#the bat wings would be like the covers on the dragon fly wings

[snadom]

Dragon Injury Reference

[More like speculation than ‘reference,’ but i did research for this. I always recommend doing your own research, too]

WINGS [Specifically webbed/bat wings] - Wings are FULL of blood vessels, and will probably bleed a surprising amount if cut or punctured. These sorts of injuries heal can without much treatment, even if a large amount of the wing membrane is missing - Fractures of the wing should be splinted, and put into a wing wrap/sling - A dragon missing a wing wouldn’t be able to fly again, except with an extremely advanced prosthetic. Lots of small movements. Also having to get used to the weight difference -An aesthetic prosthetic could still be used to combat lopsided-ness, but would be bigger and more unwieldy than other sorts of prosthetics

MISSING LIMBS - A three-legged dragon would be able to walk and run normally, once they get used to the shifted centre of mass and balancing on only three legs - Arthritis IS more common because of the extra pressure on the remaining joints. Would be worse for heavier dragons - Wings could probably be used to balance/support body, if they’re large enough to touch the ground - Missing just the tip of the tail probably wouldn’t affect much, but larger portions WOULD as that’s a lot of body mass to suddenly lose - Tails also help with balance when running and steering when flying, so a dragon might trouble getting used to the difference

HORNS - Horns are have a core of bone covered with a sheath of keratin, and never shed. They are difference from antlers, which are pure bone and do shed. - The tip of a horn is solid keratin, and will not bleed. Could be sanded or filed down for aesthetic purposes, but otherwise not a big concern - Closer to the base WILL bleed, and should be treated accordingly. - Horns will regrow over several months or a year, but closer to the base they may not regrow at all. Deformation upon regrowing is also common

MISC - Some reptiles can get Metabolic Bone Disease [MBD] from lack of sunlight/uvb.  This causes the bones to weaken, which increases the likelihood of fractures and can make the legs/tail/spine crooked, among other things. In WoF specifically, I head-canon Rainwings, Leafwings, and Sandwings are susceptible to this. - Scales over a healed injury may be smaller and irregular. Also takes a little bit for the scales to grow back in the first place - running out of juice for this but. something something infection of whatever organ produces fire/breath weapon. Think that’d be neat.

[anemos-orca]

Cat Boy Xiao? How About Dragon Boy Xiao!

cw: just fluff, no NSFW :DDD, established relationship (Xiao x Reader), gender neutral reader

summary: DragonBoy!Xiao things :3 Xiao has two little horns, two tiny dragon wings, a long, flowing tail with a crest of fur running from base to tip, clawed hands, slitted pupils, a forked tongue, long fur covered ears on the sides of his head (i think its cuter than them being on top of his head >:3), and heightened senses.

a/n: ahh i have been thinking of xiao as a dragon boy lately so i decided to write some headcanons! I havent seen a dragon boy xiao so i figured itd be neat >:3

series tag: #《》Dragonboy!Xiao

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DragonBoy!Xiao whos wings would flinch at the slightest touch- you knew they were incredibly sensitive, but sometimes you couldnt help yourself! The way they stretched and fluttered in the morning was too cute to resist, even if he bat your hand away like a cat every single time. They were just so small and endearing, how could you not want to touch them? He couldnt fly with them, not in his human form at least- they were too small. If he could choose to not have wings in his humam form, he would do away with them in an instant.

DragonBoy!Xiao whos actual dragon form towered over you- it was bigger than any other animal you had ever seen, even bigger than the Lone Suanni of the Vale. You hated the way he would swoop you up like a little toy and bury you under his wings like a mother bird, even if it was so warm and cozy when he snuggled you up against his fluff. Despite being so huge, he was incredibly gentle with you, even when handling you with his scarily sharp talons.

DragonBoy!Xiao who wraps his tail around you every single time youre close enough. He claims its instinctual and he cant control it, or that his tial has a mind of its own and he doesnt notice, but you know full well hes just trying to save face. He does it on purpose, wanting to hold you close to him and feel your body heat next to his. Clearly, hand-holding wasnt enough.

DragonBoy!Xiao who gets flustered when you play with his horns- theyre supposed to be scary, not intruiging! He would blush intensely and vehemently avoid eye contact so you wouldnt notice how his once slitted pupils were now blown out as he struggled to hold back his purring. Petting them was like petting his ears- speaking of which, they were incredibly soft and expressive. They flicked and rotated and twitched with every little sound and touch, flattening back when he felt agitated and pinning forwards when he felt excited. They were the one thing he didnt ever deny pets for. He always melted right into your touch the moment you rubbed his ears, closing his eyes and unleashing a waterfall of purring.

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a/n: ive got to draw dragon boy xiao omg expect to see some art of him soon :3

[malikselfindulgence]

Could I request a romantic LMK fic/ficlet with RedSon and a female reader asking them for help foguring out demonic self care? Reader is kind of in the same boat as MK where they absolutely just thought they were human and now they’re discovering they’re not and they’re kind of struggling to get used to their new body, in this case grooming wise. I was thinking a bat demon reader struggling to brush their teeth without breaking the toothbrush with their fangs or getting the fur between their new wings brushed because it’s getting matted lol (it’s already hard to get your back it’s super hard when there’s two things in the way). It can be a bit suggestive but it doesn’t have to be.

RED SON X BAT DEMON!READER

A/N: AGHH thank you for the request!!! Literally had sm fun writing this it's such a cool idea >w<!! Also the way you worded the request makes it sound like YOU'RE a bat demon 🤨🤨 lol

Content: negative self-talk from reader at the start, kind of hurt/comfort, ending is suggestive!

Fic under the cut!

You know- you used to think demons were cool. You thought the monkey king's tail was cute, you thought about how convenient it probably was to have those claw-like feet, you thought DBK's horns looked cool [though you'd never say that to his face] and you still think Red Son's bull form is very pretty, fur and hooves and all.

Now, though? Not so much.

You weren't handling the change as well as you thought you would- being struck by the fact that you're not human, not even mortal, wasn't easy on anyone, but you didn't think you'd struggle with your new physical form this much.

While, yes, you looked cooler, you suppose- every new feature came with about a million more hurdles. You thought flying would be pretty neat? Wrong, you can barely stay balanced for over 10 seconds, and you got too air-sick to make use of it's travel anyways. You thought the new big ears were sick? How much do you like them out in public, when there's too many sounds attacking you from every angle, too loud and too overwhelming? And your sense of sight keeps deteriorating- you think you might need glasses now.

You hadn't left the house in a while- a long while, actually. Everything was just too much, and frankly, you were embarrassed being seen stumbling like an idiot in your new form, hunching into yourself at every noise and bright light. You hadn't been checking your phone either- you knew they had questions, you knew they were checking up on you, and it only made you feel more pathetic.

You were at home now, cursing your ancestors and stupid demon blood and stupid fucking bats, trying to wrangle your arm in position to brush out the fur on your back, but your stupid wings kept getting in the way, and you could barely even see in the stupid mirror, and-

You're not sure when you started crying, but you looked down to find teardrops landing on your sink. God, this was ridiculous. This was basic self-care, shouldn't you just figure it out? Demon instincts or whatever? You'd considered asking Red Son for help, and even though you know it's just your insecurities eating away at you, you can't help but be scared that he'd laugh at you-

'CRASH'

You pause, looking through your open bathroom- you think that was your front door. You think someone just busted open your front door. You think someone's currently in your house- you rush to grab a pair of sciccors from your cabinet, ears straining to pick up on the noise outside.

You hear footsteps, some angry mumbling, and your shackles slowly go down- was that...?

"I've called you thirty seven times! Thirty seven! Not that I got worried, but you're not responding to the dragon horse girl either, and I swear on the jade emperor's life if you don't-"

His rant comes to an abrupt stop once he sees you, cheeks still red with tear streaks, hair flat against your head, wings bent awkwardly to cover your sides from view. You smile nervously in an attempt to ease the tension, but it comes out strained.

"R-Red Son! Funny, ah, seeing you here- you could've rang the doorbell, or something-"

He scoffs at your words, walking closer- your wings wrap tighter around you, trying to shield yourself off- you don't want him seeing you like this.

"With how you've been rudely ignoring just about everyone, I wasn't even sure if you were alive, let alone willing to open the door." He hisses out, and although he tries to come off as mean, you can tell he felt on edge, his concern showing in the way his voice cracks at his words, his eyes boring through you. He's waiting for an explanation, but you're not sure you can give one.

"I'm sorry, it's just been- I didn't mean to ignore you as long as I did, really-" you stumble over your words, embarassed and guilty and scared, scared of how he'll react and what he'll say.

His eyes squint at you, his face softening as he takes you in- you look a mess, and as his gaze falls to the broken tooth-brush and tweezers by your sink, the way your fur is dull and matted down, he starts realising that you'd been struggling, and just what you'd been struggling with.

He sighs, slowly stepping closer, his eyes down-cast and worried. He settled his palm over your jaw, thumbing at your cheek to wipe away a tear. "You could've asked me for help, you know." He frowns, gesturing to your state, "There's....specific tools for this kind of thing. You can't just use your usual mortal appliances, they're too frail, and frankly repulsive. They're more likely to make it worse than anything."

You nod to acknowledge his words- you can't even pretend he was being dramatic and snobbish this time, he was right, your toothbrush being enough proof. You feel your frustration settle down into something quiter the longer he stays next to you.

Red Son suddenly pulls away, fire enveloping his form for a brief few seconds- you stand there, confused and wide eyed, as he returns with some form of bag in hand. You're not sure how he managed to get that so fast.

"Well then, up you go." He sets the bag down and shoos you towards the edge of the tub, urging you to sit down. You do so without hesitation, though you raise your brow at him and hum, a little dazed, "Huh?"

"I'll be grooming your fur, of course. As well as trimming your nails- they don't exactly look comfortable." He takes out a fancy looking hairbrush, better-looking tweezers than yours, as well as a few other things you don't recognise. You're still reeling from the fact that he's here, not making fun of you, and now he wants to take care of you?

"Wait," He pauses his movements to look up at you, hair crackling in the air above him, "You...you don't have to do this for me."

You're about to reassure him that you can take care of yourself [despite the fact that you rather evidently need his help] when his finger settles on your lips, shushing you entirely.

"I'm well aware I don't have to do anything, and I'm sure you're aware I wouldn't be caught dead doing something I didn't want to do."

He leans in to peck your forehead, a quiet show of affection to reassure you.

"Now stop with that self-deprecating talk and let me help you, alright?" You nod silently, your ears twitching lightly, and his lips tilt upward just the slightest bit.

Red Son instructs you to turn around so he can start with your wings and back- he handles them with care, especially around the tendons and legions where skin meets bone, the areas sensitive to his touch. His palms and fingerpads are rough, no doubt from all the handi-work he does, and they scratch pleasantly against your skin.

He washes out the areas you couldn't reach no matter how you positioned yourself with a wet rag and water from your tub, making sure they're clean before starting to brush your fur, "hold your left wing for me?"

You find yourself relaxing as time goes on, the rhythmic brushing and untangling soothing your nerves. You can hear Red Son's hair sizzle, his content breathing, the small murmurs he lets out every once in a while, and rather than overwhelm you it comforts you- you feel enveloped in his warmth.

"My mother used to do fur treatment baths for me, when I was little." Red Son starts quietly, his fingers prodding at certain spots on your wings, perhaps checking to see if something's out of place, or perhaps he's just fidgeting.

"I couldn't control my powers, back then, so my fur was always left charred and dry. It was a sensory nightmare for me, honestly. She hated trimming my hooves, though." He laughs a little, lost in a memory, "always said it was beneath her, but the servants could never quite get it right, so she had to until I was old enough to do it myself."

"Do you paint your hooves? Like, with nail-polish?" You wonder aloud, and you feel him smack the back of your head playfully. "Don't ask such ridiculous things."

"You're avoiding the question."

".....well, yes, o-on occasion."

You giggle at his reply- you'd already painted his nails over the course of your sleep-overs, and you were going to abuse the hell out of this new information.

"Speaking of hooves, could you turn around? I'll start trimming your claws, now."

You do as instructed, watching him pick up the tweezers. You hold your hands out on your thighs for him, watch as he eyes them with a thoughtful look. He picks up one of your hands, pressing it against his lips gently before settling it down again. You try to push down the flush rising up your face.

He rubs his thumb over your fingers, separating them so he can work better, the 'snip-snip' echoing through your ears, "I'll leave these behind for you, since sciccors aren't normally strong enough. You have to be careful not to go past this white line here, though, otherwise applying pressure to your claws will be painful"

You nod, a little speechless. It was easier when your back was facing him, but now you can see his face- the focused look in his eye, his pretty lips pursing in concentration, and you feel your chest warm at just how considerate and loving he's being. God, you should've just picked up the phone and called him so much sooner and saved yourself the trouble.

"Hey, Red?" You mumble with a smile, and he hums to show he's listening. "Thank you, for all of this. I love you."

He freezes, refusing to meet your eyes- you try to hold back a snicker, but you can't help yourself. You'd been dating for ages, and yet everytime you said that he got all flustered and shy like a schoolgirl. He grumbles, cheeks tinted pink, "Yeah, don't mention it."

Red Son rises to his full height, taking something you can't really see out of the bag before leaving it on the floor- you really need to look into getting a glasses prescription- grabbing your hand and pulling you upwards, towards your room. Your muscles feel lax and relaxed, and you yawn, realising just how taxing the day was.

"I think you should rest for now- we'll have to go to the market early morning before all the high-quality merch gets sold out." Red Son pushes you into your bed gently, settling down beside you, putting something over your ears. You feel all the overwhelming background noise drown out, leaving your mind fuzzy and....relaxed. You're not anxious anymore- you can't hear the earth buzzing constantly in your head anymore.

"They're noise cancelling headphones- loud sounds tend to...stress me out, sometimes. I have a spare back home, so no need to- mmmfh?!"

You rush forward to kiss Red Son- your wonderful, considerate, stupidly observant boyfriend, who you love so much you can feel it rush through your heart in waves- melding your lips against his. He starts kissing back once his surprise wears off, arms slowly wrapping around you to pull you closer. You feel refreshed, you feel happy and content and loved, and as you pull away you think he can see it in your gaze, because he smiles in relief.

You start peppering his face in kisses and messy smooches- all over his cheeks and jaw and nose, the corner of his lips, the endearing scar on his cheek, making loud kissing noises all the while. He tries to act annoyed, but the way he blushes and leans into you is telling enough.

"Glad to see you back to your old exasperating self."

You push him down onto the mattress, and although he's strong enough to flip you over again, he doesn't, simply laying there and letting you do as you please.

You kiss his jaw and trail down to his neck again, this time slower, paying close attention to the spot between his collarbone and shoulder, fangs just barely grazing the surface of his skin. You feel him gulp against you in anticipation, his eyes following your movements.

"Just let me thank you properly, okay?"

"W-well," his voice is shaky, your hands roaming over his body, claws now freshly-cut and scraping against his skin deliciously, "I suppose I can't say no to that."

[bepisbee]

Cottage living vidow fluff mixed with ideas inspired by breannas wingbois (go read! its so good!) Now they have content lives out in the forest, but one of their siblings has some pent up feelings about them.

read on ao3

For context the evil side forced Vaati and Shadow to be hybrid flying creatures, (bat and dragon) and during his time with Shadow he had to as well to stay in cover. him and Shadow broke free from the mirror and them before they all defeated Vaati and Gannon (shadow lives ofc)

Vio is grateful, he thinks. He shuts his eyes face up at the sky, barely clouded with white fluffs. He sat on the roof of a wooden cottage on the outskirts of the Minish Woods. Its border between the darker deep forest and Lake Hylia made the air always have the faint scent of the lake water. Vio found it pleasant most days, especially when rain carried it over on the westward winds. Especially now that he could smell it better. His sleek black wings splayed out behind him, content and warm bathing in the sun. A soft contented hum left his throat, turning into a rumbling coo on instinct. This was a life he says he never deserved and he would thank the Goddesses every day and night for the opportunity to indulge in it. The soft noise rose to a trill and flockcall as the sound of beating leather scaled winged entered his range.

Shadow called back best he could, not exactly made for the trilling bird songs Vio could create. He circled around, enjoying stretching his wings before landing. He swooshed Vio’s hair around his face as he landed on the top next to him.

Shadow leaned down from behind him and pressed his lips to Vio’s. He finally opened his pretty eyes. They were pitch where once was white with stunning colored irises in the middle. One a vibrant purple, matching the element of the earth embedded in his sword. The other the cold ice blue it was during the initial split. Shadow was smiling too big to really call it a kiss anymore.

“Have a good flight, love?” He was in a great mood today, feathers freshly preened by Shadow last night and a sweet slow morning. A nice day off, only watering to tend to and basic needs. He leans into his side when he plops his ass down next to him.

“Very, it’s so warm today! I could sunbathe for hours! We could sunbathe for hours.” he drapes a wing over his body. “Mmm, a long day in the sun. Some of that fresh bread and the apple jelly from that nice lady with the milk cart-”

“Malon,” Vio supplies helpfully.

“Malon! Yeah, her. She’s so nice. Did I ever tell you she was the first townsperson to actually talk to me?” Vio shook his head, meeting his gaze. “I like her.”

He nudged him, grinning at their small audience of crows gathering the branches nearby. “When was that?” Vio is surprised it had taken them that long, he had been out here for hours now. He wonders idly if maybe they were following Shadow the whole time. What a sight that would be. Obviously he scared the townsfolk enough already. Vio grinned cheekily at the thought of the brash old woman on second street seeing it and gasping and clutching her necklace.

“I flew there to grab some stuff while we were building the office room. I couldn’t get any of the vendors to respond to me and Malon came over to help.” Shadow waved his taloned hand through the air as he spoke. He’d developed a habit of talking with his hands as he grew more comfortable in himself. “She talked to them for me and got what I needed and gave me a kinstone piece!” Shadow enthused, a few of the birds tried to copy his tone of speaking. Vio laughed, little tail feathers wiggling up and down.

“Well, you’ll always have me. And our entourage.” He gestures to the flock with his head, smirking. “They really do like you.”

“Oh please, they’re here for you and you know it.” Shadow snorts, laying back and resting his head in his hands, wings out. Vio runs his hand across the exposed underside of the wing. “I don’t blame ‘em of course, so am I.” his eyes light with the teasing. “And I very much like you myself.” He reaches up and cards his fingers through Vio’s secondaries. He shivers, ruffling the feathers in his claws.

“You’re being awfully complimentary, what did you do?” Vio turns to him, knowing glinting in his eyes. “Chaos bringer.” he snickers at Shadow's scandalized look.

“Who? Me??” he puts a hand to his chest over his hearts. “Whatever could you mean!?”

“I knew they followed you for a reason.” Vio chirps and one hops over to join them. “If you don’t spill I’ll ask myself, and you know how much Samantha likes to dramatize.” he pets the alleged ‘Samantha’ crow on the noggin and she bobs happily, vocalizing back.

“Fuck. Fine.” Shadow sat up, “I might have stolen something of Blue’s for saying something in our last argument.” At Vio’s unamused look he elaborates. “I took her pearl earrings and hid them at the lake…”

“You took the pearl earrings!? What did she say!?” Vio’s eyes widened and the crow hops closer making concerned noises. His wings were puffed. Shadow’s hand drops from them.

Shadow was oddly quiet, looking away. “It was a bad fight, okay? She can say what she wants about me but not about you.” his growl is accented with a deep chest rumble. Vio places his palm against it to calm him.

“You two are the worst to fight, both so hot headed and saying shit you don’t mean just to ‘win’ but you both lose.” He scolds, but his voice is too soft and fond to really mean it. He cups his cheek and rubs his thumb across the soft skin. Shadow melts.

“You’re right, you always are. I’ll give them back when she isn’t holding a weapon.” He presses into the touch.

“Here, love.” Vio pulls him back to laying, their knees still hanging off the edge. He unfurls his wing over Shadow’s body. “Just relax. Lay with me awhile.” The birds around them scattered around the yard and trees as usual. After almost an hour he speaks up again.

“You’re really not gonna tell me what she said?” he tried again after the atmosphere settled again.

“... she didn’t mean it.” Shadow warns, “But, she called you a traitor and a monster. And some… other things about us.” he cringes.

Vio is silent for a few minutes, debating bis approach. “I will talk to her. Maybe there are some unsaid feelings she needs to get out, that have propped up within your arguments.”

“You’re awfully mature.” he snorts.

“It is easier to, being on tbe outside out of the situation. I am sure I would not be if she had said it to my face.” Vio threads his fingers with Shadow’s. “But, love. Please. Go get the earrings before tomorrow I’ll give them back when I go to town for my book return and I’ll stop by her at Grandpa’s.”

“Fiiiiiine.”

“Thank you.” He brings his hand up to his face and kisses the back. Shadow half heartedly grumbles.

Vio flew with a bag secured around him, over a shoulder and on his hip. He catches Blue’s attention, who was outside. She must have been having a break from the heat, a glass in hand and tank top on. He landed and steps over.

Her surprise furrows into a scowl at him as he approaches.

“You here to reprimand me for your boyfriend?” Blue snaps out.

“No.” The response clearly catches her off guard. Vio digs into the bag and hands over a small hinged box. “I’m here to apologize for my idiot of a boyfriend.” He lets out a defeated sigh when Blue cautiously takes the box, looking in it.

“...” Vio tries to analyze her expression, but it isn’t something he’s good at.

“Do you have a minute?” 

“I guess.” She stuffs them in her pocket and leans against the house.

“He wouldn’t tell me exactly what it was you said.” Vio does his best to keep his wings from puffing or arching. “But uh, is there anything you wanna say? It is okay whatever it is. I know I am not the greatest at emotions but that does not mean that I do not care how you feel.” Blue peeks up from where she was scuffing her shoes on the ground.

“You make it hard to be mad, being so reasonable. Asshole.” There’s no heat to her words, really. “I just.” she takes a big breath in and exhales out. “You kinda just brushed over the entire fake spy thing and didn’t talk about what really happened.” Blue crossed her arms, ocean eyes intense. “I mean, fuck Vio.” she carded her hand through her hair. “You really scared us. You scared me. You just show up again one day looking like some kind of creature and try to convince us you’re still on our side? And that somehow Shadow is too?? I thought you were being controlled, or not even you anymore!”

Vio steps closer, wings drooping to the ground. “Blue…”

“And the fight! I know why but-” She huffs and takes another breath in and out. “You didn’t talk to us.”

“I am sorry.” His ears are as low as his wings. “I should have. I should have talked to you before making that decision. It did not affect just me, but us, as Link. As… as siblings. As me.” Vio stepped closer. “I… I have not told Red and Green this,” He starts, “It took so long because I did not know what to do. I did have the full intention of killing Shadow from the inside but he was just misunderstood. Forced to do their bidding or die from the mirror.” 

Blue is paying attention, anger melting into concern and that complicated face Vio can’t read.

“I knew I loved him when he asked me for help and I realized I could not imagine my life without him. I panicked. I have never felt anything more than with him and I lose my damn logic so much when it involves Shadow. It was not fair to you guys to keep you in the dark so long. I could say I did not want to risk giving us away, but I was afraid of losing Shadow. I was being selfish.”

Vio held something out in his hand for her.

“I am sorry, Blue. I really mean that.” Blue takes the little sapphire.

“Wha-? But isn’t this…?” She inspects the gem, “From your personal collection??” He had saved a lot of precious gems and stones with Shadow. His hoard, and Vio’s obsession with shiny trinkets. They barely let each other access the pile and it belongs to them both!

“It is for you.” His wings go back up, hopeful. “For whatever you want with it. To keep, to crush, put in a handle or pommel.”

“Thanks.” She put it in the earrings box. “Vio I…” Blue flicks one of his wings. “I’m sorry too, for what I called you. I don’t actually think you’re some ugly bird monster. I actually think it's pretty cool. I’d ask for a flight if it wouldn’t feel mortifying to be held.” Blue lightened up the mood with a joke.

Vio smiled at her and wacked her back with a wing. “Mmhm. I might have to swoop and grab you sometime.” he grins bigger.

“Don’t you fucking dare!” He laughs and turns to fly off.

“I will see you for family dinner on Sunday?” He looks over his shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah. Get outta here you fucking sap.”

“Have a wonderful day, Vio! Tell Shadow I said hello!” They both startle at their Grandpa, who was leaning out the open kitchen window. Both of them flush from the embarrassment of being overheard talking out feelings.

“Y-you too!” He flees at the edge of Blue’s casual banter to their Grandpa about the eavesdropping. His guffaw echoed behind making him smile.

[silverhart-makes-art]

This week's Bestiary Posting is a collection of worms! I opted to interpret 'worms' as wyrms (aka weird little dragons with six limbs), because drawing a bunch of legless, eyeless, boneless cylinders did not appeal to me. Sorry worms, I love ya, but there's not a lot I can do with a worm in a quick sketch like this. So we're going with dragons, some of which are at least a little wormy.

Labeled version and more detailed explanations below.

Lenggalgak - a "worm of the air" needed wings to fly through it. It also has four thin appendages for spinning it's web. Seems odd that an animal that makes a web, and thus stays in one place would need to fly, but maybe they use their wings like spiderlings use silk parachutes to float to new homes, and the sedentary adults just use their wings for display.

Khrezaroth - this was meant to be a frog/salamander type thing, and ended up looking nothing like those animals. Still, I like his silly face, and even curled up he has way too many legs (but it's still six - we've got a very specific body plan here).

Phlerotger - Mix between a leech, a tadpole and a cookie cutter shark. It's lost it's limbs and just has little spurs like you see in some snakes. One of the few actually worm-shaped worms here, since it apparently needs to slide down the throat. Absolutely horrible little creature.

Logkashgae - was thinking what could possibly make a bow shaped wound, and decided a thagomizer might do the trick. So horned lizard-stegosaur with a scorpion stance. It's middle limbs have evolved into spikes.

Burlebroth - the description said it was a leaf worm, therefor it must look like a leaf. A leaf-tailed gecko meets a katydid with a bit of chameleon for color.

Kholruntae - since it's said to curl up in leaves my mind went to the Honduran white bats who are very tiny and roost in leaves. Worth looking up some pictures if you want a smile - they're adorable. Basically drew that, but with scales that make it look like a leaf and a long tail.

Shmigwanog - it's a "wood worm", a little stick dragon with the head of a potoo. It's folded wings look like little branches, to help it camouflage even more amid the branches.

Feabladtae - okay, this one is inspired by something I heard from a vet many years ago, about how you can tear a Labrador's ear off and they'd still be wagging their tail. Said in reference to my own Labrador who was quite happily wagging her tail while being treated for an insect bite/sting that had her face swelling to three times it's size. She always loved the vet, no matter how painful the pokes and prods. So in honor of her can't-get-me-down attitude, I've drawn a lab lending their ear to their good Feabladtae friend. As a parasite it doesn't really need it's limbs, so it only has two stubby front limbs, and instead uses it's tail which is covered in little prickles to hold onto it's host's fur.

[augment-techs]

...sure. But since there is no...singular PR Wing AU that comes to mind, I'm just going through my biases and hoping they look nice in context.

-

-

For the sake of context, I am going to riff off a list of wings I THINK would suit the above babies:

Jason Scott: I am very torn on whether it is better to give him goose or swan wings, but the goose wings won out because there is some marginal dignity in geese when it comes to large groups and caretaking.

Trini: Vulture wings, because she is fucking tiny and I thought it was funny.

Zack Taylor: Sand Piper, because they are more leggy than wing oriented, which fits with his being able to dance, dance, dance all night long.

Matt Cook: The Common Swift, which might look to anyone else as drab and unappreciable, but to me are actually perfectly suited to him.

Kimberly Hart: Pixie, pixie, pixie wings. Like Tinkerbell, like sprites, like those fast fuckers 8% of the world says they've seen out of the corner of their eyes. SWISH.

Tommy Oliver: Tiny fluffy bat~ Tiny fluffy white bat~ Tiny fluffy white POLLINATOR bat~ Just imagine him covered in clouds of white and orange debris because he couldn't help himself.

Bulk: ~Honeybee, honeybee, won't you love a Bumblebee~ They shouldn't be able to fly, and yet they do. And if that isn't a perfect metaphor...

Billy Cranston: A Pied Crow, because they are loud and protective and they wear little white vests everywhere and look CUTE while they steal things.

Skull: Butterfly dragon wings. Which is like...a microdragon with leaf camouflage? I just keep thinking of that Strange Magic movie and how pretty the Bog King would look with a little color.

[seithennyn]

Aždaja // Lamia  // Zmey  // Pozoj // Smok //  Hala

THE WILDFIRE Aždaja (Aždaya, Aždaha) was often also called hala or ala - as the Whirlwind - therefore I chose to make them look similar.  Or in South Serbia - Kulshedra.  Azdaha was a persian snake-like, gigantic monster that had ravenous appetites for men and horses.  But they mostly lived in the seas and air, only coming out when hungry. Then they set the world aflame. So I decided to give Azdaja the colours of the most Slavic stone - connected to seas - the amber. Azdaja was described to have a huge body, mouths wide with lots of teeth, and bright, shiny eyes. When st. George battled and slain the dragon - it was an Azdaja, not a zmey.  

THE  DROUGHT BRINGER Lamia was the reptile, lizard-like creature covered with hard scales of different colours. It had nine heads, which resembled a dog’s in shape. Lamia had sharp, sabre-like teeth and long, dark claw that could pierce any armour. Lamia dwelled in the bottoms of the seas and lakes or hid in the mountainous cavers or in the wilderness of the forest. They would stop the supply of water to people, bringing them drought and destroying their fields, which caused famine. It could only be stopped by killing the beast or offering it a sacrifice.

THE  BENOVOLENT GUARDIAN OR FEROCIOUS BEAST Zmey was a scale-covered serpent-like creature with four legs and bat’s wings. It was said to have from three to twelve heads. But it also had the ability to shapeshift, changing their appearance between the form of a human, animal, smoke or even cloud. In the south, zmeys were known as guardians of the territory and would protect the people inhabiting it from other not so benevolent and gentle creatures and dragons. They usually fought with lamias and hallas, and in return, people left milk, bread and honey for the zmey. But in the north, zmeys were known ferocious beasts, who would only protect their territory and kill every soul who dared to cross their path.

THE WINGLESS GIANT Pozoj was  the giant serpent that dwelled beneath city. It was said to be so big, it had its head under the church and the tail under town square. It movements caused earthquakes so powerful, it could demolish the whole city. Only a wandering scholar (sorcerer’s apprentice) - grabancijaš// črnošolec  - could get rid of pozoj. The most known Pozojs lived under Čakovec and under Zagreb. 

THE WHIRLWIND Hala (or halla) was a dragon, that could also appear as a dense mist, fog, or a black cloud. Hala was believed to be the cause of strong winds,  but also guarded clouds and contained the rain. They brought violent storms and gale to humans, causing floods or simply wreaking havoc.

THE GRASS SNAKE

Smok was a crag-dwelling kind of Hala. So they had smaller wings, as they only used them for leaps and short periods of flying, not as their cousins. Generally, smok is much, much smaller than other kinds of dragons, but still as fierce, ferocious and dangerous.  I decided to give them the colours of summer grass in the mountains - not forgetting about the lighter, yellow collar behind the head - explaining the namE grass snake.

*** for north-wyrm :)  I will try to make a new ilustrations for these designs, in our year 2023!

[pinkiepiebones]

Dear Zombie, It is I, Robby, I guess? I'm not particularly accustomed to being called that, but I suppose it's never too late to start. I've heard the act of naming cements psychological ownership. Thus, you giving me a name might express your desire to own me? That is somewhat unsettling, considering my recent history, but also flattering, so I'll take it. You seem like, as they say, "cool people," so I'll trust your intentions are pure. And Robby is much better than "The Fly Patient." Do I get to give you a nickname, too? (Yes, I want to own you, my dear internet friend, but in a non-creepy sense of "I'm glad you are in my life and I hope you stay there of your own free will.") How about Z? Could be read as either Zet or Zee, whichever you preffer. I feel a little odd giving a prompt about myself, but here goes: Would you please give me a cloudlessly happy memory of my daughter? Sincerely yours, Robby

Hey, you!

Oh gosh I don't want to own you. I can barely take care of myself, I don't think I could handle owning or being in any way in control of... No, no, I threw "Robby" at you only because there's already a "Robert" in my life and I've known him for 25 years, so he has seniority in my dumb little head I guess.

... Z's good. Simple. Hmm. "Robby and Z" sounds like a children's television program. I bet we'd make a cool show though! Teach kids about, I dunno, art and baking? Mmm... impressionist cookies...

I dunno if I can write this right, my friend. Here goes:

Lillian Elizabeth Renfield has pushed her small desk in to Papa's work room. She is quiet cunning for a four -nearly five!- year old, and moved her desk bit by bit as the day went on- the world outside was covered in deep snow, too deep to play in with Mama and Papa, too deep to build snowknights to fight a snowdragon. Mama and Papa are fussing dinner and the wood stove in the kitchen. So, Lillian took it upon herself to move to Papa's work room, and do business as Papa did.

She stands on the scuffed toes of her shoes and pulls a book from Papa's shelf. It is a rather boring book, with big words and no pictures, but she carries it with the same reverence she gives her story books and places it on her little desk. She looks at Papa's desk and situates the book as he has done with another equally boring book. She sits down and takes a crayon in her little hand and does what Papa does- she turns the pages, makes faces, and scribbles notes.

After a full two minutes, she stops. Goodness, grown-ups are boring! She replaces the book on the shelf and returns to her desk. Papa writes and reads so much, he must be so very bored at his office in the city. Lillian holds up her scribbles and ponders. Then, an idea strikes her. She plucks a fresh piece of drawing paper from her drawing pad.

'Dear Papa,' she writes with her favourite red crayon, 'I have tried to be a lawyer. It is very dull. I thank you for being a lawyer. You are a good man. I want to be a princess or maybe a writer. Not a lawyer. On the back of this page I have drawn us fighting a dragon. Please take it with you on your next bisness trip and know I am with you.'

Lillian looks over her writing. Her handwriting is well-practiced; Mama makes sure Lillian takes her time to write "legibly," whatever that means. She nods, approving of her message, and signs it.

'With all of the love in the world,

Lillian E. Renfield'

She turns the paper over and draws herself and her father fighting a dragon, as she had indicated on the letter. She barely finishes colouring the dragon's bat-like wings when Mama calls her for supper. She hastily folds her letter and tucks it into Papa's work bag, then hurries to the dining room.

[misc-obeyme]

Techibally Mammon would be a draggon

You know, anon, I have spent some time thinking about this.

Because for some of the brothers, they very much lean into their animal for their demon parts, but with other brothers they don't.

Mammon is the perfect example. His wings are definitely more dragon like or maybe bat? But definitely not crows. That would require feathered wings, right?

I can only assume it's because Lucifer already has the feathered wings. But honestly, I feel like someone who has a peacock as their animal should have an epic feathered tail. Nobody thinks of a peacock's wings.

I think Beel and Belphie are both the closest to theirs. Beel's wings are definitely like those of a fly and Belphie's tail is like an extra long, extra floofy cow tail.

And yeah, Levi's tail could be considered a snake's, but I think you could argue that it looks like it could belong to just about any reptile. Personally I think it'd be cool if it was his whole lower half of his body that was a snake tail. I'm sure there's fanart of that somewhere, I should look for some lol.

And I know I've seen fanart of Asmo with a scorpion tail and really that is absolutely what he should have. I don't even know what his wings could be classified as. Just slightly different bat wings? Don't get me wrong, I like them, but I think the scorpion tail would have been pretty great.

And what even is happening with Satan's tail? In the beginning, I didn't even notice it because he always has it wrapped around his leg. It took me actually thinking deliberately about each brother's demon form to realize that he even had one lol. There must be some kind of animal with a segmented tail like that, but I can't imagine it's in any way thought to be a unicorn of all things. I'm thinking again of some kind of reptile.

And honestly, there's something to be said for dragon!Mammon. Since traditionally western dragons have a tendency to enjoy hoarding gold and everything. Though this aspect is also covered by a crow's love of shiny things, so really the biggest thing is the wings. Shoulda had some feathers.

Though I think someone mentioned that dragon was Diavolo's animal, which would also make sense considering his wings.

I'm under the impression that the animal thing is only used when it's interesting to do so. They don't really seem to be hard and fast about it. Maybe they were always meant as being more representative of their personalities and some of them just happen to fit with their demon parts, too?

[wuxiaphoenix]

Worldbuilding: Yi qi and Otherwise

Okay, so. Dinosaurs. And fossils in general. Great inspiration for the weird and varied ways life has actually existed on Earth in the past, and thus a source of info for building more plausible monsters.

...Mostly plausible.

Never in a million years would I have expected something like Yi qi actually existed. A sort of bat-winged, somewhat gliding dinosaur, that the most current reconstruction work suggests both flapped and gilded; half bat-like, half flying squirrel.

(I can hear AtLA fans squealing, “Lemur!” Well, kind of. Only with feathers and a very sharp beak.)

I’m honestly wondering what kind of nest it would have built. Flat like a classic bird’s nest? A bundle of twigs and fluff like a squirrel? Something else?

What really struck me about the reconstruction, though, was “wow that has an uncanny resemblance to European dragon wings.”

At least, if you leave off the feathers. Granted, the kind of fossilizing conditions that preserved the wing membranes should have also preserved feathers. But legends change over time, especially when most of your words for “dragon” are related to “giant snake/worm”. And some European dragons did have feathers.

There are plenty of folklorists who argue that dragons are just a shorthand for “powerful forces we don’t understand”. Okay, maybe. But people need images to describe what we don’t know, and those could come from anything we see. Including stone bones.

Don’t just think of this for inspiring fantasy and SF, either. I recently ran across a picture of “fairy coins”; fossil crinoids in England, that break apart into starfish/pentagram shapes. I’m no Lovecraft expert, but given all the weird radial-symmetry aliens he had in his horror, I wonder if those are the original “star-stones”, meant to keep uncanny things at bay.

Well, most uncanny things. Necromancers should have a field day with fossils. And any spell or magical creation that works with bits of animals should stand a chance of working with the stone ones. And while we may never be able to recreate actual dinosaurs, some fossils preserve physical details and trace proteins, information we might be able to take together with some bird DNA to make... interesting animals.

Okay, that’s the SF version of the Mad Sorcerer drenching ordinary animals in an Evil Potion to create monsters. These stories last for reasons!

Which leads me back to Yi qi, and the world I’m trying to build. (And why writers should read widely.) I picked up the Kindle sample of Weird Dinosaurs because, well. Dinosaurs. I wasn’t expecting anything related to my story. After all, like most people I’d heard of feathered dinosaurs from “somewhere in China” back around the turn of the century. I hadn’t heard where.

Yi qi was found in Hebei. Related feathered dinos have been found there and in Outer Mongolia, North Korea, and Liaoning Province.

AKA large chunks of what was Jurchen and Goryeo territory. Ansi Fortress is right in the middle of there.

As in, the reality-warping microbes I have in mind would have access to plenty of myths, bones, and proteins if they wanted to make dragon-bird-other monsters. Wow.

Not to mention with Archaeopteryx and relations over in Germany, we should also have Western dragons covered.

Fossils are cool! Throw the beasts into even more fiction!

[thewildlorelei]

I’ve wanted to do a monster/creature AU for a while ngl, I know it’s been done before but I just....love me some monsters. My ideas for what all of them would be along with some headcanons I have about them.

Wally - Ghost

Can be invisible and sometimes he’ll go in a room with people and forget to make himself visible so he’ll listen to people talk for SO long before realizing they can’t see him. So he just like suddenly appears and accidently scares the shit out of everyone in the room lol

Barnaby - Cerberus

The biggest puppy.

Uses all three heads to tell jokes, and they are hilarious. Like they set up a great joke with all of them setting up a piece of it. They fight over who gets to say the punchline.

Wally loves that he has 3 heads, just more Barnaby to love

Has to try to not eat too much. Having 3 heads but only 1 stomach is a struggle, they all wanna chomp on all the food

Julie - Dragon

Has wings, horns, and a tail but can transform into a full dragon at will. Chooses not to cause she thinks her humanoid form is too cute

Frank - Vampire

Can’t go outside during the day time. Is so so sad that he can’t see the daytime insects as much anymore. Eddie will capture some to show him.

Can turn into a bat, loves to fly at night

Eddie - Werewolf

Is constantly worried about hurting people by mistake but Frank is always there to reassure him

Poppy - Phoenix

Is VERY warm, perfect for hugs

Has to be careful not to set things on fire

Sally - Medusa

So Sally has to keep her eyes covered so she doesn’t turn people to stone (we are here to have a good time tho so we are going by Wednesday rules where if she does accidently turn someone to stone it’s only temperary.) But Sally can see through the eyes of her snakes if she wants so that’s generally how she sees and gets around.

She has named every one of her snakes

When she acts the snakes act with her, like using her hair to emphisize mood and tone since she can’t use her eyes to help with that

Howdy - Mothman

He is not THE mothman, he is one of the species of Mothmen. 

Millie - Jackrabbit/Wererabbit

Hangs out with Eddie on the full moons.

Always forgets about her antlers and runs into things with them all the time

I just love this idea of this large monster family. 

[larissainwonderland]

Why is a Raven Like a Writing Desk?

Paring: Larissa Weems Female Original Character

Chapter 1/?

Rating M for future smut:

Summary:  Something is putting the students of the Nevermore Academy and the outcast community in danger.

Principal Larissa Weems decides to do something about it and calls an expert.

Sept. 1st, 2026

 It was around four o’clock in the morning. The woods that surrounded the Academy were dark and silent. A single hooded figure was marching towards a Tumtum tree and rested their head against its trunk.

 When they lowered the dark blue hood, she revealed shiny raven hair damp with sweat. The woman was panting, clutching her left hand against her stomach. Thick, dark blood was pouring trough her fingers from what seemed to be a rather deep wound.

 A bleat shook the tree, and she jumped in surprise. She thought the beast was wounded and kept busy as well.

 A heavy thud shook the air when something landed a few feet away from her.

 A dragon-like monster was breathing heavily, sniffing the air. It was about 9 feet tall, its massive figure contrasting the tiny figure of the woman, stood 5 feet tall. Its bat wings were clearly damaged – one was bent in a funny way, the other looked wonky. It couldn’t fly.

 It roared again and the woman, hiding behind the tree, took a better look at its shape. Its long writhing tail was shaking with fear; its eyes – big and round – were petrified with terror. Another warbling sound. A call for its master.

 It had three long fur-covered fingers as claws and they were covered in blood, its head looked like the head of a fish with two big upper teeth and two smaller but still sharp teeth on the bottom.

 “Stupid chicken! You’re drawing attention on us…” muttered the woman though gritted teeth, trying to ignore her own pain.

 She inhaled deeply and looked down at her free hand.

 The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

 She didn’t want it to come to this. It was hard to concentrate with the piercing pain in her stomach and the dizziness due to the blood loss.

 A shiny silver dagger appeared in her hand, it had an intricate engraving on the blade and it was extremely sharp.

 She was about to leave her hiding spot when another beast rushed towards the dragon and attacked it. It was so fast she couldn’t even see it properly. Just a flash of claws and enormous eyes.

 The dragon bleated and with her heart pounding in her chest, the woman jumped out, running towards the two fighting monsters, holding the dagger above her head.

 “Don’t you dare hurt my Jabberwock, you foul creature!” she stabbed the monster in the back, but it was too strong. In a second it left the dragon on the ground and was on her, ready to bite her head off. The Jabberwock protected her, attacking the monster and successfully hurting it enough to force it to flee.

 The woman sighed, tired. The blade disappeared from her hands and when she dropped to the ground, unconscious, the Jabberwock disappeared too, in an explosion of blue butterflies.

 Principal Larissa Weems found the unconscious lady during her daily morning walk around the school grounds. At first, she thought the woman was dead, but when she hit her shoulder with the tip of her pointy shoe, a strangled whine came out of the stranger’s mouth. With a surprised and sharp intake of breath, the Principal promptly took her phone out to call for help, her blue eyes now scanning the tiny figure by her feet trying to identify any signs of attack.

 The ambulance took them both to the Jericho hospital; Larissa was constantly checking her phone just in case something happened at the school. She texted a colleague about her unforeseen event, and that she would be running late for her meetings.

 “Are you a relative?” A doctor asked, and she was pulled down to earth from the million thoughts running around in her head. She didn’t like hospitals and waiting rooms were uncomfortable. The seats were too small, the air was too clean.

 “No,” she replied. “I was the one who found her. Is she alive?”

 “Yes, she was lucky,” the doctor sighed. “She was attacked by some rabid animal. She has a deep wound on her chest, and she almost bleed and froze to death. She didn’t have any ID on her but she’s stable now, she’s just woken up…”

 “Can I see her?”

 The moment Larissa entered the hospital room, she was transfixed by the enormous eyes that belonged to the tiny woman in the hospital bed.

 They were grey, somehow glassy. Too big for her head. She was staring right into her soul, Larissa felt extremely uncomfortable.

 “Are you another doctor? I’ve already told the other one I don’t remember anything”.

 Her voice was a sweet sounding, but the tone was sharp, quick. She had a weird accent, a mixture of British and American.

 “I’m not a doctor,” Larissa explained, approaching the bed with caution. “I’ve found you in the woods, near my school. You were unconscious, I called an ambulance”.

 Something seemed to click inside the mind of the woman in front of her, because Larissa could see the change in her eyes.

 “You’re Larissa Weems” it wasn’t a question, “You’re the Principal of the Nevermore Academy” another statement.

 “And you are—” eyeing her from top to bottom, she could see the signs of the attack. Baggy eyes, scratches on her pale face, a few bandages that she hadn’t notice before.

 The edges of the other woman’s lips curled ever so slightly. “Curiosity killed the cat, Larissa”.

 “I’d prefer if you called me Principal Weems”.

 “I don’t like titles. I like names. Kings and queens, hatters and principals… they’re all going to lose their heads. Larissa might keep her head on her shoulders”.

 She tried to stretch her arms and legs, but her limbs were still too sore from the battle.

 “And yet, I still don’t have a name to call you by” Larissa pointed out, she was trying to keep calm. This stranger could be anyone. A threat to the school, a danger to—

 “You’ll find a form on your desk where I’m filed as ‘Winifred Donkin’. That’s not my name but I was going to explain the whole situation to you during our meeting, which was scheduled for nine o’clock this morning, I guess… what time is it?” she spoke so composed, almost stoic, Larissa was intrigued.

 The Principal looked at her phone.

 “It’s almost ten o’clock, I guess you’re the one who applied to be my ‘secretary’…” she emphasised the last word with caution.

 Two people had been killed and Larissa suspected that the cause of death might be supernatural. After a few calls, she started to fear that the creature behind the murders was a Hyde. The only logical thing to do was trying to contact someone who considered themselves an expert. She had found a so called ‘Hyde-hunter’. They had only spoken via e-mail, and they had agreed to set up a plan that wouldn’t unnecessarily alarm the school staff, the students and most importantly, the city of Jericho.

 The plan consisted in hiring the Hyde-hunter as her personal secretary, so that nobody would suspect a thing. Meanwhile the hunter would be free to   survey the school ground.

 Larissa simply didn’t expect to meet said hunter half dead on the day they were supposed to meet.

 “I understand” she said, joining her hands in her lap. “So? What’s your professional opinion?”

 The woman scoffed, sounding bitter. “It’s definitely a Hyde. When I receive a call it’s usually a bear, a werewolf or a troll… but this one almost killed me on the spot. It’s a powerful one, you must keep your eyes open. They’re never alone, the master is always one step behind them”.

 Larissa nodded; her suspicions were corrected. Her students were in danger… the whole outcast community was in danger.

 “I understand you have a weapon to fight the Hyde?” she asked, tilting her head.

 The other woman shook her head. “I am the weapon. But we’ll discuss this when I’m out of this hospital. Can you get me out? I’m fine”.

 “You’ve been severely wounded, and you’ve lost a lot of blood. I think you should rest…”

 Before the other woman could answer, the doctor came in with a syringe and the woman practically jumped out of the bed, eyes filled with fear.

 “No… no, no needles!” she was hiding behind the statuary figure of Larissa and it was almost comical. “I’m fine! Look, I can walk!”

 The doctor smiled sympathetically, but he asked the woman to go back to bed anyway.

 She insisted that she was perfectly okay, still hiding behind Larissa that was starting to find the situation a bit annoying.

 “It’s just a needle…”

 “You don’t know! I once drank from a bottle that said ‘drink me’ on the tag and it almost killed me! Who put poison in a bottle and then writes ‘drink me’ on it?” she seemed upset; she was shaking and her bottom lip was trembling. Tears were pooling in the corners of her eyes. Larissa was definitely taken aback from the sudden change in her mood.

 “Help me… please…” she whispered and Larissa’s heart skipped a beat as those enormous grey eyes were trying and succeeding to convince her to do as she was being told. Was she a mermaid, perhaps?

 “Miss… I assure you, this is just a bland sedative. You really need it” the doctor tried to calm her, but the younger woman snapped again.

 “You don’t know what I need!” she was angry now, her eyes went darker, gloomier, her voice deeper.

 A dirty hare appeared from nowhere and hopped from behind her, grabbed the stethoscope that was placed next to her bed and tried to examine it.

 “What is it? Is it dangerous? Is it deadly?” he asked in a quirky voice.

 Larissa stepped back, eyes fixed on the animal and lips slightly ajar; the doctor was definitely scared.

 The young woman was staring at the doctor with her gloomy eyes, she didn’t even blink. “That’s a stethoscope. It’s not dangerous but you could use it to strangle someone in case of extreme danger”.

 The hare sniffed the object, curious. “Stethoscope” he repeated, then he threw it across the room and it hit the doctor right in the face.

 The doctor yelped, covering his face in pain and taking a few steps back.

 “Not like this…” the woman complained, turning her back to Larissa and the doctor and eyeing the hare who was now jumping around.

 “Did I help you, Alice? Was I a good hare? Do I have to do something else?”

 He was now causing havoc in the hospital room, throwing everything upside down.

 Larissa gasped in surprise; she had no idea what was going on.

 “Sorry— he’s a little… Jim! No!” she grabbed the hare by his ears and while he was still wriggling her lips became a thin line.

 “You’ve done enough for today”.

 The hare disappeared into an explosion of blue butterflies.

 She wanted to summon the Rabbit, he could have helped her escape… but it was clear now that she was indeed too weak. The simplest task was impossible.

 There was no way she could summon the Jabberwock now, let alone control it.

 The doctor was still under shock, Larissa seemed on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

 “Can we go to the Academy, please?” Alice asked, pleadingly. “I’ll explain everything. I swear… just get me out of here. I hate hospitals and needles. They make me nervous and when I’m nervous I can’t control my peculiarity…”

 Larissa nodded, what she said made sense. She was still hurt but they did have an infirmary. The hospital clearly wasn’t a safe space for her.

 ”I’ll sign her release papers, doctor… If the mayor or the sheriff have something to say, they know how to find me. Miss Donkin will stay at the Academy”.

 Once they were both inside the car and Larissa started the engine, she finally asked the question that was running around her mind since she had seen that strange hare.

 “So… Alice?”

 “Alice Dodgson” she replied, resting her head against the car window.

 “And that hare?” Larissa kept her eyes on the road, but she was nervously biting her red lips. The name was infamous. She doubted it was all a coincidence.

 “That would be Jim. My Hare… he helps me sometimes, but he’s unpredictable, I wanted to summon the Rabbit, but my mind is still too fuzzy… I think I need to rest a little more before I can use my powers properly”.

 ”You’ll have everything you need at the Nevermore Academy”.

 Alice forced out a bitter laugh. ”That’s funny, because twenty-one years ago you declined my application”.

 Larissa eyed the woman beside her, she tried to sound casual when she asked: “Did the council gave you an explanation?”

 Alice nodded, closing her eyes. She was exhausted, her voice was almost a whisper when she spoke, already half asleep, lulled by the motion of the car.

 “Too many Hydes in my family”.

[z-iridest]

Quest of the Phoenixborn- An MHA Fantasy AU fanfic

Chapter 1- Revelry in the Dark:

Now, my reader, this story does not begin the way you'd expect. Instead of starting in the royal city of Endylon, or near it, our story begins in the dark kingdom of Khazadum. I know what you're thinking: Isn't this the dark kingdom from before? Isn't this kingdom's ruler responsible for the fall of Embermore? That is true, however, our hero wasn't raised... Well, as a hero. For you see, 15 years prior, a baby had been born, sired by the only remaining member of Embermore's royal family: Princess Akaida. But, the child's father, had been the Demon King in disguise. Much like the Ancient Grecian King of the Gods, Zeus, had done many times before, the Demon King had disguised himself in a mortal body to create an heir to his dark throne. But unlike the King of the Gods, the Demon King had a dark purpose for this heir. His heir, with proper teaching, would continue his treachery. His heir was to be a shell, a vessel for him to continue his cruelty. As a newborn, this heir was ripped from her mother, stolen away and taken to Khazadum. It was there that our hero grew, half demon, and told that her mother had abandoned her due to her half demon appearance. With eyes like rubies, mid back length, jet black hair with tips blood red in color, massive bat-like wings and a demon form so massive it nearly rivaled her father's, all in Khazadum knew to fear the young princess or die. But... Very few knew that the child was not what her father had wanted her to be. Instead of cruelty, the child showed kindness that those in Khazadum had never known... And many a time, it had angered her father. Many a time, the princess had been forced into her demon form so that her father's rage may fully punish her. In fact, it had happened so often, that the child became disfigured by her demon form. The leather of her wings gained holes, scars littered her entire body, the worst of which covered the left side of her face from her hair line, across her left eye, and to her jaw. Talons grew instead of nails, and scarlet gold feathers stuck up unnaturally in her hair. Though she had been told that she was a curse, a monster... Princess Hinotori remained curious about the world outside of Khazadum. She longed to see the world, though her cruel father forbade such a thing...

But, we wouldn't have our story if she'd obeyed...

Hinotori approached the window of her dark, lonely tower, able to see the day's first light breaking over the horizon just beyond the borders of Khazadum. Curled up next to the window was a jet black dragon, a whelpling that served as Hinotori's only companion. Hinotori giggled softly as the little one stretched its body and wings. "Good morning. Do you think today might be the day? Are you ready to try flying?" She asked. The little dragon crawled into her waiting hands, chirping in a manner that told her the answer. Her smile dropped for a mere moment. "Are you sure? It's definitely going to be a good day to try. If I picked a day to try flying for the first time, this would be it. Endylon is having a ball in a few days in honor of the young prince's birthday. It could be fun!" Hinotori had only heard from patrolling demons about the annual party in the royal city of Endylon, and while they went on and on about how disgusting the celebrations were, it couldn't sound more fun to the princess. As she described the events to the whelpling, she noticed that the whelpling dragon flapped its wings harder and harder, straining as it lifted off of her hands and into the air. Hinotori giggled mid explanation and showed the whelpling her hands before laughing again and catching the little dragon as it landed again. It chirped at her, as if asking for her to go with it. She shook her head. "As much as I desire to go, I can't. Father would be more furious if I ever left my tower, let alone the kingdom." Hinotori stopped, sighing. "Although... It would be fun just to have at least one night with no responsibilities hanging over my head...." Shadow chirped again before a knock sounded. "Come in." Hinotori answered the knock, turning as it opened and a woman stepped through.

"My lady, if it's only one night you require, why let your father stop you?" It was the dark witch, Plasmia, although Hinotori knew her simply by a different name:

"You know why, Chizuki. He'd burn down the world if I ran away from home and hid." She replied. Plasmia snorted in retort.

"He'd do that anyway, regardless if he was looking for you or not. You've done nothing but follow his every word since you were young, you deserve this chance." Plasmia told her.

"And why would you help me with this?"

"Hey, believe it or not, even witches like me aren't all bad. Besides, life isn't a spectator sport. You'll watch your life go right by without you if watching is all you're gonna do."

"You've got a point, but he'd never let me out of the tower, even if I asked."

"And who said you have to ask? You sneak out, have fun and sneak back in. He'd never know you were gone."

"One of the demon scouts would recognize me."

"Not if you wear a disguise."

"What if I got caught?"

"Better to ask forgiveness than permission, little princess." Plasmia pointed out, the princess hesitating for a moment.

"Well..."

"No one wants to stay couped up here forever, little bird."

"You know what... You're right. I'll get cleaned up, walk down the tower steps, and through the doors and-"

"What're you blabbering about now?" Hinotori jumped at the voice and froze when she saw the captain of the guard glaring coldly at her from the door she'd just opened, his fist raised as if he was about to knock. While he had magic that could decay anything he touched with all five of his fingers, Tomura Shigaraki had been charged with protecting Hinotori's well being until she was of age to take the dark throne. "Don't tell me you're still going on and on about going outside. It's that little whelpling, I knew I should've dusted it when I had the chance..."

"Leave Shadow alone, you know he's my friend." Hinotori barked, her eyes glowing red and her hair turning to flames, only to shrink when a dark presence entered the room. Her father was right behind Tomura. Plasmia dropped to a bow, forced to do nothing but listen as the Demon King spoke to his daughter through a dark shroud.

"You will listen to Tomura, daughter. You have no idea how cruel and wicked the outside world is. That is why darkness must cover this world." Her father's voice spoke from the silhouette.

"There's not really a point in my taking the throne unless I at least meet the people I'm supposed to be ruling over, is there?" Hinotori asked, her gaze locked on the ground below her. "Besides, you let other demons patrol outside our kingdom, why can't I-"

"Most of the demons I send out never come back, cut out of the sky by the very people you are curious of. I am trying to protect you, foolish child. Do you know what will happen if the people outside our kingdom see you like that?" The shadowed figure pointed to Hinotori's looks, reminding her of the toll her half demon form was taking over her. Hinotori hugged herself out of instinct. "You would be shunned, a demon's child could never fit in among the others. They would kill you if they knew what you truly were... In darkness you were born, in darkness you shall remain. Not even your own mother wanted you, and this is the thanks I get for raising you?"

"A spell of disguise would fix my appearance..."

"Hannya!" Hinotori flinched at her father's use of her demon name. She hated the name, but it was the one he used whether she liked it or not. "You are to never speak about the outside world again." After a moment, Hinotori spoke softly.

"Yes, Father... I'm sorry." Hinotori apologized.

"You are forgiven, my daughter. Remember, this tower is your sanctuary." The Demon King replied before leaving the room, Tomura following suit without a second glance to the younger princess.

"My sanctuary..." Hinotori looked out her window. "Yes, I'm safe here... But, at what cost? I don't fit in with the people I was born among... It feels more like I'm imprisoned rather than I was born to rule this kingdom like I'm told is my purpose." Hinotori looked at the little dragon. Shadow chirped at her, nuzzling into her hand. The action made the princess smile as she pet the whelpling. "All I need is one night. If I have to spend the rest of my life couped up in this castle in exchange, I'd gladly take it." A clinging came to the princess's ears. When she turned, a gold amulet was in the witch's hand.

"This will disguise you. No one will be able to sense you as half demon unless the amulet gets ripped off... Not even your father would know it's you." Plasmia told her before placing the amulet around the princess's neck. Instantaneously, the dark haired, ruby eyed child was transformed into a young woman with scarlet gold locks, golden eyes and when she let out her wings, they were no longer the leathery wings she knew. The wings were feathered, the color of the feathers the same scarlet gold as her hair. In place of her talons were human hands and feet, the rest of her body having no scarring. A soft gasp left her when she caught sight of her reflection. Plasmia smiled. "When you wear this amulet, you're not linger Hannya the half demon Princess of Khazadum. You are merely Hinotori. Best leave this evening if you want to make it to the royal city in time."

"You're not coming?" Hinotori asked her. Plasmia shook her head.

"It's best if you leave alone. I have duties here, if I leave suddenly with no explanation, it'll look suspicious." Plasmia explained. Hinotori removed the amulet for the time being, nodding.

"I understand, thank you, Chizuki." Hinotori responded, getting a nod in return. That night, the two women met up again, this time, just outside the tower door. Chizuki fastened a cloak around the younger girl before giving the girl a satchel.

"There's a fresh change of clothes in there and gold in case you need it. Should be enough for the time it'll take to get there... If need be, you can always hunt for food. Make sure you stock up on potions the moment you get into a town and please be wary of strangers. Not everyone will be kind outside of Khazadum." Plasmia told her. Hinotori covered a giggle.

"It's not like you to fret over me like a mother hen, Chizuki." She teased, making the female go bright red.

"Oh, hush." Came Plasmia's embarrassed response, making the younger girl giggle even more.

"I didn't say it was a bad thing. You're the closest thing to a sister I have." Hinotori told her.

"I just want you back safe and sound so my ass doesn't get tortured in eternity or something. Safe travel, Hinotori." Plasmia told her, her arms crossed over her chest. The sound of boots echoing through the hall cut off what Hinotori was going to say next. Swaggering through the halls toward the two women was the turquoise eyed, black haired bandit that held what was left of Plasmia's heart... Dabi. His face held its own scars, and it had been Dabi who had tended to the younger child's scars when she first gained them. Chizuki hid Hinotori in the shadows.

"Where's little bird?" Dabi asked Plasmia.

"Asleep in her tower, where else would she be?" Plasmia sassed back. A dark chuckle rumbled through his chest, pulling the woman he loved close to his chest.

"Just makin' sure, doll. Don't want ya to lose that pretty head." Dabi eased her, pressing kisses down her face and neck.

"Dabi, not now. I'm supposed to be guarding her." Plasmia squeaked, smacking him across the chest and causing him to laugh. Ignoring the rest of the conversation, our hero set out, determined to break free of the chains her father had on her.

With careful, but quick steps, the Princess of Darkness moved silently through the night, determined to reach the edge of the only home she'd ever known, unseen by her people. Before long, she reached the wall that separated the Demon Kingdom from the rest of the world. With the amulet around her neck keeping her disguised, the half demon princess jumped from the wall. Gravity brought her to the Dark Wood's Forrest floor below, her hood falling as she rolled. Springing to her feet, she dusted herself off and began to run, the cape flowing behind her as she did so. A smile crossed her face at the cold evening breeze that blew on her face, the girl looking up to watch the moonlight dance between the trees. Once she was far enough, she slowed to a walk, drinking from the flask of water provided for her. She had a lot of distance to close if she was to make it to the royal city in time... As soon as the young girl cleared the border of Khazadum, she made camp for herself, taking a rest, but upon sunrise the next morning, Hinotori was on the move again. Before long, she'd reached the ruins of a kingdom she'd only heard about in war stories... Embermore. The moment she set foot inside the ruins, she felt a rush of sadness and a different emotion she'd never felt before... Belonging? Why did she feel as though she belonged within these ruins? She felt her sadness turn to rage. She knew her father was responsible for this kingdom laying in ruins... She could practically hear the screams of its people from when they were slaughtered, the demons who'd helped vanquish the royal city ruthless in the slaughter of every last one... From men and women who tried resisting the onslaught to children hiding with their grandparents or elders to try to remain safe, no one had been spared from the cruelty...

"Hinotori..." The teenager turned this way and that, trying to find where the voice was coming from. Who was calling her? Shadow peeked out of the princess's cloak, the whelpling sniffing the air.

"You hear it too, right?" Hinotori asked, getting a chirp in response.

"Hinotori..." The voice called again. Hinotori followed it to the center of the ruins, not noticing the watcher in the shadows following her from afar. In the center of those ruins, my dear reader, was a sword, stuck into the ground next to a coffin, a coffin that held Queen Zarina. Though it had patches of rust, for being stuck in the ground for 30 years, it seemed to bekon our hero closer. As if in a trance, Hinotori answered its call, her hand reaching out to grasp the black leather wrapped hilt. With little effort, she lifted the sword from its place, watching in awe as the sword seemed to renew itself in her hands, becoming a sword perfectly made for her and her alone. The rust disappeared, the hilt became decorated with an intricate design of a Phoenix rising from the ashes, the blade seeming to ignite with Phoenix flame as it revealed Hinotori's demon form for a split second. The light died down after a moment, but the sword remained in its renewed state.

"For many years, I've watched as travelers of all kinds have tried to free the Blade of the Phoenixborn, and yet, I didn't expect a half demon such as yourself to be able to free it." Hinotori turned at the sudden voice, poised in a position ready for battle. Her eyes watched as the stranger revealed himself. His body was one of a normal human, the same height as her, and yet... His head was one of a bird, black feathers adorning most of his head and face, a yellow beak and crimson eyes that seemed to pierce her own. A black cloak was wrapped around him, hiding most of his body from Hinotori's line of sight and making him look intimidating to most who saw him.

"How do you know I'm a half demon?" Hinotori asked, a glare prominent on her face.

"Your human appearance faltered for a moment when the sword was inflamed. Since I was watching the whole time, I saw your demon form. Now, who exactly are you?"

"I could ask the same of you." Hinotori shot back. He seemed to glower at her before it faltered after a moment, the boy bowing his head.

"My apologies... I am Fumikage... These ruins have been my family's home for a while now. Since the day a scarlet haired stranger showed us this place, we've been guarding the sword you now carry. She assured us that only the rightful heir to the throne of Embermore, the Phoenixborn, could pull that sword. But, it seems our job is complete, now that you have been found." In the shards of a shattered mirror, Hinotori caught her reflection. Resting upon her forehead was a silver circlet, adorned with a singular ruby, the crown of the last Phoenixborn.

"I can't be... There's no way..." Hinotori trailed off. Her? The Phoenixborn?

"Now that I'm taking a closer look at you, you look like the child that was stolen away from that same stranger... She set out from here toward the Dark Kingdom to find her daughter, but that was nearly 10 years ago." Fumikage mused. Hinotori shook her head.

"No... That isn't me. My mother abandoned me because of my half demon appearance." Hinotori told him. Fumikage hummed for a moment, not quite believing her before Hinotori gave a cry of realization. "I'm so sorry! I didn't introduce myself! My name is Hinotori."

"It's a pleasure, Lady Hinotori." Fumikage bowed again.

"Oh, please, no need for formalities." Hinotori told him, gaining a smile from her new companion.

"Very well... But, forgive me if it slips out every now and then."

"I'll remind you." Hinotori smiled, following her new companion to meet the rest of Fumikage's company. And so it was that in the ashes of Embermore, new bonds were forged. As the princess's company grew from two to four, she had no idea the changes fate had in store for her.

Taglist: @qweenexplosionmurder13 @euphorical-angel

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And Ashmedai-Called-Tobias Loved The Daughter of Raguel (An Asmodeus x Sarah bat Raguel Romantasy One Shot)

Bathsheba’s Lament (Bathsheba)

When the cambion child first comes to me, there is David, my captor and husband, wild-eyed at my door. He holds the dark-skinned babe with a face like it has never known a mother’s love, bawling, in rags of ash.

“Bathsheba, I have done a terrible thing,” my David says, blood at his brow, a haze of fiery, gory lust in his eye – like the night he set his guards on me to take me from my bath, and I wept naked, in moonlight, before him. “Agrath bat Mahalath, the wife of Sammael, has tempted me. I do not know what to say, only that this child is hungry.”

I look up from our own nursing son, Solomon, my little prince of the red locks like Esau. “There is room for one more at my breast, my King,” is all I say, though inside, I am burning. Hatred, regret, but sadness, sadness for the newest half-born bastard of David. “What is his name?”

“Ashmedai.”

David hands me this Ashmedai, wipes his hands clean of his sin, then slams the door. I set Solomon down to sleep, then bathe tenderly and change the cloth diaper of the babe. A thick cake of grease and blood, and the sweat of a demoness’ loin, washes off the newborn like ebon silk. Tiny horns poke through little Ashmedai’s coal black hair, and wing buds unfurl from his back.

Solomon giggles in his sleep. I smile tenderly at my newly adopted child. “Oh Solomon, you have a new twin today,” I say, nursing my Ash as rain falls outside on the Kingdom of G-d. Ashmedai latches instantly and puckers his rosy mouth at the sweet tang of my milk. I rock Ashmedai to sleep that night, not letting the poor thing go. Lilith’s companions are not known to be good mothers, after all.

“Ashmedai, welcome home, my gazelle-eyed malakhim,” I tell him as he sleeps beside me, Solomon to my left, Ashmedai to my right.

Solomon snores lightly. Ashmedai stares at the ceiling, reaching for the mobile David carved, on one of the rare days he was sober, and not wrestling like Jacob with G-d. But what do I know of the Lord? I am just Bathsheba. I am just a woman. One of David’s countless wives.

The lot left to me is to pick up the pieces after the men are done.

And oh, what a thing that David has done.

***

David takes to coming home stinking of the Demoness of the Wastes. He steals pennyroyal tea bags from my spice cabinet, an abortifacient that I give out to the maids freely that David impregnates whom he would otherwise execute for not dealing with his own bastard sons and daughters. Why he let Ashmedai live, I know:

Ashmedai cannot be killed. Ashmedai is two now. Always clutching my skirts. More curious than Solomon, who is a sweet mama’s boy. Ashmedai’s wings have grown, there are scales on his brown skin, a dragon’s tail lashing, and he can fly. Each morning, I braid their hair with meadowsweet, black-red locks on Ash’s head, red-blond tresses on sea-gray eyes over Solomon, and Ashemedai’s gazelle eyes burn gold, and my treasured sons kick their feet patiently.

They play. They plot. They beg for apples dipped in honey on Rosh Hashanah. David, on his sober days, holds his sons high to blow the shofar to welcome in the New Year. It is then, when he lives up to Adonai’s burden, that G-d is pleased.

“Bathsheba, Ha Satan has many wiles. It is G-d’s way for those of us who walk with the Lord,” David begs one day when he misses Solomon’s twelfth birthday. He is covered in love bites and bruises from Agrath. My pennyroyal is all gone. I have had to import delphinium from the Etruscans. Better to prevent pregnancies on me or the maids that David sires, these days, than to prematurely end one.

To hell with any more babes Agrath may birth. I have taken in one and loved him fiercely like my own. The rest of David’s cambions can rot.

Ashmedai speeds into the room, straight into David’s arms. “Papa!” he says. “It is Solomon’s twelfth birthday, only, I am jealous, for you never give me any presents on mine.”

David, without thinking, takes a gold seal ring and places it on Ashmedai’s thumb. “Here is a ring, son. A seal of my love.”

Ashmedai hugs David, hard, then darts out of the room with a wooden sword, on wings like spindrifts of wind.

“We have done the best we can by that boy,” David rankles.

“What do you mean, my King?” I ask, horrified.

David touches the tooth ridge scar, from where Agrath bit too hard last year, on his chest. It festered and infected him with fever for days, and now, he always smells of sulfur. “It is time that Ashmedai goes back to his mother. He is strong enough that he will not die in Gehenna this time.”

“But, my King, he is our son! I love him like my own.”

“Shush, Bathsheba. Obey your King. He is my son, not yours. Ashmedai never belonged to you. You were simply his nursemaid.”

That night, all my delphinium is gone.

***

I hide Ashmedai in the rushes. That is not enough to stop Sammael’s hellhounds from sniffing him out. I hide and weep as a great demon horde headed by Ha Satan and a demoness who is more bone than flesh – Agrath – heaves into her arms my poor, bawling Ashmedai.

“Mama, mama? Where are you?” Ashmedai screams. “Let me go, monstress!”

Agrath scoops poison from behind her talon and drizzles it into Ashmedai’s nasal socket. Her son slumps, smelling of nightshade. “Oh, my sweetling, how you have grown. And to think, David had me try to eat you. I am your mother, demon child. You will do well to sit on David’s throne, one day. Sammael, let us go.”

Off they ride, in a bone chariot, as the hellhounds bay.

I clutch Solomon to my breast and cry that night. The next morning, Solomon finds his brother’s ring in the weeds. It is stained with Ash’s blood, his half-twin’s claws having scratched a type of cursed star on it.

“I will never forgive father for this,” Solomon’s tiny voice shakes.

Neither will I.

***

Agrath, Daughter of Mahalath (Ashmedai)

When David sells me down the river for a psalm to my birth mother, Agrath, I am twelve. A little stipple on HaShem’s paintbrush, like the fine horsehair my true mother, Bathsheba, uses to line her malachite eyes with kohl.

Agrath holds me firm on a stony throne of bone and blood. It is freezing, in the barren wasteland of Hell, and mangy lionesses with royalty in their eyes look at me as if I am their next meal.

“Oh, my sweet Asmodeus, Demon of Lust. There is too much of your father David in you,” Agrath sighs, twirling her rotten blonde hair with a spindly thumb.

Her poison from black milk has worn off. I flee, dressed in rags, stripped of the fine royal clothes my sister Tamar always weaves that Bathsheba dresses me in to match my brothers Solomon and Absalom.

“What have you done to me, monstress?” I weep, falling to my knees. My wings are bound, feet manacled to the base of her throne. Agrath’s poison that she has scooped behind my nose has made my limbs jelly. But kin calls to kin. I recognize my own blood. “I am only like Bathsheba, witch. And, a bit like David. Nothing at all like you.”

“Ah? But my Asmodeus. You are the picture of me and my mortal king. A cambion – half whore, half royal. You shall do well in the pleasure chambers and battlefields.” Agrath smokes a long roll of opium. There is a regality in her decay. Twisted, flatulent beauty.

“Oh, mother?” I hiss. “And what am I for?”

She grins, all fangs and terror: “Sammael and I need a weapon. A weapon to sit on a Jewish throne. You shall rule Lust and War. David has done right by you, bringing you up in his ways of warcraft, strategy, swordsmanship, archery, and riding. But this Bathsheba has taught you nothing of pleasure. Unlike us mothers do in Hell. I? I shall teach you magick, and on me, your virgin seed.”

I vomit.

And oh

am I made

to learn.

***

The Casket I Was Born In (Ashmedai)

I was born for no throne but Hell’s, child of King David and the Night Howler Agrath. The machinations of a demon are mighty, but I am only half-ensouled, half of me burning smokeless fire, the other pumping crimson blood.

Cambion, they call me. A prototype of magick. Thick in magick, it bleeds gold from my limbs, like the starry ring Solomon wished upon for my return, half-twin of mine etched in the stars. When Bathsheba seemed to abandon me in the rushes, and my birth mother came calling, had I not already given up the ghost?

I remember it well: Bathsheba’s sweetness. All little boys treasure their mother. We have the same red-black hair, mama and I, thick coils of dark Jewish locks. Where Solomon is ginger like Esau, I am dark and comely, like an homage to the Jacobean underbelly of Gan Eden. Where forefather Jacob saw a ladder of angels, I hallucinate behind closed, serrated goat pupil a great line of demon kings and queens reaching in my lineage from my silver naval cord all the way to the womb of Sheol.

Perhaps I always knew I would lose those dozen years of solace. That did not make the parting any less sweeter. Agrath, she of flayed flesh and bone tendril, did well putting me to work in her whorehouses. They call me Asmodeus, Demon of Lust and Wrath. Say I am only good at the slaver Sammael’s lashing as her witch king husband beats me with his cruel whip. They use my body in turn, my stepfather and her, Lilith, Naamah, and Eisheth.

(This was before the third of starry Heaven fell, and only the terrestrial demons reigned in the womb of Sheol. Leviathan of the frosty cancerous depths, Rahab of the abyssal sea, Sammael of the Vulcan’s forge.)

They share their wives and plant bastards and princesses amongst mortals and demon and angel alike – the Prototypical angels soon acquire a taste for the vintage of hell. In the stable I am held, I am used by merciless Raphael and cruel Jophiel the most. Even peerless Michael deigns rape me to relieve some stress of being G-d’s Champion.

But my favorite is Lucifer. He will purchase a night and day with me, feed me candied violets, and never, ever touch me. Hell is modern in a way human terrains are not, the mystic’s the country of nowhere, Qliphothic side of dreams – the Mundus Imaginalis sages describe in phantasmagories and ecstasies. What Teresa shall see in her Interior Castle is like Lilith’s laughing reflection in the mirror. We have hovels and skyscrapers, winding paths that lead to English rose gardens three millennia before the country was born. Neolithic temples. Mithraic caverns. Chinese mines. Roman tombs.

Lucifer simply says one day, after pampering me: “You must take back your crown, Ashmedai. There will come a day I shall need you. I am slave to Father. You are slave to your Mother. I see, one day, a future in which where you will want something more”

“My mother?” I ask, sixteen and jaded, a whelp of a boy. Already, Agrath and Sammael have me fighting alongside them in endless pillage and plunder against pagan cthonica. We have just struck Yama’s harbors. Next, Persephone’s crown shall supposedly be Naamah’s. And we will lose at every turn, and win again and again. Thus is the balance of Dark Queens like Ereshkigal and Izanami.

No man can rule Hell. I laugh in quiet as Sammael tries.

Lucifer sips his wine – a flinty Chablis from the future. Some fairer clime named ‘France.’ “Bathsheba is well to want, a mother’s love is worthwhile. But beyond power, beyond our native lands, beyond the humanity of immortal souls that us angels and demons long for - (angel no longer shall I be much longer), do we long for a human’s love. In that, Ashmedai, is freedom. I? I covet Eve.”

“I abhor love. It is betrayal. I shall take my mother as bride, just to piss off David.”

Lucifer clears his elegant throat.

“Be careful what you wish for, Ashmedai.”

That night, I find my chains broken, a green gleaming serpent with rainbow eyes curled around them.

“Thank you, greatest of my patrons,” I say to the Angel of Light.

I flee in the night, loaf of bread at hand, secrets and weapons in my packet, fury at my brow.

Want a woman?

A tittering blonde like Eve?

Ridiculous.

***

Le Infante Terrible (Ashmedai)

I find father in birth mother Agrath’s chambers, by the Red Sea where thousands of Lilith’s children have been murdered by Senoy, Sansenoy, and Semangelof. The scattered abortions of their defiled births and prey are borne upon the bone broth upon the stewy sand.

David and Agrath? They fuck in the reeds, like wild animals, in a hot summer night. In quiet timbrels, David weeps of the burdens of reigning.

I slip poison into David’s decoupling wine.

Cantarella.

Afterwards, I smile. The first smile in four years. I watch from the rose bush as my father drinks it down with his Babylon bride.

It in not justice – too late for that. My body is already broken. Mind a salvaged ship. My heart – if I ever had one – is far beyond repair. I barely remember Solomon’s smile and hug. Bathsheba’s tender embrace, the way she fed me pottage, administered to my play wounds, wrapped my wing buds in silk when they itched.

But it feels a might bit of good. To see these birth sowers, traitors of blood, suffer.

David chokes up guts. Boils burn on his abdomen, spread from his crotch to his legs.

I think of the cries of Bathsheba from David’s chambers, the grave of her first husband she secretly wept by each evening that we had gardened as boys – true, the fruit of her and David’s union was sweet: my half-brother, beloved Solomon.

But we are a rotten vintage.

And Solomon? I would see him as king. Or, perhaps, a cambion would do better.

Who is wiser, after all these years - Solomon or I? Are we each a half of a baby, twins more than we know – to cleave us apart, to die?

I steal the shamir from Agrath’s gift box. David had fetched it from spoils of war from the young Queen of Shebe, one of Lilith’s bastard daughters in Ethiopia.

It is said Younger Lilith, the Queen of Shebe, is very beautiful. I faintly remember my score of younger siblings – Tamar, who is now a great lady. Also said to be an unfurling, fair lily of the valley.

Oh, yes. Haughty Absalom. He who nursed until he was ten at his mother’s weary breast.

Warring sons of David. His daughters, weeping. Who, oh who, shall win the accursed crown? Who shall I charm and please?

How can I save mama? My true mother, milk mother, Bathsheba?

How could I ever want a woman in the twisted way David fucked Agrath? In the wily way Lucifer talks of Eve, innocence in sin these humans have? Even Samyaza fell for that Istehar, then was hung as the constellation Kesil. But the Giants were before my time, well, I suppose father David saw to that.

I knife back to the present. Revel in David’s suffering.

Agrath, to her name, Howls. She flies on bloody wings with David’s corpse like a bloody pearl at her breast, to abandon the wreckage of her mortal lover at Solomon’s door. Solomon the Wise is always picking up King David’s pieces, covering up his bastards and scandals.

This, though, will be too much. I have made it so.

Cantarella, mixed with demon ichor, does miracles of death, after all.

I have learned the art of poison, war, and murder from the Drugmaster of God, my adoptive father, Sammael, who took the most pleasure in breaking me.

Like Sammael, I have become a covetous, defiled, twisted thing.

Only with Lucifer, for those four years in Hell, had I ever felt whole. Fathered

What did Lucifer mean, to want something mortal? Something more? I want a grave. Mother’s hands braiding my hair. A stiff drink with Solomon, after my dirty work to his benefit is over.

My vengeance.

The golden shamir worm burrows into my breast pocket, as if trying to get to the center of my heart. My half-human, half-monster cardiac flesh palpitates.

I am not safe here.

There is nowhere safe for any of my family, I am learning. We will kill each other at every turn.

To hell with thrones. To hell with carousing fathers.

I just want done with this whole wretched exile.

But?

I also want to stir

some

shit.

***

Bathsheba’s Elegy (Bathsheba)

David passes on to Dumah’s court, as drunken, carousing kings with rebellious sons do. Absalom rises and rapes and revolts and dies hanged by his hair from a tree. Tamar weeps of her violation and lost brother. I have no tears left to shed. They ran dry when Ashmedai was stolen.

The kingdom is in chaos.

I get on my knees and beg for Solomon to be crowned at my husband, David’s, deathbed. Solomon is 24, a brilliant mage and alchemist and sorcerer – Ashmedai’s power over those twelve years has rubbed off on his half-brother, my shining child. But oh, how I miss the little malakhim with gazelle eyes and tiny, soft wings.

David, senile, says yes, and grants Solomon the throne. My dying king had so many venereal diseases from rotting Agrath and her ladies that I have to stuff my face in my garden’s sweet flowers and retch up my guts.

I have no idea how the black, bleeding boils over David’s legs are not some kind of curse from G-d for murdering my real husband – the husband that loved me – and raping me, Bathsheba, again and again, over and over, forcing me to raise a demon child I came to love from another woman, only to give Ashmedai away. I still keep a lock of Ashmedai’s black hair in a pendant on my breast, tied and braided with Solomon’s red.

***

Bruised Passivity (Ashmedai)

I watch Bathsheba comb her hair.

I weep.

I long for mother’s

Touch.

I miss Solomon’s smile.

But more? I want

revenge.

After all this time, neither mama nor my twin

ever

came

To find me.

***

Bathsheba Reigns (Bathsheba)

Solomon is crowned. I am Queen Regent. All I ask is that my dear son find his brother and keep my herbs and teas stocked so that I may continue attending as midwife to births and deaths in the palace, and not treat his wives badly, as David did.

Solomon writes them Songs. His thousand comely brides sing. He has the Queen of Shebe walk across a floor of glass to reveal the woolen Seirim legs beneath her skirts and takes a demon lover in his own way – for the Queen of Shebe is Lilith the Younger.

We are all sitting down at dinner - Lilith the Younger, Solomon, and I – when a great wind rips open the door. In comes a great and terrible demon, with wild black curls spinning to his feet, talons on his toes and fingers, dark olive skin, burning gold eyes, and sandstone blush.

“Brother, might I know why I was not invited to your coronation?” Ashmedai says.

Solomon begins to weep, then rushes to Ashmedai. “I always wished you would come back, Ash. This is my head wife, Lilith the Younger.”

Ashmedai looks mischievous. “As great a lover as my mother Agrath was to our father David?”

Solomon blunts like the bloodied end of a worn-out mace. “Do not utter her name, Ash. Bathsheba is our mother.”

“She cast me out, didn’t you, Bathsheba?”

I am crying into my roast duck and river greens. “Ashmedai, you know I did not. You know you were stolen away.”

Ashmedai covers the space between us in a lightning strike. He kisses me, hard, on my lips. “Mother, am I not pleasing? Pleasing enough to keep? Pleasing enough to not whore out to all the shedim, lilim, and seirim as Agrath did to me, a slave to the carnal desires of her brothers and sisters? Fit enough to sacrifice like Abel on Yom Kippur?”

My pulse races. My poor, poor son. How he has suffered. “Ashmedai, that is not godly. I’m sorry.”

Ashmedai spits at my feet, then crosses Solomon’s shadow. “I have no use for the tyrant of my father David.”

Solomon begs, and Lilith the Younger shields him with her magick. “Ashmedai, please, forgive us. I tried for a decade to search for you.”

Ashmedai hardens his heart. “No, I demand retribution. I demand Bathsheba as bride.”

I pale. “What – what did you say, my dearest, darling Ash?”

Solomon looks like his temple is burning. “What did you say, bastard?”

“As you have stolen my birthright of King, Solomon, I will steal our mother to Gehenna. A fair trade, no? You have this… Queen of Shebe to entertain you.” Ashmedai’s gold eyes burn. “I want her. I have always wanted the beautiful Bathsheba, who pitied me when no one else would.”

“Ashmedai, remember yourself, my sweet malakhim. My gazelle. This is not like you,” I plead, weeping at my demon son’s knees. I tear at my hair. I always seem to find myself at a man’s feet, begging, on the floor. “I am 42. I am too old. I am your mother. This is the sin that leveled Sodom and Gomorrah to the ground.”

“Any innocence I had was whored out and ground down to the mill long ago.” Ashmedai scowls, then smiles like a serpent’s tooth, dripping poison. “I am a demon. Sin is my nature. I will not leave until you come with me, Bathsheba. I will force you if I must.”

I am weeping, beyond comprehension, inconsolable. Men, they always take. Even my beautiful, black-haired son. My rapist King David. My shy and nameless first husband, stolen too soon by Malakh HaMavet, to dance in Dumah’s Court of the Dead.

“No,” Solomon and I say in unison, his a command, mine a plea.

“Ashmedai, in the name of YHWH, I bind you with your own blood! Brother’s blood, to do me service, to be my personal demon,” Solomon says through a sheen of tears, holding the starry ring David had given Ashmedai all those years ago, that Solomon wears on his neck always, in remembrance of the brother he only had for twelve precious years.

Suddenly, chains shaped like tefillin sprout on Ashmedai. He cries out, constrained, the prayer chains weighing him down. Lilith the Younger murmurs old magick and adds her purple fire to the binding.

“My son, please, let him go,” I plead with Solomon. “He is your brother. His words are air. He means no harm.”

I watch as Solomon’s heart hardens in turn. There was always too much David in him. “My brother Ashmedai desires you, mother. It is an abomination. I will sequester you in your room, so that my whoring half-brother cannot lay an eye on you. And I? I have a kingdom to build.”

***

I watch, each morning, day and night, from my sumptuous prison tower room, as Ashmedai hauls stone. He builds a temple in a year. The ring of David is powerful, or perhaps Solomon always had the magick, dark magick, in him. I hear Ashmedai tell Solomon the secrets of the universe on the wind, teaching him how to summon and bind Goetic demons and make them do his bidding. One day, a brilliant gold worm – the shamir – burrows from my chandelier into the floor, then, to the center of the earth – at least, that is how deep the hole seems.

Solomon’s harem grows. I take food and use the toilet in my room. I mourn my lost garden. Babies cry - Solomon is spreading bastards. His harem is insatiable. Lilith the Younger rules beside him, half-time in Solomon’s court, half-time in Shebe.

Until, one day, a great clamoring comes from far beyond my garden walls. Thunder strikes Solomon’s Temple beyond my window. I tremble, nearly wetting myself. It is my 43rd year.

The Temple shifts, rearranging. I see Solomon flying like a bird, cubits and cubits, aeons and aeons, away.

Ashmedai emerges from the inside-out temple. His tefillin shackles are broken. The demons are freed and cavort. They set themselves with revelry upon the palace harem.

Soon enough, Ashmedai is at my door.

There is Solomon’s crown, at Ash’s brow. His brother’s red-violet robes, lined with white, fall to Ash’s taloned feet. There are tears there, too, in my malakhim’s eyes.

“Mama?” Ashmedai asks. There are scars where his body was bound. “Will you do my hair?”

I do. I untangle a year of knots. I massage his torn-up scalp. Solomon has not been kind to Ashmedai in his servitude. Quite the opposite. Finally, after a year, I am let out of my room.

We gather flowers together in my overgrown, year-untended garden. Ashmedai is silent as he weeds, but his tears say it all.

In the end, my demon son holds my hand, tender, and kisses my cheek.

“You are nothing like Agrath, mama.”

And like that, Ashmedai and I eke out a quiet life in King David’s court, and Ash, my gazelle-eyed malakhim, is a wise ruler.

That is, until Solomon returns anointed by the holy fire of Chokmah, three years a wanderer, and demands his revenge

exiling

my

malakh.

***

Hold My Girl (Ashmedai)

Since Solomon exiled me, I have been like a Bedouin warlord. Conquering Primals in Hell as Lucifer builds his empire alongside his arch-regent Beelzebub and Queen Eve – the old regents and my mother overthrown – taking pleasure where I may: casks of Grecian wine, stolen dates from rotten vines that my stepfather Sammael had damned, dreaming of Bathsheba.

“Go in the night,” mama Bath said, pressing lily of the valley perfume into my brow. “Solomon’s magick is too strong for you to defy him any longer. But remember this my gazelle-eyed malakhim Ash: Solomon still loves you. Brothers always fight. Look at Sammael and Michael.”

So, I kissed Bathsheba’s brow, left roses on Tamar’s pillow, and rode an Abyssinian gelding out into the cold, glassy night. I have mastered many magicks, and I took the shamir as souvenier – it can burrow to find spring water, this tiny gold wyrm, or arch like a sling rock into my enemies’ bodies, leaking bloody fountains.

Hell is not somewhere I enjoy. I stick to the shadows, trading with the Samaritans and Maccabees. Empires come and crumble. Bathsheba ascends to Heaven, and Solomon, immortal from his pact with G-d – more Chokmah wisdom contained in his vessel than any sage before him – retreats to the Heavenly City with King David, out of some petty vagary of repentance.

The Temple crumbles and is built again. The High Priest of Israel wears a plate of armor of shimmering jewels. On a drunken bet with Moloch, I steal into the Temple and wear it, then talk to G-d as I have longed to since I was born, offering Him a golden bull.

“What would you have of me, Father – why was I created? For tragedy?”

There is a burning rose bush, a wind of the archons, Sophia trickling like a watery serpent of gnosis into my daemonic brain.

A bright silver lizard appears with startling purple eyes: the Shekinah.

“You were created for love, Ashmedai,” the Shekinah says, quite kindly, then dissolves into mist and floats up to Gan Eden.

I retch my guts out – I have enchanted the Temple workers to serve me like a foreign Carthaginian king, as I play at paying alms to their G-d, who is secretly my own. Memories of my bondage and breaking in at the pleasure houses of damnable Sammael and Agrath, who are now bound lock and chain in Tartarus, bloody my mind like a blunted mace.

The Demon of Lust – Asmodeus – created for love?

Impossible!

Only Bathsheba loves me. Tamar relies on me. Solomon and I are bitter wine. In Heaven, my family abides. I have free reign of Earth, Heaven, and Hell, cambion I remain.

David repents, regrets. He prays with his kindred of anointed angels and my ancestors in Avram’s bosom, trying to make right his wrongs – as a husband, king, and father.

So far, I feel no blessing from starry, weeping David has befallen me.

I am simply:

A warmonger.

Gambler.

And crap dice player -

With fate.

Still, love calls, as it

always

will.

(You don’t have far to go, boy

you don’t have much

at all.)

***

There is tell of a king in Medea, Raguel, who has a daughter possessed. They say this fair, comely Sarai is possessed by me.

No human has claimed I have possessed anyone yet. Overthrown Solomon’s temple and made him spend three years in delightful exile, yes, but that wicked country is now ancient dust. Kingdoms fall and rise, and though occultists think they can bind me, I reason I am fairly free.

Sammael, Lilith, and Beelzebub are the common possession complaints. But me? This means my reputation is spreading. Amused, I send a messenger blood-hawk to Lucifer to tell him I am taking time off to strike up some revelry in Medea, and celebrate my good fortune of being named so dangerous amongst humans, I possess their comely brides.

They say this girl, Sarai bat Raguel, refuses all suitors, and aims to be a rabbi. A female rabbi? What genius! She is seconds from being stoned.

I absolutely must intervene.

***

“Your name is?”

“Tobias. I am here to save your daughter from the misfortune that befalls old maids.”

King Raguel of Medea looks at me, scrutinizing. I have disguised myself not very well, my proud red-black curls done in a turban, my outfit that of a Medean goatherd. I offer Raguel myrrh from my bag. Sweet figs. A pomegranate.

“My daughter Sarai has a sizable dowry, and has had suitors before, young Tobias. But I fear you will not last the night.” King Raguel’s hazel eyes bore into me like he is drilling for diamonds.

“Oh?” I drawl, smirking. I have a habit of smirking. Perhaps it covers my wounds. “Is this daughter of yours very ugly? To be possessed by this ‘Asmodeus,’ does she freeze them like the Grecian Medusa?”

There are tears in King Raguel’s eyes. He appreciated the fifty goats, twenty oxen, and ten white bulls I had given him for Sarai’s virginity. “No, my daughter is a dreamer, the worst predicament for a woman, young Tobias. Her love of the holy book has led her astray, and open to the devious machinations of the Sitra Ahra. Asmodeus possesses her each wedding, and has slain six suitors on my daughter’s behalf.”

I pale, my olive skin teeming. This Sarai, a murderer? And here I had thought her bookish, stubborn, and prone to dramatics. This sounds like a curse. Fun, but I have no idea what demon has cast it.

“Well, the truth is, most esteemed, venerable King Raguel,” I say, faking solemnity: “I am blessed by the healing angel Raphael. I am told by my ophanim mentor that burnt fish liver shall drive away this ‘Asmodeus.’ You can give her dowry away to set up a fund for Medean widows. After all, I, Tobias, am a wealthy man.”

King Raguel dabs at his eyes. “Blessed by an angel like the wrestling Jacob and Michael. Indeed, dear young Tobias, you have finally given me hope. The wedding is tomorrow – the ketubah will be ready. What is your lineage, Tobias? Though a goatherd, you are prosperous. A trader, I presume?”

I smile like a snake, barely concealing my fangs. “Fallen royalty, your highness. I am from King David’s line.”

His eyes go wide. He invokes a solemn prayer to G-d. “Very well then, young Tobias. Prepare yourself to rid my sweet, misguided daughter of her demon. May you have many children by my fine daughter, and inherit my kingdom in glory.”

***

I laze about all night, eating fancy cheese and honeyed loaves. The challah the kitchen girls make me is particularly wonderful. But curiousity gets the best of me. First, I visit King Raguel’s stables, and look at his fine roans, Roman stallions, and Gallic hounds. Next, to the courtyard – statues of Asherah line the fountain, teraphim are replete in each corner with offerings, there is a carved homage to Baal, but G-d is at the forefront – in the form of the snake god Yah. So, these Medeans are not strictly monotheists. More prone to superstition and casting stones at curious girls… who somehow murders her intendeds.

Finally, the library. It has the smell of the Library of Alexandria, but is much more rich in magickal tomes, occult texts, and the classics. Long Jewish law scrolls, ancient tablets, folktales, Grecian and Roman myths, books from as far as China. Oh, what a wonderful collection!

I almost do not notice the young, plump woman covered in ink, writing neatly in the corner. She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, soft like my mother, strong like David.

Muscles ripple under her olive dough. Her breasts are two perked mountains, her dress made of black cotton embroidered with pomegranates in costly Egyptian crimson glass. Her hair is a spill of brown chocolate, and it smells faintly of lilacs.

But, those eyes? They burn. They pin me. They dissect every sin and regret my fulsome hips and pistoning rod has ever buried itself into for cold, shallow comfort to deal with the trauma of my life. Embers and wood.

What right does this strange girl have, to see right through me, to my heart!

“So you are Ashmedai,” she sighs, putting her quill down and neatly setting her scroll – a Hebrew poem on dawn – out to dry on the rack.

“Sarai?” I ask. I am drawn to her like a child to his mother, like a man to his wife. No human, beyond Bathsheba, has ever commanded any respect from me. To us demons, humans are toys. But I feel she is playing with me. And I am at this strange poet’s mercy.

“I suppose you may call me that,” she puffs at her oudh-clad curl. “Rabbi Sarai would be nicer, Ash.”

“I am not a demon that torments you. I am your intended, Tobias.” I bow low, smiling winningly. But, just for her, I let my fangs extrude, leaking sweet, honeyed poison. She is a murderess, after all.

“So the whole palace believes!” she laughs. “What a fool these Medean men and women are. What a fool the world is. They cannot tell demon from angel, man from G-d, a scholar and alchemist worth her salt from a doddering, demented “rabbi.” I have more wisdom in my little pinkie than this whole accursed town.”

“I do not doubt that, Sarai. You saw through my disguise. But I am only a human.”

I stride proudly toward her, taking her hand and kissing it. In my excitement at her comely form and sparkling wit, my talons come out of their nailbeds, pressing into her golden hands to form half-moon impressions.

“As human as I am a woman.” She laughs, charmed by me. Her smile could make a man kill himself just to please her – perhaps this is what these suitors are doing.

“No, you are an angel, Sarai.”

She rubs her hands down my neck, taking my measurements. “I hate rubies. They weigh me down. No coffers may enter Heaven. Take these, Ashmedai – my gift to you. You will not live long, you know. Every man that marries me dies.”

She strings her necklace of pearls and pigeon’s blood rubies around my curls and neck, free from her own sweet binding. I shudder as the bell-like sleeves of her dress, smelling sweetly of Sarai, skim my cheek.

“So, you are an angel? Why are you in this backwater prison, masquerading as a woman?”

We sit, and she leans against me. I wrap my arm around her – I do not know why. It is like she has always fit there.

“Well, I suppose I am human. I was born of Raguel and some nameless concubine who died in birth. Perhaps, as an orphan, I am prone to a wandering mind. But you know, kind demon who will not live through my wedding night, I have visions: Genesis, G-d’s darkness, a fennel stalk of flame in Prometheus’ hand. I think I have a spark of the Hol Bird in me.”

“The phoenix?” I kiss her brow, kicking my feet with her on the bench. “Perhaps, you do.”

“The shamir wyrm you wear comes from the Phoenix’s cast-off feathers, you know, when it dies in Heliopolis,” she says. “It will become a bird again when you love yourself.”

I freeze, remembering the Shekinah’s prophecy. Anger flashes in my eye, and I stand quickly up, spitting at her feet. “I am a demon, you cossetted princess. Born for whoredom and slaughter. Do not you know whom you tempt? I am Lust. I am Wrath. Your ruin.”

She narrows her cinder-colored honey eyes at me. “And yet, my demon, you came. You came all the way from Hell, to investigate a strange girl. Why?”

I stutter, balling my hands into fists until my talons make me bleed. “I do not know why I am here,” I curse. “Perhaps to shut you up.”

She smiles wickedly. “You are easy to pique, my Ashmedai.”

I tie my hair back with sinew. The red-black cloud is a mess. “I am Tobias, girlchild.”

I stomp out, and then, I fall to my knees in my private room, weeping:

Finally,

I

am in love.

I feel trapped.

I feel insatiable.

The hours til the marriage ceremony make my skin crawl like ice melting.

I need her, Sarai.

I want her, the girl rabbi.

I need her. I need her. I’ll eat her!

Why, oh why G-d, did you send me

an angel

of Hell?

***

During the marriage ceremony under the white canopied tent, we slaughter an ox, sign the ketubah, and dance.

Sarai watches me, amused.

I burn for her. I hold her hand to stinging closeness. Lust – is this lust? Is this love? Is this madness, what Lucifer felt when he first beheld a woman, the first terpsichore, Eve, and had to tempt her – plant his seed deep in her womb – as some arcane Forbidden Fruit, to ensoul these godforsaken humans?

Daughters of Eve – the Watchers fell for them. Samyaza and Azazel could not resist. My father David killed the last of their unholy, giant brood of Nephil brats.

But me? I am drowning. When I kiss Sarai, there is poison on her lips – cantarella. So, she poisons the suitors. Little does she know, I too poison myself, to build up immunities against my enemies. The flowers and herbs of hell are much more potent, so all the cantarella does is make me ebullient and twirl her around even faster.

We go to the bedchamber. Sarai watches me, expectant.

“That was quite a lot of cantarella, Ashemedai-called-Tobias. I suppose, it does not affect a cambion?” She laughs, pouring us saffron tea and serving it to me teasingly.

“Sarai, I love you,” I say. It spills all out of me like a child’s coins into a well. I cannot hold it in.

“You are drunk, Ashmedai-called-Tobias. Every man wants me for my beauty. Not for my knowledge. Not for my soul. For that sin, you will never have me.”

“Oh, but Sarai bat Raguel – I spent all afternoon contemplating your genius, reading the poems you write. You are better than Sappho. I cannot think of anything besides Homer to which you compare-

“Enough flattery, my demon. Come, lay your head in my lap. You are my husband now. After all, you survived my test.” She giggles, her beautiful wedding gown rich and resplendent, as befits the jewel of all Medea. My Sarai crinkles her nose. “You smell of lust and goat.”

“I am Tobias, a goatherd. I had to be. To win your hand.”

She combs my hair with tortoiseshell, then braids peonies into it. I always seem to find angels repulsive – but not this ‘Sarai,’ whoever she truly be.

On her, my first blood. On her, my heart’s kiss. On her, my troth. On her, my new life.

She is my grave, you see.

“And I must be a rabbi, Ashmedai. You do not know how much G-d calls to me. Scribbling verses in Koine Greek on the back of my mind. Burning aeons into my brain. My heart is a gazelle that longs only for your Father.”

“Are you the Shekinah, Sarai?” I ask, dazed, gazing up at her aristocratic, aquiline nose, the slanted almond eyes, the thin lips like daisy chains Solomon and I once made for mama.

“Aren’t all women the Shekinah, sweet Ash? And aren’t all men Adamah?”

“Daughter of Eve, you toy with me,” I warn.

“And you tempt me, Ashmedai. You are the only man who can hold me. Yet I will slip like rain through your hands.”

We kiss then. Fire and wine. She undresses me with medical precision, then sews my joints back together with her winsome hands. I am the demon of pleasure, so I master her, but only to her, do I yield. We sing hosannas under the starlit moon of Lailah.

Make love, again and again, until my thick black seed and her silken spendings coat us like wet grain.

“Will you have yet another Nephilim on me, Ashmedai?” she asks, hopeful.

“Do you want one?” I murmur, kissing sweet Sarai, angel Sarai’s, brow.

“Only with you.”

We are drunk off one another for twelve days and twelve nights, only stopping for food and wine, and long strolls in the courtyard garden. We talk philosophy. She shows me her alchemy lab. She has transmuted sulfur to gold. Nigredo stains the walls.

I see the phoenix in her, enshrouded deep in her amber-orange soul.

In me, Sarai sees spring rains, celery and wheat. A secret garden of roses, meant only for her.

On the final night, she uses her alchemy to twist the shamir into a cock band, and places it on my member: “You are mine, now and forever, Ashmedai.”

I kneel, kissing her feet. “You have gelded me, sweet Sarai.”

That lovemaking, after she crowns me?

It is

the sweetest

I have ever

known.

***

I finally leave the bedchamber to find her some pain reliever when Sarai’s menses comes. It seems no child was fetched – the cycle of the moon was not at its fertile peak, anyway.

“My angel, I am back!” I exclaim with vim and vigor, practically barreling like a happy toddler into the room, drunk off my new bride.

There stands Solomon, with sleeping, fainted Sarai – a smile on her face, drool at her mouth, tears in her eyes, convulsing – in his arms.

In seconds, I am feral, my mace at hand.

Solomon sighs. “G-d has called Sarai. She is a holy woman, Ashmedai. You are polluting her. It is the Law, you know. Angels and demons are not meant to be.”

“And who are you, wretched brother – God’s executor? The new Sammael, now that my stepfather is bound?”

Solomon sighs. He is still ageless, young and wicked in his beauty, but now, his eyes are jade, and his hair is platinum white. “Michael stands to G-d’s Right. I must occupy the Left. There is a balance to these things, you know.”

I slash his throat, then take Sarai back into my arms. Solomon’s work is too much though.

Sarai

Is

Gone.

I curse, rave, dig up the guts of Solomon’s vessel until blood spatters the room. But his remains, and peaceful Sarai, dissolve into golden light covered in white feathers, and float up

To Gan

Eden. 

I weep. I wretch. I am broken. I will never

love

again.

But oh, if I had only known –

Sarai was far from gone.

In fact, she would haunt me, and I her,

Throughout

The channels

Of time.

“To hell with fish liver,” I sigh. I burn it to drive myself off.

Like a thief in the night

I leave Medea as I came.

***

I do not walk the Earth again for a hundred years.

Better to rot in my own living casket. My office in Hell. I become a fuck machine. I lose myself in men and women and those in-between. I become addicted to drugs of every calibration and titration. Lucifer worries, Bathsheba mothers, but I am a rock star on a bender, before rock is even a dream, a killer who forces Lucifer to make me his Prime Executor. I take pleasure in torture and perdition, the tenebrous punishment of the Damned and wicked Primals who once ruled Hell far more lawlessly than just Lucifer, shrewd Beelzebub, and wily Eve.

I do not visit Bathsheba. Do not write back.

I am too ashamed of what I have become.

A monster.

I guillotine the Damned. Hunt down the Primals.

And I torture those in Tartarus that Lucifer overthrew.

I grow wicked, abhorrent, I finally, after one hundred and eleven years, long for sun. A garden.

I hate gardens, now. I curse daylight. It is always night in Hell.

And yet, the ghost of love? It calls me.

I open a portal to a backwater countryside my father David once shepherded in. Wells make ley lines easier focal points to travel by – and the dead may not cross water.

And then, I shriek.

For at the well, younger but still her, dressed in strange clothes

is Sarai.

She sees me, covered in blood, bat-winged, chicken-footed, scaled, goat eyed, three heads of lion, bull and ox – I have no semblance of my human father left, for in Hell, to be monstrous is beautiful.

She sees me but does not remember me. How could she?

She throws her pail of water at me, laughing in fulsome joy.

“Oh, you are quite beautiful, and I mean to make you happy, poor thing. Let this sacred water heal you, lost little malakh.”

“Why do you bless a fallen angel, girl?” I weep.

She rubs vomit from my three mouths. “I bless you, strange creature. You are in pain. But do not linger here. The City of Luz is immortal, meant only for holy prophets, women of letters, and G-d.”

The water is sweet, cool, puts out one hundred eleven years of burning.

“May I follow you, daughter of Eve?” I choke through my vomit.

She quirks her lip, pity in her eye.

“No, strange creature, you may not. I am wed and must return to my sweet Jephtha. But I wish you well, in whatever it is you seek to find. Demons do not often surface anymore these days, you know.”

And with that, Sarai pats my monstrous, beastly back, rubs my brow of vomit and blood with her skirts, and blesses me, water at her hip as she walks through a hazelnut gateway into the immortal City of Luz, within which even Death cannot enter, much less a demon.

“Sarai?” is all I can sob, over and over again. For the first time, I shed my monstrous carapace, the fleshly and scale and horn and mane armor I wore to hide my pain, and I am just Ashmedai.

Red-black hair, golden eyes, scarred olive skin. I am naked. It rains. I want

the wind

to rid me

of her ghost.

I want to go to Bathsheba, to Lucifer, and be consoled. But this, I keep secret for many years. That Sarai, instead of passing on, and whatever happened in Heaven, chose to reincarnate to Earth.

How many times has she been reincarnated?

Is she, in the fog of newly born Lethe, also searching for me, in her heart of hearts?

Oh, her husband is lucky. What I had of her for thirteen days, he will have for a lifetime.

I curse Solomon. I curse G-d.

I Carry

On.

A hundred more years pass.

I ponder. I soften.

I am still wretched.

Still, I garden.

Hope.

Hope is on my mind.

Purim draws near.

I must go to Bathsheba, and ask

of the state

of my brother.

And Sarai?

Wait

for

me.

***

Purim (Bathsheba)

I thought, in Heaven, there would be no more tears over my sons. My first husband is but dust – he passed through the final gate of starry beginnings, sickened to lose me, desiring a clean slate. But I have sons, a daughter. I must stay – for Solomon. For David. For Tamar. For Absalom.

And, of course, for Ashmedai.

He has not visited in 211 years. Eve comes each Monday with fresh figs from her husbands’ Beelzebub and Lucifer, their quaint cottage in Hell perfect for moon gardens. We brunch, have boozy mimosas, and I wonder at my sons, always at war with each other.

Absalom has shaved his head. He refuses to have more than a buzzcut. He works with Metatron to build the Heavenly City – more pearly gates, more rivers of aquamarine, more magical creatures. He has become peaceful, thoughtful.

David repents. He cries. He meditates and prays. These men of Avram’s bosom have a connection to G-d, are let into the room of the Thrones that Michael and Solomon, who replaced Samael as Left Hand of the Father in the Heavenly Courtroom, Guard.

It is a connection I will never understand. Eve and I cherish our humanity. It is the strongest, most sacred part of ourselves. Ashmedai and Absalom do too. But Tamar, David, and Solomon have given themselves completely over to G-d. Perhaps it is a matter of if one chooses the Paternitas or Matronit, in our eternities, that forms our final souls.

Or, like my husband history has forgotten – the one who loved me when I was not a woman to write of in any holy book – only certain people and angels are granted eternity in the first place. Mayhaps even I will crumble to dust, disappear into the sentence at the end of the line, one day.

I am out gardening in my healer’s hut. I practice folk medicine with Gabriel and Lailah at the Tree of Souls, the married angels of birth and healing and the moon who tend Gan Eden. They are kindly angels. The fighting factions on both sides: archangels and demons, have mostly softened since the Primals were chained in Tartarus after Lucifer ‘reinvented’ and realigned things. But what is not outright warfare, is now subterfuge and politicking.

I shall have none of it. I braid Tamar’s hair. Bath Kol and I play bridge. Eve and I gamble in Persia, disguised as old, happy maids.

But I fret, over David, Solomon, and Ash.

And at night, I leave the stars and Heaven behind, to go to the far Lake of Memory, by the Bell Trees of Machon, and I meet my first husband there, his sylvan form melding his sweet, rain-laden soul in my wondermaker form. We are like the moon and her tide, him and I.

That is a secret I only tell you, dear reader. Not even darling Eve knows.

I wish, my family – though bruised – can heal.

I pray to the Shekinah when it rains. She comes to me as a snake of pure silver, with cobalt eyes. She wraps around my ankle, tickling my skin, and gives me seeds from far distant climes. They grow such splendid fruits. A kumquat. A durian. A citron. A pomelo. A banana. A pawpaw. My favorite? Mango. Or strawberry? It is hard to decide!

I like to watch humanity grow. I am an angel, it would seem, by these four white wings on my back. I can travel from Kether to Malkuth, up and down the Sephiroth.

I never visit Hell. It would be too painful, to force myself upon Ash with a box of fresh challah and a book to bide his time. He must make peace with himself. Solomon comes for Sabbath, says few words, but always makes knish and asks to pray with me.

I am falling back in love with David. I find, like Eve, our hearts grow tenfold here in the afterlife.

It is more like the beginning of a season, not so much an end, this fabled land beyond time. A season of planting, fruiting, winter, cycles. Rain.

“Mama?” comes a voice from the door of my healer’s hut in Gan Eden. Gan Eden is nature unbound, the Shekinah’s domain, where all that are wild and true roam.

I say quietly, daring to hope: “My Ash?”

In comes a broken, wistful boy I know like the back of my hand. The splendid robes, the impeccable jewelry, the fine heavy rings on his hands – I see through to the wounded nightingale of his heart.

He is the fairytale emperor with no clothes, stripped of any protection.

I rush to him, hug him, sob. “Oh, my malakhim. My gazelle. It has been over two hundred years. You do not look a day past twenty-five. But the demon form you were so proud of? You do not wear it, it seems…”

He shrugs, guarded. His golden eyes are shrewd. “It did not suit me. I am a man of business and the marketplace.” Then, he falters – his armor falls, wings droop, lips quiver. “Nothing matters, does it mama? If one is in love?”

I smile bittersweetly. “So, Cupid of Roman fame has struck you?”

“And I am known as Dark Cupid. I tripped on my own arrow, oh!” He sighs, pouring himself red wine from the carafe on my side table. “Badly, mama. So badly, it burns like Psyche’s oil. I have done many ills in my life. I am afraid, this is my karmic justice.”

“You are just my son, Ash. There is no justice or sin here. Only love.”

“Then why does Sarai haunt me! 211 years. I have only seen her once. I had thirteen days with her. I? I rule Wrath. I am King of Lust. But she is queen of my soul. I last saw her last in Luz.”

“The Deathless City?” I say quietly. “She is holy. More holy than even Michael.”

Ash winces at the name of Michael. I wonder, sadly, why.

“Yes, mama, that is the particular problem. By the rules of HaShem’s game, I am like shellfish – unclean. Though I do hate fish as well.”

I pull out a plate and serve him fresh Hamanstaschen – cookies shaped like Haman’s ears we used to make each Purim after he became a ruler of Hell. He quite likes Esther. He smiles, grateful, and bites into one indignantly, then sobs. Ash takes off his rings in the silver bowl I offer him. They look heavy. Hard to eat with. I gently take his coat and hang it up.

“Tell me about her, Ash.”

“I love her.”

“What is she like?”

“An angel.”

“Where did you meet her?”

“Medea. She was a princess.”

“What was her mother’s name?”

“I… do not know.”

“What is her last name?”

“Bat… Raguel?”

“What is her favorite color?”

“Ember. Cinders. Brown. Her eyes. They burned, saw through me… I, she wore a black dress with claret glass pomegranates. Maybe she likes pink?”

“Does she cook? Ride? Sew?”

“Um, she… she writes poetry. An alchemist.”

“And?”

“Well, she tried to poison me.” He smiles dreamily, then sobs.

I rub his hand, careful of his talons. The rings have sunk costly impressions into his skin, wax from his crests – Lucifer’s government has many insignias – the tallow having impressed crusted red dribbles on his knuckles.

“I take it is complicated.”

“I cannot have her, oh mama!”

Ashmedai lays at my feet, weeping, his brilliant hair unspooling in a black cloud in my hands. I see he now wears ram’s horns. They are kingly. Like Moses. So, G-d has anointed him… if only he could love himself!

My son Ashmedai shakes in anger. “Solomon. Solomon took her.”

“Solomon carries out the word of G-d, Ash,” I warn. “I am not much of one for G-d these days, I suppose. I live in the exiled Bride of God’s domain, after all. Oh Ash, Solomon loves you. So does David. They ask after you often.”

“I hate them. I will string their guts from the stars as jewelry in bloody Hell.”

“Ash, that is not you,” I correct him. “That is Sammael talking through you.”

“I – sorry, mama.” He stands up, embarrassed, cheeks burning. “Locker room talk.”

“Can you give me any clue to her true essence?” I urge. My magick rises in me, my four wings piquing like divining rods.

I can sense Sarai. She senses him. Looks at him fondly, wistful, through my eyes. But he is not ready for that.

He looks towards his belly, like an arrow has impaled his loins. “She knew the true nature of the shamir… no, I cannot say. It is our secret.”

I darken. “Solomon knew a girl like that. In his exile in Egypt. She was called Khofe. She was a priestess of the Bennu bird in the Heliopolis.”

Ashmedai rankles. “Did he kill her too?”

I soften, sorrowed, happy – oh, what do I feel, now that my prodigal son has returned?

“He married her, Ash,” I say in a whisper. “Solomon wants you to visit. He wants to apologize. Explain that day. All he said is… there is bad blood between you. I do not understand why you three – David, Solomon, and you, my gazelle, cannot soften like Absalom and Lucifer. Even Moloch does not eat the children anymore.”

Ash wails. “SOLOMON MARRIED HER?”

Like that, he flies like a mad, vengeful demon from my humble hut, transformed into his beastly form.

“I should not have told him that,” I tell the silver snake at my door, with burning cobalt eyes.

The Shekinah smiles, then offers me a necklace of apple seeds.

“Yes, Sophia. Men. Complex. Let us pray, and plant. We have gardens to tend.”

And bones to mend, by the end of thisssss. She hisses.

***

Testament of Solomon (Solomon)

I have a brother I love, who is the sun to my moon. He stands in light, taller, stronger, faster, and I wish to marvel at all he touches.

My better half, Ashmedai.

Mama says we were born of David, of a fabled line of kings. I do not feel very kingly, at night when mama weeps, and papa wrestles with G-d. Ash is the strong one, the leader. If we were Sea People pirates on an island, robbing dead kingdoms, Ash would be the leader, with a shiny bronze sword.

He is faster. Stronger. Funnier, Smarter. Better.

But I? I am wise.

Papa tells me “Solomon, climb the horse this way. The way Ash does. Practice your sword better, cut like Absalom. For every lap Ashmedai does, do twenty-one. It is not your fault your mind is strong, but body thin and weak. That is how some holy men are. You were born holy, son of my favorite bride.”

I do not feel papa likes me. Just, the image of himself he sees in me. He slew giants. He played the harp and quieted king’s dreams. I am twice as good at playing the harp, I beat papa at chess. I have never seen a giant, but Ash and I play pretend. Ashmedai tires and wants to play craps or wrestle. I laugh and say okay.

Having a twin is fun. I have a best friend.

I do not understand

When

He goes

Away

A bloody ring in my hand.

A demoness of darkness, that smells like papa’s arms when he hugs me late at night – rotten roses, musk, wine.

Ash screams. I sob. Mama tries to beat back Hell. I do not understand. I take out my sword, stab a hellhound. It leaves a bite mark the size of a copper disc on my shoulder.

And so, I lose

My best friend.

Where

Is my

Favorite

Twin?

***

Father’s body is left at my doorstep when I am sixteen. Absalom dies hanged. I comfort Tamar, lead a kingdom to young. Mother is strong, and weeps at David’s deathbed.

That night, as David is buried, G-d calls to me like a broken temple. I see it in my mind: a great sacrifice, a mountain of golden brick, taller than Babel, I the master of knowledge.

Chokmah. Wisdom. G-d. It burns so clear. How could I not see? I can save Ashmedai, and mama, if I

Can save

Myself.

***

Forty days before my coronation, I fast in the desert.

I don beggar’s garb and live off locusts and honey. I only drink water from the purest wells.

G-d tickles my mind like an infant latching onto copper keys. My bite mark from the hellhound cleanses into angel feather tattoos. I whip myself with goat leathers.  I bathe in Jordan streams. I wander and I pray. I make alms and penance.

I can see Ash, suffering, in oasis pools. Unspeakable, tenebrous things.

I do it all, for him. I will set him free!

Father repents, in Avram’s bosom. He was a broken man, by the end. But not beyond the providence of G-d.

I must carry on, above all, for sweet mama. The queenly Bathsheba. For lovestruck, healing Tamar, who is set to marry a Persian prince.

I must

Save

My brother

Ashmedai!

***

The thirty-ninth night, G-d comes as a burning bull.

He tramples the sand of my cave, and sweet myrrh and honey pours in waves from His amber, flaming flesh. It immolates me in sweet, lavender-orange fire.

SOLOMON.

“Yes, Adonai?”

YOU ARE MY LEFT. MY GEVURAH. MY SWORD IN THE NIGHT. MY DARKNESS.

“But – but Adonai. I mean to be a kind ruler.”

DARKNESS IS HOLY, MY CHILD. BEFORE I PARTED THE WATERS, I IMBUED THE WORLD WITH SWEET DARKNESS. SAMMAEL IS RETIRED FROM HIS DUTIES. I NEED A JUST LEFT HAND. YOU WILL FACE MANY TRIALS. YOU WILL GUARD MY COVENANT. REUNITE ME, SOMEDAY, WITH MY BRIDE.

I tremor, nearly pissing myself, overcome with gracious tears. Terror, and joy, ecstasy. “The – the Shekinah?”

MASTER THE DARKNESS, SOLOMON.

“The – the Temple, that I see? That haunts me? Is that the answer, oh Adonai?”

YOU YOURSELF ARE THE GIFT, MY SON.

And like that, the bull gores me. I bleed spring water in holy union, then I awake, possessed by holy

Darkness.

Magick is mine, that day.

Eternity, in a day.

Focused, in Ashmedai’s bound blood

My brother anchoring father’s

Ring.

***

I will save

Our People.

***

Ashmedai has betrayed me. I could not find him, in all my searching, in all the spells I cast, I could not master the fulcrum of night in my heart. The angel feather tattoos tickle my shoulder, and my starry ring echoes with his cries in the dead of night. I am asked to split a babe in half, but I give it to its proper mother. I pull a two-headed man from a far distant kingdom from the depths of the Earth.

The Queen of Shebe comforts me, a little. Bathsheba is kind. But sleep, this harrowing of ruling – I see why us Jews wrestle with G-d like Jacob. Peace and slumber elude me. My empire grows, prospers – the vinyards and fruits multiply, the women bear many sons and comely daughters, but my internal castle crumbles. I watch my bridges to Ashmedai burn to the ground.

I can feel him slipping away. So is it any wonder, he is angered when he emerges from his brooding, hiding – I the last great hope for a brooding dynasty, he the dark sword in the night? He is my sun, I am the moon and I orbit him. Power shatters, and I bind him – he means to drag Bathsheba to Hell and lock her in a tower, I am sure of it!

And, he has the darkness too. That very same darkness G-d anointed in me. We are half-light, sick-shadow, creatures of haunted Shedim. So, he teaches me. To master the Primal lords. To summon his Goetic brothers. His name: Asmoday. Aeshma Daeva. Sakhr. Asmodeus.

He is only Ash, but I never call him that.

He looks at me like I am a monster. The crowds chant my name.

Ashmedai says that he hates me.

My castle crumbles.

I watch my bridge to my brother

Burn

To

The

Ground.

***

The ring betrays me. Chokmah overpowers me. I fly cubits away, bound by the same tefillin I bound my half-twin with. I am stripped of my finery, and all I can do is laugh in sweet relief: oh brother, my brother – you do not know what a curse it is to rule! To have the Sword of Damocles screwed to a crown on your head, your mitre Moses’ Nehushtan, ready to strike your wrist with sweet poison!

I am a stranger in a foreign land. It is thirteen o’clock. Time through a mirrored wonderland. I learn the ways of spirits, amble through darkness and Lilith’s mirrored shards on broken limbs. Rainbow spinnerets of the Holy Phoenix caress me like a lover.

I can see her: dancing. My soul. My light. The light G-d took from me, when I was still a boy, dreaming of only winning papa’s affection, Bathsheba’s smile, Tamar’s embrace, Absalom’s mentorship, Ash’s pride.

She is called Khofe. A Bennu bird priestess in Heliopolis. Her skin is sand. Golden phylo dough. Olive and honey. Cinnamon and cinder eyes. Dark brown, sandalwood curls. Malachite and kohl eyes. Bare-breasted, these modern, egalitarian Egyptians. She dances with a sesheshet, drinks beer with me as the Nile floods to appease Sekhmet to turn back into sweet cow-eyed Mother Hathor. We roll in the reeds, kiss.

“Solomon, what brought you to the Heliopolis? There is a great sorrow about you. I am meant to save you. But don’t you know, this foreign god of yours will destroy you, my friend?” she idles one day, writing on a clay tablet the temple’s offerings. The Bennu bird has laid an egg. It burns. The golden Bennu watches me with violet eyes.

I study Khofe. I know her tenderness. She is Rubenesque, loquacious, a great prayer writer, a singer and great mistress of magic. Where did she come from? Where am I going? What is this Forbidden Fruit on the vine of Sammael that I dare not pluck?

Only, I am the Left Hand of G-d. I tell her so.

She laughs. “There are many gods, I say, Solomon, my husband. Do not you want some other god to serve? Perhaps Thoth? Hermanubis? Geb?”

“There is only one G-d, my angel.”

“What a lack of creativity. Well, your god made you a holy man. It is why I love you. I do not like happy people. I am prone to brooding – humanity is a sorry lot. The Bennu bird must wither away its wings to hatch a poor wyrm child.”

“The Shamir.”

“The fragrant Bennu babe. It is like a Ba. The eternal part of our souls.”

I kiss her, harsh, drawing blood. I crave blood. She gives it to me, draws it from my veins in turn for her alchemy. My blood flows white-silver. She transforms mercury to gold with it. She is a famous alchemist – but do not tell Khofe’s father. He is a simple scribe, and does not like newfangled sciences.

“I will not become a human-headed bird when I die, my wife. G-d has made me eternal. My Lord has made me his Left Hand.”

“That is the hand the toilet is for.”

“Fitting for me, isn’t it?”

She laughs, tickling me, setting down her tablet, and we drink our fill of kisses.

Three short years, we have. But my blood – it grows too powerful. She grows lustful, trying to create the Philosopher’s Stone, out of Bennu bird wings and my ichor. An accident, in her lab. A fire.

I carry her ashes to the Nile, spread them in the reeds with her father Atunkhem. He weeps, gives me her necklace, and I leave him a small fortune.

I can avoid fate no longer.

And so, I return.

Ashmedai took her from me.

Ashmedai pushed me away from idle kingship. My duty. My G-d. Made me a Heathen. Made me a Pagan. Made me not of David’s line.

G-d’s path is not easy. Ashmedai should know that. To his credit, he has ruled well.

But my marvelous temple, it is gone.

And the two-headed man has been delivered back to his strange kingdom. His wife went with him.

All that is left is a babe, not cleaved apart.

Instead, two brothers cleaved.

I dream of Khofe. I exile Ashmedai, weary.

I am angry at him for no reason. I will always blame him. He will always blame me.

That is the curse of Cain and Abel. Jacob and Esau. Moses and the Pharoah.

If only Ashmedai knew?

Those ram’s horns on his head.

Michael is impure. I see the way he strays, wicked.

If I am the Left Hand of Adonai

Ashmedai

Is

His

Right.

***

Cleaver (Ashmedai)

“That is your excuse?” I growl to my holy twin. My bastard brother. The murderer of Sarai. “She was holy? You are holy, and yet, you are wicked.”

Solomon looks weary. I am arrayed in monstrosity, twisted flatulent beauty, rotting flesh, cancerous growths, leaking blood and fangs and boils, dragging Gog and Magog to Solomon’s humble house on the border of Heaven and Gan Eden. It is small, and I am the size of ten of it.

“Is that why you came? For a girl from over a hundred years ago you barely knew?” he sighs. The gall! Sarai was mine, my soul, my life, my bride.

Fire of my light, life of my heart, north star, compass – oh, what use is an ode! I want to bash in his head!

And so, we wrestle. I dig my fangs into his heel. He takes his flaming sword and punctures my rotting heart.

We are at it for hours, playing bitter soldiers. I use every name for sow and whore’s son I know from Hell, from gutter urchins in bloody brothels to the gambling dens of the Damned. Solomon just grunts, says sorry, says “Ashmedai, calm down, I can explain.”

We go on for forty days and forty nights. Perhaps it is eternity. Perhaps, I am still eating and masticating his leg now, the thieving, murderous, haughty bastard impaling me like Michael and Samael down the centuries, echoed in Saint George and the Dragon.

“You did not deserve to wed Sarai!” I finally scream, snapping him in twain. We are bloody ribbons and gruel.

Solomon stitches himself back together with cosmic fire.

G-d draws dawn bleeding from the sky.

He sheathes his sword. I don my human guise, my true form, ram’s heads, my defilement that I grew after I lusted after Sarai! – never able to hide, my talons out still.

We are dressed in plainsclothes.

“No, I did not deserve Khofe-called-Sarai. Neither did you, Ashmedai. And she deserved neither of us. We were all poor matches, my beloved twin.”

Solomon hugs me. I sob into his arms.

“You exiled me.”

“You kissed Bathsheba.”

“You fought me.”

“You did not come back after four years, brooding in the desert. I searched all of Judea for you, Ash? Why did you hide?”

My eyes are bloody garnets.

“The things… my blood mother did, and stepfather… I do not wish to speak of. I am tainted like you, twin.”

Solomon’s lips quirks. “And Khofe’s lust for power and wisdom puts my own quests for knowledge and Eve’s hunger to shame.”

We settle in his kitchen. He pours mead – why does he have Northern mead? What an odd brother. What a stranger he has become. Silver-platinum hair, green grass eyes, golden-tan skin, thin lips and sharp nose, heavy brows, crackglass cheekbones… weak limbs. I was always the athlete. What came naturally as wit and wonder to him, Lucifer has had to drill into me. And I simply run entertainment and pleasure, leaving Moloch and Beelzebub and Mulciber the true labor.

“Did either of us truly know her, brother?” I sigh, brooding. Why am I always brooding? I need to be strong. Oh, Sarai! What a fool you make me. Cuckolding me with my own brother, stranding me scared shitless where only the holy tread, far from the safe womb of Hell.

“Can any man know his bride? Women are mysteries. Look at Bathsheba. Our mother is even stranger. Even more sacred and holy. Why, now, does she still love David? Why does she put up with us?” He swallows the mead, smiling, a sparkle in his eye. “This is blackberry flavored.”

“It tastes like a pixie fart.”

“There are no pixies here.”

“I am not a Jew.”

“You are David’s son.”

I rankle. “Not by these horns.”

“Moses.”

I flush, taken aback. “What?”

“Moses was granted horns of wisdom. It is Father’s Covenant with you.”

I fist him to the floor, shaking his fine but muted linen shirt. “I have had enough holy games with G-d, brother. I am a creature of spite and hate. Raped and rapist. Executed and executioner. Now, G-d has gone too far. Putting Moses’ mark on my head. I’d rather have the Mark of Cain!”

Solomon laughs, until I choke him. “Get off me, Ash, you are too – ha! Ha! – strong! What is in the wine in Hell? What does Eve feed you at work dinner?”

“Eve is a shit cook. She bakes.”

“Yes, mama loves her cocktails, desserts, and bread.”

“Old biddies…”

“We are old too, Ash.”

We dust ourselves off, then settle at the same side of the table. I sigh, tamping down my chaos. My confusion.

My happiness. My brother! My brother? Solomon…

“Solomon?”

“Yes Ash?”

“You hate me.”

“I love you more than even Bathsheba.”

“And Khofe?”

“I wonder about her. Khofe-called-Sarai haunts me. But, I think, Ashmedai-called-Tobias haunts her.”

“Why did you take her?”

He looks glum. “When G-d seizes me, there is a black space in my mind. I am not myself, but a vessel for the Lord. I do not know what happened, that night. And G-d will not answer you. He does not answer, in that way. And all his Bride does is whisper. That is the problem with ghosts.”

“Ghosts? Our Creators are very… real.”

“Tangible? Yes, I suppose. But how alive is a sentient flame? A quicksilver scale? The wind of an archon?”

“Well, what am I, Solomon?”

“Most would call us monsters.”

“You are Sammael, I suppose.”

“Pour me some fucking wine, Ash.”

We get drunk. He beats me at chess. I beat him at craps. I stay for a year, and he farms. He is quite the farmer. I visit with Bathsheba, I work in Hell, I spend the night in his spare room.

The final year and a day are done.

“I love you, Ashmedai, but you cannot stay here. Khofe-called-Sarai waits,” Solomon says, his smile bringing spring rains.

“What?”

“She has come back. She is born anew, finally. A new arrival to Hell. A Jewish girl, from a brothel, who died of venereal disease and clawed her way out of the Angel of Death’s arm into the throne room of lucifer. She has no one. Who will defend her, I wonder?”

My heart sinks like a stone.

“How do I find her, Solomon?”

“Bathsheba.”

And so, mama takes me.

Sarai is blue with cold, Her lips cold. A shade.

And oh, how she

Is angry.

“My Ashmedai?” Sarai weeps.

“My poetess.”

I breathe them back to life, imbuing her with holy fire.

And thus, my life

Begins.

***

Song of Songs (Sarai)

My first memory is gold, like sunshine. Eyes like lemons. So warm, they burn.

It is far beyond time and HaShem’s darkness, long before Light and the Word. There was a great ram, part-bull, part-lion, that breathed life into my dancing soul. His wings were a dragon’s twisted flame, and in him, I saw eternity.

Oh, how we danced as stars, in some forgotten abode by the moon, in that Land Beyond Beginnings! I called him Fire. My Fair One. Lover and Lord of My Sparks. I was but a tiny flicker, but oh how Fire delighted in me! From our union, the Hol Bird, or Phoenix, was born, and I have been Her Keeper ever since.

I have been a Medean Princess. I have been a goatherd in Sumeria. A temple prostitute in Qadesh. A harvester of grain in Gobekli Tepe, readying for the Horn Maiden’s festivities, cask of Neolithic beer in my hand. But always, I longed for Fire. Fair One. Lover and Lord of My Heart. But he was not to be born. The phoenix, our child, roosted with me, trapped in cycles of incarnation like I! At the end of our days, we shrivel up to myrrh laden wyrms, then burrow into the soil, seeking the waters of Life. We drink full well to remember.

I had all my past lives in my hands, once, like playing cards humans were long from inventing.

But I gambled them all away, the day I lost my Fire. He came to me, human-tongued, silken-skinned, cruel and beautiful and broken. He called himself Ashmedai. I loved him. I needed him. He reminded me of one of my mortal husbands (are any of my husbands truly mortal, to marry a girl of Flame?), Solomon, who had written me the Song of Songs, called me his comely bride, but I realized the connection only too late.

So Flame and Fire danced for twelve days and nights. It was Heaven again, Proto-time, the Land of Beginnings trapped in corporeal form. But oh, to revel in physicality! He touched me as only Fire could! Combusting deep sparks in my well. But I had weakened over time, not used to Fire’s dance. He was immortal, eternal, and it ended when I convulsed, so full of his kisses, I died.

Solomon played the Reaper. I saw only too late, the look of brotherhood, hatred, longing – lost love and broken bonds – in their eyes, and realized what a terrible thing I had done.

So, when I became a wyrm in Heaven, I burrowed through the soil with the Shekinah’s help, all the way to the misty waters of Hell’s river Lethe. I wanted to forget.

The Shekinah sang to me. Agrath, the Howler, screamed and rattled her chains. I was but a humble, meek-ened creature:

“You have stolen my heir’s heart. A curse on you, Sarai. Until you master the Fire, and he loves his own heart as much as he loves you,” the former Queen pronounced, “you shall not prevail.”

“Funny, sister. I said the same thing to him.” Still, I felt heavy, bitter magic loom over me like bone shards. They minced my soft, tunnel body to pieces. I soaked in Lethe, senseless… emerged, having forgotten, and yet, remembering

My Fire.

If only, in

My dreams.

***

“Ashmedai?” I whisper as he pours Fire into me, awakening the Hol Bird of my soul. I have lived as a beggar, a traitor, a lady of finery and palatial prisons, a merchant’s aunt, a farm maid. This last one was the hardest – raised in a Roman bordello, under the rule of Mad Herod. The Temple is drunk and mad. I had little but a good set of teeth and enough bruises to make my skin blue.

Winter was cold. I died in a hecatomb, corpse eaten by cats, seventeen.

Somehow, bitter as it was, my wyrm-form crawled, deep into Hekate’s cave, past Izanami, past Ereshkigal, past Queen Persephone, to hollow Agrath herself.

“I remember him, captor of Fire. How did you do it, siphon him from the winds of G-d? Corrupt pure flame to poison?”

“It was as easy as seducing a holy man,” Agrath laughs, rotting, bone in her chains in Tartarus.

I squirm my stolid, circular matrix of a worm body into Mnesymone, and I soak in the Hol Bird’s effulgence. I remember Fire. I remember being his Flame. I remember our eternity in the Land Beyond Beginnings. I remember our twelve sweet nights. The orchard drawn on the ketubah, the dates and pomegranates we shared, cantarella on my tongue (which tasted so much like his seed).

Fire, in my lab in Egypt, when I took too much of his half-twin’s blood.

I take on the form he remembers most: the one my body always conforms to. The truth of my soul.

Motherless Sarai.

Sarai bat Regret.

Sarai bat Perdition.

The only female rabbi.

The lousiest female rabbi.

Unlike Jael, I have no tent spike to drive into Agrath’s head.

There is simply me, wrestling with my G-d, drinking water of poison lilies off the Shekinah’s hands. I do not trust the gods.

I am from before gods. Before G-d and His Bride.

I am wind. I am air. I am Light. Life. Harmony.

And Ashmedai? Wrath? Lust?

He is Life. Sex. Fertility. Virility.

Love.

He breathes life into me, tongue probing. He tastes like honeyed wine.

“Sarai? Sarai! You are so cold, my angel.”

But he tastes ill. Sick.

Not a good cantarella.

More, a poison

apple.

“Oh Ashmedai, my malakh, those horns: a Covenant? But you were the answer all along, not the Father.”

He cries. “Sarai, what do you mean? You are imagining things.”

“Oh, my bashert. What have you become?”

I weep.

He sags, clutching me squeezing tight.

He faints in my arms. I am strong from millenia of experiments, farming, hunting, salvaging a future from ruin and half-scratched out poems.

Cinder eyes.

Pomegranate seeds.

I carry him to Lucifer’s throne.

“What have you made of him, Ha Satan?” I ask, cruelty in my lip.

Lucifer smiles serenely, his blonde butter hair and fine Grecian physique toned and tan, white tunica sharp as cloth steel.

“He is only King of Hell, dear Sarai. What a happy reunion you have?”

“You have broken what was pure. You are as bad as Agrath,” I pronounce.

Lucifer’s cold, blue eyes harden. “And what do you know of the games of immortals, human girl? You are no Eve. No Bathsheba.”

“No, I am simply apocrypha. An owl-eyed girl with too much wisdom to be sane. I am mad, Lucifer. We will linger here no more.”

Like that, I sprout owl wings, now a demoness like Lilith, and I fly Ashmedai back to his den of inequity. It is Spartan, clean, old books line the wall, scrolls, pottery Bathsheba has made, maces and glaives. Instruments of torture.

Endless, mad sketches of me. Naked bathing. Dressed for winter in the North. Swimming in linens. Arranged in Medean finery. From some chic Dior outfit two thousand years down the line. Time bleeds. I, Sarai bat Raguel, haunt him. He, Ashmedai-called-Tobias, pinpoints the map of my soul.

Ashmedai cries in his sleep. Though he is heavy, as heavy as a carbon jewel, he feels like a feather in my arms.

I lay him in his pristine, red silk bed, with a blackened canopy. I pour myself a glass of red wine, pull out a notebook of his, and write a poem. I sketch him – the proud jaw, the thick, hooked nose, the slanted brows, crinkled at the edges with fine lines, hooded eyes with thick crook-saw lashes.

Thin lips. Kissable, a pale olive. I know them all too well.

Tan, gold muscle. Scars, all over. Wings of bat. Legs of scale dragonhide. Rough terrain, unexplored for so long, when he came to me disguised stinking as a human goatsherd.

I am dissecting fire, after so many years.

He is exactly as I remember. Nothing as I remember. That innocence? The wonder?

As pure

as a

spring

rain.

***

Dulcinea Was Never Here (Ashmedai & Sarai)

“Sarai?” I whisper.

“Yes, my malakh?” she whispers tenderly, rubbing a salve to my chest. It sinks into the threadbare cloth of my broken heart, heals an ancient wound that was broken when I was chattel in Hell, and purged any hope away when I left her in Solomon’s broken arms.

“Is it really you?”

“Feel your head, Ashmedai.”

He does, his eyes open in wonder. “My horns of shame. They are gone.”

“To wed me in truth, Ash, my darling angel, we must become what we once were. The Lion and the Serpent. Bullish Ox and Dragon. A Dancer and a Flame. I have broken your forced pact with G-d. But can you follow the ways of a wanderer, to the Land of Beginnings?”

He kisses my lips, hard, pulls me to his chest, and we make love for eternity, sinking into each other.

“I follow where you go, my one and only Soul.”

And so, we walk the crow roads, to the place that Trickster dwells.

The Phoenix blossoms from his loins, reborn in my fiery womb. The shamir shackles him to me no more. In freedom, we embrace, and bodiless yet embroiled, cinder and effulgence -

We become

Happy.

Redeemed.

The Shekinah

and

her

Bridegroom.

“Revel in me, Fire. My one and only Ash.”

“Burn me, oh my Flame!”

We dance for Trickster. We create the world in hope. We remake it under the auspices of Bathsheba, whom I have whispered to all this time, with Solomon and David’s tenderness, with Eve and Lucifer’s strong hands.

There is no more, hurting, here.

This is the Land Beyond Beginnings.

And Ash?

We are together in the bedlam of Bedstuy, in a too-tiny flat with a hairless cat and pet lizard, writing poems, typing novels on an old Olympia.

We move through time, and worlds, as it suits us.

Sometimes, he is a painter. Sometimes, he is an architect. Sometimes, an engineer or soldier.

I dance in Babylon Berlin. Drink moonshine in the Swinging Twenties.

Party through the Nineties in Chicago.

We are lion and lioness. Fertile auroch, tender ox.

We are the makers and keepers of magick.

And for the rains?

We dance.

[bluenpinkcastle]

20240307: the History of LEGO Castle day 067. 6056 Dragon Wagon (1993, 109 pieces, 62 different parts) The Dragon Wagon is a black and red wagon with brown ladders used as cage walls to transport a green dragon with red wings and transparent neon orange flame coming out of its mouth. The wagon is pulled via red hinge plates by a brown horse and a black horse. A cloth 8x5 flag of a green dragon with red wings on a yellow background with a red border flies from the top of the wagon. This dragon is a good rendering of the green dragon inside the cage. This set includes two minifigures. The first minifigure has a black dragon helmet with three yellow dragon plumes, a yellow minifigure head with wavy black eyebrows, mustache, and goatee, a red torso with blue arms, printed silver shoulder covers, and a standing yellow and black halved dragon on a black and red background with black legs and a red belt. The second minifigure has a black axe wielder helmet, a yellow minifigure head with black forehead tuft and mustache, a red torso with blue arms and a printed yellow dragon head on a red backgroun with a printed black belt with yellow notches and circular hollow yellow belt buckle, and light gray legs with a black belt. DRAGONS! This is the first set with the LEGO dragon and this dragon style is probably my favorite LEGO dragon out of all the dragons, though the Elves dragons in 2017 are also favorites. This dragon mold is only found in six sets in green (6037 Witch's Windship, 6056 Dragon Wagon, 6076 Dark Dragon's Den, 6082 Fire Breathing Fortress, 6087 Witch's Magic Manor, and 9376 Castle Set from Education and Dacta) and four sets in black (4818 Dragon Rider, 6007 Bat Lord, 6047 / 6099 Traitor Transport, and 6097 Night Lord's Castle). This is also the first cloth flag of any type and this specific 8x5 dragon banner only appears in three other sets (1906 Majisto's Tower, 6076 Dark Dragon's Den, and 6082 Fire Breathing Fortress) and is also the first use of a horse battle helmet. The red 5x2x2.33 bracket was only found in two other LEGO sets (1818 Aircraft and Ground Support Equipment and Vehicle and 8357 Zonic Strike), this is the only set with the red 1x6 hinge plate with two and three fingers on each side, and the red 2x2 turn table with three fingers is only found in four other sets. The ovoid shield with a print of a green dragon with red wings on a yellow background with a red outline is only found in twelve sets. This is a very simple set and a very simple build, though the use of ladders as cage walls is rather clever, as is the latch mechanism on top. This is also the first wagon in the whole of LEGO castle so far where the front turn table actually allows for full articulation and movement. As a person who likes dragons, I found the cage to be rather depressing, as the dragon has no room to move, but it can easily use fire breath to burn the driver to a toasty crisp :) Additionally, why would you capture or cage the very being you use as your banner? Though, perhaps the dragon has a wounded wing or tail and doesn't feel comfortable flying so the Dragon Masters fixed up a wagon to give it a ride back? Parts inventory for this set can be found on BrickLink or Rebrickable and a free download of the instructions is available on ToysPeriod. This set was designed by Steen Sig Andersen and you can see more of his designs on BrickSet.

[ainews]

Airplanes are often the subject of debate when it comes to disputes involving wyverns, the popular mythical creature known for its fierce appearance and flying abilities. Many believe that airplanes, with their advanced technology and ability to fly at high altitudes, are the perfect match for wyverns, leading to intense discussions and arguments about the two entities.

One of the main reasons why airplanes are frequently involved in disputes concerning wyverns is their similar appearance and abilities. Wyverns, with their serpent-like bodies and bat-like wings, are often compared to airplanes, which have a long, slender fuselage and expansive wingspan. This visual similarity has sparked many debates about whether wyverns were the inspiration for the invention of airplanes or if it is just a coincidence.

Moreover, both airplanes and wyverns have the ability to fly and cover long distances in a relatively short amount of time. This has led to discussions about the potential collaboration between the two entities, with some suggesting that airplanes could be used as transportation for wyverns or could even be trained to ride on their backs. Others argue that the two should remain separate, as introducing airplanes into the world of wyverns could disrupt their longstanding relationship with dragons, another popular fantasy creature.

Another reason for the disputes involving airplanes and wyverns is their popularity among fans of fantasy and science fiction. With the rise in popularity of these genres, the debate about which one is superior has become more prevalent. Those who favor airplanes argue that their advanced technology and efficiency make them the clear winner, while wyvern supporters boast about their superior strength and magical abilities.

Aside from their similarities, airplanes and wyverns have also been in conflict in various stories and media. In some tales, wyverns are depicted as an ancient, powerful creature that poses a threat to airplanes and their passengers. This has led to the portrayal of airplanes as the modern, advanced counterpart that can defeat or outsmart the wyvern. These stories have further fueled the discussion about which one would emerge victorious in a hypothetical battle between the two.

Finally, some believe that the ongoing debate about airplanes and wyverns is simply a result of human fascination with the unknown and our desire to explore and discover new frontiers. The idea of flying on a mythical beast or in an advanced aircraft awakens the imagination and sparks curiosity, leading to passionate discussions and disagreements.

In conclusion, airplanes and wyverns are frequently involved in disputes due to their similarities, the potential for collaboration or competition, their popularity among fans of fantasy and science fiction, and the inherent human desire for exploration and discovery. Whether one is superior to the other or if they can coexist peacefully, one thing is for sure – the debate about these two entities is far from over.