ... okay.

[dragonjadearts]

Ransom note for bthb? 👀

Ransom Note

Author’s Note: Holy cow this took longer than it should have because I kept putting it off. Anyways, here’s this. Also, this was going to be a lot longer, but I cut it off because it already took me so long and I have even more prompts to do so sorry if it ends weirdly, I’m terrible at ending things

Words: 2k

Characters: Last Dragonborn, Serana, Shadowmere, Llewellyn the Nightingale

Fandom: Elder Scrolls V (Skyrim)

Content/Trigger Warnings: Canon-Typical violence, kidnapping, kidnapping of children

Read it on A03!

Summary: After a long extended quest away from home, Teris is eager to get some much-needed rest at her manor in Falkreath, enjoying the forest and the company of her family. But what she finds when she returns home is anything but peaceful.

There was a warm wind off of Lake Illinalta, carrying with it the scent of salt and salmon. It was early in the spring morning and the sun cast long shadows on the cobblestone roads. Hoofbeats echoed in the morning light, as two riders strode by. They were silent, not out of discomfort but exhaustion. They had been traveling throughout the night and were eager to return home and rest.

Serana sighed, stretching her back. The old vampire had her hood drawn over her head and she squinted in the growing sunlight. Luckily she knew these roads well. She had walked them more times than she could count.

Teris looked out over the forest. She was happy to be back amongst the tall pine trees. Of all the properties she owned, this one reminded her most of home. There were no pine trees in Valenwood, but the scent of soil and cracking of branches was one she knew all to well. After her long journey in the North-western holds, she was happy to return to the forests.

Her mount, the red-eyed demon Shadowmere, snorted as he walked. He too was pleased to be back, happy to be amongst the trees he knew so well. The pond he had called his home for many years now was not far, and the Sanctuary — though now tainted with death and the scent of ash — was also close.

As the small group turned from the main road and made their way up across the unpaved paths, the manor began to slowly appear through the trees. The tall library tower was the first thing to notice. The second thing to notice was the lack of carriage out front. His absence was noted, but not concerning, he was likely escorting someone away or even on his way back by this point.

As Teris and her companion approached the entrance, her long elven ears twitched slightly, noting the lack of noise. It was deadly quiet, unusual for the house. A wave of unease washed over her. She called Shadowmere to a stop and gracefully leaped off his back. There was no sign of her children, who often played around the sides of the house. Her wife and housecarls were also nowhere to be seen and there was no sound of them nearby either.

Serana dismounted as well, just behind Teris. She seemed wary, and though tired, she readied herself. She too took note of the lack of life to the normally boisterous house. “I’ll check down by the lake,” she said, addressing her friend. Teris nodded absently, staring up at the house, a mix of emotions in her eyes. “They’re probably just enjoying the weather,” Serana said, in lackluster attempt at comfort. When that too failed to garner much of a response, she sighed to herself and began to make her way down the hill, to do as she had said.

Teris stood still for a moment longer, swaying on her feet, before she shook herself from her stupor and forced her feet to take steps towards the entrance. With bated breath, she put her hand on the wooden door. She exhaled and pushed it open slowly, not daring to look until it had fully opened to reveal her home.

As she opened her eyes, a wave of fury and fear washed over the Bosmer. She drew her weapon, the purple enchantment casting ominous shadows on the ruined furniture. Her weapon racks and trophies were scattered across the floor, the weapons themselves now gone. There were scratches on the walls and ash marks burned deep into the floorboards.

She stalked slowly through the entrance, pushing open the doors to the main hall without a noise. The state of that room was no better off than that of the entry hall. The long table in the center lay on its side, dishes broken and scattered on the ground. The fireplace at the end of the hall was unlit, and coals and ashes were swept to the side, staining the fine wood an ugly black and grey. On her left, one of the doors to the Greenhouse lay broken off its hinges at an odd angle, only propped up by the still closed door that accompanied it.

Teris slowly took another step forward, careful not to step on the particularly creaky floorboards. There wasn’t much light in here, only the purple glow of her sword, and the green light and shadows cast from the enchanter’s table upstairs. All the wall scones were unlit and dead.

She noticed, however, that the doors to the library were firmly shut, and if she concentrated and closed her eyes, her elven ears could pick up the faint sounds of shuffling from within. She ground her sharpened teeth together, sheathing her sword silently.

She quietly crept to the doors and scanned them for a moment. She turned to the side and with a quick jolt, rammed her shoulder into the doors. They didn’t budge but she was rewarded with the sound of a sharp intake of breath coming from within and the scraping of metal, presumably from whoever was inside picking up their weapon off the floorboards. She smiled a wolfish grin and took a few paces back. Readying herself, she rammed again into the doors. They shook and she could hear something heavy on the other side shift out of the way. Once more she threw herself at the doors, this time stopping just short as they crashed inwards.

To no surprise, not a moment later, a figure leaped out, crashing into her and wielding a sharp weapon. Teris dropped to the ground, throwing the attacker over her shoulder. She quickly withdrew the dagger from her boot and spun around on one heel to kick her attacker in the side. She lunged forward, slamming her knee into his chest and holding her knife to his throat. After a moment, she paused, recognizing the face staring back at her.

“Llewellyn?”

“Oh praise be! Lady Teris! You’ve finally come back!” The bard cried in breathless relief.

Teris stood up quickly, removing her knee from the bard’s chest and extending her left hand out to help him up, an offer he took gratefully.

“What happened here?” She asked.

“Bandits!” Llewellyn exclaimed. He reached up to clutch at his left arm which was soaked through with red. “Nasty pests, they ruined this entire home! I’m so sorry my lady, I tried to fight, I really did, but I’m no warrior!”

“It’s alright,” Teris soothed, a pang of sympathy echoing in her voice. “Calm down. Where is everyone? Are they alright?”

The bard sighed, shaking his head in shame. “No, I’m afraid not. Just over a week ago, Lady Aela had left for Whiterun. Her brothers in arms said they had some sort of quest for her. She took Gunjar with her and left Lydia and Rayya here to protect the home.

But they left just a few days ago to receive some supplies from Falkreath and didn’t return. Not a full day had passed when a group of bandits arrived. I swear on my honor I tried to defend the children, but there were many of them, and I’m a poor coward. They left with the two young ones.” Llewellyn ended his tale with a regretful tone.

Teris was shaking with rage. She ground her teeth together and clenched her hands into tight fists. Taking a deep breath, she let the air hiss out of her teeth, like a snake warning off a predator. “Did they leave a note?” She forced out, still shaking with rage.

Llewellyn shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot but nodded hesitantly. “Upstairs, I believe,” he said. “In the bedroom on-“

Teris didn’t let him finish. She spun around on her heel and marched up the stairs to the bedroom. The upstairs was in a marginally better state than downstairs, but only because the space there was more confined. In fact many pieces of furniture that weren’t laying on their side were laying on the first floor, having evidently been thrown off the staircase and down into the main hall. The bed of the master bedroom was messy, as if it had been hastily made up and the unmade again, and a lockbox full of keys lay open on its side, spilling said keys out onto the floor. A note lay on the end table, blood stained.

Teris snatched up the letter, pulling it open. She read quickly, every word only serving to anger her further. The letter read:

“To whom it may concern:

You certainly have a lovely home and such lovely children. I have never had children for myself, but these ones should do nicely. I think they’ll rather enjoy staying with me for a while longer. Of course if you don’t want that, I believe we can work out a deal.

I want 4000 septims for the safe return of your children. You have one week.

I eagerly await your coin at Arcwind Point.

Yours truly,

Rochelle the Red”

Teris tore the letter in half and threw it to the ground, letting out a scream of anger. Dragon tongue echoed in her throat, begging to be released. She shouted, pulling out her sword and swinging it down in a glowing purple attack that did nothing to help her release her fury. She screamed again, primal fury echoing in her voice and out across the mountains. In the far distance, deer lifted their heads and ran for hills. Birds let out one final cry and turned away. In Falkreath, citizens felt a shiver run down their back as something ancient and angry rippled through time and space. All the way to Whiterun, a wave of uneasy emotions swept over every hunter, sell-sword, and citizen.

Teris fell silent, panting and clutching her sword in her hands. Her ears twitched as the sound of familiar boots climbing the stairs reached her. Serana was silent, waiting for Teris to make the first move.

The Dragonborn growled. She straightened up, closing her eyes for a moment. As she sheathed her sword once more, she felt a wave of calm rush over her. She opened her eyes and turned to Serana. The ancient vampire met her gaze. She recognized the calm cold fury shining in her friend’s eyes. She nodded.

Teris took one last glance around the destroyed upstairs before her eyes settled on Serana again. “Llewellyn is injured,” she began. “Clean his wounds. Then take him to Falkreath and look for those damn housecarls. I’ll meet you in Whiterun once I get the girls.

Serana nodded. “I’ll send word to Aela once we reach Falkreath, let her know what’s going on.”

Teris bowed her head and the vampire stepped aside, letting her friend down the stairs. Llewellyn looked up as she came down, sitting on the turned over side of the table, still clutching his wounded arm. He look exceedingly nervous, even more so as Teris turned her gaze to him and he noted the rage and fury that was shining through it. She felt a twinge of regret and having scared the bard so much with her anger, but she had bigger things to deal with. She picked her way through the scattered home and shoved open the doors to stand, blinking in the sunlight.

The woods were silent now, as if holding their breath in fear and anticipation. The sounds of wildlife that had accompanied Teris on her journey to the house were now silent. Those that hadn’t fled her voice were deathly quiet, as if fearing to make a noise lest they be on the receiving end of her fury.

The only sign of life was Shadowmere, standing proudly where Teris had dismounted him. He locked eyes with her to the side and she swore that if horses could smile, he would be smirking. There was an understanding. She marched to his side and climbed aboard his saddle. There was no hesitation in either of their movements as the hunter spurred the enormous red-eyed demon into movement and they galloped down the hill and onto the main road. They had prey to catch.

[cogentranting]

Favorite Lyrics from Every House of Heroes Song

*Overall favorites marked with an asterisk

What You Want is Now

Julia- "All the time you walked away The truth was at your fingertips"

Barbara’s Birthday- I never said that I love you dear I never knew, I never knew your heart at all  

Mercedes Baby- Hold loosely to my hand 'Cause it's a long, long road And you don't know and I don't know where it goes

The Drugs the Drugs- Talking in your sleep Telling stories that you keep In a drawer beside your bed

The Lead Role in the Cage- When she prays at night she feels like screaming

Uncomfortable (What you Want is Now)- Don't breath the air It's contagious

Your Wurlitzer- The awkward/ The floating/ The silence and the choking/ The mystery/ Urgency/ The passion and the irony

Kamikaze Baby- I never thought it would come to this To this and maybe Suicide by small increments

Honesty- I cannot hide when honesty says I've lied Regretful and wondering why you heal me deep inside

Something of an Optimist- Days just float on by and we're so occupied That we forgot to cry Love shows its face Amazing grace And everything's just fine

Nobody Loves No One- Your eyes spoke words you didn't dare You trusted what betrayed you

Katie Baby- Watch the reruns in my mind

Say No More

Buckets for Bullet Wounds- What's your option? Cold corruption or starvation Buckets for bullet wounds

Fast Enough- Wretched melodies call you from the deep When you should be sleeping And they know, your name

Friday Night- Power's the drug, and pride is the needle And it rips through my skin And goes into my blood stream Oh I feel like laughing, I feel like choking on it

Invisible Hook- Stuffing our ears with luxury Covered our eyes in apathy What can be done with our disease?

Mercedes Baby (alt)- I sold my passion for a dime Unto a thousand hungry eyes I covet kingdoms crumbling

Serial Sleepers- Rise up, O Sons of God And sing the song that hides behind your teeth

Make a Face Like You Mean It (Vampires)- Don't bother to show integrity It never sells on the market

Metaphor in Parentheses- Darkness spreads it lonely wings On the high horizons of our hopes and dreams

You Are the Judas of the Cheerleading Squad- Forged in the fire and the fire it burns in me I've slept in the belly of the beast Now I'll sleep under your wings

Pulling Back the Skin- I'm pulling back the skin here I'm taking out the pins here I'm finding that you're still in here

Suicide Baby- I never thought it would come to this And maybe, it's suicide by small increments

Angels in Top Hats- Hopeless cathedrals, blankets and needles Angels in top hats, cups full of blood

The End is Not the End

If- If you were mine, I'd risk my dignity If only to give love a chance

Lose Control**- I am the answer that you misunderstand I do the evil that an honest man can't I live in shadows that the enemy casts I have no future and I have no past

Leave You Now- And like the river that is winding takes its water to sea The only ending that is fitting is you with me, baby

Dangerous- Hey, hey, this is dangerous I'm writing all the songs that I'll play for us

In the Valley of the Dying Sun- And then I felt it with a chill up my spine There are no words to use that truly describe The glory of the angel or the terror in me

Code Name: Raven- There's no virtue in killing a man Neither is there virtue in being afraid to stand

By Your Side- And like that sand through our hands Go our grandest plans

Journey Into Space (Part One)- Let them come for us Let them have their way with our names they drag through the mud Should they murder us We will live again in the clouds that cover the sun

Sooner or Later*- And with this untapped energy We'll carve our names in the unknown

Baby’s a Red- I will testify I loved you And I'm not ashamed to be your comrade

Drown- Grant us grace to change our minds

Faces- I'm in love but I'm tasteless I only want what's bad for me

Voices- The voices of the innocent are coming to life

Field of Daggers**- Until your rains, oh God Bring forth your colored beauty Confirm the hopes of nations in longing Bring life to tired hopes Buried in fields of flowers

New Moon- I will rise, I will rise when the new moon glows

Ghost- Now I got my freedom But it feels like emptiness

The Young and the Brutal- God give us grace to be brutally faithful And make up for wasted time

Suburba

Relentless- Rebels we become In tracks where young lions run Red beneath the raging sun Like wildfires we burn, we burn

Elevator- Time tears our hope, and the change comes so slowly

Love is for the Middle Class- If all I had was love, would I still be lovely I all I gave was love, would you give up on me

So Far Away- In this heartless world we gotta hold on to hope

God Save the Foolish Kings- We're honest only cuz the truth, it cannot hide

Salt in the Sea- Softened by the salt of the sea I'm alive And you are everything

Independence Day for a Petty Thief- Green lawns, washed in black, all reflecting exploding light

Somebody Knows- And when it blows The wreckage and the wasteland Will be refuge from the quicksand We've been sinking down in

Disappear- We built our perfect dream on shifting sand Scattered in one motion of God's hand

She Mighty Mighty- In darkness, she's a lightening bolt She's so powerful

Constant- All through the night I was falling Straining to hear your voice calling You never gave up, never gave in, never quite gave up on me You are my constant

Burn Me Down- Like a shadow, like the sea mist I cannot grasp it, yet it exists

Galveston- Your laughter kept us warm And we always had enough

Cold Hard Want

A Man Who’s Not Afraid- I see the hands of time race by my tired eyes

Out My Way*- If you add up all the risks not taken they're all misses Think I'd rather live with the knock down drag outs and the stitches

Dance (Blow it All Away)- Maybe we could make another life in the blazing lights Maybe we can rebuild in the rubble of our ruined lives

Remember the Empire- Here they threaten with murder and bribe us with peace Here they treat us like slaves and convince us we're free

We Were Giants- A ray of hope is never tangible, Change is almost imperceptible

The Cop- I love you more Than I love myself And I'm scared to death That you love me less

Comfort Trap- I heard it calling in my sleep at night So I killed my dream with a butcher knife

Touch this Light*- If I could see what you see in me If I could push through the crippling fear Then I would run with the raging wind Then I would live again

Angels of Night- Angels of night Hide in the half light Praying for souls like mine

Stay- Don't tell me you're not safe It sounds like a dare to me

Suspect- Suspect. Something isn't right Their shifting eyes betray their smiles 

I Am a Symbol- So let my life be a song And may that song carry on

The Knock Down Drag Outs

Dead- I bring a knife to a fistfight But lately my baby she bring a gun

Choose Your Blade*- It was a numinous night, wet and cold like the last week of autumn

Your Casualty- You call the spirit inside me Like lightning calls thunder

Love Sick Zombie- Kill me if you must but please don't hurt me (or mess up my hair)

Patient- Be patient with me I'm planting the seed And soon, I will be in bloom, my Love 

Smoke EP**

Bottle Rocket- Baby, who you fooling? I'm kerosene Add a little fire and you're warm with me But get a little careless and I'll burn you down Turn your house to rubble, smoking on the ground

The Worst Kind of Gods- Alone, we are the worst kind of Gods Slave to a selfish heart That always wants

Wake up Screaming- I break down in the chapel When only stain glass saints can hear The prayers I seldom offer Through cold and heavy tears

A Fire Only We Know- Is a bravery inside me Still clinging to my bones Like smoke from a fire only we know

Satisfied- I've come to terms with the man that I made up And the one I really am

Infinite- Even though it's gone it still lives on If only as a distant echo Bouncing off the metal of years gone by

Colors

This City is a Cage- And like a shooting star Our brightest light is in the part so close to burning up

Colors Run- But I'm a long way from going the distance Feels more like dying by inches All the wishes, and the misses The poverty of indifference

Pioneer- But the hunger in our belly makes us hard and lean Cut our way through the world with a primal scream

Rat- These shadow streets cast shadows of doubt

We Make Our Stars*- We can't change the color of the sky But we can rage against the night

Feel*- This ghetto's my cathedral This gun my Eucharist

God- But if God is a hard man, why am I still alive?

In the End- Like dreamers do, we'll dangle our feet off the edge

Crash- The love you're for is a settled score And that's why I can't love you anymore

Matador*- You pose as a king with a city to rule But you were never a lion You were always a bull

Shots Fired- Colors run deep in the city Like the color of blood On the concrete

Get Away- On a streetlight fading out I make a wish

Colors Die Out- Sometimes I dream about the stars And think it's really not so dark

[sillydetectivepizza]

5/10/20 - “The Willows” - Algernon Blackwood

All plans are half-thought-through, apparently. I never bothered to check “The Willows”, the seminal piece of weird fiction, written by Algernon Blackwood and published in 1907. It of course is not a short story. it’s a novella, and it reads like it’s written from the time. So, in my perennially-scattered mind, it’s not a day’s affair to read it and give some thoughts. I can be pretty dumb.

I tried to read it on Saturday and was not in a place to do so, though I made some good progress. Today, after a night’s game of Arkham Horror that my wife has been insisting we play since the start of the quarantine (and I am so fond of her that she has such insistences) I tackled it again, this time queuing up a playlist of “A Forest” by the Cure, the song and all its covers. Which helped, and I recommend one do so.

You can read the novella here: http://algernonblackwood.org/Z-files/Willows.pdf

or anywhere you get your Gutenberg files from. It is, as I suggested, quite long, so buckle down for a very patient journey. My favorite cover of “A Forest” is by Steven Wilson, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YgGYRi-nx7A - but there are so many good ones one can and I did make a whole Spotify playlist from it.

I’ll start my thoughts with some math. And then I won’t explain it for a while, my brain being the weird thing that it is:

H.P. Lovecraft = Algernon Blackwood + wrath

And my brain is weird. Because this is not a modern story and is very much a product of early 20th century/late 19th century Britishisms, “The Willows” is a languorous journey of run-on sentences that run a mile just to get around the block. And I have a thing that’s always kept me from enjoying this kind of stuff, my brain just skips over swaths of text without me noticing, or something in the story inspires me to think and now I’m looking up locomotives or something or wrapping my thoughts around some half-mentioned idea in the text.

And then I realize my mistake, skip back, feel ashamed that there’s a page of text I just... didn’t read, and go back and reread the same paragraphs over and over, this time skipping over a completely different section.

I end up coming out of these things like someone staring at a painting through a sheet with some holes poked through it. “I think it’s a painting of an elephant! I think. Maybe a girl in a gray dress, come to think of it...”

By the way, I love the run-on sentences, too. Blackwood just takes his time getting around to describing something. Take a description of both the protagonist’s sense of unease and the elements here:

The wind was simply enjoying itself, for nothing rose out of the flat landscape to stop it, and I was conscious of sharing its great game with a kind of pleasurable excitement. Yet this novel emotion had nothing to do with the wind. Indeed, so vague was the sense of distress I experienced, that it was impossible to trace it to its source and deal with it accordingly, though I was aware somehow that it had to do with my realization of our utter insignificance before this unrestrained power of the elements about me.

For Blackwood, there are still so many things that man will never really be able to understand. And he has a sort of mystic’s joy along with the sickening fear that such a lack of understanding may lead to awful things. There is rapturous joy in realizing you are not the center of the universe, along with the quite rational terror in understanding you never really understood your place quite like you do now.  Another quote I saved from long ago:

Blackwood’s skill is in mixing these things. And he has a lot of skill. “The Willows” is one of H.P. Lovecraft’s favorite stories, and one can make a case he tried to top it his entire life, possibly only succeeding towards the end of his days with “The Shadow Out of Time”. In Lovecraft’s stories, his gaze, unlike Blackwood’s, does not linger over the terrain. Lovecraft never seems to have taken that deep breath somewhere out in the forest, so alone that if he screamed no human would hear him, realizing right there in that moment how utterly alive he was. Lovecraft realizes there are limits to his mind and imagination and he just hates it. He has that reputation of course for his virulent racism, his hatred of the other, his doggedly proto-facist views. And I’m talking about that too, but I’m also talking about that primal rage that bubbles out of some men the moment they feel a certain weakness. It’s there, all over Lovecraft’s writing. And at times he seems to use it to further the story. But it’s always there, something he seems urgent to rationalize away. Blackwood just doesn’t do that. Blackwood’s “others” here are barely described - the protagonist views them as these vague giant amber things, when he does at all, and they seem to be both there on the island and not there at the same time.  The protagonist’s companion - the guileless “Swede” (I love that) starts off being almost contemptuous of reflective thought. By the end the Swede is worrying away at the problem of what he sees and hears and what he does not, coming to wild conclusions, while captivated by his own terror. 

Speech relieved him. He had to get those words out lest they spin in faster circles in his thoughts until they drowned him. God, I love that. I think that’s the core of most weird fiction, too. What we do when we are knocked out of our self-oriented worldview and forced to come to terms with what we’ve taken for granted both in the other world and within our hearts. Blackwood, at the very start of weird fiction itself, gave us that, and good fiction can come from the answers to those questions.

[wingedarrows]

Small Text of Wanderer’s Journal Is Hard to Read: Let’s Transcribe! (Pt 2)

Let’s just jump straight into it this time (you can pre-order the journal on the fangamer website). And again, if you have any suggestions on words I wasn’t able to figure out, please tell me!

Fiends of Crystal Peak

SHARDMITE                  GLIMBACK

The beasts of burden used in Crystal Peak’s mining operations have begun to wander aimlessly with no one left to command them; the crystal protrusions growing from their bodies now make navigating around them a perilous endeavor.

HUSK MINER

When the infection claimed their minds, many of the miners simply continued digging away as if by instinct. Now finding themselves armed with pickaxes, they can prove quite the hazard for travellers, especially if encountered in groups.

CRYSTALLIZED HUSK

Some of the miners in the upper levels of the mines have begun to grow crystals within their bodies; their ability to create carefully-aimed light beams through these crystals makes them a significant threat.

CRYSTAL CRAWLER                 CRYSTAL HUNTER

Many of the creatures in the mines have adapted the mountain’s crystals into weapons; some are able to launch crystalline growths at intruders, while others use crystal [____] to focus beams of searing light at their targets.

CRYSTAL GUARDIAN

A miner overtaken by the infection, its face completely encased in the mountain’s crystals. Driven mad by the light of these crystals, it savagely attacks any who disturb it by unleashing concentrated beams of energy from its body, as well as from other crystal formations in its territory.

Be mindful of the beams that shine down from above as the guardian jumps about, but be sure not to stay in one spot for too long!

Residents of Dirtmouth

Driven into hiding or enticed by the promise of riches in the depths, many of the village’s residents have disappeared, leaving an eerie stillness in the air.

ELDERBUG

Even in the village’s current run-down state, the Elderbug is always there to welcome visitors and to warn them of the dangers of Hallownest below.

The first friendly face I encountered in my journey.

ISELDA

The proprietress of the map shop in Dirtmouth, Iselda has said she was a warrior of some sort before she settled here with her husband, Cornifer. The various accessories she provides are most helpful for navigating Hallownest’s terrain.

CONFESSOR JIJI

This mysterious conjurer kept herself locked away in a deep slumber for ages. She speaks of regrets as though they have physical form, and seems to have the power to summon them. She can grant anyone the chance to confront their regrets in exchange for her favorite food.

STEEL SOUL JIN

An odd . . . creature? It speaks with such an unusual rhythm. One can only wonder what lies beneath that shiny steel shell.

SLY

This peculiar little merchant deals in all sorts of wares, many of which he has simply found lying around while exploring.

He carries quite a few handy items, though his prices are a bit steep.

Fiends of Greenpath

MOSSKIN         MOSSCREEP        VOLATILE MOSSKIN

The ancient denizens of Greenpath have developed natural mossy camouflage, allowing them to blend perfectly with their surroundings. Some use this camouflage to hide from dangers, while others take advantage of their abilities to ambush invaders.

GULKA

A strange plant-like being that emerges briefly from the canopy to spit venom-filled balls of thorns at intruders.

Its spit balls can be [____] back at it!

SQUIT              OBBLE

The flying creatures have their own way of dealing with dangers and prey, including razor-sharp stingers and acidic venom.

FOOL EATER

A large trapping plant that clamps tightly shut when it detects prey passing by.

Keep an eye out for its little “teeth”

Cloth

A timid warrior who wanders the deepest, darkest corners of Hallownest in search of powerful opponents in her quest to become braver and stronger. She wields her club, carved from the tooth of an ancient husk, with cautious strength . . . when she isn’t hiding from danger, that is.

Mister Mushroom

One of the few mushrooms to have so far escaped the infection’s grasp, this peculiar traveller has been spotted in many different locations, mumbling to himself in some forgotten language.

I’d like to hear stories of his travels, but I can’t understand him.

Bretta

A damsel in distress in one of the lower chambers of the wastes. She somehow wandered into danger and found herself trapped amongst the twisted, thorny passages above; now she awaits a saviour to come to her rescue.

Later in my journey, I found her back in Dirtmouth, sitting nervously[?] on a bench.

Was she waiting for someone yet again?

Leg Eater

This skittish[?] bug has made himself a home among the husks of the dead in the upper reaches of the Fungal Wastes. He may be unable to see, but his powerful sense of smell more than makes up for it. For a price, he offers a number of useful charms, though they’re quite delicate and easily broken, and he [____] also provides a repair service.

Colosseum of Fools

Seated atop the [____] cliffs of Kingdom’s Edge and carved out of the shell of a massive, ancient bug, the Colosseum of Fools draws warriors from across Hallownest and beyond with the promise of riches and glory.

I [____] [____] [____] in fighting (or dying) [____]

Those who fail face the cruelest of fates as they’re ridiculed by the crowd, only to have their lifeless shells unceremoniously cast into the chasm below. But for the would-be champions who frequent this place, the colosseum offers a chance to become something more than just another foolish bug, if only for a short time.

BATTLE OBBLE                OBLOBBLE

Much like their wild relatives in Greenpath, these bulbous creatures float around hurling their acidic spit in all directions. But their combat training, not to mention their armor, makes them a much greater threat.

SHARP BALDUR

Like their cousins, these critters can curl themselves into tight balls and roll at their foes, but their plated shells can withstand quite a bit more damage.

ARMOURED SQUIT

A larger, faster, and stronger variety of Squit bred exclusively in the colosseum.

FOOLS

Powerful combatants gather for even the earliest of the Colosseum’s trials; some fight with traditional nails and shields, while others toss bladed weapons from a distance. All of them are strong, and all of them are determined, so overcoming them all to take the title of champion is no small feat.

Only the most skilled contenders survive to discover what awaits them in further trials.

Fiends of the Ancient Basin

SHADOW CREEPER

Possibly a more primal relative of the Crawlid with a stronger shell, these shuffling things can be found pacing about on walls and ceilings as well as floors.

LESSER MAWLEK

A fast-moving beast with sharp claws and an overabundance of teeth; it can also hurl [____] acid spit at distant targets.

MAWLURK

An overgrown mawlek that has lost the ability to move; it now waits for prey to wander near, and attempts to use its highly acidic spit to dissolve that prey. How it then digests its quarry is unclear.

The mawleks seem to be native to this region, but the brooding mawlek I encountered in the crossroads was surrounded by the remains of others of its kind . . .

Do these creatures migrate closer to the surface in order to breed?

LIGHTSEED

A tiny, scurrying creature that has swollen greatly in size due to infection; it typically hides in small groups out of sight, but will try to run to safety if it senses danger.

INFECTED BALLOON

A globule of pus and light gases, capable of floating through the air by its own power. It gently wafts about until other creatures draw near, then gives chase in an attempt to further spread its infection.

BROKEN VESSEL

The hollowed-out shell of a fallen warrior, reanimated and driven mad by the spreading plague. In life, this creature was likely a very talented nail wielder, and many of its skills persist even in its current unfortunate state. And the infection has only made it stronger, giving it enhanced agility and strength.

It seems to use infectious globs as weapons as well. Stay sharp!

Benches

Scattered throughout the caverns and byways of Hallownest, benches serve as relics of a more peaceful time. The residents of the kingdom’s regions constructed these benches in a number of different designs to reflect the aesthetics of their territories; a few makeshift seats can be found here and there as well, formed from hollowed-out shells and the like.

Though their simple stone and iron frames may not provide the most comfort, they do offer time to rest, reflect, and prepare for the next leg of one’s journey.

Word[?] of this [____] was [____] [____] sitting in these benches, in fact.

[____] [____] [____]

This dangerous-looking fellow seems unwilling to share his seat. How rude!

Hot Springs

The earth beneath Hallownest is dotted with natural geothermal vents, and the kingdom has clearly taken advantage of the phenomenon by building each into a relaxing hot spring. These springs, found all over the kingdom, are the perfect place to unwind after a harrowing journey through hostile bug-infected lands.

The strange waters help restore body and soul!

Hot springs can be a good spot to meet other weary travelers.