#skull kid kin

[dollarstore-kins]

Nonbinary Skull Kid icons!!

-Mod ET

[rinja-espurr]

i couldnt resist and made one of those myself

[bearsnessecity]

THE kin list

[aetherdoesthings]

would you like a new home? (pt. 3.2)

forethoughts: i maxxed out arlecchino to lvl 90 🤩. rip all my fragile resins.

notes: gn!child!reader, NOT AN X READER READER IS A CHILD IN THIS!!!

Arlecchino was working when the caretaker had entered her office. She suppressed her disdain and annoyance as she asked the caretaker what was so important her work time had to be disrupted.

Arlecchino immediately stood up and stormed towards the caretaker when she heard your name.

“Y/N had gotten in a fight with another child? Two children?” Arlecchino pursed her lips, eyebrows furrowed. The caretaker elaborated more, handing her two distinct blades, one stained with blood.

“We have them in their room right now. The other two is in the infirmary. How would a child get their hands on such dangerous objects?” The caretaker commented, as Arlecchino took both blades, clutching both helms with one hand.

“I will deal with this.” Arlecchino walked out of her office, marching towards the infirmary. After all, you could use some more time to reflect before you would meet her.

You sat on your bed, knees to your chest and head on your knees as you stared at the wall. Father’s broken compass was next to you, the needle finally taking a rest. You could imagine the children outside gossiping and decreasing your odds of ever making friends in this hellhole of an orphanage. How you had injured the most popular kid. 

Father made sure you knew not to care about what the others said about you. And you didn’t at all.

Father.

How was Father taking in the information?

Surely Father was already informed about the fight. 

Your heart sank a little when you tried to imagine how Father was feeling. The betrayal. The hurt. The shock that you had used your new toys Father had only taught you on one of your ‘kin’. Perhaps the boy was right. In the end of the day Father might as well revoke everything she had given you. Including this room.

The sound of the doorknob twisting open shattered your confidence and determination you had about the fight, the sounds of Father’s heel clicking against the marble ground sending spiders down your spine. You felt a dip in the mattress being created, as Father sat down next to you, mere inches away. Father sat there, observing your hunched figure with a stoic expression in the deafening silence. You heard her pick up her broken compass-the gift she had given you to take care of. And it was completely shattered.

“...I’m sorry.” You murmured, breaking the silent barrier. “I tried to stop them from breaking it.”

Father let out a chuckle. “Anything that can break will break. Some can be fixed, some cannot.” 

You felt Father’s eyes pierce your skull, causing your gaze to fall even lower. To your surprise, a hand was placed on your head, combing through your hair. You were shuffled closer to Father’s body, until your shoulder touched hers. “How are you feeling, dear? Are you alright?”

Father was… comforting you? 

Your shoulders relaxed a little, but they were still stiff.

“I-I’m… okay.”

“Did they hurt you in any way?” You bit your lips, the conversation one of the orphans had with you while their foot was on your head was still fresh in your mind.

“Yes…” You mumbled, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve.

Father noticed-of course she did-, and placed her hand in yours, rubbing small circles on your palm.

“How so?”

You looked down. “...They started it.”

“Okay.” Father said calmly. “How so? And do look at me when you do.”

You reluctantly lifted your head, meeting Father’ surprisingly warm and calm gaze. “I was admiring the compass you had given me. And then one of them tripped me and took the compass and started playing with it. The other one shoved me and placed his feet on my head and pressed it down.”

You swore you saw Father’s eye twitch at your last sentence. 

“The one pressing my head against the ground told me I had to ask you to have a smaller room, no dessert, last in line and an earlier curfew than the other orphans.” You spat each word out with poison. “They threatened to break Father’s compass if I did not do what they said. He shoved me first and attacked me. Father said if I was attacked first I could use my toys. So I did. I tried talking to them first but they wouldn’t listen. I did what Father said to do before I used my toys.”

Father remained silent, as her hand brushed over the area the boy had stepped on your head. “Does your head hurt now?”

“A-A little… b-but it's nothing…” 

Father ignored your comment, as she lifted your body so you were on her lap. She examined the area the boy stepped on. Placing a single finger on the area was enough to make you shiver, the corners of your eyes burn and tears threatening to fall.

“My poor child…” Father sighed, wrapping her arms around your frail body.

Now your tears were really threatening to fall. “I-I’m sorry for using my new toys on the other orphans… I’m sorry for disobeying Father’s rule… I promise it won’t happen again. F-Father can take away my room a-and move me back to that room w-with the other orphans, put me last in line for food and give me an earlier curfew. I’ll take it without complaint. I d-deserve it for disappointing Father.”

“Nonsense, my child.” Father placed her fingers on your chin, forcing you to look her in the eyes. She moved her hand to your cheek, wiping your tears away with a gentle wipe of her thumb. “None of those things will happen. I will not punish you for acting in self defense. I am not disappointed in you for trying to defend yourself.”

“B-But-”

“No buts. What happened has happened. You are hurt; they are hurt. Adding more pain and suffering to one side of the scale will not make it balanced nor just.” Father’s lips turned into a thin smile, as she let out a sigh. “Come. Let’s get you cleaned up and ready for bed, okay? It has been a long day for you.”

Father lifted you up in her arms, cradling you as she carried you to what you could only assume to be her private bathroom, seeing she had walked past the showering hall. 

“Father…?” You hesitantly asked.

“Yes, my dear?”

“...Why did you give me all those perks? A new room, first in line, no curfew?”

Father let out a sigh. “Even looking back I do not understand why I had the urge to do all those for you. I suppose it was because I was concerned and worried about you, my child. I could not bear to watch you sit alone and always get the last pick for everything. I could not bear to sit in the sidelines and watch you try and hold your tears back as you watched dust move across the ground. I could not bear to watch the other children treat you like filth when you were the kindness out of all. I believed that giving you some perks would help make your stay more… comfortable.”

Father paused. “Has it… made your stay more comfortable?”

You looked at the ground, your head resting on Father’s shoulder. “A little…”

Father let out a chuckle. “Better than none.”

Father carried you to her private bathroom, setting you down in the tub as she lathered soap across your back and body, washing your hair. Her touch was delicate and gentle, never lingering in one spot for too long or applying a large amount of pressure. Father dried you with one of her towels, dressing you in silk pajamas before carrying you back to your room. You found it hard to believe. You had injured two of Father’s children, and yet while they were in the infirmary, legs immobilized, you were wearing silk pajamas, being washed by Father, and coddled all along the way.

As Father laid you down in bed, brushing your hair one last time and planting a kiss on your forehead, you couldn’t help but ask.

“Why does Father treat me so well? Father w-wouldn’t do any of this for the others, would she?” You blurted out.

Father chuckled at your question, the corners of her mouth tugging upwards. “Perhaps it is true I treat you much differently and better than the rest. Perhaps I do have a sense of favoritism towards you. Perhaps it is because I see a part of me in you. No matter. Soon, my dear child, all of this will be over. I will deal with this. Do not worry about the other two children. Get some rest, my child, and all will be well. I will be coming back shortly to deliver you dinner.”

Father walked away, turning off the lights in your room as she shut the door. You laid there on your bed, her words echoing in your head. Father saw herself in you? Your little mind didn’t know how to think about that.

But all you knew was that Father cared for you.

Father loved you. 

Father was not mad. 

Father said everything will be better.

So everything will be better.

[dykedvonte]

This was an ask from skull anon I accidently posted early so ignore that here is it actually completed. Crew voice claim first!

Anya - Janine Ditullo. She doesn't really have any big roles but she's Brendan's mom from the show Home Movies. She's snarky in a way I think Anya would be before anything went down.

Curly - Craig T Nelson. Specifically as his role Coach. Think he also has a sort of middle age voice

Daisuke - Greg Cipes but specifically when he's voicing Kevin Eleven as a teen and his voice has that deeper register. I think he just sounds a little punkish.

Jimmy - Steve Buscemi specifically in Parting Glances. I don't think his voice is loud but more shrill? He's a nasally fellow to me whose voice is intimidating because it shouldn't be so when he says stuff it just sound wrong. Like Randall Boggs. He'd be on his kin list. He's scarier when he's quiet.

Swansea - Ed O'Neill just because I think Jay (Modern Family) fits his general demeanor but also Al (Married with Children). Sort of rough, dry and tired but with that sort of comfort only a dad could have.

Now for other general stuff:

Anya knows how to finger quilt, tried to show Daisuke but he just can't get it, secretly smug about it.

Curly is like a gym bro sim. A good distressor for him is either jogging around the Tulpar or like working out like a freak in his room.

Daisuke has a shitty moped he bought himself after a summer of mowing lawns. It was his first purchase with his own real money and he got attached cause his parents were super proud!

He also thinks it makes him look badass even though it sputters every time he starts it.

Swansea likes taking pictures with his family and wife and even the crew but treats it like a whole ordeal. Fusses about people fixing their faces but is always happy with the results no matter how goofy

Jimmy refused to let Anya sleep in medical after crash. He explained it as not wanting to "disturb" Curly...

Swansea once accidently called Daisuke one of his kids names when he got irritated with him. Made the kids day in a way

Curly does not react to any level of sour, likes citrus and calls it sweet and refreshing, war heads are like jolly ranchers to him.

Anya has a very nice singing voice and Daisuke happily jokes and encourages her to get into the indie scene. Did choir as a kid

Jimmy knows a bit of Spanish through osmosis from jobs he's worked. Mostly knows how to talk shit and directions

Tells Curly he's mostly just saying basic stuff but its real vitriolic towards him that he just translates to like general compliments/jokes. He is still just a WHITE man

Anya reads who done it mystery murder books and makes fun of all the obvious twists and how they glaze the detective MC.

Curly lets Jimmy sit in the Captain's seat because when he doesn't Jimmy is noticeably meaner and more scathing to him.

Anya was planning to get a cat after a conversation with Curly about feeling lonely living in her apartment. Was gonna name it Polle as an in joke before everything happened....

Sexuality speed round: Anya is bi no real preference, very open about it. Curly doesn't label himself and kinda just goes with the moment. Daisuke is bi but a larger preference for girls, has a friend that everyone thinks he dating tho. Swansea had experiences in his youth and that's all he'll say on it other than a few comments here or there. Jimmy is straight but in a way where you here him talk about gay people and know he's current experiences... like the other day.

Yeah heres some more I always hold back cause like what if y'all don't want all of them at once? I think they all had family dinner as a crew but it always felt like an awkward thanksgiving with your family from a wide political spectrum... ergo Jimmy always said some shit and make someone storm off from the table.

[wild-forest-critter]

★read my DNI before requesting, please!★

please only request one board at a time, and wait until ive answered you to request another. i will only make 2 pfps per request.

please give me credit for my work!!

MOOD/STIMBOARDS

questions:

-main theme? is it a mood board or a stim board?

-secondary/other themes to include?

colors?

-anything not to include? (ex: knives)

-is bright colors/fast movement okay?

-any icons/extras to include?

PROFILE PICTURES (comes with a white outline thingy)

questions:

-main subject?

-icons, if yes, what?

-tint? if yes, what color and light or darker tint?

USERBOXES

questions:

-main theme?

-what do you want as the photo?

-what do you want it to say?

things I won't do

-Some fandoms including any anime, DSMP, etc. mostly mostly because i am not familiar/comfy with/ it.

-gore/blood/dead things, etc. (bones, skulls & stuff like that is okay!!)

-adult content (shows, 18+, etc.)

-any real people

★i am allowed to change my mind or not respond to your request if i'm uncomfortable.★

things I will do

-any agere/petre stuff

-therian/other kin/nonhuman stuff/etc

-animals, scenes, aesthetics, etc.

-kids shows/characters

-you can send photos to include in a board! (stuffed animal, pet, etc!)

-basically any thing not on the other list. I'll tell you if I cannot/will not make a board.

other info

★ please be patient. I have limited screentime, high school, various jobs and me time. requests are not my priority. I will turn requests off if i need to! ★

Examples of stuff ive made:

[hayheadd]

How would u represent the dogheads as warrior cats?

This is a hard one!

Now. I try to stray (bark) away from the canon of both pathologic and warrior cats as little as possible, within reason. It gets hard when pathologic's whole thing is mindfuck magic shenanigans and architecture, something that cats ... can actually do in warrior cats, they cat build to some extent and are smart. But making masks and theatre performances is something that cats usually don't do...

I have considered eeeveything to make it fit. I have considered things like the warrior cats pathologic happening like 2 km away from the actual real pathologic with the humans, I have considered the powers that be actually still being human children but they're just playing with their warriors ocs instead. Don't worry the first one is scrapped but the second... Mmmm... Anyways. It would make sense for say, Executors to have weird looking above average sized raven skulls and for Oyun to wear an actual bull skull since he's a big cat and being able to carry bones of an animal that weighs up to a ton all the time would be a testament to his strength. Tragedians though? Hm. Apparently in the lore of p1 Mark actually dug the masks up from the ground with them being relics of some sort of kin tradition, like the Executors being the birds of death. So that backs up the bull and the ravens, but what about the vaguely human mime mask? To be fair TO ME the game doesn't explain their lore either, so I can just say it stays a myyystery... But if you care, maybe the tragedian masks were something that the old cat kin made out of like, a big bone then cut holes in it. They still have the abattoir, and no, cats killing bulls isn't silly, cats canonically have GOD and they can ride trains and go to the mall (which happens in Tigerheart's and Riverstar's books, I may know my cat lore...) and also do surgery with fucking rocks

I have explained them having the polyhedron and cathedral and weapons applicable in gameplay (within reason). But dog heads are something that cats absolutely cannot make. A flower cloak, sure. A bone mask, whatever. They don't have plushies though. They can't stitch... They don't have cloth production. And I like to keep my pathologicisms recognisable. I put the outfit patterns on cat fur so you can take a look at it and definitively say, hey, that's mister Danny Dankovsky D. Diddles Dickhead right there. So making the dogheads completely unrecognisable would be very unfortunate. So after that pretty long ramble I am going to inform you that I am taking the easiest possible cop out! The heads are plushies that they have because they do. Because they have the plushies and there is not an issue. They tie it to themselves with grass for stability and there's stuffing spilling out which is very patholgicly. Here's a quick doodle on cat finch, that's the ginger kid who eats knives.

Or maybe I can use the elaborate web of cop outs that IPL have constructed for themselves. See, co-author, it makes sense because god is children and children are stupid. Actually no, this makes sense because this is a videogame! No this isn't a videogame, this is a theatre performance! Goodnight!!!

[krash-and-co]

haven't done this in a while, so here !! l&co as stuff I've heard/said in the past few months, bc I don't remember exact exchanges before then 👍👍

arguably more unhinged for reasons unknown. fate of Gods favorite clown idk

Lucy: I thought Billie Joe Armstrong went to the moon for a long time, honestly.

~

Lucy: [calling Barnes] there's a stranger at our house. she tried really hard to get in, and--

Lockwood, in the distance: we broke all the stranger danger rules.

Lucy: we broke all the stranger danger rules.

~

Holly: Lockwood, you have the coolest style.

Lockwood: thanks!

Lucy: what?!? she just tells me I look gay.

Lucy: and homeless.

~

holly: I want to help disabled kids ride a tricycle. wait, I meant to say horses.

lockwood: you want to help disabled horses ride a tricycle??????

~

Lucy: I don't have mommy issues I just don't like my mom.

~

Lucy: you gave me a framed photo for my birthday

Lucy: and within thirty minutes you stepped on it.

Lockwood: but then I bought you a new frame!!!

Lucy: and then I opened it, and it looked like you stepped on it.

Lockwood: well I'm not buying you another one.

~

skull: ugh, theyre so obsessed with how they look.

lucy, nodding: yeah, they're all "oh I'm so perfect!" preps. they definitely shave their legs.

~

Lockwood: I need to work on my swearing problem, cuz there are adults around and they don't li-- *drops thermos* ow FUCK

~

Lockwood: shut the windows. shut the fucking windows, I feel like we're being watched.

Lucy: hahaha, this is fucking terrifying.

Lockwood: here are the knives.

Holly: do you have any baseball bats? I don't want to stab people.

George: no, but we have crutches. we can hit people with them.

Holly, nodding: that's good.

~

Lockwood: I'm stupid.

Kipps: no you're not- yes you are. I don't know why I said you're not, so I had to correct myself.

~

holly: if we kill someone, we'll get in.... trouble.

~

George: shit!! I mean fuck!!! I mean crap!!!

Lucy, hitting him repeatedly: stop CURSING YOU FUCKING-- DANG IT!!!!!

~

Holly: do you ever get the urge to be randomly violent, like-

[loud clatter as lockwood and kipps beat each other up in the background]

holly: yeah like that.

~

Kipps, on searching for Bobby: I used to just grab any kid I saw about his height with brown hair, but that caused problems.

~

Lucy: what's your biggest fear?

Lockwood: what? spiders.

Lucy: no the other one

Lockwood: change.

Lucy: no the-- the other one.

George: what do you WANT FROM HIM-

~

lucy: you're going to make me have a gambling addiction.

skull, nodding: that's the idea.

~

George: pff my mom says im special.

Lockwood: im also special! they put me in classes about it.

[Lockwood and George burst out laughing while everyone else stares]

~

[Lucy and George are punching each other, screaming, and spewing out profanity in sign language]

George: literally nobody even looked up

Lucy: we're at the point where it's normal

George: yeah, haha!

Lucy: haha!

[a moment of heavy breathing and grinning before they begin fucking attacking each other again]

~

George, to Lucy: ugh im so sore. why do you keep punching me.

[Lucy punches him]

~

ok last one but this was a hell of a fucking convo and it was so funny everyone just jumped in with random twists 😭😭

[kipps crew, l&co, and flo are all sitting in barnes otherwise empty office]

George: kipps sounds terminally online, but I can't figure out yet if it's the normal kind or if he has. like. a kin list.

Lucy: the two extremes. normal or homestuck.

George: I read all of homestuck but it's okay I'm normal now

skull: im-

lucy: skull YOU'RE terminally online, but like the video gamer kind. kipps sounds like he had a my hero academia phase.

Lockwood: I was friends with someone who would roleplay mha all the time.

George: like pretend to have powers or something?

Lockwood: no, like pretend to be the characters. interact as them.

bobby: I don't roleplay, but I like to imagine I'm a different person with powers sometimes :)

ned: ha, furry.

flo: furry? one of my friends knows a furry who got her tail stolen, and she's in the office right now.

Lockwood: like today??

flo: yeah today. she's there right now.

Lockwood: [silence] oh.

flo: yeah they just. yoink.

[silence]

bobby: .....im not a furry but--

Lucy: aaaand gonna stop you right there before you make things worse for yourself

kat: why can't we EVER have normal conversations

[lullaebies]

Hey! I just love that green kids filled and I was wondering if you are willing to do another one (no pressure). Maybe one where they visit Oldtown to see Daeron before the Dance. Bonus if they get Alicent on a dragon🤭.

Daeron runs down spiralling staircases when he is told of his family’s arrival.

“You’ll break your legs before you’ll get to see them, you dimwit!” Lyonel chases him down with more cautionary steps. Ormund’s eldest has a critical tone that only has the audacity to bring forth to a prince, but Daeron is used to his friend and cousin. He trusts him more than that, he knows; when Lyonel wants to steal another bottle of wine from the kitchens, he’ll ask Daeron to be his partner-in-crime again. 

“A good luck’s wish, breaking a leg, is it not?” He yells back, jumping over several stairs in excitement. 

“No! Your brothers would have to carry you up to your rooms!” Lyonel retorts, scurrying to catch up with him. They reach the entrance hall in a few long strides, and Daeron looks back at the panting heir of the Hightower.

“They wouldn’t have to do a thing. You, however…” he trails off with a smirk. Lyonel does not seem amused, catching up with his breath. 

“You lay in your own bed. Break your skull during this visit, I’m not carrying you up the stairs.” 

“Clearly,” Bethany, Lyonel’s sister, chimes in, looking at her brother’s gasping form. The skirts of her teal dress twirled by Daeron’s feet as she came to stand by them. “Worry not. I would.”

Daeron laughs. “Why thank you, Bethany,” he says softly, as the doors to the Hightower open. Lord Ormund enters in with the royal entourage that Daeron had waited on for weeks. His eyes brighten as he sees his mother auburn curls, accompanied by the flock of silver-haired kin. The first barrage of hugs is of little ones; Aegon and Helaena’s twins spring forward hand in hand, jumping hard on the marble of Hightower’s hall.

“Jaehaerys, Jaehaera!” Alicent and Helaena exclaim at the same time as the twins' heads bump against his knees. Positively charmed, Daeron takes them both in his arms, glad to see their big eyes twinkling the same as his. 

“Long time no see, dear nephew and niece,” Daeron had come for Maelor’s birth feast, but he hasn’t seen either of them since; he gives them both kisses on the crown of their head. They are like little worms in his arms, but none would expect Helaena’s babes to be any different, and their sweet excitement is all the more endearing. 

“I want to see Tessie,” Jaehaerys demands almost immediately, grabbing his face. He and Jaehaera very much liked Tessarion upon first seeing her. He’s not surprised.

“Tessa,” Jaehaera corrects. The twins never reached an agreement on what’s the proper nickname for his dragon. Still, he brightens at their excitement. He has no doubt Lord Ormund is chuckling about him there, with Alicent and Aemond, and Helaena smiles his way while she speaks with maids about sleepy Maelor, who had been dozing against her chest.

Hence, it is Aegon who comes forward to him first. “Don’t let it get to your head, they say the same for Sunfyre nearly every day.” 

“For Sunfyre or Tessarion, I wouldn’t say it is unwarranted,” Daeron answers. Aegon cracks a smile, the cynical mask breaking off. “Am I right?”

“It would be a miracle to catch you in a mistake, brat.”

Daeron is very thankful to Bethany, who opens her arms to take the twins as if on cue. Daeron puts Jaehaera in her hold, and gives Jaehaerys to a surprised Lyonel. He’ll manage. He goes to hug his brother. By the time he lets go, the rest of his family surrounds them both. 

Alicent, Aemond, and Helaena and even who he now recognizes to be Ser Criston stand around him. Lord Ormund presents him with prideful eyes. “Your boy has turned into a fine man, Your Grace.”

“My Daeron,” Alicent says, and comes forward. There is the attempt to reach his forehead, but on her tiptoes she only reaches his cheek with her kiss. “It is so good to be home. I had known you’ll thrive here, with such fine company,” she tells him, looking at Lyonel and Bethany. “Should I relieve you of the children, dear cousins?”

Lyonel, who had his jade amulet nearly ripped from his neck by Jaehaerys, looks at her as if he'd seen salvation itself. Bethany, on the other hand, let Jaehaera hide between her auburn locks happily. “I could hardly let go. Daeron has always maintained that Princess Helaena is a good mother, but it is very easy to see with this sweet princess in my arms.”

“You’re too kind,” Helaena tells her, patting Maelor’s head. She glances at Daeron with twinkling eyes. “But I think you have your own talent in it, Lady Bethany.” 

Aegon wrestles with his son to come back into his hands after some pointed looks from both Alicent and Aemond. Jaehaerys latches onto his father’s chains instead, pulling. “I wanna see Tessie!” 

“Ouch!” Aegon exclaims. “Twerp, relax!”

Aemond snorts under his breath at the scene, and comes forward to give him half a hug. He had been looking him up and down for a while. “We should listen to our nephew. I haven’t seen you fly for long, little brother. Surely you’ve only improved?”

“We’ve only just arrived to set out again, Aemond,” Alicent interjects.“It must be another carriage ride away to Daeron’s dragon, is it not?” She asks Lord Ormund, perhaps hoping he’d be as enthusiastic about it as her. His mother is rather anxious around dragons, preferring to be a far away spectator rather than come up close as it is. But if she thought she’ll find comfort in Lord Ormund’s answer, she is sorely mistaken.

“Quite the opposite, your Grace. The cobalt beast made its nest on the top of the Hightower,” Lord Ormund says. “We suspect she likes the beacon’s fire.” “Tessie!” Jaehaerys grabs onto Aegon’s hair, standing excitedly on his hands. Aegon yelps, and Helaena laughs some; all while Jaehaera stares at him. She is curled up against Bethany, but her big violet eyes are locked on him. 

“To Tessa!.” She demands, and he as well as all around them realize there is little choice. Daeron grins.

Little choice, but a fortunate pick of it, if you ask him.

“My nephew and niece’s requests come first,” Daeron says. “We should show you the beauty of the city from above.”

—

Tessarion is sleeping on the top of the shelter of the beacon. It is like a strange oven she curls against, while her very own blue flames warm the surface she lays on from below. The sky dragon den that is the top of the Hightower has become a personal spot for him. Not many people are brave enough to come to it. Daeron had long had to take over lighting the beacon, but Lord Ormund had told him that it’s fine. 

“It is an exchange, as far as I’m concerned. Take this on as your duty, and do not neglect it. Light this city brightly with dragonfire. In return, you could earn yourself more than just discipline and humility; but also the love and pride of all that watch you come back, day after day.”

“I don’t think we should interrupt Tessarion, Daeron,” mother says as she comes out to what feels like the top of the world. Bethany and Lyonel went with their father to their duties, and now he and his family are all alone to explore. Alicent’s hands had been taken by the twins, who had done nothing less than drag her with them. Both of the children squeal when they hear Tessarion snore, little smoke coming from her snout as she does. Alicent pales further. “Be quiet, sweeties, we must mind… those who are asleep.”

Aegon snorts, while Aemond watches the dancing blue fire with some interest. Helaena had been introducing wide-eyed Maelor to the sea, minding Tessarion as much as she’d mind a spider. There’s a pretty sea to Oldtown, but there is so much else he wanted them to see.

“She won’t be roused unless you give her reason to, mother,” Daeron says, and comes to rest against the stone safety rails. “Come over here. You can see the Starry Sept from here,” he points out the dome-shaped building. Alicent steps forward beside him, squinting at the black marble building, as well as the seven-pointed star carved into it.  

“It’s quite far away, but the view of the Honeywine running by it is lovely,” Alicent says, trying to calm by him. He appreciates her attempt.

“It is,” he agrees. Aemond and Aegon help lift the twins so they could see themselves. “And there’s the Citadel,” he then continues to point at a giant building in the heart of the city. He looks at the twins. “Those statues there are of sphinxes. Riddling monsters, with faces of men and bodies of beasts.”

The twins balk at that, big gasps coming from little mouths.

“You are trying to scare them, Daeron?” Aegon asks, readjusting his hold on Jaehaera.

“The opposite! Those who learn at the Citadel seek to beat any riddle, and defeat any sphinx like that,” Daeron explains, cheeks reddening. He refuses to add that he goes there a few times a week; now that the explanation left his mouth, he feels rather embarrassed. “I wanted them to know they’re always safe here…”

“They know it,” Helaena says softly, and looks down at baby Maelor. “Right?”

The boy babbles some in response. Both twins offer interpretations, but the rest of them can only laugh.”

“You have a dragon about you,” Aemond says, his gloved hand brushing through Jaehaerys’s locks. “No need for anything else for protection.”

Daeron brings a hand to the back of his neck, trying to ignore his  embarrassment. “I would like to have some wit about me, still,” he says.

“We didn’t hear about your crashing onto farmlands with Tessarion since, so I say you are gaining your brain,” Aegon answers. Daeron flushes fully red.

“It was one time!” 

A crackle from Tessarion comes, and they all look back. She woke up, shaking her head as she did. The twins exclaim at her moving. Alicent keeps herself behind Daeron, a hand on his shoulder as the dragon hops down to their platform.

“She grew quite a bit,” Aemond notes as Tessarion approaches. “Flights would have to be easier now.”

“You should show yourself better than before, Daeron,” Helaena says. Her voice is absent minded, but entirely purposeful. “Mother couldn’t see the Sept properly. Perhaps you should take her closer?”

“Helaena,” Alicent exclaims. “I am not—”

“No, she’s right,” Aegon eggs her own. “You should go see the sept, Mother.”

Alicent looks at Aemond, who likewise seems to have no mercy. “We’ve come by carriage for you, Mother.”

It feels like old dinners, where they all banded together to annoy mother again. Ormund’s family had become a second family to him, but this nostalgic feeling takes over, and he feels just as right here; something he had been worrying the distance between them all would’ve taken away from him.

Tessarion comes by their side, sniffing the lot of them. Daeron thinks she knows just as well that these are all kin, when the little twins reach out to her scales and his siblings surround her. Daeron holds out a hand to his anxious mother, offering. Alicent used to hold his hand everyday, and he missed the security of her warm palm taking him to see the world. Whenever he had been scared, she made sure to hold him until it went away.

He has grown and changed, and has the mind to know he should return the favor. Filial piety is a grace described in every book, but he would like to repay his debt to his mother specifically. I’d like to offer you the same thing.

“Mother, have faith in me?” he asks.

Alicent looks between his siblings, nephews and niece, and the dragon, before her brown eyes land back on him. 

“I have too much of it,” she answers, and takes his hand. “The Seven help me.”

Oldtown shines brightly, from above the skies. Perhaps the people below could hear the Queen yell at the initial take-off, and certainly someone heard the laughter that followed from the princes and princesses on the top of the tower, but as the sun shone down on them all there had been a sense of pride, love, and home.

[reds-skull]

BLOOD||HUNGER

[PREV PART] [AO3]

So many projects, so little time... anyway, here's chapter 11, "The Battle-Sick"

Page 3 of the “Blooede Starvatfōre-dēde”, parable ?:

I was a wonderful thing, shaped for fighting, Loyal to my masters, I slayed living warriors, Friends and foes, I was a weapon of war. I shall never be avenged, shall I fall in battle, As I am cursed, in the eyes of kin and enemies, To be not a man, but a monster. I am starved, of blood and flesh, Alone I roam this land, a damned Beast.

Soap can feel Ghost’s gaze burning at his nape, questions left unanswered in the silent space between them.

In the span of a few hours, Soap saw someone else come out of Ghost’s actions. A man, buried years ago in dry earth, dead in all ways but physically. The man Captain Price mourned, the man he aspired to be.

The man that saved those children wasn’t the infamous Ghost. 

Soap brushes a shaky hand over his mouth, the metallic taste of blood still sticking to his teeth. He’s running out of adrenaline, he knows, and the wheezing of his breath seems to be only getting louder in the empty alleyways.

He trips over nothing, barely catching himself on the cold wall, when strong arms pull him up.

“Coffee shop, on our three. Hold on just a little longer.” Ghost murmurs, hand coming under his shoulders to support his weight.

Soap goes to answer, finding his voice weak and scratchy, “aye.”

Ghost’s breath on his neck is somewhat soothing, in a way Soap shouldn’t find from a man like him.

The coffee shop has seen better days, to say the least. The stairs to the first floor have collapsed, and the ground floor is completely trashed. Quite like everywhere else in the city, Soap bitterly thinks to himself.

Ghost lets him down on the only chair that seems stable in the shop, and turns to clear it of hostiles. Soap gets up to follow him, but his vision darkens the moment he tries to get on his feet, and he falls back with a huff.

It would’ve made him angry, to be left so useless, but…

Simon has been left paralyzed, defenceless, shoved a knife to his palm and bared his scarred throat, and still trusted him. Never looked at him with any less than…

Than what? What is that emotion, in Simon’s eyes, when he looks at Soap? He blinks away the dark tendrils encroaching on his vision, brows furrowed as he tries to keep a semblance of a train of thought.

Ghost returns before he can veer it back on track. “Please tell me you found somethin’ teh drink.” Soap groans.

“Affirmative, got us a tea.” Ghost spreads the supplies he gathered from around the shop on the table next to Soap, teabags among the bottles of water and scrap fabric.

Soap sneers, “awa’ an’ bile yer heid, we’re in a fuckin’ coffee shop and ye pull out tea, fuckin’ Brits-”

His list of expletives is cut by rough coughing, and Soap has to spit out the excess mucus on the floor. Ghost crouches down, and gently cups his cheek. Soap’s eyes snap to his. Whatever emotion is swirling in those dark brown eyes, he still can’t name, but it makes his heart twist.

Ghost tilts his head up, brushing fingers over the probably bruised skin of his neck, “have any trouble breathing?”

Soap’s breath catches, not from any physical wound, “no. Jus’... throat pain. Ah didn’t lose consciousness.” cold hands soothe over his bruises, making him involuntarily sigh.

Ghost nods, “tea will help with that.”

“Fuck off.”

He chuckles as he pulls back his hands, Soap almost chasing them. Fatigue is starting to take its toll on him, and his head feels like it weighs more than a LTV right about now. A tap to his cheek makes him open his eyes (when did he close them?), “can’t sleep yet, Sergeant. Gonna clean your face.”

That’s the only warning he gets before a wet towel brushes over his mouth, sweeping over flaking, dried blood. “Surprised the wee ones weren’t afraid o’ either of us. One skull-faced bastard, the other looks like a damn vampire.”

Silent laughter shakes Ghost’s shoulders, “those kids were tough ones, swear they were about to fight me when we first met.”

“Tougher than they need teh be, at their age.”

Ghost’s movements become somber.

Soap catches one of the many questions floating through his tired mind, “why’d you save ‘em?”

The towel is thrown to the side, replaced by a dry one, “...I wanted to.” Ghost simply answers.

It doesn’t satisfy him, “that why ye worked with the Hunter?”

Ghost’s hands freeze for a short moment, before continuing to softly clean Soap’s neck. His words weren’t said with anger, but the harshness of them remained all the same. It leaves a bitter note in Soap’s mouth.

At what point did seeing Ghost get hurt by his words stop bringing any sort of satisfaction?

“I worked with the Hunter because… I worked with anyone. No questions asked, no job too dirty for me. Not that it was ever about money.”

Ghost lowers his hands, resting them in his own lap. His eyes drift downwards, lost in the past, “I did what I did because I didn’t know anything else. Survival meant fighting, and it didn’t matter who.”

Ghost rises to his feet, taking a cup off the nearby shelf and setting about to make the tea, “as long as there was blood on my hands that wasn’t mine, I knew I was alive.”

Soap opens his mouth, cruel words at the tip of his tongue, but he falters when Ghost’s really hit him.

Because he knows that feeling.

That hunger for violence, that need to feel bones break under his hands, a yearning stronger than anything for fresh blood. It is not a want, it is not something they take pleasure in. It’s simply the only way to feel alive. For Soap, it may be only for the Hunter and their soldiers. 

But when you’re constantly trying to survive, won’t the whole world start to look like an enemy?

“Why didn’t you stay with the civilians?” Ghost shakes him from his reverie.

The answer is stupidly simple. “I told ye we’re doing this together.” Soap stares deeply into Ghost’s widening eyes, “and I meant it.”

“But…” Ghost sighs, “we don’t have a way to find the Hunter.”

He hands Soap a cup, the aromatic tea somewhat pleasant for once. It is cold, but it does help the scratchiness in his throat as it goes down.

“Aye… We’ll-” a yawn cuts off Soap’s sentence, “we’ll need teh catch another fecker, maybe…”

Ghost’s eyes narrow at him, “what you need to do is sleep, Sergeant. You can’t even stand on your feet, can you?”

Soap scoffs, “‘course Ah can, ye weapon.” he thumped the mug down on the table, and held on it for dear life as he tried to rise from the chair.

Ghost caught him no more than 2 seconds later, when Soap’s face was about to have a very personal meeting with the dirty floor.

“Of course you can, huh?” Ghost goads.

Soap drops heavily back down, “wheesht.”

“Speak English.” he can fucking hear the smirk on Ghost’s lips.

Soap drops his head, finally giving in to the need to just crumple, “means shut yer puss…”

A hand on his hair surprises him, but Soap doesn’t dare move as fingers card through the tangles. It feels really nice… almost putting him to sleep.

Ghost’s voice is soft when he orders him, “c’mon, I’m sure we can find you a better spot for a nap than on a stool.”

He doesn’t really answer, far too knackered to be coherent. Soap feels the hand recede, and footsteps echo farther and farther away from him. A few minutes later, Ghost returns to urge him up, “set up some blankets and pillows behind the counter.”

Soap appreciates the attempt to keep him in the know, but at this point he’d let Ghost lead him over a cliff, and he won’t complain one bit.

The makeshift bed reminds Soap of the shitty pillow forts he would build with his sister back when they were kids, and the blurry memories make him suppress a laugh. With the way Ghost is staring at him, Soap thinks the giggles make him all the more concerned.

And what a concept that is. Ghost, concerned over his well-being.

Ghost lets him down carefully, wrapping him with moth-eaten blankets. Compared to the last “bed” Soap slept in, this is as good as a five-star hotel.

He can barely keep his eyes open, but Soap, as aware as he is in his compromised status, can’t let his guard down when Ghost turns to walk away. He manages to catch the sleeve of the giant man, and dark eyes turn to stare at him.

“Yer… yer not gonna leave me, right?” he mumbles.

Ghost stops, “just gonna go keep watch by the window. Not leaving.”

Sleep claws on Soap’s eyelids, and it takes far too much willpower to keep them open, “stay ‘here Ah can see ye… Don’ run off now…..”

The last thing he hears before he goes unconscious is, “never, Johnny.”

Gentle fingers card through his hair.

“Johnny.”

John groans, unwilling to open his eyes and start the day.

“Wake up, love.”

“‘S too early for that shite, let me sleep.” he burrows deeper into his pillow, enveloped in warmth and safety.

His pillow starts, very rudely, shaking with laughter, “fine, you lazy bastard.”

That voice… sounds familiar. Familiar in the way a knife’s weight is in John’s hand, in the way blood spills over his wounds, like the buzz of adrenaline in a fire fight.

Yet John feels… safe.

Gentle fingers card through his tangled hair. Why would it be tangled? Isn’t he at home?

“Can’t sleep yet, Sergeant. Gonna clean your face.”

John frowns, “my face is clean.”

Hands tilt his face up. There’s some sort of tackiness to his skin, he notices. A metallic taste bursts on his tongue.

John opens his eyes.

Dirty blond hair, messy from a mask pulled off non too kindly, rich brown eyes wide in surprise, dark like a grave’s fresh dirt. Scars leave valleys and hills on pale skin.

The features are there, but John can’t make sense of them. A stranger’s face, yet it feels so familiar.

Perhaps it is only the emotion carved into it, fear and shock twisting the man’s eyes.

Soap wakes up with a start, grasping tightly at the thin blankets wrapped around him. It takes him a few seconds to shake off the dream’s warmth, to feel again how cold the coffee shop really is. He takes a cursory look around - Ghost must have left for overwatch while he was sleeping.

He eventually forces himself to get up, encouraged by the fact that his legs stay somewhat steady under his weight.

“Ghost?” 

Soap walks over to the wider area of the coffee shop, where once there were floor-to-ceiling windows that allowed patrons to bask in the sun while drinking, but now are shattered.

In a dark, hidden corner, that Soap almost dismissed immediately, a huddled shape rested against the wall. Ghost’s dark gear blends near perfectly into the shadows. Soap is sure, if he wasn’t looking for the damn man, he’d never find him.

He has to step closer to actually see his eyes through the mask and darkness. Ghost is completely out, so still, he might as well be dead.

Soap huffs. In the entire time they’ve been fighting together, he’s never seen him asleep. The nearest thing to it was the rest in the shed, but even then Soap knew Ghost was constantly ready to strike, if it were needed.

Here, curled into a small ball, hands wrapped around himself, Ghost looks so unnaturally small and harmless. 

Soap doesn’t realize he’s smiling until Ghost shifts, murmuring something under his breath and curling further into himself. 

He scoffs internally and turns to find something to eat. The fuck is he doing, thinking this giant international criminal is cute. He blames that weird fucking dream he had, as well as a million different other excuses.

Soap repeats the mantra in his head ‘He’s not fuckin’ cute, he’s not goddamn endearing’, as he finds a couple of sandwiches that seem to be edible enough. He collects enough for Ghost as well, for when the bastard wakes up.

Whining from the dark corner makes him freeze.

Soap turns to look at Ghost, his shoulders now taut and shuddering, “...Ghost?”

“N-no… I wouldn’t… I’m sorry…” Ghost whispers, eyes scrunched shut.

Nightmare. Soap wonders if that’s what Ghost saw back in the shed. “Ghost”, he calls again, louder, the previous calmness he felt washed away.

Ghost’s hands crease his black jacket, leather gloves cricking in his tight grip, “I’m sorry… P-Price…”

He knows he shouldn’t get closer, that night terrors can make the friendliest of soldiers hostile, when shrouded by conjured nightmares and warped memories. But the sight of Ghost in that state makes Soap feel the need to do something, anything to help him.

He chances a hand on Ghost’s shoulder, “...Simon? Wake up, yer safe-”

Muscles bulge as they shoot up at him, Ghost wraps his hand around Soap’s, and in a blink, they’re on the floor. He pins him down by the neck, heavy breathing and shaking.

It hurts tenfold, to be choked for the second time in a few hours. Soap claws at the massive arms, attempts to lessen their heavy weight on his windpipe. Even in his sleep, Ghost is a force to be reckoned with.

When Soap sees those dark eyes open, searching wildly for hostiles, he thinks that perhaps, in his sleep, Ghost is even more terrifying. Fighting against the worst his mind can think of.

“S-Simon-” Soap manages to whisper.

The hands retreat instantly, and Soap turns to his side, coughing and massaging his wounded neck.

Ghost has crawled backwards until he hit the wall, eyes still wide open, their whites standing out over black painted skin. Soap heaves himself to his knees, moving closer to the shivering man. But Ghost shakes his head.

“Don’t-” Ghost says between breaths, “stay back.”

Soap, as he often does, refuses to listen, “why?”

Brown eyes flicker down to his neck before returning to his, “I’ll hurt you.”

“Ye won’t.” Soap stops in front of him, sitting back on his haunches.

Soap can see the tension still wrecking though Ghost, muscles trembling with fatigue and soreness. He chances a hand again, laying it on Ghost’s shoulder. The body under his palm freezes.

He leans in closer, tries to see inside Ghost’s eyes to his thoughts. 

This close, he can see just how pale his eyelashes are, how there are flecks of black shoot through the rich brown umber of his eyes. Something about them draws Soap in, in a way an oil painting would. How dark Ghost’s eyes are, how his pupils blend with the sclera.

“Johnny-” Ghost whispers, “the mask…”

Soap’s brows crease, “ye want me to take it off?”

“Please.” 

At his begging tone, Soap doesn’t hesitate, and slowly slides a hand over the skull, pulling it up and off.

Simon stares up at him, his eye black running down his cheeks, from tears or rain, he's not so sure anymore. At that moment, Soap realizes what emotion lingers in Simon’s eyes wherever he looks at him.

Faith.

Simon… has faith in him. More wholly than Soap remembers ever seeing.

Not just in life and death, but with this as well. With his most vulnerable moments. It shines through so clearly now, the serenity over Simon’s features the longer he looks at Soap.

He looks…

“Beautiful…”

Simon frowns in confusion, “what?”

Soap presses a thumb to the dark tear tracks, swiping under Simon’s eyes. “Yer bonnie. Never… noticed before.”

Simon opens his mouth to answer, and it breaks Soap from the trance he was stuck in. He pulls his hand away, as if it was burned, and wrecks his mind for a way to veer the conversation away from his stupid, weird behaviour.

Stupid steamin’ dream, stupid Simon with his stupidly pretty eyes, stupid-

“Ye said Price’s name. When ye were…”

Simon looks away, lips curving downwards minutely, “don’t remember.”

Soap sighs. Should’ve expected the deflection-

“He was… my captain. Before.” Simon murmurs, eyes on the broken shards of glass scattered on the floor. “I haven’t seen ‘im in years, not since I became legally dead.”

Soap can imagine. He remembers, even in his brief interactions with the Captain, just how much it was obvious that Simon meant a lot to him. If he knew Simon was Ghost, surely Price would-

“That’s it.” Simon murmurs, eyes alight with a new fire. Soap raises an eyebrow, and Simon turns to face him fully.

Gone is the softness in his tone when he says, “I know how we can get to the Hunter.” 

Ghost stands up, offering a hand for Soap, “we need to get our hands on a radio.” Ghost leaves him behind as he starts collecting their equipment.

Soap follows him, shoving a still wrapped sandwich in his hands, “what are ye planning, Simon?”

Those dark eyes stare at him with newfound conviction, as Ghost pulls the mask back over his head.

“There’s only one other person who would be able to locate the Hunter in this city.”

Soap’s brows shoot up when he understands.

“Captain Price…”

[therealmaquaroonie]

Happy 4 year anniversary to the shittiest fuckass Homestuck cake ever created (circa 2020, colorized)

There was the usual house logo but it looked like shit so I covered it with sprinkles of the colors of the beta kids and some skulls and bones to represent. The amount of death in homestuck

Also Happy Birthday to John Egbert, my first ever fully realized kin!!!!!!!!

[ziptie-bouquet]

Pathologic 2's map is really interesting.

The Abattoir is a giant bull skull. It is planted face down into the earth with the horns and teeth just barely protruding from it. No wonder it was a temple.

The districts are like the different cuts of the town. The body part inspired names reference this as well.

The overall map looks like a prehistoric cave drawing of an animal. The tail is a giant impossible building, the Polyhedron, and the head is the Abattoir. They're opposites of each other. The kids and the dying kin. The structures are mystical in their own ways, with the Tower futuristically breaking the laws of physics and the giant bull looking like it's from an old legend. They exist because the people in them because they should.

[rinja-espurr]

this was supposed to be just a simple drawing at first

[spoonbenders]

im not one for kinning usually because it can escalate in various ways but i think the first technical kin i can remember was skull kid from majoras mask. me after harnessing a great power in search of revenge

[yuridovewing]

Keep thinking about the Darktail twist and man I still think that Onestar was such a random choice for “has an illegitimate kid”. when imo Blackstar makes wayyyyy more sense. Like, consider, Blackfoot has a fling with Smoke when he’s still in exile during TPB. Smoke is wayyy more dedicated to him than he is to her, he actually looks down on her for being a kittypet.

By the time she’s pregnant though, he’s rejoined ShadowClan under Tigerstar. And oh man. Xenophobia is rife and alive and outspoken. And when Smoke tells Blackfoot about their kits, there’s no room for weakness. He lashes out at Smoke, maybe even outright attacks her (remember this guy killed Stonefur) and threatens her, telling her to either get off of his land forever or he’ll take care of their kits himself.

She’s either pregnant at that point or she’s had Darkkit and was trying to introduce them. Maybe the latter cause Smoke would not be coming back to ask ShadowClan to take him. Plus it’d be a formative memory to Darkkit that sticks with him for the rest of his life. Instead, she runs back home, Darkkit in tow. Warning him as he grew up to never go into the forest, lest his father find him and get rid of him.

Smoke lives out the rest of her days paranoid and distressed, Blackfoot knows where she lives. It gets worse when she hears that he’s become leader and could potentially send cats after her. Darktail grows up, angry and bitter that his mother was traumatized so. And he vows revenge. He trains himself, learns from the remnants of BloodClan how the clan cats fight. When Smoke dies, he leaves their twolegs to follow the clans, long gone at that point.

Revenge has consumed him, dedicating his life to unleashing his wrath onto Blackstar and his followers. He fantasized about how he would gut Blackstar and rip out each of his nine lives, dangle his dirty little secret over his clan and threatening their oh-so-fragile pride. He was going to make sure he would be considered Blackstar's worst mistake- that would be his end.

He sets up the Kin among some of the cats he trained with, some being former BloodClan cats. At first, it's formed in honor. He wanted to live with his friends was all, and this way they'd all be fed and healthy. But it slowly took a dark turn as Darktail still prioritized revenge above all else. He quickly grew manipulative, and while he still valued his cats, he began to view them more as pawns in a game of chess. A game he was always playing against Blackstar- even if Blackstar didn't know it. He took in vulnerable cats, promising them power and prestige, when he really was only concerned with how they could benefit his schemes. It takes him so long to get to a place where he can release an onslaught on his father’s clan.

… But when he arrives, Blackstar is dead. He drowned a year before Darktail arrived. He was buried, ShadowClan moved on, that was that. Darktail felt numb. It was all for nothing. Revenge on Blackstar, the thing that had driven him for so long, was gone. There was nothing left... except for the clan that Blackstar had built.

And it seemed plenty of the young, slighted, and immature apprentices were struggling at the change in power as well.

That was fine. He'd come this far. If he couldn't have Blackstar's skull, the rest of his clan would have to do. And as he witnessed the other clans' pride, he figured they could go as well. To hell with them all. He was gonna terrorize the clans just as they had terrorized his mother so, and he was going to relish every second.

So TLDR: Blackstar's crimes, and Brokenstar and Tigerstar's reign, still haunt ShadowClan to this day in the form of Darktail. Something about how when you die, some of your sins will be passed on to your loved ones who will be forced to deal with it in your stead. Darktail, try as he might, will never be satisfied with his revenge. He is now aimless, lashing out at everyone in sight because he missed his chance to kill the one he hated most.

[cyberneticlagomorph]

You stare into the empty eye sockets of the long dead dragon's skull and feel it staring back with the sort of awareness that scares you.

You're a necromancer, no stranger to death and what waits beyond it, and even if you weren't your sister is a fucking ghost. You've been able to see and hear ghosts all your life, so why now, why right now does the awful echo of this dragon's life scare you so much?

It's screaming.

A low and far off wail of something in pain, like a rabbit squealing as it is caught in a snare, too stupid with blind panic to know how to free itself. Even if it could free itself, it would die soon of its injuries.

This dragon is already dead, lived and murdered long before even your wives were born and yet in death it is still screaming and struggling against a snare you cannot perceive. Something cold and cruel that cuts and strangles like wire ties the dragon's soul to this place, surrounded by the morbid reminders of its kin and kind.

A tear runs from your ruined eye, the salt stinging as it soaks into your open wounds.

You tear your eyes away from the skull and try not to tremble as you pass through the gates beneath it. The boy you brought with you darts past you in a flurry of excited limbs and collides with a passing monk the way a puppy might greet a familiar friend.

The monk first smiles at the boy, before noticing how filthy and tired he looks. "By the Father, Zeb what happened to you?" the monk exclaims. Upon closer inspection, the monk isn't much older than Zeb, probably 15 or 16 tops, his head shaved down to stubble.

"His name is Zeb then?" You say, your voice still catching on the soot and smoke leftover from last night, your chest hurts and you fear another respiratory infection is on the horizon.

The monk notices you for the first time, his eyes growing into white-rimmed saucers, arms tight around Zeb as he stammers and backs away from you the same way one might back away from a wild animal or a maniac with a chainsaw.

"H... HELP!" Squeaks the little monk in a voice louder than you thought him capable, he clings to Zeb so tightly the younger boy squirms in discomfort.

You stay very still, watching the ranks of Knights pour into the room, leveling swords and spells in your direction. You can only smile, some of the faces in the crowd are painfully young; around Zeb's age or even younger, with their mentors close behind.

One glance at the adults tells you all you need to know, they've heard of you and they've heard that you will not hurt children if you can help it.

So they're using the children as shields.

You keep smiling, choking down the waves of buried rage that flare to life every time you fucking breathe. Having the kids here wouldn't stop you, it's very true that you'd never hurt a child on purpose but you're not above killing people in front of kids if you have to. You could drop every adult in this room before anyone knew what happened, but you promised yourself you'd behave, just this once.

"I'd like to speak with Lord Barnabas, if he's available." You lean back until you're sitting on thin air and fold your hands into your lap as politely as possible. "Tell him the Prince of Hearts wants an audience if that'll get him down here faster, but I'm not going anywhere until I see him."