#spot the lack of horns i guess

[sleepsucks]

[merakiui]

11:11 — sugar dew sewn anew.

yandere!rook hunt x (gender neutral) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, obsession, violence, murder/death of reader, description of blood/injuries, rook is rather morbid and creepy in this fic note - this fic is the result of a character fic poll, in which rook was the winner.

“You wear a very forlorn face when you paint, mon cher.”

You swivel on the stool, legs unfolding at the ankles, to properly peer past the easel at the man who sits in a gold-and-white satin chair, backdropped by various animal heads. They’re mounted with such care, each one organized according to where it lies on the food chain. They almost form a pyramid when you look at them from where you’re seated. From a dusky brown house mouse to a pitch-black crow, the heads range in species and size, all arranged on a vermillion wall. 

The biggest one, sitting in the very center of the display, right above your client’s head, is a chestnut-colored buck with a pair of magnificent antlers curling from its scalp. From where Rook sits, it almost looks like those horns are sprouting from his head. Contemplating the discrepancies between man and buck, you swirl your brush through a muddy cup of water and survey the rest of the aureate placards until you reach the top.

There’s a mount lacking a head. 

It was the first thing you took notice of after stepping through the halls of this quaint cabin to reach the sitting room. Although, after spending hours enclosed in cedarwood walls, it feels more like a trophy room—a place meant to showcase the spoils of every hunt rather than welcome people with disarming decorations. 

Rook crosses one leg over the other and, resting his elbows upon his knee, steeples his hands. You peer at the antlers, noting the valiant curvature, before meeting his verdant stare. A grin slowly sprawls on his lips once he realizes you’ve caught his gaze. 

“I concentrate on my source,” you explain with a shrug, still twirling the brush through the water. “Steady focus makes a steady hand…or something along those lines.”

“And yet you never smile, even when working so diligently to bring your masterpiece to completion.”

“If I viewed it as such, then I would have reason to smile.” Your contemptuous scowl slides to the canvas, where you’ve painted two dull green eyes set into a freckle-speckled face. The beginnings of a smile trace the portrait’s plush lips, withholding secrets no one will ever know. “I’ve yet to create a masterpiece. Therefore I can’t smile.”

“Oh, you’re much too critical of your art!” Unclasping his hands, Rook places one upon his chest, as if he must calm his heart after hearing your response. “I’ve studied your work, both through a screen and in person, and as your devout follower I can wholeheartedly say it is beautiful in every way, even down to the miniscule flaws other critics often spot with sharp, perceptive eyes!”

“You speak as if I lead a cult,” you admit with a sheepish chuckle. “I’m just painting the things I find interesting.”

“For a reason, I assume?”

“Usually it’s to find inspiration for what I hope will be my first masterpiece. I’d like to finally feel proud of my work.” The brush peruses the colorful selection on your palette, settling into the green you’ve mixed from yellow and blue. “It’s not that I’m unhappy. I just can’t find it in me to love what I produce.”

“But you enjoy creating, yes?”

“Of course. It’s what I’ve been doing for years. Painting allows me to understand the world and its inhabitants through my own lens.” You put brush to canvas in a series of small, significant strokes. “So when I’m painting… Well, I guess I just want to try to love the things I put on my canvases, even if it’s impossible.”

“Is that so? Then I’m beyond flattered you would ever consider using me as your most beloved muse!” He tilts his head, suddenly more animated than when he first sat down to pose for you, and adds, “I love you, too. Very much, my little artiste.”

“Are you just saying that so I’ll paint you handsomely?”

“Why, I would never say anything that would influence or persuade your process! Just as I love sweetly and solemnly, I also love monstrously and mercilessly. The primal facets of humankind are not exempt from my loving eyes. Even the most dirty and deceitful corners of this world—I love those just as fiercely. So should you choose to depict me as a fiend, I will adore your representation regardless of its harsh implications. After all, there’s beauty in tragedy.”

“And would that make life the greatest tragedy?” You hum as you add a sadistic glimmer to the eyes on the canvas. They pierce you with their unblinking stare, hollowing your soul until they reach unfathomable depths. “Or maybe it’s the ability to love with such a big heart?”

“Are you suggesting love is a tragedy? I suppose, in some sad sense, it is. Unrequited feelings, shattered hearts, lovers separated by way of death or divorce, and even the type of love that curdles like spoiled milk—oh, the misfortune! Each is a tragic tale spun from a mixture of melancholy or the intensity of hatred and all-consuming loneliness. But even so, no matter how horrendous it may seem, I hold each in my heart. They’re beautiful because they have the unique ability to shape a person into someone new—for better or for worse.” 

You lower your arm, hesitating while the excuses rise to the surface, before turning to look at him. “I’ve never known real love, Mr. Hunt, which is why I’m trying to capture it while I paint. I suspect I’ll be able to smile at my work because it will be something I’ve fallen in love with. Only then can I consider it a true masterpiece.”

“Your way of thinking is simply très bien!” He drums his fingers along his knee, humming his contemplation. “I’d love to unscrew your skull and poke through your brain. I wonder what memories have shriveled your ability to love…”

“It’s not that it’s shriveled. It’s just…” You shrug, losing your previous statement. “The words ‘I love you’ are just that—words. I have no use for meaningless sentiments. If I force myself to love, it feels wrong. I can like people and things, but loving them is too much. I can’t cross that line. If I did, I’d be a liar.” 

“Ah, so it’s like that…” Rook chuckles, but none of what you said was remotely humorous. His voice lowers to a whisper, ghostly and haunting, as if wrapping around your head and settling into the very folds of your brain. “I find it charming that you’re unable to love and I love too much. We possess many differences, and yet at the very center of it all we’re merely human beings composed of flesh and blood. It’s a beauty more stunning than the most radiant sunset!”

You pretend to have not heard him, resigning yourself to your work as you spend an absurd amount of time trying to illustrate the peculiar glaze in his eyes. They’re always so bright, but here you’ve painted them as soulless, viridescent sockets—a dark, dense forest having lost its vivid greenery with winter’s frost. But then there is not an ounce of ice within Rook’s eyes. They are always smoldering with many things: enthusiasm, intellect, new opinions just waiting to be shared regardless of whether or not you wish to hear them. It’s a genuine warmth, but something feels strange. Out of place. Much like the headless mount poised right above Rook to form the tip of the pyramid. 

Why is that mount lacking a head?

Without realizing it, you’ve abandoned your task with fixing his eyes to start on the antlers poking from a head of canary-hued hair. 

“You live up to your surname, sir.”

“Please, you’re much too formal with your fan. You need only call me Rook, should it suit your fancy.” He giggles when you pin him with a dubious glare. “Is it so wrong to label myself as such? I go to great lengths out of admiration and support of your work. Wouldn’t that, by definition, make me your fan?”

“I’m not very famous.”

“In my eyes, you are the famed sun and I am merely the moon who hopelessly pursues.” 

“Really? Well, I wasn’t aware I had an eloquent hunter for a fan.”

“Do you find my hobby eccentric?”

“No. It’s normal to enjoy all sorts of pastimes. Hunting is as much of a hobby as it is a sustainable sport. In older times, most people would hunt for the sake of survival.”

Rook nods, his gaze flicking towards the heads on the wall. You dip your brush in brown paint to add more color to the antlers. “It takes immaculate patience to be a hunter. Most hunts are not always successful.”

“Is there a reason you hunt?”

“It’s in a human’s nature to obtain the unobtainable, and I seek beauty in its most visceral forms.”

“I see…”

“Do you?” Rook crosses his legs again, but this time his posture is stiffly statuesque. “Is obsession not the most flattering form of dedication?”

“It’s not exactly how I’d go about defining dedication… But then I suppose everyone has their reasons.” You steal a peek at the headless mount. “Do these heads mean anything to you?”

“Why, of course! They are the beautiful animals I have pierced with my arrow, whether or not I intended to. Often, when you trek through the territory of beasts, you might need to release a mortally wounded animal from its suffering.”

“So a mercy kill.” Your eyes return to the painting, where you set to work adding tiny blossoms along the curved antlers. “Doesn’t that upset you?”

“So goes the cycle of life, I’m afraid. I would be a daring fool to interfere with the balance of the world.”

“Have you ever lost any of your hunts?”

Rook hums, tapping out a rhythm against the top of his hand. The pads of his fingers fall in rapid succession: tick, tick, tick, tick. “As a matter of fact, I have! Just last week, after your departure, I lost the mouse I’ve been trying to catch for years now.”

“Years? Shouldn’t you give up?”

“Not until I feel that mouse’s heart beat within my enclosed fist.” He smiles wide, flashing flawless rows of pearly whites. Under the dim lighting, they appear sharp and predatory. “I suspect I’ll get lucky tonight.”

“How can you be sure? Mice are difficult to catch with bare hands. You’ll need a trap.”

“Mon cher, you wound me! I would never make such an amateur error.” He chuckles to himself, relishing in the cruelty of a joke that doesn’t quite land. “When I set my sights on something, it’s a guarantee I will catch it, even if I must play a dreadful waiting game.”

“My apologies. I was only passing on a helpful tip.”

You pull away from the canvas to inspect the strands of white dahlias curled around the man’s antlers. Frowning, you raise your arm, intending to slash through the portrait with a streak of black paint, when it occurs to you that you need only add red. 

But before carmine, you return to nature reflected in wide greens.

“Has my dear artiste ever hunted before?”

“No, not really. I seek inspiration all the time, but I wouldn’t call that a hunt.”

“Oh? Please elaborate.”

“There are stakes in a hunt. Life and death. Danger. A battle of wits between predator and prey. Looking for inspiration is just a matter of searching and exploring. It might lead some down scary paths, but for me it’s a matter of reading more books or taking a stroll through the town. I don’t like dangerous things, so I tend to avoid them.”

“It pays to be cautious, no?”

“Right. Shouldn’t you be the same, Rook? As a hunter, don’t you worry about what might happen if you aren’t careful?”

“Of course there are worries! That comes with every profession and hobby.” He gestures to the plastic tarps plastered to the floor and walls. “You worried you’d sully my floors, and to ease such a fear I put these protective plastics up. My worries for hunting may be different, but they are worries all the same.”

“I guess that’s true… Well, what do you worry about?”

“Whether I’ll be fast enough to catch my prey when they’re unarmed and unaware.”

“O-Oh… That’s a little…”

Rook laughs a guttural laugh—a sound that comes right from the depths of his chest. “Imagine something you’ve always wanted. Picture it slipping through your fingers, just out of your reach, and now you’ve lost the chance to seize it. Is that not worth a worry or two?”

“I can’t say. I’ve never tried to chase after things I knew I wouldn’t be able to have.”

“Mon cher, you must learn to take risks. How else will you live?”

“I live perfectly fine without the need to step out of my comfort zone.”

Rook hums. “I think you’d change your tune if you found yourself in a risky situation.”

“Define risky.”

“Life and death.”

You pause, your brush poised at the pupil in his eye. “Everyone wants to survive. It’s in our nature as animals. A very basic instinct.” 

“And despite our most dedicated efforts to stall the inevitable, death catches us all—some sooner than most.”

“This is getting kinda…morbid.” 

“Haven’t you wondered,” he asks, and you don’t hear the wood creak under approaching feet, “what someone might do if they found your corpse?” 

He’s behind you. Five steps away in this cubic space. The man with antlers has crawled out of the canvas that once confined him, and he’s behind you. 

The mount on the wall lacks a head. 

The man in the chair lacks antlers. 

The creature in the portrait lacks humanity.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice a voice recorder tucked away beneath the chair. 

You swallow thickly, your heart in your throat. “I… I’m not sure. I’d hope they’d give me a proper, respectful burial if I died of natural causes.” 

And if it wasn’t natural causes? 

You don’t hear him verbalize the question, but somehow you catch it amidst the smothering silence.

“If it wasn’t natural causes…” You force a laugh, but it’s flat and misplaced just like the headless mount. “That would be murder, right?”

His shadow looms behind you, cast ominously dark over the earthly colored canvas. Slowly, so slowly, your free hand lowers to the pocket in your artist’s apron, where a dozen palette knives rest. Trembling fingers peruse the selection, locating the one with the sharpest point, and it’s the heaviest burden you’ve ever secured in your fist. You remain sitting horribly still on the stool, listening only to the frantic, slick sound of blood rushing in your ears. 

Steeling your frayed nerves, you whirl just as he descends. 

There’s a pause, a stumbled heartbeat, and then raw fear coagulates into confusion when you find him sitting primly in his chair, his verdant stare striking through you as if it’s an arrow he’s just loosed. It hits its mark, for it leaves you pinned in perplexity. 

He was behind me.

“And… And what about you?” you ask, your tongue heavy and thick in your mouth. “If someone… If I found your corpse, what would you want me to do with it?”

He was behind me. I’m sure of it.

“That wouldn’t happen.” His lips curl into a cat-like smile, and he angles his head curiously. “Normally it’s the other way around.”

You see it, then. The silver glint of a sharpened meat cleaver. It lies in his lap, where his fingers curl around the wooden handle, and all while holding eye contact he continues to smile. His teeth are refined cutlery in the light: artfully honed, yet not quite serrated, they’re tough enough to bite and tear and chew. Like a deer trapped in the hauntingly hypnotic glow of oncoming headlights, you don’t dare move. Perspiration wets your brow, slides down your back between your shoulder blades. You lick your lips. Anticipation claws through your intestines, nestling in the very pit of your stomach. Bile creeps its way up your throat like acidic fingers.

What’s happening?

“Come now, ma souris, don’t give me such a sullen face! I’ve shown you my hand. Isn’t that a miracle more beautiful than life itself?”

Your hold on the little palette knife tightens. “One person’s going to leave this room,” you say, your eyes sliding to the recording device, “and it’s not going to be me. Isn’t that right, Rook?”

“I can’t possibly say,” he affirms, dulcet and smooth like rivers of blood running ruby-red from a broken nose. His finger drums a rhythm against the flat side of the cleaver. “But I can certainly guess.”

Carefully, you rise from the stool. His eyes track you, so full of the vitality of the color green. More than that, they’re bright with bloodlust and you’ve been caught in the crosshairs of his cutting gaze. He peers at your unfinished painting and chuckles.

“Even your interpretation of me is beautiful! It’s an honor to be your fan, ma souris. Truly, I’m quite happy.”

You brandish the palette knife as if that will do anything to protect you from him. He stands from his seat, a monster adorned in gloomy garb. Like a stain against the red wall of heads, he no longer fits into the picture you once thought he did. Rather, he is blight in human form, a sinister omen housed within a skeleton encased in friendly skin. 

And he’s walking right towards you, putting one foot in front of the other, in no hurry to rush. The cleaver taps against his hip as he approaches, each bump mirroring every one of your heartbeats with startling accuracy. 

“Are… Are you unhappy with my portrayal?” you ask, not particularly interested in his reply, but desperate to keep him talking at arm’s length. 

For every step he takes, you take two backwards. 

“Not at all! In fact, I’m flattered.” Rook narrows his eyes at you, sickly entertained. “You’ve made prey out of a predator. Not many are capable of such a generous feat.” 

Your back connects with the door. Swallowing thickly, you search for the door knob. “Do you really see yourself as one? You don’t have to be one. Y-You can be neither. You’re only human.”

“Ah, but humans are the worst kind of predator.”

“What makes you say that?” Your fingers wrap around the metal door knob.

“Humans are afforded choices. We think through decisions. We make merry with our enemies and then hurt them after they’ve properly settled. We are complex in a way that differs from other animals. Predators are bound by survival, always trapped in high-stakes life or death, unable to truly make a decision that ventures beyond whether they wish to live another day or become sustenance for those who sit a rung above on the food chain. You see, we are not simple predators.” He raises the cleaver and points it at you. “As for humans, we can decide if we want to feel something when we hurt and kill. We can communicate in languages simple predators can’t use. Oh, the beauty of words!” He chuckles, elated. “To pluck a phrase from my vast lexicon: I’m going to take your life for myself, ma souris. Stow it within the depths of my very soul so that I may be the only one to treasure your rarity.”

The confession guts you quicker than his knife ever could. 

Wrenching the door open, you turn on your heel and step through, ready to break into a sprint, when heavy footfalls make their way towards you from behind. He covers the meager distance in seconds, wrapping a muscled arm around your torso and yanking you back into the room. You scream, words and sounds mixing into something incoherent, and elbow him in the ribs with as much force as you can muster. He releases you and you, fueled with panic and adrenaline, drop to your knees just as he swings, your hand closing around the palette knife you had previously lost. 

Somehow you manage to get back on your feet when he descends again, this time intentionally missing your shoulder when he brings the cleaver down. It cuts through the sliver of space between empty air and your own body, narrowly missing you by a hair. You throw yourself against the wall, entangled in a plastic tarp that comes loose from its hooks. They fall around you in noisy pitter-patters, something akin to metallic rainfall, and you hit the floor with a harsh thump.

And all the while, the mounts continue to peer at you with glass eyes.

“There’s no need to fall over yourself in a frantic haste. You’ll waste all of your energy, and even then adrenaline won’t be enough to fuel you. I’ll catch you if you aren’t careful…” He smiles at you from where he stands, green eyes cold with calculation. “Let’s take a moment to chat, shall we? I’d like to regale you with the five stages of the delightful thing known as prey drive. You’ve heard of it, haven’t you?”

“No, of course not,” you spit, vitriol lacing every syllable. Your pupils flit about the room, tracing the cleaver in his hand and then flickering towards the chair. The recording device sits in shadow, just within your reach. If you can stand up, take two steps forward, and drop down when he moves to intercept, you might be able to retrieve it. “Enlighten me since you seem so eager to run your mouth.”

Rook chuckles and enunciates his every step with a whistle. He reaches the chair in three steps and kicks the recording device out from under it. You watch it skid across the floor towards you, settling mere inches from your feet. You glance at it; it’s still recording, seconds stapled into it with every tick of your heart.

“A dog searches.” His back is turned to you, and he gazes at the mounts on the wall. You lower just enough to swipe the device from the ground. It’s not heavy in your palm; rather, it’s palm-sized and it slips into your pocket like a silent knife through butter. “And when it finds, it stalks. Have you caught the pattern yet?”

His neck is right there. All you need to do is rush up to him, grab him from behind, and drive the palette knife so far into the side of his neck that it’ll surely cause some sort of distress. Or you could turn and run. You have evidence. You have his address. You have your car. You can escape. You can drive far away from this horrifying cabin in the woods and never return. You can live. 

You can run.

“And from there…” 

So you do.

He whirls just as you dart through the door, over the threshold into the hall, and you miss the crazed twinkle reflected in wild, untamed green eyes. Rook’s laughter follows you, airy and light like a comforting breeze. He’s alive with murderous delight, and you’re nearly dead with fright. 

“Ensues the chase!” he calls out, so close in the cramped confines of the hall that his voice nearly grazes you. 

You swallow your sobs, pressing onwards with hardened resolve, and follow the length of the hall until it spits you out into another room. It’s undeniably a kitchen, what with the refrigerator and microwave pushed into a corner, but it’s furnished more like a lab. Nearly every appliance is metallic and the floors are tiled, constructed with surfaces that are perfect for washing away pesky fluids. A drain is built into the very center of the floor, sticking out like the nastiest bruise. You spy meat hooks hanging in place of where spatulas and whisks ought to be—both of which are innocent culinary tools meant to assist in food preparation rather than something killer. 

Spinning on your feet, you locate the door opposite of where you stand in the small kitchen-lab and take a momentous step towards it, hoping it leads you closer to an exit and further from your hunter, when a cold hand seizes your wrist, spidery digits curling into your skin. A shrill scream rips from the depths of your throat, surely shredding your vocal chords into bloody ribbons. You struggle, yanking your arm in vain, for his hold is impossibly strong. He tugs you towards him, his feet moving in time with the shuffling of yours. It’s a stiff stalemate of a waltz. You pull away and he pursues, his hand creeping up your arm in an attempt to pin it to the nearest surface. With another helpless shriek, you tear yourself free, staggering backwards against the metal table, which rolls further away on well-oiled wheels. Your horrified reflection blinks back at you in the shine, and with a sunken heart you realize it’s a dissection table. 

“Mon cher, I must say, you wear disarray so naturally. It’s far too forbidden for my simple eyes to behold.” 

“Why… Why are you doing this?” Your voice is thick with terror, sore from screaming, and you wipe furiously at your glossy eyes. “Please stop… You’ve had your fun. Now… Now let me go. I… I promise I won’t come back here again. Y-You can keep all of the supplies and the canvas. Just let me go…”

A secretive smile stretches slowly across his lips. “Oh, how Fortuna graces me with the benevolent opportunity to admire these special sides of yours. To be able to witness the rawness of pure horror after cornering the most dangerous animal of all…” He pricks his finger on the tip of the blade and adds in a breathy whisper, “Beauté.”

A disgusted shiver claws its way up your spine. You glare at him. “So it’s the thrill you enjoy, yeah? It doesn’t faze you that you’re going to kill an innocent person?!” 

He tilts his head. “Rather than snuffing your light, I intend to give new life to your excellence. In many ways, aren’t I also an artist?” 

“Like hell! You’re crazy!” You take a step back when he advances, moving towards you like a graceful panther stalking its prey. Your grip on the palette knife tightens. “What did I ever do to you to deserve this?” 

“Nothing, mon amour.”

“N-Nothing?”

“Absolutely nothing!” he reaffirms, rather conversationally, and the frustration-riddled tension in your body deflates all at once. 

“But… But I thought—” You shake your head, hopelessly searching for a means of convincing him otherwise in his pursuit, and say, “I thought you… You said you loved me! Can you really hurt someone you love?”

Rook hesitates, his feet shuffling to a halt, and he peers blankly at you, all emotions veiled in a stoic mask. “While it’s true that I will always cherish you in life, I must also come to love you in death. If I’m unable to accept even the rotting and decaying sides of everlasting love that most shy away from, then I’m simply undeserving of my title as a hunter. If I seek the wonders of life, it’s only fair I seek the wonders of death all the same. You understand, don’t you?”

“No! In what world would I ever understand that logic?!” You point the palette knife at him. “You don’t have to kill me. You really don’t have to…”

“I suppose, if I’m to apologize for anything, I should ask that you forgive my greedy behavior. I’m hopelessly infatuated with your work, so allow me to thank you for all that you have shown me tonight. I promise to repay your tenderness tenfold.”

He smiles, stepping aside to allow you passage through the door, and foolishly you take the bait. It’s a run through tar—something you’d only ever experience in a dream, in which outrunning a villain is an impossible task. You make it through the door and out into the hall, and from there your only goal is to mindlessly flee towards safety. Tears obscure your vision, clinging to your lashes like fragile sugar dew. 

You think you see the outline of a faraway door, but perhaps it’s just the illusion brought on by mournful tears. 

You think you’ll make it to freedom, but perhaps it’s just the animalistic desire to survive that ignites your nerves. 

You think you can escape the horrors of encroaching affection, but it slips into your hand, tight and reassuring. 

Tugged into the kitchen-lab, your back collides with Rook’s chest. His grip is bone-crushing, and you don’t hear anything he’s saying—is he humming or waxing poetry?—but you feel the warmth of spreading blood as it soaks through your shirt and stains your artist’s apron. The palette knife slips from your grasp, landing on the floor with a noisy clatter. You peer down at your abdomen, where the cleaver is snugly nestled in your stomach. 

The cleaver. 

It’s in your stomach. 

He’s stabbed you. 

The cleaver. 

It’s in your stomach. 

It doesn’t hurt. Not at first. The shock snuffs the agony. He twists it gingerly, once or twice, before he yanks it out. Sticky strings of torn flesh and blood cling to the blade, connecting it to the injury he’s inflicted. Then you feel the rush of torturous, agonizing pain, and it stings more than anything you've ever experienced before. Red-hot, thick trails of blood trickle through your fingers when you shakily place your hand upon the wound, hoping to stop the flow. Rook clicks his tongue and guides you towards the dissection table, your feet dragging bonelessly upon the floor as you’re led along. You try to fight him, but everything’s so painful, and so all you can manage is a slight shake of the shoulders. Your world spins, and your mind reels as it struggles to process the dangerous gash. 

“After the chase,” he says, lowering you onto the table despite your blubbery protests, “the dog grabs its prey in a sharp-toothed bite and then it kills.” 

“S-Stop… You…” Your fingers curl into shredded skin, and you press down with as much strength as your shuddering body can muster. Blood continues to seep through the cracks between your fingers. “You… You’ll kill me…”

“Well, that’s the point, no?” Rook pets your cheek, fondness glittering in his green eyes. 

You peer up at him through bleary eyes, reaching for his face with a trembling hand. “Please… I’m begging you… It h-hurts… Please…” A helpless sob wracks through your frail form. “Please, Rook…”

For a while—whether an eternity or merely a few seconds, it’s hard to discern—he watches you fade in and out of consciousness, your groans a haunting melody in the discomforting quiet. Eventually, his hand finds yours on the table, limp and twitching, and envelops it in a firm hold.

Blissfully ignorant to your wheezing gasps, he begins to murmur: “‘Out—out are the lights—out all. And, over each quivering form, the curtain, a funeral pall, comes down with the rush of a storm. While the angels, all pallid and wan, uprising, unveiling, affirm that the play is the tragedy, ‘Man.’” He looms over you like a ghastly shadow, lips arranged in a gleeful grin. “‘And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.’”

The time is 11:11 at night when you finally fall into Death’s frigid embrace, never to wake again. 

11:11 - the mystical time at which the universe tugs celestial cotton from its ears and listens to wishes and woes alike. it is not a promise that all wishes will be granted and all woes will be soothed at this hour.

The time is 11:11 in the morning, and sweet, twittering birdsong flutters into the trophy room through a window left ajar. 

The sun has long since risen, casting radiant beams through the thinning slices between the trees. Rook Hunt hums as he works, deft fingers perusing various cosmetics arranged on a metal tray. Eyeshadow is applied to delicate, paper-thin eyelids, each one pinned open in the permanence of preservation. Glass marbles are set into hollow sockets, colored in memory of the eyes that were once attached to a brain via optic nerves. He matches foundation to the skin tone, which works well to hide meticulous stitching and mottled flesh. He’s humming in tune with the birds, the nearby rushing stream, and the swaying foliage caught up in a wind gust, relishing in nature’s symphony. 

“You claimed you’d finally smile after you’ve learned to love,” Rook observes, petting the top of the head, feeling human hair beneath his rough, calloused palm. “And now you beam brighter than the sun outside! Perhaps it’s because of me? You’ve always been so honest with your heart. It’s a facet I most adore.”

His gaze slides towards the unfinished painting propped against the wall, where an antlered man smiles at his viewer, his green eyes filled with a mysterious forest. 

“Have you always thought me to be prey?” Rook pauses, awaiting an answer, and snatches a lipstick from the selection. “Or maybe this is an artist’s ideal vision… Perhaps it’s a fantasy you’ve wished to see or a place you’ve always wanted to visit. Escapism is most magnificent when it’s comforting.” He opens the lipstick and surveys the color with his observant greens. He inhales deeply and catches notes of the cedarwood cabin walls and the floral perfume he spritzed on his dear artiste. “Though it may not be your masterpiece, it’s one that will forever fascinate.”

Red blooms on dry lips that can no longer scream or protest. He cups a cheek stuffed with the finest wood wool, palming an area that was once bruised and broken. The grisly mark has been painted over, and now it is out of sight and, as far as the hunter is concerned, out of mind. As the saying goes, before one can broach beauty, one must suffer some degree of destruction. 

Rook steps down from the ladder and sets the tray of cosmetics on the gold-and-white satin chair. He lifts his hands, fingers forming the borders of a rectangle to frame you in his own portrait. At long last, the headless mount has its head and the pyramid of trophies is complete. There’s a crooked smile sewn into features expertly stitched to finalize beguiling taxidermy. 

With a covert grin, Rook peers through his fingers at your head situated at the very tip of a tragic triangle.

“After all, prey are the prettiest when they’re dyed scarlet.”

[valakiir]

So i was looking at the official moorbounder art and it's starting to bug me. It's a really cool design, don't get me wrong, i do like it, but the length / positioning of the tusks just seemed off to me for some reason. I think i finally figured out why!

(Official art above)

((The biologist in me is speaking now, prepare for me to dive into the practicalities of dnd monsters))

The moorbounder's tusks arc up and back, appearing to grow from the lower jaw. They seem to spiral a little like ram horns imo. Looking at them, trying to infer what their purpose is, there are a couple options. The curve of the tusk means it doesnt work well as a cutting or holding feature -- the tips are pointed too far back and around bc of the spiral shape. Assuming they are like ram horns, they could be used similarly in territorial fights. They could also be used, in a similar vein, to bludgeon opponents with the side of their heads. Again the curve of the tusk means it wont pierce anything in front of it. It would be difficult to pierce /anything/ with them.

My second thought was that they were used for defence. Looking at where that curve places the tusk in relation to the rest of the head, it could easily function as protection for the eyes (this could also be why their pupils are such a unique shape -- to avoid having a massive blind spot on the sides of their heads). Moorbounder eyes, looking at them now, are not actually placed forward on the head, the norm of ground predators (birds of prey have their own reasons behind their anatomy). This means they are likely not the top of the food chain -- even that they have a different creature predating frequently on them that they need to watch for. The small ears imply they do not rely heavily on hearing (they have little to help funnel noise into the ear canal), so im going to make the assumption they rely primarily on scent to hunt -- but this is getting off topic. The lack of large ears may also have developed due to their agressive nature -- less skin to get caught or torn in a fight. The tusks might be a large enough curve to protect the ears, even. It is difficult to tell exactly from the art. Another point toward the tusks acting as a guard for the sides of the head.

Another option is that they are used to attract mates. Natural selection just encouraging larger tusks until we have what is shown in the art.

This is not what bothers me. The problem I have is how far the tusks extend /forward/. From what I can tell, the forward curve of the tusks reach about the tip of the nose. This is another hint that they might be used in a forward bludgeoning motion, however there is a problem with this. How are they supposed to bite? The tusks would press against anything the moorbounder is reaching for and hold it away. There are long whiskers extending from the nose, I'm assuming, with great confidence, to feel past those tusks.

My theory is that the curve of those tusks, while /natural/, is not actually observed in wild moorbounders. My guess is while those tusks grow continuously throughout the moorbounder's life, they are worn down through use. Captive moorbounders would likely not have to grind down on bone or protective plating -- their food is provided for them. Nor would there be any need to, say, mark territory by scratching the tusks against trees or other landmarks. If this is the case, wild moorbounders would have much shorter tusks, tusks that would actually be useful in biting, cutting, and holding. Moorbounders are agressive enough, filing their tusks down would be very difficult -- down right dangerous -- and because they are used primarily as mounts, not pit-fighters, the chore is easier neglected.

Another option, of course, is that the full curve of the tusks is a mark of age, and only seen in captivity because moorbounders don't live that long in the wild. This would be because it gets more and more difficult to catch prey as the tusks grow. The oldest moorbounders would essentially die of starvation. This means they live /much/ longer in captivity.

Yet another possibility is that the tusks are not teeth or horn -- they are like antlers. If those large tusks are grown and shed in a mating season when they are most aggressive, it would make sense that they would want to protect the head. It means moorbounders would not be able to eat during that period of time, but this is not unheard of in nature.

If the tusks grow from the upper jaw, this whole arguement is rendered largely irrelevant btw, and i will hide in my corner in embarrassment if that was actually addressed. They would still be inconvenient, but not prohibitive.

Overall, i am of the opinion wild moorbounder tusks are much shorter due to use, and irresponsible ownership is the reason we see the large curving tusks in the official art.

I appreciate you coming to my TED talk.

[avocado-writing]

we need a rewrite of the tiefling party where tav can actually convince wyll to join the party and have fun please 🥹

notes: love love love writing for Wyll. he's such a sweetie! Implied bard reader but not explicit.

rating: T, but there will be a spicy part 2 coming up!

The party is lively and your head is swimming from the buzz of attention. That, and the small amount of wine you’ve had: not so much as to dull your senses but enough to make you merry. Warmed with Arkhen’s Hoard you take a break from the grateful tieflings and head out towards the familiar babble of the river. The further from camp you go the quieter your surroundings get, and you’re able to breathe a little more easily knowing there aren’t half a dozen children hanging on your every word. It’s lovely to be the centre of attention because you helped them, but a little overwhelming with all those eyes on you.

Of course, that’s not the only reason that you’ve come wandering over this way.

Wyll sits with his legs crossed on the bank, staring at the way the water dances under the moonlight. He seems at peace, the calmest he’s been since Mizora appeared and sprouted those horns for him; shoulders relaxed, tensionless. 

“Wondered where you were,” you say, quietly. You don’t want to make him jump after all. It hurts your heart to see the way that his body stiffens when he hears your voice. Ah: there’s the tension again. Nevertheless, he turns to look at you over his shoulder, an easy smile on his lips - but one with a hint of sadness. You’ve studied his face enough in camp in order to know when he’s trying to hide something. It makes your heart ache bitterly that he would try and hide it from you, though. 

“Thought I’d be able to sneak away. Should have known you’d be able to find me.”

You take a seat next to him in the grass. It’s a soft spot he’s managed to pick, not wet from its proximity to the river, but green and lush from its plentiful feeding. You lock eyes with him and press a hand to your chest, mock-wounded.

“Wyll! You make me sound like I’m a bloodhound tracking you down, not someone who cares about you checking in.”

He laughs, and you see him begin to lighten again. When he smiles this time, it’s sincere.

“That’s not what I meant. Apologies. Just that I’m not surprised you know me well enough to guess where I’d end up.”

“Down by the river,” you hum, fingers suddenly itching for the feel of a lute’s strings. 

“You’re always singing that, you know?”

“I am, it’s a good song. I’ve never once heard you complain about it.”

“I’m not complaining! I never would, I love to hear you sing. Since I joined you on this journey, my life has been filled with so much music. It’s been wonderful.”

You put your hands behind you and lean back on them, allowing your face to become level with his. He looks into your eyes and, this close, you can see his breath hitch a little when your fingers brush together.

“I could be persuaded to do an impromptu performance, but I’d need my favourite person in the front row to give me courage.”

“I’m sure that you don’t need me for that. Courage is the one thing you couldn’t possibly lack.”

“To be my muse, then.”

You know if you lifted your hand and felt his cheek, it’d be warm.

“Please, Wyll,” you continue, softly. “Please come and join us. Everybody wants you there. Me especially, if I’m being selfish.”

“Ah…” you can see he’s warring with himself. On one side of the argument, he longs to indulge you. On the other side…

“I’m not sure. I think people may find me off-putting.”

You furrow your brow.

“You? The single most charming man I’ve ever met?”

Another flash of shyness over his face. You can tell that he enjoys the compliment, but his self-doubt wins out.

“Perhaps I was, before the horns.”

“Oh, Wyll. Do you think anybody up there cares about those? A group of your friends and people you fought tooth and nail to protect? I know for a fact that Karlach wants to challenge you to a drinking game.”

“That seems like more of a reason to hide! I think she’d drink me under one of the tables,” Wyll grimaces, and smiles when you laugh at his silliness. He seems a little more open to the idea, but still not completely sold.

“I don’t know… just… the children…”

“The children who love you and hang on your every word? Umi won’t stop asking me where you are, and someone needs to keep Mol in line…”

“I doubt even the gods themselves can do that.”

When he chuckles you find yourself reaching out to cup his cheek, running your thumb over the sharp ridge that was raised there when Mizora cursed him. His eyes widen and glaze over before sliding closed, nuzzling into the gesture, soul laid bare to the sweetness of your touch. 

 “Nobody feels unsettled by you. Nobody is afraid of you.”

His lips fall apart, anticipating the way you reach in to kiss him.

It’s a soft kiss. Lips dancing slowly, a waltz, noses bumping together a little, his horns grazing your hairline. Your heart soars at it.

When it’s over you sit there and breathe together. Sharing the same air, letting your blood thrum through you in an intertwined heartbeat.

“Will you come and join us? Will you come and dance with me?” you ask.

Wyll loses the argument with himself.

“Yes.”

taglist: @ghosti02art @sadandanxiouswtf @yeethaw13 @trappedinlimbo15 @infinitely-kate @dhampling @wereallbrokenangels @tilldeathdonugget

[certifieddilfenjoyer]

Why is Haarlep so different from Raphael - a theory

Hello! Welcome to another theory of mine.

"I am Haarlep. Raphael's personal incubus. Glamoured and transfigured to look like him. I'm a perfect copy(...)"

Hold your horses, sir Wait, they are nonbinary: Hold your horses, noble.

Haarlep states that they are a perfect copy, however there are some major differences in their appearance that could not be caused simply by the visual age difference.*

Haarlep's face has a few major differences:

Lack of darkened skin around the facial hair area (they appear a lot smoother).

The nose is straight and while the tip is shaped similarly, there is no bump across the bridge. They don't even have the cute-angry wrinkles in between the eyes! (Female form has them wrinkles, but the bump is softer)

Maybe it's just me but I was thinking that the upper lip appears to be a bit plumpier.

The face is shorter and because of that, the cheekbones are a lot sharper, Haarlep looks like they had some botox done 💀

The ears appear to be less sharp and shorter (aging hits ears quite hard, but they usually sag and the difference here is with the tip.

Archduchess form does have the roman nose, however the lips are plumpier.

See for yourself below:

And in comparison to Raphael (even to his EA model that has the famous bald spot):

But where is this leading, you may ask?

Well, I am proposing two different perspectives on that:

Haarlep's 'tweaks' point to Raphael's insecurities (a version of theory that my friend @shutexco proposed)

Raphael's devil form resembles MEPHISTOPHELES and he can't stand looking at the actual accurate depiction of his cambion form. Also, if that's the case, take a moment to consider how F-ed up it really is to have Haarlep gifted to him if his father was completely aware of the resemblence. But it would make sense, wouldn't it? Raphael left Cania at some point, but his father made sure he will haunt him all the time.

Have you noticed how Raphael has two portraits of himself that also don't look like him at all?

The second portrait has two horns, so it could be made during the EA, but there is no other similarity.

The first portrait looks like it's wearing some kind of variation of the Helldusk Armor, you can spot the 'Teeth' across the chest, but apart from that and 4 horns, it doesn't look like Raphael at all.

To sum up: the portraits are some kind of a 'vision' of Raphael. For a narcissist he really seems to be avoiding an actual perfect (as in 1to1 accurate) copy of himself.

Also, a few fun facts/smaller theories I'd like to include!

I think he made his own portraits. There are two easels in House of Hope. One behind the Archive (with brushes and cup at the ready and some paint stain spilled below them) and second is on the right hand side of the bed in the boudoir.

Now, the paintings on both easels can be found across Faerun, but the devil portraits are exclusive to HoH and I believe (please fact-check me if you know) that the painting inside Raphael's safe, right above the hoarded treasure, is also exclusive. Raphael is very talented. His diaries are like poetry, full of symbolism, bro is literally a composer, so why not an artist as well? I wouldn't put it past him. And because HoH was made by the head of Mason's Guild, then I guess he had the major influence on the design and I've heard someone say that it's Italian baroque and it's just beautiful.

Here's the Magic the Gathering card of Raphael (I think it was issued in 2022??). It looks more similar to the Statues at House of Hope than the portraits or Haarlep. Oh, btw, I've seen many people saying (mainly on YT and tiktok) that House of Hope is full of Raphael's statues. Not true, those are just cambions

Statues are present not just in HoH but inside Devil's Fee (yes, with both the belt and kneepads)

That's it! Thank you for reading all the way over here, appreciate it so much <3 <3

*Some aging research, specifically for bone structure changes: "As we age we all lose some bone which means that our cheeks flatten, our jaw bone shrinks and our eye sockets get larger. The structure of the face changes so the tissues above the bones will sit differently and so look different." Source "Facial bone loss can lead to retraction of the jawline, which emphasizes jowls and an unstructured neck. Widening eye sockets give your eyes a more sunken appearance and make you look tired. The angle of the bones beneath the eyebrows decreases, which contributes to frown lines on the forehead, droopy eyelids and crow’s feet at the corner of the eyes." Source

So as we can see, Raphael doesn't really suffer from any of those, besides the crow's feet that are imo so gorgeous that I lose my shit, AHFAIHFAJDSKSHA

[sparrowrye]

Demi Demon || Epilogue - Trouble Trouble, Quadruple Trouble

Synopsis: In less than a decade, Alastor's children have found mischief at every turn. What can he say, it runs in their blood.

Master List

WARNING! It's long :)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“We’re going to get in so much trouble…” Lucia whispered loud enough for everyone to hear. Her blond hair had been pulled back in a pony tail, sporting a similar style that her mother, Reagan, used when she was her age. Her younger brother who was too young to have been involved in their scandal was still back home.

“Don’t tell anyone and we won’t,” Piranha snapped over her shoulder as she closed the portal behind them all. Piranha had the striking red hair of her father and the strong, heavy horns of her mother. She was the unlucky soul to have gotten her father’s deer tail while her twin sister got the long, beautiful dragon tail. It was a sore spot between the two of them.

Beside Piranha was Nyx, the other strong personality of their friend group. Nyx’s parents were Angel Dust and Husker, and had the most interesting fur out of everyone. He was mostly black but it looked like someone had splashed white paint all over him. His wings were just as muddled but red and white. His ears were as straight as a stick and his personality a stick in the ass.

“You can always go home,” he said, taking the portal gem from Piranha and putting it in his pocket. The two of them were a deadly pair together despite Piranha being twelve and him being ten. No one would’ve guessed from his personality that he was the youngest of the group.

“This way,” Wren motioned, slipping away from the group and bounding through the forest like a deer. Wren was the younger—smaller—of the Hartfelt twins. She had the same pointy ears as Alastor but they were a little further down on her head and a tad darker thanks to her mother. Her horns were beginning to twist around the back of her head.

The group followed quickly after her, the red scaly tail moving like ocean waves. Everyone except Lucia had summoned a small ball of light to help them see their path. While no one dared to make fun of Lucia’s lack of magic, it was still something she felt each time magic was used around her.

It made her feel small and weak. Just a defenseless Human.

They wandered the forest for a little longer, changing directions left and right and going in circles. Both Piranha and Nyx were growing increasingly annoyed as Wren searched for the entrance.

“We’re going in circles!” Piranha barked first.

“I thought you said you knew where it was,” Nyx added. He never made a mean comment at Wren unless Piranha was visibly annoyed with her sister. He had a scar on the underside of his jaw from where she had attacked him last time he made a comment like that.

“I do!” Wren yelled as she dove across them into another bramble. “I’m just…trying to find it.”

“We only have so much time,” Piranha reminded her.

“I know!” Wren smacked a branch out of her face. “But a forest changes, you know. Things get overgrown.”

“Son of…” Piranha pinched the bridge of her nose. All of them were wearing dark, rough clothing to keep them hidden in the darkness should they need to run or hide. The gala their parents were attending would only last so long and their babysitter would likely get out of their trap soon. They all know that the first pair of parents to be told was the Hartfelts.

“Found it! I found it!”

Everyone hustled over as Wren pried open a metal door of some kind, groaning loudly as she did. Black abyss yawned before them.

There was a moment of silence as old, stale air rushed to the surface. Everyone waited. Were they expecting a monster to come crawling out of it? It wasn’t like anything could survive down there.

"Let’s go." Piranha was the first to take the uneven, lopsided stairs. She sent her ball of light ahead of her to light the way and clean up any bugs or spiders. Wren was the last to enter so she could pull the door—latch?—shut.

Lucia’s legs felt like they were ready to give out. She had no reason to be scared when she was surrounded by three Demons—well, Demon and Demi-Demons—but what would happen if they were all preoccupied or trying to fight while she stood helplessly to the side? Without them, she was dead. She had a pocket knife but that only did so much, and did exactly nothing against a Demon or mage.

Even so, she shouldn’t be as nervous as she was given that the twins had already had extensive training with their parents. Every Monday they were pulled from classes for magic training and even more on the weekends.

She wished she hadn’t come with them. If she hadn’t, she would be worried sick over their safety and the consequences they’d likely have to face when they went back. It wasn’t the first—or last—time they had corralled her into their mischief. Though Lucia herself never got more than a lecture and some privileges revoked for a few days. The others…she wished she didn't know what their consequences were.

The hair on the back of her neck stood up as the three enhanced their magic to keep fresh air flowing around them. She could always sense when magic was nearby. She seemed to also have a sixth sense for differentiating whose magic was whose without looking.

They continued down the staircase until they came an opening, giving way to a poorly dented warehouse. It looked like it was meant to be much bigger but magic and the earth had crushed it inwards. Old machine belts and rusted parts lay scattered to the sides.

“This is insane,” Nyx breathed, voice echoing in the big space. They clambered down the stairs and over the different machinery. Lucia watched from afar as they crawled around.

“You know..." Wren sprouted red wings and flapped up to the second level, perching like a bird on the railing. “Rumor has it that this place is cursed. And no one even knows where the other one is.”

“Other one, what?” Lucia asked, finding a way up to the second level. Wren was the more reasonable of the three and had her mother’s empathy. It’s what made her and Wren such a good pair (when Wren wasn’t around the other two).

“This was the first battle. The second one is in frozen land. They made that one sink too,” Wren explained. Lucia shivered. It always felt like she was too cold. “It’s also where your mother was asked to join Blackwater.”

The name made everyone’s fur and hair stick up. They had heard the haunting stories of the man who nearly killed the Hartfelts; of the man who had divine intervention just so he could destroy the city. Wren and Piranha had heard plenty of what the man was capable of but they never got the exact details of the big showdown. Alastor seemed willing to share but his soulmate kept him quiet.

Lucia stared at her friend. Her mother, Reagan, had mentioned Blackwater when Lucia was having trouble making friends at school. She was one of the few, rare souls who didn’t have magic and her mother had suffered similar troubles. Reagan was always trying to help her find her confidence in being a true Human, but it didn’t seem to have the effect she wanted.

What surprised Lucia the most was that Wren knew about the potential agreement between Reagan and Blackwater. Reagan had told her to keep it quiet and not mention the incident to other people. Apparently the potential agreement had sown seeds of doubt in the community back then and made it even harder for her mother to make friends, too. How did Wren know about this?

“How do you know so much?” Piranha demanded, speaking her thoughts.

“Ma told me,” Wren replied, walking on the old railing like a tightrope.

“When did Ma tell you?” Piranha was obviously upset and hurt that she wasn’t told any of this information.

“Sometimes she lets things slip if I catch her in a sympathetic mood.” Wren flashed an evil smile over her shoulder. Everyone knew she was more quiet and empathetic around people. She was known for having all kinds of information just from acting quiet, shy, and understanding.

Lucia had discovered within a week of being friends with her that she had a very different personality on the inside.

Piranha used wind to push her sister off balance. It did nothing since Wren’s wings were already outstretched but it was still an inconvenience. Lucia waited for her friend to fly back up.

“Do you think there’s cameras here?” Nyx asked as he, too, flapped up to join them. It was so strange to see the bright red linings of his wings flash as he did. It was a little disorienting.

“Electricity won’t work here,” Piranha answered. She used a dark purple tentacle to pull herself up to the landing. She had perfectly capable wings but it was far faster to use tentacles instead of sprouting the wings for a small jump. Her sister, however, lacked the tentacle feature.

“Magic makes anything possible,” Nyx said as he opened a random door and peered in. Everything was covered in spiderwebs and the metal was peeling away to reveal more rust.

"What if someone's here?" Lucia asked, sparked with the sudden feeling that they weren't alone.

"Relax, dear," Piranha said as she and Nyx examined the screens mounted on the wall, "Blackwater is long gone. We're just exploring."

Lucia hated when Piranha called her 'dear'. It was a term that Alastor used on other people and his daughter had his way of making it sound like an insult. "Then I really don't think we should try messing with anything. He was an inventor. What if some of his things came to life?"

"He didn't create technology that could think for itself," Nyx said just as condescendingly, "besides, it's all ancient anyways."

"But...didn't he make devices that could stop someone's magic?"

"Why does that bother you?" Piranha asked. She realized an instant later that she shouldn't have said that. Lucia's head fell and she shifted her weight between her feet. "Sorry. It should be fine."

"There should be a generator that we can power back on. Let's go find it," Nyx offered, trying to turn the conversation around and give them all something to do.

The remark still stung as they explored the hallways branching off the warehouse. Wren and Lucia walked silently together in one direction while Nyx and Piranha went the other way, not without all promising not to pull any dark jokes while they were down here.

Wren was already attuned to her friend's mood and tried to think of ways to make her feel better. She was normally good at that but whenever it came to the subject of Lucia's lack of magic...it wasn't quite so easy.

So, Wren went the curiosity route. "You know, when I was sneaking around the city, I heard people talking about the ring fights."

"What about them?" Lucia asked, still hurt and trying not to sound too deflated.

"They were mostly talking about how my ma was raised in them but they mentioned your mother a few times."

That made Lucia lift her head, all traces of defeat gone from her shoulders. Her mother occasionally mentioned the rings she used to fight in but it was nothing more than a mention when she was trying to make Lucia feel grateful for the little city. "What did they say?"

Wren smiled, her pointy ear flicking like it usually did when she got happy. She slid her hands in her pocket as she recounted the conversation, "It was mostly about how fitting it was for Ma to adopt your mother. They said they were both ruthless and aggressive. But then someone else said that they had to be, especially if Ma didn't use all her power and your mother had none. Not many pure Humans can survive ring fights."

Lucia let out a sigh as she stepped closer so their arms brushed. "I wish she would tell me more."

"Me too," Wren agreed, referring to both mothers. Technically speaking, Reagan was Wren's adopted sister but she was treated more like an aunt because of the age difference. She, Uncle Husker, and Aunt Charlie and Vaggie were the only souls who were allowed to babysit them. Aunt Rosie's was a special getaway every now and then.

It wasn't a secret that Mrs. Hartfelt, the Dragon Demon, was overly protective over her and Piranha. It wasn't until last year that they were starting to have more freedom around the city. They didn't have to explain where they were going or what they were doing to the tiniest detail. Now, they could go anywhere so long as they stayed in the city and went back to the house before dark.

However, both Wren and Piranha knew their mother could always sense where they were in the city. Their father wasn't that far off either, though he was more of the retriever if something went wrong. And when he came after them, they might as well give up. No one could hide from him.

"Is that why you guys wanted to come here?" Lucia asked as they peered into an empty room. The warehouse had clearly been cleaned or looted before they arrived. Aside from rust, there were obvious signs of fire damage likely from when it went underground.

"I know we're not really teenagers yet but it feels like they still treat us like we're two years old," Wren admitted. Lucia had heard about the difficulties between the family. "Pa wants to tell us more. I can see it sometimes. But Ma...it feels...I don't know...it feels like she doesn't trust us."

"Trust you in what way?" They had come to a stop. Wren's eyes were downcast and her tail curled around her right leg.

"Trust us to take care of ourselves. Trust us to learn new things. I just...I don't know. It's weird when it feels like Pa wants us to be adults as soon as possible and Ma wants us to stay as little kids. But even Pa keeps certain adult things from us. It's just...so confusing."

"I'm sorry," Lucia sympathized, placing a light hand on her friend's back. Wren was several inches taller than her, thanks to her father's genes, but in that moment she looked exactly her age. She put her arm around Lucia's shoulders and they stood there in that embrace for a few heartbeats.

"Thank you for listening," Wren said, giving a final squeeze before letting go.

"Thank you for talking. I feel like you never talk to people about anything."

"I talk just fine," Wren's tone turned lighter as she tried to change the atmosphere. "People just talk too--"

Lights flickered on with a loud thud somewhere in the walls. Wren's light slipped away as they furiously blinked their eyes to adjust to the bright light.

Found it, Piranha's voice whispered quietly in Wren's head. Every now and then the two of them were able to 'Mind Talk', as they called it. It happened at random points and they were never quite able to harness the ability. It was something they kept as their own little secret from other people, including their parents who had a strange severed-and-patched bond.

"Are we sure there's no one in here?" Lucia asked, still unable to shake the feeling of being watched.

"Maybe you're sensing Blackwater's ghost," Wren teased, twiddling her fingers Lucia's face. She smacked Wren's hand away as they walked back to the main area.

Piranha and Nyx were already on the second floor of the warehouse and looking through old computers and screens. Wren was now in a joking mood, "Careful, Vox might jump out at you."

"That electric shark can't access anything that doesn't have Internet," Piranha replied without looking at them. Pa had been adamant about keeping technology out of the house. They were only allowed to use their phones on the porch and he always seemed to know when they tried to sneak their phones in their rooms.

"Look, surveillance footage!" Nyx hurriedly clicked on a file and all the screens lit up with old footage of the warehouse in its prime.

"Find the big fight," Piranha eagerly tapped his shoulder.

"There's millions of hours on this thing. How do I know which one to click on?"

"Go to the very end," Lucia suggested, "It all stopped working when the big fight happened."

The three of them smiled brightly at her before scrolling through the timestamps. Wren gave her a light nudge with her wing. Lucia's cheeks hurt as she beamed proudly.

"There!" Piranha pointed to a random screen. Alastor's red coat had crossed the view. Nyx backed it up and watched as he disappeared into the room, along with Blackwater, and finally his soulmate. Then he pressed play.

“Is that Ma?” Wren asked, jaw agape. They had seen a few pictures of their mother but they hadn’t seen any of her that young. They watched as Blackwater, adorned in his gray cloak, wielded fire and wind. He kept both of them at bay each time they charged him.

"How is he doing that?" Piranha leaned closer. "He's a Human."

"Probably one of his inventions," Nyx growled, claws digging into the counter.

They watched in awe and horror as the events unfolded like a movie, holding their breath and shuffling between screens to keep watching. They watched claws impale skin and fire nearly melt skin. They had never seen Alastor move like that: so fast, so agile, and so aggressive.

They saw Reagan—even younger—hold onto her adoptive mother. Then pieces of the warehouse started to contort and break away as Alastor shoved it into the earth through magic alone.

Then the screens went dark.

Everyone stared at the screens for a moment longer. They had never seen a fight like that before. They had never been told the events of what transpired in the battles. It was always some horrible memory, some secretive event that their parents tried to shove down and forget about.

“Whoah,” Nyx breathed.

“Where is that room?" Piranha asked.

All at once everyone left the room to look around on the second floor. Everything looked the same so it was hard to figure out which room was which. Some were missing doors and others were bent in half. They moved quietly, muscles tense and ready as if Blackwater himself would jump out of the walls.

Wren stepped into one of the rooms and froze. The air felt thick. She pinned her ears back as she pulled her magic up for the ready. But she found she couldn’t. Panic rose in her chest as her eyes scanned the room. No one was here. Nothing but rust and blood scattered along the floor and walls.

She stumbled out of the room, teeth bared and ready for something to jump out at her. But nothing did.

“What’s wrong?” Lucia asked, drawing the other pair’s attention. Wren’s magic was back and her eyes went dark as she summoned most of it to the surface.

She didn’t answer. She clung to the feeling of her magic ready in her hands and mind. She snarled at the space as if it was alive, staring her down and licking its lips hungrily. Ma had told her plenty about the feeling of losing magic but that was the first time Wren had actually experienced it.

And she didn’t like it.

“You found it, didn’t you?” Piranha and Nyx hurried over. They stuck their hand past the entrance but nothing happened. Lucia waited beside Wren, taking special notice of the small tremors in her hands.

Nyx went in first. He took one step and froze just as Wren had. His fur stood straight up and a shiver racked his body. He stepped out and let Piranha try, resulting in a similar reaction.

“That’s terrifying,” Piranha whispered. “How did Ma get out?”

“The footage showed the door getting burned. But if this was active—”

All three Demons went rigid, ears ramrod straight. Slowly, they all turned their heads in the direction of the staircase. Lucia couldn’t hear what they could but the looks in their eyes told her exactly what she needed to know.

Piranha lunged over the railing, wings sprouting before she hit the ground, and soared into the lower hallways. Nyx grabbed Lucia’s arm and lowered her down. The three of them disappeared into the hallways right as the lights went out.

Nyx and Wren used magic for light until they caught up with Piranha who had killed the lights. She spoke through heavy gasps, “That explains…the good...conditions…of the wires.”

“So someone lives here?” Lucia questioned, tone brimming with an ‘I told you so’.

“Several someone’s by the sound of it,” Nyx said with a glance down the hall. “Well, I think we’ve learned enough.” He reached in his pocket to withdraw the portal gem.

“Remember, don’t tell anyone about this,” Piranha reminded everyone but pointedly looked at Lucia.

“I’m not gonna tell!” Lucia whined.

“Mmhm.” Nyx finally pulled out the large gem and rubbed it.

A gunshot exploded in their ears. Nyx let out a cry as he dropped the gem to clutch his hand. The gem shattered on the floor into a million pieces.

Piranha and Wren instantly put a shield up as Nyx fell to his knees. Lucis watched in stunned silence, hand over her mouth.

“Tell me your names and I’ll keep this next bullet to myself,” the man shouted from down the hall. He was glowing all kinds of blues and whites with an equally glowing handgun. A pointy, fishy tail swept behind him.

His demand was never met. Piranha snuffed out their own lights and shrouded the man in shadows. He let out a yell as the twins dragged Nyx into a nearby room. Wren summoned a rag and pressed it down on his bleeding hand.

There was so much blood.

“What do we do?” Wren asked. “The gem is gone. We can’t get home.”

“We need to get to the surface first,” Piranha answered. Something in her shifted like a light switch. “They know we’re here. They’ve got weapons so they’re probably Slight Humans.”

She peered around the corner. The group had gathered at the end of the hall, lights flashing around wildly. They had been trained for this but never actually had to experience it.

“Nyx you gotta get up!” Piranha snapped. The boy’s tear streaked face looked up at her, pleading for the pain to stop.

“It…hurts.” A whine scratched the back of his throat. Lucia started to cry.

Piranha casted loose metal down the hall. More yells and several figures tried to dodge it in the small confines of the hallway. She whirled around and gripped Lucia hard by the shoulders. Her red pupils glowed in the darkness like something out of a nightmare.

“You’re in charge of Nyx. I need you to get him up those stairs. You don’t leave his side, understand?”

Lucia couldn’t answer. Piranha shook her shoulders then casted water across her eyes. Lucia furiously rubbed at them as Piranha demanded once more. “Got it?”

“Got it!” Lucia yelled back, tears mixing with the water.

Piranha grabbed her sister’s arm and yanked her up. “You and I are going to push them back. We’re going to be a moving shield.”

Wren nodded. They peered around the door and casted a strong gust of wind down the hallway. They snapped at Lucia to move and she sputtered to a start, hand grabbed Nyx’s good arm to pull him up. He was bigger but she was his guide in the blinding pain.

“Now!”

The twins jumped out and put up their shield. Their magenta magic blended perfectly together as they casted wind over their shoulders. Deafening gun shots echoed off the walls but they never made their mark. They chimed on the metal floor against such powerful wind. Those that did get through bounced off the invisible shield.

The men continued to yell and shoot but the girls kept going. Their ears adjusted to the horrible noise and their combined magic fueled their energy. Alone, they wouldn’t be able to last this long. Together? They were unstoppable.

They passed the stairs and held their ground to let Nyx and Lucia up. Nyx continued to whine and groan from his cradled hand, the red matching his feathers and making his white spots look as dark as his black fur.

They crossed the main area as the girls backtracked up the stairs. The men chased, still shooting and using up their ammunition. Lucia swallowed the urge to get sick as she dragged Nyx blindly up the next set of stairs. She was operating entirely off of memory and the quick light from each gunshot.

The girls shoved the men further back then disappeared around the wall. They flew up to the second floor then opened another shield. More space made it harder to defend so they wrapped their shield like a dome.

The men had stopped shooting and were now just yelling. They spat curses and growled like feral dogs despite being a fish species. In the open area with their own lights reflecting off the walls, the girls could recognize the pattern on their shirts: VoxTech

It didn’t make sense considering the deal Vox and their Ma had, but they didn’t have time to think. “Go help Nyx. Get him up the stairs so I can fly up,” Piranha ordered.

“Are you sure?” Wren asked, sparing a brief glance at her.

“Yes! Now go!”

Wren hesitated. Then she let a deep growl and ran up the stairs. Her magic stayed connected with her sister but the shield wasn’t as strong as before.

“What is VoxTech doing down here?” Piranha shouted at them.

“None of your fucking business, that’s what.” He snapped the gun up but the bullet bounced off the shield again. This time Piranha felt the magic ripple through her arms in protest.

She looked over her shoulder to see the others moving around the curve. They were more than halfway there. In the forest they could defend better. They all, including Lucia, knew how to run and hide.

“We were just exploring,” Piranha said next. When she turned around they weren’t where they had been. They climbed the first set of stairs to be on the second level with her. She scrambled up the stairs and casted a strong gust of wind as soon as they poked their heads around the corner.

Two of the five hit the railing and fell over. The other three hid behind the wall, reloading their weapons. The sound sent a chill down her spine. She couldn’t hold a shield against that much ammunition on her own.

An idea came to mind and she instantly acted on it. Her tentacles slipped from her back and slithered down the stairs. She kept them small as they rounded the corner. Then it grew five times it size and wrapped around the nearest person, yanking them into the railing and pulling their head the rest of the way.

Then she slammed it back towards the wall and felt it connect with a body. His head bounced off the wall and his body collapsed a second later.

Blinding white pain pulsed like electricity down her back. The tentacles retracted but not before she saw black blood dripping off it. The man peered around the corner to open fire again. The first few missed her by a hair before she could snap her shield back up.

Wind whistled down the stairs and yanked the gun out of his hand. He reached for another in his belt but his body was thrown back, the railing bending from his weight and giving out entirely.

Piranha dropped the shield with a sigh and hurried up the stairs. Wren had been watching from the corner. Faint blue light shone on the walls behind her. The other two had made it.

Piranha dropped to all fours to climb, exhaustion seeping in her bones and a migraine taking root. How were they going to explain Nyx’s hand? It depended entirely on what the wound looked like.

A louder, much more devastating gunshot exploded from behind. It practically flew in slow motion but Piranha knew she wasn’t going to avoid it. It whistled like a bird as it cut through the air unnaturally and chewed into her leg.

Wren’s shield went up too late. Piranha cried out as she collapsed on the stairs. Not even half a second later, the bullet bounced off the wall and struck Wren in the face.

The shield fell as pain took hold of her head. Both girls felt their magic slip from their grips like oil. It was there but they couldn’t quite grab it. True panic settled in as they scrambled for the surface.

Another gun shot.

This one bounced off the walls but didn’t touch either of them. Nyx appeared at Piranha’s side and dragged her the rest of the way.

Another gun shot.

It sliced through his shield like butter. He casted wind down the staircase to hold them off. His muscles protested as he practically carried Piranha up with his good arm. Wren blindly followed the slope of the stairs ahead, Lucia shouting their names like a beacon.

Everyone was crying and bleeding. This night had gone completely awry. They weren’t supposed to run into a group of five murderous men. The four of them were just kids. Why were they attacking children?

But they all knew the answer. Their parents had enemies which made them fair game.

And that didn’t sit right with me.

Shadows pulled from the floor and stretched down the walls like a disease. The wind abruptly stopped and the men hurried around the corner for their stroke of good luck. Well, now it was extreme unluck.

Their eyes widened as they took in the sight of my silhouetted form. My horns sprouted wide, my tail lashed behind me, and my claws curled into a half closed first as more magic swam to the surface. A moment later, Alastor manifested beside me. We were still adorned in our evening gala outfits.

“I get the one with the Angelic gun,” I muttered to Alastor.

“The rest are mine.” He didn’t wait a moment longer. His form stretched and grew as he stepped over the children with precision. The men ran for their lives as his huge yellow smile chased after them.

I lunged over the children and used the wall to slow my descent. My magic stretched back for the children and teleported them home; back to the cliffside.

Alastor had eaten two of the men by the time I got down. I pushed away the haunting memories as my magic yanked my target back into the main room. He instantly trained the gun at me but my magic pinned his arm to the floor. He began to writhe and scream, apologizing and begging me to let him live.

Swallowing the anger that was already boiling on the surface, I pounded my foot into his chest and leaned on that knee. “I’ll consider your life if you answer some questions.”

“S-Sure,” he stuttered, eyes flickering to Alastor who swallowed his last friend.

“Why is VoxTech trying to kill our children?”

“We—we didn’t know! We didn’t know those were your kids.”

“Really? The striking resemblance didn’t help you put two and two together?” I pressed my foot harder into his chest. The rest of his limbs were paralyzed with magic.

“It was dark!” he tried. “Please. We were told to kill anyone who finds this place. We couldn’t see what they looked like.”

“Bullshit,” I hissed. My footclaws punctured his clothes and into his skin. Alastor came to stand behind me, towering over the two of us with his eyes still black.

“What does Vox want with this place?”

“I-I don’t know. Please. We’re just told to keep it up and running. Please.”

I wanted to kill him. I had been itching for more flesh to rip and more blood to drink. It had been a long time since I had a good fight with someone but this just left me unsatisfied.

“Fine,” I mumbled, taking my foot of his chest and releasing his hands. Alastor’s anger simmered but he didn’t step in, mind reading mine. “I’ll send a message to Vox. Now go.”

The man didn’t waste any time. He scrambled to his feet and climbed both set of stairs. His feet sagged and it each step was like carrying a cinderblock. Eventually he fell to his knees, unable to go any further. His lungs weren’t working and his throat was practically closed.

Alastor and I appeared at the top entrance to the staircase. Our shadows fell over him and his wild, panicked eyes looked up at us.

My voice now dripped with satisfaction, “You are the message.”

Then the man collapsed.

****

Lucia handed a towel to Nyx. Piranha’s blood loss was slowing down but hadn’t stopped entirely yet. She hissed as he pressed hard on the wound. Her fingers turned to claws and she punctured the wood planks of the kitchen floor. His own hand was wrapped in a rag and cradled on his leg.

Lucia went to Wren with another towel and pressed it against the wound on her forehead. All of them were silent save for their heavy breathing and their pounding hearts.

Not only had they been caught, but they had been in danger when they had.

Lucia and Nyx would probably suffer a lecture from the Hartfelts but their consequences would come from their parents. Lucia would get the least punishment thanks to the mercy of her mother’s understanding. Nyx would have to suffer his parents’ yelling and all the neighbors would know what he had done.

But the twins?

Lucia and Nyx both exchanged looks. It was no secret that the Hartfelts were hard on the girls. It had been expected, actually, but this was one of the worst things the twins had done. They left the city grounds (breaking a rule), snuck away at night (breaking a second rule), stole a gem to teleport (breaking a third rule), and went to the very place their parents didn’t talk about.

The Hartfelts would never physically hurt their children. Sure, they had tempers to rival the entirety of Hell but they would never hurt their children. The consequences, though, would be severe and last a long time. That was how they dished out punishments. And they all had an inkling that they wouldn’t see each other again for quite some time.

There was a disturbance in the wind and they all knew what that meant.

I walked in first. Lucia scrambled out of the way as I knelt beside Wren. Her matching eyes were hidden behind tight eyelids. I touched her shoulder then lightly touched the base of the wound between her eyes. My finger moved along the rest of the wound until her skin had healed exactly the way it had been.

Then I moved over to Piranha. Her head was turned away but her hands still clutched the wounded leg. I touched her thigh and put my other hand directly over the wound. She flinched at the feeling of skin stitching back together but said nothing.

Lastly, I turned to Nyx. I held out my hand and he gingerly placed his claw on top, uncurling his sticky fingers to do so. His other hand fisted his shirt from the pain of healing a deep wound. Only a few whimpers got through.

“Take Lucia home,” Alastor demanded Nyx as the boy stood up, “Then return home yourself. Your parents are waiting for you both.”

Nyx’s ears were drooping and if Lucia had a set they would also look like that. Nyx had always been aware of the deal between his father and Alastor, but it didn’t take long for the boy to develop his own sense of fear of the man.

Nyx grabbed Lucia’s hand and crept past Alastor. His eyes never left his shoulder as if scared that he would suddenly pounce on the poor boy. Lucia kept her head down as they left through the kitchen door.

Then Alastor turned his attention to the girls.

I stood up beside him, mirroring his stance with both arms behind his back. Our thoughts were clashing over how we wanted this to go down. We couldn’t agree.

“Change into proper clothing, then come down,” he commanded. The girls said nothing as they slowly pushed themselves to their feet. They walked down the short hall and climbed the stairs, eyes glued to the floor.

Alastor and I went into the living room. He sat in one of the chairs by the fire and pinched the bridge of his nose. I sat in the other chair and rested my forehead in my hands. That’s when I noticed I was shaking.

We had almost lost our girls. If I hadn’t found them in time they would’ve been dead. If my soul wasn’t somehow still tethered to those girls, we may have never found them. On top of that, they were almost killed by an unruly group of Humans rather than by some strong, powerful foe. Something so small and insignificant almost cost us our girls.

And they were employed by Vox no less. Whether or not he told his men my children were fair game didn’t matter. He was going to suffer the consequences more than what Wren and Piranha would.

Tapping filled the room. Tapping from Alastor’s claw on his cane, tapping from my finger on the armrest, tapping from his foot, and tapping from my tail. We hadn’t expended nearly enough violence to feel the just of almost losing our children.

I breathed out slowly through my mouth. I needed to calm down. I needed to be calm because Alastor was not. One of us needed to be rational and objective for this. Even as I thought that, I found I couldn’t calm the furry and panic still in my chest.

We almost lost them.

Alastor and I met eyes at the connected thought. Our bond had grown in the years and we were discovering more and more about its limits. We often had similar train of thoughts and feelings but literal thought phrases were never heard. It was a strange kind of connection, almost like our minds were melded into one, but somehow still kept each other out of our immediate thoughts.

The girls’ slow footsteps made our ears twitch. I took another deep breath as they gradually descended the stairs, prolonging the inevitable. I tried to remind myself that this was the first time they had just experienced a near death encounter. I wanted to wait to let them grasp that reality but the other part wanted to ram home the idea.

Piranha was dressed in her usual outfit: red, wide slacks and a black shortsleeve that ruffled loosely around her elbows. Wren wore her maroon dress pants and a plaid black and white vest. She had loose white sleeves underneath and topped with a white bow on her chest. This was one of her nicer outfits and she clearly chose to wear it to appease the parent who cared about appearances: Alastor.

They avoided eye contact as they sat on the couch. Muscle memory kicked in as they crossed their legs and folded their hands neatly in their laps. With their heads still bowed they made sure to sit up straight.

For a long time, no one said anything. The fire crackled and popped and the house creaked against the coastal wind. Alastor was attempting to choose his words wisely and I let him be the first to speak.

“What the hell were you thinking?” His voice was quiet and controlled despite the storm I could sense festering in his chest.

Neither girl answered.

The storm exploded. He slammed his cane down and shot to his feet. “What the hell were you thinking!”

“W-We just wanted to see,” Piranha squeaked, “All the stories—”

“Stories?” He crossed the carpet to stand directly in front of them. Their ears fell as they curled inward on themselves. “That’s what you were chasing? Stories where your parents almost died? You wanted to see the place that could’ve been your parent’s graves?”

Both girls hung their heads even lower.

Alastor’s free hand closed and opened repeatedly as he tried to tame the anger. I finally spoke up, “You’re lucky to be alive.”

“We know.”

“No you don’t know,” I snapped, “Those men nearly killed you. They didn’t care that you were children. You know they didn’t care. That’s a fraction of the world you’re playing in when you go out there. Yet you risked it anyways.”

“We didn’t think anyone knew about it,” Wren said quietly, daring a look past her father’s cane to her mother’s angry eyes.

“Of course people know about it.” I gestured widely to the side and leaned back in the chair. “People don’t ever stop talking about Blackwater. They don’t stop talking about the Human who nearly killed two of the most powerful Demons of the century.”

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

“On top of it all, you nearly got your friends killed,” I went on, watching them both wince, “How do you think Husker and Angel and Lucas and Reagan would feel if they came back and were told their child was gone. That their child was dead. Murdered.”

“We get it!” Piranha barked, eyes turning black.

“No you don’t!” I jumped to my feet to meet the challenge. “You don’t know! You don’t know this world. You didn’t know what you were walking into, what you were risking. All four of you could’ve been murdered today and it was all for what? A thrill?”

Alastor stepped forward as Piranha crossed her arms and looked away. The tension still strung high in the air as everyone took a moment to breathe. Wren was in tears but kept quiet.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

Wren obeyed, wiping a tear, but Piranha was stubborn. After he told her again and she didn’t listen, he grabbed her chin and jerked it up to look at him. She bared her teeth but he didn’t respond, still holding her face as he spoke in a barely controlled tone.

“You think you’re invincible because you have magic. Because you’re our children and because you have Demonic and Angelic blood in your veins. But those stories…” The anger simmered down to reveal something a little more…personal. “Those stories leave out the blood, the loss, the pain, and the fear.”

Both girls blinked at him. He released Piranha’s chin but she continued to stare, sensing a deeper emotion that she had never known her father to express, let alone even have.

“You are not us,” he said with finality, “But you are our children. That paints a red mark on your backs. When you leave this city, the world wants a piece of you. You are safe here and have the luxury of growing up with two parents and training at a pace you enjoy. Why would you give that up?”

Silence hung even thicker in the air. Even I was shocked by his words. He was rarely that raw with me and this was the first time he was speaking to them like this. He was speaking to them like adults and he was speaking in such a caring way.

“We didn’t mean to cause trouble,” Wren’s voice cracked. “We just…”

“You never talk about him,” Piranha continued, her anger just as gone, “We only hear stories and we know they’re not always true or accurate. But you never talk about them.”

“Had it ever occurred to you that I wasn’t ready to?” I spoke this time. Their eyes widened. Both their parents were being vulnerable tonight. “Blackwater nearly took away my soulmate twice. And he did it without magic.”

“We fought hard to protect you from the world,” Alastor went on, “Not just from Blackwater. But from Humans and Demons and Angels alike. Don’t walk away from that just because you’re curious. There is nothing but danger awaiting you two.”

“I’m sorry,” they both said at the same time, a habit they had of doing.

I stood from the chair and came to kneel in front of them. Wren had already been silently crying but Piranha was dangerously close to letting a few slip. I held out my hands and waited for them to place their own on top.

“Every choice you make affects your future,” I stressed. I made sure to look them both in the eyes. “Whether that’s something small or something life threatening. Your choices have an impact on your life. Tonight, you chose wrong.”

They looked away again.

I squeezed their hands. “I am grateful that I was able to find you and get you back safe and sound. But next time we might not be able to get to you. Make your future choices wisely.”

I stood up and pulled them with me, hugging them close to my hip. They were already taller than most their age.

They didn’t respond right away. So I held them for a little bit longer until I felt the seals break. Tears soaked my clothes as they clung to me. The weight of everything had finally come crashing down.

Alastor watched and waited. They clung to their mother like a lifeline because she was, indeed, one. They were most likely coming down from the adrenaline rush of the experience and he felt they should be experiencing such a weight on their own. However, he knew I wanted to be a safety net for them. So he let it be.

Once their grips had loosened a bit, I kissed them on the head and told them to go to bed. They weren’t done crying but that was something to handle on their own. They watched me wipe my own tears before sniffling up the stairs to their rooms.

I padded over to the fireplace and stared at the flames. My previous thoughts were coming back to me. I had nearly lost them. They had nearly died. We had protected them for only ten years or so before they experienced their first life and death situation. I had been hoping it would be even longer.

Alastor gently rested his hand on my shoulder. His magic hummed just underneath my skin, wrapping around my mind like a snake. I didn’t respond to it. Everything was bubbling to the surface now that anger had stepped aside.

His hand moved along my back as he set his cane against the chair. I covered my eyes with one hand as a sob got stuck in my throat. I finally turned around and wrapped my arms around him and pressed my face into his jacket.

His strong arms held me close. His soul kept mine grounded and blocked out the other more dangerous thoughts. I tried to focus on the relief at having my girls back safely in their beds. But after everything that happened to us…it felt like too much of a close call.

“Did we fail them?” I whispered.

“No,” he said firmly, chest vibrating as he spoke, “But I fear they are a deadly combination of us.”

I couldn’t help the smile. “Guess they have your stupidity.”

He stiffened. “Excuse me?”

I clung to him and wrapped my tail around his legs as he tried to push me off. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding! Please hug me back.”

He relented with an irritated sigh. “They have your fire and bravery.”

“And your clever mind,” I added sweetly. I lifted my head and went up on my toes to steal a kiss. He followed me back onto my heels, his hair brushing my cheek as he leaned down.

“I suppose Rosie was right,” he said as he touched his forehead to mine, “We’re going to have our hands full the older they become.”

“But we’ll all be okay…right?”

Alastor looked into the fire for a moment. “Right.”

****

Vox growled as he pounded his phone again. Still no answer. Electricity sparked between his antenas as he and his lackey walked along the path to the front door of his station.

“Why isn’t this prick answering?” He shoved his phone in his pocket and clasped his hands behind his back.

“Uh sir…who are we talking about?” The little shark dared to ask.

“Chad. The one who’s running the Blackwater operation.”

“O-oh…what was he supposed to be do—”

Vox came to a halt and the shark ran right into his back. He was practically a fly compared to the TV Demon, bouncing off him without so much as a nudge or stumble. He peered around his boss and his jaw fell open.

Chad had been strapped just above the front door like a starfish. His face was covered in blood and his limbs looked like they had been snapped the wrong direction. On his forehead was green yellow stitching in an X shape and a wooden sign around his neck that read, “Tune in!”

Vox’s screen paled. That was why he hadn’t heard anything.

“What does this mean, sir?” the shark asked, voice wavering.

Vox swallowed on nothing. He scanned through the watches his men wore and through the horrible shakiness that being on a wrist brought, he was able to catch sight of certain red headed girls.

Everyone knew about his deal with the Dragon Demon. Everyone knew she and Alastor had children. Surely his men would’ve recognized them and known not to go anywhere near them. But…he never gave them explicit orders to leave them alone.

He blinked up at the dead man, already knowing what his screams were going to sound like on the radio. “This means we’re gonna be in trouble.”

————————

Author’s Note:

Well….well….well….I know this was heavily focused on the children but I really wanted to tap into their personalities and some of the parenting styles.

Who do you think picked which twin's name? :P

————————

Taglist:

@wendigonamecaller @saccharine-nectarine @martinys-world @thesimpybitch @papas-ghoulette @masochist-downfall @feral-fox-crypt

[twilightpowerdiamond-blog]

My Helluva Theory

(AKA mixed characters in Helluva Boss)

So, my friends and I were hanging out and discussing Helluva Boss over a call. I had Google Images open and something struck me looking at Blitzø's family photo.

His mom is a succubus.

Her horns struck me as weird. All other imps have the striped horns with the white bands indicating gender difference. I started looking up crowd shots and confirmed so. However, guess who has the thin, all black horns?

She also, notably, has no white features as imps do. Succubi lack these white freckles and whatnot entirely. Most of all, she has their pupiled eyes.

This sent me down an insane rabbit hole of digging deeper. There are PLENTY of mixed characters throughout the show that I think have flown under the radar, and I really want to talk about them. Some might really surprise you.

Following this, I started looking into Blitzø (and Barbie by extension). This post helped point out lots of features on Blitz:

It reiterates lots of the points I just made, and adds some. Blitzø has lots of unique features that make him very un-imp-like. His feet and eyes, namely, along with a heart theme in lots of his objects. He is also canonically stated to be AMAZING in bed.

Next, my friend pointed out that Fizzaroli has the same eyes as Blitz. At first we were scared this broke the theory, but looking into it, Fizz has some of the same characteristics as Blitz that makes me think they might've been childhood friends partially because they are both half succubus.

The pupiled eyes are our best piece of evidence since his adult form is mostly robotic, but the sharp boots on a child stick out to me still. Fizz also grows up to be a sex icon in Hell despite his shtick clearly being a clown. Fizz is probably also a half succubus.

Also, why is the circus symbol clearly a heart? Could it be because notably both succubi and imps worked there, along with their mixed children?

I had also heard talk of Striker being half something. I think his design speaks for itself: the distinct snout, the ringed eyes, his long and spiked tail. I thought he might be a loan shark at first, but this is a half-imp-half-snake.

He is clearly different from Butch, the half imp loan shark who has the smaller imp stature and lacks the two large fangs.

Striker's attempt to connect with Blitz, another half-imp who climbed up the ladder, makes lots of sense now.

Those are those in the main cast I could pick out, but there are minor characters I wanted to pick apart. To start off, Glitz and Glam.

These are not loan sharks. They lack key features all loan sharks appear to have. They do not have tails nor the distinct snouts. Their eyes are not ringed. However, the aquatic theme is still very apparent, and their skin is pale. I figured they are probably succubi-sharks. Their horns (which the sharks DO have) have the black pattern on the tips that some succubi have, and the shapes match. They have wings, another distinct succubus feature.

Their song is about transactional sex, a combo of both the themes of loan sharks and succubi.

A wrench was thrown into my theory, though: Stu, the loan shark, is canonically a half succubus. Also, this background character from episode 4.

They are very different! The pink, the heart tail, the present snout, the ringed eyes. They look nothing like the other pair.

So, Glitz and Glam are not sharks. They are part possessor, which are eel-like demons. Marcella has similar glowing spots in her hair and this background character has the same eyes as Glitz and Glam.

I do not think Glitz and Glam are full possessors, though. Their horns are succubi horns and, as far as we know, only succubi usually have wings. Their faces are also still very flat.

The Ozzie bouncer MIGHT be a succubus mix.

He has white features that are too pale to be scars, the x's which may or may not be clothes, the striped horns, and no irises. However, he has the wings. This could be mitigated by the fact that imps can earn a pair of wings, so he may simply be an accomplished imp.

But if Blitz and Fizz are half succubi, why does this one look so different? The answer is in the parents. Ligers and Tigons are different depending on which parent is which.

Similar, but clearly different.

I have no idea how to end this, but it was most of what I have figured out after lots of digging. I think it's really fascinating! It makes me appreciate Vizi and the team's designs a lot.

I have a few people to thank in the comments that pointed out some problems which I've amended, such as how imps can get wings. Thank you guys!!

[veskscans]

Persona Sketches by Kazuma Kaneko

Long post today. I recently picked up Megami Ibunroku Persona Club, a fan book that includes 12 of Kaneko’s rough sketches for the game’s original Persona designs. Here’s scans of them that I did over a couple of days, they were printed tiny so these were the best that I could get (there are also textless versions in the link).

https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1waKTLvlDJb3DJAHWOUSgYVUEyXYiBiUO?usp=share_link

I’ll provide translated commentary too... translated by me, so it might not be that great. I’ll give my own input underneath as well, but I won’t be translating the handwriting on the art. It’s hard to read, for one, and it just outlines basic features and colours, likely for sprite artists to use as reference.

‘Vesta, the goddess of hearths in Roman mythology. The shape of her hat is somewhat reminiscent of a jester's, and her lack of legs is a distinguishing characteristic. Her entire body is covered in leather’.

Vesta also reappears in P2 EP, and is Yukino Mayuzumi's initial Persona in both games. You can also spot Vesta behind some text in the Persona Original Soundtrack booklet here.

‘Gozu-Tennō, deity of the Gion Shrine in Kyoto. According to some legends, he his sometimes equated with Susanō. The horns extending from his mask and intertwining with each-other are quite impactful’.

The cape is meant to be coloured red... definitely inspired by Spawn. Also in the  Persona Original Soundtrack booklet, here.

‘Aizen-Myōō, the love deity of Esoteric Buddhism. She can transform sentient beings' lustful desires and troubles into spiritual enlightenment. Buddhist statues often depict Aizen-Myōō with the face of a scary-looking man, but the female image used here is perhaps the most human-like’.

Kei Nanjo's initial Persona in P1. Also in P2 EP, with a couple of additions to her design. Aside from her heels and long, black coverings, it’s essentially P1′s design replicated underneath.

“Lakshmi, the goddess of beauty in Hindu mythology. The protruding back of the head looks a bit like an alien. The rubber material used in these designs comes from Kaneko-san's favourite clothes”.

Not in P2 IS, but she does reappear as a sprite in P2 EP, with different colours. The head was definitely inspired by the Xenomorph from Alien.

“Kali, the goddess of war in Hindu mythology. The protruding design of her breasts is quite striking, but their bellow-like shapes are less noticeable in-game”.

Also seen controlling Maki in the 'Dolls' artwork.

“Shiva, the god of destruction in Hindu mythology. Both Shiva and Kali had different rough designs than the versions shown on page 4”.

The art on page 4 is just the finalised art of Shiva and Kali. The designs are the same as they are in the sketches, I think they just meant the art is different.

“Garuda, the bird god of Hindu mythology. The cape, pose and mask are reminiscent of old-fashioned anime”.

The anime in question seems to be ‘Science Ninja Team Gatchaman’ from 1972. Thanks to @RustyVanBurace on Twitter for pointing this out. Notice the G on their belts, which I suppose stands for Gatchaman (I haven’t watched it). Garuda also has the G on his stomach, but in this case, I guess it just stands for Garuda, lol.

“Vishnu, the main deity and god of creation in Hindu mythology. He has appeared in commercials and other media, so you might recognise his face, but few people actually identify him as Vishnu”.

Here’s a link to the commercials in question. He probably has the most art of any Persona in the game, which might be why the only text in the art is his name. There might have already been public material that the sprite artists could have used for reference, or maybe this art was done earlier on, and Kaneko didn’t think about outlining colours just yet.

"Durga, an incarnation of Kali. Her hat-like mask and the design of her clothes, which seem to be made of a rubber material, make for one of the most daring outfits in the series”. 

Yukino Mayuzumi's ultimate persona in both P1 and P2 IS. If anything, it got even more daring in IS, with robo-hands cupping her boobies and being used as high heels.

"Shōmen-Kongō is prominent god in the Kōshin cult. Kōshin-tō monuments can often be found along roadsides. He is the initial persona of the protagonist, who you will see many times during awakening scenes. He has somewhat of a Tokusatsu design".

Better known as Seimen-Kongō. The name means 'Blue-Faced Vajra-Yakṣa'. I know next to little about any Kōshin stuff, so don’t trust my translation for this one particularly. Sometimes he’s depicted with three monkeys, as seen below. The monkeys are the origin of the phrase “see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil”, which is why one has a mask over their eyes, another has a mask over their mouth, and the last one has... headphones, lol. Shōmen-Kongō has a tail in the art below, but not in the rough art.

On the Tokusatsu note from that last sentence - I don’t know enough about Tokusatsu to guess what it’s from, but the face, including the lack of mouth, looks like a mask in particular. The yellow lines going down his body also look like something from Ultraman.

"Urvashi is a prominent Apsara (celestial nymph) in Hindu mythology. Her design strongly expresses the dancing aspect of the Apsaras”.

Cool design, but she’s not all that notable in-game. She’s meant to be the ‘main’ Apsara, so it’s surprising that the only other game she appeared in was Majin Tensei II.

"Hanuman, the heroic god of Hindu mythology and the original form of Qitian Dasheng. The only motif remaining from the monkey figure is his tail. The shape of his head is quite familiar...”

Last one! AKA Sun Wukong, Seiten Taisei, Son Gokū, etc., you know the drill. The shape of his head is quite familiar indeed, since it comes from Ultraman. Ultraseven, in particular. Also notice the similar plated design on the neck and shoulders. Thank you AtmaFlare for finding this dude (or on Twitter, @atmaflare).

^ Is this Kaneko’s magnum opus?

[jedimordsith]

Deleted Scene from Latibule

Luke looked up from his reading when the door to the Organa-Solo apartment slid open. Han wandered into the sitting room a moment later. His sense was warm and relaxed, and his attire matched. His formal jacket was slung over one shoulder, his shirt sleeves were rolled up, and his spavat had been untied and hung loose at his collar.

“Hey, kid,” he greeted. “Pretty quiet in here. You didn’t sell my kids to the circus, did you?”

”Not for lack of trying,” Luke quipped back, marking his spot and tossing his data pad on the lounger beside him. “Ringmaster said they were too small yet. Since I have to wait and try again next year, I dropped them back in their beds. They’ve been out cold for an hour. How was the event?”

“Just like every other one,” Han shrugged and flung his jacket over a nearby chair. “Lots of fancy people who like to listen to themselves talk eating fussy hors d'oeuvres and drinking wine that’s more label than taste. Leia had a good time until she and Winter got cornered into a hush-hush meeting with Mon over something.” He frowned. “Why didn’t you go, anyway? You like museums.”

“I’ve already been,” Luke said casually, rolling to his feet and grabbing his glass from the side table.

”This was the grand opening,” Han objected. “What, did you get some kind of special Jedi tour?”

“Something like that,” Luke offered noncommittally, angling past his brother-in-law toward the kitchen.

Han’s demeanor turned smug. “Let me guess — it was one of your excursions with Jade.”

“It might have been,” Luke shot a sly look over his shoulder. “But I’d keep that suspicion to yourself if I was you.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

”Because you have a life day coming up, and if you don’t do anything to bring unwanted attention to Mara, a bottle of Whyren’s gold might find its way into your gift pile.”

“Gold label?” Ambling after him, Han whistled. “How’re you affording that on a Jedi’s salary?”

”Mara’s getting a couple cases at a pretty serious discount,” Luke confided, rinsing his glass and putting it in the cleaning unit. “Someone at the distillery owes her a favor.”

”That’s some favor.” Han cocked his head. “She seems like the type who knows how to collect ‘em, though.”

The Omega in Luke bristled. He immediately quelled the reaction, but not before Han caught it.

“Hey,” he said, lifting his hands, palms out. “You know I’ve got nothing but respect for Jade. The NRI might jump to tawdry assumptions, but that’s just because they lack imagination. Me,” he lowered his hands, pointing at his chest. “I’ve been around the system. Flesh is easy and cheap. You want to collect real favors, you have to get into the weird stuff.” Raising his eyebrows, he held his hands a short distance apart, palms parallel to one another. “Saw a guy trade a whole moon once for this ugly little statue — this big, looked like it oughta be a doorstop at a tacky cantina.”

Amused, Luke felt the tension in his shoulders ease. He clapped a hand on his brother-in-law’s shoulder as he passed back toward the sitting room.

He’d known, intellectually, that it would take a while for the NRI to warm up to Karrde and, by extension, Mara. The Intelligence community was skeptical of smugglers as a whole and less than thrilled at how deftly Karrde’s organization had shoe-horned its way into the respectable echelons of the New Republic government. The fact that they couldn’t find a single record of Mara’s existence prior to her work for Karrde only exacerbated their frustrations. He didn’t begrudge them their caution, really.

But after three heats spent in Mara’s bed, the Omega in him had unavoidably begun to think of her as his, and he couldn’t entirely suppress the instinctive resentment that flared when she was disrespected.

Their secret Force-healing and training sessions didn’t help the situation. Mara was intensely careful about her shielding, only ever letting him into one small section of her mind or body at a time, but the anxiety singing at the edges of his touch each time left him profoundly aware of the risk she was taking, entrusting him with even that much. There was something incredibly intimate about extending his own control over the Force into her body, knitting together the fine sheathing around ravaged nerves or unraveling knotted scar tissue and seeing her entire body soften as a long-borne pain slipped away. About the way she smiled when they finished, as if he could see a little more light behind her eyes, a little more spaciousness in her breath.

Then there were their “excursions” as Han called them. Mara had grown up on Coruscant and, much to his delight, Luke had discovered that she had a mischievous streak. When the mood struck, she would appear from nowhere with a glint in her eyes that made his heart rate kick up with the same bright anticipation he’d known as a youth when he raced his skyhopper toward the canyons to Thread the Needle or when sneaking round bases during the early days of the war with the Rogues, intent on pranking another squadron. Ditching whatever he was supposed to be doing, he’d follow her at all hours of day or night. It was through those stolen moments that she introduced him to all the intriguing places that existed beneath the surface —often literally — of Coruscant’s glittering cityscape. Private libraries. Greasy cantinas whose menus were as obscure as they were mouth-watering. Junk shops whose backroom shelves mysteriously stocked the most hard-to-find parts for anyone willing to ask no questions about their provenance. And, occasionally, secret tunnels and camoflaged peep holes through which they accessed yet-to-open museum exhibits or dress rehearsals of the most in-demand new performances.

In her determination to prove her independence from her former master and the life he’d shackled her into, Mara was steadily, and entirely accidentally, achieving the one goal she’d believed wholly out of reach: capturing Luke’s heart.

It’s fine, he told himself for the hundredth time, gathering his data pad and bidding Han goodnight. It wasn’t like they slept together outside of his heats, and Mara was genuinely the perfect Alpha. She would never claim him, would never try to bind him or prevent him from keeping his vows of independence and service to the new Jedi Order that he was building. As an Omega, it wasn’t like he could claim her, and her traumatic past meant that even at his weakest he would never ask her to claim him. If she ever found another Omega to bond with, the loss might kill him. Unless or until then, however, he intended to enjoy every moment he could manage with her.

[valorant-reverie]

Malevolent - Tricks & Treats

What comes after. Arthur and John want to give Faroe a suitably exciting Halloween. A gift for @lighthouseshepard.

(Posted this yesterday but forgot to put it here! Please enjoy my first published piece for this fandom, with hopefully more to come.)

“I feel ridiculous.”

Arthur practically hears the pout in John’s voice, and cannot help the peal of laughter coaxed out of him as he smooths his hands over silk. If the gesture straightens out the mustard yellow waistcoat at all, he cannot see to tell. But it must offer some comfort as John’s broad form immediately seems less tense under his palms.

“I am sure you pull it off very handsomely, John - or should I say, sheriff,” he reassures further, his fingers finding and readjusting the plastic star pinned to John’s chest, “and I doubt Faroe would want you to look silly.”

John huffs. “You do. Look a little silly, that is.”

An affronted scoff, all for show, and Arthur lifts a hand to feel out the right horn on his hood. Confident that the drooping article is upright at least for now, he cocks his hip to the side and grins. “I do? What, you don’t find me devilishly attractive in this get up?”

He feels the horn flop to the side after all, and that eventuality paired with the awful line earns a real laugh from John, bemused as ever by the man in front of him.

“You are always attractive to me, Arthur,” he insists, in the plain and factual way that still makes Arthur a little giddy to hear, “but the tail dangling from your waist does somewhat… offset your usual charm.”

Arthur waves a hand dismissively and opens his mouth to say something else when he hears the dainty click clack of small heeled boots on the wooden floorboards. John squeezes his shoulder once in confirmation he did not require - it’s her - and then he hears a timid voice call from the doorway.

“What do you think, John?” Faroe asks, in her sweet polite voice, the same one that has both her father and their dearest friend wrapped tightly around her little finger.

There is a rustle of fabric, presumably Faroe turning on the spot to show off her costume.  John moves away, and Arthur wishes - not for the first time - that he could see the two of them together. He remembers Faroe distinctly even as other faces have faded from his memory, and he has an educated guess as to what John looks like based on extensive descriptions and his own explorations by hand and by mouth. But his heart aches because he cannot see as John kneels down to tuck a few coppery curls behind Faroe’s ear before nodding once, and she in turn pauses to tug at the rim of his cowboy hat so it sits straight on his tumbling dark hair.

“Perfect,” John assures her with a smile in his voice, and then there is another shift of fabric, him returning back to Arthur and placing a hand on his arm to steer him closer, “and shall I tell your father how you look?”

“Yes!” she exclaims - Arthur hears her hop on the spot with delight and feels his eyes prickle. 

“Very well. Arthur, it seems that Faroe is dressed as a witch. She has a pointed hat with a buckle on it, and she is wearing a black and white dress with a matching cape, and a woven basket for our…”

“Trick or treating!” Faroe hastily picks up where John has left off in his lacking knowledge, clearly unable to hold in her excitement for a moment longer, “Mrs Foster downstairs said I looked darling, and she gave me a Big Hunk bar!”

The chuckle that leaves John at the unusual name of the candy is quickly stifled by the alarmingly well-aimed jab of Arthur’s elbow in his ribs, and hidden poorly behind a cough into his fist.

“Yes, well, we’d best get going. Don’t want to miss the parade.” Arthur says, with John’s hand guiding him through the apartment in pursuit of Faroe even though he could navigate the space with ease by now. His apparent difficulties in seeing meant that most people look upon the two of them touching in public with pity rather than disgust, and while John would appreciate if people chose not to perceive them at all, one is far more preferable than the other - especially when a glance of any kind is quickly dismissed by the burning gaze of one Miss Faroe Lester, who is at once her family’s staunchest defender and most vocal member.

***

Even without his sight, Arthur realises how loud it all is. John seems to have acclimated to the constant roar of the city from dawn to dusk, almost taking a sort of comfort in the empty noise that uncountable cars and people and movement brought with them. But this is too much even for Arthur, and he cannot see any of it. There is music, different songs playing both nearby and further away. Food of all kinds emit their tempting aromas into the evening air, intermingling with exhaust fumes and smog and the distant promise of greenery from Central Park not quite smothered by the scent of civilisation. Children laugh and scream, and adults murmur as their charges dart around their legs, bustling and pushing.

Arthur feels Faroe press in between them. He also feels as John stands taller; before he had been hunched, as if shrinking down could ward off the assault of sound and sight and smells, but Faroe’s uncertainty seems to give him new purpose. Drawn up to his full height, Arthur has an empirically proven suspicion that John cuts quite the intimidating figure, the sharp brim of his hat and the flattering definition of his fitted shirt and waistcoat around his wide frame lending credence to his wild western persona for the night.

“Stay close to me.” John says, just loudly and authoritatively enough for both Faroe and her father to hear over the din of the crowds. Both of them are steadied by the words.

“The parade should be starting soon,” Arthur adds - he feels John guide them up a short set of stairs, presumably to a better viewpoint than standing at street level, “so we can see that and then go home, alright?”

“Will I get candy from back here?” Faroe asks. She is determined in her objective even in the face of her fear, even more so as Arthur feels the knock of her body against his, John hoisting her up so she is nestled between their torsos rather than caught between their legs.

“I am sure you will,” John reassures her in his most serious voice, “especially seeing as you are by far the best dressed witch I have seen all night.”

Arthur’s heart soars as he hears Faroe giggle beside him. He would have once done terrible things to bear witness to her joy just once more. Arguably, he had done terrible things to do so. But that past feels so blissfully far away when the man he loves - who once was not a man at all, but something so unfathomable that he still cannot define it - can create that joy for the daughter he never thought he would get to hold again.

He presses close. Faroe’s arm loops in a claim around his shoulders, anchoring the three of them together with John holding her so assuredly. Nothing could hope to separate them.

***

Hours later, when the night sky is rebelliously dark in spite of light pollution from the city below, and all the little monsters of New York slumber soundly in their beds, Arthur and John sit side by side on the couch. Arthur is in his nightshirt, forsaking any semblance of manners to stretch his thin legs out over John’s lap. John reads aloud, still dressed, though his waistcoat has been abandoned and his shirt is undone by a few buttons. His voice is soft and melodious as it once was echoing in Arthur’s head, even with the seasonally spooky subject matter he reads.

“It is a strange world, a sad world, a world full of miseries, and woes, and troubles. And yet when King Laugh come, he make them all dance to the tune he play,” John reads, “Bleeding hearts, and dry bones of the churchyard, and tears that burn as they fall, all dance together to the music that he make with that smileless mouth of him.”

Arthur chuckles, then yawns, drawing John’s gaze from the pages of Bram Stoker’s Dracula. “Sounds a little too close to home, doesn’t it?”

“Like the King in Yellow, you mean?” John asks.

His solemn tone indicates that he has not received the revelation with the same humour that Arthur originally intended, and so he reaches out, one scarred hand carefully smoothing down John’s shoulder when he finds it.

“Sorry, dear heart,” he murmurs, “I was only teasing. Not the sort of thing to tease about though, is it? Forgive me. The festivities have clouded my judgement.”

“It’s alright,” John says with a sigh, “Perhaps we should… save the rest of it. For another time.”

Arthur nods. “If you like. Are you tired?”

“No.”

“Oh? Are you… distracted?” Arthur presses further. His hand lifts from John’s shoulder, rising to cradle the strong jaw that his teeth suddenly ache for.

John leans into his palm, eyes fluttering closed, a soft sound drawn from him at the tender touch.

“No,” he repeats, and then huffs before adding, “but I should like to be, I think.”

Unable to resist that offer, Arthur pulls his legs back from resting atop of John only to cross the distance to him, his knees on either side of thick thighs and a heat that draws Arthur back like a moth to flame again and again. Both palms cradle John’s face this time, and he leans down to bump their noses together, the promise of pilfered candy sweetening the air between them and tempting them all the more.

“Well, you know what they say.” Arthur murmurs, already grinning.

John tenses for a moment as if anticipating whatever is about to come from Arthur’s mouth. “What do they say?”

“Save a horse, ride a--”

He is silenced, thankfully, by a kiss.

[toxooz]

i dont know if you've ever said anywhere- but we know that Remy and Ollie are both half orcs and that Ollie's other half is ~Demon~

Do we know what Remy's other half is or is that a future secret?

I'm just curious cause Ollie is So Clearly Orcish so is Remy's other half just super strong blooded or is he a twink?

SHEW yall I've been sittin on a huge lore breakthrough with Ollie and Remy that my high ass accidently unlocked a few weeks ago that I've been debating on just dumping here but I'm still considering if it's too spoilery for what is literally just about to come up in the comic, but tbh it would probably just help contextualize things a little better so IDKK if i dont drop it soon it'll be after-not this update or the next-but the one after but before I slap a little snippet, the short answer is I still don't know what his other half is exactly, it's demon no doubt but a mangly unimpressive one for sure. Adding onto that I don't even know what Remy's mom is part UUH and imma have to design her up Real Soon so im still wracking my brain for that one. The closest I got right now is maybe the demon resembled a giraffe somehow hence the giraffe esque spots on Remy ??? both Ollie and Remy's "fathers" came from the same demon cave hence the kinda dark look even around Remys eyes and similar horn stripes:

believe it or not it isn't eyeliner LMFAO its basically what Ollie has horn with just to a much lesser extent (they used to be more of a brown hue to i guess show that they weren't as tough and more sensitive to the touch but making the comic i kinda dropped it oof) but anyway the whole reason Remy was born in the first place was just for a "anything you can do I can do better" attempt by Remy's mom (Mogaks sister) ie. a lil snippit from the lore dump in the drafts:

*SIDE NOTTE Remy's mom has mental issues due to the hierarchy in the orc community over being a half orc and the fact that she isn't involved in combat and just minds the village, so she already wasn't really seen highly of (Mogak would treat her equally however) meanwhile Mogak was a pretty hefty solid full blooded orc and was a warrior of sorts and a leader in that aspect (her 'occupation' for lack of better word wasn't necessarily THAT high ranking in their society considering battle fighting was a common 'career' within the orc tribe so she's still even among the orc community, but still well liked and respected regardless) but her sister was seen as less-than in subtle ways. Due to her tough upbringing she quietly dealt with jealousy of Mogak throughout her life and during their young adult years she would take up the habit of trying to outdo Mogak with little things. When she was told about Mogak being pregnant with Ollie by her quest into a demonic cave, she planned on doing the same. The demon she ended up mating with wasn't all that great to say the least and didn't put up much of a fight either (Mogak declared a battle with the demon she wanted to make the deal with and chose a Pretty Fukkin Big Ass Boi one of the biggest in the cave I'd argue) so that's why Remy turned out Like That. After everything happened and they moved Remy's mom still carried self conscious habits and would get with men who would play off of those insecurities

[kirk-says-wah]

𝐇𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐅𝐢𝐜 𝐒𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐏𝐞𝐚𝐤!

So, it doesn’t have a name yet, even though I’ve been working on it since last year, mostly because I want to come up with something creative and so far I’ve got nothing 🥲

I was also split between two snippets I could’ve shared, it was so hard to pick

But here you go! Let me know what you think! (Also see if you can guess the ships 😆)

TW: blood (though it’s pretty mild in this snippet)

The shop is small, walls purple. Wind chimes dangling from the ceiling.

He feels all too out of place. Too tall and wide to move about in such a cramped space.

His eyes land across crystals, incense cones. A little fairy statue. Girly shit.

He wants to go back outside and hit something. Preferably Lars.

“Dude.”

It’s Cliff, few metres away. Fingers fiddling with a little jewellery stand.

“Dude,” James whisper-shouts back. “What are we doing in here?”

Even the woman behind the counter - long blonde hair trailing down to her hips, necklaces piled up around her neck - she’s looking at them like they shouldn’t be in here.

“D’ya think Corinne will like this?” Cliff asks, holds up a little Celtic cross. It’s intricate and silver. James doesn’t know anything about women and he doesn’t know Corinne that well.

“Sure,” he says anyway, noting the way Cliff nods, dangling it into a fist.

“She likes all the Celtic stuff,” Cliff says, glancing back at the array of necklaces displayed in front of them.

“I’m sure she’ll like it,” James says again, dropping his hands into his pockets. He just wants to get out of here. Lars would’ve been better at this. He always has a way of charming the ladies, something James reverently lacks.

“You can wait outside,” Cliff dismisses, walking to the counter.

James shuffles out of there, desperately trying to not knock shit over.

No one’s waiting for him outside. Figures.

He glances across the street.

Lars is there, waiting to cross the road. Couple of records tucked under his armpit.

He’s stepping forwards and backwards, desperate to make his attempt to cross oncoming traffic.

Kirk is next to him. He doesn’t look at James.

Lars steps out again only to rock back. A car dwindles past.

James waves.

Lars spots him, waves back, his teeth peeking from between his lips, other hand fiddling with the array of records. James can already guess there’s a Deep Purple vinyl hidden in the stack.

Suddenly, Lars is pushed forwards abruptly, stumbling into the road, a car missing him by a fraction when it abruptly turns, and he twists around, face white.

Kirk’s arms leave his back, laughing, so loud James can hear it from across the street like a crack of thunder.

James swallows the lump in his throat.

Lars grabs Kirk’s wrist, stalks them across the road without looking.

They don’t get run over but James can picture the blood anyway, the way its coats the road, hair and flesh littering the asphalt, coats his knuckles.

“Are you two done getting your nails painted?” Lars asks, breathless, face still pale and pupils wide. He doesn’t let go of Kirk’s wrist. James wishes he would, just to see if he could still stand up on his own, or if Kirk’s hand is snaking up the back of his tshirt to play him in an act of ventriloquism.

“Fuck you,” Cliff says. James isn’t sure when he left the shop. He’s tucking a candy striped bag into his pocket. “At least I have a girlfriend. I’m starting to think you’re turning gay.”

Lars cackles, leads them along the street.

“Trust me, I’ve had more pussy than James has.”

“That’s not fair,” James says, because it’s not. Lars knows women is a sore spot for him. He can never keep a girl, even when they throw themselves at him on tour. Lars never usually jabs at him like that.

Kirk snickers, slings his arm around Lars’ shoulders.

James doesn’t look at him. He follows them down the path, weaving between people on the small Irish streets.

Someone honks their horn. He pretends he doesn’t jump.

[cherrychapstick54]

Amnesia Was Her Name

Chapter One: Goat Boy

Title from “Amnesia Was Her Name” by Lemon Demon

Synopsis: Tommy wakes up with a throbbing pain in his head and a lack of memory of what caused it. Luckily, a friend is there to help.

Beforehand: All characters in this series are meant to be 100% fictional. These are not the real people who play the characters, and I do not support William Gold or any of the Dream Team. This story was written by me and @genderlessbleach when I started out as an editor. Later in the story I took over writing to help Bleach with the stress, but until stated otherwise, this was a collaborative effort.

Tommy had woken up, first confused, where was he? A mud hole or hut, possibly a house, a poorly made house then, the floor was hard and soft, and the damn place was cold and wet. He sat himself up, why was he here? His body hurt like a bitch and his head was throbbing, god he couldn’t even remember who he was, that’s not a good thing he’s pretty fucking sure. Pushing himself off the ground with a groan, his bones and joints cracking as he does, fucking hell his clothes were muddy, and was that blood?! Fuck, it is blood.

Tommy doesnt fucking know what to do, so naturally, he screeches, “WHAT THE FUCK!” Why is there so much blood! Is it his?! “Oh god oh god I’m going to die!” The brit was maybe a touch dramatic but he was covered in blood, of course he was going to be fucking dramatic! You don’t just wake up covered in blood one fucking day, that is not fucking normal, let alone something that happens on your average day! He needed to get his mind off of this bullshit and fast.

The blonde boy searched around the dirt hut looking for some clean clothes, he needed to clean himself up, his current clothes were fucking gross. After digging around some chests and stripping himself of his shirt he found some new clothes, granted they happened to be just the same shirt and pants, it wasn’t that bad, the shirt was cool looking and he needed to clean up, so it was a win to the brit. He tried to brush off the grime on his body with just his hands, quickly realizing he needed water in order to do so.

“Fucking hell,” he looked around for a bucket of water and cloth, silently thanking the gods when he found some. The teen cleaned himself off, finally able to put some fresh clothes on.

“Seems like it is time for little ol’ me to get outside.'' He spoke to himself, stretching out only to feel pain run through his body, “ow ow ow oh fuckkkkk-” he stops rubbing over the painful spots, “not doin’ that shit again.” He heads out of the house, feeling the pain run through his body. God, leaving his house wasn’t a good idea, he was immediately stopped by some fuckin’ short ass goat man, how dare this tiny horned dipshit stop him!

“Hey Tommy! Are you alright, cause like last night wasn’t pretty, Wilburs bombing was pretty heavy. I had to drag your poor knocked out ass home after you got knocked out by the explosion! I guess it’s weird for me to ask if you’re alright, you got real fucked up out there. and,,” The goat boy continues talking while Tommy, that’s his name right? That’s what this goat boy said, but is he even trustworthy?

“What are you even saying? Who even are you?” He looked down at the horned boy, “Why are you speaking to me like you know me?” Trying to actually tell the boy about his confusion didn’t seem to work, as all he got in return was a confused stare.

“Tommy how hard did you hit your head man? You’re acting all weird! It’s me Tubbo, your best friend?? Bee boy, your spy for pogtopia, hello man, do you need some ice for your head?” What the boy, or Tubbo said all sounds familiar, but he can’t remember it, like none at all. Weird, it’s probably just nothing though, cause maybe its just his brain forgetting things ‘cause of the bombs and it’ll all come back to him.

“Agh, sorry Tubs,” what- where did Tubs come from? Whatever, “My head still hurts from the bombs, it's hard to think clearly, ya know, blunt force trauma.” He chuckles, hopefully he’s not completely lying. He smiles at the goat boy... Tubbo, hoping that what he said is all true, because he’d like to know what the fuck is happening. Also, thank the gods Tubbo seemed to believe what he said.

“Alright Tom, just stop being all sketchy, okay? I'm going to see if the hole is safe to explore yet. I’ll talk to you later, yeah?” The goat boy then went off towards where Tommy could only assume the bomb site was. Tommy sighed at the leaving of the smaller boy's presence, what a strange little man.

“What the hell is going on?” Tommy questions himself quietly, “Why can’t I just fucking remember everything?!” Nearly screaming the last bit, he heads down the oak pathway, lost in his thoughts about everything.

“Stupid fucking bombs messing up my brain…” The tall boy grumbles, kicking rocks off of the prime path, just trying to get his emotions out any way he can. This all sucks, he just wants to know what’s going on! He groans, sitting down on the edge of the path with an angry thump.

“Why did it have to be me of all god damn people!” He huffs, looking out at the structures that are visible to him from the path, his jaw is clenched as he gazes out at the land.

- Divider credits to @issysh3ll -

[daitranscripts]

Demands of the Qun Pt. 3

Gatt

Iron Bull Masterpost First: Letter From the Ben-Hassrath Previous: Qunari Contact

Gat: Just waiting on you and Hissrad—or “Iron Bull,” I guess.

1 - Dialogue options:

Investigate: You knew Iron Bull? [2]

Investigate: How will an alliance help me? [3]

Investigate: How did you end up here? [4]

Investigate: I’d like to discuss the Qun. [5]

General: We’ll move shortly. [6]

2 - Investigate: You knew Iron Bull? PC: You knew Iron Bull when he fought in Seheron? Gatt: Yes. He led the group that freed me. I was a magister’s slave, and when the magister went to Seheron, he brought me along. For company. Iron Bull and his men attacked my magister’s ship and killed him, as well as his soldiers. Bull set me free.

Dialogue options:

Special: And then you joined the Qun? [7]

[Back to 1]

7 - Special: And then you joined the Qun? PC: And you decided to start following the Qun after that? Gatt: What do you think? I had just watched a giant, horned warrior kill the magister who hurt me. PC: He never told me about this. Gatt: One on the few things he hasn’t shared with you, I gather. Sure, Bull. Share the secret Ben-Hassrath reports, but keep that bit where you saved the elf boy to yourself. [8]

3 - Investigate: How will an alliance help me? PC: No one’s actually detailed how an alliance with the Qunari will help the Inquisition. Gatt: The answer is above my rank… but the Qunari don’t really bargain. They don’t know how. I doubt you want Qunari troops stomping around your stronghold, and you’re too far away for supplies to be useful. You’d get more use out of our ships… and the agents we’ve got spread across Thedas. We know a lot more than what Bull sees in those reports he’s been forwarding to your spymaster. [8]

8 - Dialogue options:

Special: Is Bull in trouble? [9]

[Back to 1]

9 - Special: Is Bull in trouble? PC: Is Bull going to get in trouble for passing those reports on? Gatt: The Ben-Hassrath aren’t pleased with how forthcoming Bull has been… but he was one of their best agents. He kept the streets clean in Seheron longer than anyone before him, or after. He fought until it nearly killed him. The Ben-Hassrath trust him enough to accept how he joined the Inquisition, even if they don’t like it. Besides, they hate to discard a tool that might still have some use left in it. That’s why I have a job. [14]

4 - Investigate: How did you end up here? PC: How did an elf end up working for the Qunari out here? Gatt: The Ben-Hassrath usually pick elves or humans to work outside of Qunandar. We’re a little harder to spot. I’ve worked in Orlais and Nevarra, but only a few years now.

Dialogue options:

Special: And before that? [10]

[Back to 1]

10 - Special: And before that? PC: What did you do before that? Gatt: When I was old enough, I fought Tevinter forces in Seheron. I was too angry to do much else. It took me a long time to accept the Qun, to get past justice, to purpose. Some days are still difficult. [14]

5 - Investigate: I’d like to discuss the Qun. PC: Do you have a minute to talk about to Qun? Gatt: I’m a spy, Inquisitor, not a teacher. I’m not interested in converting anyone or debating the philosophy. But I suppose it would make an interesting report to hear the Inquisitor’s opinion on the Qun.

Dialogue options:

General: It’s alien to me. [11]

General: I detest the Qun. [12]

General: I admire the Qun. [13]

11 - General: It’s alien to me. PC: To be honest, I don’t really understand the Qun enough to judge it. Gatt: I think you have to be raised under the Qun for it to ever make sense. The people who join as adults end up unhappy, or, well… For many, it’s just a kinder form of slavery. [14]

12 - General: I detest the Qun. PC: Tell them that the Inquisitor thinks the Qun is loathsome and disgusting. Gatt: you must really want our ships, then. I understand your viewpoint, for what it’s worth. Out in this world, the Qun sound terrible. A way of life, the simplicity, the fairness of it, is something I cherish. The lack of identity though… I’ve struggled with it myself. [14]

13 - General: I admire the Qun. PC: I think the Qun’s philosophy is fascinating. We could learn a lot from the Qunari. Gatt: It’s a very different way of life. It’s… fair, at least. That’s not something you can say out in this world very often. I like the simplicity. I like knowing my place and knowing it’s the right place. Other parts, I’ve struggled with myself. [14]

14 - Dialogue options:

Special: You had trouble with the Qun? [15]

[Back to 1]

13 - Special: You had trouble with the Qun? PC: It sounds like following the Qun hasn’t always been easy. Gatt: I had a temper. Bull’s nickname for me, “Gatt,” comes from gaatlok, the explosive powder in Qunari canons. I was so angry when I was first freed. I wanted revenge. I wanted to find my family, still enslaved in Minrathous. I thought about leaving when the Qun didn’t tell me what I wanted to hear. But I didn’t. PC: Why not? Gatt: The Qunari were always ready to listen, to teach. They cared for me as much as one of their own. And if I leave, the parts of the Qun that I like are never going to change.

6 - General: We’ll move shortly. PC: I’ll let you know when we’re ready. Gatt: I await your pleasure, Inquisitor.

Next: Plan of Attack

[cozyfoxy]

The Brackenwood Murders Chapter 2/?

Summary: Dan and PJ go to the police with the envelope that they received, but they were ignored like always. When dectective Lester stumbles upon them on the steps into the station, he finds himself with not only more evidence than he had expected but also a soft spot for a certain Dan Howell.

Read Part One

Read on AO3

Phil walked carefully along the wet sidewalk, absentmindedly counting each leaf that he passed. His interview with the local news station had gone as well as he had expected. Most of the townspeople agreed with him that there should be a curfew and a rule against traveling alone until the killer is caught. However, there was a small handful of hecklers, telling Phil that he was wasting his time and that he should let the “sinners” die. 

As much as Phil had wanted to argue with those people, as much as he wanted to yell and correct them, he bit his tongue. He hadn’t been a detective for very long, but he had learned in his first year that letting emotions overtake you would prevent you from getting the answers you need. So, he stood in front of the camera, smiling politely and promising to get to the bottom of the Brackenwood killer. He hoped that the killer himself might have been in the crowd tonight. 

Overall, Phil wasn’t a majorly intimidating man. He was a bit too lanky and as clumsy as a newborn deer, but he knew how to use his words. Even when he lacked confidence in himself or in a case, no one would ever spot it. He would speak clearly, surely, and calmly. He had discovered from a young age that even if you had no idea what you were talking about, if you acted like you did, then people would believe you. Phil could only hope that his confidence was already stirring something within the killer. 

A shaky sob brought Phil from his thoughts, and he gripped his briefcase more tightly. Perhaps it was being in such a small town that set him on edge. Back home in London, he could easily ignore the sounds of people crying, horns blaring, or the sirens of emergency vehicles. Something about Brackenwood seemed to set his soul on fire and put his anxieties on display. He didn’t allow himself much time to think about it before he followed the crying to the stairs of the police station. 

“I’m just so fucking sick of them treating me like a problem. I just want to help them solve this so no one else has to deal with losing a loved one, but I’m an overreactive pervert.” A voice cried, followed by a soft shushing from the man next to him. 

Phil watched the men quietly for a moment, taking in their appearances. Both men looked exhausted in a way that Phil had seen more times than he’d like to remember. They were grieving, floating through the days that passed and trying to stay for the future while focusing on the present. Something from their past still sat heavy over both men, like a permanent cloud that prevented the light from touching them. 

“I’m sorry, Dan; I should’ve known that they wouldn’t care. I guess I hoped that things would be different with that big deal detective around, but the cops are still as useless as before.” The other man huffed, still trying to comfort the one next to him.

The mention of the cops grabbed Phil’s attention, and he quickly determined what was going on. These men had evidence of some kind, or something that they thought could be useful, but they were brushed off, ignored by the very people who were meant to protect them. Phil stifled an annoyed sigh; he was going to have to bring in his own team at this rate. Before he could even scold himself for intervening, he began to stroll over to the men. 

“Hello, I’m sorry to interrupt, but are you two alright?” Phil asked calmly, pulling out a small pack of tissues from his coat pocket.

The men looked up at him, the one crying, taking the tissues thankfully, “as alright as we can be, I guess. I’m just done with these asshole cops. They treat me like a problem every time I try to help them with anything.” 

Phil raised his eyebrows curiously, pulling out his badge from his coat to flash it. “I’m detective Phil Lester; I’ve been brought in to assist with the murders here. My time with the police force here hasn’t been the most pleasant, so I can’t say I’m surprised. What happened tonight?” 

“I’m Dan, and this is my friend PJ. We, well, I found this envelope in our flat tonight. We were leaving to go and watch your interview at the park when I found it. Someone had slipped it in through the mail slot; it’s labeled with my name. There’s pictures of Liam Collins inside, the third victim of the killer. He’s my... he was my boyfriend.” Dan rambled, stopping when the pressure in his chest became too much to continue. 

PJ frowned and looked up at Phil carefully. “After we both looked through the pictures and read the note inside, Dan fainted. He does that sometimes when he’s overwhelmed or moves too quickly. I waited on him to wake up, and then I dragged him here to show Brewer. I was hoping that we’d be taken seriously for once, but Brewer scolded us for pranking him. His deputy called Dan a sick pervert for having photos of Liam like this lying around. They never take us seriously here.” 

Phil felt anger bubble up in his chest, and he took a deep breath through his nose to calm down. “May I see the envelope? It could be crucial evidence for the case. And you say they’ve brushed you off before? Was it to do with this case?” 

“Yeah. When we were nineteen, Liam PJ and I were at the opening night of the town’s Halloween festival. We were waiting in line for the haunted house when another man came up to us and started a conversation. He was wearing this really detailed plague doctor outfit, with leather gloves and some kind of heavy white baton with a big black diamond on the end of it. Maybe it was a cane? He was asking if we knew about the new gay club that had opened up a couple towns away. I said yeah, but it wasn’t really my thing. I had heard that it was a kinky place, and at that time I wasn’t even out of the closet, so I wanted nothing to do with it.” Dan rambled, taking PJ’s hand in his as he recalled that night. 

Phil wrote everything that Dan was saying in his notebook quickly. “Anything else? I’m taking on the case as if nothing has been done previously since it seems that nothing really was.” 

Dan nodded, his curls bobbing slightly at his movement. “We thought it was weird, but weird and Halloween go hand in hand, you know? When the guy left us alone, we forgot about it. It wasn’t until around midnight when I was leaving the bathrooms near the trails of the park that I saw him again. I was alone this time, and he stopped me. He told me that he had never seen eyes as beautiful as mine, and I said thank you but told him I wasn’t interested. He apologized profusely and told me to have a good night. When he went to walk away, I noticed under the streetlamp that there was blood on his leather gloves. It was barely noticeable, but it was there. There was even more blood on the crystal part of his baton, dripping down to the white base of it. At first, I thought it was a part of his costume that we hadn’t noticed earlier, until the next morning, when Dillion Hilton’s body was found on the trail closest to the bathrooms.” 

Phil froze in the middle of his writing to look at Dan curiously. “So you went to the police with this information, and they ignored you?” 

PJ nodded along with Dan, “I went with him as support; he was terrified to go anywhere alone at this point. They didn’t write it down or anything; they just told us that it was a Halloween festival and that the blood was clearly a part of the costume. Brewer told Dan not to waste his time.” 

Phil pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, “They’re fucking usless. Sorry for the language, lads; I’ve just never worked with such a careless police force.”

Dan giggled a bit at Phil’s little outburst and shrugged, “Trust me, I’ve said worse.” 

The detective couldn’t help but smile at the giggle, the sound relaxing his shoulders just a bit. He carefully reached into the envelope, studying the pictures closely. It always struck him as painful to look at someone be so alive in photos, all while knowing that they’re dead and gone. The man in the photos, Liam, didn’t seem truly frightened in the pictures; it seemed like he was enjoying himself. Phil’s heart broke for Dan momentarily before something clicked in his mind.

“So Dan, you said that the masked man was asking about a gay club a few towns away, right?” Phil asked softly, looking into Dan’s eyes. He hated the hurt that he saw there. 

Dan nodded and dabbed at his eyes with a tissue. “Yeah. It’s a fetish club; it’s called The Raven’s Roost. They have a website; I can give it to you if you need it.” 

Phil chuckled, "It seems like you’ve done some investigating yourself. That’s-”

“Stupid, dangerous, a waste of time? I’ve heard it all before.” Dan whispered, pulling up the website on his phone to allow Phil to write it down.

The detective cleared his throat and wrote the website name down in his journal. “I was actually going to say impressive. It is dangerous, but it seems like this criminal has a bit of humanity towards you. Otherwise, I think you would’ve already been a victim of his.” 

Dan shuddered at the thought and watched as detective Lester read through the letter, making occasional notes in his journal. PJ looked at Dan and offered a supportive smile, squeezing his best friend’s hand gently. It felt strange to actually be taken seriously; he could only imagine just how good his friend felt. 

“Dan, PJ, I know this might be a little uncomfortable for the both of you, but could you possibly take me to Liam’s grave? In the letter, the killer says that he’s seen you there. I want to see if there’s a specific spot that he could be watching you from.” Phil explained, writing a note to himself before closing his journal and latching it. 

PJ looked at Dan silently before they both nodded in agreement. Dan stood up and shivered, having refused to put on a coat when PJ was rushing him out of their flat. Wordlessly, detective Lester slid his thick, navy blue trench coat off of his shoulders and offered it to Dan. Despite his best efforts to act unaffected by the act of kindness, the brunette felt his cheeks heat up as he slid his arms into the sleeves. 

“Thank you, detective Lester.” He mumbled, letting the slightly too long sleeves cover his hands.

Phil smiled, “My pleasure, dear, and just Phil is fine. Now lead the way; it might seem impossible for me to get lost in such a small town, but I would find a way.” He joked with a soft chuckle. 

PJ watched Dan carefully, feeling his heart swell. For so long, it felt like it was he and Dan against the world. His best friend had a hard time letting people in and an even harder time letting them stay. After Liam was killed, Dan had decided that he was bad luck and that it was somehow his fault that Liam was killed. Dan had even tried to push PJ away, but no matter what he did, how much he acted out, PJ stayed. It was nice to see Dan open up and show his feelings with someone new, even if it was just with a detective. 

The graveyard that was attached to the local church grounds was just a street away, so the walk didn’t take long at all. It was only just past eight in the evening, but the streets were completely empty. Phil felt a surge of pride knowing that the curfew in place seemed to be working. He pushed his black fringe out of his eyes as he followed Dan and PJ down a row of graves, stopping beside them in front of one.

“This is it.” Dan whispered, looking only at his feet. 

Phil nodded thoughtfully and looked around carefully. The graveyard was old but well kept all the same. The gravestones were neatly polished and decorated with flowers and wreaths. Liam’s grave was nearly glistening underneath the glow of the streetlamps, a beautiful autumnal wreath positioned on a metal easel just to the left of it. The entire gravesite felt overwhelmingly warm and loved to Phil; it sent a calming surge down his spine. 

He pulled out a small camera from his briefcase and turned on the flash, taking a few photos of the areas around them, focusing heavily on the church building. The church was quite small and worn down from the years that it stood, but it was surrounded by beautiful red and orange marigolds that seemed to give it new life. Phil looked up and down the building, pausing at the old bell tower and snapping a few photos. 

“Is it possible to access the belltower?” He asked, looking over to the men who were standing starkly still beside him. 

PJ nodded. “Yeah, they just recently reinforced the flooring and redid the staircase. A little over a year ago, I think.” 

Phil hummed and looked over to Dan, who seemed lost in thought. He debated on interrupting whatever had Dan thinking so hard, but thought better of it. PJ had said earlier that Dan was prone to fainting, and Phil didn’t want to be the cause of that. The detective took a few more photos before turning his attention to the other men once again. 

“Alright, one more thing. I would like to walk you both home, one for safety but also to get a look at your front door. Do you have a doorbell camera or anything like it?” Phil asked, putting his camera away carefully. 

Dan shook his head, “No, we don’t. But you can take a look at the door or whatever you need.” 

Phil cocked his head to one side curiously. “You just lied to me, Dan, why?” He asked softly. 

The younger man froze and looked at PJ with desperate eyes, silently begging him to answer. 

PJ sighed and shuffled on his feet. “We have a hidden camera in the lightbulb cover of our outdoor light. He lied because outdoor cameras aren’t allowed in residential homes in Brackenwood. Something about it invading the privacy of neighbors.” 

Phil arched his eyebrow. “This town is a bit backwards. Alright, let’s head out.” 

PJ all but ran out of the cemetery, feeling on edge. The graveyard freaked him out even on a bright summer day, so being in it on a dark and cloudy night wasn’t the best feeling. He heaved a sigh and stood beneath a large streetlamp, waiting patiently for Dan and Phil. 

“Phil? How did you know I was lying?” Dan asked quietly, following PJ at a slower pace. 

Phil smiled calmly, “I’m trained to see through lies; it’s easy sometimes, but other times it’s impossible. I could tell you were lying because you became unsure of yourself. You’ve been honest with me all night, completely confident, but a simple question made you doubt yourself.” 

Dan sighed and shook his head. “I always thought that I was a good liar.” 

The detective hummed and looked at Dan with curious eyes. “Do you lie a lot?” 

“Nearly everyday.” The brunette admitted in a whisper. 

“What about?” Phil asked just as quietly.

Dan chuckled humorlessly, “People ask me if I’m okay a lot. I think that if I say that I’m fine often enough, I’ll eventually convince myself too.” 

Phil paused his steps for a moment, taking in what was just confessed to him. He had dealt with many people who were struggling in some way or another. Hell, he had talked a few people down from bridges that they planned to jump off of; he had talked a shooter out of killing a group of innocent children. He had even talked a serial rapist into turning himself in. His voice was his greatest weapon, his strongest feature. Yet, in that moment, he was completely speechless. 

“You coming, Phil?” PJ called softly from the lamppost, bringing the young detective out of his stupor. 

Phil cleared his throat, “Yeah, sorry. I got lost in thought. It’s a bad habit.” 

Dan and PJ walked a bit ahead of Phil, not really talking but just keeping close to each other. Despite only having met them an hour prior, Phil couldn’t help but be thankful that they had each other. It was like the men in front of him completed each other in some way. When Dan couldn’t finish his thought, PJ would always step in. When PJ was thinking too hard, it was like Dan realized before anyone else and helped ground him. They had supported each other all these years while this murderer was on the loose. When the people that they should be able to trust proved to be unhelpful, they still had each other. Phil felt himself smile at the friends in front of him, feeling for a moment that he was a part of their lives. 

“Home sweet home.” Dan joked when he and PJ stopped in front of a red painted door with a gold 111 plaque attached to it. 

Phil chuckled at Dan as he observed the door quietly, “An angel number.” He remarked quietly, seeing PJ jump up excitedly. 

“See! It’s not just me, Howell; lots of people believe in angel numbers.” PJ nearly yelled before unlocking the door. 

The detective laughed softly to himself as the two men in front of him bickered about the truth of angel numbers and the idea of fate. While they argued, Phil got onto his knees to take a few pictures of the mail slot on the door, easily spotting a few black threads caught in the edge of the slot. Phil quickly pulled out some gloves and a clean pair of tweezers before plucking them out and putting them into a small bag. 

“May I see the footage from your camera?” Phil asked calmly, spotting the hidden camera in the light cover with practiced ease, “Where did you guys get that camera set up? I haven’t seen that design before.”

Dan invited Phil inside before closing the door and locking it, being sure to lock it with the chain as well. “Oh, we didn’t. Well, we got the camera, but PJ actually built the lampshade cover around it. It’s all his design.” 

Phil smiled. “That’s actually really impressive. What do you do for work, PJ?” 

PJ blushed at the compliment and shrugged, “I think it’s fun, honestly. I’m a journalist; we both are.” 

The detective nodded, thanking Dan quietly when he brought his laptop over with the video feed saved on it. “I think you might be in the wrong line of work, PJ.” Phil teased as he scrolled through the video tentatively. 

Dan nodded in agreement and sent PJ a smile. “I’ve been telling him that for years.” 

PJ rolled his eyes dramatically and sat down on the couch beside Dan. “You can sit down too, Phil. Just pull the coffee table up.”  

Phil hummed in thanks and sat on the other side of Dan, scrolling through the video footage slowly, being sure not to miss anything. At the timestamp of 5:12pm, a figure walked up the steps of the porch, and Phil felt a weight in his stomach. The person was wearing black leather gloves and a leather witch doctor mask. 

“Dan, is this what the mask looked like?” Phil asked softly, turning the laptop to Dan and PJ.

Beside him, Dan stiffened, “Yeah, exactly like the guy was wearing.” He whispered, as if he were afraid the masked man would hear him. 

Phil nodded slowly and scrolled through the video some more, pausing it quickly when he saw patches on the leather jacket that the masked man was wearing. He pulled out his camera and took a few pictures. Each patch was in the shape of diamonds, red and purple in color. The patches clearly had some kind of design on them, but Phil wasn’t able to get a clear look at them just yet. 

“Does anyone else know about the plague doctor mask? Besides the police?” Phil asked calmly, not looking away from the video. 

Both Dan and PJ shook their heads. “Not that I know of. After the reaction from the cops, I felt stupid for thinking it was serious. I was too embarrassed to talk about it.” Dan explained quietly. 

The detective nodded again, “This guy is careful. He’s got a mask underneath the witch doctor mask to cover his neck. Maybe he has recognizable tattoos.” Phil mumbled to himself. 

“You can email the video file to yourself if you want.” PJ offered quietly, leaning over Dan to see the paused video frame. Seeing the mask again made him uncomfortable; it reminded him just how much had happened since that night six years ago. 

Phil smiled thankfully before sending the video to himself quickly. “I think that this will help the investigation a lot. Now I have a better idea of what kind of person we’re looking for.” 

Dan looked at Phil with tired eyes and red cheeks. “Do you think you’re only looking for one person? I’ve always thought there was more than one.” 

“I don’t know for sure. Why? Do you think there’s more than one killer?” The detective asked curiously, closing the laptop gently. 

The brunette took a shaky breath and said. “I don’t really think there’s more than one killer, but I think that the actual killer has someone to help them clean up or move the body. The bodies are never found bloody; they’ve always been cleaned up. Did Brewer not tell you that? They’re always found shirtless, cleaned up, on their backs with their arms crossed over their chests.”

Phil frowned a bit at the new information. He would have to ask Brewer for crimescene photos when they spoke again, as the pictures hadn’t been released to the public. The detective’s blood went cold for a moment. “How do you know that, Dan?”

“I have a... friend who’s close with Brewer. I can give you his name, but please don’t tell Brewer. I get a lot of information from him; that’s why I always know stuff before the other journalists.” Dan rambled, chewing his chapped lips anxiously. 

Phil forced back the small sigh of relief that threatened to fall from his lungs. Though he still had to write both Dan and PJ down as possible suspects, he now had reason to write it off as only speculation. He pulled out his journal and looked at Dan expectantly. 

“His name is Aaron Brewer. He’s chief Brewer’s son.” Dan explained quietly, looking at his lap. 

The detective raised his eyebrows curiously. So, Brewer’s own son was telling journalists information behind his father’s back. Information that should have stayed only between that of the police force. In that moment, it clicked in Phil’s mind who the mystery blogger was that Brewer had been grumbling about. Dan and PJ were smart in their conquest for justice, but now he was in the middle of it. If they had anything to do with the murders, he would find out easily. 

“Thank you both for your help. I need to get back to my hotel room and start going through the evidence that you guys have given me. Here’s my card, one for both of you. Don’t hesitate to call me if anything happens or if you think of anything else that could be helpful. I’ll be stopping by to check on you both sometime soon, so please text me tonight and I’ll save your numbers.” Phil explained eagerly before standing up and stretching his arms over his head. 

PJ nodded and stood as well. “Thank you for taking us seriously. You’ve given us hope for the first time in way too fucking long. Especially Dan.” He added in a whisper. 

“Thank you, Phil.” Dan smiled, “Oh, your coat.” He realized, quickly standing to take it off. 

Phil chuckled, “Keep it for now; I’ll see you again soon and take it then. Besides, it looks cuter on you. Goodnight, lads, lock the door behind me, please.” He added before waving and walking out of the front door. 

PJ quickly ran to the door and locked it before looking at a still blushing Dan. “He’s kinda cute, eh?” He teased. 

Dan stammered and looked away from his friend, “Shut up! You’re not even into men.”  

“Oi! I’m not into dogs, but I can say that they’re cute!” PJ argued with a laugh. 

Dan groaned loudly and stood up, “You didn’t have to say it like that!” He argued before storming off to his room, leaving a laughing PJ alone in the lounge. 

[thatndginger]

I think I prefer this top-down way of depicting my dragons. I'm gonna have to make a bottom-up version too since a fair few dragon breeds have countershading...

Anyway, here's what Grizzle and Moondance's patterns look like. I'm much happier with this version of Moondance compared to the previous one in terms of markings. This also gives a really good idea of how different dragons have different wing shapes, especially Griz and Dance. Dance is made for speed and distance. Griz is made for fast maneuvering in tight quarters.

I already talked about Dawnchaser dragons (Moondance), so I guess we'll give a little love to Blacktails (Griz) below

The most common species of wild dragon in the Craglands - the floating mountains that dominate the west side of Ostrera - is the Blacktail. While the two of subspecies vary in size depending on their region, a common Blacktail measures in at 18ft long with a wingspan of 25ft, and an average weight of 550lb. They have fairly short necks and tails and have strongly muscled legs. Females grow larger than males, but can also be identified by their lack of wing stripes. Both sexes have rough, twisting facial horns and a pair of rigid fins at the end of their tails.

Blacktails are named for their distinctive coloration: a flat orange-brown color that darkens to black or dark brown around their heads and tails. Their bellies and undersides of their wings are a pale cream, while the tops of their wings are a darker brown shade than their bodies. Males have distinctive cream-and-white stripes on the tops of their wings, as well as a series of large spots at the edges. Female have these spots as well, but lack the stripes.

Most Blacktails will live their entire lives in the canyons of the Craglands, rarely venturing above the mountaintops into open air. Their wings are perfectly formed for navigating narrow canyons and tight spaces, but are poorly suited to soaring. Most Blacktails nest on the narrow ledges within the wider valleys where they can use their preferred hunting method: dropping from above onto unsuspecting prey. Because they don't spend much time in open air they aren't typically a danger to human settlements, but have been known to try and take over cliff dwellings for nesting on occasion.

In the wild, Blacktails form close family units composed primarily of females and hatchlings. A single female - usually the mother or grandmother to most of the flock - acts as leader. All members of the flock work together to raise their young, who usually remain with their birth flock for two years. After this time, males will disperse - joining a bachelor flock or remaining alone - while females either stay with the flock or break off to form their own if the birth flock has grown too large. The bonds in Blacktail flocks are extremely strong, and if one member is attacked the rest are quick to defend it.

Blacktails have a distinctive, cough-like call that is often likened to laughter. This call is used to help flock members find each other in the twisting canyons of the Craglands