#tarballfeatherparade

[lothli]

An Unmaking: Masterlist

World is heavily based on the world of Weather Factory's games, Cultist Simulator and Book of Hours, and does not necessarily strive for 100% accuracy.

An Unmaking is an independent work and is not affiliated with Weather Factory Ltd, Secret Histories, or any related official content. It is published under Weather Factory’s Sixth History Community Licence.

Available on AO3 and Spacebattles. Rough drafts are available on my subreddit. Read at your own risk.

There used to be links here, but to be honest, posting serialized works on Tumblr is exhausting. I recommend Ao3 if you want to read.

[lothli]

About the Depiction of Hours

This is a chapter update post for An Unmaking, so as always, spoiler warning for today's chapter.

Today, we have the first appearance of an Hour in the Wake. I don't think this is canon-supported in any way; the most an Hour has influenced the Wake in the two video games, from my understanding, is limited to their shadow.

However, I think it would be a little silly to restrict the Hours to the Mansus wholesale. If one of the Hours decided that whatever was happening in the Wake was important enough to personally interfere, I believe there wouldn't be anything to stop them besides another Hour.

And somehow, I doubt the Wolf Divided would be generous enough to save one of his followers.

Another point that I've tried to stick to is that Hours do not communicate in basic English. The Wolf Divided communicated in manic visions, and the Twins did not speak to begin with. They had no need to.

In my mind, the only Hours even capable of human speech are the ones from flesh, and even still, they'd probably prefer their own methods of communication regardless.

I hope that my depiction of the Hours is satisfactory. They're probably the most difficult to write, with the most rewritten scenes, even if they barely appear compared to the Long of the story.

Thank you, as always, for reading An Unmaking.

[lothli]

About the Moth

Another chapter posted means another Thought to post here.

I don't have anything in-depth to cover for today's chapter other than the fun fact that our protagonist's guardian is an Illuminated One from one of the base Cultist Simulator starts who achieved a Major Lantern victory.

Instead, I will cover my Moth-tilted inspiration: a Vocaloid MV titled アブノーマリティ・ダンシンガール, or Abnormality Dancin' Girl in English. Subtitled video here.

CW: Suicidal theming.

Although the motif here is a butterfly instead of a moth, I believe the lyrics and general mood here can parallel an overtaking of Moth that leads to one's perilous fall.

The protagonist begins stuck in the mundane, yearning to be something more. She is overtaken by "abnormality" before shedding her ordinary clothes to become something more. Throughout the MV, various background symbols indicate her final fate: suicide. A yearner too overtaken by Moth, one who perilously yearned for more.

Perhaps in those final moments, she found what she was looking for. Perhaps what she left behind was not a corpse but a shell.

Now, this is not an endorsement of suicidal ideation or suicide in general. But Moth itself is a Principle deeply linked with suicide; the core imagery of it are moths that immolate themselves within a candle's flame, after all.

This is simply another way of looking at things.

But as always, venerate your Principles in moderation. Don't let the yearning take you to somewhere you cannot return.

An Unmaking will return sometime this week. Wednesday if I remember, or later if I forget.

[lothli]

About Names

Names in the world of the Secret Histories are powerful things. After all, Names are powerful beings who serve directly under the gods. It is no small wonder that even for lesser beings, immortal or not, that names could carry weight.

At this point in An Unmaking, our protagonist has not truly claimed a name for herself yet. She has been named Fenris, and yes, that was an important moment for her as well. But the day when she has to accept that name, or any other, has yet to come.

Lykos, the Puma. The first named character in the story, with both the Moth Long and Winter Long leaving themselves unintroduced. His full name is stated in his introduction, demonstrating an openness that neither Long before showed. Yet, our protagonist refused to acknowledge that name — not until his final moment.

Now, we come to the Long that was finally named in these recent chapters. Iaspide's been an interesting character so far, more of a passive observer, unlike the other Long, who have shaped our protagonist's journey much more actively. But with her name comes her start in the spotlight. I hope you all will enjoy her in the chapters to come.

Finally, Fia, the Long who refused to remain simply just a Long. She, too, introduced herself with her name, but unlike Lykos, she refused to be dehumanized, so to speak, by our protagonist. Up to this point, she has categorically refused to address Long or any other creature of the Invisible Arts by name, but Fia denies her this. And maybe that's just what she needs.

Thank you to all of the readers of An Unmaking. I'll post one of these while I still have things to say for every chapter release.

[lothli]

A new intermission for An Unmaking has been released. I am testing out the Link format of submissions, but I'm not quite sure I like it; while I may be announcing a new chapter, I quite like titling my About series as such. These posts are not just about chapter releases, after all.

But this is a test, as well as a simple intermission release. I don't have much to say about it, as I'd already covered the importance of names in About Names.

Other than that, thank you, as always, for reading An Unmaking. To cover for the fact that intermissions are quite lacking in content compared to full chapters, I will maybe post a writing prompt or something in the coming days.

[lothli]

A new chapter for An Unmaking has been released.

I realized that I haven't been explaining my chapter titles. Today's chapter is "Trinitas Nova," or The New Trinity when translated. As they arrive in this new town, the quiet moments they share further reinforce their bond as a new, strange family.

In this chapter, I played around a little with the Principles in a more everyday sense. Nothing much happens, but as Long, it would only be natural for them to use their Principles almost unconsciously, as if they were an extension of themselves.

All in all, I hope you all enjoyed this cozier slice-of-life chapter for our three Long. Peace never lasts, however; there will be no rest for the wicked.

Happy Halloween, and as always, thank you for reading An Unmaking.

[lothli]

IV. Quid Perdam?

I sat and contemplated.

The Moth Long was... an ally, if I was being generous. Very generous. Even still, he was a source of knowledge. The Children were still alive and growing in influence despite the blow I dealt.

They would be on their guard, now. Their Long had not shown herself in the past month, but I doubt that meant she'd disappeared. She was probably waiting, resting, biding her time, just like I was.

So, the Children would be difficult to strike at. I could try targeting the other cults, but what would be the point? I needed to crush the head of the serpent, not its tail.

I had a new tool, too. The bullet. An Edge artifact.

I held it in my hands, rolling it in my hand as I examined it. It wasn’t large, barely the size of my palm, and its weight was surprisingly heavy. It was an unnatural, dull gray and sharp, even though its shape was round. It keened, a faint, unceasing tone that vibrated deep in my bones. I knew I wouldn't even need a gun to fire it when the time came.

This weapon would cut through anything and anyone. Even a Long, perhaps, but that was wishful thinking. Still, with its power, ending a Long's immortal life went from 'impossible' to 'improbable'.

There was something else. My knife.

I picked it up and examined it, too. It was an ordinary thing before. A simple knife, but now it was... different. It was cold. It tilted toward Winter. Not exactly helpful against the Children of Silence — infusing them with Winter would do more harm than good — but against the other cults, it would be a useful tool.

I sighed, setting the artifacts down. I needed more. More weapons, more tools, more artifacts, and more strength. I would need to return to the Mansus. Not only that, but I needed to ascend. I had to ascend to the Stag Door.

The Stag Door was the second door into the Mansus. It was the first true doorway to the realm of the Hours, without the restrictions of the White Door. But yet, the path was harsh, and the Door had a guard. The Name, Ghirbi, the great disembodied head, the riddler.

If I were to pass through this Door, I would have to answer his riddle. And if I could not answer, I would not pass.

The Mansus beckoned, and I must walk its Ways. I rested, bracing myself for the ascent.

---

The Stag Door.

I stood before its bloody horns, its cracked visage before me. A cold breeze blew past me, and the hairs on the back of my neck rose.

I was ready.

But before I could place a hand against the door, a voice called out to me.

"I see you are attempting to cross through the Stag Door. But it will not allow you, for you must answer a riddle. If you fail to answer, you will not be allowed to enter."

The voice was deep and rough, like a siege engine. I look at the gigantic, disembodied head lying, wounded, in a declivity beside the door, staring at me. His jaw was shattered, yet still, he spoke. Ghirbi.

"Speak the riddle."

"Very well. What may be lost?"

I waited, assuming that there would be more. But he didn’t say anything else.

"What do you mean by this? This is no riddle," I demanded.

Ghirbi only stared back. Molten tears began to stream down his face.

I was stumped. It was such a simple question. ‘What may be lost?’ What could be the answer to that?

I didn’t know, but Ghirbi wouldn’t move on to another riddle. This night was a bust. I woke up frustrated.

---

The next day. I sat, contemplating Ghirbi's question. It was such an abstract thing, but I had to have an answer. The question sparked a certain yearning, a buzzing in the brain. It felt like... the Moth Long.

I needed him, for some reason. He could answer the riddle, I could feel it.

And so, I tracked him down, following the buzzing of his presence to an apartment on the second floor. I stood in the hallway. The air was thick and muggy, and the buzzing seemed to press in around me.

I knocked. A hundred voices called from behind the door, but I knew which one was for me. "Come in, come in, come in! I've been expecting you!"

I turned the doorknob. Inside, the air was suffocating. It smelled of moth wings and of hemolymph. I pushed my way past the piles of dirty laundry, old magazines, and unopened letters. They spilled from their shelves. The only light was a small, dim lightbulb on the ceiling covered in moths. They flitted around, crawling on its sides and dancing around its flickering light.

I sat down in a chair in the corner next to a nasty black stain. The Long grinned. He wasn’t quite in the form of a man, nor quite as a monster. Something in-between, which he seemed to prefer.

"You came just as I predicted! Did I not say that? Yes, yes I did! Of course I did."

"Yes, you did," I replied, looking around the messy room. It looked like he'd been living here for a month but hadn't cleaned it at all since. I sighed.

"I can see it on your face! Your silly little face. Do you think this is my home? No! Of course not! It's some other fellow's home. I do hope he doesn't mind! Just kidding. He won't. Cuz he died!" The Long laughed, but there was no joy in it. It was more a wicked chuckle, of the sort that permitted no questioning.

"I don't particularly care."

"Ah! I knew it, I knew it! That's why I like you, you don't care! You only care about your quest for blood, vengence, and the hunt! So, tell me, tell me, why have you come? Why are you here?"

"I have a riddle. I was asked, 'What may be lost?'"

"Ah, you're here for the riddle, the riddle, the riddle! The riddle for the Stag Door? Or one of them, I suppose." I winced. I was hoping to keep that part from him, but it was a long shot, anyway.

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "It's easy, the answer is! The answer is—"

The buzzing rose to a shriek as all of his voices coalesced into a single, unearthly sound. It conjured vivid images of myself, discarding first my clothes, then my hair, and then my skin. The voices crescendoed until they suddenly died down, the Moth Long grinning at me.

I could only stare, completely lost for words. "That is—"

"The correct answer. So, I assume you have no more trouble with the riddle?"

"I don't think I could reproduce that. Not now, not ever," I replied. I hadn’t even begun to process whatever the hell that sound was.

"You don't need to repeat it, silly! Only say the words, and he will let you in, in, in. Say it to me! You can do it!"

"What? Obviously, I can't—"

"Try! Try it! You can't even try?"

"Alright! Fine! Fine, I will," I gave in, already exhausted from the conversation. I inhaled and let the buzzing in my brain take over. I opened my mouth and—

"Everything. My Edge. My sanity. My cause. My life. Everything I am, all that I know and remember and will forget, my everything, may be lost."

—I gasped. The buzzing left me, leaving my voice as mine alone once more.

The Long clapped appreciatively, bursting out into a full, ear-to-ear grin. "So that's your answer to the Ecdysiast's Parable, huh? It's too bad your mortal mouth can't form the true answer, but that will certainly do for Ghirbi. After all, he's not exactly the world's most enthusiastic guard."

"So now, the Stag Door will allow me to pass," I mused before pausing and turning back to the Moth Long. "But wait, why is Ghirbi guarding it in the first place?"

"It's his punishment! He broke the door, so now he has to stay there forever! Oh, the ignominy! The indignity of it all!" The Moth Long laughed, a crescendo of buzzing. It would've been loud enough to wake up the neighbors if he had any. Somehow, I doubted he did.

I left, satisfied with my progress.

---

The Stag Door.

I was back. This time, I bore a faint, welcoming buzzing from within. I approached Ghirbi, his mouth still broken and molten tears still running down his face.

"What may be lost?" he asked.

"Everything," I responded.

There was a long silence, so long I began to suspect I had made some grievous error. Then, a true outpouring of tears erupts from Ghirbi, so intense I could barely understand what he said. "Another one enters. Another one, making the same mistake I did, all those years ago. The Stag Door shall allow you to pass, as it had for me."

He wept, wracking sobs shaking his titanic head, as I approached the door unhindered. The doorway into the Mansus proper reveals itself, but before I can walk through, Ghirbi said one last thing.

"I pity you."

I walked through the door. This marked the beginning. I was now Know, a mortal who had breached the Stag Door, who had stepped onto the Mansus' path.

[lothli]

Making An Unmaking

I made a note on the most recent chapter of An Unmaking that I would discuss the writing process here, so I suppose I should actually fulfill that promise.

Firstly, the plot of An Unmaking is completed. There will be around 40 chapters from beginning to end, so we just passed the halfway point on Ao3 and Spacebattles.

The rough drafts on Reddit go to around 30 or so. They are rough drafts, lightly edited. I wouldn't recommend reading them unless you're desperate, but the conclusion is privated to prevent major spoilers. At the very least, I promise that An Unmaking will never be mired in perma-hiatus hell again.

I hope you all have enjoyed An Unmaking so far. Thank you very much for sticking with me for 21 chapters. If there's anything else you want to know, my asks are open.

[lothli]

Fight Scene Writing Practice

I heard her before I saw her, the rattling of chains, the awful scraping sound of metal against concrete. In this crumbling city, skyscrapers raised to the heavens like a phalanx of swords, crumbling away at the seams. The city had died and been reborn so many times that sometimes it felt as if it were one giant creature, an old, wily beast that simply put on a new face every fifty years. But this time, it was final. No one but me and her were here.

That was why I had led her here, after all. To a place that would die with us.

My battle dress, laced with runes and sigils, felt heavy as I walked the last few steps. I checked my weapons. A rapier, a silver core for channeling spells through. Three single-use wands holstered on the other hip. And finally, a good old-fashioned non-magical gun. Six bullets in the chamber, ready to go.

I was ready.

---

Her eyes were the first thing I saw. I don't know why that surprised me. She'd kept those same eyes, even if they'd been clouded by malicious intent and insanity. Her hair had grown long and ragged; her skin was a shade paler than it used to be. Her body, still lithe and athletic, was covered in cuts, scars, and bruises. Her weapon, that oversized, horrible sword, dragged behind her, each scrape making my heart pound faster in my ears.

She was still wearing her battle dress, tattered and ripped in places, but unmistakable. The black and purple of our guild, the sigils and runes stitched into the fabric, the golden armband on her right arm—all of it felt like she was mocking me, mocking what we'd had.

We had been sisters, once. Still were. Not by blood, but even now, I couldn't deny her that title. Even now, she was still my sister.

"You came," she said. Her voice was a low growl, a stark contrast from the soft, kind one I remembered. "You've been avoiding me."

"You've been trying to kill me," I said. "It seemed prudent."

"It's true!" she laughed, a coughing, hacking sound. "I love you, so I'll kill you. I'll kill you, because I love you."

"That's not how love works." There was no use in reasoning with her, not in her state, but I couldn't stop myself.

"I love you, sis. You're the dearest person to me." She smiled, a broken, crooked thing. I saw more than one of her teeth had been knocked out. "That's why I'll kill you first. I'll hold your body in my arms. I'll watch the light fade from your eyes. And I... will... mourn. Why... what...?"

Her face twisted in pain before going blank as if resetting itself. A second later, she looked up at me, eyes gleaming. "It doesn't matter. I'm supposed to kill the people I love. That's just how it works."

The hold the corruption had on her was complete. Even when she broke through, there was no helping her. It would drag her in, reset her, and force her to keep fighting. I knew that. I'd seen enough of my fellow mages die that way. It would be better to give her a quick death.

"I love you too." I said, drawing my rapier and raising my left hand. "So I'll do my best to kill you."

She grinned, her hunched body unfurling, her sword raised above her head. "We go together! Into the unknown, as we always have!"

---

I was playing a delicate game. A rapier was never a weapon for parrying, but against her massive sword, there was no choice. I needed to dodge and riposte, use my superior agility to my advantage. My battle dress would stop me from splattering against a wall, but it could never completely protect me from her strength.

I dodged a horizontal sweep, then ducked a second. She was fast, faster than she had any right to be with a two-hundred-pound slab of metal in her hands. The ground trembled beneath me, and I leaped to the side as a pillar of rock erupted from where I'd been standing. She'd always had more skill in earth magic than I, and the corruption only seemed to have amplified it.

But unlike me, her sword was not a focus. She needed to make somatic gestures, which meant she couldn't swing and cast simultaneously. That gave me the window to raise my rapier and unleash a bolt of lightning.

The thunderbolt struck her dead in the chest. The runes on her dress flashed, but she still flew backward, crashing against one of the concrete pillars. She left an impact, cracks spiderwebbing away, a plume of dust rising into the air.

I couldn't see her. I needed to be ready.

And that moment of refocusing saved me from the piece of rubble flung at me at barely subsonic speeds. I felt it graze my arm before I could dodge, the impact sending a shockwave that rattled the bones inside my body.

"Fuck, fuck," I cursed, feeling my left arm hang limply. Cursing, I snapped one of my three wands, a quick burst of healing energy flowing through me. My arm was still bruised and aching, but at least I could move it again.

"Gotcha," she laughed, rushing out of the rubble. She was moving faster than before, her sword dragging on the ground behind her, throwing dust and debris in a cloud that made it harder to track her.

I needed to put some distance between us. I fired off another lightning bolt, but she swung, the blade eating the blow for her. I cursed, aiming lower this time, striking the ground at her feet. It exploded, and this time, I saw her body flying, limbs flailing in the air.

Now!

I aimed, forcing my breathing to slow. I wasn't a gunslinger, but I'd learned a few tricks over the years. Time seemed to slow down around me as I watched her arc, and then I let loose. A shot, two, three, four. I watched as each bullet hit and saw the blue of her runes flash.

She hit the ground, a sickening crack echoing out. She rolled, coming to her knees, clutching at her stomach. Her sword clattered somewhere to the left, but I couldn't take my eyes off her. "Sis, you..."

I couldn't miss this chance. Before she could finish, my rapier was up, and a small mote of flame was flying out, a tiny red dot in the gloom.

With a soft fwoom, it struck her, engulfing her in a massive, roaring fireball.

Even at this distance, the heat was scorching. I held a hand up to my face, trying to shield my eyes.

That was my mistake.

She came flying out of the flame. She didn't have her sword, but that didn't make her any less dangerous. I barely had the time to block her fist with my blade.

A rapier wielder's greatest failure was to block instead of parry. The impact shook my arms, the weight of her blow traveling through the blade. And then it snapped.

I couldn't blame it. I'd made it do something beyond its means. But now I was disarmed, and she was on me.

I couldn't think, barely breathing as her hands wrapped around my neck. She was squeezing, and I was losing oxygen.

"I'll be careful," she whispered, holding me up. "You're my sister, so I have to protect you."

I couldn't even speak. My hands clawed at her arms, trying to free myself. I was running out of time. I only had seconds left, and I had to...

I snapped my second wand. Again, healing energy flowed into me. The effect wasn't nearly as pronounced; it didn't replenish my oxygen-starved lungs, and it didn't stop my heart from hammering in my ears.

But it healed the bruises around my neck, and the lack of pain was enough to give me the presence of mind to reach into my dress and draw the gun holstered there. I pressed the muzzle against her stomach and fired.

There were six shots in the barrel. I'd used four earlier, leaving two. Both of them entered her body, her battle dress finally failing. Blood sprayed against me, and she stumbled back.

I gasped, air flooding my lungs. They burned like they were about to burst, and I collapsed, coughing and hacking. I had to keep moving. I had to finish her. My hand dug for the ammo, but it was taking too long.

She rose, blood leaking from her wounds. I could see the madness in her eyes. She reached down, picked up her sword, and then advanced, slowly, painfully, step by step.

One in the barrel. It had to be enough. I raised the gun and fired.

It struck her in the forehead, right between her eyes. Blood blossomed out, and I could see the runes in her dress flare, desperately trying to keep her alive.

She collapsed, her body falling on top of me, the sword hitting the ground with a massive, resounding thud.

Her breath was shallow, blood bubbling at her lips. I couldn't move, I couldn't do anything. I could just hold her, clutching at her body.

"I'm... glad..." she whispered, blood splattering my cheek. "I loved you..."

She went limp in my arms. I clutched at her, trying to hold the sobs in. I'd done it. I'd killed my sister, my closest friend, and now I would die here, alone, with her and this crumbling city. Her corruption would seep into me, consume what little of my magic I had left.

But I'd brought something that wouldn't be corrupted. My gun, hanging limply at my side.

I loaded it once more, a single round sliding into the chamber.

"I loved you too."

And then, with a loud bang, only two corpses were left. No one would ever know what they had once been. Sisters. In arms and at heart. Until the very end.

[lothli]

[WP] Cold is what you feel as you make your way through the thick snow. Step by step, meters become miles. And slowly, right there in distance, grey. A harsh grey, contrasting the all around white of the world you’ve fallen into to. The grey of a gigantic, sheer incomprehensible large stone wall.

We ran. We ran from the destruction, the war, the pain. My wife, my two children, and I. We tried not to think about our old home, our old neighbors. We tried to focus on the road, not the rubble of the cities we passed, not the smoke on the horizon. Even as the nights grew colder, as snow began to fall, there was no turning back.

My son and daughter clutched their possessions tightly to their chest as we made our way through the forest. I carried the burden of our supplies, our dwindling cans of beans and bags of rice. My wife held the children's hands and led them down the path.

The grey line started thin, almost invisible on the horizon. None of us dared to mention it. It was hope, something that had been beaten out of us months ago. But as the line grew thicker, darker, it became impossible not to look at, not to mention.

"Is that..." I heard my son whisper to my daughter, but his voice trailed off. Neither he nor I wanted to say it out loud. We feared that saying it would somehow make the vision disappear.

The border.

The separation of in from out, from war and peace.

The border was a thick wall of stone, a natural barrier against the rest of the world. The trees thinned out the closer we came to the wall until there was nothing but dead, grey earth in front of us.

I stopped and put down the pack. My wife walked towards the wall with the children, and they all placed their palms against it. Foolishly, doggedly, we had persisted. We made it to the border.

But how were we to pass through? It was too high to climb, too smooth to scale. We were close, so close that it hurt to know that we could not enter. "There's a pass, right?" My son asked, his eyes pleading for reassurance. "They have to let us through, right?"

"Yeah," I responded automatically, not knowing if it was true. "Yeah. There has to be."

We walked along the wall, our hands running along the stone, searching for a gap or a door or a sign of life. My wife and I shared a grim look, one we had not let the children see before. They couldn't know that this was a possibility. They couldn't know that there might not be a pass. We had to keep them strong.

"So close yet so far, so sad yet so true."

The voice came from somewhere near us, a sing-songy voice that sounded like it was mocking us. I spun around, searching for the speaker.

"Who's there?" I called out.

"Oh, don't worry," the voice laughed. A feminine voice, I realized, a woman's laugh. "I wouldn't shoot you after all you've done to get here. That would be a waste, wouldn't it?"

She stepped out of the shadows of the wall and onto the path. She wore the armor of the border patrol, a suit of leather and steel, with a long spear strapped to her back and a rifle, like the ones we had been running from, in her hands.

My first instinct was to reach for my weapon, the pistol I had stolen off the corpse of one of the soldiers, but I hesitated. If this woman wanted to kill me, she could have done so from the shadows. If she wanted to kill me, I was powerless to stop it. The pistol, after all, only had one bullet.

She raised her helmet, and I stumbled back in shock. Her eyes were pitch-black and reflected no light. They were cold, emotionless, inhuman.

"What..." My wife started to ask. "Are you..."

"I'm no border patrol," she chuckled. "I'm just borrowing the look. It feels appropriate, doesn't it, in this situation?"

None of us responded. The children, who had been so eager to get to the border, were now hiding behind their mother. I, on the other hand, took a step forward, readying myself for the inevitable. "Who... what are you?"

"That's a big question," she said thoughtfully, tapping her finger on her chin. "In a world of little lies and bigger truths, how do you define who you are? What makes us ourselves?"

I didn't respond. My hand slipped towards the holster on my belt.

"I am... a yearner." She said eventually, grinning widely. "For what, that is for me to know and you to find out."

I hesitated, my hand resting on the pistol's handle. "Are you going to let us through?"

"That is a more pertinent question." She smiled, her grin stretched impossibly far across her face. "What are you willing to do in exchange?"

I had nothing to give her. But... she had not asked for something. No. She had asked me to do something.

"I won't hurt my family. Anything else," I promised, not knowing what that meant, "anything else, and I will do it."

I had already killed my fellow man to protect my family from the soldiers. I had no qualms about doing so again. There were no laws, no morals, no gods. Just me, the monster in front of me, and the border.

"Such grit!" The light way she clapped her hands reminded me of the rich, the ones who had left the war-torn land before it had even begun. "Such determination. How noble."

Her grin unwavering, she hefted her rifle and aimed its sights straight at my head. In that icy cold silence, where I could hear my heart beat in time with the blood pumping in my head, I could see my wife clutch our children close. My life flashed before my eyes as I stared into hers through the sight, those deep pools of tar-like nothingness.

"Draw," she whispered. "Or die."

My hand was a blur. I didn't hesitate. I drew the pistol from its holster, raised it, pulled the trigger, and fired. I knew the odds were against me, yet I had to try if only to make her flinch.

Two gunshots rang out. Hers was false; a burst of confetti, an unnatural spray of colors in this world of white and grey, flew from her barrel and fluttered to the ground. My bullet, on the other hand, was very much real. It flew from my pistol and struck her in the forehead. I watched as it flattened against her skull, crumpled and useless, before falling to the ground.

"Nice," she growled, a primal, guttural noise that echoed in my ears. "That was nice."

I watched, still shocked to the core, as she tossed aside the rifle, as she unslung the spear from her back, as her outfit transformed into a pitch-black evening gown. It was form-fitting, elegant, and beautiful, and I would have called her gorgeous if I had not been staring at her in fear.

"You did it," she said, her voice almost a purr. "You did it, and you won."

"I... won?" I echoed, my voice cracking, my throat parched. "Won what?"

She pointed towards the stone wall, where there was an archway, almost startling in its size and simplicity. I knew, without a doubt, that it had not been there a second ago, yet it persisted, a new reality that insisted.

"This was a game," she said simply, her black eyes twinkling. "You played, and you won."

"A game," I repeated. "What was at stake?"

She laughed again, a sound I hoped to never hear again. "That is for me to know, and for you to never find out."

She was gone, her body fading like the snow that had been falling upon us. The rifle remained, as did the burst of color that had flown from the barrel, but the woman had faded away, leaving nothing but a faint breeze and a lingering odor of iron.

My wife and my two children stared at me in awe and shock.

"Dad..." my son said slowly, the snow crunching under his feet as he stepped forward. "Dad, what was that?"

I didn't answer. I couldn't answer.

My daughter, who had been silent throughout the whole ordeal, took my hand and led me through the archway. I was still numb, still awestruck, still in shock.

And then I was in the sunlight, with green grass underneath my feet and blue sky above my head. I was in paradise. We all were. And the woman...

I never saw her again. But I felt her every so often. I felt her presence in the shadows of my house, in the corners of my eyes. She was watching us, watching the world, watching the people. I felt her yearn for the things that only she could see.

[lothli]

Writing Prompts

I've been answering a few writing prompts on Reddit to get myself back into the habit of writing consistently. A few have already been uploaded and are on my masterlist.

If anyone here on Tumblr wants me to respond to something, if you put a writing prompt in my asks or mention me in one, I'll at least take a peek. No guarantee on whether or not I'll write something, but more inspiration is always helpful.

[lothli]

About Me and Blogs and Stuff

I've been looking at other Tumblr blogs, and it seems that people like to put their thoughts out there alongside their writing. So maybe I'll do that too.

I suppose I didn't get around to introducing myself. I've got a couple of names, but I go by Lothli around here. I write words as a hobby.

I'm not exactly an experienced Tumblr user. I decided to start posting here because other websites like Ao3 seem to be primarily focused on fandom content, and I wanted to be able to have somewhere where I could post more original works not based on established media.

If anyone wants to let me know of things I can improve for your reading experience here on Tumblr, let me know. I've done my due diligence in looking around other writing blogs, so hopefully, my own master list isn't confusing.

[lothli]

Intermission: Reliquit Memoriam

My feet led me back to a house I wished I could forget. A house, an old home, painted white inside and out. Where my guardian adopted me, used me for his own sinister aims. When there was still an innocent pinkness to my flesh, before I knew of cults, before I knew of Hours. I stared up at the house, at the blank white walls.

He was long gone. I had met him in the Mansus, with his body of pure light, having shed his physical form and become a Long. A Lantern Long, yearning for the Glory, under the harsh gaze of the Watchman.

My hatred for him had long since burned out, replaced by something cold and bitter. I would end him like the rest. He would get no special treatment, no brilliant end.

The house was empty, his things all gone. I remembered, vaguely, where he had stored his notebooks. They had been what I stole back when I fled from this place. I still had them with me. They contained his knowledge and studies on cults; knowledge he had gathered and kept for his own nefarious ends. I opened the cabinet. There was nothing there but dust and the faintest whiff of mold.

The rest of my search was similarly uneventful. I found myself before the mirror in the front hall, where I met the Maid-in-the-Mirror for the first time. Oh, the terror, the shock. I smiled bitterly. Why not summon one again? For old-time's sake?

The cold air settles in the room. I breathe, and my knife, the knife I keep on my thigh, slices. An opening of my insides to the world, to open a wound between the Wake and the Mansus. I needed no other catalyst. I open my eyes, and in the mirror, a Maid stares back. A reflection of myself, yet again. It steps out into the world and stares.

"You have called me again, mortal? This is most interesting," it mused, a small, imperceptible smile on its face. I did not bother to respond, laying out my orders instead.

"Tell me. What would a Lantern worshipper need with a Maid-in-the-Mirror?" I posited. The Maid raised an eyebrow, not expecting such a question. It seemed to ponder for a moment.

"To ascend into the service of the Door In the Eye as one of his Names, we drag unfortunate souls up the Sharp Stair so we can witness the light of the Glory," it explained, staring back at me. "I witnessed this myself, not too long ago. Perhaps not even a decade before."

Namehood. It meant that still, my first adversary was far beyond my reach. It was a fool's errand to pursue him, for now. But I could be patient. I could bide my time.

"I see. I have had enough of you. Begone." I dismissed the Maid-in-the-Mirror.

"Not going to stab me this time?" it laughed, that unsettling staccato chime of broken glass as it faded away, leaving a freezing cloud of frost. The house, so warm and humid before, now had an air of Winter. I took my leave. There was no reason to remain here any longer.

[lothli]

VII: Cicatrices Reliquimus

I trudged back home, my body operating more on instinct than with any conscious thought. My heart ached and burned, the blood in my veins seemed to move just a bit slower than before. I sat in my chair, my hands still coated in gore, my head empty. The knife, my knife, sat, cold and keen and pristine, radiating its awful aura, buried deep within my table.

The blood had stopped flowing long ago, coagulating a deep red against my skin. It was not mine. None of it was mine. I stared at it for what seemed like an eternity, the numbness within me only deepening.

The shower was scalding, but I felt nothing. My flesh turned red and raw, and I stared. The warmth should have reminded me of something, yet I remained cold, distant. Unfeeling. My tears fell silently, and my hair and skin were clean. Yet the blood remained, staining not my body, but my soul.

The blade was still there when I emerged. It still had that sharp, disquieting smell, neither blood nor ozone. Something wrathful, something that cursed all of existence.

I passed it by, walking out to my kitchen, only to be stopped by a voice. A familiar voice, if it could even be called that, growling in my ear. It called for division, for anger. It had shown me visions of a dissevered sun and told me that it would bring the same to me, to this city. To the cults. And I would be its fangs, to be wielded against all of existence. It whispered its name: The Wolf Divided.

I turned on my heel. "Why? Why have you chosen me?"

The Wolf did not answer, at least not with words. But it flooded me with its anguish, only satiated with the destruction of the very things it despised most: the Hours and all of their kin, and last, and above all else, itself. It wished to end it all so, finally, it could end its own wretched existence. It saw its hatred within me, my yearning for revenge, my loathing of the cults. It wished for me to be strong. Strong enough to end the Hours and then itself.

The blade called, its edge sharper than I ever thought possible, its keen song the most beautiful music to my ears. It called me. And so, I must answer.

My fate was sealed. The Wolf would not let me go. I would be its fangs. Its instrument, to end its existence. But that did not mean I would not struggle.

"You do not own me. I will not let you take over my body, my soul." My voice shook, my fists clenched tight.

The Wolf did not reply, its anger palpable in the air. I stood, unmoving. I hated to admit it, but our aims aligned. If I complied, I would have the power to end the cults and perhaps even the Hours they worshipped. But at what cost? How many more innocents would I bleed? I would be no better than the very people I despised, an indiscriminate killer under the service of an Hour.

"No," I spat. I would not submit to it. I would carve my own path without the help of the Wolf.

It growled in response, spitting its vile hatred. But within that hatred, I felt a smug certainty. Almost as if it was sure I would return to it. It could wait.

I sat back down in the chair, my knife, its knife, still buried within the table. I picked it up, the metal still as cold as death, the stench of sharpness still in the air. It was no ordinary knife anymore, that was for certain. Steeped in Winter, Edge, and the blood of a Long, it had been remade anew. Now, it was the fang of a wolf. And I would have to carry it, for I had no other weapon. No other choice.

I left it there, staring at it. It shuddered, its anger like a tangible force, but it would wait. It was my tool, and it would be wielded by my will alone. The Wolf was wrong to think that I would ever bend to its whims.

I would use it as a weapon against the cults. Nothing more.

---

The Children were dead. They were gone, and the city had no more to fear from them. But the others were still active, and their cultists walked the streets, scrambling to fill the power vacuum.

I bought myself a second knife, one untouched by Winter, Edge, or blood. Its steel was dull, and its Edge was lacking, but I made do. I was more than enough to make up for my weapon's deficiencies. The Wolf's Fang, as I began to call it, was kept strapped to my leg, where it had always resided. But it would not see any more action. I needed none of the Wolf's vitriolic blessings. Not if I could avoid it.

And so I tracked the cults down. Their members, their cultists, I would cut them down. Even with my dulled knife, it was far too easy. When I wasn't looking, I had become far, far stronger than I'd realized.

They were too weak for me, too slow, and too few to do anything about me. Scrabbling vermin, fleeing before their inescapable end. And with each kill, each life snuffed, I felt the Wolf's approval, its nihilistic delight in death and pain, its desire for an ending to everything it loathed. And so I continued to cut. But each flash of my blade would not be done in the Wolf's name, nor its hate. It would be my hate, my duty, and mine alone.

---

The cultists were dead; their cults were excised. None amongst them had a Long, so they fell with nothing of note. I thought of the Moth Long, who used to dwell in this city, but I could not find him, no matter where I looked. Perhaps he fled upon seeing my power, or perhaps his capriciousness had led him away through no fault of my own. But the cultists were dead, and their plots unraveled.

I was at a loss for what to do next. I had lived for my revenge against the cults, against the people who took everything from me. But the cults had fallen. They were gone, their remnants shattered, and their leaders slaughtered. All that remained was... me.

The Wolf Divided still called. It growled, reminding me that my city was only one of many. It showed me other cults in other cities, snippets of their condemnable actions and their prayers to their Hours.

The Wolf asked me if my hatred was truly satiated.

I knew the answer was 'no', but I still resisted. This was what it wanted, to wield me against all it despised.

But what was left for me if I rejected the Wolf? To grow complacent within my city, satisfied with my meager victory? The other cults remained, far away in their own festering cloisters, and they would need to be cleansed as well. The Divided One's goals and mine were aligned, no matter how much I would wish otherwise. But I was still not the Wolf, and I would never be the Wolf. Never again would my hatred, the edge of my blade, be turned against the innocent. Never again.

I owned few possessions. The clothes on my back, a worn notebook of occult knowledge scavenged from the cults I demolished, and my knives. And now, I was ready to leave. The cults within my city were destroyed. They would not recover for many years. My presence was needed no longer.

A more sentimental person might have lingered, dwelling on some past memory or some fond remembrance. But I had no need for such things as I left without turning back.

[lothli]

VI. Divisione Merentium et Innocentium

I spent my time gathering intelligence. There was no sense in blindly attacking the cult. I had grown stronger but not nearly strong enough. They had their Long, and she had been far too strong for me to deal with. So, I spent my time waiting.

But nothing lasted forever. Eventually, the reckoning would come. And today was that day.

A simple phone call from an unknown number, and then my hunt was afoot. A man had gone missing, taken by the cult. My heart had moved me to act, blinded to reason or logic. It was a rash decision, and it would land me in such trouble. But I could not bring myself to regret it.

The man, the victim, the innocent. The Children took him from the city. It would not be a far journey. I followed the signs, the disquieting quiet, the unnatural frost. And I found them camped at a lonely warehouse near the outskirts of town. It would be here that the final blow would strike. Against them or against me.

They were all gathered here. The Children, the Dead. But most of all, the Long. They were waiting for me. They were expecting me. They were prepared, and I was alone. It was almost laughably unfair.

I had never planned for something like this, but there was no alternative. There had only ever been one choice.

The Long spoke to me, whispering in my mind. She would never break the sanctified silence herself.

Ah, I was wondering if you would come.

Her eyes were dead. There was nothing behind them.

I had not thought you to be such a fool, but here you are, alone. All your strength will have been squandered. But enough. I will give you a beautiful ending.

I gripped my knife tighter.

"I have come to cut the head off of the snake. That is all," I declared, staring her in the eye. I had to be careful, cautious. There was no need to waste myself on a futile attack. I had to bide my time. Wait for an opening.

I had a way in, in my jacket pocket. A rounded bullet that sang for the hunt. But not yet. I would only have one chance at this, one shot. One opportunity. But then, a strange scent filled the air. Something sharp that smelt neither of blood nor ozone.

I stared into the eyes of the Long. I stared, and I felt something within me break. A rage filled me. I was angry, furious. I was livid. It burned, keening and howling. It was unnatural, but I did not care. My mind raced, my pulse pounded, and the sound of blood rushed in my ears. Before me flashed images of a splendorous sun torn asunder, rendered to pieces. An indescribable hatred for everything that had existed, has existed, and would have existed, born from the division of the sun.

"This feeling... no..." The Long staggered back. Something bright and new flickered onto her face. "You would call upon him?"

"Who?" My voice was thick and raspy.

"You would bring yourself to his attention?" she hissed. "You are mad."

My head pounded. I couldn't think straight, I couldn't breathe, I could barely see. But I knew what had to be done. I would divide her. Cut her into nine pieces, hunt her like the prey she was.

The knife in my hands shivered, its hilt cold against my skin. I felt as if someone was moving for me. I had no choice but to listen and to follow.

I howled, a guttural, hateful sound, shattering the silence. The Children, the Dead, they all stared. My body took out the bullet, and I crushed it with unnatural strength, infusing myself with its power. The Long watched, a bright new expression on her face. Fear.

And I ran, sprinting with inhuman strength. I charged forward, faster and faster. I hated her, I loathed her. I wanted her dead, returned to dust. I hated her for everything she stood for, for everything she was, and for her very existence. I would hunt her, and I would divide her. Unmake her. I was upon her in an instant.

And then I cut, carving the flesh, letting the blood fall to the floor.

She used to be one, but now she was nine. Divided, ended at the cusp of her power. Her eyes were wide open, and her mouth finally moved.

"My appointed end... it is… today...?"

My knife made one more plunge deep into her throat, silencing the last of her cries. But her end could not satiate the endless, all-consuming hate. I howled again, the blade gleaming as it spun and slashed and struck.

The Children fled. The Long met her end. But they were still alive; they still clung to existence, and that was something I could not permit. I was the Wolf, and they were my prey.

The bloodlust did not fade.

The Risen attacked. A swarm, an infestation. Their pale faces, their cold eyes, their gaping maws. They fell like dominos. They were nothing before my all-consuming rage. I slashed and hacked and carved. And soon, they were gone. Every living and not-quite-living being. Each and every...

last...

one...

I remembered why I came here. The man, the victim. But no matter how hard I searched, I could not find him.

I had left no one alive.

I collapsed to my knees. I screamed, and it was not the howl of a beast but of a broken woman. Tears filled my eyes. The rage, the hate, the bloodlust were gone. In their wake, only grief, guilt, and horror remained. I had failed. I had become just another monster.

[lothli]

V: Ancilla in Speculo

I found myself in front of the Ascent of Knives, the Sharp Stair. A stairway of blades that wound up, and up, and up into the blackness. A place to hone my Edge. I walked, and I bled. I bled, suffered, and swore bitter oaths against the cults of the city. But I was ascending, and I did not falter. I would not fall. I could not fall.

Then, I saw it—no, them. Maids-In-the-Mirror. Suddenly, my childhood nightmares seemed very, very real. I remembered the same perfect yet ghastly visage, now repeated a hundred times over. I could feel it crawling all over my body. I shuddered, but I did not falter. The Maids had not harmed me then. And I doubt they could do so now, now that I was Know.

I climbed and I climbed until I could climb no more. My body, exsanguinated. I collapsed, soon to return to the waking world.

---

I woke up, suffused in Edge. Every shape and shadow was outlined in raw, keen anger. My hands shook as I drank a cup of cold water.

It would fade soon, as it always did. An influence such as this never lasted long. But I could use this for something. Something to use on the Children.

My blade still seemed to lean toward Winter. Using it with a combination of the influence of Edge and a simple wound inflicted on myself… I could summon something. A being of Winter. And I knew the one I wanted. The one from my childhood, the one who watched me climb the Ascent of Knives.

A Maid-in-the-Mirror, an ephemeral reflection of something terrible, of something wrong. The strongest of the Dead, one who had mastered the Sharp Stair and entered the service of the Sun-In-Rags. They would be a powerful servant to command, far stronger than the pitiful Risen made by the Children of Silence.

And so I stood alone in a dark, empty apartment, a room I had rented out just for this purpose. I hold my knife, and I cut myself, the keen pain as sharp as its blade. Blood flowed, but instead of staunching the flow, I let it pour.

The blood froze, the cold air thick with mist. In the fog, a perfect image of me stands. A ghostly doppelganger. Strange, but no matter.

My lips curled in satisfaction. I had done it. Now, all that was left to do was— The Maid smiled, its lips parting, revealing a mouth filled with nothing but jagged, bloody teeth. Bind it. Bind it! Before it broke free!

I concentrated on the shape of its being, its nature as a creature of Winter and the dead, and bound it. My blood dripped, the wound freezing shut, and the Maid froze as well. The Maid had been bound to me for a time.

The Maid was now in my control, to be a tool and weapon of mine. It did not speak, did not question, but simply looked on in silent judgment. It had taken my form—an unexpected development. This was not mentioned in my notes. It stood, a mirror-perfect reflection of me, watching. Waiting.

Then, it spoke, its voice bright and sharp as fresh-cut gems. "You are so very much like us, mortal. If you were Dead, it would be so easy for you to climb the Stair. Become one of us."

I said nothing, my lips pressed in a thin, tense line.

"Do you wish to climb it again, mortal? You could. So easily," the Maid whispered. "I could make you into one of the Dead. You already know the Way, after all."

"Cease this!" I snapped, the Maid flinching back. It went quiet and watched. I took a deep breath, calming myself.

"…Why do you bear my visage?"

The Maid laughed, the sound a staccato chime like breaking glass. "I said you were like us, and it is true. Your spirit is so bitter and cold. Why, I wouldn't devour you even if you hadn't bound me."

It took me a moment to process that. I had not expected such… openness from the Maid-In-The-Mirror. They were supposed to be cold, unfeeling, inhuman.

"Your eyes are the same as ours. Your gaze, your hatred, is the same as our own. I like you."

I raised a single eyebrow, staring at my doppelganger. I could almost swear that an imperceptible smile was on its lips, but that was ridiculous.

"You are simply a weapon. You were not made to feel."

"We weren't. We were meant to be distant, we were meant to be servants. Which makes this conversation all the more special," it replied, that faint smile still on its face. Its openness was almost… human. It was a far cry from the distant and ghastly ghoul I spotted in my childhood home. And that scared me far more than some simple, mindless monster could.

The Maid stepped forward, curtsying with its ice-cold dress. "How may I aid you?"

"You're an unusually pleasant Dead. What's wrong with you?"

The Maid's smile is cold and cruel. It was almost mocking, in a good-natured sort of way. "I told you, no? Your soul is like our own. Bitter. Cold. Filled with Winter and Edge. Your presence alone was almost enough to summon one of us. You are practically already Dead."

The Maid was… unnerving, to say the least. Its manner was calm, composed, and even somewhat pleasant. But it was a monster. It was a cold, cruel, unfeeling creature. And it was made all the worse by the fact that it shared my face. I hardened myself: I would use this creature as a weapon, and then cast it aside. I would look upon it no longer than I had to.

"Tell me: could you slay a Long? A Long of Winter?"

The Maid-In-The-Mirror considered that. "No. I am of the Dead, commanded by Winter. I could never raise my blade against one so tilted toward Winter."

"That's too bad," I muttered. "What use are you, then? If you cannot serve as my weapon against her?"

"You have Edge, and Winter, and a blade. So do I," it whispered. "I can hone you. I can cut away what is not useful and let the rest sharpen."

"…what?"

"I will not try anything that reneges on our bond, mortal."

"I don't trust that. Not one bit. You will not touch me, Maid-In-The-Mirror." I did not trust the Dead or any of its kind. Especially not one like this, with its uncharacteristic kindness. Nothing good could come from it.

The Maid glanced at me, its eyes like mirrors. There was no warmth to be found. "So be it."

But the Maid's eyes were not the only thing that shone in the light. A blade flashed. The Maid was quick, but I was quicker. I was Edge and Winter and rage. And I did not need the Maid.

My knife plunged deep into its heart, its Edge sharp and true. The Maid froze solid in an instant. It grinned as it dissolved, a reflection shattering. It breathed its last, leaving its final words like a dusting of frost in the air.

"I look forward to when you, too, join us. You would make an excellent Maid." And then, it was gone.

I stood alone in an empty, freezing apartment, a sharp scent of neither blood nor ozone in the air. I had been successful in my endeavor. But it was worthless in the end. I had no need for it, for it had nothing I desired.