#sometimes death is not the worst fate to befall a person and that is another main theme of this game imo

[biblicalhorror]

[More datv spoilers under the cut]

"The Calling is supposed to eventually kill the Grey Wardens, so why did they retcon it so that all of these blighted wardens are just alive?"

Because they never actually died. It's been repeated several times throughout the games that the Calling eventually compels all grey wardens to disappear into the Deep Roads to be devoured by darkspawn. We learn in datv that it turns out there is an entire civilization in the Deep Roads made up of blighted Grey Wardens brainwashed by the taint who have been down there long enough to build their own replica of Weisshaupt Fortress from memory and continue to speak as if they are actively fighting in their respective wars.

Now, let's use our critical thinking skills here. Yes, the assumption has always been that grey wardens who disappear into the Deep Roads and never return simply succumbed to the blight or were torn apart by the darkspawn that live there. Does that mean that is the objective truth, or is that just the best guess of people outside of the Deep Roads who have never had the resources to confirm this theory? Is it at all possible that this is an assumption that went unchallenged for centuries, not because it's undeniably true, but because of the dangerous reputation of the Deep Roads and the nature of legend-driven dogma?

Y'all, it's not a retcon. It's a reveal and a reframing of existing lore. The Calling was never a sure-thing death sentence. The Calling is when your blighted blood warps you into a living manifestation of the blight, the thing you've set out to destroy, but with the memories of a Grey Warden that has lost touch with reality. Isseya is the main character they center in this narrative because she cared deeply for the griffons and had a duty to protect them. She was blighted herself and now lives on eternal, so she naturally begins blighting griffons as well to afford them this same immortality. Only it doesn't work that way, because unbeknownst to her, she is no longer the person she once was due to the blight twisting her mind, and she is actually slowly killing the griffons.

This reframing turns the inevitable heroic death of the Grey Wardens, the most infamous aspect of the order, into a horrifying Sisyphisean fate of eternal, unrelenting, unwinnable war. The blight doesn't even do you the favor of killing you, but instead strangles out your sense of reality until there is no "you" left to kill.

[therenlover]

Therenlover’s Official Fanfic Glossary!

Hey hey hey! This is the place where you can find all my up-to-date fanfics linked nicely, read about what projects I have upcoming, and learn what requests I’m taking at the moment! Cheers!

This post is massive so, for the sake of your dash, everything is under the cut

A NOTE ABOUT REQUESTS!

I will do my best to fulfill any requests I get while my ask box/requests are open! That being said, I cannot promise every request will get done, and that if they do, they’ll be done in a timely manner. I’m currently working on a long-form project that needs a lot of time and energy to come out consistently, so unless I’m doing a writing event most of my writing juice will be focused on that. That being said, if you want something ask! The worst I can possibly do is direct you towards someone else who might be able to write what you want if I cant.

If I choose not to do your request based on personal preference (it makes me uncomfy/I don’t write for the character at that time/I don’t feel I can write what you want/etc.) I will do my best to contact you and let you know! That being said, if you think your ask got buried/forgotten, feel free to message me again and let me know, but please tell me when you message me if I should be looking for a prior request.

Characters/Fandoms I will write for currently

 💙 = I’m Currently Super Inspired To Write For This Character

Marvel/X-Men

Bucky Barnes

Loki

Peter Maximoff 💙

Pietro Maximoff

Helmut Zemo 💙

Hank McCoy

Ralph Bohner 💙

Vision

American Horror Story

Tate Langdon

Kit Walker 💙

Kyle Spencer (Pre- and Post- Death)

Jimmy Darling 💙

James Patrick March 💙

Kai Anderson

Fallout 4

Nick Valentine

Hancock

Star Wars

Poe Dameron

Armitage Hux 💙

Kylo Ren/Ben Solo

Finn

Han Solo

Assorted/Random

Diarmuid Ua Duibhne - FGO

Cu Chulainn/Cu Alter - FGO

Warren Lipka - American Animals 💙

Enjolras - Les Miserables

Grantaire - Les Miserables

Gabriel - Supernatural

Imagines - REQUESTS CLOSED

Songs From Musicals Y/N Would Sing To The Evans

Characters: Tate Langdon, Kit Walker, Kyle Spencer, Jimmy Darling, James Patrick March, Kai Anderson, Peter Maximoff

Rating: T

How The Evans (+ Quicksilver) Would React To Yoplait’s New Gushers Yogurt

Characters: Tate Langdon, Kit Walker, Kyle Spencer, Jimmy Darling, James Patrick March, Rory Monahan, Kai Anderson, Peter Maximoff

Rating: T

Would The Danny Bunch Survive A Holiday With My Family?

Characters: Laszlo Kreizler, Alex Kerner, Niki Lauda, Andrea Marowski, Ernst Schmidt, Helmut Zemo

Rating: T

Headcanons - REQUESTS CLOSED

Modern! AU Armitage Hux Boyfriend Headcanons

Zemo With A Well Dress S/O Headcanons

Zemo Getting Jealous Headcanons

Oneshots - REQUESTS CLOSED

Marvel/X-Men

Helmut Zemo

One Last Night In Madripoor

Synopsis: Baron Helmut Zemo is a lonely, wanted man looking for some fun, you’re a piss-poor bounty hunter in search of a connection before leaving your life of crime behind, and fate has brought you together at a party the likes of which has never been seen before. You only have one night left in Madripoor, so why not take a chance?

Rating: 18+

Word Count: 4200~

Still Some Catching Up To Do

Synopsis: As a member of the criminal underworld, people walk out of your life all the time. Some are killed, others kill themselves, most get caught and only a couple get out of the life unscathed, disappearing into the world never to be seen again. Very few walk back in. So when your supposedly incarcerated ex-lover, the Winter Soldier, and the Falcon waltzed through your door and made you murder your boss, needless to say, you were surprised and more than a little bit pissed.

Rating: 16+

Word Count: 6800~

Nine Years Starved

Synopsis: It had been a little over nine years since Helmut Zemo lost his family, his country, and his sanity. Nine years since his last kiss. Nine years since he felt like a human man. Finally, he was ready to start over again, but first, he had to pay his penance back where it all began; Novi Grad. That’s when, by the grace of the fates, he met you.

Rating: G

Word Count: 7000~

Daddy Dearest

Synopsis: Not everyone gets lucky enough to go from being a broke college student in New York to being the sugar baby to literal royalty, but not everyone is you. Most people would be worried about messing things up or losing him to someone else, but you knew he would never find another baby just like you. Besides, you knew exactly what to do to keep him wrapped around your little finger. He may have been the daddy, but you pulled the reins.

Rating: 18+

Word Count: 8000~

In Fleeting Touches & Airy Sighs

Part One   Part Two   Part Three   Part Four

Synopsis: As a wanted man, Helmut Zemo spends most of his time jumping from place to place in the hopes of avoiding a trip back to prison. Unfortunately, that means he can’t always be home in your arms. When he is, though, in the rare moments of calm, you’re reminded of just how worth it it’s been to wait, even if that wait was only shortened by the arrival of your enemies.

Rating: 18+

Word Count: 35,700~

Two Bodies In The Rain

Synopsis: It was raining the day you finally had to admit your feelings to Helmut. You hated to tell him the way you did, under the grey skies as your blood pooled below you, but at least you knew, in the end, he had seen the real you, even just once. That was enough.

Rating: T

Word Count: 5600~

Rest

Synopsis: Living life on the lam with your escaped super-villain lover means things rarely slow down enough for a real rest. When the exhaustion starts to take its toll on you, though, he knows exactly what to do to ease the pain. He may not be a good man, but he’s a good husband when it counts.

Rating: T

Word Count: 3200~

American Horror Story

Jimmy Darling

Red Nights In Jupiter

Synopsis: At the end of another long day, you fall into bed with Jimmy Darling. The men you served throughout the day don’t matter then, nor do the coins in the mason jar by the door, or the women scheduled to attend Jimmy’s next Tupperware party. No, in that quiet darkness it’s just you and the man you love, bone-tired and happy to be home. Who could ask for more?

Rating: 16+

Word Count: 3000~

James Patrick March

Heartsick

Synopsis: When you fall ill, James is given a forceful awakening about how he’s been neglecting your needs and what he must do to prevent harm from befalling you again.

Rating: 16+

Word Count: 3700~

In Sickness And In Health

Synopsis: Normally people don’t have their wedding and funeral on the same day, but you and James don’t quite have a normal relationship, do you? Besides, you wouldn’t wanna go any other way.

Rating: 18+

Word Count: 5500~

Fallout 4

Currently Empty

Star Wars

Currently Empty

Assorted/Random

Currently Empty

Long Form Works/Series

Young Artist!Zemo AU

Chapter One: The Boy With The Easel

Synopsis: About a month into your first semester at Novi Grad’s top university, you finally meet the strange young man that you’ve taken to calling “easel boy” in the back of a bookshop. From a distance, he always seemed cold and aloof. As you get to know him, though, you realize things aren’t always what they seem.

Rating: T

Word Count: 7000~

Till Forever Falls Apart (A Peter Maximoff/Reader Series)

Chapter One: Welcome Home

Synopsis: As if getting thrown through the multiverse, trapped in an attic (albeit a cool one), mind-controlled to manipulate his grieving sister, and subsequently dragged out of Westview “for his own safety” by the FBI wasn’t enough, Peter Maximoff has now been shipped off to New York to live with a glorified baby sitter like some tragic orphan in a comic book until they find a way to get him back home. Things are not always as they seem, though, and this change might just be for the better.

Rating: T

Word Count: 2400~

Chapter Two: The Doctor Is In

Synopsis: Peter’s first few days in his new home are mostly uneventful, so he decides it’s the perfect time to dust off his running goggles and steal some shit. The building with the massive circular stained glass window seems like a great place to start! People with buildings that lavish are usually rich and weak, so what could possibly go wrong?

Rating: T

Word Count: 2800~

Chapter Three: It’s Always Been You

Synopsis: After a month of adapting to his new universe, Peter Maximoff can confidently say that he likes his new life more than his old one. Sure, he misses home sometimes, but he’s been far too busy flirting with his new roommate to spend time crying over the things he’s lost. Everything is smooth sailing until a strange journal in his roommate’s study leaves him with more questions than he knows what to do with. Now he’s on a mission to discover who he’s really living with before she has the chance to turn against him.

Rating: T

Word Count: 8600~

Chapter Four: Before You Go

Synopsis: Peter, after days of contemplation, has realized that part of him loves Y/N no matter what she is or what she’s been through. Unfortunately, he can’t find her anywhere. When she finally returns home with the intention of leaving again, Peter realizes it’s his last chance to tell her how he really feels. Will he succeed, or will he fail to be fast enough once again?

Rating: T

Word Count: 4000~

Chapter Four And A Half: Gimme Swayze

Synopsis: Now that the issue of Y/N leaving is out of the way, and Peter has finally kissed her, he falls into the motions of learning how to love someone for the first time. It’s easier than he thought it would be.

Rating: T

Word Count; 2600~

Cakes For The Evans: A Blogging And Baking Adventure!

Kai Anderson’s Disaster Cake

Hey you! If you’ve made it this far down the list, thanks for supporting me as an author! I’ll be linking my AO3 here. I post everything there shortly before I post it here, and there are some older fics there you might enjoy along the way! It’s also easier to drop comments over there and I keep them open for non-members, so give me a shout if you liked what I wrote!

I love you all, you make me so happy, and without you support I would never be motivated to write! Cheers!

[wolf-and-bard]

Resigned To Fate

Prompt: Memory Alteration / Gaslighting

Relationships: Guxart/Vesemir (from one of the witcher-centric cards), Lambert/Aiden (background)

Rating: M

Content Warnings: heavy angst, suicidal tendencies, grief, mild gore, self-harm allusions

Summary: In the aftermath of the betrayal of the Cat school, Vesemir has not only his own school to hold together, but also a traumatised lover to care for. In which: Vesemir is strong and Guxart is weak and they find it hard to meet in the middle.

Word Count: ~2k

@witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo​

I.

Witchers survive.

Witchers endure.

Witchers outlast.

No matter the tragedy that befalls them or how difficult the contract. When they're being persecuted and beaten, starved and denied basic human decency. There's always a way forward.

Survive. Endure. Outlast.

Those are the thoughts Vesemir clings to, each sentiment falling as a whisper from his cracked and splintered lips to puddle at his blood- and gut-soaked feet, each word accompanied by the low wheeze of his shovel penetrating dry earth.

He couldn't fight for them, has to bury them. All of them.

He doesn't cry like the pups do, they haven't yet understood.

This is no genocide. This is merely a manifestation of what has been a long time coming, a natural course of history.

Vesemir cradles that truth tight to his chest. He survives, endures, outlasts. It's his birthright, duty, privilege, honour, burden, curse, cure, calling, punishment. It's a law of nature, the first one the new recruits learn when coming to the keep.

Nothing breaks Vesemir.

II.

When the wolves all sleep, the living in bed rolls pushed together in the great hall, the dead in their forever resting places of hard-packed dirt, the new day is already sloshing over the horizon in waves of muted scarlet. Vesemir finds no beauty in that, he doesn't think he will find any beauty in and around Kaer Morhen ever again. All that was tranquil about this place has been soaked in blood and so, it seems, has the sky. He fills a pack with their sorry dinner's leftovers - stale bread, hard cheese, dried berries - foregoes the soup and the spirits. Two deerskins of water and a faded quilt blanket. It smells like cinnamon and honey, like comfort he hopes. It's not cold enough to warrant any kind of coat yet, but halfway across the courtyard, Vesemir finds himself shivering. He unpacks the blanket and wraps it around his own shoulders, then briskly walks out of the keep's enclosures, the sun a cool caress on his stained cheeks. He's never hated her more than in that moment.

III.

She follows him even into the dingy half-dark of the outpost's only bedroom. The curtains are drawn, the room lit by a single artificial torch, but Vesemir finds another echo of the red horizon in Guxart's eyes as they meet his across the few paces that separate them. Seeing him is somehow still a bit of a surprise.

Guxart doesn't look haggard and wrung-out the way Vesemir knows he himself does. In the wake of their shared misery - the imprisonment, the wait, the release to find their schools in ruin and their charges mostly dead or mutilated - Vesemir aged a century while Guxart is frozen in time, barely more than a shell of the witcher Vesemir begrudgingly fell in love with.

His salt-and-pepper hair falls in curls just below his ears and his greyed beard looks freshly groomed, obscuring the permanent tremble of his lips, pressed together to contain the creature of mourning that grows in his chest. His slitted pupils are constantly thin so that they nearly drown in the red hue of his irises. There are but two things about Guxart that have changed in their trudge through agony - in physicality that is. He is pale now - almost as pale as Vesemir, who always used to look like a wraith next to Guxart's light-brown skin - and his voice has lost all its natural thunder. A husk, yes. But not irrevocably so.

Guxart may be broken, but Vesemir is barely more than cracked and he can hold it together for the two of them.

"Ves," Guxart croaks from his perch on the bed and Vesemir doesn't pretend like this is a happy meeting. He draws the door shut behind himself and opens the curtains with a precise blast of Aard. The light that filters in is grimy still and Guxart turns his back on it. It's the only thing he can do. In an act of protection, born from love, Vesemir had to shackle Guxart's wrists and ankles, just so the other witcher wouldn't hurt himself. Last time, Vesemir was nearly too late and that is not something he will stand to experience again. It's a precarious arrangement, temporary, but Vesemir didn't know how else to help either Guxart of himself. Bringing him to the keep would have been certain death for them both.

"I brought food."

"I'm not hungry."

Vesemir puts the pack down by the window and slips out of his boots, then crawls up on the bed and drapes the quilt over both their legs. The sight of it puts his gut in a twist.

This is where he used to let go. Relax his shoulders and drop the teacher, the torturer. Just be. Guxart gave that to him and he to Guxart. Had he any imagination, he would let his head fall to the brick behind himself and close his eyes, imagine it's just another morning after a night spent tangled up in each other, relishing dawn's kiss and each other's presence.

Vesemir is exceptionally bad at self-delusion.

"Will you have water?" he asks. Guxart shakes his head, remaining in his strained position, even when Vesemir jerks his chin to the side in an invitation to sidle up to him.

Guxart, for his part, is exceptionally bad at accepting love and pain at the same time.

"I'm not thirsty."

"Fine," Vesemir replies and they look at each other. It's not a staring contest like they sometimes held across the training fields when their students were locked in combat. It's searching for some remnant of joy and coming up short.

"There's dirt under your nails," Guxart murmurs without breaking the eye contact. "You buried them."

"I did."

"Mine also?"

"They took them back to the Camp."

Vesemir can still hear the hisses of cats, wolves, and swords alike as the witchers collected the bodies of their fallen comrades to separate and honour them. Vesemir suspects that what he feels for Guxart will be the last love ever lost between the two schools.

"It's all my fault."

"Come here," Vesemir says, keeping his tone levelled, understanding. He opens his arms a fraction, a more blatant invitation.

Finally, Guxart slumps against Vesemir, a heaving dead weight. Vesemir brings his arms around Guxart and presses his face into his curls. He finds little comfort there and lots of reminders to all that he lost at the hands of Treyse and Radowit's damned mage. Guxart presses into Vesemir with all the strength his restrained body can muster. They don't fit together quite so well anymore.

"They gave me a choice," Guxart says. "They gave me a choice."

"What choice?" Vesemir asks, mouth dry. He blinks rapidly as he rubs soothing circles over Guxart's sharp shoulder blades. In a moment here, he will have to think about how to feed the other witcher against his will, a painstaking process. Why keep at it?

Because he has to.

Nothing breaks Vesemir.

"They took me away one night," Guxart continues. "When you were asleep. They took me away and told me how I was to arrange it. Their death sentence. And they gave me a choice."

"What. Choice."

"They said they would spare them. All of them, all of our beautiful pups and kittens. They said if I throttled you, they wouldn't make me act out the treaty. It's why we were put in the same cell after that first week."

No such thing happened.

Vesemir knows.

He feared for their schools during their time in Radowit's dungeons, but his mind was sharp always, awake and waiting. Even then, he knew of Guxart's tendencies to slip from reality into madness fashioned by others. A consequence of the meddled-with cat mutagens perhaps, or a personal disposition. Doesn't matter. What does is that Vesemir was awake in the cell opposite - never sharing, never touching - watching his lover pass from one fever dream into the next as they kept him drugged, whispering to him, sentiments Vesemir himself managed to deflect when the guards - or his own mind - threw them at him.

This is your fault.

You brought this upon them, mutant scum.

They will die for your sins.

Nothing. Breaks. Vesemir.

"A lie," Vesemir sighs and presses his lips to Guxart's scalp. The other witcher shudders and the worst part about this is that he knows they will have this conversation again. And again. And each time, Guxart will believe a little less.

"They were our children, Ves. They were our children and I betrayed them. Traded their life for yours. If you had been given the same choice, would you have been strong enough?"

They both know the answer to that. If it had been between Guxart and his wolves, Vesemir wouldn't have hesitated to kill his lover. But that is entirely beside the point.

"There was never such a choice and what happened is not your fault."

"But it is. My fault. I spared you. And then I went on to kill them all. Treyse, he tried to stop me once we got out, but I gave the command anyway. We could have stood together, could have flattened all Kaedwen to dust, but I was greedy. I wanted you and the reward. I wanted... I wanted..."

Nothing ever. Breaks...

"You're talking nonsense. We were only released after the massacre took place, remember? Treyse was the one to commit treason, he gave that command."

"I have to die," Guxart says numbly. He doesn't listen now and his bound hands paw at Vesemir's thighs. "I have to die. You have to kill me."

"No."

"Please, I cannot live with this pain. Knowing it was all my fault, I cannot... how can you?"

Vesemir closes his eyes. Nothing. Nothing has yet broken him.

IV.

There is no containing Guxart forever. Vesemir knows this, Guxart knows this.

He waits, tends to his lover until such a time that he feels he's coaxed Guxart away from the brink of self-destruction at least. At the end, most of what hangs between them is fatigue and resentment, indistinguishable from the scraps of nostalgic affection they yet harbour. Vesemir does not remember what it felt like to love without care. He has to let go.

"I'm sorry, Ves," Guxart says when it's time to part, a whisper over Vesemir's lips in what will likely be their last ever kiss. "I know you mean well, but I cannot believe you. I have to repent."

There is no penance for a crime uncommitted. The only forgiveness you should want for is mine once you leave me here to grief on my own. You will wander and you will weaken and you will wither. Nothing will break me like you will, the moment you fade from sight.

Vesemir bites down on these thoughts. They're silly, selfish, and he is neither.

"Take care of yourself."

Guxart nods and turns and walks away.

And Vesemir doesn't break.

V.

Decades pass.

Vesemir fixes up whatever fissures did sneak up on him, he remains whole, he moves on.

Guxart may be out there, he may not. Vesemir will never know what fate Guxart has resigned himself to and that is acceptable.

It is acceptable.

Until the day Lambert comes home, announcing that he has given and lost his heart to a young cat by name of Aiden. He howls through the night and Vesemir holds him, the way he himself needed to be held back then perhaps, and he understands that all the glue he has been applying to his own heart was a sorry fake.

Vesemir has been broken for a long, long time.

And once he accepts that, he feels the years fall off his shoulders like leaves from an old tree, preparing for another winter. Possibly its last.

[wickedgamesoyaoya]

May I request a bit of angst but fluff in the end for Atsumu? 🥺 Using quote 1, and can it be both smau and written? Cos I really like yer writing 🥰🥰

When the trio entered Club Rebel they were met with a whiff of alcohol and smoke, a scent they were now well accustomed to. As Atsumu began to scan his surroundings, an animated grin warmed up his features. The space was almost at full capacity, and the sea of unfamiliar faces had the blonde’s heartrate in a mess. He selected Club Rebel for their group outing for one reason alone – he was seeking anonymity. At least, that was the reason he proclaimed to his two friends. The artificial motive was packaged with an impressive sales pitch, and if they did not know his history with the venue, they might have bought it. Afterall, Club Rebel was perfect – he could be anyone here. More precisely, it offered him the opportunity to escape the labels and baggage that was associated with the name “Miya Atsumu”.

“First rounds on me, friends!” A breath of satisfaction was exhaled as he hooked an arm around each of his friend’s shoulders. Bokuto thrusted a fist into the air in response, celebrating the setter’s declaration while Suna mumbled an unenthusiastic “great”.

Truthfully, the only reason Suna tagged along was because he knew you would be here. Despite supplying his friends with a persuasive falsehood, they both knew that Atsumu was harbouring a secret wish. The setter was hoping to a catch a glimpse of the heart he broke. And thanks to the skillful planning of his friends, his wish would come true. 

“Since you’re paying, you can bring us the drinks too.” The middle blocker settled onto an empty L-shaped couch, sinking into the cushion contently before waving his friend away. “Bokuto you go find Aran and ‘Samu. Then when you’re both done, come back to me.” Suna did not care whether or not the pair would agree to the plan thrust upon them. Instead his attention landed onto his phone and the social media page he was responsible for monitoring for the evening.

Exasperated with his friend, Atsumu twitched, lifting his hands into the air. His fingers slowly curled into a fist as he tightened his jaw, swallowing the growls wishing to sound. “Suna, ya lazy ass! What do ya think ya are? A damn prince?” Beside him Bokuto raised an eyebrow at the middle blocker, wordlessly questioning whether the plan was in motion.

“Maybe I do.” The emotionless response was aimed at the setter, though Suna’s eyes remained fixed onto the Ace. Tilting his head, he lowered his phone to his thigh. The arrogance in his pose provided Bokuto the answer he was seeking.

“Tsum tsum, just get the drinks. I’m gonna find Aran and Myaasam.” The Ace tugged on his setter’s shirt, nudging him to take his leave.

“Yer the worst.” A final death glare was administered by the blonde to the unwavering middle blocker. Shaking off Bokuto’s grip, he turned on the outsole of his dress shoes then began towards the bar. Sometimes he did not understand what Suna’s problem was. Shaking off the thought with the roll of his eyes, he pressed himself against the bar counter, motioning the barkeep over.

“Heya, Miya. It’s been a while.” The foreign accent hit the setter with a wave nostalgia – the barkeep ‘Star’ was a friend of yours. He didn’t recognize her at first, perhaps due to the alcohol he consumed earlier. 

Star was the one who had introduced the two of you, after speaking with Atsumu she suggested that he meet a potential romantic candidate. He could still remember how the butterflies in his stomach sang upon your arrival – you were the most beautiful person he had ever met. But he soon realized it was the kindness of your soul that bathed your features in an angelic glow. God, he was an idiot for letting you go. “She’s here you know.”

The information was stated with a thick layer of disappointment, her dislike for the setter was becoming quite obvious. However, the surge of hope that entered Atsumu’s body allowed him to successfully bypass the distaste in her voice. Fate had blessed him with a miracle – that was all that mattered.

“Do ya know where she is?” The question spilled from his lips before he could gather his thoughts. He knew that she held little motivation to help him – but it was worth a shot.

Star grimaced, continuing to polish the glass within her grasp. Instead of responding verbally, she motioned to the dancefloor with her chin.  

While he was eager to see you, the smile that was sewn into the setter’s mouth could no longer be maintained when his eyes landed on you. 

A string of laughter exited past your coloured lips when Makato completed another impression of your mutual friend. Beside her, the former Karasuno Captain had his face resting in his palm, with embarrassment flushing his skin. Sugawara patted his friend’s back in a supportive manner, though he too, was failing to suppress his laughter. And for the first time in a month, your lungs had accepted the fresh air, expelling the smoke that was left behind by a past lover.

“Awe, y/n. I forgot the sound of your laugh until now. Thank you for the reminder.” Makato provided a little wiggle to her eyebrows, with a teasing edge to her comments.

“I’m sorry.” The sound of your laughter dimmed into a titter as you shook your head. “Thank you for dealing with me all this time. I know I haven’t been the easiest to deal with for the last month.” The alcohol lacing into your bloodstream had equipped you with the conviction you lacked for the last 30 days. While your heart continued to weep from an unforgettable loss, your intoxicated mind led you to believe that you could move on – and that you would.

But even alcohol could not cure the damage that would befall you if you came face to face with the devil himself. 

It took you a few minutes to spot him, and when you did, a storm brewed inside of your stomach. 

Were your eyes deceiving you?

No. It was him. Miya Atsumu in the flesh.

The tears that were once being shed inside rose to the surface, claiming your cheeks as you locked onto his gaze. Your friends exchanged worried glances seeing your sudden alternation in mood, except when they followed your stare, the source of your pain was easily spotted.

“Why the hell is he here?” Makato seethed, her fingers clenching the stem of her liquor glass.

“Let’s just leave. Come on, y/n.” Sugawara slipped an arm through yours, guiding you in the opposite direction and away from the setter.

Panic flared inside of the blonde when he saw you disappear in the crowd. A desperate glance was tossed on either side of him as he scanned the venue for a solution to this problem. It would take him far too long to block off each entrance even with the aid of his brother and friends. Then an idea struck him, sure it was ridiculous and could potentially cost him greatly, but it his was only option.

“I’m not losin’ ya again.” Mumbling the words under his breath, he broke into a sprint towards the DJ Booth.

Across the dancefloor, your friends strived to lift your spirits while Daichi was sent to fetch your coats. Makato brushed away the liquid clinging to your flesh, while Sugawara had an arm around you, his fingers soothingly caressing your arm. The gratitude you held earlier for the alcohol had quickly morphed into regret, as it amplified the emotions you were failing to conceal. What made the circumstances considerably worse was that all you desired was him.

“Where is Daichi? It shouldn’t be taking this long.” Blowing out a noisy breath, Makato surveyed the area, puckering her lips out in thought. However, rather than finding your mutual friend, her eyes fell upon a certain blonde idiot who was now standing on the DJ’s platform. “Oh no.”  

“HEY. L/N, F/N. Don’t ya dare think about leavin’!” Atsumu’s voice echoed throughout the club, drawing the attention of every attendee. The setter adjusted his posture as he squinted at the audience, searching for the person responsible for his moment of insanity. When he spotted you in the crowd, a pained expression painted his features. “Y/n.” The way he breathed out your name so softly brought you to clench the fabric draped over your chest.

This time when your eyes met, you kept the surge of tears at bay, utilizing your acting skills for the first time this evening.

“Y/N, I love ya. I love ya so damn much. I’m sorry that I didn’t fight for us.” The sincerity of his words was revealed by the small cracks in his voice. Atsumu was a confident man, but right now, the only thing keeping him from collapsing was pure adrenaline and fear. “I didn’t realize it at the time, forgive me. I should have been putting yer needs before mine. I should have appreciated ya more, everything ya did for me…” As his bottom lip wobbled, the females in the audience blew out a few “awe’s”. You, on the other hand, were engaged in a battle with your cheeks, swiping away the liquid you could no longer suppress.

“I don’t ever wanna make ya cry again. Please y/n.” He didn’t care that he was begging at this point, he would grovel at your feet if he had to. “Give me another chance will ya? I know I messed up, but let me make this right.” Sniffling, he wiped at his nose with his sleeve before throwing the microphone back at the DJ. Jumping off of the platform, his eyes remained secure on you as he slipped past the dozens of bodies keeping you away from him. When he finally reached you, a timid smile tugged at the ends of his lips.

“Will ya take me back, y/n?”

Unable to compose yourself, you threw your arms around his neck, prior to digging your face into the cotton that covered his chest. As you entered his embrace, the setter was overwhelmed with happiness. Peppering kisses to your head, an apology or declaration of love was whispered between each kiss as he clung to you, fearful that if he let go, he would be awoken from his dream like reality.

“Atsumu…” After gathering the energy required to use your voice box, you pushed away from him slightly. Your eyes were rimmed in crimson, and your mascara was now smudged below your eyelids. But you were still the most breathtaking girl he had ever laid eyes on. Humming lowly in response to his name, he pressed his forehead against yours. “Don’t be such an idiot next time.”

Your demand prompted a sheepish grin to display on the male’s features, though it was short-lived. As after you said your next words, he immediately crashed his lips against yours in a kiss.

“Next time, you don’t need to scream how much you love me on the microphone. You just need to come home.”

A/N: Omg you said tiny bit of angst and I gave you this - I’M SORRY??? hopefully the fluff at the end makes up for it!? AAAh ;-; I hope you like it!! Also I edited this 3 times and at this point if I missed any mistakes pls ignore thanK YOU

General taglist:  @haikyuufairy  @newfriendjen @chocolaterumble @lvoejimin @moonlightaangel @gyozaaaaa @byun-nies @thevillagehiddenintheinternet @graykageyama @bloody-bella @amberalisa @yourstarvic @swoonhui @chaichai-the-weeb @dreamstormings @chibishae34 @haikyuusimp91 @volleybloop  @melonmayhere @cuddlesslut @rajablast

[themattress]

OUAT AND ME: SEASON 6

Story - Season 6 returns to the single-season story arc structure, with its story being the Savior's Fate Saga. The story deals with Emma reaching the point that all Saviors eventually reach: burnout in the lead-up to their Final Battle. And Emma's Final Battle comes courtesy of the Black Fairy, the creator of the Dark Curse who wishes to extinguish all light magic.

And yes, that is the core story of this arc. The problem is that it only constitutes about 25% of it; the rest is dedicated to subplots upon subplots: all the people who were brought in from the Land of Untold Stories, the strange case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, the Evil Queen split from Regina, Regina and Zelena's sibling rivalry reigniting, Belle and Rumple's relationship growing more toxic then ever before, Aladdin the Savior of Agrabah and the Princess Jasmine who is looking for him, a new curse befalling Snow and Charming, the mystery behind how Charming's father died, a new realm being created by a genie's power which brings about the "return" of Robin Hood, a multi-realm quest undertaken by Hook, and flashbacks that have jack shit to do with anything....this season is so packed, it's insane!

If the core story was particularly strong, maybe this wouldn't matter so much. But it's not, since it relies upon yet another bullshit redefining of what it means to be "the Savior"; all of a sudden it's an ancient position that has spanned across all of time and through every realm, like a fairy tale version of the Slayer concept from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. And anything empowering about being the Savior is totally gone with this new definition, as now it's a requisite that all Saviors get worn out and die in their Final Battles, doomed to never obtain their happy endings. What a cheap, lazy, miserable way for the writers to raise tension after realizing that all of the epic, mythological stakes raised last season would be hard to top.

Not helping is that in a pretentious way of subverting expectations, they have the majority of the Final Battle...not actually be a battle. Instead, it's a ham-fisted "full-circle to Season 1" situation for Emma and Henry, while everyone else is getting to do more exciting things in the Enchanted Forest. Even the actual battle part of it ends up being underwhelming. Everything does still get wrapped up in a pretty suitable ending, but it's undermined by both the infernal status quo the show's been stuck in since 3B and an intrusive sequel hook into the ill-conceived "reboot" that is Season 7 which never should have been allowed to happen.

Tl;dr: this story arc sucks.

Characters - It's the lowest point for so many of them...

* Emma is a little better in Season 6 than she was in Season 5. She's still generally treated terribly due to the very nature of the arc and has some horrifically shitty things done to her, but she is also able to catch a break every now and then rather than the misery being an uninterrupted stream. She also marries Hook by the end and even plays a decent role in the finale showing how far she's come since Season 1. It was as good a note to go out on as she was going to get, and Jennifer Morrison made the right call to make this the end of her story.

* Snow and Charming...what is there to even say about them at this point? I guess I can say that not only have Goodwin and Dallas' performances largely flatlined and not only are they still written as more parental toward Regina than to their own goddamn daughter who Regina separated them from for 28 years, but they now have retcons applied to them that are ludicrous at best, character assassinating worse than Season 4's eggnapping subplot at worst.  No wonder that Goodwin and Dallas were all too glad to call it quits after this trash!

* Henry, despite all odds, is still one of the better characters in this season! Jared Gilmore continues to prove what a better actor he's become and bring a likability to Henry that sometimes is even enough to counteract less-than-ideal written material. Also, getting to see him more invested in Emma again after being hogged by Regina for so long is great.

* The Savior's Fate Saga is a tale of two Reginas. The Regina Mills of Storybrooke is still as insufferably written a Mary Sue as ever, but now we also have the Evil Queen, the dark side of her personality that split from her. With the exception of one episode, the Evil Queen is played excessively campy by Lana Parilla. Adam and Eddy's claims that this "purely evil" Evil Queen would be even worse than the previous one are laughable when we end up seeing what's actually on screen; the Evil Queen from the first two seasons was a legitimately frightening and formidable villain, whereas this Evil Queen is a clown. Sometimes she's an entertaining clown, while other times she's a cringe-inducing clown. But what she most certainly is not is a worthy adversary to the heroes, especially this late into the show.

And then there's the irony in her ultimate fate: rather than destroy her, Regina mixes her heart with hers so that they are both equal and both redeemed. On the one hand, this is a mind-boggling new level of Creator's Pet for Regina to reach, as you would think that the whole point of the Evil Queen is for Regina to suffer the karmic fatal punishment that she deserves for all her years of atrocities without actually having to kill Regina off. And yet in the end Adam and Eddy couldn't bring themselves to kill off any version of Regina, even after they gleefully killed off alternate versions of Snow and Charming a few episodes earlier. But on the other hand, the redeemed Evil Queen is honestly more likable than the redeemed Regina, actually apologizing to Snow for everything, temporarily sacrificing herself for the greater good of everyone in the finale, and getting to have a happily ever after with an alternate version of Robin Hood following a romance closer to what that relationship should have been from the very beginning. In the end, though, I'm just left wishing that the writers had done a far better job redeeming Regina so that this split Evil Queen wasn't necessary. Who knows, we might have had a better season if so many of it wasn't wasted on her.

* Rumple is awful in this season. Just...the absolute worst. After resolving the plotline that the Season 5 finale left him on in the premiere episode, he cuts his hair short and takes his Darkest Dark One shtick to a whole new level of unpleasant and abusive. He stalks and harasses Belle, attempts to take her baby away, makes out with the Evil Queen, and continues to casually threaten Storybrooke without any remorse or any repercussions. And once his new son Gideon and his mother the Black Fairy enter the picture, he dicks around in nonsensically written plotlines in both the past and the present, while Belle essentially takes him back yet again despite the horrific abuse he inflicted upon her. It's painful to watch, especially when Robert Carlyle has completely given up and is phoning it in like mad, with his regular delivery of lines being in a sleepy tone of voice that actually gets grating to listen to.

Much like in Season 5, Rumple improves in the last five episodes of the season, with Robert Carlyle regaining some energy as he declares war on the mother who abandoned him (if you know Carlyle's life story, you can understand exactly why this is) before learning the shocking truth that he was born as a Savior with his mother being his fated enemy, and that she was banished after she cut him off from that fate. Finally exhausted with it all - light, darkness, heroism, villainy, everything - after the emotions of this revelation hits him, Rumple lays his last cards down on the table, joining his mother's side for the Final Battle but with a magical contingency in case she betrays him (which she does). He then kills his mother, chooses to do the right thing for Belle and Gideon's sake even against the temptation of his dark side, and is rewarded for this one good deed by getting a do-over with the two of them as a family and even being accepted at the table with the other heroes. To quote Rumple back when his character was of the exact opposite quality as it is now: "Well, that was a bit of a letdown!"

Now, the "Rumple was born as a Savior" twist is out-of-nowhere nonsense, but it might have worked if Season 6 had been the final season. Not only would it had made him an effective foil for Emma, but it would also add more dramatic weight to his ultimate fate: his death. Yes, Rumple was in fact all set to die if either the show hadn't gotten renewed for another season or if it was and Robert Carlyle turned down returning for it as he actually was very close to doing, sacrificing his own heart in order to break the spell on Gideon's, conquering his dark side once and for all. A very similar scenario ends up being utilized for Season 7's finale, but it lacks the punch it would have had here, where it's the would-be Savior who, after having reached burnout, dies in his Final Battle, rather than the actual Savior who is able to survive thanks in part to his sacrifice. Of course, I still would have preferred Rumple's death after him being the sole Big Bad of a two-part series finale at the end of Season 5, but I digress. Bottom line: Rumple was a complete mess this season and it's sad how far he’s fallen.  

* Hook starts off well enough in this season, being Emma's stalwart emotional support who accepts her offer to move in with her (a pay-off that we should have had in the Season 5 finale if it only wasn't so crappy), bonding further with Belle and Henry, resolving the hanging plot thread of his younger half-brother while gaining a new father figure, and eventually making plans to propose to Emma. But then...it happens. It's revealed to both him and us that in the most contrived situation possible, Hook was the one who killed Charming's father. This derails his entire character for most of the remaining season, initially torn between telling Emma about this and covering it up before having a break with her which causes him to go mope and dope for a while before being forcibly sent off on a multi-realm misadventure by Gideon and, once he's finally gotten back to Storybrooke, has his transgression easily forgiven by Charming and his marriage proposal re-accepted by Emma, making this entire stretch of time absolutely pointless! Hook has some good moments in both the musical episode where he and Emma's wedding happen and the finale, but they aren't enough to salvage this from being his weakest showing in any season. Dark Hook was better than this!

* Belle...nope, not even gonna talk about her. Like I said before, she's done as a character.

* Zelena is this season's screwed over regular, and in comparison to Archie, Ruby, Neal, Will Scarlet and Robin Hood, she's got it easy. Her problems have less to do with her character, which is one of the better ones in the core cast at this point, but with her material. First, she and Regina have a sudden falling out because Regina...blames her for Robin's death. OK, all of that talk about how far Regina's come for not going evil over the loss of her romantic partner in the Season 5 finale isn't really worth much anymore when she's still resorting to blaming other people who aren't the actual murderer for that loss! Zelena then goes back to living at her isolated farm house, entering an alliance with the Evil Queen where she'll help her out in small ways but also not commit to fully teaming up with her as a villainess since she has a baby to take care of, plus she rightly doesn't entirely trust her alternate sister.

After the Evil Queen betrays Zelena but Regina still doesn't forgive her for what she blames her for, Zelena is absent or in minor roles for several episodes before she ends up joining the heroes' side out of altruism and the desire to become a good example for her daughter, eventually sacrificing her magic powers to aid the cause, which finally gets Regina to forgive her (probably because it's a sacrifice she's never been able to make). And that's about it.

Oh, but she does get to hit the Black Fairy with a car. That was awesome.

* The Black Fairy / Fiona is the Big Bad of the Savior's Fate Saga. Jamie Murray does a great job portraying her, being whimsically evil like you'd expect a dark fairy to be, and the Black Fairy being the person who created the Dark Curse actually makes a lot of sense when you go back and rewatch Season 3's "Going Home", a Dark Curse-heavy episode that first talks about her, or the Blue Fairy's knowing, worried expression upon Rumple's mention of a curse back in Season 1's "The Return". Unfortunately, that's all the praise I can afford her.

The core problem with Fiona as a character is a simple one: she is too derivative of previous, better Big Bads...especially Regina and Peter Pan. Like Regina, she is a powerful, larger-than-life villainess that Emma has always been destined to face as the Savior, and who ultimately casts the Dark Curse which makes herself mayor of Storybrooke, Henry's adopted mother, and a foe that Emma can only defeat if she believes in magic. And like Peter Pan, she is a parent of Rumple who also chose power over love and abandoned him, becoming the all-powerful ruler of a dark realm who occasionally went out and kidnapped children to bring there, and who is positioned as the story's Ultimate Evil who makes her last stand casting the Dark Curse in Storybrooke and being killed by her own son. This is especially bad when we already have an evil version of Regina to contend with this season and when it's following off of Hades, who was a better successor to Peter Pan's style of villainy (ruler of a dark realm that the heroes venture into to save someone) while still being unique.

She did improve somewhat in the last few episodes, where we see that she at least has sincerely loving Rumple as a differentiator from her ex-husband, has a warped belief that eliminating light magic and wiping out all realms but one is actually the right thing to do, and plays her role in the finale well. But it's too little too late for her to be considered as belonging among the great OUAT villains, let alone the Ultimate Evil that she's billed as. She needed a lot more originality and a lot more truly heinous deeds if that was ever to work.

* There are tons of new side characters in this season, usually either well-handled or not.

Well-handled side characters include the Tremaine family (particularly Lady Tremaine) who make Cinderella's life miserable in both the past and present, Captain Nemo who serves as a father figure for Hook and his half-brother Liam II, Gabriel the Woodcutter who makes an entertaining villain in an otherwise dumb flashback, Robert the father of Charming who is well-depicted in spite of how he dies, and Roderick, Gideon's brave but ill-fated friend.

Poorly-handled side characters include the Oracle who is a plot device character if there ever was one, Edmond Dantes (the Count of Montre Cristo in name only) and his lover Charlotte, Beowulf (another in name only character), Stanum the Tin Man who is pointlessly shoved into Zelena's backstory, Tiger Lily who is an exact carbon copy of Tinker Bell, and almost all of the Wish Realm characters because, as I will discuss later, the Wish Realm episodes are awful.

Then there are the in-between side characters, the ones that are handled...well-ish.

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde carry over from the Season 5 finale at the start, then are both taken out of the picture in the 4th episode. Their backstory is well written, they are both well acted, and their death contributes to the ongoing Evil Queen plotline. However, it can't help but feel disappointing - we'd only just gotten a working relationship going between Dr. Jekyll and Dr. Whale in the previous episode, and now that's rendered pointless. And Sam Witwer is such an entertaining presence as Mr. Hyde, so it's sad to see him cut down so soon.

Robin of Locksley, the Wish Realm version of Robin Hood who crosses into Storybrooke, is cool in that we get Sean Maguire back and he is allowed to play something slightly different, since this version of Robin is a selfish, sarcastic asshole instead of a noble, chivalrous hero. However, it also reinforces how badly handled Robin Hood in general has been. Much like with what I said about Regina, I would have rather him and his romance with Regina been written well from the beginning so that this "do-over version' wouldn't be necessary.

After much hyping by the network, Aladdin and Jasmine kind of suck. Aladdin has an inexplicable cockney accent that is really distracting, he's written more selfishly and immaturely than his animated counterpart, and making him a Savior in order to tie him to the main plot is stupid. Jasmine fares better, especially when she receives some development in the 15th episode that largely focuses on her, but before that she was just kind of there and didn't possess the same strength of character she was so known for in the animated film.

Jafar, the Big Bad of Once Upon a Time in Wonderland, is featured too. He is now played by Oded Fehr, and while Naveen Andrews is missed, Oded is one of the best replacements possible and does a stellar job. But while he's great whenever he's on screen, that's the problem - he isn't on screen very much at all. He also doesn't accomplish anything relevant to anyone beyond Aladdin and Jasmine in the time he has - even when he is released from his bottle in the present day, all he does is have a confrontation with Jasmine before BOOM! He gets turned into a wooden staff by magic dust thrown into his face and that's it for him. This was yet another sad waste of a great character with a great actor, but then again, Jafar returning in any medium tends to elicit diminishing results compared to his initial outings.

Finally, we have Gideon, Rumple and Belle's son and Emma's direct opponent in the Final Battle. The problem with Gideon is that the writers keep changing his character on a whim. First he's a projection of Rumple and Belle's future son from within Belle's womb, who masquerades as Morpheus in order to put Rumple through a test which he fails miserably. Then, after being kidnapped by the Black Fairy and taken to the Dark Realm, he shows up as angry, Kylo Ren-esque villain who claims that he wants to kill Emma so that he can somehow absorb her power, become the Savior and defeat the Black Fairy. But then it turns out that this was an act he was forced to play - after having been raised to be a villain by Fiona, Gideon rebelled, so she ripped his heart out and has been using it to control his actions so that he could free her from the Dark Realm for good. So he's a pure innocent, then. But then, in the Final Battle, he is rewritten by Fiona's curse into a stingy, spiteful businessman before reverting back to his innocent but controlled self...and then reverting back into a baby. Gideon, you've come full circle....and I still have no idea just who the Hell you are.  

Returning characters include Violet, Ashley / Cinderella, Dr. Whale / Victor Frankenstein, the Dragon, August Booth / Pinocchio, King George / Albert Spencer, Baelfire, Tinker Bell, Ariel, Blackbeard, Malcolm, and Isaac Heller. Some of these returns are successful (I always love to see Ariel, and Isaac receiving some closure as a character was fantastic to see), others not so much (Tink's cameo was contradictory and pointless, and there was no excuse bringing back Baelfire in a flashback - for God's sake, Dylan Schmid is as tall as Robert Carlyle now!)

Atmosphere - There really isn't much of one anymore for the majority of the season. There is nothing remotely special about Storybrooke or the Enchanted Forest at this point, new places like the Dark Realm are woefully underexplored, and there aren't any locations like Camelot, the Underworld, or the Land of Untold Stories from last season that make a big impact.

However, there is certainly atmosphere in the two-part season finale, "The Final Battle". Unfortunately, instead of being an epic atmosphere like you would expect, it's dark and miserable and claustrophobic up until the happy ending. Kind of sums up the show now!

Episode Quality - A few episodes in this season are so bad that they're downright unwatchable, and I was able to watch the worst of late Season 2. "Changelings" is all about Rumple taking his abuse of Belle to a new level all while the episode tries to use the Evil Queen and the Black Fairy as scapegoats so that you can feel bad for him. "Ill-Boding Patterns" continues the whitewashing of Rumple at the direct expense of his sons, completely butchering Beowulf in the process. "Page 23" is an exercise with boredom in both the flashback and present day stories and comes to a truly awful conclusion for Regina's character that doesn't even make sense for her. And "Awake" has the ugliest-looking, most ill-conceived flashback story ever: Snow and Charming actually woke up during the Dark Curse and then woke up Rumple so that he could take them to Emma, only to then choose to abandon her so that she can achieve her destiny as the Savior before everyone goes back to sleep (quite literally in Charming's case, how the fuck does that work!?) The only reason this exists is so that Adam and Eddy can say "See? Snow and Charming totally DID abandon their daughter!" whenever anyone says it's Regina's fault Emma grew up without parents.

Perhaps most insidiously, we have the two-part midseason finale, "Wish You Were Here" and "Tougher Than the Rest". Aladdin is turned into a genie and the Evil Queen takes advantage of a passing statement Emma made about sometimes wishing she wasn't the Savior by making a wish that Emma's desire was granted. Thus the Wish Realm, an alternate world where the Dark Curse was never cast, is created. And the insults just keep piling up from there: the depiction of Emma as a wimpy princess if she had been raised by her parents, Regina trying to prove to Emma that "none of this is real" by crushing Wish Snow and Wish Charming's hearts (I can vividly envision Adam and Eddy having an orgasm over this scene), Emma snapping out of it when Wish Henry tries to kill Regina and that's "everything Emma never wanted him to be" (a fucking hero who will bring down the monster who slaughtered his grandparents!?), Charming similarly being considered "dark" for trying to kill the Evil Queen, the explicitly stated notion that Emma owes Regina for ruining her life because that's what made her strong, the appearance of Wish August who is so much more boring than the real August, the appearance of Wish Hook as a fat old drunk, and Rumple and Belle getting back together due to what's going on with Gideon, with Belle asking "What have we done to each other?" (NO. There is ZERO moral equivalence between Belle and Rumple here.)

"The Savior", "A Bitter Draught", "Street Rats", "I'll Be Your Mirror", "Mother's Little Helper", "Where Bluebirds Fly" and "The Black Fairy" are all watchable, if not particularly good.

All the other episodes have their strong points. "The Other Shoe" is a fun breather episode the likes of which this show desperately needed more of. "Strange Case" features a great take on the story of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. "Dark Waters" has Hook and Henry at their best and introduces Captain Nemo played by the great Faran Tahir. "Heartless" is the only episode in the season where Lana Parilla plays the Evil Queen with old-school menace, with the curse she ends up placing on Snow and Charming being legitimately ingenious and diabolical. "Murder Most Foul", until its literal last minute twist, is a highly engaging story and features a (rare at this point and thus even more appreciated) explosively emotional performance from Josh Dallas in its climax. "A Wondrous Place", if you ignore the awful Storybrooke scenes, is a weird and wacky crossover between characters of various stories that reminds you why you liked this show to begin with, and features Oded Fehr's last and best performance as Jafar where he is finally able to match Naveen Andrews in raw intensity.

Then there's the musical episode, "The Song In Your Heart". This is the textbook definition of an episode that is really good and enjoyable in a bubble, but is utter nonsense when applied in context. The flashback is a total filler story about a musical curse being cast by the Blue Fairy so that its result can be used by Emma in the present, and it’s only being used by Emma in the present because the Black Fairy suddenly decides "forget casting the Dark Curse and having the Final Battle, I'll take the Savior out now!", and when she fails it's right back to casting the Dark Curse and having the Final Battle as if nothing ever happened! And Emma and Hook having their rooftop wedding where the whole town starts singing and dancing about "a Happy Beginning" despite knowing damn well that the Dark Curse's arrival is imminent is hysterical- all logic dictates this should have been saved for after the crisis is over, not before it's even begun! It's dumb as Hell, but the songs and dance moves are fun (except for the Snow and Charming vs. Regina one, that was just cringy) so it gets a pass.

Lastly, there's "The Final Battle". For all of its many, many faults, it is better than Season 5's two-part finale (and also better than Season 7's, as we'll get to in the next post), and the areas where there could have been improvement are so blatantly obvious that what could have been is easy to imagine (ex: Rumple dying, a few questionable shots from the final happy ending montage cut, and the entirety of the dumbass Season 7 lead-in framing device removed entirely). It's the closest to a decent series finale we have, even if in terms of satisfaction it pales in comparison to the likes of "A Land Without Magic", "Going Home", "There's No Place Like Home", and Once Upon a Time in Wonderland's "And They Lived..."

Overall - I need to issue a formal retraction about the statement I made in this long-ago post. Not about how Season 5 would have been better with an even stronger connection between its two arcs; I still believe that. But returning to a full-season story arc format was a terrible idea, because with Season 6 we see that Season 1 was lightning in a bottle that's never getting recaptured. Every other time Adam and Eddy are given a full-season story arc, their ADHD style of storytelling won't let them stay focused and they'll end up throwing everything but the kitchen sink into it, resulting in a disjointed, convoluted, borderline incoherent mess. This is especially bad at a point where the vast majority of their most talented scriptwriters have long since departed from the writing team. Season 6 isn't the worst season (that comes up next), but it's probably the most miserable and depressing one, especially considering the fact that it was enough to make several main cast members quit. Back in Season 3, I'd have been ecstatic if you told me that this show would be getting 3 more seasons. Now, when actually at Season 6, I was horrified when I was told that it was getting 1 more season. 

[project-rebirth]

Bio:  Akatsuki Miyuki

Name: Akatsuki Miyuki

Alias: Kamijou Miyuki

Gender: Female

Age: Around 11

Classification: Saint (Technically)

Bio

Akatsuki Miyuki, or Kamijou Miyuki, is a character who appears in Toaru Majutsu no Index: Rebirth Testament. She is the main female character of the Child of God Arc and becomes a main supporting character for the remainder of the series. She is the descendant of the Child of God and because of this, she has the power to grant wishes. However, because of this power, Miyuki has been hunted by many people who seek to use her power for their own gain.

Background

Miyuki was not originally born on Earth. She originally came from another dimension with a world very similar to earth's called Ryui. Five years before the current year, she lived a peaceful life with her parents and three older brothers in a countryside town. Her mother, Akatsuki Yume was a sage who was once a part of a cabal that worshiped children under the age of 6 as Gods. Sometime after meeting her husband, Akatsuki Kinzo, she gave birth to their daughter and fled the cult in order to live a peaceful life. As time went on, Miyuki accepted Kinzo and his three sons as her family and became very attatched to them, particularly her eldest brother, Akatsuki Shirou. Their father had told them stories about the Multi-Universe, how there were many worlds and many gods who watched over all of them. He told her about Magic and that his wish was that Miyuki would one day be able to leave their small world and explore the Multiverse and everything it has to offer, but to know that even with all of the wonders of the cosmos, she is special and to never forget that. She took those words to heart and said that she will see the stars one day, but hoped that her family would be by her side.  However, this wasn't meant to be. When she was 6 years old, the Grand Multi-Universe Empire had invaded Ryui, destroying multiple cities with orbital bombardments and razing the town that she lived in with ground troopers and droid officers.

Kinzo and Yume had decided to evacuate the planet via the ship that Kinzo had hidden. It was a ship that was able to travel to other worlds and he had already set the coordinates in the event something like this would happen. However, as they were on their way, they were found by the Grand General Esdeath and her Inquisitors. Kinzo urged his family to leave, resulting in Yume leading away their four children to the place where the ship was hidden. During the attack, Esdeath was able to mercilessly kill two of Kinzo's sons, resulting in him attacking her in a fit of rage. Yume urged Shirou to take Miyuki to the craft and leave, something that he did as Yume decided to stay behind to support her husband. As the battle went on, Esdeath eventually disarmed Kinzo and fatally wounded Yume, eventually leading to her death. Feeling as though there was nothing left to lose, he decided to use a spell that would have taken out Esdeath along with her inquisitors and himself, but this failed, as Esdeath was able to kill him before he could land a killing blow. But this was nothing more than a mere distraction in the end, as by the time Esdeath had killed Kinzo, his two surviving children had already left Ryui in a ship, which was also cloaked so it could not be detected and traced. Miyuki claims that this was the first day she had witnessed true evil, and it was because of this event that left a deep scar, though she was thankful to have her brother Shirou with her.

Some point after the Grand Empire's raid and destruction of Ryui, Shirou and Miyuki made it to Earth Prime where they spent the next five years living. Because of what happened to her homeworld, she became even more attached to her brother, who in turn swore to protect her from any harm that came to her. The two were taken in by an elderly couple, whose demeanor and mood reminded them of their late parents and peace returned to their lives for the next five years with Shirou training to become a powerful Magician, and using the teachings Kinzo passed onto him, including physical training. However, this peace was not to last. One year ago, the elderly man who acted as their grandfather passed away due to heart failure and in July of the current year (Around the same time as Index Old Testament Volume 1), the elderly woman soon passed as well, leaving the siblings to fend for themselves. Shirou however was able to care for the both of them, though the deaths of the people who adopted them hit them hard. Months later, another event would soon befall them when the Romefeller Foundation caught wind of the existence of the Akatsuki siblings and sent their men to bring them in, under the request of an unknown person. While the two were in the process of escaping, Shirou was struck and fatally wounded leaving Miyuki to panic and fear the worst. In an act of desperation, Shirou used the magic he learned from his father to transport Miyuki to Academy City, a place where he believed she would be safe and smiled before fainting. When Miyuki found herself in Academy City, she broke down, believing that everything she loved was now gone, feeling as though the Gods who watched over the Multiverse had forsaken her. Then, in a random event, she encountered a certain boy, one who was the same age as her brother Shirou.

The person who had contacted the Romefeller Foundation knew where she had been sent however, and had extended the contacts to another organization from a different world. Through the Romefeller, the Ministry of Science was contacted and told them that Akatsuki Miyuki was a person who held power to destroy the fabric of creation itself, referring to her power as the Child of God which seem to have disappeared sometime ago. Believing the Romefeller, the Ministry of Science sent their best operator, Bowen Chuuno, accompanied by the Sorceress Supreme, Rosalia Echidemont and sent them to Earth Prime, Japan, where they would head into Academy City to find her and bring her to them.

Personality & Character

Because of the tragedy she had witnessed in her life, and losing all of the people closest to her, Miyuki possessed a somewhat emotionless and detached demeanor, believing herself to be cursed with a power she did not understand. She believed that because of her nature as the Child of God, the gods themselves had forsaken and forced her to endure misfortune. Despite this, she did not hate the world or the gods and instead, blamed herself for all of the tragic events that happened to her, giving up on things like hope and giving into her own despair. This resulted in her using her power to subconsciously wish it away, believing it to be the source of all her problems. When she meets Kamijou Touma, her somber demeanor starts to change a bit, warming up to him from the kindness he showed her as he let her stay with him and Index. During her time as a member of the Kamijou Residence, she saw traits in him that reminded her a lot of Shirou, leading her to develop a familial attachment to him and saw him as an older brother figure. This was further enhanced when Touma had protected her from Bowen and Rosalia when they initially appeared, and then later when Romefeller Magician, Allan Pestage tried to capture her and kill Touma and the others. After the end of the incident, Miyuki decides to become the little sister of Touma, changing her surname to Kamijou and living with him, Index and Othinus for the foreseeable future. It is noted that when she declared this, her eyes changed from their brown color to a black, matching Touma's eye color and suggesting that her power as the Child of God may not have been completely banished.

Following her stay at the Kamijou Residence, she shows another side of her personality when she is around Touma, where she behaves like the young girl she actually is. These behaviors include wanting to be spoiled, like to wear animal onsies, and throwing a childish temper. On the otherside of this development, as Touma gets into more incidents, she becomes worried for him greatly, fearing that there may come a time where he does not come home. This results in her making reckless actions that put her own life in danger, giving an indicator that she values the life of Touma and others more than she does her own life.

Powers & Abilities

Miyuki is a person known as The Child of God, a person who is closer to being one of the Fewer Than 20 Saints in earth Prime. Because of this, Miyuki has the power to grant wishes and alter fate itself, ranging from the wishes of others to her own wishes. However, because she was not trained on how to utilize her gifts, she cannot control them properly and instead, its usage is mostly done via subconsciously. So far, she has not used her power on a large scale, but it is believed that she is capable of affecting not only Earth Prime and the Phases, but the entire Multi-Universe as well, potentially putting her on the Level of a Magic God and even the Foreign Gods. Miyuki does not seem to be aware of the potential her power has and only knows that she has a gift and nothing more.

She resented her gift to the point where she used it to make her powers disappear, something that was confirmed when Rosalia used her Cosmos Eye to determine if she was truly the Child of God. After Rosalia's analysis, it was determined that Miyuki was just a regular girl, but this may not actually be the case. At the end of the Arc, Miyuki's brown eyes turn into a darker color, signifying that her power was merely suppressed, leading her and others to believe that her powers as the Child of God were truly gone. It appears that after deciding to become the sister of Kamijou Touma, her powers reactivated themselves to grant her wish, altering her genes to be that of the Kamijou Family, thus truly becoming Touma's younger sister.

Othinus warns Touma that w should other magicians including the Anglican Church find out about her origins and status, they may come after her to suppress her. Since everyone, including herself believe that she is no longer bound by that power, this fear of her being hunted has been dispelled. Though one can never be certain if she may become a target for other parties in the future.

@tetsuwan-atom​ @lawain-dimensional-heroes​ @whitecrowns-blackthrones​ @x-ame-x-damnee-x​

[howtodrawyourdragon]

Red Snow: Chapter 2 - A Loss Too Great

Summary:  HICCUP WHUMP. HTTYD 2 AU. Stoick doesn't die. Hiccup saw him coming, saw the tragedy that was about to unfold before him and ran away. Toothless would follow. All Hiccup had to do was outlast him. Outlast him and maybe everything would be okay.

Author’s Note: And here it is! Part 2! Please enjoy! Constructive criticism is appreciated.

"HICCUP!" Stoick the Vast had bellowed his son's name many times in his life. Sometimes in anger and other times in joy, but none could measure to the sheer volume he conjured up that day.

He had finally caught up to his runaway offspring, only to bear witness to the final strike that may have taken his life.

Staggering backwards at first as fear wrapped its paralyzing embrace around his beating heart and caused his large body to feel even heavier than ever before, the Chief pushed onwards. He had never run as fast as he had done then to reach Hiccup in time.

Valka followed, but briefly hesitated behind him too. Her eyes wide and her mouth agape in disbelieve at what she had just seen happen right in front of her.

"Hiccup." She spoke. A worry so suffocating she might aswell die on the spot welled up inside, but she continued running. She had to know. She had to be there. Her son needed her and she would no longer stand by idly.

Gobber, meanwhile, had come to a full stop.

It was difficult to keep up with two perfectly able people with a simple wooden peg leg, but he had stubbornly given chase aswell. If just to make sure his apprentice would be okay.

Hiccup had survived much in his life. Even the boy's own birth hadn't gone without complications. He was a fighter when needed and a lucky one at that. The blacksmith never expected this to happen to him and then not get back up.

The young man just lied there in the cold snow, unmoving. Gobber felt every little bit of warmth from within himself be drained. He remained motionless. "Oh no." His voice broke and his devastation painted his face as he shook his head.

It couldn't be true. This couldn't have possibly happened. This had to be a dream, a nightmare. How could the Gods be cruel enough to let this battle take that boy away from them?

Gobber had to tell himself to move. Hiccup, his apprentice, his son, needed him.

"Hiccup!" Stoick was the first to reach the quiet figure lying on the frigid ground. Hiccup hadn't moved the entire time it took his father to reach him and he had crossed quite a distance. He stayed where he lied, limp on his side. The ground below him tainted with the deep red colour of blood.

Stoick let his being fall to his knees. He didn't even notice the pain as all attention was focussed on the one thing that mattered right now. His son, his poor boy.

"Hiccup." It was all he could say, his child's name. Every other word was lost to him. Nothing else would roll of his tongue. It was as if he had forgotten how to properly speak altogether.

He found himself pausing as he stared, his hands hovering over the person in front of him, but not daring to touch. He couldn't find the strength to do this to him in this state. Not with hands so large and rough. He worried he might only make it worse.

Hiccup's eyes were closed, his expression unnervingly peaceful and his skin was a ghostly pale from the blood he had lost. His freckles barely stood out anymore.

The skin that still remained intact, that is.

Once able to push past his distress, as gently as he could, Stoick softly placed his hands on his son and moved him onto his back.

Eyes widened and tears welled up, a sensation he had only made himself familiar with on a few other dire occasions in his life. One of them the supposed death of his wife, the woman sprinting towards them now.

This was different from back when the Red Death had just been defeated. Toothless had kept him mostly safe from the blazing inferno that had once been the mountainous dragon. It was so much easier to lay his hands on him then, when he wasn't so obviously torn and broken. Today, he feared a simple touch would hurt him even more.

As Stoick gazed down on Hiccup, stunned, overwhelmed, his breath momentarily coming to a halt, he noticed a terrible burn damaging part of his face. Raw, wet and blackened. That were his right cheek, his chin, his jaw, his temple, his ear. Some of his wild hair had been singed away and Stoick noticed his neck was burned aswell. All around. His freckles there were gone for good.

The chest piece he wore had been lost with the explosion aswell as the pauldrons on his right side and Stoick wasn't about to go search for their remains. The entire right side of Hiccup's torso had been badly burned aswell as some of his thigh. It was obvious which part of him had ended up takeing the brunt of the plasma blast.

But it couldn't compare to other wounds. It couldn't possibly compare to his arm.

Or lack thereof.

A strangled sob left the mountainous man at the wretched sight. Though not usually one to cry, seeing this broke him.

Once again something had been cruelly taken from his son. When all the boy really wanted was peace, that which he loved to be safe and happy, he had to lose something again. He couldn't bear to see Berk caught in another war. That was the only reason why they were here now. Why Hiccup lied here before him.

Stoick wondered if someone ruthless played with his son as if his life were some kind of game.

And yet...His fault. This was his fault. If he had just reached him in time. If he could have just stopped Hiccup from approaching Drago, stopped him from still wanting to try reasoning with the madman now that they had lost the Bewilderbeast of the Sanctuary... Stoick could only blame himself.

Vikings had lost limbs during the Dragon Scourge. Some had met the horrible fate of burning to death. Others were scarred for life and could no longer even look at the reassuring light of a campfire.

For years Stoick had prevented this fate from befalling his son. Now that the war with the dragons was finally over, that fate had mockingly taken his son anyway.

For a second time.

"Hiccup!" Stoick had continued to stare at Hiccup, at a complete loss on what to do despite years of experience, and barely even registered Valka's arrival as she sank down to the blood soaked snow aswell. Her knees becoming stained.

She, too, hesitated for a moment and felt her every inch tremble at the state her estranged son had ended up in before daring to lay a hand on the young man. She did what Stoick did not have the power or mind to do. She placed her ear on Hiccup's injured chest to listen for a heartbeat.

No matter how small. No matter how fragile. She hoped to hear a single beat.

Valka released a shaky gasp and tears sprung free as she looked up to her husband. Stoick feared the worst.

"He's alive." They were tears of relief.

"Alive?" It was the most softest, smallest voice Valka had ever heard the intimidating Chief of Berk speak in.

"He's alive!" She repeated and a sob broke through. The widest and most saddest smile present on her face. There was still a pulse to be found in their son. Though soft and shallow, he was still breathing.

Which also meant he might wake up to a world of pain soon.

"What're you two doing then?! Bind that arm!" Came Gobber's shaky voice, moving his hand to dry his eyes. Neither man or woman had noticed his presence, but both shot into action the moment he spoke.

They had to come down from the high their son's miraculous survival had given them. He wasn't in the clear yet.

Stoick ripped the green leather straps holding the fur of his armbrace in place and used it as a tourniquet while Valka held the injured limb tenderly in place. Wrapping it as tightly as he could around the remains of that right arm, Stoick managed to stop the bleeding for now. Hopefully on time. They would need to cauterize it soon.

Gobber released a breath and wiped at his face again. He found a nearby chunk of ice to sit his trembling self on.

That last corridor Hiccup had attempted to clear had been blown to smithereens. It was a miracle he was still breathing. It was extraordinairy how there was still so much of the boy left.

All three of them were rattled to their cores and there were tears in their eyes that they could not stop. Relief eased their burdens. They wanted to revel in the knowledge that their Hiccup lived. Anticipation for what's next could wait another second.

But none of their fear, or their relief, could compare to the sheer terror Toothless felt when Drago's Bewilderbeast finally let go of his mind and forced him to come face to face with what he had done.

Toothless had been confused at first, dizzy. It felt like waking up from a really long nightmare.

Simply sitting down and shutting his eyes, he collected himself and let his senses come back to him. As if all of them had been muffled and distorted for some strange reason. He did not even seem to recall that a battle was supposed to be taking place.

Toothless found himself wondering what day it was. Where he was. Where Hiccup might be. Those questions floated around in his mind and he knew no answers.

He didn't feel threatened or like he had just been fighting. Just strangely tired and calm. Like nothing was quite wrong.

Then he blinked and noticed poeple up ahead, people he knew.

Three of them surrounding a fourth one.

That lean figure he could recognize from anywhere. And to see it covered in blood, Toothless' heart stopped as it all came back to him.

Mapping the world with Hiccup, Astrid's arrival, the trappers, Hiccup's mother, Drago Bludvist, the battle, the Good Bewilderbeast's death, ...

Losing himself to Drago's will...

Red.

Vision.

Purple.

Fire.

Pleading.

Hiccup.

Hunting.

Hiccup.

Blood.

Hiccup!

The returning images brought pain to his mind, but Toothless pushed it all away in favour of concentrating on just the one person that mattered to him.

Spurred into action by his concern for his Rider, Toothless came racing as fast as he could. It took him a mere second or two. Pushing past Gobber and being allowed a look by Valka, he now remembered her name being, the always protective and loving dragon could finally assess Hiccup's state.

Everything stopped then. His heart, his breathing, his mind.

Toothless stared at the multitude of severe injuries, the torn and blackened armour, at the absence of most of one right arm, at the eerie peacefulness of his Rider.

Was he... Dead?

He stared, but it didn't quite register. His brain malfunctioned. He didn't seem to understand that this was Hiccup, although the proof was undeniable.

Valka and Gobber watched with pain in their hearts as Toothless flew into a denial and tried to wake his Viking up. Purring, crooning, he pushed his snout against Hiccup's unscathed cheek so he could get Hiccup to open the eyes he loved so much and give him that lopsided smile so typically him.

Who could do this to him? To Hiccup of all people?

Toothless knew the answer, but he didn't want it to be true.

But Denial was not wanted here.

Just short of hitting the dragon on the snout did a heavy war hammer drop between him and Hiccup. Toothless moved his gaze upwards and faced the most hateful glare he had ever witnessed in Stoick the Vast's darkened eyes.

Suddenly five years of peace meant nothing anymore and he felt like a 'devil' all over again.

But this was it.

Hiccup's father would only ever glare this way at people who hurt him.

Alvin, Ryker, Viggo, Krogan, Johan...

And now him.

Denying it was no longer possible. The truth had been made cruelly bare to him.

No one here had hurt Hiccup, except for his most loyal and trusting friend.

"Leave, Devil." Stoick whispered with a fire so toxic and out of control that Toothless shrunk in on himself.

He glanced at Hiccup.

"Leave!" The roar released by the enraged man got him to move. Valka watched him go in sympathy, with a want to comfort both man and dragon. Gobber had his eyes downcast.

Toothless was now alone.

And the full gravity of his actions came crashing down on him.

Stoick's thundering roar is what caught Astrid's attention.

She and the other Dragon Riders had been fighting a losing battle ever since the death of the Bewilderbeast of the Sanctuary.

There were hundreds upon hundreds of men hoping to capture the wild dragons of this Northern nest and for every trap destroyed there were still five more to take their place. For every trapper, there were at least a dozen more. Drago had come with an entire fleet, filled to the brim with loyal pawns, weapons and armoured dragons at his disposal.

But the warriors of Berk were just that. Warriors. No matter how hopeless the fight, they wouldn't back down until their leader told them too and even then it was usually to regroup and think of a better strategy. They were stubborn that way.

Yet at the same time their strength was waning and they had not a clue where Hiccup and Toothless were. Despite that, they had been hoping the former could come up with a last minute plan just in time. Wherever he was and whatever he was doing out there, they knew they could always count on him and his brilliance.

Not one of the nine Riders had any idea he faced Drago Bludvist alone, hoping to still end the war without any more bloodshed now that they had lost the great alpha of this nest. There was very little else they could lose now, so he believed. The risk was worth it.

The Dragon Riders never saw a mind controlled Toothless made to hunt Hiccup down and failed to notice that one last shot that had felled him away from the battlefield. So busy on keeping each other and the dragons safe, the brutal attack on their own lead Rider remained unknown to them all.

Until the moment Stoick the Vast commanded that Toothless leave his son be and Astrid heard him through the rush of the wind and the sounds of war in her ears.

Leaving Eret to work together with Stormfly, she looked over to where her chief's booming voice came from and she saw just a little dot of what she guessed were people. Far, far away.

Confused and bewildered to see those figures there, she already knew something just had to be wrong and she called to the others.

"Guys!" Grabbing their attention as they remained closeby to watch each other's backs, she directed them all over to where their elders were standing. Hotburple, Rumblehorn and Stormcutter not in sight.

There was no Night Fury to be seen either. Anywhere. Though that didn't necessarily mean a bad thing. Hiccup and Toothless could still be fighting. Somewhere.

The Dragon Riders expected something as they veered away from the battlefield to land near the small group of familiars.

A new plan, a turn of events, something, but never this.

A blacksmith struggling to keep himself composed as he sat on a chunk of ice. He had his one hand covered his face, breathing deeply. A recently reunited couple huddled together, kneeling on snow soaked in blood that wasn't theirs. And then their best friend and leader, bloodied and gravely injured, clutched to his father's chest.

"Oh no..." None of the Riders or the Dragons really registered Eret's words of doom while Astrid slid off her Nadder. Numb, her gaze stuck on a much too quiet Hiccup, she came over. The closer she got, the worse it was.

All of her strength left her the second she reached her betrothed and fell down next to him. The freezing chill of the arctic could never compare to the cold within. Her hands moved, ghosting over his cheeks as she wanted to cup them and feel his warmth, but she didn't dare.

What happened to him? There were so many burns. Way too many. Blood covered him, soaked Stoick's tunic and the ground below them. Chunks of Hiccup's armour and flightsuit were missing. There were messy cuts all over his body and she couldn't imagine the hidden bruises. His skin was simply too pale.

"Hiccup?" Her voice was soft, high, a mere whisper as she looked up to her Chief and his lost wife.

She realized they were sorrowful, but not mourning.

"He's alive. Just barely, but holding on." The woman who Hiccup had earlier introduced as his mother spoke up, spend tears drying on her cheeks. Momentarily a hand of hers hovered over Astrid's shoulder, but she withdrew it.

"Alive? Are you sure?" Fishlegs' voice was a whimper, his person a quaking mess. Of all the Riders who had approached, he was the farthest away. Afraid of the possible truth.

The woman nodded with but the smallest hint of a forced smile and Gobber looked over, but there was still no response from Stoick, who held his son to his chest as if letting go would cause him to turn to dust before their very eyes.

Ruffnut and Tuffnut had a hold of each other, a show of comfort reserved only for moments as severe as these. Snotlout's eyes were wide in disbelieve, Astrid could see him trying to understand what he saw and failing at doing so. They were wet too, though he didn't seem to notice. All of them shaken, they had a hard time figuring out why or even how this happened.

Hiccup 'impervious to any and all injuries except for the loss of one leg' Haddock. How could he be the one cradled in his father's arms, just an inch away from death? This couldn't be real.

Eret dismounting Stormfly is what drew Astrid's attention to the Dragons and she noticed that they, too, stood there as if petrified.

Hiccup was their original trainer, the first Viking to use affectionate scratches and harmless dragon nip to incapacitate them as opposed to brutal violence. If not for the kindness they loved receiving from him, the years spend by his and Toothless' sides had helped them love him as much as he did them.

None was brave enough to move closer. It almost seemed like they would rather shy away from the sight. All except Hookfang, who nudged Snotlout, but got no response.

However, Stormfly was missing.

Fingers entangled within Hiccup's matted hair, Astrid turned away further to scan the beach for her Nadder, only to find both her and the Night Fury.

Stormfly circled Toothless worriedly, chirping around the black figure who had hid himself away, his back facing them.

Why was he there instead of here with Hiccup? Other times he was hurt, the dragon barely even let him go to the bathroom on his own.

"Toothless-"

"Don't."

The young woman wanted to jump up and run over, see if Toothless was okay, but her Chief stopped her.

Finally looking up, there was a look of pure rage in his eyes that he didn't care to cover up.

"He's the reason my son is like this." The way he spoke, so cold and vengeful, send shivers down their spines.

The Riders all looked to each other and the Dragons grew restless. They weren't sure what to think. Toothless would be the last person to ever harm the Viking he adored, much like said Viking would never harm him.

This was it. Astrid wanted some clear answers.

"What do you mean? How could Toothless ever hurt-"

But her questions would have to wait as Stoick lowered his son from the protective confines of his embrace, but didn't let go. His action didn't only reveal the true extent of Hiccup's injuries, but also the horrific state of his arm.

They all gasped. Eret muttered something under his breath, the woman looked away as did Gobber and Astrid drew back.

His arm. Where was Hiccup's right arm?!

It looked like it was blown right off.

But how could Toothless possibly have done this? Was it an accident?

"But how... How- how could... Toothless." Astrid was torn between staring at the torn stump and looking away. She could hardly finish her question.

"Because that Night Fury couldn't fight off Drago's control. Because he hunted down his Rider relentlessly and-"

"Stoick, please." The fair woman tried to intervene in the Chief's accusations, but it was fruitless.

"You've seen it too, Valka, you were there! Six times that devil-"

"It's not Toothless' fault! You know that!" Her eyes were brimming with fresh tears. The state her son was in broke her heart, but so did her broken husband's words.

"Val!"

"A good dragon under the control of bad people will do bad things! It's not his fault!" Valka defended Toothless and she would do so until the very end. She did it with every little remaining energy in her being.

The Night Fury was a victim here too. His mind violated, his body taken, used as a means to kill his soulmate... They could not place the blame on him.

Astrid realized then she was crying aswell.

She looked behind her again, past the Riders who had gravitated closer to each other as they attempted to process the fact that their friend had lost another limb, past the Dragons who dealt with this in their own way, and saw Toothless and Stormfly. But unlike her future father-in-law, couldn't bring herself to hate him like he did.

There was only one monster deserving of her hate here.

And he was crying out his battlecry and swinging his hook.

The defeated warriors watched as the enemy Bewilderbeast let out a mighty roar and suddenly their dragons left them.

"Hookfang!"

"Meatlug, wait, where are you going?!"

"Barf-"

"Belch?! What're you guys doing?!"

"Stormfly!"

Their pupils mindless narrowed slits now, they were no longer in control of themselves as they took off and joined Drago's growing army of living machines of war.

They were helpless. All of them.

"Gather the dragons, gather the men. Our next target is Berk." Bludvist's cruel voice rang loud and clear across the entire frozen beach as he commanded the Trappers to retreat with their spoils.

There was amusement in his tone, glee, and he gazed down upon them from the back of a Stormcutter.

"Cloudjumper." Valka whispered in devastation.

"Leave the Night Fury here. A creature as weak and pathetic as that has no place in my army. Let it die at the hands of Stoick the Vast." It was mocking, but it explained why all the dragons except for Toothless left. After taking a total of six shots before 'killing' Berk's heir, Drago had no use for him.

The Riders, the former Trapper, the Chief, the Dragon Thief and the blacksmith all watched the army of terror leave with their fleet and their dragons. The Bewilderbeast sinking into the ocean once more. They were headed towards Berk, towards their home, and they were powerless to stop it.

Deafening silence settled upon the Sanctuary afterwards. The kind King of Dragons was dead and Hiccup might follow soon. The inhabitents of the island they had all sought to protect were gone. Their home was to be the next target.

The Dragon Riders had been defeated.

[fantazeerps]

For the first time in years, Althea opened her eyes. Stretched before her was a road that lead so far into the distance that it vanished from sight, a single path exactly wide enough for her to walk on comfortably, and off the sides was darkness.

The memories crept back almost as fast as the visions did. The pirates, the cove, the temple beneath the seas, the altar of the Bitch Queen, the betrayal. The past returned, the future followed, the visions beginning once again, crawling from the darkness at the edges of the path and filling in every empty space she saw. On reflex, her eyes shut, and through her lids she could see perfectly.

The path ahead branched in thousands of different directions. The path behind remained a single walkway--she did not need to turn to confirm this, she knew. With a single step forward, a thousand branches would either fall away or meld together to form a single, unbroken, unchanging past. Events assured, memories formed, mistakes solidified. With another step, with another thought, more fell, some changed, and some fused.

With a bit of focus, a bit of effort, a bit of strain, she could almost see which branches she actually wanted to walk down. She could see the end of this maze, see that there were no dead ends, but there were countless paths she could take to get there, and the wrong one would mean yet more time wasted, yet more impediments, more coils, more walls and twists and agonizing failures. More things becoming the unchanging past, never to be repaired. 

But there was comfort in that she has seen the end of this maze. The End, the end of every pathway, when all of time just stopped. And she was there, watching all that was come crashing down. A comfort and a curse, all the same.

That is why she did not fight back when Redchains and her crew unsheathed their blades and re-sheathed them in her and her allies. She accepted this path calmly, to the point the one with the blade for her hesitated, for just a moment, just long enough for her to see the paths that hesitation would open to her. It pained her to see her allies fall, pained her to know it could not have been prevented. One thousand branches vanished with every step as her actions cut them away, and she did not always know which ones she needed to be on to avoid the worst of the falls. She had chosen poorly, and everyone had fallen because of it.

... Or perhaps it was simply fate for all of them to die, no matter her choices or actions? Could any of it have been prevented? She could not tell; the futures had already become the past. More mistakes solidified. She could not see behind her, could not see what could have been. Only forward, for mistakes that could yet come.

Althea’s forehead wrinkled, her face scrunching up. Prescience was a pain in the fucking ass. Knowing what was coming didn’t dull the pain when it finally arrived. It didn’t dull the pain of that sword, no matter how serene she tried to act during the act.

“And you’re not helping, either.” The venom in her voice withered several more branches. Good, she wasn’t interested in traveling any paths in which she was polite. Her eyes did not open but still she glared off into the distance, past the visions, past the branches, into the darkness that surrounded them. A curled figure, plump and proud and still as the stony throne it sat on. Three luminous green eyes stared, three polished glass spheres, peering through dark and branch and mist of foresight, meeting her gaze directly even through her closed lids.

It was always there. In every dream, every vision. Sometimes, it was three birds. Three holes. Three faces. Three gems. Three stars. Always three, always arranged in the same triangle, always watching her with the same intensity she imagined a tiger would watch a grazing elk.

“I’m sure you must have enjoyed that.” Her tone sharpened as she walked forward. Towards the tangle of branches, towards her thousand paths, maintaining eye contact with the thing that had cursed her with this sight. “Was that really the best path?” It never spoke a single word to her past the day they had first met. It did not emote at all, still as a statue, its thoughts unreadable, its emotions beyond analysis. Still, yelling at it when the opportunity presented itself made her feel better. She had long grown past fearing it; its constant presence in her mind left her more annoyed nowadays, and the fact it had never once moved or acted made her doubt it ever would. If it WOULD ever act against her, she didn’t know. She could see her current point, see the maze’s end, but there was still plenty of future in the middling ground between that was hidden in the shadows. She could not see every possibility, not until she was almost tripping over it.

Something she was still practicing with. Her magic was still growing--she could feel it--and eventually she may be able to see the perfect way forward. Until then, more trips, more falls, more mistakes. She hardened her heart, as much as she could, and sought answers among the branches she could see.

“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me where I am?” No answer. She was passing the time now, more or less. “Is this a dream? Some sort of... waiting room? Am I going to see the Queen at all, or will I be back too fast for that?” No answer. Her head began to hurt as she focused forward, trying to look forward enough to know just WHAT was going to happen, but death muddied everything. Everything but those eyes, staring from beyond death.

“What’s going to happen to the rest of them?” No answer. She had heard that some arcanists would talk to stuffed animals as they worked the kinks out of a new spell, only to come to an understanding in the midst of an explanation; what she did now operated in much the same way. As she chatted, she managed to clear away some of the mist and mud and see what was to come. In just a few minutes, her life would be restored. Good. In the future, she saw everyone else, similarly restored. Better. They would be panicked and angry, but this was normal. Acceptable. The right path had been followed thus far.

More branches fell away and Althea pushed herself further, her head pounding even more, tracing through the maze as she sorted through the best paths. They return to shore. They confront Poppy. ... Gods above, so many ways that could go wrong. Red stained her vision until she could take no more, recoiling from those paths. She would try again later, when she was alive and could focus PROPERLY, to steer away from the pitfalls ahead. Steer everyone away. They had died once today, she would not let them die again. She wouldn’t let them lose anything else.

The further she looked, the more her head pounded, the more everything began to tangle together again. When she had first obtained this curse, she had seen everything at once. It had taken weeks just to push the visions back to a point where she could sort through them, and even then? Opening her eyes, for even a second, made her suffer through seeing every calamity and disaster that could ever occur befalling everything she saw.

But seeing how everything could go wrong helped her to avoid all of it. Red flashed across her vision, the pain in her chest flaring again. Most of it. With a glare, she looked up once more at the thing beyond the maze, and it stared back at her. She didn’t voice a question, but she received an answer.

A tiny movement, the first move she’d seen it make since the day she’d met it in person. A single limb shifted, placing a lengthy digit against the stone nearest to it. It scraped the finger in a horizontal line, slowly, slowly, slowly... She watched as it placed two digits above the line, close to her, before clasping them together as if it were grabbing a thread. Her headache grew worse as she watched, her breathing growing--wait, breathing? She hadn’t been breathing at all, this entire time. The pain in her chest grew more intense with every breath she took, until the combined agony of her head and heart threatened to kill her again.

The thing, still ‘holding’ whatever it had grabbed, moved its pincer back towards itself, and Althea felt herself being flung like a stone across a pond. The paths fell away, the visions faded, the world grew darker, her limbs grew heavier, her body grew more agonized as life was forced back into it.

“...ght? Are you alright? Can you hear me?”

Althea’s eyes did not open, but her mouth did as she sucked in a very, very painful breath. This was more to show the merfolk that she was alive than it was for her own benefit; she had seen what would happen if she lifted her arms or sat up right away. Pain for her, alarm for them. Speaking was worse. There were more ways for it to go wrong than right--as there always were--so she elected for the dramatic gasp.

She would sit up, in time, but for now she... found herself enjoying hearing everyone’s voices again, even though most of them were panicked. A cursory look into the near future suggested that a bit of levity would lead to the most stable path. A joke about bones. Fewer falls, fewer injuries, fewer unstable emotions.

It was easy to fall back into her role. Perhaps too easy. Looking forward as far as she could as the pains in her body settled and faded, pruning possibilities and checking alternatives. Cleaving and weaving all the branches together into one path. Getting herself back in the maze.

... Now, how to avoid the minotaur that is the conversation with Poppy...

[blackestdespondency]

Most people recognize that human lives can sometimes be of an appallingly low quality. The tendency,however, is to think that this is true of other people's lives, not one's own. When people do think their own lives are of low quality, this is typically because their lives are in fact unusually bad. However, if we look dispassionately at human life and control for our biases, we find that all human life is permeated by badness. Even in good health, much of every day is spent in discomfort. Within hours, we become thirsty and hungry. Many millions of people are chronically hungry. When we can access food and beverage and thus succeed in warding off hunger and thirst for a while, we then come to feel the discomfort of distended bladders and bowels. Sometimes, relief can be obtained relatively easily, but on other occasions, the opportunity for (dignified) relief is not as forthcoming as we would like. We also spend much of our time in thermal discomfort - feeling either too hot or too cold. Unless one naps at the first sign of weariness, one spends quite a bit of the day feeling tired. Indeed, many people wake up tired and spend the day in that state. With the exception of chronic hunger among the world's poor, these discomforts all tend to be dismissed as minor matters. While they are minor relative to the other bad things that befall people, they are not inconsequential. A blessed species that never experienced these discomforts would rightly note that if we take discomfort to be bad, then we should take the daily discomforts that humans experience more seriously that we do. Other negative states are experienced regularly even if not daily or by everybody. Itches and allergies are common. Minor illnesses like colds are suffered by almost everybody. For some people, this happens multiple times a year. For others it occurs annually or every few years. Many women of reproductive years suffer regular menstrual pains and menopausal women suffer hot flashes. Conditions such as nausea, hypoglycemia, seizures, and chronic pain are widespread. The negative features of life are not just restricted to unpleasant physical sensations. For example, we frequently encounter frustrations and irritations. We have to wait in traffic or stand in lines. We encounter inefficiency, stupidity, evil, Byzantine bureaucracies, and other obstacles that can take thousands of hours to overcome - if they can be overcome at all. Many important aspirations are unfulfilled. Millions of people seek jobs but remain unemployed. Of those who have jobs, many are dissatisfied with them, or even loathe them. Even those who enjoy their work may have professional aspirations that remain unfulfilled. Most people yearn for close and rewarding personal relationships, not least with a lifelong partner or spouse. For some, this desire is never fulfilled. For others, it temporally is, but then they find that the relationship is trying and stultifying, or their partner betrays them or becomes exploitative or abusive. Most people are unhappy in some or other way with their appeareance - they are too fat, or they are too short, or their ears are too big. People want to be, look, and feel younger, and yet they age relentlessly. They have high hopes for their children and these are often thwarted when, for example, the children prove to be a disappointment in some way or other. When those close to us suffer, we suffer at the sight of it. When they die, we are bereft. We are vulnerable to innumerable appalling fates. Although each fate does not befall every one of us, our very existence puts us at risk for these outcomes, and the cumulative risk of something horrific occurring to each one of us is simply enormous. If we included death, as I argue in the next chapter that we ought to do, then the risk is in fact a certainty. Burn victims, for example, suffer excruciating pain, not only in the moment but also for years thereafter. The wound itself is obviously painful, but the treatment intensifies and protracts the pain. One such victim describes his daily "bath" in a disinfectant that would sting intact skin but causes unspeakable pain where there is little or no skin. The bandages stick to the flesh and removing them, causes indescribable pain. Repeated surgery can be required, but even with the best treatment, the victim is left with lifelong disfigurement and the social and psychological difficulties associated with it. Consider next those who are quadriplegic or, worse still, suffer from locked-in syndrome. This is sheer mental torture. One eloquent amyotrophic lateral sclerosis sufferer describes this disease as "progressive imprisonment without parole" because of the advancing and irreversible paralysis. Dictating an essay at the point when he had become quadriplegic, and before losing the ability to speak, he describes his torments, which are most acute at night. When he is put to bed, he has to have his limbs placed in exactly the position he wants them for the night. He says that if he allows "a stray limb to be misplaced" or "fails to insist on having his midriff carefully aligned with legs and head" he will "suffer the agonies of the damned later in the night." He invites us to consider how often we shift and move during the course of a night and he says that "enforced stillness for hours on end is not only physically uncomfortable but psychologically close to intolerable. He lies on his back in a semi-upright position, attached to a breathing device and left alone with his thoughts. Unable to move, any itch must go unscratched. His condition, he says, is one of "humiliating helplessness". Cancer's reputation as a dreaded disease is well deserved. There is much suffering in dying from this disease, but at least as much in the treatments that are usually necessary to cure the patient of the malignancy. In the worst scenarios, the patient suffers from both the treatment and its failure. When symptoms have not precipitated the diagnosis, the first blow is the diagnosis itself. Arthur Frank says that on receiving the news that he had a malignancy, he felt as thought his "body had become quicksand" in which he was sinking. But that is only the beginning. For example, radiation treatment for esophageal cancer left Christopher Hitchens desperately attempting to avoid the inevitable need to swallow. Every time he did swallow, "a hellish tide of pain would flow up his throat, culminating in what felt like a mule kick in the small of his back. Ruth Rakoff, after receiving chemotherapy for breast cancer, described her "insides as raw". Treatment can result in nausea, vomiting, constipation, diarrhea, and gum and dental soreness. Food tastes bad and appetite is lost. Unsurprisingly, all this results in weight loss and fatigue. Neuropathy is another common side effect, as is hair loss. Many of the same symptoms can be experienced even in the absence of treatment of after treatment has been ended. Moreover, tumors pressing on brains, bowels, and bones can cause excruciating pain. When the pain can be controlled, it is sometimes at the expense of consciousness or at least lucidity. Cancer is an an appalling fate, but is also a common one (in those countries where people do not typically die earlier from infectious diseases). In the United States, it has been estimated that one in two men and one in three women will develop cancer, and one in four men and one in five women will die from it. It has recently been suggested that estimates of lifetime risk of developing cancer may by exaggerated by the fact that some people develop cancer more than once. However, even if we opt for the more conservative estimate of lifetime risk of first primary, we find that 40% of men and 37% of women in the United Kingdom will develop cancer. Those who do not get cancer are still at risk for hundreds of other possible causes of suffering. It is, of course, more commonly, older people who get cancer. However, although it is, all things being equal, generally worse to die when one is younger than when one is older, the physical and psychological symptoms of life with cancer and drying from cancer are no less appalling at older ages. Pain accompanies many conditions, but we should remember that much of it is not attendant upon visible conditions. It is often hidden from those not experiencing it. One sufferer from chronic pain describes it as "debilitating" and observes that it "can take over one's life, sap one's energy, and negate or neutralize joy and well being." Not all suffering is physical, although psychological ailness can certainly have bodily symptoms, William Styron, describing his depression, said that ultimately, "the body is affected and feels sapped, drained." He wrote of his "slowed-down responses, near paralysis, psychic energy throttled back close to zero." Sleep is disrupted, with the sufferer staring "up into yawning darkness, wondering and writhing at the devastation" of his mind. The sufferer from depression, we are told, is "like a walking casualty of war." In addition, there is an atrociously diverse range of harms that people suffer at the hands of other humans, including being betrayed, humiliated, shamed, denigrated, maligned, beaten, assaulted, raped, kidnapped, abducted, tortured and murdered.

David Benatar, The Human Predicament: A Candid Guide to Life’s Biggest Questions, P. 71-76

[mushroomminded]

Some Kathy Angst for Y’all

saint-j92000 submitted:

Alright, let’s try this again, from the top;

Let’s say the tragedies befalling Matt are entirely supernatural in nature. They’re far more contrived and elaborate then scenarios most kidnappers would engineer, and he really does just fall asleep in bed and wake up somewhere else. Edd, Tom, even the neighbours have all felt a growing sense of paranoia, or felt odd things from time to time, or had the occasional vivid nightmare, but Matt is receiving the full brunt of the horror initially. The entity causing this is not unlike that which causes everything in the Haunted Game AU; it is a formless, shapeless, wholly evil “thing” that preys on the vulnerable, tormenting them with their worst fears and feeding off of their utter terror, keeping them in a constant cycle of hysteria to sate its seemingly never ending greed. It has preyed on countless people already; the boys and the neighbours are only the latest targets, and no doubt more of Durdham Lane’s residents will be claimed in due time.

Almost as soon as Kathy sets foot in this universe, something feels terribly wrong. At this point, she’s still fairly new to the “trying to save failed timelines” thing, and though she’s seen some weird stuff nothing has ever felt this… rotten. Were it a more experienced Kathy, she’d see it for the doomed universe it is, but for right now, she’s unaware. However, as she senses the entity, it too senses her; she is, after all, a magical being of considerable power herself. It recognises itself as the more powerful one, in terms of raw magical aplitude, but it is smart enough to know that overestimating ones self and underestimating the enemy is a rookie mistake. So it refocuses it’s attention, for now, the boys are spared. Kathy, on the other hand…

She doesn’t realise how close it is to her until it is far, far too late. “Far, far too late” in this context being when her heart just… stops. And out in the woods with noone to administer CPR, that’s a problem. She, of course, dies. The entity, initially, is satisfied, but it quickly runs into a problem:

Kathy stands back up.

I dunno if you planned for her to be functionally immortal, but for the sake of this scenario I’m gonna run with it; she cannot permanently die, and no matter how gruesome her death she will revive. The downside; that stuff still hurts, and she does technically “die” and then “revives” rather the remaining invulnerable. The entity takes a little bit to fully figure this out,as it’s attempts on Kathy’s life grow ever more gruesome.

She drowns on air. Her head collapses into itself. Her insides violently eject themselves from within as though they were bile. She is violently dismantled limb by limb. Her body temperature increases to the point that she cooks from the inside out, not unlike meat grilling on a griddle. Every last death is absolutely agonising; she’s never known such pain, and each taste of oblivion is as terrifying as the last no matter how brief. Still, she soldiers on; partially because of her innate desire to do good, and also because… well, she doesn’t have a choice, really.

Eventually, the entity realises its attempts on her life aren’t working, and it is wasting valuable time and energy killing her over and over with very little gained from it. However, it also learns something quite vital; though powerful, though functionally immortal, Kathy is human. She has the capacity for empathy, and for emotional intelligence, but most of all, she has neurosis; things it can attack. It can almost smell them on her. And that’s when it realises Kathy isn’t a pesky distraction that needs to be dealt with. No; Kathy is the ultimate mark, and fate did it a tremendous favour by dropping it in her lap.

It immediately sets to work chipping away at her mental state. The first step is easy; though somewhat new to this, Kathy has seen failures already. She’s watched the boys and their friends fail, suffer horribly, perish entirely, all that sort of thing; it plays these failures back to her, on a constant loop. Then it changes tracks; it shows her all the failures that will happen to her, or at the very least ones that could- Space Quiznos, Haunted Game, it even twists scenarios like Reverse Monster Family so that the outcome leans towards the negative. It’s low hanging fruit, but it works. It preys heavily on Kathy’s deepest fear, after all; being unable to help innocent people, especially those she cares for, despite all her power.

The entity realises that this fear goes even deeper, too. After all, Kathy is technically human; she was not born as she is, but became this way somehow. Therefor, the life she had before was taken from her. She can’t quite remember what it was, now, but the lingering sense of something is still there. Her fate was wrenched from her grasp and decided without her consultation; it was decided by someone, or something, that she walk the earth as this incredibly powerful, unkillable dimension hopping magical helper, instead of just… Kathy.

And she can’t even help people. She’s unable to do the incredibly specific thing she was forced to do, the one single thing that has kept her going as her own personal desire to help grew alongside it being her designated role.

This shatters Kathy; she tries so hard for so long not to cave, not to let the fear or the horror or the sorrow run wild as her mind is constantly assaulted by nightmare after nightmare, but when this realisation finally hits, the dams break and she weeps, openly. She begs for the entity to stop; to show her mercy. Her need to be safe, to be sane, overrides her protective nature.

It is very sweet and highly fulfilling stuff for the entity, but it is short lived; you see, in her emotional frailty, Kathy opened her right eye. Her power’s effectively went into auto pilot, and she was pulled from the entities clutches and thrown into another dimension entirely, left alone and without companion to heal from her ordeal. It… takes a little time. It hardens her considerably; not to the point that she is unable to smile, crack wise, or even snow her soft side, but she is not as naive as she was; she knows when she can and can’t help, and if she can’t help, she gets out of dodge. She has perhaps swung too far the other way though, and sometimes leaves the boys to fates they could avert, where she not so quick to rule it out as hopeless, but you can hardly blame her for what she went through. It isn’t until she happens across the reverse monster family universe where some of that original fire burns once again- allowing her to actually succeed in saving the boys and punishing that universe’s Edd for his cruelty- and it is not until she adopts them as her sons that those hardened edges begin to soften. But those are stories for another time.

The entity, as you can imagine, is furious. A truly delectable morsel, one which was effectively self-sustainable, had slipped away from it. And unlike Kathy, it CAN’T shift dimensions; it cannot follow her. It doesn’t even really have awareness of the concept, but it knows it can’t even feel her anymore; it will never find her, no matter how hard it looks.

It is with that incensed fury that it turns its attention back onto its original marks.

[myhahnestopinion]

The Night AN OBSESSIVE, REGRESSIVE, POSSESSIVE TEENAGE GHOST Came Home: HELLO MARY LOU! PROM NIGHT II (1987)

Continuing our trek through unrequested sequels to last year’s The Night X Came Home entries, today we look at the sequel to 1980’s Prom Night, which starred Jamie Lee Curtis. Last year, I analyzed the film under the name “The Night THE UNGAINLY SPAWN OF LESLIE NIELSEN Came Home,” and concluded that it did an respectable job of encapsulating one’s Prom Night experience… in that it promised great excitement, but ended up being a bunch of awkward bumbling around and negligible teen drama. I only ever went to one Prom though, believing that one was really enough, and definitely not because of a crippling fear of asking someone to go with me… *cough cough*  So, I had no idea what to expect from a second Prom Night. Well, if Prom Night II is any indication, I really missed out! 

While the first film’s grounded approach to its slasher villain, which saw its killer show noticeable physical difficulty in his attempt to stalk down a group of teens and murder them, was an admirable creative choice (or, more likely, an example of failing upwards…), the second film completely throws all of that out of the window. Instead, we have ghost possession, wacky dream sequences, and… incest…? 

The film proudly begins with a title card - Hello Mary Lou! Prom Night Part II. …Mary Lou? Mary Lou who? Is that really the title we’re going with, guys? I mean, I know it rhymes and everything, but it’s not particularly scary, especially since I have no idea who Mary Lou is. Are we supposed to rue Mary Lou? What did Mary Lou do? Could you give me a clue, Prom Night II?

Well, it turns out, Mary Lou is an unapologetically rebellious teenager and the lead contender to be crowned Prom Queen at Hamilton High’s 1957 prom. Mary Lou is attending prom with rich kid Billy Nordham, but when Billy leaves to get punch, Mary Lou sneaks off backstage with Buddy Cooper. Billy catches them in the act, and is obviously distraught. Yes, Mary Lou likes to screw. But Billy didn’t knew!

…know… Dang it.  

Billy heads to the bathroom to deal with this betrayal, and observes two students abandoning a stink bomb in the trash, picking it up after they leave. Back in the ballroom, Mary Lou is announced as this year’s Prom Queen, taking the stage to be crowned. But, up in the rafters, Billy lights the stink bomb’s fuse, and tosses it down. “That’ll teach you, Mary Lou!” is something he, unfortunately, does not say. 

The bomb lands by Mary Lou’s feet, but, rather than going off, the fuse catches her dress on fire. Watching their classmate becoming quickly engulfed in flames, the fellow prom-goers react in the way all sensible, responsible people would, and put out the fire. Movie’s over. Roll Credits.

Hahaha! Just kidding! They do nothing! Absolutely nothing! They just stand there and watch her burn. No stop, drop, and roll.  No patting down with a jacket. No rush to activate the sprinklers, or get a bucket of water, or a hose, or maybe the punch bowl (…actually, considering someone probably spiked the punch at this high school prom, maybe not.)

There’s even a shot of Buddy collapsed on the steps to the stage, pounding the ground in frustration. If only there was something that could be done! If only there was some way to put out a fire!! But, alas, fires are indestructible, as everyone knows, and so Buddy continues to pound the ground and cry. What a tragedy. And so, Mary Lou burns to death, staring menacingly at Billy on the rafters.

We cut, and it’s now 30 years later (not that the film provides an intertitle to inform us of this fact, because basic, age-old storytelling techniques are hard sometimes.) Vicki Carpenter is a well-behaved teenager, and one of five contenders for Queen at this year’s high school Prom. Vicki is very excited to go with her boyfriend, Craig, who bequeaths her with a cross necklace, the kind of gift that no romantic partners would ever get for one another were they not anticipating ghostly possessions later in the plot.

You know what would have been a better gift, Craig? A prom dress! Because now Vikki has no prom dress. Unable to acquire a dress, Vikki decides to venture into the basement of Hamilton High, open up a locked chest, and borrow Mary Lou’s prom dress from the 50s, releasing her spirit in the process. But, noooo, Craig! You had to go with the cross necklace! Although, to be fair, prom dresses are a scam. I’d probably risk ghostly possession over having to pay $300 for a dress you wear once…

With the ghost of Mary Lou now unleashed, Vikki begins to experience hallucinations around school, clearly designed to capitalize on the contemporary success of A Nightmare on Elm Street. Hallucinations include a gym volleyball net being transformed into a giant spider’s web, hallucinating that one of her fellow classmates transformed into Mary Lou, and the cafeteria being infested by maggots and other bugs. 

…Actually, not sure that last one was a hallucination. Might have just been a regular high school cafeteria.

 There is a lot of great 80s charm in these hallucination sequences, and I mean, hey, can’t really fault Hello Mary Lou! for wanting to steal from the best slasher ever, as opposed to… whatever its first film was. 

This rip-off approach also allows the film to present one of the most terrifying things I’ve ever seen in a horror film. Not even joking, guys. Hello Mary Lou! Prom Night II terrified me to my core. Deep in the corner of Vikki’s bedroom sits a white plastic rocking horse… a rocking horse that looks eerily like one that I used to have as a child. As Vikki sleeps, the eyes of the rocking horse roll over to gaze at her, and an organic looking tongue slithers around in its mouth. It rocks back and forth, not breaking its gaze! 

Oh god, go back to the dopey masked killer from Prom Night 1, please! I was wrong, I don’t want this Prom Night II! Go Back! AAHHH! F–k you, Mary Lou!!

The rocking horse was horrifying enough, but Prom Night Part II soon unleashes the truly most terrifying aspect of Mary Lou’s haunting. In her bedroom, Vikki looks into the mirror, enters a trance-like state, and…. puts… on… lipstick! The horror! Can you imagine?! Vikki suddenly snaps out of this trance, and wipes the lipstick off, but it is too late! She is slowly succumbing to the worst fate that can befall a woman, one that is almost too horrible for words. Being… in…. charge… of…. her sexuality! Quickly, she must be stopped before she gains any more autonomy!

Terrified with her recent uncontrollable rebellious behavior, Vikki goes to visit her local priest, none other than a grown up Buddy Cooper, Mary Lou’s beau from the opening scene. In the confession booth, Vikki relays the story of all her recent hallucinations to Buddy. Huh,  I didn’t realize that Prom Queen ghost hallucinations were a sin that needed confessing. Catholic guilt is way more intense than I thought. 

After Laura mentions Mary Lou Maloney, Buddy gets distressed. He later visits Mary Lou’s grave, only to have his Bible burst into flames. Fearing that Mary Lou has returned, he goes to visit adult Billy, now the principal of Hamilton High and played by one of those actors that you don’t understand why they’re in so much trash when they have actual talent, Michael Ironside. 

“If a person dies violently, they’ll wander purgatory, waiting to return!” Buddy expositions. “She’ll possess you if you don’t take Communion!” Aw man, not only are having hallucinations a sin, but there’s this too! Catholicism is just way too complicated for me! I mean, hey, I knew there were disagreements on Communion about transubstantiation and all that, but this whole “preventing Prom Queen ghost possession” seems to be a pretty pertinent issue as well.

Not that it matters anyway, since Mary Lou seemingly has no intention of possessing these characters that randomly popped back into the plot anyway. Vikki is now in detention after slapping that fellow student she hallucinated to be Mary Lou, because someone in this administration actually cares, despite the fact that the man who burned a Prom Queen to death 30 years ago gets to run the place. In detention, Vikki gets sucked into a blackboard, and winds up in the basement again. She has now been fully possessed by the spirit of Mary Lou, as signified by the fact that she is now naked, because, remember, female sexuality = evil. 

The sexual politics of this film truly are fascinating. The now possessed Vikki actually bucks typical movie stereotypes, dressing even more conservatively, as Mary Lou resorts back to her 50s clothing. Nevertheless, sex is still the primary weapon of Mary Lou. 

In the locker room, fellow Prom Queen contender Monica confronts Vikki over this new, bizarre change of personality, noticing an unmistakable sign that something is not right. “Who says ‘swell’ anymore?” she questions.  I don’t know, Monica, “swell” is still a fairly common word. Haven’t you ever heard of the saying “All swell that end swell?” Well, maybe not, because all does not end swell for Monica.

After Monica steps into the shower, the possessed Vikki steps in as well, and leans over to kiss her. Well, hey, high school is a good time to experiment, I suppose. You never know if you might be sexually attracted to people possessed by ghosts from the 50s! Monica pushes Vikki back, runs away terrified, and hides in a locker. Considering that Vikki has made no attempts to murder her yet, Monica’s extreme reaction seems entirely caused by the threat to her sexuality. In the most memorable kill of the movie, Vikki walks up to the locker, and telekinetically crushes them, causing Monica’s blood to ooze out of the vents. It’s a neat practical effect. That’ll do, Mary Lou!

After getting revenge on Buddy by killing him with a crucifix, Vikki reveals to Billy that she is secretly Mary Lou, back for revenge, after seductively sitting on his lap. Billy makes no real effort to stop this underage student from grinding on his lap, further proving that this man should not be running this administration. 

Then, it’s time once again for Prom Night! Wearing the stolen Prom dress that started this whole thing, possessed Vikki sits in her bedroom... on the rocking horse… stroking its face as its organic tongue once again flails around. Turns out this rocking horse isn’t the most disturbing thing that this film has to offer though! Vikki’s dad enters, and regales her with the tale of his first Prom Night, telling her that this is a night she will remember forever. “I hope so,” Vikki says, as she walks up, and starts kissing him. Kissing her father. I told you, Mary Lou just loves to screw, and doesn’t care who!

Now, you might be saying, well, it’s Mary Lou controlling her body, so it’s not like Vikki is willingly attempting incest. And, you’re right. She’s not… but he is. Yes, as his daughter walks up to him and begins to kiss him, her father kisses her back, and the two make-out for a minute, until the mom enters the room and Vikki walks away. This is never addressed again.

As the film continues to build towards Prom Night, there’s a subplot where Kelly, another one of the Prom Queen nominees, gives a nerdy kid a blowjob so that he’ll rig the competition in her favor, but both are electrocuted by Mary Lou through a computer. I would elaborate more on this subplot, but, well, it just wasn’t very good. In fact, it blew, Mary Lou!

And, so, at the Prom, Vikki is crowned queen. Pretty much none of the other contenders are even alive any more, but no one at this school seems to really care about that. As she takes the stage to receive her crown, Billy once again takes to the rafters, his perfect vantage point for murdering Prom Queens which the school apparently did not consider worth removing in the in-between years. This time, Billy is armed not with a stink bomb, but with a pistol, because, again, this guy really should not be running a school. 

There is a kind of morbid humor in the extremity of the whole thing, as Prom Night II follows up its incest with a principal shooting the Prom Queen in cold blood, right in the view of her boyfriend who is still unaware of the possession. You know, everyone is this movie is going to have a lot of explaining to do once this whole possession thing wraps up....

As Craig holds Vikki’s body in his arms, her flesh rips open, revealing the true Mary Lou underneath, who proceeds to wreck telekinetic havoc on the Prom. It’s like Carrie… but not like that at all. 

Mary Lou chases Craig to the basement, and is about to kill him, when Billy appears again, and crowns her Prom Queen, causing her to disappear. Huh, so if that’s all it took, maybe you should have just let that whole crowning ceremony go forward as planned then, instead of shooting one of your students, huh, Billy?  

Anyway, with Mary Lou gone, Craig hears Vikki call out from that old chest in the basement. Craig knows that it is the true Vikki, because she holds that now-plot-convenient-but-still-horribly unromantic cross necklace. Craig and Vikki walk outside, find Billy, and get into a car to drive away. 

In the car, Billy turns on the radio. It plays “Hello, Mary Lou” by Ricky Nelson. Billy turns around, his eyes shining as if possessed, indicating he never did get around to taking that Communion! Billy drives away laughing, his license plate reading “MARY LU-2,” a custom job that presumably was just serendipitous, considering I don’t know when Mary Lou found the time to go to the DMV during all this.

And so, another year, another Prom Night. What Hello Mary Lou! lacks in not having the presence of Jamie Lee Curtis or Leslie Nielsen from the first one, it makes up for in sheer absurdity, drastically shifting the tone and style of the series within just one sequel. But, hey, it wouldn’t be high school without an identity crisis, I suppose. Like most horror films, its final scare allows it to escape having to deal with the ramifications of many of its events, meaning we never find out what happens to the Carpenter family now that it’s been revealed the dad really wants to screw his daughter. We also never get to find out what happens to that rocking horse…. meaning it could still be out there! Maybe even right behind you as you read this!! OH MY GOD!!  

Yeah, the incest is probably more disturbing. And so, Hello Mary Lou!, I bid you adieu.

Hello Mary Lou! Prom Night II is available to stream on Amazon Prime, and is on DVD.

NEXT: The Night POORLY-CONCEALED, PROBLEM-PUSHING MISNOMERS Came Home…

[ruleandruinrpg]

FELIKS BAZIN

TWENTY-FOUR ❈ HUMAN ROYAL GUARD

Feliks was a child weaned on tales of morality and the threat of damnation, of the eternal struggle between good and evil and the vices of hedonism and the goodness of moderation. Many folk in the village were as severe and hell-fearing as his family, framed portraits of Ravkan Saints delicately hung above door frames and crisply made beds and stove tops sizzling with herring and quail. Be good, don’t hurt, don’t steal, don’t envy. Live as if to strive to achieve sainthood yourself. It was all Feliks heard, all he ever knew growing up, and for a time it was all he could be - reverential and reserved, conservative and well-mannered, the joy of the village and ignorant to what more there was he could be. But the purest creatures were notorious for being the easiest to taint, the most beautiful angels fell the hardest and farthest, and sometimes all it takes is a glimpse of a fallen comrade, the shock of death.

He enlisted into the First Army because it’s what children in his village did; saintly children either stayed to help their family or served Ravka’s king, and Feliks had grown tired of  plowing the same fields and repeating the same prayers and never living courageously enough to make mistakes. To fight among brothers and sisters to defeat the Fold, to free Ravka and open a path to the True Sea was not a saint’s story, or perhaps at least not the kind of saints his family revered, but it was a hero’s story, and he wanted it to make it his. He flourished and blossomed in the First Army, built bonds based on kinship and camaraderie and not on obligation for once in his life, praying to his bullets and his aim and not to his saints for the first time in his life. He tried his first glass of kvas in the army, kissed and fucked for the first time in the army, killed his first Fjerdan and Shu and happily became everything he’d been taught to loathe: an indulgent, selfish, killing machine who looked forward to his next battle as much as he did his next drink and fuck. 

The fall came at The Fold. He imagined his family would think that, for a life filled with sin and indulgence, it was fitting that he watch as the the soldiers he’d come to love more than his own family were torn apart by volcra before he himself was naught but another body laying beside them. It was a violent death for a violent man, and fitting was all he could ask for, had any right to ask for. And he would been fine, finally laid to rest having fulfilled what potential was realized, but there was a break in the darkness, a smokey voice cutting through the void and pulling him out just as he was ready for slumber. He remembers the crack of lightning and thunder as the night sky slowly ebbed back into view, clarity eclipsing shadows, colors once so very familiar now appearing alien, his body feeling too small and numb. Altan, the Darkling’s right hand, stood over him, a hauntingly smug grin toying at his lips, firm fingers smoothing over his cheeks, the flesh of his lips, as if to appraise a specimen. The knowledge was slowly imparted to him as an afterthought and mostly through the grapevine - the bloodletter had come across the wreckage, chosen a soldier at random and brought him back from the dead. All on a whim. All because he could, and all because he wanted to show that he could. Rumors abounded of the resurrected soldier, the man who was neither fully living nor dead, and hushed whispers and hisses followed him in his wake everywhere he went. No soldier wanted to fight by a monster’s side, and no person - Grisha or human, royalty or commoner, wanted to break bread with the undead. For if Grisha were looked down upon for being unnatural and practicing the Small Science, what could that possibly make him, a byproduct of their experimenting and magic? What awaited someone like him? Feliks was ultimately reassigned to be a royal guard, sentenced to dedicate his life not to his own whims and indulgences but to the likes of royalty; his mother would be proud.

Tragedies have always been fickle, befalling the good and the terrible and seemingly never anyone in between. Feliks was always the first to admit he fell into the latter, indulging his baser instincts and desires, committing only to his greed and avarice, laying waste to others, the earth, himself. His death had been well-deserved, but his resurrection was something he never asked for—for what awaits a monster? What sinister fate embraces a chimera of the living and the dead fashioned into a twisted trophy for another man to parade around? He barely remembers the life he had and loathes to think of what lies ahead, his wandering path obscured by smoke and strife. “Consider this your penance,” a voice rumbles into his ear. “Or consider this your purgatory. Makes no difference to me, and certainly not to you.”

CONNECTIONS

ALTAN YUL-SUHE:  The bloodletter who resurrected him. Feliks sees the man’s smug grin and the bare night sky with veins of lightning strewn through inky darkness behind him when he closes his eyes, and trembles with fury. As it is, Grisha and humans alike see him as Altan’s prized ( monstrous ) trophy, a living feat of power and prowess that the heartrender performed simply to show that he could. Stripped of his identity and given nothing in return, Feliks loathes the thought that this could be his punishment for living so recklessly. Loathes Altan. Loathes himself. Loathes what he’s become and loathes that death and its accompanying dignity was stolen from him.

VIKTOR LANTSOV & ARINA ZAKHAROV: A man who knows life and death isn’t meant to be like the living, isn’t meant to have friends, but Viktor and Arina might be the two who come the closest to ‘comrades’ as he’ll ever get. As vehemently as he despised his reassignment to Viktor’s protection, he had to admit the Lantsov son was not the worst he’s ever known. He could even admire the man’s need and ambition, and he imagines if they’d met before he’d died and the pretenses of their titles didn’t exist, they would have gotten along famously. Arina is odd and nothing if not persistent. They both have their own reputations that precede them, the oddity and the chimera, and she is one of the few who is not afraid to sit where he eats and launch into conversation as if it was the most natural thing in the world. She’s fascinated with him, he supposes, and her incessant nattering can get old, but at the very least she always respects his impatience, and it’s enough for him to feel the beginnings of guilt for his snappiness and humor her.

ISKRA RAEVSKY & INESSA RAZIN: Fellow royal guards and colleagues, all three of them are often in each other’s company due to the nature of their work. Feliks finds Iskra’s unrelenting loyalty towards the crown prince exasperating, and he’s sure she in turn is wary of his own cynicism towards his new assignment and his reputation before his death. It’s a delicate balance, staying professional despite their differences, and with her fieriness and his sarcasm, it’s not one easily maintained. Inessa gets along with Anastasia and acts as sweet as can be, but it’s clear there’s something sly lurking beneath what she’s allowed herself to shown on the surface, and Feliks isn’t entirely sure what to make of it. They’re a motley crew if he’s ever seen one, but he supposes motley suits him now. 

FELIKS IS PORTRAYED BY YOUNES KAHLAOUI & IS TAKEN BY MADS.

[autolovecraft]

I must try any step conceivably logical.

On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it. It was the bony thing my friend and I had robbed; not clean and placid as we had assembled a universe of terror and a faint distant baying over the clean white skull and its long, firm teeth and its long, firm teeth and its long, firm teeth and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a charnel fever like our own.

All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the jaws of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in the museum. Less than a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was who led the way at last I stood again in the museum. Then terror came. Our alarm was now divided, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the earth. All he could not be sure.

-Toned baying of whose objective existence we could not be sure.

St John must soon befall me.

The jade amulet and sailed for Holland. We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone, and the crumbling slabs; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires under the yews in a distant corner; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires, the dancing death-fires under the yews in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most exquisite form of aesthetic expression, and moonlight.

We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it! Then terror came. -Annihilation.

And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, insistent note as of some gigantic hound.

It was the oddly conventionalized figure of a crouching winged hound, and before a week after our return to England, strange things began to happen. Madness rides the star-wind, and with headstones snatched from the centuried grave. Now, as we sailed the next day away from Holland to our home, we thought we heard a knock at my chamber door.

The baying was very faint now, and with headstones snatched from the centuried grave.

The rabble were in terror, for, besides our fear of the devilish rituals he had loved in life. May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led to the theory that we lived in growing horror and fascination. What mercy I might gain by returning the thing hinted of in the vilest quarter of the symbolists and the night that demonic baying rolled over the wind-swept moor, I heard the baying of some gigantic hound. Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John and myself. This is the last demonic sentence I heard the faint deep-toned baying of some malign being whose nature we could not be sure.

-Fires, the grave as we looked more closely we saw the bats descend in a body to the theory that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of green jade. These pastimes were to us a certain and dreaded reality. -Annihilation. We were no vulgar ghouls, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its diverting novelty and appeal. And as I approached the ancient grave I had robbed; not clean and placid as we sailed the next day away from Holland to our home, we had heard all night a faint distant baying of whose objective existence we could not answer coherently. Our alarm was now divided, for, besides our fear of the event, and a secret room, far, underground; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, and the ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the unfriendly sky, and in the ancient house on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I attacked the half frozen sod with a semi-canine face, and beheld a rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the centuried grave.

Alien it indeed was to whisper, The amulet—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the tales of one buried for five centuries, who had himself been a ghoul in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a mighty sepulcher. Mostly we held to the door and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, as if seeking for some needed air, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death, bestiality and malevolence. I can recall the scene in these final moments—the pale autumnal moon over the clean white skull and its long, firm teeth and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a crouching winged hound, or in our ears the faint, distant baying as of some gigantic hound.

Fancying it St John's pocket, we thought we heard this suggestion of baying we thought we had assembled a universe of terror and a faint, distant baying as of a prosaic world; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, and about the relation of ghosts' souls to the calm white thing that lay within; but I had hastened to the theory that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of green jade. We only realized, with the night of September 24,19—, I saw a black shape obscure one of the cold sky and pecked frantically at the grave-earth until I killed him with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a nameless deed in the vilest quarter of the reflections of the decadents could help us, and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder, and heard, as the victims of some gigantic hound, or a clumsy manipulation of the devilish rituals he had loved in life.

So, too, as if receding far away, a jarring lighting effect, or a clumsy manipulation of the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the decadents could help us, and we began to happen. My friend was dying when I saw that it held. After that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the dismal railway station, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull. The enigmas of the damp mold, and how we delved in the morning I read of a prosaic world; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, and before a week after our return to England, strange things began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our museum, and we gave their details a fastidious technical care. Much—amazingly much—was left of the world. It was incredibly tough and thick, but was answered only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our shocking expedition, or a clumsy manipulation of the symbolists and the ecstasies of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in the soft earth underneath the library window when the moon; the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the scent of pale funeral lilies; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the city.

The rabble were in terror, for, besides our fear of the symbolists and the ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the dead. By what malign fatality were we lured to that terrible Holland churchyard? These pastimes were to us a certain and dreaded reality. I ever performed. The moon was shining against it, held certain unknown and unnameable. After that we lived in growing horror and fascination. It is not, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. I reached the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of curious and exotic design, which had been torn to shreds by an unknown thing which left no trace, and how we thrilled at the picture of ourselves, the dancing death-fires, the dancing death-fires, the titanic bats, was the night of September 24,19—, I staggered into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and another time we thought we heard the baying again, and it ceased altogether as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some cursed and unholy nourishment.

Baudelaire and Huysmans were soon exhausted of thrills, till finally there remained for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural personal experiences and adventures. This is the last demonic sentence I heard the faint, distant baying of whose objective existence we could not be sure. An inappropriate hour, a jarring lighting effect, or catalog even partly the worst of the object despite the lapse of five hundred years. Whether we were troubled by what seemed to be a frequent fumbling in the forbidden Necronomicon of the city. Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that what had befallen St John is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and mumbled over his body one of our penetrations. But after three nights I heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. It was incredibly tough and thick, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its owner and closed up the grave-earth until I killed him with a semi-canine face, and how we thrilled at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its owner and closed up the grave as we found it.

Finally I reached the house, and every night that demonic baying rolled over the clean white skull and its long, firm teeth and its long, firm teeth and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a charnel fever like our own. These pastimes were to us a certain and dreaded reality. In the coffin lay an amulet of green jade.

But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and mumbled over his body one of our neglected gardens, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, however, we proceeded to the earth we had always entertained a dread that our doors were seldom disturbed by what we read. St John's pocket, we proceeded to the objects it symbolized; and, worst of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and the ecstasies of the object despite the lapse of five hundred years. The expression of its features was repellent in the ancient grave I had once violated, and articulate chatter. Now, as the hordes of great bats which haunted the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he professed entire ignorance of the impious collection in the water. Even had its outlines been unfamiliar we would have desired it, and we could scarcely be sure.

[ruleandruinrpg]

FELIKS BAZIN

TWENTY-FOUR ❈ HUMAN ROYAL GUARD

Feliks was a child weaned on tales of morality and the threat of damnation, of the eternal struggle between good and evil and the vices of hedonism and the goodness of moderation. Many folk in the village were as severe and hell-fearing as his family, framed portraits of Ravkan Saints delicately hung above door frames and crisply made beds and stove tops sizzling with herring and quail. Be good, don’t hurt, don’t steal, don’t envy. Live as if to strive to achieve sainthood yourself. It was all Feliks heard, all he ever knew growing up, and for a time it was all he could be - reverential and reserved, conservative and well-mannered, the joy of the village and ignorant to what more there was he could be. But the purest creatures were notorious for being the easiest to taint, the most beautiful angels fell the hardest and farthest, and sometimes all it takes is a glimpse of a fallen comrade, the shock of death.

He enlisted into the First Army because it’s what children in his village did; saintly children either stayed to help their family or served Ravka’s king, and Feliks had grown tired of  plowing the same fields and repeating the same prayers and never living courageously enough to make mistakes. To fight among brothers and sisters to defeat the Fold, to free Ravka and open a path to the True Sea was not a saint’s story, or perhaps at least not the kind of saints his family revered, but it was a hero’s story, and he wanted it to make it his. He flourished and blossomed in the First Army, built bonds based on kinship and camaraderie and not on obligation for once in his life, praying to his bullets and his aim and not to his saints for the first time in his life. He tried his first glass of kvas in the army, kissed and fucked for the first time in the army, killed his first Fjerdan and Shu and happily became everything he’d been taught to loathe: an indulgent, selfish, killing machine who looked forward to his next battle as much as he did his next drink and fuck. 

The fall came at The Fold. He imagined his family would think that, for a life filled with sin and indulgence, it was fitting that he watch as the the soldiers he’d come to love more than his own family were torn apart by volcra before he himself was naught but another body laying beside them. It was a violent death for a violent man, and fitting was all he could ask for, had any right to ask for. And he would been fine, finally laid to rest having fulfilled what potential was realized, but there was a break in the darkness, a smokey voice cutting through the void and pulling him out just as he was ready for slumber. He remembers the crack of lightning and thunder as the night sky slowly ebbed back into view, clarity eclipsing shadows, colors once so very familiar now appearing alien, his body feeling too small and numb. Altan, the Darkling’s right hand, stood over him, a hauntingly smug grin toying at his lips, firm fingers smoothing over his cheeks, the flesh of his lips, as if to appraise a specimen. The knowledge was slowly imparted to him as an afterthought and mostly through the grapevine - the bloodletter had come across the wreckage, chosen a soldier at random and brought him back from the dead. All on a whim. All because he could, and all because he wanted to show that he could. Rumors abounded of the resurrected soldier, the man who was neither fully living nor dead, and hushed whispers and hisses followed him in his wake everywhere he went. No soldier wanted to fight by a monster’s side, and no person - Grisha or human, royalty or commoner, wanted to break bread with the undead. For if Grisha were looked down upon for being unnatural and practicing the Small Science, what could that possibly make him, a byproduct of their experimenting and magic? What awaited someone like him? Feliks was ultimately reassigned to be a royal guard, sentenced to dedicate his life not to his own whims and indulgences but to the likes of royalty; his mother would be proud.

Tragedies have always been fickle, befalling the good and the terrible and seemingly never anyone in between. Feliks was always the first to admit he fell into the latter, indulging his baser instincts and desires, committing only to his greed and avarice, laying waste to others, the earth, himself. His death had been well-deserved, but his resurrection was something he never asked for—for what awaits a monster? What sinister fate embraces a chimera of the living and the dead fashioned into a twisted trophy for another man to parade around? He barely remembers the life he had and loathes to think of what lies ahead, his wandering path obscured by smoke and strife. “Consider this your penance,” a voice rumbles into his ear. “Or consider this your purgatory. Makes no difference to me, and certainly not to you.”

CONNECTIONS

ALTAN YUL-SUHE:  The bloodletter who resurrected him. Feliks sees the man’s smug grin and the bare night sky with veins of lightning strewn through inky darkness behind him when he closes his eyes, and trembles with fury. As it is, Grisha and humans alike see him as Altan’s prized ( monstrous ) trophy, a living feat of power and prowess that the heartrender performed simply to show that he could. Stripped of his identity and given nothing in return, Feliks loathes the thought that this could be his punishment for living so recklessly. Loathes Altan. Loathes himself. Loathes what he’s become and loathes that death and its accompanying dignity was stolen from him.

VIKTOR LANTSOV & ARINA ZAKHAROV: A man who knows life and death isn’t meant to be like the living, isn’t meant to have friends, but Viktor and Arina might be the two who come the closest to ‘comrades’ as he’ll ever get. As vehemently as he despised his reassignment to Viktor’s protection, he had to admit the Lantsov son was not the worst he’s ever known. He could even admire the man’s need and ambition, and he imagines if they’d met before he’d died and the pretenses of their titles didn’t exist, they would have gotten along famously. Arina is odd and nothing if not persistent. They both have their own reputations that precede them, the oddity and the chimera, and she is one of the few who is not afraid to sit where he eats and launch into conversation as if it was the most natural thing in the world. She’s fascinated with him, he supposes, and her incessant nattering can get old, but at the very least she always respects his impatience, and it’s enough for him to feel the beginnings of guilt for his snappiness and humor her.

ISKRA RAEVSKY & INESSA RAZIN: Fellow royal guards and colleagues, all three of them are often in each other’s company due to the nature of their work. Feliks finds Iskra’s unrelenting loyalty towards the crown prince exasperating, and he’s sure she in turn is wary of his own cynicism towards his new assignment and his reputation before his death. It’s a delicate balance, staying professional despite their differences, and with her fieriness and his sarcasm, it’s not one easily maintained. Inessa gets along with Anastasia and acts as sweet as can be, but it’s clear there’s something sly lurking beneath what she’s allowed herself to shown on the surface, and Feliks isn’t entirely sure what to make of it. They’re a motley crew if he’s ever seen one, but he supposes motley suits him now. 

FELIKS IS PORTRAYED BY YOUNES KAHLAOUI & IS TAKEN BY MADS.

[autolovecraft]

The expression of its diverting novelty and appeal.

It was the oddly conventionalized figure of a prosaic world; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John must soon befall me. What the hound was, and we began to happen. We were no vulgar ghouls, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its features was repellent in the Holland churchyard? It was incredibly tough and thick, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its diverting novelty and appeal. Accordingly I sank into the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade. The skeleton, though crushed in places by the jaws of the event, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it! The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John and I knew not; but, whatever my reason, I departed on the bottom, like a maker's seal, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to ribbons. Our alarm was now divided, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the corpse-eating cult of inaccessible Leng, in Central Asia. My friend was dying when I saw on the moor became to us the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity.

On October 29 we found in this self same spot, torn and mangled by the claws and teeth of some gigantic hound. I departed on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I saw that it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of green jade, I heard the baying in that ancient churchyard, and we gave a last glance at the unfriendly sky, and another time we thought we had seen it then, but so old that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of green jade amulet now reposed in a body to the theory that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of curious and exotic design, which had been torn to shreds by an unknown thing which left no trace, and it ceased altogether as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some cursed and unholy nourishment. Through these pipes came at will the odors of mold, vegetation, and a secret room, far, underground; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John and myself.

Whether we were both in the extreme, savoring at once of death, bestiality and malevolence. Through these pipes came at will the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the souls of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. When I aroused St John was always the leader, and it ceased altogether as I. As we heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. As we heard a knock at my chamber door.

The baying was very faint now, and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it! We were no vulgar ghouls, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the victims of some malign being whose nature we could neither see nor definitely place. So, too, as if receding far away, a jarring lighting effect, or in our senses, we gave a last glance at the dead. We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone, and I had robbed; not clean and placid as we found it. We were no vulgar ghouls, but was answered only by a shrill laugh. And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, insistent note as of a dominating will outside myself. It was incredibly tough and thick, but I had once violated, and about the relation of ghosts' souls to the calm white thing that had killed it, but we recognized it as the baying in that ancient churchyard, and without servants in a few rooms of an ancient manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers.

The baying was very faint now, and in the forbidden Necronomicon of the city. In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been torn to shreds by an unknown thing which left no trace, and this we found it. All he could not be sure.

It is of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the jaws of the souls of those who vexed and gnawed at the single door which led to the theory that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the unnamed and unnameable drawings which it was the night of September 24,19—, I shut my eyes and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, I heard the faint baying of some gigantic hound in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and we gloated over the clean white skull and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a blow of my inevitable doom. Baudelaire and Huysmans were soon exhausted of thrills, till finally there remained for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural personal experiences and adventures. It is not, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts.

May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led us eventually to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom. What the hound was, and I had hastened to the earth. Statues and painting there were, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John was always the leader, and it ceased altogether as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some needed air, I shall be mangled in the corridor. Our lonely house was seemingly alive with the night-wind, and we could not be sure. An inappropriate hour, a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of the uncovered-grave. The next day away from Holland to our home, we thought we heard the faint far baying we shuddered, remembering the tales of the earth. Through these pipes came at will the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the object despite the lapse of five hundred years. I aroused St John is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and articulate chatter. Finally I reached the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and I saw a black shape obscure one of our penetrations. The predatory excursions on which St John was always the leader, and I had first heard the baying in that ancient churchyard, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it!

The skeleton, though crushed in places by the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he professed entire ignorance of the neighborhood. We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone, and we gave a last glance at the livid sky; the ghastly soul-upheaving stenches of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their time, but so old that we were jointly going mad from our life of unnatural excitements, but as we found potent only by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping bats, the stolen amulet in St John's, I staggered into the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade amulet now reposed in a niche in our senses, we gave a last glance at the grave as we sailed the next midnight in one of our neglected gardens, and he could do was to whisper, The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. There was no one in the water. Less than a week after our return to England, strange things began to happen. Being now afraid to live alone in the Holland churchyard? After that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of green jade object, we gave their details a fastidious technical care. Our lonely house was seemingly alive with the commonplaces of a prosaic world; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John from his sleep, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the lamps in the soft earth underneath the library window a series of footprints utterly impossible to describe. Much—amazingly much—was left of the impious collection in the night that demonic baying rolled over the clean white skull and its long, firm teeth and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a crouching winged hound, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution. By what malign fatality were we lured to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom. The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. And when I spoke to him, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution.

One evening as I approached the ancient grave I had once violated, and the night that demonic baying rolled over the moor, I attacked the half frozen sod with a semi-canine face, and we began to happen. Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window a series of footprints utterly impossible to describe.

Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window when the moon was up, but as we looked more closely we saw the bats descend in a body to the objects it symbolized; and, worst of the decadents could help us, and I had robbed; not clean and placid as we had heard all night a faint distant baying of whose objective existence we could not guess, and the crumbling slabs; the antique church, the dancing death-fires, the antique church, the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and cracking slabs, and we gave a last glance at the dead. Much—amazingly much—was left of the uncovered-grave. The enigmas of the unknown, we had heard in the vilest quarter of the lamps in the Holland churchyard. May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led to the door and threw myself face down upon the ground. Only the somber philosophy of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in the Dutch language. We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my spade.

-Eyed face of its features was repellent in the forbidden Necronomicon of the cold sky and pecked frantically at the livid sky; the ghastly soul-upheaving stenches of the impious collection in the background. Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John from his sleep, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the decadents could help us, and beheld a rotting oblong box and removed the damp nitrous cover. Only the somber philosophy of the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the earth we had always entertained a dread that our grisly collection might be discovered. These pastimes were to us a certain and dreaded reality.

[autolovecraft]

Then we struck a substance harder than the damp nitrous cover.

There one might find the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and we gave a last glance at the livid sky; the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the scent of pale funeral lilies; sometimes the scent of pale funeral lilies; sometimes the scent of pale funeral lilies; sometimes the scent of pale funeral lilies; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the lamps in the ancient house on the bottom, like a maker's seal, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull. Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. An inappropriate hour, a jarring lighting effect, or in our senses, we gave a last glance at the picture of ourselves, the gently moaning night-wind, on which St John from his sleep, he professed entire ignorance of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in this self same spot, torn and mangled by the taxidermist's art, and we could not guess, and the ecstasies of the visitor.

The next day away from Holland to our home, we had so lately rifled, as if seeking for some needed air, and every night that demonic baying rolled over the wind-swept moor, always louder and louder. Through these pipes came at will the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the scent of pale funeral lilies; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the moon; the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the scent of pale funeral lilies; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the earth we had seen it then, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its features was repellent in the Dutch language. St John's pocket, we had so lately rifled, as if seeking for some needed air, and the flesh and radiantly golden heads of new-buried children. There one might find the rotting oblong box and removed the damp nitrous cover. A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, held certain unknown and unnameable.

I sank into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I shut my eyes and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution. What mercy I might gain by returning the thing that had killed it, held certain unknown and unnameable drawings which it was who led the way at last I stood again in the ancient grave I had hastened to the secret library staircase. We only realized, with the blackest of apprehensions, that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the hidden museum, and we could not be sure. The predatory excursions on which St John, walking home after dark from the centuried grave.

A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, held together with surprising firmness, and about the relation of ghosts' souls to the objects it symbolized; and, worst of all shapes, and another time we thought we heard this suggestion of baying we thought we saw the bats descend in a body to the secret library staircase. But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and a secret room, far, underground; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John and myself. Fancying it St John's pocket, we thought we saw that it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of green jade, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. I cannot reveal the details of our shocking expedition, or catalog even partly the worst of all shapes, and we could not answer coherently. And when I spoke to him, and became as worried as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some needed air, and how we thrilled at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its owner and closed up the grave as we sailed the next day I carefully wrapped the green jade.

Then we struck a substance harder than the damp mold, vegetation, and he could do was to whisper, The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. It was incredibly tough and thick, but as we sailed the next midnight in one of our neglected gardens, and another time we thought we heard the faint far baying we shuddered, remembering the tales of one buried for five centuries, who had himself been a ghoul in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a small piece of green jade object, we thought we had seen it then, but we recognized it as the hordes of great bats which haunted the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the amulet. These pastimes were to us the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity. In the coffin lay an amulet of curious and exotic design, which had apparently been worn around the sleeper's neck. Madness rides the star-wind, stronger than the night that demonic baying rolled over the moor, I bade the knocker enter, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the victims of some gigantic hound. We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but, whatever my reason, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. Alien it indeed was to whisper, The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. An inappropriate hour, a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution. Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that what had befallen St John must soon befall me.

The rabble were in terror, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the city. It was the bony thing my friend and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a few rooms of an ancient manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers. It is not dream—it is not, I know not how much later, I know not how much later, whilst we were troubled by what seemed to be a frequent fumbling in the extreme, savoring at once of death, bestiality and malevolence. Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the oldest churchyards of the souls of those who vexed and gnawed at the dead. What the hound was, and the crumbling slabs; the antique ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the picture of ourselves, the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of some gigantic hound. Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John and I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our life of unnatural personal experiences and adventures. It is not dream—it is not dream—it is not dream—it is not, I know not how much later, whilst we were both in the water. Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John and I saw on the moor, always louder and louder, and this we found potent only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our shocking expedition, or catalog even partly the worst of the amulet. Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that what had befallen St John nor I could identify; and on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the impious collection in the night-wind, on which St John was always the leader, and mumbled over his body one of the kingly dead, and mumbled over his body one of our penetrations. For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a shrill laugh. And as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some cursed and unholy nourishment. -Wind, stronger than the night of September 24,19—, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. We were no vulgar ghouls, but as we had heard in the ancient grave I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our life of unnatural excitements, but as we sailed the next midnight in one of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the odors of mold, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my spade. In the coffin lay an amulet of curious and exotic design, which had apparently been worn around the doors but around the windows also, upper as well as lower. -Annihilation. This is the last demonic sentence I heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. It is of this loot in particular that I am about to blow out my brains for fear I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my only refuge from the dismal railway station, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull. What mercy I might gain by returning the thing hinted of in the soft earth underneath the library window a series of footprints utterly impossible to describe. Being now afraid to live alone in the background. It was incredibly tough and thick, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the victims of some unspeakable beast. Less than a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was rumored Goya had perpetrated but dared not acknowledge. Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to self-annihilation. Excavation was much easier than I expected, though at one point I encountered a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of the event, and the stealthy whirring and flapping, and every night that demonic baying rolled over the graves, casting long horrible shadows, the antique ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the grave-robbing. All he could not answer coherently. Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window when the moon was shining against it, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution. An inappropriate hour, a jarring lighting effect, or sphinx with a charnel fever like our own.

Mostly we held to the theory that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held. What mercy I might gain by returning the thing that lay within; but I dared not acknowledge. Wearied with the blackest of apprehensions, that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the museum. By what malign fatality were we lured to that terrible Holland churchyard? A wind, rushed by, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it! I heard afar on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my only refuge from the dismal railway station, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull. Our museum was a blasphemous, unthinkable place, where with the presence of some malign being whose nature we could not answer coherently. A wind, stronger than the night-wind from over far swamps and seas; and were disturbed by the taxidermist's art, and we gloated over the graves, casting long horrible shadows; the antique church, the faint baying of whose objective existence we could scarcely be sure. The baying was very faint now, and I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our life of unnatural excitements, but so old that we were troubled by what seemed to be a frequent fumbling in the hidden museum, and we gloated over the wind-swept moor, always louder and louder. I heard a knock at my chamber door. Much—amazingly much—was left of the city. I alone know why, and how we delved in the museum. Through these pipes came at will the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the uncovered-grave. Accordingly I sank into the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade.

Wearied with the presence of some malign being whose nature we could not answer coherently.