#tainted!! soiled!! rotten!!

[magioffire]

i applaud each and everyone one of you who resisted making a ‘master has given dobby a sock, dobby is a free elf’ joke at vali because i dont think i could stop him (or myself for that matter) from committing Unalive on you

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Hello! By any chance, do you have synonyms or related words to "decompose"?

Thank you in anticipation!

Hi! Here are some words related to decompose:

Decompose—to break up into constituent parts by or as if by a chemical process

Addle - to become rotten; spoil

Atrophy - to waste away (as from disease or disuse)

Corrode - to wear away gradually usually by chemical action

Corrupt - rot, spoil; to cause disintegration

Crumble - to fall into small pieces; disintegrate

Curdle - to go bad or wrong; spoil, sour

Decay - to undergo decomposition

Decline - a gradual physical or mental sinking and wasting away

Deteriorate - to become impaired in quality, functioning, or condition; degenerate

Devolve - to degenerate through a gradual change or evolution

Dilapidate - to bring into a condition of decay or partial ruin

Disintegrate - to break or decompose into constituent elements, parts, or small particles

Dissolve - to separate into component parts; disintegrate

Fester - to undergo or exist in a state of progressive deterioration

Mildew - to become affected with mildew (i.e., a superficial usually whitish growth produced especially on organic matter or living plants by fungi)

Mold - to become moldy (i.e., covered with a superficial often woolly growth produced especially on damp or decaying organic matter or on living organisms by a fungus, as of the order Mucorales)

Mortify - to become necrotic (usually localized death of living tissue) or gangrenous (local death of soft tissues due to loss of blood supply)

Necrotize - to undergo necrosis (i.e., usually localized death of living tissue)

Perish - deteriorate, spoil

Putrefy - to undergo putrefaction (i.e., the decomposition of organic matter)

Putresce - to become putrescent or putrid; putrefy

Putrid - being in a state of putrefaction; rotten

Rot - to undergo decomposition from the action of bacteria or fungi

Rust - to be affected with a rust fungus

Sour - smelling or tasting of decay; rancid, rotten

Sphacelate - to become gangrenous (local death of soft tissues due to loss of blood supply)

Spoil - to lose valuable or useful qualities usually as a result of decay

Taint - to affect with putrefaction; spoil

Tarnish - to dull or destroy the luster of by or as if by air, dust, or dirt; soil, stain

Wither - to shrivel from or as if from loss of bodily moisture; to lose vitality, force, or freshness

Hope this helps with your writing. Do tag me, or send me a link. I'd love to read your work!

More: Word Lists

[sundogsandrainbows]

STORY SUMMARY: Trust is a delicate flower that needs to get nurtured and time to grow. Even more so love. A tale of two disparate Wardens forced together, of finding a way to overcome the distrust, and their own painful past in the time of the Blight. Very in-depth, character-focused exploration of the Dalish origin/warden, of all DA:O companions, and their relationship dynamics during the Fifth Blight. Follows and expands on canon events; AU in some ways. Multiple POV's, origins, and pairings. Slow burn af.

CHAPTER 52 SUMMARY -- SOUNDS OF YESTERDAY, PART I: In order to find the key for the chest left behind by Cailan in Ostagar, the Wardens and companions make a very reluctant detour to Lothering. Or rather what little is left of it, with it being now a destroyed, corrupted husk of a village.

CHAPTER EXCERPT:

[...] Smoke billows cloyed the firmament, obscuring what little daylight was left. Alistair had the infinite wisdom to take a torch with him, lest he’d stumble blindly through the torn down ruins of this village. What made it hard to breathe and watered his eyes wasn’t just the plumes of smoke from the fires still burning. It was the corruption here, like a leaden cobweb it wrapped itself all around them, stealing all life and oxygen. No wonder the man they’d met had contracted the taint sickness for entering here, for it was absolutely and entirely darkspawn territory now. Dead land, rotten and destroyed to what seemed its core. Unthinkable that it could ever recover from it, not with how thick the stench of death permeated the air.

“Ugh, lovely.” Lenya kicked at a stone in frustration. He illuminated the ground for a closer look at it, which was a baaaad idea in hindsight. Since it wasn’t a stone after all… but a small skull, long since picked clean. Maker, if that wasn’t belonging to an animal then… no. Nope. Nope . Refusal to complete this thought was the best course of action here, and the only valid one. “It is even worse than I expected it to be here.”

“Yeah.” Hard to imagine now that they were walking through this then-intact village almost half a year ago. Fresh-faced and thrown together after the tragedy that was Ostagar and their near death experience, in the search for information and equipment for their larger than life quest. It always had held the air of despair, filled to the brim with refugees as it were, but this here… was a completely disparate world. Theirs , to be exact. And every place would look like this, whole cities turned graveyards, should they fail. So many more people would die, futures and hopes crushed underfoot by incessant floods of darkspawn hordes. It was all the pressure, all the burden now visualized in this forsaken place; of what was at stake and expected of them both –just the two of them– that robbed him of all oxygen. How could he ever— The ground began to spin around him and with the torch still in hand, Alistair stumbled to a house's ruin at the side, to empty out his stomach into the snow-covered, decayed soil in front of it. The torch cluttered to the ground as he doubled over to heave. [...]

[CONTINUE READING] ||[READ FROM THE BEGINNING]

[the-unseelie-court-official]

Hello; I would like to ask you to rate the name Kit :) I'm return, I offer you hushed promises long rotten in the soil, and a name forever tainted, for the mushrooms to snack on

Kit is such a funny name to me, it’s lovely as any name that fits well Is, it’s just such an interesting self contradiction. A kit being a symbol of your preparedness, or a word for a baby. I like to imagine it means both, here, and this is being sent by a three month old fox with a bachelors.

[fatuous-frog]

Decaying

The soil was once fresh, before it was tainted Toxins slowly replacing all nutrition causing us to wither and sap

Our petals - once a crown of beauty to behold, shed and detached

Our leaves - once a magnet for light, crushed and dried

Our roots - once a source of aliment, rotten and malnourished

The wind carries our cries and weeps But no one cared No one heard Every man for themselves, right?

Our honey turned sour Our colors darkened No light to shed for us No nutrients to spare

The soil was once fresh Before it was tainted

[dawnled]

@13nth is out here breaking my heart ( i asked for it ) !

"your heart shall be judged."

how many days has it been , since he last fell into the embrace of sleep ? too many , he wagers , for he doesn't recall even doing it -- only that he finds himself here , now , amidst the darkness , in an echo of a world only two days departed , which refuses to leave the back of his eyelids or the darkness of his blindfold .

is this reality ? a dream ? a nightmare ? for as much as he's been wishing for the middle option , a reprieve from his eternal torture , the universe has seen fit to only curse him with the first , or the third , both of which have long since begun to blend .

& there , backlit by the neon lights of the world's most iconic skyscraper , stands the shadow of his best friend -- tight - shouldered , silent rage rolling off his frame like darkness , eyes aglow with a haunting , whispy blue that riku knows all too well from him . amidst the silence , rain & thunder making no sound in this 'scape until now that he's noticed its absence , there's the jingle of a keychain , small but painfully loud , & then there's oblivion , sharply pointed in the distance between them .

if roxas tried - or , maybe he didn't even need to - he could easily pierce through his coat , his skin , his organs , to whatever else may lie beneath this rotten , tainted facade of his .

" your heart shall be judged . "

the words are haunting , practically world - shattering , speaking through his walls to his core despite their short - handed simplicity . their mere existence makes him feel rotten , soiled , tainted , the weight of his misdeeds heavy upon his shoulders .

it's a weight he has long since become familiar with - & if this was a question , then he already knew the answer .

" it already has been . "

& suddenly he's falling , the darkness of his corruption drowning him , blocking out the neon lights & his outstretched hand going unanswered . digging through the sludge brings him to a world of light , so bright at first that it burns , & by the time his eyes have adjusted behind his 'fold , he remembers .

the humming of machinery paints a long - since - familiar picture , the ivory white of the walls painful to see through the darkness . if he moves his head slightly , he can feel the slope of the object at his back , & recognises the memory pod instantaneously .

he dares not look behind him ; after such a confrontation , he hasn't yet the strength .

[actual-changeling]

i've always been told i am a bad person.

it is something unholy, isn't it, to look at a child and blame them for their own pain, to tell them you deserve this, you deserve this and more. can a child be bad? can rot set in that early, can it eat your roots and blacken your leaves when you have barely begun to sprout?

killing a plant is easy, give it too much water or not enough and it will break apart either way, yet no one ever talks about the art of keeping something just on the brink of existence.

just enough water to make it to the next week, enough sunlight and warmth to make it through winter with brittle brown leaves and weak anchorage. old, unchanged soil, a pot you have long outgrown suffocating you as you grow and grow and grow. it will not kill you, they make sure of that.

you will never bloom either.

bad is an empty word and somehow carries more weight than most others i have been called. maybe because it leaves your sins to your imagination. the worst pain you can inflict on someone is always born from their mind, primal and untamed.

would i have been a bad child if i had been watered enough but not to much? if i had grown in rich soil and not salted earth? if i had been offered sunlight and shade, been fed fertilizer and tended to with gentle hands, pruning and protection done in equal measures?

maybe. maybe not.

nowadays i am being told the fault lies not within my character but in those around me, a seed that had simply drifted too far from it's intended garden and been buried in the wrong kind of dirt instead.

maybe i would not have been bad, maybe even good. maybe even more.

then again, sometimes a tainted seed is simply rotten to its core and was never meant to be.

[kendrixtermina]

(love)

This is how one rests at ease:

There is no point in panicking.

The world has never not been

falling apart all around you.

These bodies have never once not been transparently filled,

with bones and blood and mechanical parts.

Inflatable epoxy raisin easy to look through:

I can only pray that you’ll be gentle with my corpse.

Draped as it is, upon a stricked dead tree,

one juicy, opened meal for the crows to descend on.

Something merely hanging,

as painjobs cracking off, the rubbery smell of fried machine guts,

bleeding out, tainting the shore,

oils and rare earths

a creature that cannot return, even in death from the alien soils that it sprung from,

straining and aching and coming about,

with every touch, every exposure to the harsh elements.

A trail of oozing, soiling blackness, staining any hand of yours that would touch.

Rotten aquariums, their stench perfusing everything,

spreading everywhere – runaway growths, plain bacterial catastrophe

The long hairs of a waterlogged corpse hiding the worst of her algae-blue skin

of the tainted green whiteness

Heaps of defective doll parts lolling around,

waiting, maybe, for some bizzare collector to make a pet project of it.

For you to step past the wall I’ve dissappeared into,

so I could listen, for a while, to your sounds.

Have I not always approached you clad in scabs and gore?

Have I not pulled off the face right at the greeting,

answering your concern by removing all doubt?

I’ve got to have you convinced that it was some filegree artistic arrangement of the parts,

just to trick you into kissing me under a shower of blood.

The red is all I have to write with,

the very last drop of anything juicy in the dried up plain of salt,

the eternal starkness of bloody red on bony whiteness,

the oldest form of vivid coloring,

the beast’s devouring hunger,

and the spectral shade’s long wait,

sitting patienty on her knees in the lab’s watery container tank.

Bloody needles, and concrete wall-plates,

bottles of acrid-smelling products, grimy cleaning closets and discarded bandages

every corner, where the discolorations accumulate.

It’s hard enough to exist when it’s only just for me.

What I’m saying is -

What I am not sure of is -

how will I manage not to come apart in your hands,

if you should ever try to embrace me?

[weeping-gospels]

Crunch…crunch…crunch…

Snow boots crunched through a formerly pristine blanket stained with a crimson trail. Dragging behind the hooded figure was a half-ripped open sack of fresh human remains, their blood spilling like freshly brewed tea from orifices that had been forcibly stretched open. Wisps of steam dance with the light flurry of snow, the body heat challenging winter’s hypothermic chill — yet no one but herself would bare witness to such sin.

Adorned in human attire, the undead disguised herself as a lonely, wandering soul seeking shelter from the storm. With a hunched back and shivering frame, it was easy to trick passerby into believing she was nothing more than an elderly woman crying for help — only to drop the facade at the last moment upon trailing behind due to her “weary bones” , mercilessly slaughtering the good-willed folks for food.

Psychological manipulation was too easy. Manipulating the emotions of others was too easy. As a psychic Dhampir, she had to know the ropes around one’s feelings and how to bend them to her will — for that was how she fed. The emotions of others satisfied her endless hunger. Blood was not necessary. Bodies are not necessary as well.

The door to her shared castle creaks open wearily, the hinges rusty and frozen. Discarding the now tainted and soiled coat, Bethanne exhales a gust of cold air and slumps the body sack over her shoulder like Saint Nick with his bag of toys, silently making it to the center of the dorm before dumping the steamy limbs onto the concrete below. She then whistles — and within mere moments, a tumble of rabid Skaven pour in and begin to messily tear apart the limbs even farther, splattering stone with a gruesome shade of black blood.

Content with feeding her pack, the red head nonchalantly steps over the audibly feasting rats to open her incessant pile of research journals, getting to work on recording more behavioral study on Skavendom…the sweet sounds of bones crunching and flesh being seized by rotten teeth escaping the silence of winter.

Crunch…crunch…crunch…..

[lasplaga]

[META] + preferred food!

-;┊ 𓆙 𝕺𝕺𝕮 ; ◥ 𓆙      —       𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐃 [ 𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐀 ] + 𝐀 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 / 𝐏𝐇𝐑𝐀𝐒𝐄 / 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍 / 𝐄𝐓𝐂. & 𝐈 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐀 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐈𝐓. --- ALWAYS Accepting! 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐓𝐖: 𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐁𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐌 / 𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑 / 𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐃 & 𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐘

The gist of it is that he is basically a scavenger for carrion, hunts prey, extensively practices cannibalism, but also eats things that isn't considered food or safe for consumption. There's no real preference. Going to emphasize to not read this if you are currently eating & / or have a trigger involving food, much of this is extremely gross but unfortunately canonical. 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄:

Upon Los Iluminados being banished from the mainland, there was a LONG period in which his ancestors endured famine & consumed soil / mud straight from the ground + added blood / bone meal to provide additional nutrients. It inevitably became the regular diet of Ganados upon Sanctuary ( Osmund included ), to the point they still continued eating inedible / hardly beneficial items despite being free from exile. You could say their geophagia developed into a PICA-like disorder or obsession. There are removed files / objects in RE4R ( such as ch_mes_main_file_036.msg.22.txt ) which suggests they eat hair alongside stew or porridge, as one example. Another example, which is present in game, is that they do eat each other's vomit / blood ( which is full of larva / maggots, go figure ) & possibly... other bodily fluids that I dare not suggest, but you get what I mean. Eating rotten / inedible objects without falling ill & dying could also be attributed to the parasites behavior & being able to adapt to extreme conditions, such as instilling upon their hosts sadomasochistic tendencies in order to experience pleasure from pain / torture, if they can still feel anything at all.

There is also evidence that implies they not only eat spoiled items, but discarded / trashed items as well, & most gross of all, items tainted by sewage. Their drinking water is infested with maggots & live insects, green with algae, among other things. If push came to shove I don't think there is anything in the world they couldn't eat & NOT get sick from, outside of other bioweapons ( with the exception of T-Virus ). They essentially have iron stomachs & embody disease, so there is very little risk of them being poisoned or falling ill. They make The Baker house seem immaculate in comparison with how filthy / unhygienic they are.

Osmund truly has no particular choice when it comes to prey ( besides humans ), as his secretions are acidic & melt everything down to the point it is digestible. If you could name an animal, outside of insects as he would never kill them purposely, chances are he'd eat it with absolutely zero hesitation. This DOES INCLUDE if the animal has been dead for days / weeks & has become flyblown + decomposing. HOWEVER ! A prominent headcanon that I include upon this blog was actually a thought of Marcio Moreno ( Ramon's voice actor in 4R ), being that he hunts live rats & chickens throughout the castle & swallows them whole. Any others he catches he gives Ramon for dinner, similarly to a momma cat bringing her kitten food. The only reason I went along with this, despite how hysterical / morbid it sounds, is because Osmund already exhibits disturbing / nonhuman / animal-like behavior, & I thought it suited him perfectly.

In terms of preferred food I genuinely don't think it is possible for him to have any, as his body is perfectly capable of pretty much eating anything. I really can't emphasize enough that his way of thinking is severely disordered & / or his biology is so different from humans as a species that it's frankly ridiculous. You could shove a trash bag in his face & he'd probably thank you. He was used to being starved for so long, outside of fasting times, everything is considered fair game to him.

[luxmaeastra]

Nazarius woke through the garden, pretty, beautiful. He wouldn't touch Iphigenia, spat between Wyvern would lead to more strife like it had before.

Wasn't that why the Fae desperately turned to another? Becuase living under them had been like living under constant threat of war?

How had that ended for them?

He pulled on the earth, smashing through the wards Iphigenia had drawn with her blood and salt. He burned through them all and let that rot grow and grow.

Turning the garden into the mirror of Romulus rotten heart. It wouldn't change till he did. He pushed it to spread deep in the soul throughout Iphigenia's kin territory. He waited, seeing her brother run at him he stepped over the line back to his uncle's side.

"What the fuck -"

"You allow a taint to fester. Either he changes or leaves our lands for your crops to come back."

Claudius looked at the ground at where his sister and her mate were. He rolled his shoulders and looked back to him.

"How far? Off Lemuria or our land? Will the rot follow him?"

Nazarius grinned and twisted the plants to obey.

"It will now."

"Good. I heard what his family is like. His older brother kept his mate in a brothel did you hear?"

"Are we surprised by them? My Raelyn changed for me they couldn't be bothered to."

"Of course not they're weak willed things. Thank you I needed a reason to throw them out. The Elders will listen now."

--------

Claudius ignored Iphigenia as she was held back as their binds sunk around her wrists and throat. Claudius put his foot on Romulus chest.

"I wanted to let you know it isn't personal, but it is. I don't want my sister associated with a famioy who think it's okay for a mate to sell her body. Because your brother is too weak to care for his own. He's a poor excuse for a mate and I won't let my sister be dragged down by you too."

He kicked him over the edge watching his body slam into the rocks below. He ignored his sister's scream he sneered at her.

"You want us to forgive him? One of them did it, make him Change to one of us and we will. Till then he's not allowed back, feel free to go with him Iphigenia since you're willing to throw your life for him twice."

The utter rage and fear coursed through her as the scene unfolded before her, watching as her brother took control of the situation. She hated feeling powerless and trapped, she hated how she was held back.

Yes, Romulus had not helped himself in his action. Yes, she knew there were connections to his family which did not show him in favor. But he had promise, his family was not all terrible. Why was her brother now acting? Why?

The way the soil and the earth reacted to him told her enough, that someone had done something. Someone had given her brother cause.

"Fine." She spat. "I will go with him, I will go with him and he will show you all that he is as worthy as any of us."

------

Her fingers brushed through Romulus's hair, she had followed like she said she would. She would not leave his side when he was like this, she would not leave his side when their future was ahead of them.

"You do not have to do what they are asking." She didn't want him to feel cornered and pressured into becoming what he didn't want to be, or did he? His sister had done it, yet would Romulus want to?

[unexpected-satsuma]

3 / ? - Spring

Herbalist : Sunday 21st

The plants concern me. Greatly. It looks like a rot setting in, but it is not a mould or decay. The leaves are seemingly being drained.

Flowers are not producing pollen, fruit is seedy and bitter, fibrous grasses are wilting. This could be an ecological disaster. I asked Leah to get a sample of soil for me to investigate, because I do not think it to be a blight as Forrest initially suggested.

I think the rot is within the island itself, but I need to test this soil. I have to understand what it is in the ground that is pulling away from the plants.

Anyway, Goose had to sleep outside last night because he smelled so awful we could not bear it. I will ask Runeheart if she could forge us a bathtub to save Olive the worry.

Matheo: Monday 22nd

I ventured into the forest yesterday, hoping to be at one with the power of nature, and I misplaced my notebook.

I am desperate to try retrace my steps. I will have to post for the Rangers to keep an eye out. That book contains all of my research and knowledge. It tracks the progress of the garden. It is invaluable, more so than my Father’s useless tomes.

She left a bundle of bloodgrass and dogweed on my door today. That blue haired wraith floats around the woods, my woods, and rips it apart as a gift for me? Brutish. Typical of chemists, they lack a particular refinement once they poison their spirits with those rotten chemicals.

So persistent. Her cape flaps behind her and she marches into my garden, asking about my plants and the weather and my health. The Chemist is conniving, and I will unearth her true intentions.

Reyner: Wednesday 24th

Runeheart is breathing down my neck to have my shoulder seen to, but I think she is overreacting. I have been working at the Potion house all week, and the kitchen is nearly finished.

Every morning when I arrive, the Herbalist - she is called Mia - lets me inside and shuffles off to her desk. I work in the kitchen, and she works at the end of the hall, peering down a looking glass at tiny mounds of soil.

I watch her work when I take breaks, and I cannot understand what she is doing. It is hypnotic though, the way she delicately separates small samples of dirt and adds drops of funny coloured liquids. Then she writes something down. It is so odd.

My shoulder aches. I know Matheo suggested light work and willow bark for the pain, but it is not enough anymore. I think it is getting worse, but I don’t want Runeheart to know.

Chemist: Thursday 25th

Mia is increasingly concerned that the soil is tainted with something dangerous. It could be the work of the previous Chemists - Forrest let slip a spillage occurred and poisoned some fauna, but he believed it to be contained. It appears it has spread, and greatly. I hope Mia can analyse the soil and we can figure out how to neutralise it.

I found Matheo’s Notes in the forest today. I returned it, obviously. But I did have to take a look. He tracks the progress of his gardens every year, every plant cycle noted perfectly. He preserves samples of leaves in each page. I think I will ask him to help us research.

He suggested I stole his notebook when I returned it, the idiot. He just needs time. He will come round and eventually see that we are not a threat.

Xiao : Friday 26th

Little Miss Rue keeps begging me to read with her, but I do not have the time. Myer keeps me busy, more so now than ever with these Ambassadors.

The Chemist, Leah, visited the town hall today. She took some of the community postings, to my surprise. The soil investigation is still underway, I requested a report for Myer once it was complete.

Leah asked if I liked cats and gave me some moon cloves today. I did not really know how to answer. I supposed I like Kipps after all, and she said there was a stray kitten in the woods. I had not considered a pet of my own until then. I wished her good fortune on her search.

Forrest: Sunday 28th

The plants are getting worse, but the Herbalist believes it to be poisoned soil. She came to the edge of the forest and we inspected the foliage together.

She seems to believe that it is a good thing the soil is poisoned. It means it can be undone at any point, and we are not limited by trying to save the plants first. I have to trust her. I have to. I cannot let the forest wilt, this is a life older and greater than anything ever will be on this island.

Moonbury without it’s forests and beasts is just a rock, that will slowly fall apart. I am scared, but I trust. I have to trust.

[thatsadorbsyo]

Kyros - The King’s Bow

(cw: mentions of gore, putrescence, violence, and death of people and animals.)

Five weeks prior to the battle at the Duchy of Glenvale.

A murky drizzle coats the forest of the Hunter’s Glory in a dim light, even in mid-afternoon. The menagerie of creatures that dwell here are unnaturally quiet in this atypical gloom, but for once these beasts of sport are not Kyros’s quarry. Brother Guidry is still out here, somewhere, with nothing but a holy bow and a prayer to protect him from unforeseen dangers. Valorous fucking fool that he is.

The signs of woodland corruption grow thicker as Kyros travels deeper into the creeping rain. The Keepers’ scouts had warned him of the violent changes to the landscape, but he was ill-prepared for what he would face as he searches for his temple brother:

A tree with its bark melting away in a great claw swipe, leaving a rotten blackness in three gaping slashes that steam wherever raindrops patter into them. The wispy smoke burns his fingertips with a heat that cannot be borne from fire.

The carcass of a stag, bleeding out into the underbrush in a slush of viscera. Its wounds spread in round, cankerous arcs as its flesh is eaten by the acid that puddles against its bones. Its milky eyes stare up at him, frozen with long-passed horror.

Soft vegetation cored out in a scar across the landscape, burned straight through by an unstoppable blight. The now-empty passage of some great beast, its magnitude intimated by the blank space it leaves behind for Kyros to walk through.

Fresh pools of acid still line the path, collecting in the deep pawprints of a fleeing tiger. Thick enough to choke, the air in his chest betrays him. His next breath trembles, a shaking leaf on the dying trees. Is it for fear or from effort? The hunter tightens his grip on a spear held in both hands, making the wood creak against the silence of the forest. Where is Guidry?

Soon enough, he gets his answer. A body lies fallen across the path up ahead, bearing the colors of the Huntsman’s priests. Guidry, the champion Kyros seeks. Is he hurt? Off to the left, a murmur of voices can be heard through the blighted thicket. The snapping of twigs under passing feet. Who could that be?

And where is the fearsome beast that ravaged the Hunter’s Glory? Dare he speak the word that sits on his tongue? To suggest that a dragon stalks the forest would be nothing short of blasphemy. The god of the hunt himself, Cudorix, is said to have shot the last wyrm from the sky at the beginning of the age.

Something must be done. Kyros grits his teeth and...

1. ...continues his search for acid-spewing monster. It has to be taken down. 2. ...sprints up to the body. Guidry could still be alive. 3. ...turns into the thicket to investigate the voices. Whoever they are, they’re going to get hurt out here.

---

The air prickles his lungs with every pounding footfall as Kyros charges up the path. Tension spirals, clenching his grey knuckles to pure white when he bears down on his weapon. His steel gut is braced for what he will find, but his tender heart doesn’t want to believe it. Not yet.

His sprint slows to a jog as he approaches the body, and then to the halted stuttering of fearful backpedalling when the scene comes into horrible focus: Though his armor retains the shape he held in life, Guidry himself has been reduced to a pool of gelatinous, half-dissolved fat and tissue oozing from the space beneath his bronze breastplate. The mark of the Huntsman, a bow encircled by a halo of stars, sits brazen and untouched on his chest, while under the dome of metal his body seeps out from his clothes to taint the soil.

Kyros turns his head with a grimace, averting his gaze from this nauseous perversion. He’s seen all that he needs to see. The King’s Bow, the most holy relic of his faithful patron’s house, is missing from the shapeless corpse. He can return with neither the body of his brother nor his Baroness’s artifact.

In short, he’ll go back to Naffor as a fucking failure. Again.

Focus. There must be something he can do to make this right. He can still do some good for Brother Guidry, even in this piteous state of dissolution. Kyros swallows an aborted whimper and bends down close to the fallen hunter to...

1. ...rip the still-intact breastplate from the body’s muck. He can’t return empty-handed, and in lieu of remains, this may give someone closure. 2. ...say a prayer of rest for the slain priest. Denied a proper burial, Guidry will find his grave on the forest floor, amid the remains of both predators and prey.

---

The armor tears away from Guidry’s body with a sickening suck, like dislodging a boot from thick mud. The pain is immediate: a foreign burn in his palm, a searing sensation that should not be, not on someone like him. Kyros snarls with a furious curl of his lips, weathering the pain, and plants his foot in the dirt to yank the etched breastplate free.

Victory finds him panting in the tainted air with his paltry prize, hands singed and lungs screaming. The armor is difficult to hold. Kyros trembles with the phantoms of countless needles bearing down into his fingers, into the fleshy pad of his palm, through his calluses, into the cracks of his knuckles. He can’t breathe. The acrid taint, it’s coming from Guidry. It’s coming from the forest all around him, from the wounded grove opening like a canker to the rain-dark sky.

Somewhere, a rumbling roar echoes through the forest, vibrating with fear and agony. Kyros can’t see the panther, but it sounds close. Close enough to make his heart leap in his seizing chest, a lodged brick.

Panic makes him toss his head like a wounded bull, searching for something -- anything -- on which to anchor his focus. The scythe sweep of his horns cuts the air audibly with every feverish whip. Woosh, woosh...

1. ...woosh, this way. The susurrus of cracked branches where a wounded tiger escaped through the underbrush. 2. ...woosh, that way. Voices in the thicket, someone still oblivious to the danger, or perhaps too stupid to care.

---

His attention latches onto the dissonant murmuring, and with pinpoint focus, Kyros forces his way through the vines and brambles of the thicket. The underbrush is thicker here, relatively untouched by the vile secretions that eat away at other parts of the forest. With every step, his breath comes cleaner and the voices grow louder.

The thorns that rip at his clothes are nothing compared to the hellish acid he leaves behind. They dig grooves into his leathers and etch scarlet lines across his cheeks, but Kyros barely feels it. A familiar sting, mundane. He can take it, but his endurance isn’t without a cost. Something stirs in him that’s better left to sleep.

The insensate hunter stumbles into a clearing to find a small cluster of bodies huddled around an object of apparent intrigue. Its radiance glows through the dim curtain of their muddy cloaks.

“It’s made o’ wood, yeah? Should be as ruined as the rest, by all rights,” observes a stout figure. “Don’t trust it. Prob'ly cursed or some odd thing.”

“You’re not new enough to be that measure of a twit.” Disdain cuts through the leaves cleaner than the blight. “Of course it’s pristine, it’s holy.”

“Quiet,” hisses a third voice. The lanky thief turns to regard Kyros’s careless gait as he approaches the trio with a spear clutched in one hand and a breastplate dripping with congealed viscera in the other.

The hunter towers over them, a full head above even the tallest of the three bandits. Framed by his horns and clad in dark leather, Kyros cuts an intimidating figure in the unpredictable gloom of the Hunter’s Glory, even when his face isn’t wracked by a fury that threatens to crack his composure. The slumbering thing in his belly sits poised to burst through its thin veneer at any provocation and twist him into a meaner, larger beast. All it would take is a little more pain. A little more outrage. Come on, he wants to do it anyway. He’d like that. Come on.

His skin itches with the primal burn of impending transformation. It’s so close, he can taste the flood of excitement under his tongue.

Kyros...

1. ...calls out to the thieves. They can still be reasoned with, and he is still capable of reason. 2. ...gives himself to the rage. Criminals are naught but prey for the Huntsman’s hounds.

---

“My name is Brother Kyros of Saints,” he announces himself as though reading a royal decree, voice booming in the drizzle. The speaking of it reminds him who he is and why he’s here, snuffing out the rebellious fire in his core. Kyros holds up the stained breastplate like a badge of station, showing them the mark of Cudorix emblazoned on its dome. “I care not for you, I come only for the bow.”

The sight of him is magnetic enough to stun, halting their retreat for a few precious heartbeats. It’s time enough for him to cross the distance, clustering the four of them together in the center of the cramped clearing. Perfect targets, too focused on the scramble of limbs and shouting of obscenities to notice what approaches them through the trees.

“Go tell it to a nun’s quim,” spits out the halfling as he draws a handaxe from his belt, stepping between Kyros and the half-elf who struggles to notch a mundane arrow to the glowing bow in his hands. The third figure, still veiled by his cloak, is the only one who sees the unstoppable gait of the tiger barreling through the underbrush just moments before it’s upon them. One fucking surprise after the other. Nobody ever said thievery was predictable work, did they?

The white and black bolt crashes through a wall of brambles, oblivious to how thorns catch and pull at its sagging fur to reveal the muscle working below. A whole shoulder of bare pink fibers is exposed as its pelt peels away to drag like a bloody curtain, eaten alive by the acid that stays wicked to its fur. The tiger is mad with pain, all sense abandoned for the roiling throes of fearful misery. Claws and teeth are bared for anything that blocks its blind retreat, and it sprints in a furious dash toward the scuffle.

There’s no time to think. All Kyros can do is...

1. ...chase the bandits out of the thicket. His objective is singular, and this hasn’t changed. To return without that bow is dishonorable. 2. ...release the pitiful creature from its agony. His spear is swift, and his aim is true. To allow it to live like this is unthinkable.

---

There was never another choice, was there? Kyros’s mission was laid upon him by Cudorix’s faithful followers, but his duty to uphold the dignity of the Hunter’s Glory is a divine directive from the Huntsman himself, held above all others.

Or maybe it isn’t that lofty. Perhaps he’s just a scared man with nothing but a spear in his grasp, being charged down with murderous intent by a grotesque panther. The hunter drops everything but his weapon and digs his feet into the squishing mud, lunging forward with the point of his spear at the same moment that the deranged beast pounces.

The arrowhead pierces its skin, sinking far too easily into the meat under its shoulder as momentum carries the tiger carcass up the shaft nearly to Kyros’s knuckles. His whole body quakes with the force of impact, bones and muscles bearing down with every ounce of his considerable might to force the shuddering weapon in his hands into compliance. Do not splinter. Do not break. He wills it to be so, just as Cudorix would see it done by all His champions. His form is perfect, valiant and brave, but there is no one here to see it. Guidry is dead. The bandits have left with their prize, leaving the foolish hunter, the acolyte, to save their hides without a breath of thanks.

If Kyros would take a blessing of gratitude, let it be from the tiger that quivers on his shaft in its final moments. Its loping charge slows to a feeble stop mere inches from his face, a snarling muzzle close enough to kiss his flared grey nostrils. He feels the heat of its last breath, smells the stink of its delirium on the air vented between its fangs right before it stills. A dead weight, mad eyes open to the sky with an empty black gloss.

Suddenly, all is quiet, and Kyros is alone with nothing but his messy kill and the metal shell of a man who won’t be coming home. The only sound is his cracking breath, hiccuping with impotent terror as the weight of the moment crashes into him at considerable delay. Kyros drops his spear, and with it sinks the ruined trophy to the boot-tread earth. His hiccups gain mass, rolling into heaves and sobs -- and why shouldn’t he cry? Everything went to shit so godsdamn quick.

A hunter trembles on the edge of a bloody thicket, pawing at his face with his forearm until he is composed enough to retrieve his things from the mud. It’s a long hike back to Naffor, and he returns with heavier burdens than those his arms will carry.

[how-about-you-rogal-dont]

Wrote a thing, felt like sharing

some background:

I'm an aspiring writer, and I have a collection of CSM, CU, and general Chaos OCs do not steal blah blah blah (feel free to steal). I decided to write a bit about how their most recent addition joined the crew! Specifically, a Sororitas Meleficarum of the Order of the Verdant Chalice called Zethra. This bit of writing is a bit long, so I'll put it under a read more. TW for: violence, nurgle shit, space marines. Enjoy, feedback appreciated.

The inner halls of the Seventh Hell were a maze of lush gardens and fetid swamps, overtaken by the crawling filth that marched with Norvegicus’ every step. This ship had been under his sway for a very long time. Hives of unknowable daemonic parasites honeycombed the walls, squeaking rodents scuttled underfoot, and the buzzing of flies threatened to drown out any spoken communication. I could feel disgust rising in my throat with every step we took further into this despicably lush realm. It was difficult to read the other’s faces, sealed as they were beneath layers of steel and ceramite. None of us dared to bare an inch of skin in this place.

I looked over my shoulder, Cataphractii plate growling with killing instinct as my eyes fell upon Zethra. Despite her desertion from Norvegicus’ host, my skin still crawled at the thought of having my back watched by a member of the Plague God’s chosen. How much further? I did not bother holding my disgust away from the sending.

There was a slight click as Zethra tuned in over the vox. “Two hundred meters ahead, then we’ll be in the welcoming hall.” If she noticed my contempt, she did not care to remark on it.

“What manner of warship requires a welcoming hall?” Came Kalus’ voice a moment later. The duelist-marksman was walking with a casual gait, baroque bolt rifle slung over one shoulder. His helmet, like his armor, was the deep amethyst of his birth legion, with an obscenely loud crest of white feathers running down the middle. In all things, ostentation. Kalus never changed.

Djehouti spoke next. “This vessel was not always solely an implement of destruction. During the great crusade, when it still bore its original name, it would be host to all manner of dignitaries. Visitors from other legions, surrendering leaders of target systems, the like. Though I am surprised they have kept it for its original purpose.” Djehouti walked briskly, clearly struggling to keep up with the lumbering gait of my terminator plate. A brush against his mind revealed a certain distance in his thoughts, as though he were not entirely paying attention to the situation. I closed my mind off from the others, sending my thoughts to him and him alone.

Are you well, brother dearest?

Zandros. Yes, all is well. Forgive my absence. This ship brings back memories. Of course it did. It reminded him of our time aboard the Endurance during Horus’ rebellion. It stank of the same decay.

You are remembering our time as Ahriman’s emissaries to the Fourteenth. It was not a question. With my brother’s memory fading more with every day as the Wych’s toxins worked through his mind, any memory he could manage to grasp was worth ruminating on.

Djehouti’s response came slowly, tinged with more emotions than I could name. Yes.

We were younger then.

Young. Foolish. Power-hungry. A nostalgic smirk tinged his thoughts.

We might not have changed as much as we would like to think.

At this, he gave a single, forceful exhalation. After a moment of silence between us, with only the trudging squash of our armor against the filthy deck to break the monotony, he sent again: Zandros, should we survive this excursion, I have something to ask of you.

Anything, brother. What would you wish of me?

Djehouti smiled beneath his helm, coloring his thoughts with a whistful sadness. It can wait. I nodded.

“We’re here.” Zethra’s voice came abruptly, with a fuzz of static. I returned my gaze to the corridor ahead of us. It open up as we stepped forward, widening in size from a hive street to a grand causeway large enough to admit a Warhound Titan. It was here that Norvegicus’ touch was most evident. The ‘welcoming hall’ did not resemble the gilded splendor of an Imperial-built spacecraft. Instead, it was covered, every inch, in growths of flora both natural and empyrean. The room was lined with twisted, pale mangrove trees, drinking greedily from shallow pools of green scum that spread beneath their shade. A thick coating of mud covered the floor, with mushrooms of every color and shape sprouting from beneath the diseased soil. The walls were covered completely in snaking alien vines, bulbous pustules of ichor pulsing at irregular intervals. The ceiling was hung with lichen, smothering the lumiglobes almost completely. Cackling Nurglings stalked and butchered each other for sport in a twisted mockery of children at play. All in all, the room was so overgrown as to leave only a single foot path traveling down the center clear of the grove’s touch. But the centerpiece of the room was undoubtably the warrior standing sentinel at the far edge.

He was an astartes, and massive even for one of the XIV. Like I, he was clad in Cataphractii plate. That was where the similarities ended. His armor was a rich green, the trim a burnished bronze. He carried no visible firearm, instead leaning on a massive two-handed chainscythe. What singled him out amongst his brethren of the death guard was the total lack of decay visible on his armor. Not a single fleck of rust could be seen, not a single dribble of pus or twisting bone growth. Indeed, to the naked eye, he seemed completely devoid of Nurgle’s taint. But beneath that clean exterior, there was a certainty. A fear. Where other champions of the Seventh exemplified to terror of rotting flesh, the pungent smell of blight, this man seethed from within with the hushed fear of infection. Held breaths, averted eyes, a populace knowing there was disease among them, but not knowing when or from who it would come. He was the knowledge that every breath you take could doom you, that shaking your neighbor’s hand would have you dead within a week, the simple truth that you were not safe and that the threat could not possibly be fought against. His helm swiveled to meet our gaze, red lenses glinting in the sickly light.

“Miscreants. You walk the halls of hallowed ground. Your unholy sanitation is an affront to the beauty of these luscious halls.” His voice was deep and harsh, with the barest hint of a Barbarusii accent. The vox-grille of his helm rendering it a predator’s growl.

Mizi’s mind connected with mine in an instant. I’ve got a shot. The sending came with a series of images: Crosshairs held steady over a green helm, the kick of a rifle thumping against a shoulder, the red smear of a head bursting.

I stepped forward, my external vox opening with a barely-audible click. “I am Zandros Lucarian, and I speak for the Ashen Hunters. State your name, that I might know whose death I command.”

A series of sharp barks escaped the warrior’s helm. After a moment, I realized he was laughing at me. “You speak for a mongrel warband of bastards and thin-bloods. But you shall know my name. I am Holgius, seventy-seventh scythe of the Deathshroud.”

The minds of those at my side sharpened instantly. Before us stood a member of the Deathshroud, the chosen blades of the lord of the Seventh Legion. This was no petty champion, no pit brawler elevated above his brothers by savagery alone. His deeds had been enough to draw the attention of the Rotten King himself. To face him would be to invite ruin in a thousand different forms.

And so, of course, it was Kalus who stepped forward, twinned cutlasses slithering from their sheaths with a crackle of energy. “I’ve always wanted to kill a Deathshroud,” he purred. “Never thought that one would volunteer.”

Holgius did not turn his gaze from me. “Does this wailing peacock speak for you, Zandros Lucarian?”

A poorly-contained snicker distracted me as Mizi’s aura smeared with mirth.

“In as many words.” The challenge had been issued. Kalus knew this dance. Like the Samar-Hai of ancient terra, warbands were fond of sending champions forth to duel to the death before the commencement of a slaughter. It was clear that the rotting creatures that served as crew aboard the Seventh Hell understood the significance of Kalus’ headstrong challenge, too. Obese nurglings crowded the fetid canopy above us, clamoring for a better look at the contest. Through my sixth sense, I felt other, more ethereal eyes lock on to our plight.

The Gods were watching.

Holgius stepped forward, revving his chainscythe in a squall of tortured metal. Kalus did likewise, his blades twirling in lazy, lethal arcs. The Deathshroud regarded him for a moment, then rolled his shoulders into a hunched combat stance. My champion crossed his blades over his sternum, lowering himself into a catlike stance. “You seem confident.”

Holgius’ response was a husky, rasping laugh like a knife scraping the rust from ancient metal. “When set against such a meager creature as you? I see no reason why I should not be.” He had begun to pace their arena now, his boots trudging puddles in the floor.

Kalus raised his blades to compensate for his foe’s movement. “Now you seem overconfident.”

The first blow was struck faster than the eye could follow. With a snarl of servos, Holgius swept his weapon towards Kalus. Kalus was already ducking below, spinning into a strike that was both parry and riposte. The scythe roared harmlessly over his head, guided further upwards by a flick of his left blade. His right was already lashing out like a silver viper to bite into his opponent’s knee. There was a flash as the strike connected, but the armor held. Kalus danced out of engagement range, and I did not need my psychic gifts to see the wry smile spreading below his faceplate.

Holgius was already spinning, keeping the momentum from his first missed stroke into a crushing downward blow. I watched frantic realization bloom in Kalus’ mind as he realized that the warrior had guessed his plan, and was already striking towards where he stood crouched. Even he could not evade in time, and so he crossed his blades over his head, braced to take the strike. It impacted with a scream of micro-engines. Pain flooded Kalus’ aura as greenstick fractures began to spread down his arms. He was holding the blade, mere inches from his marble helm, but the clash of weapons was straining his swords’ power fields to their limit. Thousands of miniscule impacts from the teeth of the chainscythe built until the haze around the blades began to flicker and dull.

Kalus spun aside, letting the natural weight of his opponent’s weapon buy him precious nanoseconds as its tip ground against the muck. Two more flashing strikes thudded into Holgius’ side, opening deep gashes in the ceramite. Holgius lashed out with a hand, thudding a fist against Kalus’ helm. Kalus soared through the air, landing with a splat against a pale, warp-touched tree.

Holgius did not pursue his quarry, instead looking down at his dented armor. The gashes opened by Kalus’ strikes had not penetrated his plate. Neither had my champion angled his strikes for the weaker joints in his opponent’s hide. Holgius raised his gaze to Kalus, now standing with defiance in his eyes. “You are mocking me.” The barely-controlled rage beneath his voice shone like a beacon to my sight.

Kalus was rising from where he had fallen against the fetid flora. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” His breathing was ragged and labored; the pain that smeared his aura evident of a punctured lung. Still he stood, mischief painted across his stance as it was his face.

Holgius gestured to the rents in his armor. “Three strikes against me,” he said accusingly, “All of them botched. Every one could have been fatal. You are mocking me.” The grating fury in his voice had been restrained to a dull seething just below his skin.

Kalus shrugged. “Well…” He struck again, faster than we could see. Holgius swept his blade upwards, but too slow. Like lancing a boil, the blade in Kalus’ right hand plunged into Holgius’ forehead with terrifying ease. As his opponent wavered, not yet realizing he was dead, Kalus met his eye, their faceplates inches apart. “…Maybe a little.”

What happened next is difficult to describe. Not in terms of the physicality of the matter, for what took place was simple, if incredible. Holgius went slack, held aloft by misfiring nerves, hands twitching in the final throes of a death rightfully earned. And then… he bloomed. His armor split apart, ceramite shearing away and peeling back like the petals of a diseased lotus. In its place, bloated, pestilent flesh swelled and bulged outwards, throwing Kalus’ sword free. Knots of warped bone split forth from his shoulders, piercing skywards with the promise of infection. Row upon row of greenish fangs crowded his human teeth. While all of this happened, he was growing. We watched on in horror as he swelled from a giant of a man to a corpulent, heaving mass of filth. The Daemon within him, so well camoflauged until now, had been forced into the open by its host’s death.

What my sixth sense saw was altogether more complicated. In his human form, Holgius had been choked thick with the warp-spun false memories of a population terrified of the plague in their midst. Now, with his possessor revealed, those emotions took on a whole new context. Before me stood a daemon born of realization. For so long, the fear it gorged itself on had been limited to the sight of one’s neighbors covering their face, the scent of decay on the air, the primal certainty that something was terribly wrong. But here was the terror of a society advanced enough to look within, and realize that it was dying. The full extent of the infection revealed, and there was nothing to do but watch.

The thing that had been Holgius was on Kalus before my champion could react. Bloated, sore-pocked fists pummeled into Kalus with preternatural strength. A horrific shriek of tearing metal shuddered through us as Kalus’ breastplate split, caving inward under the force of the daemonic assault. Holgius grasped the broken pieces and hauled the cavity open even wider, exposing pale flesh to the diseased air of the Seventh Hell. A weak gurgle escaped from Kalus, carried to us over the vox. Holgius raised his fists to finish the job.

I commanded his death with a single word, spoken clearly and calmly over our group’s Vox.

“Mizi.”

The cracking report of a las-fusil accompanied the split-second in which the entire chamber was washed with red light. When the momentary blindness had cleared, Holgius stood slack-jawed over Kalus. Mizi’s shot had scorched a deep, blackened pit into his misshapen head. Steam curled from the crater as his dying mind struggled to comprehend what was going on. The daemon riding within his veins howled in rage as its handhold on reality began to slip away. As his spirit began to fade, Holgius met my eyes.

“C-co… ward…”

An insult that had long since lost its bite. I informed the Deathshroud as such, before tossing his limp corpse aside with a whim of telekinesis. I pulsed my orders throughout the chamber, calling my bound to follow.

Forward.

I was nearing the far end of the chamber when Kalus spoke. He was a ruin, his helm torn off to allow him to breath through a mangled face, his torso a bloody ruin, bone protruding near his pectorals. Still, he stood, swaying back and forth as he forced words out.

“I… would have… had him…” I smirked at that. A rudimentary scan of his mind revealed he truly believed it, too. He began to waver, and his legs would have given out if Mizi had not arrived at his side, steadying him. “I would have had him.” He repeated, firmly this time. Mizi shot me a look. I didn’t need my second sight to register the exasperation in her thoughts.

I am sure you would have, cousin. I extended a hand, willing his riven flesh to reknit itself. Kalus winced as the psychic impulses began to do their work. I am not so naïve to believe I can be rid of you that easily.

[whitherliliesbloom]

fragrant sorrow

[ ffxivwrite2021 ] ★ [ masterlist ] ★ [ prompt #10 - heady ]

[ implied kaye/lily ] ★ [ 1,805 words ]  ★ [ wozwald au ] content warning- features use of dr*gs, alcohol and tobacco. passing mentions of sex too but it doesn’t happen on screen or involve the main characters. kaye also kills a man. be warned, this is wozwald au, after all.

heady: intoxicating; affecting the mind or senses greatly

even after all these years, the scent of flowers brought the god of death the most amount of pain. 

It fucking reeks. 

His lungs hurt to even take a breath, nose filled with the cloying stench he’s grown all too familiar with. With fists balled tight in the confines of his pockets, he takes heavy steps deeper through the sickly grey corridors, with only the weight of the scythe strapped to his back serving as a reminder... or rather motivation for moving forward. 

Flashing lights leak through the gaps of the rusted metal door that lets out a deafeningly ear-piercing shriek as he pulls it open, and the scent of complete and utter depravity floods his senses.

There’s the familiar and known - the odor of cigarette smoke and bitter alcohol intermingling in the air... so heavy and concentrated it would almost be enough alone to dull his senses. Like an old friend he hated to know - but comforting in it’s own sickening, addictive way, even if it hurt him to indulge in it.

And then there’s everything else that Kaye loathed that kept his disgust for the place increasing triple fold - distinct notes of burnt chemicals and sweet, heady musk that has him scrunching his nose up and resisting the urge to raise a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.

It fucking reeks. Even more than me. 

The carpet beneath his leather boots feels damp - soiled and damp with a concoction of wine and bodily fluids. To even hear the very squelch with every step he took caused the man’s nerves to shrivel... though he has long since learned to hide whatever discomfort he feels. 

And the sights are no more better than the scents and sounds - used needles lay discarded upon tables and couch cushions, crumpled smallclothes neglected and equally well worn strewn about... along with the numerous bodies of both warm and cold that littered the space of the club.

Most of the stiff bodies, as far as the man could tell, were caused by overdose of some kind... poor sods whose life essence had been willingly but not full knowingly given up to fuel the debauched existence of the pathetic excuse of a god.

It was a good thing he’d convinced Lily to stay behind at the camp - though he did promise to make his way back within an hour or she’d feel compelled to come storming through the place out of worry, which she has full right to.

But he didn’t quite feel like having her bear witness to what he’s surrounded himself with now. It’s sure to take several hours worth of comforting, soothing and a patience from him that he’s running thin on. It wasn’t that he disliked her presence - or hated to reassure what was to be the closest thing he’s had to an actual... companion or friend in god knows how long. 

But the stench that was depravity has seeped too far into his own bones, tainted his own blood so much that to even think he was even in any position to separate himself from the very things that the far too innocent for her own good lesser goddess... it was a hypocrisy that made his blood begin to bubble and boil. 

It fucking reeks. But this is exactly the type of scent that suited a monster like him best.

Kaye stops, expression morbid though unchanging and sharp gaze hardened as he stares down at the lesser god of all lesser gods lounging lazily upon the throne made of discarded plush cushions. 

And like the sheer weakling he is, he is wholly unaware of the immense power disparity between himself and his visitor, so much that he’d looked up with a cocky smirk, drawing a sharp inhale of his cigar before blowing the smoke in Kaye’s face.

The further one is away from divinity, the more detached they become from the natural order... with senses so dulled by their own foils that they could not even recognize one of the original pantheon in the flesh.

But that only made Kaye’s job easier, as he silently eyes down the lesser god of carnal pleasures.

“And to what do I owe the pleasure, lad?” The bastard has the audacity to act cordial with him. It would seem he’s as much of an idiot as he was perverse. “Yours is an unfamiliar face.”

“Of course it is.” Kaye responds, voice sour and aloof by comparison. 

“Then what’re here for?” The man asks again, leaning forward to bear his rotten, blackened teeth in a wide grin as he spreads his arms out in a gesture of welcome. “The ladies? The booze? You seem the straight and narrow type. Thinkin’ about losing yourself to your carnal pleasures for the first time huh? Everyone always gives in to it eventually after they remember how worthless life is.”

Kaye grits his teeth beneath sealed lips, and with jaws tightened, he reaches behind his back with one hand.

“’Appreciate the offer... but I’m several millennia too old for this shit.”

“-Wait- What are you-”

The scythe takes another life, clean and effortless as ever. Blood spills freely, pouring over the altar of the now dismantled god.... and Kaye can hear the demented screams of what little of his worshippers assaulting his ear drums.

The smell of iron and death permeates the air, and Kaye turns to leave before he can become drunk on it.

It fucking reeks. 

---

He didn’t have much luck in convincing Lily this time - stubborn as she is whenever she wanted to or felt like she had to be... and him not having enough energy to fight her enthusiasm. She’s younger, more energetic... and he’d admit to no one that he’s envious of that at times. 

But she’s also naive and kind, traits that alone are praiseworthy... but certainly not something that belongs in the modern age - it was a miracle she even came into existence as she did on account of the state of things.

That was also part of the reason why he hadn’t wanted her to come with him on this visit - though that reason had been far more selfish on his part this time than before. 

Because whereas his earlier refusal to let her join him in disposing of the god of carnal pleasures was out of a pure protectiveness for her wellbeing that Lily could fully understand, she could not fathom why Kaye would be so unwilling in letting her visit the abandoned altars of one of the original six. 

He’d even brought a bouquet of flowers, something Lily thought she’d never in all her life get to see the ultra god of grouchiness would ever hold - even if the man did seem a tad put off by his own gift for some reason, for lack of a better term. 

And so she’d followed even in his protest... deep into a forest away from the main city as they walked further and further away from the gaudy neon lights and street lamps into the cold glow of the moonlight through a canopy of dense forest tree branches and leaves.

Lily can tell as Kaye pushed past the overgrowth with practiced ease that he has the route memorized... despite there being no real set path to their destination at all. 

And when they finally reached a clearing in the woods and reached the stone altar, surrounded by crumbled stone walls and mossy bushes, Lily finally gained an inkling of why Kaye had been so hesitant in letting her come visit the pseudo-grave of one of his old companions. 

There was next to none left of the original shrine... now left with a singular stone with a shape of an hourglass carved into its surface that Lily instantly recognized.

It was the emblem of the late goddess of creation - the last god of the original six to have died barring Kaye himself. 

Lily has read tomes about her - about the goddess who, despite her relative weakness in comparison to the other five... possessed within her the great gift that was the ability to create... to give life and change to the very essence of the world. 

In a sense, it wouldn’t be a stretch to say that this goddess was Lily’s predecessor.

And though the current goddess of change could not possibly know what type of person the goddess then had been... the fact that she had faded away due to the lack of followers and not due to the judgement passed on by the god of death’s scythe was enough for her to understand now the pain Kaye must feel even just thinking of her.

And it was apparent- even with the lack of emotion in his tense expression as he bends down on one knee to place the flowers beneath the stone before rising to his feet and forcing himself to feign a relaxed demeanor by burying his hands in his pockets and slouching... which only made it more obvious to Lily just how on edge and uncomfortable he was.

She hesitates for a moment, but she finally fights all of her natural instincts telling her to stay quiet to speak and ask him a question.

“What was she like? The goddess of creation?”

Kaye stiffens, and Lily almost mistakens him for a statue as he bows his head and gazes down at the flowers with sorrow welling in his dark eyes.

It takes a while for him to respond... but when he does, the pain in his voice shatters Lily’s heart.

“She was gentle. Kind. An idiot, all things considering... Not unlike you, I guess.” 

This world as it is had no place for the softhearted, Kaye knew that the moment he had started to note this old friend’s power growing dimmer and dimmer. And yet even on her deathbed... even counting down the days to her inevitable disappearance, she held a gentle, weak little smile upon her face.

“She liked flowers...” He thinks to add, and his nose scrunches up once more.

It reeks. The whole altar reeks. He can barely even remember what her voice sounded like or what her smile looked like. And yet the scent of flowers would ever stay fresh to haunt him. 

It’s a fragrance of floral notes and fresh wind... an intoxicating blend of gentle lavender, lilies and chrysanthemums. It was a kind, gentle, sweet and beautiful scent.....

And it ill-suits the rotten state of the modern age... It ill-suited him.

Just recollecting old memories has made the god of death wobbly on his feet, and he turns to leave before Lily can stop him. He needs a cig. 

But not here... Not here where the scent of flowers still rung fresh. Not where his greatest sorrow and regret has yet to be tainted by the odor that he now carried. 

[idontmeantosoundrudebut]

Many of Horror (Chapter two - That awful dream and these awful feelings)

- N O T E S -

This chapter immediately begins with a dream, so sorry if you get confused or whatever haha lol bruh! This chapter does contain mentions of referenced suicide, panic attacks, past abuse and other depressing and relatable things lol! be warned! I'm releasing this on impulse because I really wanted to give you guys more and I'm halfway done with the next chapter, which is really fucking steamy by the way so, yeah, be excited for some horizontal tango action haha lol bruh! If you enjoy, please leave a comment or a critique or whatever, I love hearing feedback about my work like any other creator! (no tea, no shade)

Also, there is terrible terror called Pain from DOB and though they’re originally male, I’ve switched them to female because I felt like it haha lol bruh!

THIS CHAPTER HAS PSYCHOLOGICAL HORROR AND POOR MENTAL HEALTH! BE FUCKING WEARY!

- C H A P T E R  S U M M A R Y -

It's that awful dream again, he always has it when something goes wrong, when something changes suddenly. His head can't take change, can't take it when he messes up.

And he's always so angry and afraid when he wakes up. Surely, he should be better by now.

He hates feeling like this, like he's dying.

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He's in his childhood home. He doesn't know how he got here. They burnt that hut down years ago, a week after his father was exiled. He's standing in front of the hearth, the fire within writhing maliciously and crackling with laughter as it mocks him don't know where you are, little boy? You're home, home, home- This place isn't his home.

Snotlout doesn't belong here.

He sniffs the air and cringes at the smell of stagnant water and old blood. Something's died in here. Turning around, he stills at the sight of the corpse of a fawn lying mangled and blooded at the foot of the stairs, eyes bulging and guts tangled amongst its dainty legs, back so mauled that he can see the knobbly, pale arch of its spine.

Something innocent has died here, in this house, and it wasn't her, it croaks through a swollen tongue, teeth cutting through its cheeks with each hallow word that crawls out of its twisted throat. It's looking at him, stuck between life and death, and it's like looking in a reflection.

A black rabbit hops down the stairs, leaping over the mutilated fawn and sitting beside it. It seems calm, serene, despite the heavy stench of blood and dead water that hangs in the air, it seems at peace amongst the smell of death. The rabbit, blacker than grief, turns its head to look at him and it's like looking into a starless night, still and empty, but the flames appear in those eyes and dance in the blackness. An inferno in the dark.

There is something in the woods. You should go to speak to it, the black rabbit says and Snotlout can smell the blood in the air thicken, but there is still that undertone of stale water and he doesn't know where it's coming from.

I don't want to speak to it, he replies honestly, voice distant and quiet, and there is something inside him that says Whatever is in that woods is something better left forgotten, its something that shouldn't be spoken to.

But it wants to speak with you, the black rabbit replies and the fawn screams, It wants to speak with you, don't disappoint, be quick, don't be weak, it wants to speak with you, don't become the shame, hurry, it waits, don't make it wait, it wants to speak with you, don't disappoint, no rest for the innocent, hurry shameful boy, it wants to speak with you-

The fawn just keeps screaming. Glimmering scarlet gathers beneath its yapping jaw as more flesh is ripped from its cheeks, teeth not meant to taste blood flashing through the torn fur and cutting deep into its purple tongue, its blind eyes rolling to the back of their sockets and revealing thin, throbbing veins. It screams and screams like a tortured thing begging for death, yet still, it hangs on to the faint pulse in its heart. The black rabbit looks to the wailing fawn, then back to him.

Come to the woods. Let the innocent one scream in peace, the black rabbit says softly, hopping past him, large feet thumping against the wooden floor. The fawn keeps screaming. He asks it to stop, politely too, but he must have been too quiet. Still, it screams and screams.

A white light catches his eyes and he looks up to the landing where the stairs lead. There is a door there, left a jar and spilling blinding white light in a rectangular beacon. Steam rolls from underneath the door and through the gap, it is tinged red and smells of stale water, of dead blood. That door leads to the washroom.

To the woods, he'll go to the woods, he says simply, turning away from the screaming fawn whose body refuses to die and the door that leads to a room of blood and water.

Snotlout doesn't belong there.

He follows the black rabbit into the old wood. The trees are tall and black, reaching towards the terribly blue sky like their hungry for the sun, and their thin branches scrape against his bare arms like ghosts begging for a body to live in. Spring flowers and damp ferns brush against his legs and they also feel like hands, softer but still starving, still wanting. He follows the black rabbit, not because he wants to but because he has to.

It wants to speak with you, he hears the fawn scream in the distance.

He stops walking and stands very still, like a dear caught in an ambush. A few yards ahead in a sunlit clearing is a copper bathtub. That shouldn't be here, in the middle of the woods, it should be back at the house, in the washroom. The black rabbit runs ahead, a dark shadow against the pale grass, and disappears behind the tub.

Just like Snotlout, it doesn't belong here.

He walks closer and he smells it again. That smell of damp death. He can taste it now too, it's so strong, a coppery, stale wash across his tongue, between his teeth, down his throat. It's what he imagines it's like biting into a dead fish, all rotten blood and foul water. Suddenly his feet are bare, they make a slapping sound as he walks and he looks down to see that the ground is flooded with an inch of water. It looks dirty, wrong, tainted.

There's an arm hanging over the side of the bath tub. Was that there before he looked down? He can't remember, but it shouldn't be there. The hand is ivory in pallor, bone-pale, and two long gashes run up the inner arm from wrist to elbow. Dark blood drips from the nimble fingertips, the sound a soft drip, drip, drip as it hits the sodden soil. The trees ache and groan, they feast on the given blood through their gnarling roots that toil the black, wet earth and he thinks that they are alive. Alive and hungry.

Just like Snotlout, it doesn't belong there.

For some strange reason, he wants to hold that blood-slick hand. He imagines like that's what home feels like, cradled in her scarlet palms, gathered in her savaged arms. Her. When did it become a her? His heart told him so, oh Gods, he's so confused.

He stands at the foot of the copper tub and looks inside, expecting to see a woman with a painfully familiar face. But all he sees is blood. From bottom to brim, the tub is full of almost-black blood that glimmers red from the dappled sunlight above. The taste of blood on his tongue is so heavy that he thinks he might have a mouth full of it. A mouth full of blood and a heart full of water.

A single eye opens amongst the ocean of blood and he stares at it. It's pale and blue like a blue jay's feathers, like the terribly blue sky. He recognises those eyes, they look like his, just dead.

Always had her eyes, comes a snarling drawl and he spins around to see a great bear, stood tall and proud on the trunk of a fallen tree. He knows this place, he knows that tree, oh no, Gods, not this place. Great currents of slobber drool from the crooked mouth of the bear, sharp teeth yellow and glistening as a long tongue works around words it shouldn't be possibly speaking. Bears can't talk, but neither can black rabbits and mauled fawns.

It wants to speak with him.

Always had her eyes, wished I cut 'em out, the bear slurs as it slams a clawed paw down upon the tree, white bark spraying everywhere and he watches as those black claws curl deeper into the soft bark. He cut that tree years ago, a month after his father left, he cut it down and screamed.

Yer sick, boyo, there's somethin' festerin' inside ye, the bear bellows, spit flying and it leaves his ears ringing. He presses his hands to the side of his head and shakes it furiously. He's gone, he got rid of him, he's never coming back.

The bear laughs and it is a horrible sound, like cracking whips, like splitting flesh. I never left ye, lad, I'm always with ye, in that messed up head of yers, just as weak as yer mother's was, just as easy to break, the bear steps closer, further shredding the bark from the tree, and he is full of so much fear that it feels like there is a rabid animal in his chest. His hands feel heavy all of a sudden and he looks down to see that they're covered in blood, bright, terrible blood that falls from his fingers in great ribbons of scarlet that darken the water. The blood never stops oozing, like there is a great gash in his palms, but he can't help thinking that this isn't his blood. His heart is so scared, it's going to climb up his throat and out his mouth so it can run away.

No nono no nono no no no no no- She wasn't weak, she was brave, she was the strongest shield-maiden Berk has ever seen, she was-

WEAK! The bear roars, the sun in the sky trembles like it will fall, SHE WAS WEAK AND ILL, AND SHE'S GIVEN IT TO YE, SHE'S MADE YE SICK AND FOUL WITH WEAKNESS! The fallen tree flies across the clearing with a powerful swipe of its clawed paw and Snotlout watches it come closer, fearsome and monstrous and ugly, lips rolled up to reveal those gnashing teeth that glisten with starved spit, eyes blazing with an unimaginable evil. He looks down and sees that his hands are bound with rope, rope that burns and stings and cuts as he tries to escape, to run away.

YE WILL NEVER GET AWAY FROM ME, BOYO, IM YER OLD MAN AND YER MY SHAMEFUL SON, THE BOY WHO COULD NEVER GET IT RIGHT!

The bear rears back onto its back legs and its maw opens so wide that the flesh tears and the jaw breaks, leaving it and its tongue to hang loosely. A tremendous bellow fills the woods and the trees quiver, the earth quakes. Blood pours onto the heaving furred chest and streams down with a wet sound to the half-flooded earth, the already murky water staining pink. He stares up at the beast and gazes down its gaping throat, he has never felt so full of dread before.

Suddenly, the great bear begins to fall and he lets out a horrified scream as that open maw, that black throat, descends upon him. He leaps back into the copper tub to escape and finds himself consumed by blood.

Snotlout doesn't belong anywhere.

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Snotlout wakes up, screaming and falling.

He hits the floor with a sudden abruptness that knocks the air from his lungs and the scream still crawling from his throat comes to a stuttering halt, choking coughs now filling the blackness of his room. But that blackness soon retreats as the great blazing head of Hookfang forces its way through the skylight windows, looking around hastily before settling his cautious eyes on Snotlout, who lies pathetically on the floor beside his bed. The dragon crawls into his room and lowers the flame on his hide as Pain kindles a few candles in a short, fiery breath.

The dream? It came again? Hookfang rumbles, curling his large body up and resting his head on Snotlout's lap, expelling easing smoke from his nostrils. The violet Terror crawls swiftly from her nest of charred tunics and other burnt fabrics on the dresser to nestle herself close to his side, her usual fiery temper simmering down to accommodate to his sensitive nerves. His skin is caked in a layer of cold sweat but he feels so hot, like a furnace is blazing inside him, like a fever is boiling beneath his flesh. It leaves him shivering.

"Yeah, yeah it did," He responds, voice rough and cracked, breathing in the warm scent of smoke so it can overwhelm the still lingering smell of blood and water (it was a dream, but it follows him when he's awake, it echoes around him like a ghost).

Rubbing a hand over the side of his face, Snotlout tries to collect his thoughts and rid the dream from his memory, tries to think about other things, tries to distract himself before he starts to feel... the Itch. But then he remembers the blood. Not the blood in the bathtub or the fawn-blood at the bottom of the stairs, but the blood on his hands, that heavy blood, that blood that wasn't his. With panic rising in his throat, he lays his hands before him and inspects them with sharp eyes, expecting to see blood crusted in his callouses or dug beneath his nails, something to show that it was real. But there is no blood, there never is. But the candles flicker from a rogue breeze and in the shifting shadows, his hands go red and a scream is already gathering in his chest because, oh Gods, the blood is real and that means it was all real and the tub is in the woods and the bear- Oh Gods, not the bear- He's back and he's in the woods! A distant howl rings through his ear; He wants to speak with you! Hurry-

A guttural sound breaks the maddening spell Snotlout had caught himself in and he blinks, but he doesn't stop staring in fear at his hands, they look clean now but in the dark, in the dark the blood comes and the hungry things in the shadows can smell it. Pain rises onto her hind legs and begins to lick at his hands, cleaning them thoroughly with her forked tongue, soft sounds chittering in the back of her lithe throat. No blood, see? I taste no blood, so there is none.

"I know," He chokes out, the breath stuck in his chest forcing itself out harshly, and he sooths a hand over her head in a thankful gesture, her purple scales silk-like and warm beneath his palm, "I know, Pain,"

Hookfang's purring fills the room like thunder. Snotlout can feel it in the floor, in his bones, a gentle tremble throughout his body that helps him try and regain his focus. Pain, always quick to doze off, starts to purr a lighter and chipper sound in her sleep. They know the routine; it's been going on for years.

Snotlout sighs and wishes he was normal, wishes he didn't have these awful, repetitive nightmares and these violent urges and these ugly thoughts. Wishes he could deal with it alone because it's less trouble for the others, both his dragons and his friends, he wishes he wasn't such a bother to them. He wishes he could go back, back before it all happened, and be the old him, be that innocent child before he died in the house.

Gods, he wishes Eret was here.

Eret is so good at getting Snotlout out of his head, whether it be by fucking him or talking to him or just by simply sitting with him, no one knows how to ease the wrongness in his head better than Eret. But, to Snotlout's displeasure, Eret is traversing the archipelago on this good deed and Snotlout is here, alone and rotting. Damn the Gods, he hates feeling like this.

"Four times this week I've had that stupid dream, Hookfang, four times!" He emphasises this by holding up four fingers to the dragon, who nods in response with another plume of smoke to ease his frustration, "If this keeps up, I'm not going to be on top of my game, you know? And I bet Hiccup will notice like he notices everything, and he'll ask if I'm okay and I'll tell him fine and then I'll feel bad because I lied and-"

Stopping abruptly, Snotlout shoves his face into his hands and screams as hard and as loud as he can, he feels it ripping through his throat. It's lucky that he built his house so far away from anyone else. There is a crawling feeling moving across his flesh and its making him want to do something really stupid, something he'll regret, something weak. Hookfang croons at him, lifting his head as Snotlout draws his legs up to his chest, his left leg bouncing rapidly. Rudely awoken, Pain rubs her horned-head lightly against his side in attempt to sooth him.

Not Snotlout fault, Snotlout done nothing wrong, Hookfang reassures as he rubs his lower jaw over Snotlout's dishevelled hair, deep purrs vibrating throughout his body as he tries to sooth the harsh, ugly scents that pour from the Viking.

Yes, Snotlout done no bad, we promise, no bad has been done tonight, the Terror adds in earnest, nipping affectionately at his tunic as she hums to him.

"I know, I know," He snarls into his palms, both legs now bouncing as he digs his blunt nails into his browbone, "But I will, I will, I'll fuck up again and I'll need it again,"

The dark thing in his head swells like a storm-sodden cloud and it thunders and rumbles and cracks behind his eyes, sending jolts of impulsive, disgusting thoughts through his head.

TEAR OUT YOUR EYES. FLAY YOUR SKIN. RIP OUT YOUR NAILS. KILL THEM BOTH.

He shakes his head violently, as if he could through them from his mind, and pulls his hands away from his face, fingers twitching and palms sweating. There have been nights where the smallest temptation sets him loose.

Go see Hiccup, he will help, he will give you council, Hookfang advices as always, but Snotlout, for the fourth night in a row, dismisses the idea with a savage scowl and a dark look in his eyes.

"I can't run to Hiccup every time I want to hurt myself-"

The words trigger a reaction and in a sudden moment of impulse, Snotlout slams his fist into the floor, the wood splintering beneath the impact and his knuckles sting as they're impaled with shards of wood. Pain makes shrieks at the loud impact and immediately goes to his injured hand to clean it but Snotlout makes a snarling sound and wraps his arms tightly around his chest, as if he's trying to secure them so they can't do any more damage. She snorts disapprovingly at him but she knows he will ask for help when he wants it, so she curls up at his side again, jasper eyes only half-closed.

"Or to anyone, for that matter! I'm not a kid anymore, okay?! I'm Twenty-two, I'm an adult. Everyone's got their own problems and I'm not going to burden them with mine, not when I can deal with them myself," Hookfang, as well as Pain, lets out a scoff at that and he doesn't flinch at the death-stare thrown his way, which doesn't surprise Snotlout but it still damages his ego a bit.

"I can! I don't need you, or Hiccup, or anyone! You understand me, you stupid dragon!? I don't need anyone, not even Eret!"

But the fury in his voice catches in his throat at the mention of Eret and again Snotlout is full of the overwhelming sense of loneliness that has flooded him since he left Berk. His heart, the traitorous thing, aches at the mere thought of him and his hands, the stupid things, feel so empty without someone to hold on to.

He doesn't know why he's denying the obvious truths in his life. That's something the old him used to do, the angry boy who suffered alone because he believed he deserved it, because he thought asking for help was below him. Snotlout isn't that angry boy anymore, no, he understands the wrongs that were done to him and understands that asking for help isn't a weak thing. But old habits die hard, he guesses.

Without a shadow of a doubt, he needs Hookfang and Hiccup and, by the Gods, he doesn't just need Eret, he wants him. And it's beautiful because Eret wants him back and Snotlout is always left in awe at that.

"I'm being stupid again, aren't I?" Snotlout mumbles sadly, looking up to see Hookfang gazing down at him, orange eyes unimpressed, and he nods his head with an additional snort to support his answer. He looks down to see Pain stood rigidly beside him, tiny-lethal teeth bared and arrow-head tail darting left and right, and to further prove her wrath, she lurches forward and give him a shallow slash of her claws. It doesn't even cut the skin, just leaves three white lines on his forearms.

Snotlout exhales through a thin laugh, but the guilt is still heavy in his blood.

"I'm sorry, you guys, I'm not feeling myself again, with these dreams coming back and Eret gone. I just wish I could, you know, deal with things normally,"

Forgiving Snotlout, Hookfang again lowers his head and presses it up against Snotlout's drawn up legs, Pain too scuttles back to her place at Snotlout's side, teething devotedly on the corner of his tunic. A chill draft wafts in through the open windows and cools Snotlout's skin, which feel hot and tight.

We understand, Snotlout miss mate and the bad dreams back, We understand, Hookfang grumbles reassuringly, tendrils of smoke rising from flared nostrils, and he watches as Snotlout lifts his injured hand, slowly picking out the splinters in his knuckles with a look of deep focus on his face.

"I'll be back to my old self soon, pal, I just-"

He pauses, hissing as he methodically drags out a long splinter from the flesh between his index and middle knuckle. Holding it up against the candlelight, he marvels at the half-inch long shard of wood that had been nestled his flesh, thick syrupy blood dripping from the splinter onto his lap.

The pain that spreads across his hand and flares up his arm feels good, harsh and familiar and good, it brings a sigh of relief to his lips. The pain feels like absolution. His previous wrongs have been righted in the hotness of pain.

Then, Hookfang's nostrils quiver and his head shoots up quickly, turning to the open skylight with his teeth bared and eyes narrowed., Pain too takes up an offensive stance with ferocious growls unfurling in her throat. Snotlout swallows thickly when he hears the heavy beating of wings outside, his stomach twisting in anxiety because no one should be here, no one is supposed to see him like this, not tonight. He wants to be alone tonight. The roof creaks when a great weight settles upon it, dust pouring down to the floor in chalky streams. He stares wide-eyed and apprehensive at the square-view of the black night, heart pounding because something inside him is say he's back, he's back and he's going to take you to the woods.

But instead, Cloudjumper's head peers into the room, owlish eyes gazing down at him with a curious concern.

Why are you here? Hookfang spits lowly, his tail swishing in a display of irritation, Yes! Why Four-Wing here?! Not allowed! Go or Die! Pain adds hotly, tiny wings thrashing as she claws threateningly into the floor.

Cloudjump, amused and unafraid, snorts at Hookfang's brashness and Pain's threats, replying with a garbled I heard screaming, it sounded painful, so help has come.

"Help isn't needed right now, thank you, bye," He says crassly, arms wrapping around his chest defensively as he glares up at the Storm-Cutter, who stares back with soft eyes, completely ignoring the yapping Terror and the glaring Nightmare.

"Oh, I don't know about that," comes a serene voice and Snotlout watches as Valka descends downs into his room, perched on Cloudjumper's clawed wing. She easily steps off and steps forth to cradle Hookfang's jaw, the moody Nightmare instantly melting in her gentle touch. Pain forgets immediately why she was angry and scuttles swiftly to Valka, winding between her ankles like an affectionate alley cat begging for love (or food).

While crooning at the puppy-eyed Terror, Valka looks to Snotlout with a soft and reassuring expression, her eyes glimmering in the candlelight as they gloss over with empathy. She can see the tears stains that have yet to dry, see the stress and the tiredness and the fear. Snotlout stares back, jaw set and muscles stiff, she isn't meant to be here.

"You look like ye need a bit of help there, dear," Valka says as she crouches down, half crawling towards him, agile fingers gracing the floor.

It's the same movement she does when she meets a dragon who's wild and scared, ready to strike out in fear with its teeth bared and claws flexing. He feels a bit of pride that he's seen as a deadly thing, but then he remembers that he doesn't want to be feared anymore, that he doesn't want to hurt anyone.

Oh but you do, don't you? You think about it, you imagine blood and you hunger for the taste. People are traitorous creatures and they deserve-

"Snotlout,"

The voice knocks the grating snarl from his head and Snotlout looks up to see Valka crouched a few feet before him, cautious yet calm as she gazes questioningly at him. Can I come closer? She asks with her eyes, eyes that are so painfully familiar to him.

Those are his mother's eyes right there. Sister eyes.

He nods his head once, lungs still seized and heart still shaking, and then he nods again, firmer this time, trying to be braver because, Gods, it's only Valka, his aunt, his heart-mother. Snotlout shouldn't be afraid of her. But she's got a heart full of kindness and that has always scared him, kindness.

Kindness was an unfamiliar hand to younger him and it was easier to cling onto the hand that beat him, the familiar closed fist that promised tough love would make a man out of him. He'd bite the hand of kindness because it was a stranger's hand, he didn't know kindness.

But that was years ago, that angry boy who bit and spat at empathy is no more and Snotlout can now gather the courage to ask for kindness, sometimes he doesn't even have to ask. Still, it always leaves a tightness in his chest because... What does he do with all that kindness? Where does he put all the love given to him? In his heart, his black, scarred, twisted heart? No, but then where?

A hand, soft-skinned and porous-boned, cards through the hair on the back of his head and the trapped air is liberated from his seizing lungs, falling from his lips in a long, shaky exhale. He blinks the blurriness from his eyes and turns to sees Valka sat beside him with Pain coiled in her lap, a very gentle look on a face as she looks at him.

"A very bad habit that, gettin' lost in ye head. I'm afraid ye might get it from me, you know, Hiccup's always gettin' himself roped up in his thoughts too." She says quietly, as if she's scared she'll spook him if she speaks too loud, "Ye both think too much,"

He laughs at that, a dry, humourless laugh that's sounds gravely and dark in the back of his scorned throat.

"You know, I've been told I do the exact opposite of thinking too much," Snotlout replies, flexing his bloodied hand in front of him and revelling in the stinging pain that ripples through his nerves.

The deeper cuts on his knuckles have oozed heavy rivulets of blood down his fingers and have seeped into the callouses on his palms, a few veins of red have even made their way down his bare forearm. He looks down at the brilliant red and it looks like he's killed someone, or something. This is the blood of his guilt.

Valka's breath hisses as she inhales through her teeth, her hands reaching forward and cradling his gently as she looks over the weeping wounds. The careful gesture leaves him with goosebumps, it's the distinctive touch of a mother's hand. A hand he has longed to hold since he was a child.

"Yer stronger than ye realise, Snotlout, goin' to hurt ye'self badly one of these days," Valka whispers and Snotlout swallows, swallows the horrible urge to scream in her face-

THAT'S THE POINT! DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND?! I NEED TO! IT'LL MAKE ALL THAT GUILT GO AWAY IF IT HURTS BAD! THE PAIN, OH SWEET, FAMILIAR PAIN! IT STOPS ME FROM RUNNING BECAUSE IF I START, I WON'T BE ABLE TO STOP! I'LL RUN AWAY AND NEVER COME BACK!

Snotlout swallows all those terrible truths and oh how they swoon in his gut, like flocks of terrible birds in a terrible cage. It's all so terrible.

"Can't help it, you know, I'm brawn and no brains, all that stuff," He smiles awkwardly, watching her inspect his bruising knuckles and pick out the smaller splinters he missed. The pain is small, a petty penance.

"Well, I know that's not true, not when I see ye and Hiccup planning our raids-" Valka stands up and starts to roam around the room, stepping over Hookfang's smoking snout to get to the chest at the foot of Snotlout's bed, "You're a great strategist and I have never known a time where your instincts have failed us,"

Pain steps onto his lap and begins to clean the bloody cuts, Snotlout lets her and places a hand on her back between her wings, thumbing at a soft spot along her spine. She chitters gratefully. The chest opens with a quiet sound and Valka delves her hands inside, rummaging for a few moments before retrieving a bundle of bandages.

It's common knowledge among the gang where he keeps all his belongings, they all basically know his house better than he does at this point. It seems that so does Valka.

Hookfang grunts and babbles randomly as he shifts in his sleep, dragging his head across the floor and making Valka's journey back more hazardous, but she deals with it with as much grace as a woman who's lived amongst bumbling dragons for over twenty years. Curious, Snotlout looks to the skylight and sees Cloudjumper observing Valka with that fond and comfortable look he sometimes catches Hookfang giving him. The ceiling heaves with the Storm-Cutter's great breaths, it looks the house is alive, alive and breathing.

Alive and hungry.

"Now let's get these wrapped up, eh?" Valka crouches down in front of him, bandages weaved between her fingers as she gestures for his hand. "And in the mornin' ye'll go to Gothi, understood? Or I'll send Hiccup after ye,"

Snotlout snorts as he nods in understanding, keenly watching the first layer of bandaging being folded over his knuckles, red blooming on white before disappearing beneath the next layer. The pressure against the more vicious cuts is morbidly pleasant to him.

They're both quiet as she wraps his hand, nothing but the soft sound of their breathing and the rumbling tones of Hookfang's snores to fill the silence. He looks are Valka now, really looks at her, and he really does see that they were sisters, her and his mum, he can see it in her the pale blue of her eyes, in the auburn tumble of her hair, in the gentle curve of her face.

He remembers his mum now, remembers her in a memory from when he was seven and it was the heart of winter, cold and grey outside and warm and amber inside. She was sat by the hearth, fletching her arrows and polishing her bow as he watched her with the wide-eyed curiosity of a child, chewing his lips as a question flickered in his head.

"Mum?" She hums in acknowledgment, fire glistening in her eyes and haloing the tresses of her hair (She'd always remove her braids when she came home for the night, usually it was twisted into a beautiful fauxhawk braid), "Did you make your bow?"

She'd paused then, the rag in her hand stilling along the agile wood, and looked up at him with a terrible sadness in her eyes. They no longer looked blue, they looked grey, drained of all warmth. They looked like the winter sky. He remembers feeling sad too.

"No," She replied, a smile on her lips, but it was sad too and Snotlout didn't understand how a smile could be sad, smiles were supposed to happy things (he knows better now), "Your aunt Valka made it, but not for more me, no, I used to be awful at archery,"

"I don't believe you," He'd gasped loudly, "You're the best archer on Berk! Dad said you could hold a bow before you could walk!" She'd laughed at that, deep and hearty.

"Your dad's a fool, Lout, haven't I told you that before?"

Oh, mum, he was more than a fool. He was a monster in hiding and when you died he stopped hiding from me, he hid from everyone else but he didn't hide from me. I saw the beast, I saw him alone and I looked into his eyes and saw evil and the evil looked into me. Mum, I should have listened to you. Mum, mum... please mum.

"Your aunt was the best before me, you know? Taught me that to hold a bow is like to hold the wind, you have to be gentle and focused, precise, true to your heart that you only need one shot," His mum ghosted a hand over the dark wood of the bow, caressing it as if it were a lover's arching neck, and Snotlout had scooted closer looking at the finer details carved long the upper and lower limbs of the bow. They looked like dragons, like the outlined silhouettes of Nightmares and Nadders and Zipplebacks soaring together in a blazing herd.

"What was Aunt Valka like? Was she, like, a great warrior like you too?" He'd asked hesitantly, his mum always got that awful dampness in her eyes whenever she spoke of her passed-on sister.

"Valka wasn't much of a fighter, no," His mum shook her head, gazing deep into the cackling hearth, "She had a tender heart on her, wore it on her sleeve night and day, and it made her... different, but she didn't care," A smile crawled across her face, mirthful and nostalgic, "She was stubborn and her kindness did not mean weakness, remember that, Lout, It's not weak to be kind,"

I'm sorry, mum. I forgot. He made me forget. I'm sorry, I remember now.

The memory comes to an end, his mother's fire-lit figure swimming from his mind as he focuses his eyes back onto Valka's lithe fingers as they pin the bandages down and he remembers that bow for the first time in years. A grief fills him when he remembers what fate that great weapon met, snapped in two by hateful hands and thrown to the hungry hearth as his father spat she was weak, like her sister, they're both dead because they were weak!

Snotlout wants to apologize to Valka but then he'll have to explain the soft memory of his mum's sad eyes and the angry memory of his dad's bared teeth. The spitting embers as wood is consumed, as a relic is ruined in the flames.

"Were you surprised... When you found out?" He says instead and it's a question that's been brewing in his head for years.

Valka leans back onto her calves and gives him a confused look, tilting her head as she glides a hand along Hookfang's snout.

"Found out about what?"

"About-" He swallows firmly, ridding himself of the swollen lump in his throat, "-about my mum, your sister... Where you surprised- no, not surprised but... Shocked? When you found out how she... How she died?"

The question leaves the air thick and suspenseful; it leaves his chest tight (or maybe that's the anxiety because he's never talked to Valka about how his mum died and this feels like forbidden territory). He doesn't want to upset her but there are questions, fears, in his head that need to be answered because they're keeping him up at night.

Valka opens her mouth then closes it again, voice lost and words unwilling. Instead, she worries her lower lip and turns her gaze to the floor, looking between the wood panelling as of it holds the answer she needs. He doesn't rush her, Snotlout understands it's an awful question to answer, his stomach always goes in knots whenever Hiccup or Eret try to push him into talking about things. They don't force him, of course, but they believe it'll help with that heaviness on his chest. Snotlout can't say he agrees with them but he plays along now and again.

"I... I wasn't... Expectin' to see her again," Valka starts slowly, "when I left Berk, I had no intentions of returnin' so I had already mourned her, in a way, but... But I had hoped she'd live on happily, without me causing trouble for her to get me out of,"

A breathy chuckle comes from her and her eyes are sad too, but they aren't cold like how his mum's used to get, no, they still have that dragon-fire warmth. He's glad about that. Valka rubs her hands along her thighs and she gives him a kind smile that is the mirror image of his mother's. It leaves his heart swollen and aching.

"When Stoick told me... I wasn't as... Shocked as I should have been, but it was still a blow to the heart, she was my big sister, the person I admired and went to when I was scared," Valka speaks softly, as if she's lost in a distant memory, "It's terrible bein' the one left behind,"

He nods his head in agreement because, yes, it is. There is no greater loss than being the one left alive, being the other half who escaped the flames. Scarred, ruined, but alive, not with them in those great halls, with that great music, drinking that great peace. Yes, it is lonely to be alive.

"Your mother was a brave woman and I see that same braveness in you too," Valka extends a hand and touches her fingers to his chest, over the place that homes his heart, and he feels a swell of pride in that.

"But I also see the same sadness she had," She brings her hand up and her touch ghosts under his eye.

He inhales sharply and turns from her touch, feeling ashamed because he hates it when people see the things he tries to hide most. It leaves him vulnerable and weak, naked and defenceless; they can touch him where it hurts most, they can see all that foulness, they can expose him for the rotten thing that he is.

But she's right. Sometimes he'll catch his reflection and he never really sees himself. He either sees the sorrow-blue of his mother's eyes or the jaded-wrath of his father's face. He never sees himself; he doesn't quite know who he is.

"I see it too," He admits quietly, eyes stuck on the floor where he had struck, the wood bent and splintered, cratered, and there is something inside him that says you shouldn't have been able to do that, you shouldn't be that strong, something is wrong with you, something is festering inside of you and it's A N G R Y.

"It doesn't make you weak, Snotlout, that sadness," She says and he looks up at her from beneath his brow, jaw clenched as he tries to resit the urge to rip off his bandages and scratch feverishly at his wounds, "A weak person wouldn't have been able to survive all those years with what he was doing to you,"

Ten years he's been torturing you, Hiccup's voice cuts in suddenly in his head, how are you still alive, Lout?

His reply to that had been dismissive and mumbled, but in his head, he was saying I don't know, I don't think I am alive. I think my body refuses to die, but inside I'm rotting, I'm supposed to be dead but I'm not, my body won't allow it.

Gathering his words, gathering his confidence, Snotlout straightens his back and sighs harshly.

"But it's been two years since he left, since he last took me into the woods, and I still feel... like an open wound, you know?" He starts quietly, the scarred skin beneath his tunic reacting to his words like they understand and he tries to not to fidget at the crawling feeling that spreads across his torso. It makes his chest tighter, the itching feeling that drives him to do something rash, violent, mad, so it will all stop.

"Shouldn't I be better by now? Shouldn't I be normal? Fuck, I think- No, I know I've gotten worse since he left and it doesn't make sense!" His words begin to get frantic as he speaks more, as he pours his heart out to someone who might be able to help, and his eyes sting with tears because he's so frustrated, so confused, so angry.

A delirious haze falls over him and he starts babbling and crying and yelling, begging it all to go away as he brings his hands to the side of his head, gripping at his hair and pulling painfully. Usually the pain would ease him, as morbid as that sounds, but he is so mad with this mental fever that it doesn't even register and he can't see, his eyes heavy with tears that fall and never stop falling.

"I don't want to feel like this anymore! I want it to stop!" Snotlout begs in a shallow breath, voice loud in his ears and echoing, a howl in the empty night, and his chest feels tight and heavy, it's full of that foulness and it's crushing his lungs. It's happening, it's all going wrong and he can't stop it, he can't even breathe, how can he stop it if he can't breathe?!

He barely feels the arms that encircle him, hardly hears the soothing voice, the chittering purr, the easing rumble. He's stuck in his head, in his loud and sick head, and the waves of impeding doom that wash over him are sending his heart mad, everything is going too fast yet not fast enough, he want's it all to be over. Snotlout tugs at his hair, pants like a rabid beast amongst the keens and indecipherable begging, shivers and shakes. He feels like he's dying.

"Yer alright, my dear boy, yer alright," The gentle voice reassures and he almost believes it.

Hands cradle his face and they are so soft, so kind, they can't be his hands, his hands were so hard, so cruel. They come for him in the night, and they come with a grinning evil that laughs like a bag full of bones, hallow and wrong. But these wind-touched hands, these love-soaked fingers, they won't laugh or claw or hurt, they only hold with a great tenderness that has felled beasts. They swipe away the tumbling tears and ease the furrows from his brow, a face presses against his scalp and he feels a kiss being placed there, a kind whisper ghosting through his hair.

Snotlout, unknowingly, rocks back and forth in Valka's arms like a child during a storm, tear-stained and afraid and confused, believing that this is the end of everything.

Slowly, surely, the haze begins to lift and Snotlout is free from the gross confines of his head. His heartbeat eases to a loud but easing beat that thrums in his ears and he can feel his lungs expand with each breath he takes, no long constricting beneath an invisible weight. The world around him comes back to view and he's met with wide, draconic eyes that stared fearfully into his, Hookfang lets out an uncharacteristic whimper as he bumps his head against Snotlout's heaving chest.

Snotlout breathing now, Snotlout okay, coos Pain as she scuttles along his neck and Hookfang snarls weakly at her, rumbling I know, I've seen before, I know Snotlout okay, I know. But it's still scary. That part goes unsaid.

"I'm okay, Fang, It's-" Snotlout tries to swallow the panting breaths, tries to slow his breathing, "It's over now,"

The feeling of hands carding gently through his hair helps the tightness in his throat to loosen and the stiffness in his bones to lax, it's a familiar gesture that Eret always finds himself doing when they're together. But these are hands are small and soft, while Eret's are big and rough. These hands are Valka's and they are just as welcomed as Eret's.

"How about we go for a flight?" Valka encourages as she stands on her feet, glancing up to the Storm-Cutter who watches from above before looking back down to him, "The sky is cool tonight and Me and Cloudjumper wouldn't mind the company,"

Snotlout thinks for a moment before he nods and easily lifts himself up, rolling his shoulders and neck to relive the tension pent up in his muscles.

"Alright," Is all he says and Valka beams down at him as she steps onto Cloudjumper's extended claw, her partner lifting her up through the skylight.

Hookfang too readies himself and briefly looks begrudgingly to the purple Terror perched on top of his left horn, her wings spread smugly and claws flexing excitedly. He doesn't bother saddling up, he's gone without one before so many times that at this point, he finds it almost easier to fly bareback. It feels more free. With a calm sigh, he clambers expertly onto Hookfang's lowered neck and looks up into the dark night, at the waxing moon, at the winking stars.

He closes his eyes and takes to the sky.

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THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READY! YOU'RE A BEAUTIFUL BITCH/BASTARD AND I HOPE YOU GET LAID VERY SOON (if you're of age, of course)