#taller tales of terror | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bookshelf-in-progress · 10 months ago

Text

Honors From the King: A Short Story

The sword felt strange in Mia's hand. It fit perfectly in her grasp, but it still seemed impossible that it was hers. A few days ago it had made her into a hero, but in the confusion of the battle, she barely remembered making the lucky blow that felled the giant who had terrorized the Southern Forest for ten years.

Now she, an ordinary eleven-year-old from Iowa, was the hero of a fantastical realm, waiting to receive honors from the king himself.

Elbera bustled around Mia in the antechamber-turned-dressing room of the village hall. The elf woman—barely taller than Mia—had served almost as a mother to her since the strange wind had left her in the elfin village. "Now, my dear, as you're being honored for valor in battle, it's right for you to carry the sword, but you must never put the point toward the king. If you're nervous about it, you'd best sheathe it."

Mia sheathed the sword before Elbera finished the sentence.

Elbera continued, "Since you've slain a well-known terror, it's customary for the king to offer a boon. If he offers up to half his kingdom, don't take it—it's only a polite phrase. Best to ask for something useful—perhaps a sum of gold to rebuild the bridge outside the village."

From what Mia had heard of the king, he'd do that anyway. No, if Mia was to get a boon, she would ask for only one thing.

She wanted to go home.

For nine long months, she'd been stuck in Athelor. The cheerful, dainty elves had been kind to her—sheltering, feeding and teaching her without complaint—but they weren't her family. Her parents had to be frantic about her. And her six siblings—what had they done when that strange summer wind took her away from them? An entire school year would be gone by now. If she stayed away much longer, she'd be so far behind, and it would be harder and harder to fit back into ordinary life.

The elves had been unable to provide any suggestions about how to get back home; they only told Mia to wait for the wind. But the elves had sung praises of King Edonniel's library, spoke with awe of his scholarly works about Athelor's history. If anyone knew how to get her home, the king would.

The door to the chamber opened, and a palace guard escorted Mia into sunlit wooden expanse of the main hall.

At the room's far end, the king stood among his guard. Though over fifty, he was tall and fit, with a reddish-gold beard and a noble bearing, resplendent in royal armor. He was like the good king in every fairy tale Mia had ever read, like her father, and she forgot to be afraid of him. The king was a great man—warrior, poet, scholar, diplomat—but Mia knew in an instant that he was kind enough to help a lost girl.

The assembled crowd—all the elves and talking beasts from the village—cheered as Mia approached the king. Mia tried to ignore them, instead focusing on the king’s kind face.

The king stared at her. He stood frozen for several moments, then stepped toward her. “Mia?”

Mia stumbled to a stop. "Yes?" This seemed an informal greeting from a great king.

In a blink, Mia found herself in the king's arms, crushed in a warm embrace.

"I can't believe it." The king's deep voice sounded right next to her ear. "I thought I'd never see any of you again, not here."

Mia tried to push him away. King or not, this was too weird to put up with. "Any of who? What are you doing?"

The king pulled away and looked into her face, drinking her in. "I'm sorry. Of course you don't know me. Mia, I’m Danny. Your brother."

In the privacy of Elbera’s good parlor, Mia sat alone with the king. Her brother. Her ten-year-old brother. Who she never in a million years would have connected with the great scholar, warrior, and king the elves, in their musical accents, called Edonniel.

She couldn’t doubt that he was Danny. He remembered their parents, their farm, all their family, even the dinosaur village she and he had created two summers ago. With only a year and a day between their ages, they had often been mistaken for twins, but Mia had always reveled in her superior age. Until now.

Danny seemed so dignified; he made Elbera’s soft chair look like a throne. His eyes had wrinkles around them. His red-gold beard hung down to his chest. He sat so steady, so still, gazing at her like she was his long-lost child—instead of the sister whose hair he pulled when she beat him at Mario Kart.

As Mia sat across from him on Elbera's other chair, the only thing she could think to say was, “You’re older than me.”

The king guffawed. “I’m older than Dad. But you—you don’t look a day older than when I last saw you. How long have you been here?”

“Nine months.”

“It’s been forty-eight years for me.”

Mia’s head spun at the idea. “How?”

“The wind that carried us into a different world carried us into different times. I landed on the shores of the Beryl Sea forty-eight years ago. Ever since I became king, I’ve made a study of Athelorian history, trying to find the rest of us.”

“Us?” Mia had been with her siblings when the wind had taken her, but she’d assumed they were back home in Iowa. “How many of us are in Athelor?”

“All of us,” Danny said with surprise. “Didn’t you know?”

Mia shook her head. “I couldn’t see much.”

“And when you landed here alone, you had no reason to guess that we weren’t all safely at home,” he said, understanding.

“Is anyone else here?” Mia asked, half-hoping another brother or sister would pop out from behind the furniture.

“I crossed paths with Thomas not long after I arrived, but you’re the only one I’ve met in person since. Everyone else, I’ve had to track down in history and legend.”

“You met Thomas?”

“He landed among the trolls of the northern mountains,” Danny explained. “Became a master smith—the greatest in Athelorian history. He forged that sword you carry. I have no idea how it got into the elves’ hands; I’ll bet there’s a story there.”

Danny never could stick to the point of a story. “Where is he?” Mia asked in frustration.

“He was a very old man when I met him,” Danny said. “A hundred and twenty-seven, by some counts. Some say his life was extended by working with the stones from the heart of the world.”

Was? Her little brother had been only six years old when she’d last seen him. He couldn’t be—

Mia sank back into her chair, stricken.

Danny, caught up in his story, didn’t seem to notice. “Jane lived among the centaurs and elves of the Skyveil Plains seven-hundred years ago. Became a legendary warrior and explorer, defender of the weak. Beloved by all the beasts. First to step foot on the Daybreak Isles and meet the talking mice.”

Seven-hundred years?

“Now Ben,” Danny said with a laugh, “has popped up all through history. Rarely seen for more than a day or two, but he always has some dramatic effect. Some scholars speculate he’s extraordinarily long-lived, but my theory is that time is playing with him in a different way than the rest of us.”

He said it all so calmly!

“Nora?” Mia dared to ask about their oldest sister.

Danny’s gaze turned dreamy, his voice hushed and reverent. “The legendary Queen Eleanor, present at the waking of the world.”

Danny was talking about Nora—bossy Nora!—like he was in awe of her.

Her sister—all her siblings—had become legends. They weren’t waiting for her at home. They were long dead, had been dead ever since she’d arrived, which meant they were gone forever, and there was no way home—

Mia burst into tears.

Danny reacted about like how she’d have expected him to react. He sprang up from his seat and hovered awkwardly over her chair. “Mia? What’s wrong?”

Through tears, despair, and frustration, Mia blubbered something that included the words, “They’re all dead!”

“Dead?” Danny asked. “Who said they were dead?”

Mia wiped her tears on her sleeve and glared up at him. “You did! You said Thomas was ancient, and Jane lived seven-hundred years ago, and Nora’s as old as the entire world!”

“That doesn’t mean they’re dead.”

“I’m not stupid! No one can live that long, not even here!”

Danny crouched down next to her chair. He placed both hands on her shoulders and looked straight into her eyes. “Mia, look at me. I’m telling you: they’re not dead.”

Before his fatherly gaze—even with the beard, he looked a lot like Dad—Mia’s sobs became mere sniffles. “Then where are they?”

“They’re home. Safe. I promise. The same wind that brought us here brought them back home after their adventures were over.”

Just like the elves had said. But when Mia had thought she’d have to wait to go home, she’d thought it would be a few years at most, not—

“You said Thomas was more than a hundred years old.”

Danny said, “I’ve done a lot of reading about people like us. We’re not the only people who’ve come here from Earth—or gone home. The stories all say the same thing. No matter how long we spend here, the wind takes us back home to a time only minutes after we left, and we’ll be just the same age we were then. Reunited from across history, as young we ever were. A foretaste of heaven.”

His voice had gone dreamy again. The elves had said he was a poet.

Mia dried her face and sat up straight. “We’ll all be together? At our normal ages? Like we never left?”

“Exactly.”

“You and me and Thomas and Ben and Nora and—“ Mia realized something. “You never said where Claire was.”

“She’s the only one I haven’t found in history yet. That means her story’s probably still in the future. Maybe we’ll run into her someday.”

That did sound exciting, but Mia didn’t like the idea of waiting decades like Daniel had.

“How long do you think it will be? Before we go home?”

Danny stood and walked toward his chair. “I can’t say. Whenever the wind blow lately, I get the strangest feeling that I won’t be here long—maybe five years.”

Five years—half her life—not long?

“For you,” Danny continued as he sat down, “I can’t say. But I have a feeling that your adventures are just beginning.”

“I don’t want more adventures,” Mia said, as another tear dripped. “I want to go home.”

“I know,” Danny said, his voice husky with sympathy. “The first year is the hardest, and you’re so young.”

The idea of Danny—Danny!—treating her like a little kid! “I’m older than you!” Looking into his very-much-not-a-kid face, she amended, “Well, I should be.”

“You will be again, one day. But until then...“ Danny leaned forward, his hands on his knees, and suddenly sounded more like an American kid than he had all day. “This sounds so weird, but if you like, I can adopt you. You can live in the palace under my protection, and I can show you everything about Athelor. Maybe name you my heir if you like the whole royalty thing.”

He was planning a whole life for her. Plotting out a future. Here. Even without the weirdness of Danny acting like her dad, it was too much.

Danny noticed her hesitation. “You don’t have to, if you don’t want to. I know we’re all called here for different purposes, and I don’t want to keep you from your intended mission.”

“I thought the giant was my mission.” Mia had constructed such a tidy tale—and now it was unraveling. “I came here, I slayed the giant. The story should be over. I should get to go home.”

“It will always be waiting for you. Until then, you have Athelor.”

“Athelor isn’t home!”

“It can be,” Danny said. “It’s been a good home to me. It can be a better one, now that you’re here.”

Mia suddenly realized how old her little brother was. How long he’d been waiting, searching for his family through books. And now she was here, after all this time.

Maybe that was her mission. To help this great king while he was here caring for the people of Athelor.

“I guess I can try,” Mia said. Even if she had to stay a long time—well, Danny had managed to do some amazing things, and she couldn’t let her little brother outshine her. “When we do get back home, I don’t want you to have a better story than me.”

Danny grinned—and for just a second, he looked a little like the kid she remembered. “Mia,” he said, “I think you’re going to be fit for legend.”

#the bookshelf progresses #portal fantasy #this is my long-winded way of saying that the narnia pastiches are sleeping on the time travel potential inherent in the premise #this feels like some half-baked bare-bones thing that should never leave my hard drive #just sit in my writing folder for whenever i feel like reading some silly unfinished idea #but i have a prompt to fill so here it is #also after writing poetry all month writing fiction is hard #believe it or not: writing something that's about 50 words of one voice speaking is much easier #than writing something about 20 times as long involving characters moving and interacting

85 notes · View notes

everybodyknows-everybodydies · 16 days ago

Text

The dragon was not always a dragon. It was—something else, first, a long, long time ago; it doesn’t remember, now, being as it has animated these colossal bones for much more time than even it could name. When the wizard with the gleaming eyes had bound it, it had fought, at first. It no longer understands why: the dragon is as much its own shape as anything else it might imagine for itself, the chasmal skull and arching ribcage a fine home.

It has stood as a test to many other wizard-aspirants after that first. Many have met a fitting end in its jaws, under its talons. Some summoned armies of daedra to stand against it—some spun themselves cloaks of storm and called hellish rains of fire out of nothing—some whispered words that made it believe it could not bear to harm ones so dear to it, though they had never come to it before—but it has never seen one approach it like this.

The mage has a light over her shoulder, her voice sweeping across the smooth walls, chasing after one of the fleeting little echoes that lives here. The echo flits to a halt before the dragon in terror and vanishes: the mage stops so fast she nearly throws herself backwards.

With a rumble, the dragon shapes its bones into order, spreads its useless wings in magnificent display that scrapes its eroded wingtips across the far stone walls. It has been a long time since someone came to it. To come unprepared makes for poor sport.

The mage puts out her light, mouth moving but the language meaningless to the dragon. A spark of memory—the last straggling cluster of challengers spoke an unfamiliar tongue as well.

A shiver that should not be stirs its bones. It is the bones that understand when the deep itself sibilates, thin and soft, Who are you?

The mage hits the ground with a sound of surprise, hands thrown out to catch herself, the pulse of magicka from her abruptly cut short. The dragon lowers its head to bring its empty eyewells level with the mage scrabbling at the broken stones—it could trace the space of her gone dim unmoving instead, but it finds its own shape more impressive in these coiling configurations, and it retains some vanity yet.

Child of Malacath, the dragon observes, and tilts the skull to show its many fine teeth, tall as a man, taller than that first wizard—though it has lost more than it would like, by now.

I know you are here. The sound is less a sound than an impulse that seizes the bones—travels up the spine and swings its head high without its allowance, tears an impossible roar from its voiceless throat. The dragon swats a set of talons before itself, sweeping in a wide arc. It meets only familiar rubble. Stone tears loose, thunders to the walls of its weathered vault. What creeping little beetle comes to me in the dark?

The dragon—the bones—the thing that lives in the bones of the dragon strings itself tighter inside the osseous hollows, clinging. Something else is clinging, too, inside the ribs it has made its own.

It claws at its ribcage as the mage, braced along a rib and clutching an open book in one hand and the edge of a vertebra in the other—pulls—

Nothing. Nothing. These are its bones. This is its yawning cavern. It lurches, throws itself against a wall, snaps its jaws; it can’t reach inside itself. The mage rattles like a pebble from rib to rib, the book flying free as she throws her arms around its spine, digs her heels between its vertebrae. With vicious triumph, it spikes a claw through the center of the book. The sucking whisper ripped the magicka from the mage; the book, then, must—

It is unwinding. The bones feel heavy, too tangible, itself too diaphanous, for just a moment. It—drops—it shakes itself together—it hurls itself onto its back, hears the mage cry out. Wrong, and wrong, and it pitches the great skull around, throws out the spiny flightless wings, snaps the tail thunderously against the ground; there is no tell-tale pulse of magicka, but the mage, burning, has wedged some bit of herself yet between it and the bones.

A vertebra shifts under her heels.

The dragon falls away from itself with a deafening, dusty thunder.

For a fragmented moment it hangs, suspended, over the bones—sees every hairline crack along the surface, every shameful smear of dirt and long-rotted blood of wizard-aspirants past, every pit and pockmark; sees the mage, coughing and retching in the billowing dust clouds under its fallen ribs, tremblingly shoving her way out again.

Are you finished so soon, pretender?

#writing tag #Kharish gra-Shatul #yippee hooray wahoo!! <- said shaking and sweating. someone pass me the apple juice

41 notes · View notes

pumperpup · 1 year ago

Text

Once, in a realm where ancient magic wove through the fabric of reality, there was a scholarly man named Edmund, whose thirst for change led him to the door of Alden, a renowned alchemist. Alden's shop, nestled in the heart of a medieval city, was a haven for those seeking the mystical and the extraordinary. Among his many concoctions, one stood out – a potion of growth, rumored to bestow upon its drinker a size and strength beyond imagination.

Edmund, a man more accustomed to the world of books and scrolls, yearned for a physical transformation that would match his intellectual prowess. With a mixture of hope and apprehension, he purchased the potion and drank it outside Alden's shop, on the bustling cobblestone streets of the city. The potion, a shimmering liquid, coursed through him, and soon, he felt the first stirrings of change.

As the potion took effect, Edmund's body began to grow. At first, it was a welcome change – his stature became taller, his muscles more defined. Passersby gazed in awe as the once unassuming scholar transformed before their eyes.

But the growth did not cease. Edmund's muscles swelled to an incredible size, his height towering over the surrounding buildings. His clothes, unable to contain his expanding form, tore into tatters.

Stricken with terror, Edmund realized that the transformation was uncontrollable. He grew so large that he dwarfed the city itself, his colossal figure casting a shadow over the streets he once walked as a mere mortal. In a desperate bid to escape the confines of the city and the horrified stares of its inhabitants, Edmund fled.

He retreated into the countryside, growing larger with every step. His massive form loomed over the rolling hills and serene landscapes, a giant moving amidst the tranquility of nature. Yet, as he receded into the horizon, a sense of desolation enveloped him. He had sought change, but not like this.

Back in the city, Alden's shop became the center of a frenzied clamor. News of Edmund's transformation spread, and people from all walks of life gathered, eager to obtain the potion that had wrought such a miraculous change. The alchemist's shop, once a quiet haven, was now besieged by those who wished to follow in Edmund's colossal footsteps.

Thus, the tale of Edmund and Alden became a legend whispered in the streets of the medieval city – a cautionary tale of desire, transformation, and the unforeseen consequences of meddling with forces beyond human understanding. Edmund, the scholarly giant, remained a figure of myth and wonder, a reminder of the fragile balance between ambition and the natural order of the world.

#ai #bodybuilder #ai generated #gay muscle men #muscle art #musclegrowth #muscle inflation #muscle morph #male muscle growth #muscle #muscle expansion #giant #ai muscle growth #muscle growth story

90 notes · View notes

tadpolesonalgae · 2 years ago

Text

Demon!Azriel x reader: Teeth and Talons - Part 7

A/N: might be sprinkling in a little foreshadowing for what the next chapter will be about :)

Warnings: biting?

-Part 6- -Part 8-

As usual, you’re left to yourself throughout the day.

As usual, you pillage the bookcase for something new—anything new to read.

It’s been fifty-fifty with the books so far, some have been written in your tongue, while others are indecipherable—scribbles and runes and strange illustrations of caves and creatures and blood. Well, it’s ink on parchment, so you don’t know it’s blood. All you can really tell is that it’s a dark liquid, but knowing Azriel, it’s probably blood.

A couple have proven interesting, in the sense they make you question your faith toward the gods—in a careful toeing-the-line-between-gentle-prying-and-outright-treason sort of way.

Others have contained less heathen-esque content: tales of worlds without deities (how you lament!), stories of chivalry and justice (how romantic!), erotica—you don’t care to comment on some of the passages you’ve unfortunately read.

But it’s been a while since more have oh-so-mysteriously appeared, so you’re left to flip through the illustrations of the books you’re unable to read. You’re more than content to lay on your stomach, but something shifts in the air. It’s difficult to put your finger on the exact change—similar to when Azriel returns near nightfall. That ripple of power that rushes through the room. Like some sort of pulse. Boots scuff on the floor—you’ve never seen another soul in the castle, but have also rarely ventured beyond the confines of your room. Mostly from a mix of fear, and contentedness in the room.

Blood rushes round your ears as you slip out of bed, padding quietly to the door. Pressing your ear against the wood, you listen, holding your breath incase you miss something. It’s completely silent.

You swallow, taking a step back. The door suddenly seems much larger, as if it’s looming over you. Your eyes drop to the small keyhole beneath the handle…

Not allowing any doubts, you quietly step back, crouching down as you peer through the tiny hole…only to be confronted with those familiar hazel eyes.

You exhale heavily, heart pounding with relief as you raise to your feet, turning the handle to greet him, half wondering why he’s back so early—and why he was peeping through your bedroom keyhole. Your shared bedroom keyhole.

“Azriel,” you begin, opening the door, “please don’t do—��

You freeze.

Terror strangles your throat as you stare into two sets of blacked-out eyes, each at least a head taller than you. A female on the left, a male on the right. You scream, scrambling back, slamming the door shut on them.

Hands fly across your mouth as you attempt to regulate your breathing, sight blurring. Boots scuff on the floor, and the handle dips, as if they’re trying to get in. Your stomach lurches as you spin on your heel, nearly flipping over the rug on the smooth stone floor in your haste. You dart to the bed, slipping beneath its large wooden frame, and hold your breath.

Hot water drips down your cheeks as you keep your hands over your mouth, shifting to make sure you’re as concealed as possible, shifting further and further beneath the bed until your feet brush something…granulated. Like sand.

Salt, you realise, but why is there a circle of salt beneath your shared bed? And why is there something drawn across its centre? What looks to be a—

Mother fucking boil and burn.

Thoughts eddy from your head as you realise your lower half is across a pentagram. A pentagram formed with black salts.

A deep snarl sounds from outside the door—raw and beastly, laced with fury. Two sets of feet scramble away, fading into the distance. You don’t dare release a single breath, not as you hear the door snick shut, and something enters. Something scary enough to send those two running.

Your teeth find your lip, and you bite down to keep from whimpering with fear. Four paws stop beside the bed, and you nearly vomit with terror. You squeeze your eyes shut, tears rolling down, splashing on the floor. It’s enough noise to be picked up. The beast stalks closer, until it’s at the edge of the bed—it’ll be able to see you.

“Get out from there.”

You stiffen at that cold command. Voice razor-sharp, merciless. You nearly weep with relief as you recognise him, opening your eyes to take him in.

Sheer horror greets you, mouth dropping as the whites of your eyes bulge at the sight of him. Three-pronged paws, quadrupedal, hind joints—where his knees should be—inverted. Like some hell-beast. You scream, his milky eyes snapping closed, then opening to reveal total black. Snapping bone sounds, and then he’s right again, hand gripping your forearm as he forcefully drags you out, across the smooth stone. You kick and thrash against the brutal grip, salt spraying at your feet, then reforming back into that neat, satanic symbol.

He grips your shoulders with both hands, fingers biting into your trembling muscle as you stare at him with wide, shining eyes, flicking between him and his knees, checking they’re back to normal. “What—?” You stammer, peering at him, hands lowering from your mouth, shaking.

He growls low in his throat, gripping you tighter with displeasure. As if he’s silently reprimanding you for taking too long, for appearing such a state before him. “Spit it out.”

You stare at him, utterly bewildered. “What were—who were those…?” You don’t know what to call them. “Were they more of your ilk?” You manage, focusing on the bite of his nails in your shoulders, the unforgiving glint his hazel eyes.

But he doesn’t answer you. Instead, his brow narrows with what you could swear is anger—rage. “Why did you open the door?”

You stiffen beneath his bruising touch.

His grip tightens and you whimper, instantly covering your mouth. Something dark and evil glints in response to the small noise. Something ancient and predatory—instinctual.

He leans closer, hot breath curling with his lip. “Why did you open the door?”

“I thought it was you,” you stammer softly, peering at him beseechingly. He snarls at that, as if insulted. “How stupid can you be?” You reel back at the harsh words, staring.

“It had your eyes,” you mumble, blinking back tears as you attempt to steady your breathing, “I thought it was you. Don’t call me stupid.”

Just like that, he surges forward, tipping you backward onto the stone floor, pinning you down. His lip curls back from his teeth, then they’re sinking into your neck.

Words and sound are ripped from your conscious as pain lashes through you. It’s not like before, not when it sent aching pleasure singing in your blood. This is punishing—agonising stinging. Muscles seize, fingers tremble, eyes wide. Your back arches into him at the onslaught of blazing brutality he’s stamping into your skin.

Surely its no more than a few seconds. No more than mere moments, but it blares through your mind, hammering your bones, crushing your skin as he retracts his teeth. He pulls back, wound already sealed as he grabs you by the hair, yanking you up so your throat is again exposed.

“Never,” he snarls, so gutturally you can barely understand him. “Never do that again.”

Tears spill as more fractures appear. Splintering deeper, cracking open something so raw you don’t know what to do. He’s panting, fury blazing in his pitch black eyes, razor-like talons slicing at your back as they slide from his knuckles, cutting through your clothes.

“You…” You hiccup, hand raising to your neck, feeling the two small indents of scars. “Why…?” He snarls again, and you flinch, eyes squeezing shut, bracing for another wave of that soul-splitting pain. The snarl cuts off, hands stiffening over you.

A beat passes.

Then another.

No pain.

Then he’s pulling away, and you fall back against the stone floor, watching as he stands, looming over you. He stares down at you, distaste shining in his eyes as he looks at your crumpled form. You hate that look. Hate it for everything it stands for, hate it for everything it’s done to you. Hate it on him.

“If I disgust you so much, you know you can just return me to my home,” you cry weakly, “nothing’s keeping you from doing so, so just put me back. Find someone else. We clearly aren’t suited for one another.”

Pain blazes through his chest, contracting, tightening, suffocating the air from his lungs. He can hear your hummingbird heart, can scent the fear drumming through your blood, can see your arms are on the verge of giving out from their trembling. Why are you so weak? Why don’t you fight back? Why are you giving up on him?

“You want to see your home?” He snarls, fury lighting his skin on fire, rage riding his mind, “fine.” He grabs you, hauling you against him roughly, talons slicing at your arms in neat little cuts. Then darkness swirls around the two of you and that weightless feeling overtakes his body, as if he’s plummeting deeper and deeper into that unfillable void.

You hate how you cling on to him despite the small lacerations he’s gifted you, pain stinging your skin as you squeeze your eyes shut in attempts to keep your tears inside. Then the dark clears, and you feel sand beneath your feet—bare feet. And it burns like it’s been heated by the scorching midday sun.

Granules bite at your skin as the wind picks up and Azriel steps away. And vanishes.

You barely had time to raise your hands to reach for him, but now he’s gone. And you’re stranded in the middle of the citadel in nothing but your night clothes. Mortification burns your insides—already people are staring: at your bare ankles, naked collar bones, unclothed arms.

You duck your head and scuttle beneath the overhang of a building, the scalding sand cooling beneath your soles as you try to figure out where he’s dumped you. All it takes is for you to spot the well in the square, and you know. You spin on your heel, and run.

————

Cinders and ash mix with the sand. Fragments of bespoke vases spike the wreckage. The smell of smoke still clings to the desolated site.

Aside from the crushed wall that stands no higher than your calves, nothing remains of your home.

You look around, but everything is in correct relation to your house as you remember it. You’re in the right place, but there’s nothing left. It’s been torched, ruined, and wrecked. At the entrance, the sand is still stained dark from where a cleansing sacrifice would have been made.

How long has it been like this? Left in pieces?

The winds die out, and the world goes silent.

Your feet make no sounds as they crunch over the sharp fragments. The sand doesn’t hiss as you step within the site, neither do you make any noise at all as the granules burn your soles. One step after another you track the obliterated halls and rooms of your home, burned to the ground.

Anything of value has been taken—the coloured stones, the small pieces of softened stained glass you’d found in the river beds. Either the dried plants and herbs were set ablaze with the rest of your home, or they were taken and relocated.

Stolen, a small, wicked voice whispers. Stolen, desecrated, destroyed.

You walk to the tiny room you’d slept in, the heart of your home. Charcoal is all that’s left of the small cot, the sheets and covers long incinerated. You don’t allow the tears to drop, don’t emit anything. The faintest breath dies on your lips, cracked and filmy.

A hand grips your upper arm, sharp nails grazing the small cuts as they turn you. He’s not wearing boots—his feet have shifted to paws, the skin thick enough to brave the scorching sands. Yours must be covered in welts by now, but—nothing.

He shakes you roughly, your teeth clacking together, making your head ring. Then he’s gripping your chin, raising you to look at him. Still, everything’s quiet. His eyes are blazing, not longer that cold, merciless hazel, but burning with something. Something you’ll never let yourself match.

His lip pulls back from his teeth in a flash of white, and it occurs to you his mouth is moving. He’s saying something, but the edges of your vision are blurry, as if muffled by something. In the back of your mind, in the depth of your repressed feeling, something twinges, reaching up a small hand from the crushing pile of guilt and raw emotion. Barely alive.

You shove it down.

You step back, and he releases you, watching.

You don’t look at him, lowering your gaze as you step around him, not even acknowledging him. What is there to acknowledge, anyway? The ruin he’s brought upon you?

You once swore you would survive him, that you would weather him. Well, that’s all you can do. You don’t have a choice but to take everything he gives. It’s not like you have darkness glittering at your fingertips. It’s not like you can shift into a monstrous form, or have skin tougher than leather to protect yourself with. It’s not like you have great, powerful wings, or razor-sharp teeth and talons.

You’re human, and he’s painfully other.

Skin crumbles like sand, bones snap like twigs.

One step at a time, you trace the familiar steps. In desperate need of refuge.

One step at a time, away from him.

————

Enough sound has returned to the world that you can hear the scuff of his paws behind you. Looming at your back like a cursed wraith, set on haunting you until your last breath rasps from wet lungs.

You reach the steps leading to the temple, and the footfalls stop; you do not. One step at a time, you ascend the marble stairs, and it’s only when you reach their peak that you’re approached by one of the acolytes. The devout worshipers who dedicate their lives to the temples and the gods. You’d often found yourself considering giving yourself over to them, too.

“What troubles have you come by, sister?” The acolyte does not touch you, but offers a patient smile, reeking of warmth and soft femininity. Gentle, and welcoming. The tears are falling before you can stop them, but the young woman does nothing to clear them. Merely watches and waits.

“I would like refuge for a few days,” you murmur through quiet sobs, “I have been favoured by malignant misfortune, and she has not treated me well. I would request a cleanse.” The woman’s eyes soften almost imperceptibly, “follow, child.”

Relief sweeps in so heavily you almost crumple then and there, but then he’s manifested before you, wreathed in thin shadows that make him appear as a reflection in water. He’s displeased; angry. “You think an exorcism will take you from me? You torture yourself needlessly.” You stare at him silently, watching warily. “I’ve been through enough at your hand,” you mumble. “You brought me here, and I will gladly rid myself of your presence in any way I can. Let me go.”

Beside you, the young woman stiffens, observing silently. You miss the way she catches another’s gaze, gesturing subtly toward your one-sided conversation.

“So affixed with your religion. Has it ever occurred to you to question it?” You narrow your eyes at him, considering the merit of engaging in this conversation. “What would I need to question?” You ask, “the gods had been merciful toward me until you entered my life.”

“Blind faith counts for nothing,” he counters, “you are good in exchange for exemption from the silver fires of hell. Your insides rot like mine beneath your pristine skin, bride.” You recoil at the title—he hasn’t used it in such a while it had managed to slip your mind.

“I am not your bride. No longer,” you manage, taking a step away from him toward the acolyte—who’s been joined by a similarly robed young woman. Both of them watch on warily. “Let me go—we are not suited for one another.”

“We are,” he insists, “if you would let go of yourself for one damned minute, you would see.”

“I. Can’t. Trust you. Azriel,” you grit out, finding it hard to look into those cold eyes of his. “You belittle, hurt, and taunt me every chance you get. Why would I ever let myself be when you’re around. It’s not like you make it easy for me.”

“You were fine in the air,” he snarls, stepping forward, “and you were fine on top of me, too.”

You’re lucky that someone interrupts, because you have nothing to say to him. No barbs to reach for, no verbal weapons to hurl at him. He’s right. You did enjoy the flight.

A woman—cloaked in the robes of a priestess—steps forward, the two acolytes now dismissed. “I have been told you seek refuge here. Come inside.” You turn to the voice, only to be met with a woman who can’t possibly be older than you. She appears to be slim, and tall, with cascading silky hair that curls lightly in spirals. Her deep cocoa eyes are warm, and open.

Beside you, Azriel has gone rigid.

“Elain.”

Taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020

#teeth and talons #Azriel #Azriel x reader #Chapter 7 #Teeth and Talons Chapter 7 #Demon!Azriel #Demon!Azriel x reader

143 notes · View notes

spinningwebsandtales · 1 year ago

Text

Imagine Being Sacrificed To Sukuna On Halloween Night

Ryomen Sukuna X FemReader

Rating: T+

Warnings: Mentions of death, blood, sacrifice, Sukuna being Sukuna, suggestive themes

Word Count: 1.2k

(A/N:) I am so mad at Sukuna in the manga, but I can't help but still like him. He's too good of a villain and I can't help myself. I had to write something for him for Halloween because reasons. I didn't know I was going to make it this long though. I may have had a little too much fun writing it but hopefully all the Sukuna fangirls enjoy it as much as I did writing it. Until next time happy reading and happy Halloween! ~Countess

Your village was small and prone to attacks from the most powerful curse in existence. Ryomen Sukuna had terrorized anyone and everyone and it was only when he demanded a sacrifice every Halloween did the attacks stop. This year was your turn to be taken to the superior curse. You stood before the window, dressed in white and waiting for evening to come.

Your parents watched you wearily, your mother weeping bitterly when the elders of the village came to claim you. You watched your home get smaller and smaller before it finally disappeared. The lanterns that lit your path swayed in the breeze as the men surrounded you, leading you further away into the eerie woods. Their grim faces made you more nervous as you shivered, from both the cold and fear. You had heard all the tales of Sukuna, but you had never seen him for yourself. A few girls had been returned if they hadn't pleased the curse only to never be whole ever again. They were prone to scream at any moment and they would never have the normal life the others got to have. The elders tried to tell you that it was an honor to be chosen but all you could see it as was a curse.

Your escort stopped abruptly in the middle of the darkest part of the forest. Trees seemed to quiver in the shadows, when four red eyes pierced the shadows. Your breath wheezed out, your knees becoming weak, and heart racing so fast you feared it would stop. The men at your side fled leaving you alone to face your doom. Sukuna's form seemed to part the forest as he finally stepped before you, the moon lighting his features. He stood heads taller than you, the largest man you had ever seen. With his extra arms and tattoos that covered him, he was the most terrifying thing you had ever seen.

"So you are to be my sacrifice this year," he spoke his voice matching his terrifying appearance. "You're stronger than most. Majority of the time the women faint at the sight of me."

It wasn't that you didn't want to faint, or run, or throw up. Your whole body had quit functioning, it didn't know which movement it wanted to make first. He chuckled darkly knowing that you didn't know what to do. At lease you weren't screaming, that was the most annoying trait about women. While he enjoyed a good scream it did get old when that's all they would do. Not you as you stood frozen in fear. You would make a nice toy, he figured he could get some fun from you before he sent your mutilated corpse back to your village.

Grabbing your arm, you had no choice but to follow him as he drug you through the pitch black woods. You tripped and walked awkwardly trying to keep up with his fast pace. It felt like your arm was about to be ripped from your socket before Sukuna scooped you up holding your body in his four arms. Your wide eyes watched his features carefully as he brought you further into the trees. You had lost your way hours ago, even if you did escape there was no way you could find your way back to the village. Even if you could, they wouldn't accept you back as they would see you doomed them all to suffer the wrath of Sukuna. What he did with the girls, no one knew. You knew majority of them were killed as some of the corpses would be brought back. Whether he ate the others or whatever he deemed worthy of their bodies no one would know. You would know later, you shivered at the thought, but you would never get the chance to tell a soul.

He set you before a shrine carved into the base of a mountain. He shoved you inside, causing you to sprawl across the stone floor. He stepped over you, his robes pulling at your clothing and hair before he took a set upon a throne of bones.

"You are boring me," he muttered. "No screams, no fighting. I was hoping for a little bit of fun before I killed you. Did you just accept your fate?"

You stood up, brushing the dirt from your robes before nodding.

"You do know you can speak to me?"

You shook your head and Sukuna sighed.

"You're no fun."

You blinked and he stood before you once more. You shrunk back as he gripped your chin.

"Shall we play a game," he cooed.

You gulped.

"If you can entertain me and keep me from getting bored. I'll let you leave at the first sign of dawn. If you bore me, I send your head back to your village and your job will be done. Think you can handle that? I am being very generous."

"Yes," you whispered.

Sukuna cackled, "You're starting off well little dove. Continue and you'll be home before you know it."

Hours passed and you were learning more about the curse Ryomen Sukuna than anyone ever had. You felt like you were walking a tight rope as you tried to keep him pleased. Your body wouldn't stop shaking, especially when his red eyes would glow in rage. You would quickly soothe him over. Sukuna had never met a human female like you and he was beginning to like having you around. He liked the way you felt as he dared you to kiss him, he liked the way your hands felt tangled in his hair, and how much smaller than him you were. So fragile. So human. The sun was beginning to rise faster than he realized, but Sukuna was used to having whatever he wanted. And as a curse he would get whatever he desired, no matter the cost or dirty deed he had to do. He had made you an offer and you had proved yourself worthy in winning, but he wasn't going to let you leave. Not when he finally found a sacrifice worth keeping around. The village could keep the other girls, you had proved to be the one. Your home would be with him and he was ready to see that light leave your eyes when you noticed the dawn. He was ready to see the despair replace the excitement.

"Congratulations you won our little game," he grinned ferally. "Too bad you made the game too much fun. I won't let you leave. You can stay with me."

You deflated, tears flowing freely from your eyes. Sukuna stalked forward leaning over your sobbing form. You looked at him with such hatred it gave him a thrill, your body jolting in revolt as he licked the tears from your cheek.

"Welcome to your new home little dove," he growled.

You had been given an honor you never wanted. The Bride of Sukuna as the curse scooped you up. You kicked and screamed, the fight finally coming to your body as he dragged you deeper into his lair. You wished death upon yourself as the hope he had given you that evening was stripped from you. You cursed him and yourself for thinking a curse such as Sukuna would keep his word. You lost sight of the entrance as the sun was taken from you. Those little rays you had gotten to see were to be the last you ever gotten to enjoy as Sukuna kept you deep in the cave. You were his prize and he would never let you go.

#Sukuna Ryomen X Reader #Sukuna Ryomen / Reader #Sukuna Ryomen #Jujutsu Kaisen #JJK #Sukuna Ryomen Imagine #JJK Imagine #Imagine #Not My Gif #My Writing

95 notes · View notes

hannahhook7744 · 6 months ago

Text

Blood Is Thicker Than Water;

Summary: Everyone knows about Carlos, Diego, Ivy, and Hunter de Vil. But what about the other de Vil cousins? Co written with @dragoneyes618 . Please use clean language when commenting on this fic. Author's Note: The five that go to Auradon are: 1. Carlos de Vil. 2. Mal Bertha Fae-Athanasiou. 3. Princess Geneviève ‘Evie’ Evelyn Grimhilde-Westergaard Of The Southern Isles. 4. Jakeem 'Jay' Al-Jazira. 5. Hannah Artemis Hook. Trigger warnings: Child death, horrible isle conditions, child abuse/neglect, murder, extreme untreated mental health issues, briefly implied cannibalism, etc.

------------------------------------------------------------

Hunter was eleven years older than Carlos and the oldest of the de Vil ‘kids’.

Yet he was the one Carlos related to the most.

They were both the ‘quiet’ de Vils; the nervous wreck de Vils who were less intimidating than a wet paper bag.

Both of them were the most well known inventors in the family and the ones who found it the hardest to relate to others. Both were claustrophobic (because of Cruella) and both were well-known animal lovers, and barely tried to hide it.

They were also the de Vils most scared of Cruella.

The two of them just clicked better together than they did with the rest of their cousins (and siblings, in Carlos’s case). Not to say they didn't like their other cousins, of course.

They just enjoyed each other's company more.

It had always been that way.

------------------------------------------------------------

“Book!”

Fourteen year old Hunter sighed, looking up from the radio he was tinkering with and over to the doorway where Carlos was standing tall (well, as tall as a three year old who was barely taller than his one-year old brother could). A determined look on his little face as he struggled to hold up a large book.

Carlisle was supposed to have put him to bed hours ago.

The blonde didn't know why he was surprised that the other boy (who was also his age now, wasn't that weird?) didn't.

Carlisle never did anything anyone other than his mom (and sometimes his siblings) asked him to do because he knew he was Cruella’s favorite and that he wouldn't be getting in trouble for disobeying whoever was in charge. Even if it was Cruella he was disobeying.

Hunter should have known he was asking too much of him when he asked him to put Carlos to bed. That he was taking up ‘dear’ Carlisle’s precious fireworks time by asking him to do what Cruella should have been doing anyway.

And knowing him, he hadn't put Remi or any of the others to bed, either.

Great.

Just great.

Cruella was gonna kill him. Again.

“The Tales of Flynnigan Rider again?” Hunter silently promised himself that he'd strangle whoever wrote the stupid book he'd had to read a million times to his younger cousins and the various kids the de Vil’s various henchmen had had, over the years.

He was sure he'd never hate any more than he did the book, except for Cruella, of course.

Carlos shook his head. Tapping the book’s cover with the palm of his hand. “Nu-uh! M-mech-an-ics and… and.. mech-a-tisms!”

It was gonna be a long night.

------------------------------------------------------------

As terrible as it sounded, Carlos hadn't always liked Ivy.

She was loud and scary at times, bossy and demanding and an all around terror who never hesitated to get into screaming matches with Carlos’s mom.

Carlos's mom, who terrified him (and some others) more than anything and because of that, Ivy also terrified him.

She just looked so much like Cruella.

Sure, Ivy had never been violent towards him like his mom had in the past. But she just reminded him of Cruella so painfully that he couldn't help but be scared and run for the hills.

Her forcing him to play dress up with her in his earliest memories hadn't helped that fear or helped quell the disdain he'd had for her in his youth.

It was a secret that wasn't a secret.

At one point, Carlos had been sure that no one but him knew that he was afraid of her. Convinced that he'd be able to take that with him to the grave. And then he'd remembered all the hurt looks he'd caught glimpses of on Ivy's face when he'd been so small and so bad at lying and so desperate to avoid spending any time with her—and realized that Ivy, and probably others, had known all along that Carlos hadn't liked Ivy.

It had changed over the years, of course, when their numbers had started dwindling alongside the Baduns but it wasn't something that could be easily forgotten. It stayed unspoken but it had definitely left a nasty looking spot on their relationship.

Even if they now could talk and laugh with one another over their inventions and outfit designs; Ivy would never forget that Carlos had been afraid of her.

------------------------------------------------------------

Carlos cried a lot as a baby; cried and cried until he couldn't anymore. Until he was red in the face and couldn't breath.

He cried.

And he'd cry worse when Ivy tried to soothe him.

Kicking and flailing and choking until Hunter or one of the other de Vil (or henchmen) kids came to get him away from her.

Carlisle thought it was funny.

Ivy didn't.

------------------------------------------------------------

Hunter and Ivy told Carlos separately.

Some parts were easier for one of them to say than others. So they took turns.

“You’re going to Auradon, you should know this,” was the explanation, like Carlos wouldn’t be running off to talk to Diego the first chance he got.

If he had time, that was.

Enough time before he left.

It made sense.

It explained the nightmares both Hunter and Ivy had; they’d both woken up screaming too many times to deny it. It explained why their birth dates didn’t quite match up to their exact ages.

It explained the strange, almost otherworldly feel they had sometimes, a feeling they shared with all those who had been brought back from the dead prior to being imprisoned on the Isle, but that no other members of their generation—not Carlos’ generation, but the generation older than him, the one consisting of the children who had been exiled to the Isle with their parents—shared.

Ivy had been dead.

Hunter had been dead.

Two more of the people who had helped him build his tree house as a child had been dead.

Ivy had been six. Hunter had been twelve, just a couple of years younger than he was now.

They’d been resurrected and sent to the Isle, just like everyone else.

What would it have been like? To be dead, cold and lifeless, childhood and life abruptly cut short, only to be thrust gasping and breathless into the world of the living years later, at the exact age you were when you had died?

“Do you…remember anything?” was the first question Carlos asked after Ivy finished, both of them sitting with their legs dangling off the edge of the roof.

“Not really,” Ivy said, and then sighed. “Sort of. It’s complicated. I can’t really explain it….Hunter’s the same way.”

She moved her hand in a vague, all–encompassing gesture. “Like I remember—sort of—shadowy shapes, but not anything clear. Strange lights. Colors that don’t exist. Sometimes I dream about it, but I can’t remember it when I wake up. I remember best when I’m half awake, or just about to fall asleep. If I try to remember more, if I think really hard about it, it’s like…it’s like I’m not supposed to remember more. Like there’s this—this barrier, I guess, stuck in my head, and if I ever got past it it would be….”

“Bad,” Carlos supplied.

“Yes.” She looked lost for a moment. “I’m sorry. I wish I knew more…well, sometimes I wish I knew more. I know it’s not what you wanted. I can’t tell you anything about what it’s like for them.”

Like all of his cousins, Ivy knew him better than anyone else did. The de Vils were very good at reading each other, at seeing what they didn’t say, knowing each other’s history and body language, the way they thought, the way they dreamed…

Them .

Both of Carlos’ sisters, each of them bearing the same name, neither of them ever knowing the other.

Carlotta.

Lotta , he’d called both of them. While their family generally didn’t do nicknames—at least, he’d never known anyone except his mother and P.H to allow themselves to be called by one—he’d called his sisters ‘Lotta’.

According to Ivy, in a much different heart-to-heart years ago, another rare occasion she’d opened up, when he’d been learning to talk he couldn’t fully pronounce his older sister’s name. He’d been able to manage Lotta, but not Carlotta. And so he’d called her Lotta.

She’d been three years older than him, and he never remembered being alone.

She’d always been there for him. She’d been the one to look after him, much more than their mother had been, and they’d both preferred it that way. Most of his early memories consisted of him following her around wherever she went.

He’d adored her.

She was gone when he was seven. He came home one day and she had vanished.

Asking his mother yielded no answers, even when it was Hunter or Cecil. There had been no sign of her. To this day, there still had not been.

She was dead.

She must be.

Carlos knew it in his bones.

While it wasn’t unheard of, on the Isle, for children as young as she’d been—she’d always seemed so mature and capable in his eyes, and it was always with a small shock whenever he realized that he was now several years older than she’d ever been—or even as young as Carlos had been to run away, or to be left orphaned, to be homeless and alone, she wouldn’t have left without him.

She wouldn’t have left him alone. Even if the others had refused to go (but they wouldn't have. None of the living ones would have refused to leave, even Diego with the parents he'd loved so much. Even the Baduns would have gone if she'd asked, which she never did because she didn't run away— ).

There were many ways for people to disappear on the Isle. Half of them would barely even need any sort of special effort.

People who disappeared on the Isle, with a few rare exceptions, were generally never found again. Not alive, at least. If you ever got lost—well, if you weren’t found again after a few hours you’d be lucky if your body was.

Especially with the witches on Cannibal Cove around.

Carlotta had been one of those who was never found. There’d been no signs, no traces. No body, no blood, no footprints, nothing. It was like she’d ceased to exist…..at least, his mother pretended so.

His little sister had been born eight months later—the second Carlotta.

Mother hadn’t bothered taking care of the baby. She’d barely ever noticed her. It had been Carlos at the age of eight who had scrounged and searched for milk and formula, Carlos who had woken up every time she cried, Carlos who had named her.

( Just like his cousins and siblings before him, when adults weren't capable of doing so for him and the others).

He’d named her Carlotta, the only name he could think of, the name of the sister whose presence was always on his mind, whom he desperately missed.

She’d been such a sweet little girl.

She’d been very quiet, of course, in a way that growing up with Cruella as your mother warranted, quieter even than him. Which was funny, in a way, because his older sister had never seemed meek or quiet to him. He had a vivid memory of her standing on her tiptoe while she and Ivy shouted at each other…about what, he’d forgotten, and he wasn’t going to ask Ivy.

But maybe it was the way of older siblings to go out of their comfort zones for their younger siblings. He certainly had for little Lotta. Would she have remembered him as he thought of himself —shy and timid? Or as someone who spoke up for her when it was needed, who shielded her from the worst Mother and the Isle had to offer?

He hoped the latter.

Then again, it wasn’t like he’d actually been able to do anything for her when it mattered, had he?

She’d always been in delicate health. She was small for her age, just like him. Oh, she was healthy, and could run and jump and clap like he imagined carefree Auradon children doing. But she was susceptible to illness, always came down with every little cough and sniffle that made its way around. He’d spent many nights awake at her bedside, trying to cool a fever or get her to drink as she shivered, wracked by chills.

It hadn’t been sickness that had killed her last year, but it certainly hadn’t helped.

When he was twelve years old, he’d gotten his leg caught in one of Mother’s bear traps. He still had a slight limp. Carlotta, four years old, had run to get Hunter and Ivy. As he lay in bed recovering —the week following was the only time he remembered ever being exempt from his mother’s long list of chores—he’d heard his uncle Cecil shouting at his mother—his only memory of Cecil ever raising his voice—that those traps were going to get someone killed one day.

Well, he’d been right. Twice.

He’d been able to survive the pain, the shock, the blood loss, even the infection. A little girl like his sister (and a little boy like Joseph Badun)? Not so much.

The house now reminded him of the months after his older sister’s death—eerily silent, Mother’s unhinged laughter echoing from the corners, ghostly visions of long hair and dark eyes in the shadows. Seeing her everywhere and nowhere, because she was gone. Gone, to that place Ivy and Hunter had been in.

Ivy and Hunter were alive again. None of his siblings or the Badun kids (or the various other children of his mother’s henchmen who'd died in those very halls or this dratted Isle) had been given the same courtesy.

Carlisle and the twins hadn’t been given the same courtesy.

------------------------------------------------------------

Carlos remembered Carlisle better than he remembered the twins, but that wasn’t saying much given the fact the three of them had died within a year of one another.

He remembered his silverish-gray hair, his unnaturally blue eyes, and his maniacal smile.

Remembered his laugh that sounded hauntingly similar to their mother’s laugh.

He also remembered how much of a mama’s boy his brother was—and Carlos’s own jealousy that he hadn’t even been able to name at the time at how much more their mother had loved him and the twins when she loved him and the others all so little.

He knew that when he was five, he had hated the older boy—had hated him so much that he went out of his way to make things difficult for him just so that he could spend more time with Hunter. Made things difficult when Carlisle hadn’t really deserved it.

All because Carlos had been jealous of how much better off he was.

It was stupid, in hindsight. Carlos knew that.

Carlisle had only been fourteen when he died— had only been the age Carlos was now .

It wasn’t his fault that he sounded and acted like their mother (to a much more dialed down degree). It wasn’t his fault that he found fireworks and explosives entertaining more than the rest of them did. It wasn’t Carlisle’s fault that he’d outlived both of the twins.

It wasn’t his fault: he was just a messed up kid with no friends who’d never known any different than the horror that was their family.

But of course, it had taken Carlos nine years too late to realize that.

Because all his five year old self had seen was a warped reflection of the scary mother who didn’t love the rest of them enough instead of his big brother who did his best to bond with Carlos, Carlotta, Remi, and the others.

Even after Carlise had died—having bled out after trying to show off how cool his new fireworks were to a girl he’d had a crush on; only for the firework to explode in his hand.

Carlos still had nightmares where Carlise lay bleeding out, screaming for their mother who did her best for once to help as she cried and cried—cried harder than she had when both of the twins had died because the last child she truly fully loved was gone.

She hadn’t cried for either of the Carlottas.

(And deep down, Carlos knew that if he or Remi joined them tomorrow she wouldn't cry then either).

------------------------------------------------------------

Conway and Codias both had heads full of curly red hair that no one was quite sure the origin of, freckles, big brown eyes, and missing teeth in different places from all the roughhousing they did with one another and Carlise.

They’d both been only nine when they died.

And Carlos had liked them both well enough.

At least, Carlos thought he did—he couldn’t really remember them all that well.

He vaguely remembered Conway trying to teach him how to draw as he poured them both a glass of the blue ink he loved to drink so much only to cry when he got sick from drinking it and remembered even more vaguely Carlise screaming at Codias until he cried because he accidentally broke Carlos’s arm when playing with him.

Hunter said Conway was the shy twin and that he didn’t like to leave Cruella, Carlisle, or Codias’s side for longer than he had to when outside—and that he had been so excited when Carlos was born and was the reason that Cruella even bothered making both Carlos and Remi baby blankets.

Diego said that Conway was good at much more than just drawing and that he was just good at artsy things in general; except music of course, because he was just as tone deaf as Hunter and Ivy were.

And all Ivy had to say about Conway was that he was an idiot for drinking ink till he died just because he liked the way blue ink tasted.

(And later, when she cooled down, she’d tell Carlos how much Conway had liked the color blue).

Carlotta claimed that Codias had liked to be called ‘Cody’ and had only let their mother call him his actual name.

Uncle Cecil, in the rare moments where he was open to questions about the siblings and relatives Carlos didn’t remember, would quietly remind him of the wooden plane that Cody had carried around. A plane Carlise had apparently made for him (he apparently made the wooden toy tools Carlos had played with years after his death, too).

Ivy called Cody stupid and reckless, saying that the broken arm Carlos remembered getting wasn’t the only time the redhead had accidentally hurt him.

Hunter grimly noted that the swing that had eventually plunged Cody into the cold, icy waters and jagged rocks that killed him had been the one that little Cody had tried to push a one or two year old Carlos on as an attempt to bond.

But Carlos couldn’t confirm or deny any of it.

Because he didn’t remember and their little brother, Remi, wouldn’t either.

------------------------------------------------------------

And now it was just him and Remi. The only surviving children of Cruella de Vil. And it was him ( not his little brother who he may never see again after this) , the one chosen, out of all of their cousins, out of everyone on the Isle, to be one of the five to go to Auradon.

Lucky him, right?

------------------------------------------------------------

“Are you sure you aren’t mad?” Carlos asked his brother for what had to be the third time that hour as he packed what little belongings he had.

He could barely meet his brother’s eye.

He hadn’t even gotten to tell Remi that he was leaving for Auradon himself—no, Remi had found out from his friend Hannah who was also being forced to go to Auradon with Carlos and the others on Maleficent’s orders.

The inventor knew that his little brother had to be mad at him.

He’d be mad, in his shoes.

Remi huffed, plopping down on the ground dangerously close to one of their mother’s bear traps without even a hint of fear (Carlos couldn’t help but shiver at the memory of what had happened to the last two children other than him and Evie who’d been close to those traps). “For the last time, I’m not mad at you—but I will be sending you down to Davy Jones’ locker if you keep asking if I am.”

“Dude, I don’t speak pirate—”

“You can speak dog —when you’re terrified of them—but you can’t pick up simple pirate lingo that I’ve been speaking since I was six?”

“It doesn’t make any sense!”

“It makes perfect sense!”

“It’s a locker underneath the ocean! Pretty self-explanatory as to how someone would end up there!”

“It doesn’t even exist!”

“Whatever.” Remi rolled his eyes. “I said, no, I’m not mad at you. You’re getting out of here, why should I be mad at you? Just get us off, too, once you’re out there. Don’t forget about us.”

Don’t forget about us.

Carlotta and Carlotta. Carlisle. Codias. Conway. Ivy and Hunter and Diego and Remi. All of them. Every one of them. Carlos could visualize the faces of each of them, even if it had been a decade since his eyes had seen their faces, that they had breathed.

His family . All of them, all the de Vils. Together. What was left of them, anyway.

“I won’t,” Carlos vowed softly. “I would never.”

------------------------------------------------------------

His first night in Auradon, Carlos popped in the only pair of earbuds he'd ever seen on the Isle and listened to The Bad Apples on the old, cruddy MVP player his cousins and brother had quickly fixed up for him as a going away present.

Listening to every single song on repeat until he finally managed to fall asleep with tears in his eyes.

Missing his long-gone siblings.

Missing Remi, the only one left alive.

Missing Hunter and Ivy and Diego .

Diego, who had grabbed all of his bandmates to record all of their songs just so that he could hear them whenever he wanted to. Just so that he wouldn't feel as scared and alone as any one would in his situation.

Diego, who Carlos hadn't even always been sure liked him all that much.

Did that just for him.

It even made Carlos enjoy his cousin's music for the first time in his life.

(Diego)

“The Beast will take off with your dreams,

And shatter them in the night.

Rip your heart apart at the seams,

He's nothing more than a blight–”

(Harriet, Claudine, and Ginny as Chorus)

“–A BLIGHT ON OUR LIVES,

Gotta fight to survive—”

Even if it was a bit cringey.

( “Oh shut up, Carlos, my music’s not cringey you just have no taste—”

"Just keep telling yourself that."

"You're the only one who doesn't like The Bad Apples" ).

------------------------------------------------------------

Carlos wasn’t quite as surprised as he thought he perhaps ought to be when he found out he had family in Auradon.

Plenty of people on the Isle had family in Auradon, after all. Most of the de Vils had been sent to the Isle, but there were a few who hadn’t been, distant cousins and the odd long-lost uncle. They were bound to be out in Auradon somewhere.

No. His surprise was, when he finally found out about them and met them, that he actually had already known them. Or one of them, anyway.

His mother had a brother Carlos had only heard about from Cecil’s occasional mentions (one he was much more willing to talk about than the one who had been on the isle with them, once upon a time, Cristin de Vil), Divus. Some time after the rest of the de Vils had been banished to the Isle, Divus had married a perfectly ordinary woman named Eleanor who was not connected with any villainous or heroic families in any way. The two of them had one son, a little boy of about seven named Henry.

Carlos had met Henry. Last year, during the schoolwide scavenger hunt. He and Jane had stumbled upon a lost little boy who had been separated from his mother on a trip to Auradon City, and had helped him find her.

To Carlos’ surprise, Henry had known who he was, and had been shocked—awed—to actually meet him.

Carlos usually forgot that he and his friends were kind of famous. The Isle was small enough that everybody knew everybody at least by face, and he and his friends rarely ventured out of Auradon Prep. But everywhere else?

Well, the decision to bring over several VKs to Auradon had made national news. Their arrival had been televised. So had the coronation. So had Cotillion. At this point, it was safe to say that Carlos and the others were probably recognizable on sight anywhere in Auradon.

And, to his own shock, it turned out that they had fans. Carlos, at least. One fan in particular.

It turned out that Henry had idolized him before even meeting him. Which felt weird . Was this what it was like to be Ben, multiplied by a couple million?

Henry also liked to tinker with machines and electronics and figure out how things worked and come up with new ideas, just like Carlos. It was like meeting a miniature version of him, minus the black in his hair. The kid actually had white hair, unlike any other Auradonian child Carlos had seen.

(“It was actually black-and-white, like normal— normal for de Vils, I mean,” his uncle Divus would tell Carlos later, his own black-and-white hair safely disguised by the grey streaks in it and the lines on his face. “We dyed it black for a while, but around the time he turned six he started driving us crazy to have it white instead, and eventually we gave in. If he couldn’t have it black-and-white he wanted it white, at least, so it could be like the kid’s he saw on TV. You.”)

(The relatives of villains sent to the Isle, even though they’d been lucky enough to escape banishment themselves, were often treated less than kindly in Auradon due to the actions of their relatives. There was a reason Divus hadn’t reached out to Carlos until now, a reason he’d dyed his son’s telltale hair even as an infant.)

Carlos and his friends had helped Henry find his mother—his aunt, Carlos now knew—and Carlos remembered watching Henry and his mother hug each other, both of them crying tears of worry, relief, joy, and he had thought that he had never, ever been as excited to see each other as Henry was. That his mother had never been as worried about him as Henry’s mother had been over her son disappearing for half an hour.

In that moment, in that image of a relieved mother and son uniting in joyful embrace, Carlos had glimpsed something he could never have, and had turned away quickly, leaving his girlfriend to explain to Henry’s mother how they’d found him.

He’d wallowed in self-pity for a while, the look on Henry’s tear-streaked, beaming face as he looked up at his mother like she’d hung the stars in the sky haunting him.

Carlos had never looked at his mother like that. From his earliest memories, Cruella was something to be feared and avoided and obeyed unless you were Carlisle and the twins.

It took him a while to realize he was jealous. Jealous of Henry. Jealous of Ben and Lonnie and Jane. Jealous of every kid in Auradon interacting with their parents that he’d ever seen. Jealous that they had something the Isle had robbed him of, him and every VK he knew, for even those villain parents who did care a whit about their children never showed it in the free, easy way affection was given in Auradon ( because they couldn't on the isle—showing you cared just painted a target on your loved one's backs and made you look weak—) .

Then he found out that Henry was actually his cousin. Divus was his uncle, Eleanor was his aunt by marriage, and little Henry was as much of a cousin to him as Ivy and Diego were, the youngest de Vil.

All Carlos could think of as he sat through that first, awkward meeting with his newfound family members was how normal they were. How, well, Auradonlike, but in a good way.

They took him out to an eatery in the city that the Auradon students often frequented, the Mad for Tea Caf é . Carlos didn’t eat much. He mostly just watched them. Occasionally Ally, who worked there after school as her parents ran the place, would appear over his shoulder to refill his tea cup, give him an encouraging wink, and boop Henry on the nose.

They—Carlos couldn’t help but think of them as the Auradonian De Vils— talked. They laughed. They occasionally made an effort to include him in the conversation, but not too often, so it didn’t feel like an interrogation, not like when the well-meaning Anita and Roger Radcliffe had met him; this allowed him to sit quietly and observe them, how they moved, how they acted. Eleanor sometimes chastised Henry for acting too wild or reminded him to “use your fork” or “chew with your mouth closed,” but she never smacked or shouted. They all seemed at ease sitting close to each other and occasionally touching each other, none of them clinging to each other or, conversely, sitting stiff and still to ensure not touching each other, both actions being what characterized every de Vil family meeting Carlos had ever been in, even the ones consisting only of himself and all his cousins.

They acted like other Auradon families Carlos had seen. How Jane and her mother talked. How Lonnie and her brother sat next to each other by lunch. How Audrey and Ariana gossipped in the halls, how Arabella and her cousins all did their homework together in the common room while draped over each other in a big pile.

Divus and Henry and Eleanor acted normal .

And Carlos realized he was completely, inexpressibly glad , glad that little Henry was growing up with parents who were just like Auradon parents, glad that this little branch of the de Vils seemed somehow to have escaped the curse of madness and grief that inexorably ruined all their lives, glad that Henry would grow up happy and free and safe and as unlike the lives of the other de Vils as he could get.

Little Henry would walk a path of light and happiness, unlike the warped, shadowy path that the rest of them followed through life. At least one member of the de Vils could get a happy life. If it couldn’t be Carlos, if it couldn’t be his older sister or his younger sister or Remi or Diego or any of them, at least Henry could be carefree.

A real child.

A normal child.

A normal life.

#de vil family #bad parent cruella de vil #descendants #disney descendants #melissa de la cruz #disney #wicked world #descendants au #disney descendants au #hannah hook verse #remi de vil #the marvelous misadventures of hannah hook and co #the marvelous misadventures of hannah hook #de vil family ocs #original charaacters #fanfction #one shot #etc

8 notes · View notes

jordan-a-v · 3 months ago

Text

Art of 'Alex' the Inquisitor, from Kindred of the Carvings, my self-published book, on Amazon. :)

Leo is dragged from ordinary detective work, into a world of cults, demons and ever-rising tension, by the cynical Inquisitor Alex, in mutual pursuit of the infamous Reflecting Criminal, who does unto the guilty, what they have done to others... True crime investigation leads into horror and mystery, suspense, and a weird tale of eldritch gods, and supernatural terror. The year is 1929, 12 years after Leo fought in the trenches of the Great Crusade, and now the Kindred of the Carvings rise to carve up and eat their fellow Machiavellians alive. Our strugglers are pushed to their extreme limits, by things as diabolical as demons taller than buildings, ruthless, man-eating cannibals, strange conspiracies.... But also, insanity, hunger and cold weather. Across the borough of Machiavellia, they must search through sewers, black woods and shadowy tombs for the Reflecting Criminal, high and low... Knowing full well, the Reflecting Criminal, is no stranger.

Thanks for viewing! You can check out my book here if you'd like!

2 notes · View notes

corvusspecialartist · 6 months ago

Text

Konrad's Unlikely Redemption (Blasphemous x Warhammer 40000)

Chapter 1: Arrival and Meeting

Sometime, in the far future: Baal Secondus Many penitents were walking alongside the sandy shores moaning and weeping. Most were small huddled wretches falling as the heat of Baal's sun claimed them. Other, more wealthy practitioners were lucky enough to hire and pay enough to have a whole procession. Many people walked at a fevered yet measured pace. They knew that there would be a spot for them. After all, everyone was sinner in the eyes of the Saint Haunter. However all can seek redemption if they confessed. A pair was walking alongside them. They stood tall, both with their well worn power armor. One of them was wearing a large well brimmed hat, while the other was hunched with a ragged cloak about them.

The taller one turned to his companion and sighed. "We are here Acolyte." They pulled out a large beat stick and started pushing and kicking many of wretches out of the way. In front of the pair was a large temple. It was made of a oily black stone that seemed to drink the light of Baal's suns. Many of the penitents gave them a wide berth, given their status.. any attempts to pickpocket or rob them would led to worse fates than dying out here in the sun. The hunched acolyte stood tall and looked around at the courtyard... around the temple were burning purple, black, green, and red flames. After all, this was to be an assignment, however ever thing with this was a test.

"Why are we here Master" The tall person turned to look at their apprentice. "This is a lesson, to show why I give heretics more leniency than other more conservative fellows amongst my Ordos"

The Acolyte nodded and bowed. He had heard the stories when he was young.. About the 9 devils that fought the arch traitor. However, one devil came to the side of the Most Blessed of Saints and sought redemption. He had often spat at these stories. Traitors and heretics ought to have no mercy shown to them. After all, the devil who was worshiped today once..however he sighed.

The Inquisitor, almost if they would sense the dismay and anger radiating from their student. "I understand your apprehension, but if you cannot understand, then you and I may have to part ways."

They turned and walked into the temple. Many of the shrines and temples dedicated to Konrad, often smaller and more modest compared to the other primarch's shrines. However, there were more Arbities and servitors here, cause many a criminal and traitors were sent here to try and cleanse their sins. Many a temple was guarded with zealous Arco-Flagellants. They checked making sure that their Acolyte was by their side. He walked to the border to see a statue of Sangininus and Konrad fighting around five heavily armored women with unique weapons. They recalled about the tales about an exiled Sister Order trying to fight Konrad. In reality they were daemons possessing the bodies.

The statue had Konrad carved in ivory and onyx making him almost blend into the temple walls, while Sanginius was made from the purest gold. The four daemons were cast in thrice blessed rose gold. The Inquisitor went to a sacred place. There was one living witness left to the redemption, an Venerable Night Lord Dreadnought. They had to take the highest protocols. Soon they entered the chamber of the dreadnought. It was chained to the wall, with a table and two chairs with a recorder servo skulls as well as a simple scrolls and a inkwell for the Inquisitor to take notes and ask Questions.

The giant monster shook and groaned, and both the ancient machine spirit and Marine awoke within. "WHY AM I AWAKE? IS IT TIME FOR WAR?" It tried to rise up as the ancient chains trembled treating to breakfast and unleash this terror upon the world. Luckily they held fast as the Dreadnought calmed down. "Oh great one, we have only come to hear your account about eh great Crusade... about the time when the Redeemer and the Redeemed walked across the Earth. Please if you are able, tell us about how Lord Sanginius manged to redeem Konrad."

The dreadnought creaked and groaned, almost as if it was pondering the answer.

"I WILL TELL YOU, BUT ONLY ONCE. I WOULD LIKE TO GO BACK AND REST"

The Inquisitor quickly barked out orders to his assistant. When the go ahead was given to the dreadnought, its horns spoke.

"When I was young and still had all five of my limbs..."

A/N: I had posted this on AO3. And this was meant to be a gift, but I really need to update it/finish. Minus the fact I have like 3 other fics I need to finish.

Sorry, I have't been posting much.. its just that school.. and I had a hard spring semester.

#konrad curze #warhammer40k #warhammer 40000 #night lords #konrad curze x sangy #Imperial secondus #warhammer #primarchs #primarch x primarch #blasphemous #the amacietias

6 notes · View notes

lightning-of-farosh · 2 years ago

Text

Mischief Makers #2

AU; The hero of Legend and the hero of Hyrule are Smol

(This was my second try starting the fic)

The Hero who would one day be known as the Hero of Legend opened his eyes before the sting of acidic lantern smoke had fully faded from his tongue and turned his face towards the cloud-filled sky. His blonde hair was streaked with pink, turning into something that was vanilla and strawberry before it vanished beneath the blue cap that was almost as big as he was. A sword that was too big laid heavily between his should blades, pressing against the curve of his spine and forcing him to stand straight under the eyes of people who weren’t there to stare.

Beside him, dried mud and faded blood staining his green tunic, was the child who would be passed through tales as the Hero of Hyrule.

Green fields stretched out before them, grass taller than them swaying in ocean-like waves beneath the slightest breeze. Trees peppered here and there, making differences in a landscape that looked like it could have been stretched like dough between the hands of the goddesses.

Legend got up to the tips of his toes and used Hyrule’s shoulder to give himself a little boost—

And saw nothing.

“Great,” he said, resting back on his heels. “I don’t suppose you recognize this place?”

The world they had come from was more rock than plant, with heavy ashes sitting in the air and terror dripping from the cracks like oil that was ready to be ignited at any time.

Hyrule looked up from picking at a scab on the back of his hand. He was a good head shorter than Legend and glanced around at the grass. It would take a good footstool to prop him high enough to see over the plant life, so he turned to his friend and raised one eyebrow.

“Right,” Legend’s shoulders dropped as he sighed. “So we’re lost.”

Purple fizzed and popped behind them.

They turned, watching the portal collapse until it was nothing but a couple of falling, dark-star sparks. Hyrule leaned past Legend, reaching out to touch before his wrist was snatched. Magic fell to the ground and vanished, leaving them alone in the middle of the fields with nothing but grass to the front, grass to their back, and an open, unbothered sky.

Something thick and dark and cold settled in Legend's stomach as he looked around at everything but besides the occasional tree it was all the same, cookie cutter rolling hills. His breath hitched and he reached back for his sword, ready to start cutting through everything for just a sign—

A small hand took his before he could wrap his fingers wound the pommel of the sword and Hyrule looked up at him, eyes bright as a smile flourished on his features. "Don't worry," he said, a playful cat-like slyness to his voice, "I won't let you get too lost."

"You have no idea where we are."

Turning his face to the sky, Hyrule grinned. "No," his voice was soft. "But it'll be fun to find out."

Legend rolled his eyes but he couldn't help the smile that bled across his features as he was tugged forward into the unknown.

Here we go again.

oOo

“You knew.”

Hyrule laughed. “I didn’t!” He said and tugged Legend towards the stone walls rising out of the horizon. The grass had given away to a river, to a bridge, to a road carved deep with the wheels of caravans. Rain had turned patches of it to mud.

(They might have jumped into a few here or there; drying speckles dotting up their bare knees and making their boots look like desert dipped in chocolate.)

Legend pouted and wrapped his arm around a shoulder, leaning most of his weight onto the smaller boy. They stumbled together towards the edge of the road but Hyrule only giggled. Sunlight glinted off the hilt of his sword, sending flashes of sparkling goddess light across dirt and skin and he pulled away—

A yelp ripped its way out of Legend’s throat as they tumbled, rolling into the damp dirt. Hyrule squirmed beneath him, laughing as he kicked his small legs. The green cap had partially fallen off his hair but the sunlight caught his shining eyes and turned them wolf-gold.

Legend poked a dirt-crusted cheek once, twice, a third time until hands were swatting at his fingers.

Worming his way backward, Hyrule made a bid for freedom only to be snatched back, fingers digging into his sides and playing across his ribs.

“Say it!” Legend cried, sitting on the squirming, squealing boy, ignoring the smaller fists that battered at his sternum. “Say it!”

“S-say what?!” Hyrule shoved his hand against Legend’s cheek, pushing the older hero’s head up before he had to pull back to protect his unguarded sides. His chest heaved from breathless giggles, legs kicking uselessly. “I didn’t—I didn’t—s-stop! Mercy! Mercy!”

Deep laughter rumbled above them and the boys froze, staring at each with wide eyes before turning, slowly, to look up at the man standing in the middle of the road.

He was dressed in heavy, linked silver armour with a skirt of chainmail that sent glimmers of scattered sunlight across the earth. Two jagged red tattoos were carved beneath his scarred over right eye, and an angular blue U was marked in the middle of his forehead.

Beside him, head lowered and blue eyes narrowed, was a wolf that had splatters of slate in its dark almost-green-but-mostly-grey looking pelt.

“You boys alright?” The man said, adjusting the burlap sack hanging over his shoulder.

There was a massive sword strapped to his back.

Legend pulled his hands away from Hyrule’s sides and stared, heart thudding painfully in his chest.

“Uh huh,” Hyrule managed, panting as his laughter faded. There was a thump as his head fell back into the dirt. “Yessir!”

Fingers brushed over Legend’s wrist, brushed over his palm, and tangled with his own. A thumb pressed into his pulse point and his skin felt too hot, too hot, too hot—

Hyrule squeeze and Legend’s diaphragm decided that was enough to start working once more.

“If you’re sure,” the man said, his eye focused on Legend, picking apart his skin and bones and sinews to see into his soul.

He wanted to bare his teeth, wanted to draw his sword, wanted to run away from this maybe-knight and his wolf—

Legend nodded once and squeezed Hyrule’s fingers.

#Linked Universe #legend linked universe #hyrule linked universe #Fabulist tales

19 notes · View notes

tessathegamefreak · 2 years ago

Note

May we start the Cybug Neko with the AU version this time?

(alright, let me prepare to unwind the tale. Be warned to anyone reading this that there may be some spoilers for where the Fix-It Felix AU story will head. This is for roleplay purposes though, so not everything here is accurately depicted)

(now, Neko, since I already gave you the run down of what's about to happen, let's start off before you become the Cybug)

Terror was all around the land. This sweet world that was once so bright pink was now looming with a swirling, crimson darkness. What was meant to be another fun and thrilling random roster was cut prematurely by the ravenous cybugs that were impatiently munching on their final course- the actual racing course.

Not too far from the tracks, amongst a bushel of lollipop shrubbery, stood a wrecked Royal Racer with a whiplashed Princess Vanellope, who was struggling to keep her consciousness. She groaned, sobbing in pain as her body flickered in blue pixels. Wreck-It Ralph and Scientist Calhoun both ran over to the young royal, helping her out of what remained of her kart. Sourbill was looming under the taller individuals, immensely worried for the young girl he was supposed to care for.

And just a little further back, where this crash scene continues to stretch out, was the other kart responsible for this accident. On the front of this "fresh from the bakery" kart- which had the body of a red velvet cake, was drizzled with a mixture of chocolate syrup and cream cheese frosting, and topped with a random assortment of sweets, the kart's hood was terribly dented. The dirt cake pavement was dug in below the tires, as the racer of this kart had forcefully slammed the brakes and brought this vehicle to a skidded stop. Although no one sits there now, the red glitched pixels remains on the steering wheel...

The only two that were standing ideally by from this crash scene was Felix- the character responsible for this outbreak, and Neko- who only wanted to help these characters the best way she could.

Felix then gazed over the scene. He noticed that from where the second kart parked, there was a track of shoe prints in the icing ground up ahead. Without saying a word, he pulled out his stolen Hero's Duty pistol and followed those tracks deep into the candy cane forest...

#wreck it ralph #ask #send asks #fix it felix au!#roleplay #fix it felix #kane candy #scientist calhoun #princess vanellope von schweetz #not so sourbill #sourbill #wreck it ralph turbo #glitch #glitch?

38 notes · View notes

mirikitakato · 9 months ago

Text

[Translation] Banquet for the Scarlet Flower Dyed in Darkness: Episode 7

Jessica: ...No, it's because I'm a coward. I'm willing to play this role for him, but I…I…

Jessica says in a trembling voice as she walks through the dark, deep forest where even moonlight barely reaches. The lantern she holds is the only light, showing her a few steps ahead and her trembling figure.

Jessica: Strange things have been happening in the forest one after another since that night. Ivan repeatedly reassured me: everything would be fine. I want to dismiss the legends as mere tales, but then…what was that thing I saw in the forest? The color of the flowers turned black. The animals are acting strange too... What will happen to me?...When I think about that, I become scared. I’m afraid to face something I don’t know…

Heathcliff: Jessica...

The sounds of the night forest are the rustling of leaves, the chirping of insects, and the singing of birds. I can feel the presence of life, even though I can't see it. If I were to walk alone in the darkness, perhaps it would be better to hear no sound at all. The sound of a beast's breath, the sound of footsteps on the ground. It is too cruel to make someone listen only to the sounds of approaching threats and then throw them into the darkness.

Akira: (How much terror must Jessica have felt every time strange, unknown things happened? No matter how prepared you are, it's still terrifying to throw yourself into the unknown, even if it's a god that everyone believes in. Even more so if it's something you don’t understand…) I’m at a loss for words. In the midst of this silence, a low voice speaks up.

Oz: You haven't given up on that role yet, have you?

It's Oz. His lantern emits a warm orange glow. His figure looks very stern in the deep, dark forest, but his gaze is not merely cold. His eyes, like burning flames, with a power akin to that of a god who can move nature at will, stare intently at Jessica.

Oz: With unwavering resolve, you've embraced this role, ready to throw your life for it. If you have no regrets, step forward again. You are a wizard. Cast aside your hesitation and follow your true heart.

A strong, unwavering voice. It sounds cold, but it also feels like a light illuminating the dark path, comforting the heart.

Murr: Oz gave a great speech!

Shino: Indeed, so even you can say words of encouragement at times.

Riquet: He is a bit slow, but I like Oz's words. It gives me a sense of strength and support.

Heathcliff: ...Just as Lord Oz said. Jessica, you'll be fine. You've been working so hard all by yourself since the Night of Calamity.

Jessica bites her trembling lip and takes a deep breath. Arthur, who has been watching the conversation between them, has a sparkling look in his eyes as if he is genuinely happy. And then he smiles gently at her.

Arthur: Lady Jessica, I don't think you failed your role. You're still facing the unknown without succumbing to fear, holding your ground. And we're here with you too, so let's go together. To the deepest part of The Demon Lord Forest.

Finally, we reach the innermost part of the forest. Our feet are submerged in a sea of "Oz" flowers, and we are wading through flowers that are taller than our knees. It is like crossing a pitch-black sea.

Akira: It's really a flower field stretching as far as the eye can see. Oz flowers are blooming everywhere I look…

Lennox: Certainly, this sight is quite different from what we saw along the way.

Riquet: And the sweet scent of flowers fills the air It's like I'm wandering in another world...

Finally, Oz raises his hand. And the lights of the lanterns everyone holding go out. The surroundings are swallowed by deep darkness.

Oz: It's time.

A faint morning sunlight peeks through the gaps between the trees. The flower field, as if faintly glowing, rises from the darkness in a crimson and silvery glow.

Arthur: Beautiful... It's so fantastical, like something coming from a storybook.

Shino: It's creepy, but not bad.

Murr:Yup! The light reflects off the flowers and it's all sparkly like the sea!

Heathcliff: Huh...?

While everyone is captivated by the scenery, Heathcliff looks up at something, and a black thing whizzes past. It sways and sways in the morning sunlight, gradually taking shape.

Riquet: A person? No... it resembled a shadow cast by the light.

Black shadows of various shapes pass through the flower field: Birds dart through the trees, rabbits hop past our feet, deer and wild boars roam nearby.

Faust: ...Shadows. Probably from the animals that live in the surrounding forest, or from the villagers.

Murr: I can sense living presences. Seems like only shadows separated from their master's bodies are being called here.

Akira: Only shadows...?

It's a strange and surreal sight. But also beautiful enough to be scarily out of this world. Despite feeling scared, I can’t take my eyes off the shadows that are swaying and moving in the light.

Shino: The shadows are wandering around, but their main bodies are left somewhere? Are the bodies okay though?

Oz: For now. They are temporarily floating after leaving the main bodies. But a shadow is the other half of oneself. If they stay separated, their minds and bodies will soon be in danger.

At that moment, Jessica, who has been watching the scene from the side, takes a step forward.

Akira: Jessica...?

As if invited, she walks towards the center of the flower field with soulless eyes. Her black dress flows in the wind.

Faust: Let's follow Jessica. Oz, may I ask for your help to protect the Sage?

Oz: Yes. Sage, come this way.

Akira: O-okay. Excuse me, but is Jessica okay? She is acting strange somehow...

Faust: It's dangerous to move rashly before we understand the situation. Let's observe the shadows and see how things go.

Following Jessica, the wizards also blend into the shadows in their dark robes.

Jessica:……

In the center of the flower field, Jessica's black hair flutters in the wind. Her hand is held by the shadow of a young child. As if guided by the darkness, Jessica takes one step, then two, dancing as she approaches the flower field. In the midst of the faintly glowing reddish-black sea, the wizards flutter their robes, following the shadows that sway like jellyfish. The fabric flutters in the wind, hands and feet moving gracefully like a dance. The beautiful and bewitching movements are befitting of a ritual. As if becoming one with this strange forest, everything blends into the scenery.

Oz: Sage, is there anything wrong with your body?

Akira: Ah... No. Thanks to Oz's magic, I've been fine ever since.

Oz: I see.

Akira: (Oz is moving while avoiding the shadows, but somehow, it looks like he's dancing beautifully. I'm also getting used to this situation somehow because Oz is holding my hand...)

Sometimes the shadows brush against our hands and feet. The touched shadows scatter like mist and then quickly slip away. They beautifully reflect in the morning sunlight. The sight looks so surreal, like a midsummer night’s dream.

Jessica: ……

Suddenly, Jessica raises her hand. Perched on her finger is the shadow of a small bird with a slightly long tail. Jessica gently brings her lips to the shadow, and then…

[Rustling sound]

Heathcliff: W-what was that sound just now...

Shino: Something fell from that tree over there.

Lennox: I'll go take a look.

Murr: I'm going tooooo~!

Lennox and Murr bend their backs, pushing through the flowers and avoiding the shadows. Lennox picks up a small bird and places it on his palm. It has no shadow.

Heathcliff: It's not moving. Is it dead...?

Murr: No, its heart is beating! It's the same as when Chloe cast his temporary death spell!

Lennox: This long tail looks like the shadow of the bird that Jessica kissed?

Heathcliff: No way…then that means…?!

Everyone's eyes turn to Jessica. She is dancing with a female-like shadow that twirls its long skirt. And then, she pulls the hand she is holding close and kisses the back of it.

[Sounds of various animals]

Heathcliff, Shino, Lennox: Ah!

Riquet: The shadows is being sucked into the forest...

Arthur: They’re melting away and disappearing...?

While everyone is staring at the forest, Faust pushes through the swaying shadows and go to Oz's side.

Faust: As I thought...something hidden in that darkness is controlling the ritual.

Oz: Yes. Using the sacrifice as medium, it can absorb the shadows and take in their life forces. The spirits lurking in the darkness are the ones calling them in.

At that moment, a sound of flowers parting is heard from behind.Emerging from the hut, swaying, is the figure of a boy who shouldn't be here.

Heathcliff: Ivan?!

Shino: That guy, he said he'd wait at home...! Did he follow us secretly?

But his footsteps as he walks this way are strange. His eyes are vacant, and he is muttering something.

Ivan: ...Lord Oz's….guidance...

Oz: ...He's been captivated by the spirit.

Mur: Hahaha! From the very beginning, the spirit had no intention of letting Ivan go. Jessica isn't a substitute for the sacrifice. The two of them are just destined to share the same fate of death! The greedy forest wants to take both Ivan and Jessica!

Despite the chaos, Jessica snatches another shadow.

Episode 6 | Episode 8

5 notes · View notes

booksrbetterthanpeople · 2 years ago

Note

Since you did Tales of Terror, here’s a request.

Bart Simpson’s Dracula, or in this case Alix Kubdel’s Marcula.

“We come to the most terrifying painting in the Louvre,” Alix narrates. “To even gaze upon it is to go mad!” She points to a picture of the Mona Lisa. Adrien shrieks when he sees it.

“It’s horrible! What’s she smiling at?!”

Alix rolls her eyes as he runs away screaming. “We had a story to go with this painting, but it was far too intense. So we just threw something together with vampires. Enjoy!”

Lightning crashes as the title of the episode appears on the screen written in blood, Marcula.

While the rain pours down from the cloud-filled sky, the students of Mme. Bustier’s class are all gathered in their classroom looking down at their phones. Their brows furrowed with worry as they watch Nadja Chamack delivering some news.

“Another Parisian has been found dead,” she reports. Her skin is noticeably pale, but despite that, she keeps a calm disposition. “Drained of his blood with two teeth marks on his throat. The only thing found at the scene was a silver studded belt chain.” An image of said chain appears on their screens. “The police are baffled, and hope their investigation can come to and end soon. For more news, I’m Nadja Chamack, thank you for watching, and stay safe.”

With that, the live feed ends, but the students are still clearly on edge.

“Who would be sadistic enough to suck out someone’s blood?” Nino can’t help but ask.

“Oh, you won’t believe the American serial killers Zoé’s told me about,” Chloé shudders. “There’s plenty of freaks out there.”

“Yeah, like vampires,” Kim remarks, getting some skeptical looks. “Come on! Two teeth marks in the guy’s neck, his blood is gone, it was a vampire!” Marinette only pats him on the shoulder and says, “Sure.”

Ignoring that, Ivan turns to the resident genius. “Max, what do you think?”

“Well, I’d have to go with Chloé’s theory,” he answers, and the blonde preens a bit while Kim’s feigns a look of betrayal. “There are some messed up people in this world. Why, as of this moment, one of them could be right in this very school-”

“Hey, guys!”

The students all jump out of their seats by the sudden voice, only to calm down when they just find Nathaniel at the door. He awkwardly smiles as he wasn’t expecting that sort of reaction. “Sorry, didn’t mean to-“

“Ah, it’s fine,” Alix assures. “So, what’s up?” The redhead looks like he can barely contain himself.

“So, remember my long distance boyfriend from Transylvania?” Right on cue with his word, thunder and lightning crash outside.

“Wicked,” Juleka whispers.

“Oh, he’s real?” Chloé smirks. “I thought that was just a ploy to make you seem less pathetic.” Interrupting her taunting laughter is Marinette throwing a crumpled piece of paper at her. “Hey!”

“Proceed,” Marinette tells him.

“Well, Marc is real, Chloé, and he’s here permanently because his mom got a job at the blood bank that recently opened, so I want you all to meet him!” Rose can help but gush at how excited he looks. Alix gets up from her seat to sling an arm around him.

“Well, as long he’s treating you right, then I’m gonna like him. So, when does he get here?”

A voice cuts through the room, “Right about now.” This startled his classmates, but Nathaniel beams and immediately goes to hug the noirette standing at the doorway. “Hi, Nath,” he greets in a distinct Transylvanian accent.

“Hi, Rainbow.” Wasting no time, he seizes the taller boy by the front of the shirt and pulls him in for a kiss. “God, I’ve been waiting to do that.” The two are so wrapped up in each other that they almost forget about Nathaniel’s classmates until Adrien clears his throat, making the two look awkward as their faces heat up. “Everyone, this is my boyfriend, Marcula Anciel.”

Kim nearly chokes. “M-Marcula?”

“It’s a family name,” the green-eyed boy explained with a kind smile. “I go by Marc for short.”

Alix steps up to him. “Well, Marc, it’s nice to finally meet you; I’m Alix, Nath’s long time best friend.”

“Yes, he’s told me so much about you,” he beams. “Oh, real quick. Would someone mind inviting me in? My family’s quite big on manners, and I-”

“Say no more; come right in.” Accepting Marinette’s offer, Marc steps into the classroom, unaware of Kim’s skeptical look. “We’ve got about ten minutes before classes start. I’d say that gives us enough time to learn a bit about each other! First, I need to hear how you two met.” Before Marc could answer, she says, “Oh, you’ve got something on the corner of your mouth.” She points to a red stain on Marc’s face so he can wipe it off with his finger.

Nathaniel takes his hand with a worried expression. “You didn’t get hurt, did you?”

“Don’t worry, love, it’s just ink from my pen.”

“Marc’s a writer,” Nathaniel says in a lovesick tone and giggles, staring at Marc as if he were some sort of deity. This startles a few as they’ve never seen the redhead look so happy… Or giggle. Though, it was nice seeing him look so happy.

Marc kisses his hand, and this action has quite a few of the girls smiling. “I’ve written my sweet nightshade several poems going nonstop about his beauty, compassion, his talents in the visual arts, so so many more qualities, it would take the whole day to name them all.”

No one heard what Nathaniel had to say, as his words were muffled when he hid his face in the fabric of Marc’s hoodie.

“Aaaw,” Rose, Sabrina, and Mylène coo.

He points to Marinette. “And to answer your question, Nathaniel and I met a year ago while my family and I were visiting the city. He looked so breathtaking under the moonlight.” By now, Kim was looking around to see if anyone, anyone was hearing what he was… Or seeing, because Marc’s fingers is just all over Nathaniel’s neck right now! “We’ve kept in touch ever since, and soon began dating.”

“And I have loved every second of it.” Nathaniel captures Marc’s lips for a kiss once again, only this one doesn’t last as long when the bell rings. “Damn,” he curses. “You just got here.”

“I know, but I need to leave.” The second he kisses Nathaniel’s cheek, a peal of thunder is heard followed by the lights in the room going out. When they come back on, Marc is nowhere to be found.

This scares his classmates a bit, but Nathaniel thinks nothing of it. “Isn’t he great?” The way he heads to his desk looks as if he’s walking on air.

“A little weird,” Alya whispers. “But Nath seems happy with this guy.”

Kim nods. “Yeah, they’d be a match made in heaven, if Arc weren’t a blood sucking creature of the night.” He hisses out a curse word when Alix reaches up to slap the back of his head. “What was that for?”

“I should be asking you that.”

“Marc is clearly a vampire,” he says as if it were so obvious. “The neck touching, blood banks, needing to be invited in, and dare I point out? He had a belt chain that is an exact match for the one found at the crime scene!” Alix shushes him.

“Do you want Nath to hear you?” The students all turn to see Nathaniel smiling at something on his phone, no doubt a text from Marc. “Marc’s a nice guy, and he makes Nath happy,” Alix continues. “Hell, if he were a vampire, I’d still approve as long as Nath’s smiling.”

“But vampires don’t exist,” Adrien reminds her.

She waves him off. “Yes, Adrien, vampires don’t exist. We know.”

“If he is, I wouldn’t mind being his undead servant,” Juleka murmurs.

Later at lunch hour, Kim is still staring at the new student suspiciously. Already, he’s become well acquainted with his new classmates. They’re hanging off his every word and Nathaniel is sitting with them, clinging to Marc’s arm… Well, if that doesn’t say ‘vampire mind tricks,’ he doesn’t know what does.

“Kim, I know what you’re thinking, and cut it out,” Max drones. “What would a vampire even come to France for?”

“Fresh blood because he sucked Transylvania dry?”

Not having an argument for that, Max pulls his friend to his usual table. “I’ll admit, Marc has his quirks, but so does everyone else.”

“He is literally drinking blood out of a bag.” He gestures toward Marc, who is doing just that.

“… He probably just recycles.”

“Oh my God.” Once they’re at the class’ table, Kim slams his head down and groans. “When he sucks you all dry, don’t come crying to me.”

Ivan rolls his eyes. “Again with that? Kim, there is no such thing as vampires.”

“Hey, guys.” The students all scream in fright when Marc and Nathaniel suddenly appear by their table. “Marc and I were talking, and since you didn’t really get to know him, he’d like to invite you over to his house tonight. His classmates are coming, too.”

“Well, I don’t know-“ Kim wheezes when Alix elbows him in the gut.

“We’d love too!”

“Count me in, dude.”

“I’ll be there!”

“Same!”

“Great, it’s decided,” Marc beams. “Oh, and be sure to wash your necks.”

Nino quirks an eyebrow. “Why?”

“… Transylvanian custom.”

“… Well, who are we to disregard your customs?” Kim sputters. “My neck’s gonna be so clean, you can eat off of it!”

‘Well, don’t tempt him!’

~Later that evening~

“… When Nath said ‘house,’ I wasn’t expecting… This.” Marinette gestures to the four story manor before her and her classmates. It rivaled even the Agreste’s mansion.The only thing that stood between them were the iron gates with a golden cursive A welded in the middle. “God, he’s modest.”

Alya smirks. “And Nath’s gonna be marrying money. Up top!” She and Marinette high five before she rings the doorbell. A low voice is heard on the speaker.

“Youuuu… Raaaang?”

“Yes, we’re here to see Marc… Hello?” Before Alya could ring the doorbell again, the gates open with a loud screech that seemed to wake up a few bats and ravens nestled in the trees so they’d fly off into the night. The students all make their way toward the manor. “Shit, Chloé’s gonna regret missing out on this.”

“Aaw, there’s a little bunny in that bush.” Rose points to the backside of the animal poking out of some shrubbery. Little did she know, the front end was caught in a bear trap.

They make it to the beautifully carved double doors, but before one of them could knock, a door slightly opens and out steps a young boy with silver eyes. In his hands, he holds a doll with a missing head.

Adrien blinks, confused, but then kneels down to his level. “Hey, little guy. Are you Marc’s brother?” Rather than answering out loud, be whispers something to the blonde before going back inside, leaving Adrien pale.

“What did he say?” Ivan asks.

“… I think he just predicted my death.” Before anyone could question that, the door opened the rest of the way, and the students were all immediately drawn to the rest of the manor. The exterior was nice, but the interior was absolutely stunning. It had a bit of a vintage gothic charm to it with black picture frames, two statues on either side of the staircase, a gorgeous chandelier, and more.

Nino lets out a low whistle. “Damn, I had no idea Marc lived in the lap of luxury.”

“It’s not much.”

Once again, they all scream when Marc (And Nathaniel) seem to appear out of thin air.

“Jesus Christ, man!” Nino yells while checking to make sure his heart is still beating. “We gotta put a bell on you!”

Laughing fondly, Marc replies, “Oh, but where’s the fun in that? Let me show you to the dining room. My classmates are already waiting.” He walks off with Nathaniel on his arm, but his shadow seems to linger, making rude gestures at the guests before following Marc and Nathaniel. Kim gulps.

“Guys, do you notice anything strange?

“Yeah, his hairdo looks like a bird’s nest,” Nino whispers.

Marc hollers back, “I heard that!”

“It was Kim!”

They all arrive at the dining room, and once everyone is seated, a tall man with sort of this thousand yard stare makes his way into the room with a cart of drinks colored a bright red. Kim, thinking it’s only punch is about to take a sip…

Ismael takes a swig of his drink. “Kinda coppery.”

… Only to have second thoughts and “accidentally” spill what he knows believes to be blood. And it seems Alix had the same idea. She shoots him a look that’s says, ‘Don’t you dare,’ but Kim is most definitely going to rub it in her face later that he was right. “Whoops! Alix and I have to go wash up.”

They both leave without another word and walk down a corridor.

“Okay, so what if you are right? If Marc was a vampire, we're not gonna stumble on his secret hiding place.” Right as Alix leans against the wall, her shoulder presses against a hidden button, activating some sort of mechanism that causes the wall to move to the side and reveal a staircase. After a beat of silence, they both go down some steps into a dark dungeon-like room. There are several coffins lying about.

Kim can’t resist. “Satisfied?”

“Big deal!” Alix huffs. “It's no different from Juleka’s dollhouse when we were six.”

Groaning, Kim pokes around the room for any sort of evidence. A log book of all the people whose blood Marc drank, empty blood bags, paintings of him with historical figures, a Twilight novel being used as a dart board... All he comes across is a book titled "Yes, I Am A Vampire" by Marcula Anciel.

“If this isn’t damning evidence, I don’t know what is!” He flips through a few pages. “Whoa, this is dated back centuries ago.”

While he reads, vampires rise up from the coffins, but Alix is the only one to notice, and tries to get his attention.

“Hold on, Alix… Hey, this is dated today. ‘Finally going to make Nathaniel mine?!’ We gotta get out-” A vampire suddenly rips the page. He screams, grabs Alix’s hand, and they run up the stairs. They would’ve made it if not for one of the vampires pulling Alix by her ankle and dragging her back down.

“ALIX!”

“Kim! Go on without…” Her voice trails off when she sees him going the rest of the way. “Well, don’t make such an effort!” The vampire who grabbed Alix restrains her as a bat flies in, morphing into Marc. “Oh, shit, Kim was right.”

Marc’s fangs extend, and he dives for Alix’s neck. Meanwhile, Kim runs back to the dining room to tell everyone what happened.

“Guys! Marc is a vampire and he has Alix!”

“Well, that’s ridiculous.”

“OH MY GOD!” Kim screams and grips at his chest when Marc suddenly appears behind him. With him is Alix, looking pale and with two holes in her neck.

“Alix is right here.”

In a trance like state, she says, “Hello, everyone. I missed you during my uneventful absence.”

Kim feels his eye starting to twitch. “Nath, you notice something off about her, right?”

The redhead’s not listening. His mind’s been reduced to pretty much nothing when Marc starts kissing up and down his arm.

Later, at the stroke of midnight, Kim is tossing and turning in his bed when he hears banging on his window. Reluctantly getting out of bed, he moves to his window and opens his curtains to find Alix and the Science Kids floating outside, all of them vampires. He screams.

“Kim, you gotta join us!” Lacey squeals. “It’s so cool! I can walk on walls, not get hurt, and I get to stay up all night drinking blood!”

Ismael adds, “And if you say you're a vampire, they give you a free small soda at the movies… You know, after you hypnotize them into giving you one.”

“No!” Kim backs away and tries to reach for a weapons. “I’m not joining you guys!”

“Dude,” Alix sighs. “It’s not like you have a choice here.” With that, she crashes through the window and tackles Kim to the ground. With her fangs extended, she’s about to bite his neck when Lê Teo and Kayode Ature barge in.

“Alix!” Kayode thunders. “We have told you many times not to bite- Wait. You’re a vampire!”

Kim’s grandmother, Tracy Ature barges into his bedroom “Quickly now! We have to kill the girl!” She brandishes a wooden stake and hammer.

“How do you know she's a vampire?” Teo questions.

“She's a vampire?” Tracy drops her weapons and runs off screaming, providing Alix a distraction to turn into a bat and escape.

Kayode, we have to do something,” Teo says. “Today she's drinking people's blood, tomorrow she could be smoking! I refuse to let that girl go down the wrong path!”

Kim gets up from where Alix tackled him. “Well, usually only way to get a vampire back to normal is to kill the head vampire. Marc!”

“Kill a teenager?!” Teo exclaims, aghast. “Do I dare give into everyone’s darkest fantasy?”

The family arrive at the manor. Teo, Kayode, and Kim walk down to the basement using the secret passageway Alix found earlier, and approach Marc’s coffin. Which was easy to find because it was fancier than the others and the lid was engraved with his initials. When Kim opens it, he lets out a breath of relief when he sees that Marc is asleep.

“You gotta drive the stake through his heart,” Kim reminds Kayode when he sees him looking hesitant.

After a moment, Kayode places the stake on Marc’s chest, readies the hammer, and, “Take that, you vile fiend!” He thunders, only for Kim to clear his throat.

“Uh, dad? That’s his neck.”

“What? Shit.” He pulls out the stake and tries again. “To hell with you!” This time, the stake goes through his shoulder. “Are you kidding me?!”

“Baby, you gotta wear your glasses,” Teo gently chastises.

“No! They make me look old!” He tries again, and finally, he drives the stake right into Marc’s heart. However, this (And not the other tries) wakes him up, screaming in agony. He quickly begins to lose consciousness and falls back into his coffin.

“And that takes care of that,” Kim says proudly.

The next morning at school, Kim walks into the classroom looking much more relaxed. Though, he does wonder how he’ll break the news to Nathaniel, but that’s a problem for the future.

“Morning everyone!” As he’s about to take his seat, a bat suddenly flies into the room and transforms into Adrien. “What the fuck?! Adrien’s a vampire?!”

Mylène shoots him a fanged grin. “We're all vampires.”

Horrified by that announcement, Kim starts to back away, but his classmates advance on him. “No! My dads and I killed Marc!”

“You have to kill the head vampire!” Juleka exclaims.

Kim gasps. “You're the head vampire?! It all makes sense!”

“Oh, I wish.”

“She’s not,” Nathaniel scoffs and stands atop his desk. “I'm the head vampire!” He bares his fangs and hisses.

“Nathaniel?! How?!”

He shrugs. “Hey, I’ve got hobbies besides art, you know.” His expression turns dark. “And this is for killing my boyfriend! Get him!” The students all fly at Kim, fangs extended while he screams when the screen suddenly freezes.

#miraculous ladybug #miraculous #nathaniel kurtzberg #marc anciel #akuma class #lê chiến kim #alix kubdel #science kids #treehouse of horror #the Simpsons

16 notes · View notes

ainews · 2 years ago

Text

Ogres have been the stuff of childhood nightmares and fairy tales for centuries, but these mythical monsters are not all fearsome and ferocious. It turns out that ogres can also be gifted in their own unique ways, and there's good scientific evidence to back it up.

Ogres usually stand several feet taller than humans and are known for their strength and fierce tempers. However, research shows that they have an uncanny ability to make quick decisions and anticipate danger. Ogresses have been found to be adept at counting and possess an incredible memory, making them capable of recollecting vast amounts of information.

The ability to think intuitively is also a powerful skill held by many ogres. They are remarkably sharp and can quickly pick up on social cues and figure out the most effective way to handle a situation. These qualities make ogres valuable members of society and often lead to unique opportunities.

Ogres also often possess supernatural powers, such as an affinity for magic, telepathy, and telekinesis. This can help them in times of crisis by allowing them to communicate with one another and manipulate objects through sheer willpower.

All of these traits may come as a surprise, but research clearly proves that ogres are indeed gifted individuals. Despite the tales of terror, ogres can make great friends and allies, and they shouldn't be written off because of their size and strength.

#ai generated #fake news

0 notes

jordan-a-v · 3 months ago

Text

Kindred of the Carvings (horror)

Support indie :)

#indie #bookblr #artists on tumblr #books and reading #book review #books #reading #horror #gothic horror #eldritch #eldrich horror #lovecraft #self publishing #author #writers on tumblr #writerscommunity #writers and poets #female writers #writer

0 notes

oldmanaemon · 2 years ago

Text

"So what happened to your tower?" asked Ettu, walking alongside Egdrigal while avoiding his great cloak that danced against the wind and into his face. They had marched for almost a week from Meridia. Talrie had begun to feel the sharp rocks through his sandals. Old sandals that were long past weathered and worn. But time didn't wait for no one. Not even this poor, tired green mage.

"The rift. It swallowed much of it and now it rages and grows with each passing day." He couldn't mention the Styr Caravan that arrived soon after and the mage who opened the rift in question. An old friend who his master scolded all too often. No need to sully his name, he thought. He was swallowed by that very rift alongside some of their friends. All manner of beast and terror emerged from there for days following its emergence and where it lead, Talrie did not want to know.

"It just popped up one day and decided your green tower was the perfect squatting point, ehh?" Ettu was not always keen on others not taking him seriously. This was no laughing matter to him. That he could see. "You green mages sure love your forbidden magicks. I've yet to see rift mages from any other school. So who woke the portal? A friend? Perhaps a lover or worst a mentor?"

"It was a friend" Talrie spoke impulsively hoping not to earn the ire of one of the few blue mages who gave him a time of day. He knew Ettu could sense this was a tender subject. "He was always in his tomes. Always the brightest of our tower but far from the teachers pet. He wandered too often and too close to where the Elders told him not to and it cost him and everyone he cared for dearly."

"Tale as old as time I suppose." Ettu followed. His eyes fixed on him.

"I'm sorry" Ettu finally said after a somber pause. He rested his hand on Talries elbow to comfort him. "As much as Blue mages try to be holier than thou, so much of us get caught in the monsters and beasts we channel. I can't tell you how many blue mages we've had to put down due to the constant frenzy of bloodlust. All of us mages walk a thin line between the chaos of our magicks and the weakness of the threads that make up the false sense of our mastery."

"To think I'd see the day our wiley halfling who calls upon the cries of banshees and breath of necrophage hounds would sing the virtues of restraint to a green mage." Ores was quiet most of the trip but this was the final straw for his sensibilities, it seemed. "I think I've lived a little too long for my own liking. What's next? Egdrigal wooing a drow red mage?"

"Close! He can try and woo me anytime!" cried out a voice behind the line of great trees along the edge of their path. Two tall slender figures emerged from the thicket. "A tiefling red mage and half dragonkin paladin would pleasantly welcome any flirtatious inclinations as well as a invitation to your travel party. Though I have to say, I never thought I'd meet a blue mage who could augur our coming. Always thought your kind too thick and mindless to even predict a trip hazard." The tiefling chuckled at her own joke as the half dragon-kin paladin stood silently beside her. His kind were not very common in the world and Talrie had never seen another outside of Almora. He was taller than the Orcs that were his travel companions and the Tiefling was not too far beneath his overshadowing frame. His horns protruding under his ears, like two great maws. Both braced with blue jewelry. Like two twin blue cresent moons. His blue skin as dark and as luminescent as his jewelry, a stark contrast to his red horned tiefling travel companion. Her hair was ash grey and skin was a red as Lorenan ruby wine. Her horns rising from her ashen hair like a bloody crown-

"Do you describe people's features in that same lazy way everytime you come across them? Like - I came across a green mage with the stature of a lone and weary shrub. Skin brown and glistening like freshly baked and bronzing Korian fudge cakes...see pretty lazy" she said interrupting his train of thought. She could read his mind he realized embarassed, "yes, I have the gift to telepathy but unfortunately for me, it's a curse. I can't exactly turn it off, so I'm also hearing that halfling thinking how red mages are recruiting succubi now and if the both my companion and I had any strategically placed piercings along with our jewelry."

An awkward silenced ensued with both Talrie and Ettu staring dumbfoundedly at eachother. Egdrigal meanwhile fell over laughing as if possessed.

Tiefling now smiling to herself. "The name is Amriett. Amriett of Allesh. This here is Galadion, also of Allesh. We're hunting the King of Sola and we followed your merry band from Meridia. We've had no luck finding other blue mages and you can imagine our surprise seeing three of you alongside a green mage headed to slay the same peculiar greymane. If it matters at all, I didn't have to read your minds to find out your curious quest. Most of Meridia and all her street urchins were privy to it, I'm afraid." Amriett reached for an old smoking pipe under her red scarf. She watched them carefully as she blew a few figures in smoke and passed the pipe to her companion who grunted and nodded graciously.

"You couldn't find any contracts in Oterr? There's plenty blue blood down there that will take any contract and yet everyone is coming to Meridia. Now aren't we the luckiest bunch?" Ores sounded more grumpier and tired than usual. He was reluctant to take up this lost cause if Ettu didn't spring him into it and now more strangers added to their reluctant band.

"We're not some charity work!" Bellowed Ettu now floating in the air like his usual gratuitous self. "This herb is offering wild cores. Not alot will beat that."

"We're offering our help and illusion cores. I think that's a fair trade for some share of the greymane."

"We're here for the horn. Everything else still fetches a mighty purse, but We're taking the horn." Talrie was bold to speak for the group and he could already see the contempt in Ores' eyes.

"The King of Sola has two horns. We need not fight over it" The paladin finally said, his voice soft and restrained. "We only ask for the lesser of the two. We know you are in greater need of its great purple horn and we will not ask that of thee. Allow us the lesser horn and we shall offer you our lives if need be."

"Now, now Gal. We don't need to be so dramatic. It's said the ancient horn contains enough magical potency to forge a core and we have no need of it. We're here to cure an ancient sickness. Our queen requires a horn of an elder greymane. Nothing more, nothing less. We'll be out of your hair afterwards...unless you want some more dilly dalliance.."

"I'm sorry for being rude, earlier. If you help us take down the King, I'll craft the cure for you. It's the least I could do if we make it out of the lair alive. As a thank you and apology for my impoliteness."

"Hey, kid! Who said you could bargain anything? Even your services are ours to command for as long as we serve as your escorts. I, Ettu, will be doing any and all negotiations herein. Take it up with me. If I say you get the small horn or small toe, it's my word that's gold here." Ores was brooding over the floating halfling and Amriett sent a few smoke rings in the shape of birds towards Ettus proud face. The halfling coughing and failing to keep his composure.

"I'm fine with that, Ettu, of Meridia. You okay with that Gal?" The dragon-kin nodded his head in agreement and they continued up the mountain path towards the lair of the Elder Greymane. Egdrigal and Amriett exchanging words and mocking stares towards Ettu.

Both Ettu and Ores now brooding together at the back of the party. Talrie wondered if they'd make it up the mountain in one piece let alone slay the King of Sola. Theirs was an uneasy alliance. A red mage, paladin, green mage and a group of blue mages. Only thing left was a black mage and the earth beneath them would crack open beneath them and unleash the seven hells at the impossible gallery. No god of chaos could conjure such a union. With their luck, they wouldn't only see if a green mage bled red but what sort of hell awaited one as well.

The thought amused Talrie and he could see Amriett agreed as well, her smile glaring through the smoke from her pipe.

#mywriting #green mage mummery

0 notes