#so oops! but please enjoy

[spenpy]

eugh whos this clown (shakes him)

[xxplastic-cubexx]

your krakoa era cherik art has altered my brain chemistry

more krakoa era is to come from me my friend so i worry for your brain

[marblerose-rue]

new lioden king except ive had him for a couple weeks :-)

[simonsezsewart]

My last two brain cells <3

(Timelapse + alt versions below)

Song: Long Long Long Journey - Bill Wurtz

Bruh I struggled for over two hours on WW’s sketch, meanwhile the entire Vash drawing took two hours total… whoops 💀

But hey! Look at all the colors in their hair! It’s like little rainbows… ;w;

(Sketches so yall can see what I’m talking about in the tags 💀)

[taikk0]

the unspoken broflovski family curse

[midnightwind]

Clipped Wings

Summary: One Year. Lucanis Dellamorte has been imprisoned for a whole year. If he had to guess. Desperate, almost hopeless, rescue has finally arrived in the guise of two excitable elves, but his saviors might be too late. Who would want a demon to come home? (Lucanis and Spite PoV)

Word Count: 6743

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Chapter Four: Demon in the Depths

It was cold when the haze of unconsciousness finally faded, his body sluggish. Flashes of what had happened played like the hitched scenes of a stage play. They had brought the accursed vial of his blood to the cell, had wound the strings of their vile magic around his limbs, and contorted his motions to suit their needs. The demon had thrashed in his bones at it, throwing himself against his ribs painfully and clawing behind his eyes as he screamed in fury. They had returned his leathers, a baffling action, and had him cast aside the prisoner's rags he had worn for almost a year. His gear hung loosely around him, the torture and confinement hollowing him out. Spite hissed at the ugly feeling it caused, sinking teeth into the soft meat of his soul.

Struggling against the magic’s hold, he had to simply watch as another mage approached. The man held a comb in one hand and scissors in the other. The sight was so absurd he wanted to laugh, but the spell only allowed him a vicious smile. The man's hands shook, the tremor worsening as the assassin glared him down with naked bloodlust the closer he got. A year at their mercy and they still were terrified to approach him. It was one of the only pleasures left to him here. Spite had lodged himself in his throat, gripping his vocal chords and begging for blood. It caused an almost feral growl to crawl from his lips, his would-be barber jumping at the noise.

They were making him presentable, he realized. Dressing him up for someone or something. It caused a drowning panic to rise in him like a vile tide. Spite howled, seizing his limbs with his own phantom versions and thrashing. His fingers twitched and the man stumbled backwards, away from him at the motion. No one stopped the cultist as he fled out of the cell, though the mage with the phylactery did bark orders at him. When they weren't met with obedience, he scoffed. Fear always won. Instead of trying to finish his twisted spa day, they trapped his hands behind his back and clapped iron around his wrists and ankles. The mage in charge had muttered something about having other subjects to prepare and he was soon being led through the facility as his phylactery was spirited back into the depths.

He had waited until the searing pull of the thing faded before launching into action. A simple jump to pull his hands back in front of himself, using the shackles to bludgeon one cultist to the ground. When another swung their magic imbued daggers at him, he caught the blades with the chain between his hands. The enchantment cut through it like a hot knife through butter. If nothing else, the Venatori were deft hands at crafting weapons to draw blood from even the most armored victims. He still had to dodge the rest of the swing, but his hands were free and that changed everything. Now the familiar rhythm of work was settling into his frame, every movement and swing of blades like a beloved symphony he had almost forgotten. His body sang with each kill. He carved a bloody trail through the halls, using another cultist blade to cut the shackles free completely during a brief reprieve. He had searched the bodies for keys, whatever relic or weird device would allow him to finally leave the prison.

He never got far, another wave of Venatori descending on him. It was exhausting, but he was a Crow. He had trained for exhausting. The wave of demons was a surprise he should have been expecting. The surge of the tiny bastards nipped at his heels, pushing him away from the path to freedom with slashing claws and sharp teeth. Spite was hissing like a feral cat at them. It caused every hair on his body to prickle, an electric hum so intense it felt like his bones were vibrating. The creatures seemed to falter and as he surged forward into that hesitation with sharp blades, he barely noticed the large shape that crashed into his side. He was thrown against a crumbling wall, left scrambling in the sand for purchase before a large clawed hand wrapped around his chest. The demon squeezed, his ribs screaming as the air was forced from his lungs. He angled vicious stabs into the creature's flesh, but it didn't seem to phase it. It simply tightened its hold. His world spotted black as he wheezed for a breath, clawing at the iron grip. And then the world went dark.

Now he was in a new prison, cold ice steadily locking him in place. He thrashed, the desperate need to escape chasing the fatigue from his limbs. Wherever they planned to take him next would be worse than the Ossuary, he had no doubt. Spite was rousing at the sharp emotions, sinking sharp nails into his psyche as he clawed awake. The spell was winding closer and closer, alarm almost blinding the assassin now. And then it paused, wavering, as discordant voices cut in. The demon surged, a sharp snap heralding skeletal wings bursting into existence on his back. They lunged for freedom as one, the ice shattering as the spell failed. The familiar work of killing settled into his hands once more, his world narrowed down to the cultists trying to trap him and nothing else. He was a flurry of ruthless violence, each Venatori dead within seconds of the last. Pulling in a shivering breath, he turned to face whatever had interrupted the ritual and then paused in surprise. Those were not cultists.

Mage.

The demon’s voice curled at the edges of his thoughts, almost purring the word as he stared at the two women blocking his way out. There was a fascination to it, but also a hunger, a pull the spirit felt. He watched its ghostly form stalk around the tanned elf, pulling in huffing breaths. It pawed at her red hair, as if trying to capture a lock between its fingers. Frustration growled from the spirit, turning instead to stare into her slate eyes.

Smells sweet. New scent. What is it? So sweet…

He blinked in confusion, taken aback. In the year since the demon had been forced into him, it had expressed curiosity only a handful of times. The pure rage of being trapped usually took up most of their stay. It unsettled him how Spite was suddenly enamored with a stranger. It felt foreboding. Then the demon was twitching to look at the woman’s companion. Another elf, dressed in bright leathers with her dark hair gathered in a messy bun. She seemed to vibrate with nerves and energy in equal measure, with heavy looking metal… contraptions, for lack of a better word, wrapped over her arms.

Dusty. Reeks of magic. Stolen. Borrowed. Found. Smells of ancient.

And then it was back to prowling around the redhead, a starving grin cracking its face. It caused a scowl to crease his own. Anything or anyone that captured the demon's attention like this was trouble. He shouldn't have even given them pause. A few more knife flicks and he'd be on his way to freedom. The cold calculation of his work was washing through him, but then Spite was surging to stand in front of him, causing him to jump.

Smell good. Maybe help? Finally! Let us out! Free us! Outoutout!

The thoughts were a deluge, slamming into his mind like a tidal wave. It scattered him for a moment, causing his head to swirl. He tightened his grip on his daggers, leather and steel biting into his palm. The weight of his weapons centered him, but before he could pull himself into familiar, deadly action, Spite's fascination was speaking.

“You must be Lucanis Dellamorte.” It wasn't a question. Her eyes seemed to almost shine as she looked him over.

She knows you.

He narrowed his eyes. “Who sent you?” And then his brain finally recognized the armor she wore. “You're a Crow.” She was sporting the leathers tailored for mages, loose sleeves trailing her motions. Had another House put a price on his head? Did this mean he had been properly abandoned here?

Before the doubts could work themselves into a proper panic, she was giving him a flourishing bow. “Of House de Riva. It's an honor.” It sounded almost genuine, voice tinged with a laugh. Then her head flicked up slightly, her gaze meeting his. “Caterina sent us. She’d like you home.”

Hope swelled in his chest, bittersweet and sickly. He hadn't been forgotten, but it was too late wasn't it? He was far too changed, now. A monster in human skin. It was a cruel twist of fate. He pulled in a long breath, finally sheathing his daggers. A member of Viago's House meant this was likely genuine. Rescue had come and he could trust that. So long as the other Crow led, he wouldn't have to worry about a poisoned blade nicking him. A second assassin would make his job easier, too.

“I still have a contract here. I need to kill Calivan, but before I can do that we need to find the vial of my blood they took.” He had to grind the words from his throat, disuse trying to choke them back down. “They can use it to control me otherwise.”

The other elf finally spoke up at that as she almost cowered behind the Crow. “Because of the demon.” Her voice was soft, empty of malice, but the single sentence cut him to the core.

This was where they'd leave him at best, or try to kill him at worst. He felt his fingers twitch, heartbeat leaping as adrenaline surged. He'd have to kill the mage first, that was fine. He knew how to do that. She sported a knife instead of a staff, so he'd have a few seconds to close the distance as her orb was summoned. That was plenty of time to slit her throat and collide with the archer before her bow could be nocked. He'd owe Viago an apology for killing one of his Crows, but it was par for the course.

“That’s fine, assuming you're still the Mage Killer the First Talon promised me.” The mage said brightly, smiling.

She didn't move for her weapon, her hands even clapping quietly in front of her. That was baffling. The word demon sent mages into a panic, usually, all fire and brimstone raining down at the thought. Why did she look almost gleeful?

“I can still work.” He answered carefully.

“Perfect!” Relief caused her shoulders to sag for a moment. “Once we clean up your contract, I have my own for two ancient elven mages pretending at godhood. If the stories I've heard about your work are even partially true, your help would really turn the tides.”

“I…” Gods? That was a new one. “I would owe you.”

“A favor between Crows.” She closed the distance in an instant, startlingly fast, and held a hand out to him.

The sweet scent that had fascinated Spite washed over him. Red berries and jasmine. It was pleasant enough, but strong. Hiding the acrid smell of poisons and venoms with perfume was a popular cover among assassins. Given her House, it made sense. The scent was simply dizzying after his year in this pit of the ocean smelling only rotting seaweed, blood, and burning flesh. It also made him hesitant to touch her at all. His reluctance must have been obvious because she laughed, pulling her hand back.

“You know Viago, huh? I don't coat myself in poison quite as enthusiastically as him. Perfectly safe to touch!” And then she was winking at him. “Kissing less so, but you look like a gentleman.” He wasn't sure what to do with that, but she was spinning on her heel and waving at him over her shoulder. “I’m Mirenna, by the way, though people are calling me Rook nowadays. Maybe Viago mentioned me?” There was a hopeful note in her voice, a desire for acknowledgement. When he remained quiet, she let out a disappointed sigh. “Likely not by name. If you ever had to listen to him rant about an annoying protege, I apologize. I exist to annoy him, apparently.”

That did stir some faint memories of the Fifth Talon muttering about a recruit causing nothing but trouble. His tone had never been properly angry or even particularly murderous. It had always read to him as a similar energy he reserved for Illario. A sibling that needed to be scolded, but whom you loved. Now he had a face for the many complaints. The reverie was interrupted as her companion popped into his view.

“Um, I’m Bellara, by the way. It's nice to meet you. I think?” She seemed to want to say more, mouth opening before snapping shut as she scurried after the mage. “Do you really have poison on your lips, Rook?”

Rook’s eyes crinkled as a devious smile curled across her face. “Would you like to find out?” 

Her voice was low, almost sultry. Tempting. It was familiar. Viago was close with Teia, it wasn't a far leap to assume that the elf would have had contact with House Cantori. The casual seduction had Teia written all over it. The perfume also made a little more sense, the initial allure of the honeytrap. His assumption that she was trouble only felt more vindicated.

Bellara tittered away from her, half laughing and half nerves. “No! I'm okay. I like not being poisoned.”

“Shame, it's a fun one.” Rook hummed. “I can give you the rundown back at the Lighthouse. We have Venatori to gut and a legendary assassin to free.”

Knows of you. Likes the idea. Spite was prowling behind her, head cocked. What would. Poison taste like?

“Not as pleasant as you want.” He muttered, voice quiet and leaden feet finally following his odd saviors.

Taste like smells? So sweet. What is scent?

“Red berries and jasmine.”

She glanced over her shoulder, a knowing smile on her lips. How loud had he said that? Turning on her heel, she walked backwards to face him.

“Offer stands for you, too.” Her voice was just as alluring as before, but she had dipped her head toward her chest, looking up at him through her lashes.

Cheeky! I like her!

He blinked blandly back at her, cursing himself for letting the demon bait him into this situation. “I'm familiar enough with what the Fifth and Seventh Talons may have taught you.”

She tilted her head to the side, mischief touching her features. “No curiosity for what their talents combined might create?”

Spite is! Let me talk. More fun.

“I am perfectly content as is.” His tone was flat, emotion scrubbed free.

Boring! Let me out! Let me talk. Spite was raking claws through his psyche, his shade looming before him as he screamed. Outoutout! You cage! You trap!

He pinched the bridge of his nose as he walked past her, trying not to think about the myriad of poisons she could sprinkle on his leathers at this distance. Dealing with the demon was exhausting enough, a second Teia would simply be too much. There was a quiet scuff of her boot on the rock floor as she turned back around. The silent speed that had her matching his pace shortly after was unnerving. She seemed on the verge of saying something when they finally emerged back into the facility.

A group of Venatori had been desperately trying to set up the wards again, the blood magic causing his eyes to ache. The two Crows were in motion instantly, his daggers almost leaping into his hands and a crackling orb sparking to life in hers. Lightning magic explained her speed. Bellara was a few seconds slow on shrugging her bow off her shoulder, each assassin removing a blood mage before she had an arrow loose. The smell of ozone filled the room, like the air before a storm. He had expected the mage to fight at a distance, but she peppered the Venatori with quick bolts before lunging forward with the mageknife. Her magic jolted through their bodies at the contact, their writhing forms easy prey for his blades. And then she was shooting off to swipe the enchanted blade at the next target, sweeping their legs and falling upon them with a ferocious stab.

It had been some time since he last saw a Crow mage in a melee. Watching her parry a bolt of energy back at the caster before letting loose a scorching ray from the orb, walking slowly forward as the magic ate the man alive, quashed any doubts he had about her training. She danced and dashed among swinging blades, hunted down any mage that dared to fire in her direction, and was careful to curve her dagger around his and Bellara's strikes as they navigated the field. She was skilled. By the time the Venatori were dead, he had a seed of respect for her taking root. He had been afraid the flippant energy had meant he'd be babysitting another Illario in a fight. He had been wrong.

Smells of blood. Metal and sharp. Powerful.

Wiping his daggers clean on the tunic of a dead mage, he watched her sheath her weapon and shake her hands. Almost like she was trying to regain feeling in them. When she caught his eye, she gave him another wink. He frowned, turning away to pluck the key for the door from a corpse. She followed two steps behind him, quiet for a moment.

“You don't like the tactic.” Again, not a question.

“I was never fond of Teia’s method. It is more my cousin's style.” He rested a hand on the pommel of a dagger. “I prefer being direct.”

“Oh.” There was a note of disappointment coating the word. “Teia took me for a ride. She promised it would be funny, but she meant for herself, didn't she.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, busying himself with unlocking the door. “What?”

“Told me to tease you. Said it would be hilarious.” Was she pouting? “Now I just feel like a jerk and like I made a terrible first impression.”

“Would you have preferred I swoon?” The door opened silently under his touch.

She made a noncommittal noise in her throat. “If it made you a little less gloomy, sure. Laughing would have worked, too.”

Gloomy? He imagined he would look a little worse for wear, but gloomy?

She wants. A smile?

Ah. That felt beyond him.

“Rook messes with everyone.” Bellara chimed in, hovering several steps behind him. It made him wonder how long it would take to slip a dagger between her ribs from this distance. A few seconds, just a handful of quick steps. “Usually means she likes you!”

“Should I be flattered?” There was an almost bright note to his voice as he led them through to the next dilapidated chamber, perhaps an overcorrection on his part.

“Only if she stays nice with it.” She continued, her steps gaining an almost bouncing quality as they walked.

“Don't give away all my tells, Bell!” The mage feigned injury, hand pressed her chest, but the wide smile betrayed her intent. “I'll only look cool and capable until we get back to the Diamond.”

“Oh, was Viago not done? He sure yelled at you for a long time already…” Bellara gave her a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

“He could berate me for a week straight and still have a bone to pick.” She shook her head sadly. “Such is my lot.”

The two continued their inane banter for a while longer, but he ceased to listen. Instead, he focused on the twisting pull of his would be phylactery. Normally its presence filled him with dread. It still did, as they drew closer, but there was a note of dizzying anticipation. The shedding of the final chain. Freedom. His steps quickened, pulling ahead of the two women. He led the duo toward his target, singular focus trained ahead. And then he stopped, staring at the wide chasm that yawned between him and a very enthusiastic stabbing. The path had collapsed at some point and he faltered. He didn't know the facility well enough to pick an alternative route, if one even still stood.

“Ah. Damn.” Rook muttered, chewing on her thumb. “I really hoped we wouldn't come back this way. I don't have a plan for this.”

Just walk? Path is right there.

“What?” He forgot to quiet his voice, too baffled by the suggestion.

Do you not see? Oh! A path. Just for Spite! Poor Lucanis. Needs help! The demon was definitely laughing at him. I can pull. The path through. Let me reach.

Rook had turned a confused eye to him and he groused under the gaze. “He says he can pull something through.”

“Who..?” She started, but he was already holding a hand out.

Spite had pressed itself into his body, the ghostly avatar layering over his skin. He felt the demon grab something, weighty and odd, and together they pulled. Phantasmal rubble sprang into being over the gap, an echo of what used to be. It felt draining in a strange way, an inkling that the path wouldn't stay forever.

“You can just do that?” The mage gasped.

“I'm as surprised as you.” He breathed before shaking his head. “I don't think it lasts, let's move.”

That seemed to light a fire under them as they quickly scrambled to the other side. The route grew more precarious as they went, large chunks of the facility sheared away from itself to form deadly chasms. Bellara had fallen silent, staring down at her feet as they shimmied along a crumbling wall. Rook for her part was almost trapezing along the rubble, lips curled faintly in a smile. She paused as they reached the next section of fractured flooring, head tilting.

“Demons.” Her voice was almost flat.

He stole a peek, sizing up the several prowling shades. “Zara’s pets. That’s what success looks like.”

She gave a hum at that before tossing him a wild grin. “I’ll get their attention. Looking forward to seeing you work again!”

Before either he or Bellara could object, the mage was vaulting over a broken pillar. Lightning crackled as her orb materialized, her mageknife rolling once in her hand. She took bounding steps, running the outer ring of the platform as her weapons streamed magic. The demons swarmed towards her like moths to a flame. Lucanis cursed under his breath, sliding down the slight incline to try and close the distance. Bellara had begun nocking arrows, firing into the mass from her vantage point. He wasn’t going to make it before the creatures reached the elf. Why did all his jobs go south?

He loosed a handful of throwing daggers, downing one demon and staggering another. That earned him a few more seconds. It might actually be fine so long as she kept running. Except she turned on her heel without warning, her orb shimmering into a second dagger as she lunged into the mass of monsters. She planted the two blades into the heart of one demon and then pulled. The air sounded like it was torn apart violently, a violet maw cut open with electricity and lightning slicing free. It floored several demons, easy prey for his daggers. As the magic fizzled away she was throwing out another spell, a carpet of thunder that sent her jumping backwards with a cackle. For a split second, the magic almost looked like a cloud of feathers before it too evaporated.

When the creatures finally recovered, most of them were dissipating back to the Fade. The stragglers went down easily to the dancing blades and patient arrows. He huffed as he pulled a dagger free from the steadily disappearing corpse under his boot. Rook was back to shaking her hands, bouncing from foot to foot for a moment. The sounds of rocks being displaced announced Bellara joining them on the lower platform.

“You,” he started slowly, pointing a blade at the mage, “are reckless.”

“But it tends to work.” She gave him a lopsided smile.

“Until it doesn’t.” He clipped.

“S’why I have you guys!”

“Rook…” Bellara cut in, her tone scolding.

The mage sighed, holding her hands up in surrender. “Fine, sorry. Proper plan before the next fight.”

“With any luck, our ‘next fight’ is Calivan.” There was a sharp edge to his voice now as he started to pick his way further into the facility.

She was silently at his side again with no warning. “Was there a specific way you wanted to deal with him? It is your contract, after all.”

“Oh, do Crows not usually work together?” Bellara asked, popping up on his other side.

Rook hummed, shrugging. “If you belong to the same House and your Talon tells you to? Then sure. Between Houses is more rare, but poaching a contract is frowned upon. Unless they super fuck it up, anyways. Besides just being rude and an insult, the buyer can use it to try and weasel out of paying which causes all sorts of issues. But since I’m here on a contract for the First Talon, I think we’re good. I don’t plan on trying to cash in on the Calivan contract either.”

“If you help me take him down,” Lucanis cut in quietly, “you would be entitled to the reward.”

She gave him a queer look at that, head tilting slightly. “Viago would likely take any gold I make. Besides, your whole thing is killing mages. I don’t want to get in your way.”

“And here I thought you had a fondness for attention.” He mused.

A wide grin slowly stole across her face. “Is the Demon of Vyrantium teasing me?”

“Surely not, I’m gloomy after all.”

“Bell, I need you to pinch me.” She extended an arm behind his back, causing every alarm in his mind to scream. “This has to be a dream.”

The sound of the other elf gently slapping her hand away with a laugh had him quickening his steps. They responded well enough if he played along, good to know. It kept them distracted, but that had its uses. He didn't fully trust having another Crow from an ostensibly rival House at his back, but he could only dedicate so much worry towards her right now. If Caterina had truly given de Riva the contract to rescue him, she was maybe safe enough.

He had a bigger target to focus on. Confronting Calivan had a few ways to play out. If they were lucky, he was holed up in a chamber with deep shadows and high perches. Dropping on the man from above to crush the air from his lungs as daggers bit deep would be ideal. Quick but brutal. Given the state of the facility, however, it was far more likely the mage would be in an annoyingly open area with next to no cover. Getting to punch him into submission had its allure, but it was messy. Unreliable. Dangerous. He did have a mage and ranged support, so a head to head confrontation would likely go better than usual. It made him uneasy, but a little trust would go a long way.

“When we find Calivan,” he started suddenly, voice even, “if he's in a place where I can take him down from stealth, that works perfectly. I think it more likely he'll see us coming a mile away with the state the Ossuary is in. Which means I'll likely be the distraction whether I want to or not.”

“I'll make sure to shock him within an inch of his life for you.” Her grin had a hungry edge to it this time, the job bringing a sharp focus.

“Helping with a Crow contract…” Bellara sounded almost in awe at the idea. “The Jumpers won't believe me.”

“We gotta find him first.” Rook hummed before she stopped suddenly, catching the edge of his leathers and tugging gently to have him follow suit. He almost wrenched it violently from her grasp, a year of bad memories leaping up at the touch. “Lots of Fade activity ahead. It's a mage at the very least, could be Calivan though.”

“Quick and quiet, then.” He murmured the little mantra, blades snapping into his hands as he prowled forward.

It was, unfortunately, not their target or his blood vial. Instead it was an underling trying to fend off loose demons. They simply waited for the mage to finish killing off the monsters before quietly approaching and putting an end to the Venatori. The next few chambers were just as disappointing. More demons and abominations to be put down to clear the path, the facility seeming to hold an obnoxious amount of them. The tug was growing more incessant and there was a sense of familiarity to the area. He'd walk this path many times on the way to the Venatori lab. His stomach twisted at the thought. That singular room held many horrors for him.

For us. Spite hissed.

There was a nagging worry as they entered the large chamber that functioned as a torturous lab. If they didn't want to break his phylactery, if instead they wanted to use it, would he have time to stop them? Would it be better to lead the way, forcing them to pass him to seize control, or hover behind them, daggers hungry?

He was playing and replaying the scenario in his mind as they took in the remains of the less fortunate subjects. When they quietly destroyed the many Venatori crystals locking them out, he was favoring the plan that let him bury a knife in each back with one strike. He let them walk in first, eyes watching their weapons carefully as they beheld the sizable phylactery.

“I’m guessing the monstrous vial is yours?” Rook offered weakly, trying to force a note of mirth into the words and failing.

His daggers slipped silently from their sheaths. “Destroy it and let's move on.” His voice was level, not quite emotionless, but peaceful. Encouraging.

“Should we-” Bellara started, but she cut herself off with a yelp.

The vial exploded without warning as Rook flung her mageknife at it. The loud shattering was the most beautiful sound he had heard in his life. She shifted a foot back, bracing, as the fiery laser leapt from her hand again. The blood concoction ignited, burning any lingering connection to a crisp. His daggers were sheathed in the next instant, eyes fixed on the mage. There was a familiar cold calculation to her features, the Crow focus brushing aside the lopsided grin. There was a deeper emotion buried in it, almost like a fury. That was interesting.

Free. Spite seemed to breathe the word. She freed us. She hated. The final chain. Why?

Maybe she knew something about being controlled like that. Maybe as a mage she simply had a dislike for phylacteries. Maybe the mere thought of dominating someone like that sat ill with her. He didn't have an answer for the demon. So he remained quiet as they boarded the elevator, focusing instead on carving his path to Calivan. Killing the man wouldn't make up for what had been done to him, but it would feel good. He'd take the scrap of positivity.

His mind turned back to planning, imagining sinking a dagger to the hilt in his tormentor. If they gave him the time, there were several places he could plant a knife before finally killing the man. A little payback would be nice. Some kind of retribution for the cruelty.

“So,” Rook's voice sliced through his murderous fantasy abruptly as Bellara seemed to huff next to her, “what's Caterina like, usually?”

Was she trying to fill the time? Couldn't she have asked anything else? He couldn't help the bitterness in his voice. “I've been gone so long, I fear I don't remember.”

She seemed to flinch, a quick hunching of her shoulders. “Right. Well… we’ll have you reunited soon enough it won't matter.”

The elevator thunking to a stop saved them both from trying to salvage the conversation. Rook led them down the crumbling hallway with quick steps, a sharp focus coming over her. She was almost darting forward, seemingly appearing on top of piles of rubble to look ahead. She had pulled the hood of her leathers up to hide her shocking red hair as she scouted. An unhappy hum escaped her as she bounded back to them.

“Big open space. Might be some side rooms, but… we should be ready for a fight with little cover.”

Iron and salt. Screams and curses. Blood for blood. Kill Calivan.

It felt like Spite was clawing at the world from behind his eyes. He rolled his shoulders, neck cracking. “Time to work. Ready?”

Bellara swallowed heavily, but gripped her bow tightly in hand and nodded. “If he doesn't know Rook and I are here, then that gives us an edge.”

Rook flicked her mageknife into hand, the blade glinting as her orb crackled to life. “Quick and quiet.” It was unto a prayer for their work, her features sharp and focused.

“Quick and quiet.” He echoed before he stepped into the open.

The Venatori mage was waiting for them, in a sense. A ritual circle was carved into the floor, a permanent fixture to the chamber. He had been turning a slow circle, observing the runes, when Lucanis stepped into the open. The jailer clicked his tongue in almost disgust, an exaggerated shrug lifting his shoulders.

“Of course it’s you.” He spat. “Zara and her little jests. ‘He’s already the Demon of Vyrantium! Won’t this be ironic?’ We should have killed you months ago when the demon never manifested. Waste of time and effort.”

The Crow didn’t wait, daggers in hand as he sprinted towards the man. If the monster wanted to taunt, let him waste the air. The Fade fizzled as glaring red orbs sprang up around his target, forcing him to spend precious time dodging left and right. He caught a brief blur out of the corner of his eye as his knife lunged out. The blade caught against the mage’s staff, his offhand punching towards the man’s gut. The burn of magic in the air stung his eyes, his strike missing as the Venatori fade stepped away. The scream that followed from the mageknife biting into his back brought a ravenous grin to his lips.

Rook had used his initial rush to dart around the little piles of rubble and crumbling pillars. Calivan had positioned himself directly in front of her hiding place and she had wasted no time capitalizing on it. Her magic sparked along his body, shimmering as it pinged off the barrier so common to mages. Calivan spun with a snarl, swinging his staff towards her, but she tossed out her own spell. The carpet of electric feathers blinded the man as she darted back into the shadows.

“You made friends. Was the demon not enough?”

The taunt was met with two daggers swinging for his neck, the barrier cracking heavily under the dual strike. He snarled, a wave of red crystals erupting from under his feet that left a flaming trail. It forced Lucanis to leap backwards, daggers held defensively against a follow up attack that never came. An arrow cracked loudly against the barrier and it shattered as Calivan half turned with the strike, a red line cut into his cheek. Spite surged at the smell of blood, a fury and glee rushing through his limbs with such strength it caused his hands to shake.

Blood for blood! Screams and curses! Iron and salt!

The manic chanting caused his head to swim, his step faltering. It earned him a crimson bolt in the shoulder. The pain grounded him and he let the attack’s momentum spin him into a low crouch. A throwing dagger was plucked from his belt and loosed in the motion, gifting the mage a matching pain. Two more arrows arced towards Calivan, a zigzagging shadow rapidly approaching from behind. His angry summons sliced through the air, the force of the Fade bursting open throwing the two Crows back as a lumbering demon took the mage’s place. That… that was a problem. Lightning crackled along its body as it clawed into the physical realm. Lucanis took two steps back, assessing, trying to find the weak point, bracing for an attack. A familiar mad laugh reached his ears, his gaze stuttering over to Rook.

Her orb was streaming magic again, held aloft like a beacon as a wide grin split her lips. “Now there’s a challenge!”

She was taunting demons again. It turned on her with a starved hunger, blade lashing out. Lightning arced along her legs, the air burning with her magic and she seemed to blink around the strikes the demon aimed at her. Her cackle matched Spite’s own echoing laugh in his mind. She was weaving closer and closer to the demon before her orb seemed to snap out, snagging the demon’s blade mid strike. It flicked the weapon back into the creature’s face and it staggered backwards. Three daggers and a flurry of arrows descended in an instant, the thing screeching. The next exchange of blows it managed were weaker, scattered, and Bellara managed to bury two expertly shot arrows into its core. It died with the sound of dry wood cracking.

Victory was short as Calivan manifested where the demon had stood, a look of pure fury on his face. The shimmer of his barrier was back and as he fade stepped out of the way of more arrows, several copies of himself popped into existence. They all smiled with his sickening grin, but the gloating ended abruptly. Rook had lunged forward into the center of the clones, two magic daggers sparking. The air was rended, a loud cracking of lightning heralding the devastating tear she had used earlier. Calivan staggered, alone in the center of the room and cursing. The line of spikes he sent out with a furious growl did catch Rook before she could recover from her casting, sending her staggering over a pile of rubble.

Two more arrows thudded into the man before he could chase the downed Crow. He spun with a snarl, launching a barrage towards the archer. It was all the opening Lucanis needed. He was behind Calivan like a dark shadow, one dagger slipping easily between the ribs to puncture the heart, the other drawing a quick line across the throat. The mage sputtered, hand grasping uselessly at his neck before he crumpled. Lucanis let him slide off his blade with a heavy thud.

“The Crows send their regards.” Was all he offered, bending down to wipe the blood from his daggers on the rich robes of the Venatori.

Cold and quiet! Heavy chains, scraping metal, sharp edges! Silent and gone!

The demon's celebration felt like it was rattling his teeth. Bellara was sprinting to where Rook was struggling to sit up, the mage rubbing her legs gingerly. Her leathers were singed, but she appeared fine otherwise. She was wincing as the elf helped her to her feet. With wobbling steps, she joined Lucanis over the body.

“Well, one contract down.” A lopsided grin settled on her lips.

Lucanis nodded, his response drowned by Spite.

Smells like blood. Ashes. Not done. Not yet!

His eyes narrowed as he stared at the demon manifesting at his side, to the point where he almost missed Rook's question.

“Lucanis? Are you good?”

Careful. They know. We're not right.

“You cannot see him. I had wondered…” His voice was tinged with weary curiosity.

“Alright, vaguely ominous. But more on all that later.” She waved it away. “I'm tired of the ocean, aren't you?”

An earnest laugh rumbled in his chest. “More than you know. Lead the way.”

She seemed to beam at his response. “Oh, does your plus one have a name or… title? How do demons like to be addressed…”

A wry smile tugged at his lips as they filed out of the chamber. “It's Spite.”

Requested Tags: @weaponizedvirtue

[kaelidascope]

Midnight Menagerie Chapter 19 is LIVE

**SHAKES UH OH DOGGY BAG OF TREATS**

This aint an April Fool's joke folks. This chapter is DARK and I wish I was kidding but I'm not LOL

The second biggest chapter I have ever written for MM is LIVE!

Please please please mind the content warning on this one guys. From here on out, we're getting into the darkest segments of the story. Every negative tag will be relevant. For the sake of spoilers, I'll only label the extremely graphic scenes. ALL ABOARD THE ANGST TRAIN! CHOO CHOO

[doctorsiren]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62109874/chapters/158860204

Boom. First time I've ever actually completed a multichapter fic. I fixed Nanami Kento!! (I made him a girldad)

[pistachi0art]

The Son of the Magician 1/4

[angeart]

hhau mimic arc rambles part III bonus: the eclipse

(~2,8 k words) // other parts & au masterpost here

Every couple of years, there’s a total eclipse in this world. The moon is big, obscuring the sun in a horrible totality, entrapping it for what feels like too long. This is a big event, but not because people are eager to spectate the sky and bask in its weirdness. No, it has much worse connotations.

Because the eclipsed moon affects many of the hybrids. Especially the animal ones.

Hunters look forward to the eclipse because it promises a lot of loud, distressed, instinct-driven hybrids scattering about without many defences. They prepare traps specifically for this occasion and organise big hunting parties, eager for the upcoming bloodbath and bounty.

The eclipse happens mid-winter while Scar and Grian are on the server.

And it’s awful.

[cws violence, murder (no known characters), panic, mind-altering states and a loss of self control, haywire instincts, non-consensual manhandling, horrory vibes]

They don’t really know what is happening at first. Hermitcraft is a safe server which has many things coded differently, and because eclipses hurt many hybrids, they never happen there. So Scar and Grian have never experienced anything like this, and the yank it has on Grian’s state in particular is startingly sharp and terrifyingly confusing.

Scar himself is alright, because—and the two of them don’t know this at the time—vexes are immune to the eclipse. 

Actually, that’s not quite accurate. The eclipse helps heighten their magic.

They thrive.

Grian does anything but thrive.

His instincts go absolutely batshit haywire. He starts getting disoriented and incredibly uneasy, anxiety holding him in a choke hold, and all rationality and caution leave him, replaced by pure fear. 

He starts making inadvertent chirping sounds, panicked, and no matter what Scar says or does, Grian can’t seem to stop.

It’s so dark outside. And Grian’s chirping isn’t the only one that sounds through the forest.

In a world where they thought avians might be all nearly hunted to extinction, there are now suddenly, in this darkness, piercing faraway chirps. Just as panicked and lost-sounding as Grian’s own.

But those are not the only sounds the looming forest has to offer.

There’s also hollering and cheers. Whistles and barks. Twigs snapping under careless boots. Hunter parties following every single hybrid noise right to its source only to slice it shut. Shrill, chilling screams before some hybrid inevitably plunges into absolute, horrifying silence.

Scar’s desperately trying to get Grian to shush. He pleads him to stop, to be quiet. Tries to calm him down.

But it’s all futile. Grian has no control over himself. He can’t make it stop; it’s a wholly new kind of fear, overpowering and unfamiliar, yanking at his instincts. (It feels, a little bit, like a huge moon crashing down while the ground underneath him shakes and disintegrates.) (It feels like locking eyes with someone and not being sure if he’ll ever get to see them again.) (It feels like apocalypse. Like the end.) (His mind screams at him and he can’t help but scream along with it.)

Scar wonders if he should put a hand over Grian’s mouth. He doesn’t know what to do, but the hunters are out there, in large numbers, tireless and eager, and Grian’s voice is now the beacon luring them over, pinging with their exact location.

Grian is slowly backing away, hunched, feathers puffed. His wings are semi-curled around him, no longer tucked under the cloak, even though they’re out in the open. 

He doesn’t seem like he’d do well with being touched.

But Scar needs him to be quiet. For Grian’s sake too.

Before Scar can do anything, though, Grian’s earwings flit wildly and he whips his head to the side, honing in on some noise.

It’s a distressed chirp, one that sounds closer than any of the other ones. 

It’s an avian in distress calling for help.

Grian thought there aren’t any avians but him, and now there is one, still alive, so very close, desperate for aid, and— Grian’s mind blanks. There’s only one single thing to do here. He isn’t thinking. His heart beats wildly in overdrive. His body moves.

Blindly, Grian bolts in the direction of the sound. 

And it’s up to Scar to scramble and run after him. 

It’s more than that. More than just following Grian. Because there is so much at stake, and he needs to stop him and quiet him and— And he might have to exert force, and—

Oh. He is basically hunting Grian down here.

He is the hunter following in the steps of a terrified avian.

And Grian, in his dazed and fragmented perception of the world, feels just like prey. There is so much happening for him right now: it’s dark and all he can see is Scar’s piercing vex eyes when he glances over his shoulder; he’s lost in panicky instincts, trying to reach another avian in distress, hurtling blindly towards potential danger; and he does feel hunted.

On top of that, he can’t stop the stream of bird noises. He can’t pull his wings under his cloak either. He’s stumbling and tripping and scaping himself all over, but he feels like he needs to keep running.

He no longer knows if he’s even heading the right way. The chirping he was following fell dead silent. His head is just screaming at him. Hot white panic and a cacophony of unstoppable, overpowering instincts.

Scar has to stop him before he gets himself killed.

As awful as it is, Scar doesn’t care about that other potential avian (it could be a trap) nearly as much as he cares about Grian. His priorities here are clear, desperation thick and loud in his lungs, pressing at his ribs. There’s no time for bargaining or for steeling himself. 

He needs to act.

Scar grabs Grian and tackles him to the ground.

He’s pinning him down, sort of straddling him, hands on Grian’s mouth, hopelessly trying to muffle the noises. He feels absolutely vile, but he doesn’t know what else to do. His breaths come in little sharp huffs of blue magic, shiny through the darkness as he expels a ton of emotional energy just to keep himself from panicking and crying.

He finds that it’s not as easy to hold Grian down when he doesn’t want to be pinned down. But also it is. It is easy, far too easy—harrowingly so. Grian’s so light. (It frightens Scar to even touch the thought of how simple this would be for the hunters too.) 

He’s terrified of hurting Grian accidentally. He’s very capable of it; Grian’s made of brittle hollow bones after all, and Scar’s grip is a bit too strong, but he doesn’t have a choice here. Grian won’t stop thrashing, fighting to be freed. (But Scar knows that letting go would almost surely result in Grian’s death.)

And where Grian’s attention is kind of selective, not processing things at all, Scar’s attention is sharp—sharpened by panic—keenly attuned to their surroundings. He hears all the various noises come and go. Not necessarily chirps; other hybrids, too. Them falling silent. The hunters yelling. And the screams. God. The awful screams.

They’re all too far away for now, thankfully, but if Grian won’t stop, they’re bound to come this way. After all, if Scar can hear them, surely they can hear Grian too—?

Scar feels nauseous and horribly helpless. The hunters cheer and laugh as the hybrid noises go dead silent, one by one— only the hounds left barking and howling in their wake.

Scar knows that, even though it’s awful, they can’t help any of those hybrids. But he’s going to do everything in his power so that at least the two of them can survive this.

Despite all his (pointless) efforts, the hunters catch up to them anyway.

As they approach, Scar is struggling to quiet Grian down, and Grian isn’t thinking straight enough to properly fight. It’s the worst possible situation. 

There’s no point in quieting Grian down anymore when the hunters are right here though, and so Scar moves on the defensive, ready to give it all to keep Grian alive. The fight is ugly, drenched in frightening desperation; Scar is numb to the pain even when something tears. Grian’s chirps get worse. Warmth drips down Scar’s face.

But then a different sort of howling breaks through Scar’s mounting panic, and—

A group of wild vexes rushes in. Not to save Scar and Grian in particular; it’s just a lucky timing.

Because as it turns out, just the way hunters set off to hunt down hybrids during the eclipse, the vexes—who are more powerful at this time, magic thrumming strongly in their veins—set off to hunt down the hunters. So nicely accumulated for them. So loud. So easy to find. 

The vexes and the humans clash, and in the swell of the chaos, Scar manages to drag Grian away. 

He wants to keep going, increase the distance between them and everyone else as much as possible, but all too soon the forest opens up into fields, and no way he’s pulling a dazed Grian out there where they can’t hide. So instead he swerves, anchoring them against a rock formation—an array of boulders and a jagged cliff wall. 

He presses Grian into a small dent there, covering him with his own body (imprisoning him there, in a way). Hiding Grian’s wings, muffling his chirps, whispering frantic things that are meant to be soothing. The sky is still dark, and Grian’s still chirping, although it’s quieter now; it’s clear he’s exhausting himself, but he’s still making noises. Still unable to stop, despite the terror and the fatigue.

They get found again.

But it’s not the human hunters that find them this time. It’s the vex group, sneaking up on them, all their sharp edges drenched in blood, glowing with magic.

Scar turns his back to Grian, still pressing against him, tucking him against the rocks, hiding him as much as possible. He’s ready to lash out. He’s ready to fight with these vexes, even if he’s outnumbered. (He’s got no species loyalty here, after all.) 

In a curious tone, one of the vexes says: “That avian is going to get you killed.”

The words register to Grian through the haze. He’s still absolutely lost amidst this all, barely understanding the world around him, struggling to process anything. But there’s something about the words avian and get you killed, and the thought of Scar, that makes it through the fog.

It only serves to make him more distressed. He breathes in sharp, shallow breaths, and his chirping grows louder again, high pitched. But it’s not just the chirps this time. Some of the sounds he makes are choked, merging into something more like himself—the sound of helpless sobs.

Scar is shielding Grian with his back, but that means he’s turning his back on Grian’s cries and all of his misery. He cannot comfort him. He has no words that would make Grian not afraid right now.

The vex suggest leaving Grian or—worse—using him as a bait.

Scar’s staring them down, growling lowly, one eye squinted as blood runs down his face. “How about you leave.”

The vex don’t budge. They think they’re after a good thing here, after all. Surely, Scar also wants these hunters dead?

What they’re suggesting isn’t to sacrifice Grian as a bait—they don’t actually want to outright hurt or endanger him, even if it maybe doesn’t translate well through their stance and words. They’re not malicious in that way. What they’re suggesting is simply pragmatic in their minds. (I mean, they wouldn’t grieve if the avian happened to die there, but it wasn’t their goal to let it happen.) 

“We’re hunting the humans,” they note, as if that should’ve been enough to sway Scar. “We could use the avian—”

“No.”

One of the vex, white hair braided and smile sharp, peeks past Scar, trying to glimpse the feathers. The violet shade reflected in the glow of their magic tells him everything he needs to know, sating his curiosity, and he whistles, impressed. Amazed that an avian like this has lasted so long.

Scar lunges at him for getting too close.

He gets laughed at in return. What’s he gonna do, all alone? Not even channelling his magic to heal his own wound. It’s just funny to them. Cute. “What’re you going to do?” they tease, a bit too cheerily for the situation at hand. It rings threatening. “You’re outnumbered, pal.”

Scar doesn’t back down. “I’d take at least one of you down with me.” It’s a big statement. Covering up all of his nauseating fear and unending tension. Because he’ll do it. He’ll fight if he has to, and it will be ugly, and he might fail—he might die—but he’ll for sure give it everything he has.

And he can tell there’s camaraderie between this group of vexes. That they don’t really want any of them seriously hurt. 

They, as vexes, know the best how dangerous a feral, cornered vex with something to protect can be.

There’s a sliver of respect this earns Scar, unbeknownst to him. The will to stand up to them even when he’s outnumbered like this. To not give in to the pressure and instead fight for his values. For what he cares for.

The white haired vex—seemingly a leader of the group of sorts—reiterates, tone a bit lower, that the avian is going to get Scar killed. That he’d be better off without him. (Essentially voicing the deep rooted fear Grian already has.)

He also extends an invitation, almost in the same breath, impressed by Scar standing up to them. But it’s only Scar who is invited, and it’s blatant—the condition laid down is drop the avian or let’s use him as a bait and hunt together. 

With sharp ire and a swell of protectiveness, Scar counters that he’d be better off without them, actually.

There’s a snort and a mocking, “Aight, let’s see how long you can last.”

The relief Scar feels when they relent and leave is immense, leaving him weak in his knees.

He thinks they’re foolish, risking themselves like that. In his mind, they’re the definition of the violent vex, that dark reputation that seems to now stick to Scar and follow him too by the virtue of being the same kind of hybrid. He doesn’t want anything to do with that. 

And of course, he’d never leave Grian.

Grian is his last connection to home. He loves him, even if it never feels like it’s enough.

Excruciatingly slowly, sun eventually peeks back out. But even then, it takes Grian a very long time to untangle himself from these dazed, nonsensical instincts. It’s such a heavy, sticky veil and he’s left disoriented and confused for the longest time. Through his exhaustion, he feels weak and dizzy and out of it.

Scar is also exhausted, but they’re nowhere near safe yet. Still pressed against the rocks. Every nerve ending is flared up, Scar’s senses alert to the point of flinching at the subtlest sound, hypervigilant. But as Grian slumps and quiets down, Scar’s firm grip on him follows. 

Slowly, so slowly, Scar’s hold on Grian becomes comforting instead of restricting and terrifying.

He can tell that it left bruises.

Scar hates everything about it, but— They’re alive.

The sun is back, Grian is quiet, and they’re alive.

But they still need to find safety. And Grian’s so frazzled, still processing what even happened. The blurred memories of chirps and howls and screams swirl through his mind. He feels lightheaded, and like his skull is stuffed full, unable to think clearly. He doesn’t quite understand any of it, and his body feels locked in place. 

Grian wants to stay sitting here until everything starts making sense, but they don’t have that kind of time. They can’t stay. They need to move. They need to properly hide. 

Scar feels awful, but he needs to push through. He needs to force Grian to move.

The snow is splattered with blood. The forest is dead silent, scattered bodies left behind all across it. The area is riddled with traps, some activated and others still hidden, waiting to be triggered. 

The sun is shining.

The silence is eerie.

The scent of blood is thick and fresh and nothing feels safe.

--

Later, when Grian’s more coherent, he says, “They were right.” In an incredibly quiet, fragile, unsteady voice—but laced with determination—he tells Scar: “You should’ve taken their deal.”

Scar immediately tries to dismiss it. Preferably to not engage with this conversation at all. “Not interested.”

Grian registers the shut down of the discussion, but that doesn’t make it any less loud inside of his mind (and heart). He simply goes quiet and withdraws. Lips pursed, lightly frowning, staring somewhere away.

They don’t talk about it again.

Late at night, when Grian can’t sleep because he’s too high strung, he thinks of how it’d feel like, to be used by those vexes as a bait.

He dreams about it.

He dreams of faraway chirps and laughter and hounds finding him.

He has so many nightmares after this.

-------

BONUS screenshot for shits n giggles:

[astrobei]

take a little moment (find the right words)

“Wow,” Will breathes out, just on this edge of teasing. “You sound very confident about this.” “Well,” Mike shrugs, swallowing hard in a desperate attempt to soothe his very, very dry mouth, “I don’t know why someone wouldn’t be interested in you.” “Oh?” Will says, and it’s definitely teasing now, enough for Mike to feel himself turning warm, all down his neck and to the tips of his own – sadly unpatterned – socks. “Someone?” “Yeah.” Mike nods. Oh, god. This is fine. “In a very arbitrary sense of the word. Just– people. Someone.”

Mike is approximately ninety-eight percent sure that his feelings are requited. That last two percent, however, has really been throwing him for a loop.

for @wiseatom <3

[anastacialy]

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE - colin x penelope

[kaviary-blog]

Brutal Honesty

A/N: Takes place after the events of Horrors of the Scriptorium. I wanted to show more of their dynamic and showcase that they are truly Not Friends, and that Sebastian doesn't like her. Sebastian, Ominis, Katherine (F!MC) Warnings: Sebastian is an asshole, language, bullying, depression, Ominis is an enabler, more angst but nobody is surprised Word Count: 2.5K

--- --- ---

There they were, arguing. As per usual. 

Katherine and Sebastian stood in the Undercroft, the latter yelling at the prior. 

“Because you got in the way!” His sharp tone echoed off the stone walls of the hidden room. 

“Maybe if you actually communicated what you were doing, we wouldn’t run into as many issues.” Katherine tried to keep her head level, refusing to be dragged down to his level.

“Perhaps if you didn’t take up too much damn space”

She stopped at that, the venom in his voice dripping into her soul. He had leaned down to her level, an inch from her face as he spat out his disdain for the Ravenclaw.

Holding firm, she didn’t allow her lip to tremble or her eyes to cloud. Katherine held his dark gaze with a flat one of her own, which only seemed to fuel his anger.

“God, you’re like a fucking doll!” His knuckles were white with the effort of holding back shoving her into the wall, anything to just get some kind of rise out of her. Give him the satisfaction of seeing her suffer. He suppressed a smile at the thought of the sound her head would make as it slammed into the stone.

She didn’t miss the way he opened and closed his fists or the dangerous look in his eyes; and that made her skin crawl and throat tighten. The brunette couldn’t recall what he had been yelling at her for this time, her focus was centered on his body language; Ready to bolt if he lunged at her.

It had been like any other run of the mill outing he dragged her along for, both fully aware of the fact that Sebastain was simply using Katherine for her ability to see and sense ancient magic. It was a vain hope and mission to save Anne. She wanted to help the poor girl, she really did, but Sebastian’s thinly veiled threats made it hard for her to have any kind of pity outside of who her brother was. 

Another goblin camp blown to pieces, the occasional ‘friendly’ fire shot at her. Which, of course, he would say was an accident and she just happened to be in the line of fire. She knew all too well that he wasn’t above causing her harm, she had one too many scars to forget. Not to mention the nightmare that happened inside the scriptorium. Which meant that she spent an equal amount of time watching her back for oncoming attacks from foes and the one who was supposed to be on her side; potentially more so for her ‘partner’. 

Anytime she heard his specific pattern of footsteps she felt herself stiffen up, senses prepped and ready for a fight. She tried not to look him in the eyes, except for when he got in her face. She refused to show weakness, refused to show him the fear that coursed through her body at the mere mention of him.

But there she was, face to face with him as he spat her loyalty back in her face. Telling her that she “took up too much space” and that she was worthless to his endeavor, worthless to everyone and everything. 

She knew he held no kind regard for her, but to have him throw it directly in her face with words rather than unforgivables was a completely different ordeal. There was no roundabout way he could try to play it off as a necessity, no hidden agenda, nothing outside of the pure disdain he held for the girl he manipulated and forced into being his “friend”. 

She looked into his hate-filled eyes. Her voice came out soft spoken and matter-of-factly, “You’re mean.”

He blinked. Not the reaction he expected or hoped for.

Sebastian expected tears, yelling, expletives. Not the words of children.

She stared at him as his mind reeled, once he came back around he was fuming. Him? Mean? He was doing absolutely everything in his power to save his sister. He was a lot of things, but Sebastian Sallow was not mean. 

“Have you taken a look at yourself!?” Somewhere in his disbelief he had taken a few steps back from Katherine. “You! The one who is never not in the way! The one who has never once done something right! You’re the reason we were stuck in that godforsaken crypt for two days! I’m the one that got us out, and we would’ve gotten out a lot quicker had you not insisted that there was another way. I am the reason we’re alive. Don’t act like you’re all high and mighty.”

The composure she worked so hard to maintain cracked. She swallowed, her lip trembled, and most damned, she looked away. 

He smirked and straightened up to his full height, further proving her small and insignificant. He won.

She didn’t have to see the look in his eyes to know that he knew it too. So instead, she just shoved past him and out the gate of the Undercroft. Walking out into the hall she bumped into someone, she made out the red glow through her tear-streaked vision. A quick apology and she disappeared into the rest of the castle, not wanting to get another lecture or scolding from the Prince of Slytherin himself.

Back in the Ravenclaw dorm rooms, Katherine sat alone on the side of her bed. Sebastian’s words echoing in her head. Staring down at her hands, her nails had finally grown back and there was still subtle scarring all over her fingers. She wore gloves to hide them, but she knew that they were there. Just as she knew all of her flaws and hidden scars. And that bastard Slytherin put them on blast. 

Her breathing heaved and sped up, even in the warmth of her room the chill of his presence haunted her. The tears barreled their way out of her eyes, flooding down her neck. Gasping for air, grasping any semblance of comfort. Her skin was too tight, ”too much space”, she pulled at her hair trying to release the tension in her mind. 

She looked up across the room where the mirror stood. She stared back at herself, but it was a shell of the girl she was, the girl she wanted to be. Hair falling loose from a bun long forgotten, eyes red and puffed, red salt stains down her face and neck, her shirt was soaked with her own tears. Splotchy and unwanted. Katherine looked at herself and choked. The broken girl reflected in the mirror was a stranger to her.

A few weeks had passed, Katherine doing anything to make herself as small as possible. She kept to herself, hiding in a corner of the library where nobody ever looked. Sitting at the edge of the Ravenclaw table on the rare occasion she attended meal calls. She spoke less and didn’t answer questions in class. When not in class, the library, or her bedroom, she hid away in the Room of Requirement. She had taken care to remove all the mirrors from within its walls and removed most of the furnishings. Standing in the middle of the empty, expansive room made her feel small. How people wished she would be. She spent her time in the various vivariums, sitting in the comforting silence of the beasts she kept safe there. A book in one hand, the other threading through the fur of a mooncalf.

Her plan seemed to be working, nobody seemed to notice or care that she had retracted herself from their lives. Though it came as no surprise to her, being unwanted was a language she was fluent in; it was the only one she knew.

She avoided Sebastian and Ominis in the halls, she had long since figured out their usual habits and knew how to fly under their radar, so as to not tempt their wrath.

It wasn’t until reviewing Boggarts in Defense Against the Dark Arts that the water once again began to boil over. Professor Hecat had instructed Katherine to go first, and students began whispering upon the cupboard door opening.

Sebastian Sallow.

Tall and glowering, eyes glowing with intention, wand gripped in white knuckles. He stalked towards her, red sparks at the tip of his wand. She had learned long ago to swallow her fear in the face of him. But at this moment, there were two of him in the room; both making their way towards her. 

She steeled herself for whatever the real Sebastian was preparing for her as she cast Riddikulus on Boggart-Sebastian. Only for it not to change. It simply stopped. Brown eyes met blue as they stared at each other.

Seconds felt like lifetimes before Hecat stepped between them, interrupting and instructing the lesson to continue. Katherine made her way to the corner of the classroom, acutely aware of the eyes on her. Especially a certain Slytherin’s dark glare.

As soon as class ended, she tried to escape but was stopped by a pale hand. Boney fingers wrapped around her wrist and began to pull her away, a whispered instruction to not cause a scene. 

Ominis dragged her down the stairs and towards the Undercroft, and once realizing their destination she began to resist.

“Katherine. Don’t make a scene.” His voice was cold as ever, speaking orders as only the Prince of Slytherin could.

Though she didn’t listen. She tried to yank her arm from his grasp, but his fingers only tightened.

He sighed, “Merlin, why must you make everything so difficult.” He didn’t pose it as a question, but as an objective fact. His words, spoken in his posh, stone-cold tone, discouraged her. There was no winning this fight. A realization that was only exemplified as she heard the familiar rhythm of Sebastian’s footsteps behind her. 

“Walk.” A firm hand pushed her shoulder, causing her to stumble forward a pace, falling back into step behind the blond that retained his vice grip on her wrist. 

With a final shove from the brunet, Katherine was in the secluded “sanctuary” of the Undercroft. “What the hell?” She barked back at the two boys that had forced her into their precious hideout.

“What the hell, me? What the hell, you?!” Sebastian’s voice was angry as always, “That was some clever trick you pulled back there.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your boggart! Turning it into me? Very funny.”

“You think I did that on purpose? One can’t exactly control what it turns into, you clod!” How dense was this kid? Merlin.

“Oh, I’m pretty sure in that stuck-up little Ravenclaw head of yours you could probably figure it out.” He had taken steps towards her, backing her up further into the room.

“Or maybe you’re just that much of a dick” Her own voice was growing venomous as she tried to stand up against him. “Did you ever think of that?”

His glare deepened, his eyes growing violent. He went to take a step forward but was stopped by Ominis’ sudden grasp of his sleeve. He whipped his head back, gaze directed back to his friend’s expression of silent warning. 

She should make a run for it. She knew that she should. But… would she make it? Would they stop her? Hex her? Curse her? Her fear held her in place, the boys exchanged hushed, angry whispers that Katherine couldn’t understand. Tentative test steps away returned the attention to her. Ominis’ dead stare locked in her direction and Sebastian turned back around, fixing her with a cold stare that froze her to the floor. And just like that, whatever hushed argument the boys were having was forgotten and the small Ravenclaw was the center of attention.

“Okay, fine. Maybe you can’t control it.” His voice was flat and cold, “The ‘Big Bad Sebastian Sallow’” He took a step forward with a taunting laugh. “That’s really your biggest fear? Not Ranrok,” another step, “Not Rookwood”, even closer, “Me”. He towered over her, smirking.

Katherine swallowed. She tried to take a step back, but he grabbed her arm, holding her hostage in his stare. 

“All knowing, stuck up little Katherine Ambrose is afraid of me.” He laughed, a wicked taunting laugh. And she wanted to cry. The one thing that scared her more than him, was him finding out that he was what scared her; and what he could do with that information.

She wanted to crawl into a hole and hide. Before meeting Sebastian and becoming entrapped in his schemes and manipulation she had been so excited and full of life. And now… now she couldn’t wait to disappear. She was small and insignificant, and Sebastian made sure of it.

“... why are you so mean?” It took all of her to stop her voice from shaking.

Sebastian scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Again, with this ‘mean’ thing” He let go of his grasp on her arm, only to roughly grab her chin. “Am I really so scary?” He wasn’t asking and he wasn’t serious. He was mocking her. Smug, sweet enjoyment of her fear.

“Sebastian,” Ominis’ tired voice cut through the stiff air of the Undercroft. A sharp reminder to both that he was still present. “This truly isn’t necessary. I don’t know what you are hoping to accomplish here.”

Sebastian chuffed and growled, ignoring his friend. “I want to know why. You think I’m some terrible monster but you’re not all that great either.”

She held his gaze, lip trembling and brows stitched together. 

“You are an insufferable goody two shoes that nobody likes. You are in the way, desperate, and pathetic. And I am the only person that is willing to tell you. And I am the bad guy because I’m honest.”

“You are not honest. You are mean.” Her voice shook and she tried not to cry.

He released her chin and took a step back, looking down at her with arms crossed. 

“I might be a jerk, but I at least have redeemable qualities. I can’t think of any for you. What even is there to like about you?”

“That I am nothing like you.” 

With a painful crunch and a flurry of expletives, Katherine realized that Sebastian had punched the pillar she was standing beside. Ominis perked up from his place in the corner at the sound and swiftly started approaching. Katherine took this moment to duck out from under his arm, careful of the blood that was smeared on the stone and was dripping from his hand. 

Sebastian continued to curse as he turned on Katherine, holding his obviously broken hand with his other. But Ominis stopped him, scolding him about his temper and pulling out a handkerchief to wrap the hand.

But Katherine didn’t care, she held no pity for the Slytherin. She darted towards the exit of the Undercroft, not listening to the frustrated tones of the boys in her wake.

She charged ahead, up and out. Towards the Ravenclaw tower. She was desperate to cleanse herself, scrub her skin raw of where they had dared to lay their hands on her. And she silently thanked Merlin that he had punched the pillar and not her.

[wundrousarts]

The Wintersea Republic and the Free State: Different Age lengths?

I was going to save this until my Hollowpox reread post, but I’ve hit a snag in my eternal reread and now I don’t know when I’ll share that. This is something I noticed that I didn’t fully realize before. This is specifically about post-Massacre Ages. Pre-Massacre stuff is still currently a Wild West of unknowns.

The Wintersea Republic seems to have consistently had 10-12 year Ages since it was formed. This lines up with the amount of Ages it has had and how long it’s been around for. This consistency is also how Squall establishes the “curse.”

I had always assumed that Ages were consistent among the Realm, so that Nevermoor has also been experiencing these same Age lengths for the same amount of time. This is because at the beginning of the first book we see that their Morningtides align. This is where my theory about Wundersmith deaths or Wunder irregularities causing Eventides at the end of years comes from, because it seems likely that that’s what triggered this Eventide and likely all the ones related to the “curse”.

However, in ch2 of Hollowpox, Jupiter says the following:

“Golders Night,” Holliday echoed, and her expression grew thoughtful. She tapped a finger against her mouth. “There’s a thought… what’s it been, twelve years since the last one?” “Fourteen, I believe,” said Jupiter. “Spring of Seventeen in the Age of Poets. ”

So, 14 years ago, Nevermoor was in the midst of an Age that was at least 17 years long? Now I'm less sure what triggers Eventides/new Ages, especially in the Free State...

I find it unlikely that the Republic also experienced this same 17 year Age, as the fairly consistent Ages seems to be how Squall establishes the Eventide Curse... HOWEVER..... Morrigan turns 13 in Hollowpox... so this would have been the Age before her, and it might've actually been more like 18 (or 19? I'm bad at math) years long? Maybe Squall did something new the Age before Mog, like tried to take on an apprentice or two before her, or carry out some plan (or study?) with the other cursed children. The abnormally long Age could be balanced out by some of the earlier Ages in the lifespan of the Wintersea Republic being considerably short in comparison.

I would love to hear anyone's own thoughts on this! It's something I realized and now am trying to figure out how it fits with everything because I never really thought about it before.

[tarashima]

Sooo... guess who's secretly been playing Genshin Impact since July last year and thought up this joke about a week later but couldn't finish until recently due to work and adulting?

also yes I ship them in a "Ryouken would be absolutely livid about getting stuck in Teyvat with Kaeya so I'm gonna let him get stuck in Teyvat with Kaeya" kind of way because crossover ships will never stop being hilarious/emotional

also, small bonus because why not:

[batsmakemehappy]

hapy piza twer birth hapy take them because no reason

birthday happy