#the best example i have of the above is beast's cheeks changing.

[hershelwidget]

Gup Spirits Doodle Dump

Its been a while :] Have some losers (occasionally featuring the Octopod Spirits themselves)

Every day of my life I think about how their designs subtly changed as I grew more and more attached . something something "to be loved is to be changed"

[dreamhous3]

Third Chapter of a currently untitled WIP

Hi, been yonkers, but I've been working on this. I actually sorta have a name for it for now, 'Sierra 2100', but tbh I'm still not really sure about that one. Want something more thematic, you know? Tell me what you think though I could use some suggestions. This one is pretty dialogue heavy compared to the first two, wanted to try something a bit outside my comfort zone. I also plan to go back and rewrite those chapters, probably going to do that for all of them going forward too, especially with the way my writing might change overtime with each chapter (this chapter was almost twice as long as the first for example but I decided to cut it off a bit).

Anyway, here it is, enjoy! <3

CW: Violence, Language

3.

Coordinated clicks constructed the coda of Rosetta’s day. Her door dropped its demands when it locked. Sombre shadows showered her apartment, its features formed a basic shape of home, until she snapped her fingers. The lights layered the personality of her furniture, refreshing the roundness of her sofa, the edges and corners of her tables. Wood that sparkled with their obnoxious value. A kettle came alive as Rosetta wandered past it, throwing her suitcase onto the coffee table. It skidded slightly with a sigh against the surface, bested by her own. She stretched and twisted herself before returning to the kettle. Mechanical whirs and winds moved a mug out of the small sliding door beside it, a shush then dropped a tea bag from above. The hole blinked open and closed before it landed. Cold air crawled away as the kettle tipped slightly, thin sticks of steel handling it like a dangerous beast to be contained as the mug filled. Sweet warmth whisked as it wandered towards Rosetta. The tea smelt of the same synthetic homeliness she never knew. The first fiery sip threw the chill that chapped her lips away. Courteously the couch claimed her comfort, its cushions shooshed with her fall into it. 

“Speakers, you know what I want.” She sloped back, and closed her eyes. 

The latest hit single from the classic pop icon ‘Artificial Indigo’ spilled into Rosetta’s little atmosphere. An assortment of sounds, bass, safe melodies, expected vocals, singing about something that had never happened to them. Rosetta wandered the waves of it, washing up into the softness of the sofa. Her tea slithered its heroic heat upwards, until she picked it up again, passing the torch away. As the taste touched her mouth, tickling her throat with fruity flavours, it kept going. She moved her hand to lower the mug, but it didn’t happen. As she lost the feeling of her arm, she opened her eyes to see it shift up more. Her throat now tickled with what felt like the touch of fire fury. She went to move her other arm, but it denied her influence and moved to pour the mug further. The cinderous sharpness of the boiling tea made her want to scream, but she couldn’t. Tears teetered down her cheeks, the pain now the only thing that was still hers. Before the mug was empty, it dropped, bouncing from the couch to the floor. The last drops dashed about the coffee table and Rosetta’s legs. Her neural link began blinking red and beeping with a harsh, consistent tone. 

‘WARNING: VIRUS DETECTED – UNIT COMPROMISED’ The text flashed in front of her, too late it seemed. Still, her arms were not hers, her legs, chest, hands. All shuddered as she struggled to liberate herself. Shutters in front her slid away, revealing a dark figure that stood on a balcony across her. Red eyes stole the show of their features, their piercing stare was all Rosetta could see. As they waved, so did Rosetta, when they stopped, so did she. Movements mimicked each other, they lived at the same time in different places. Rosetta saw them smile, and start moving their hands under the coffee table. She screamed, knowing what they wanted her to take from there, but the shrill shot and bounced against her cheeks, pulling at a closed mouth that muffled her. It still smiled as they did. Her fingers wrapped around a stippled grip. Her index hovered over a thin trigger. The slide stopped at her lips. The figure outside started to laugh. They both chuckled at the same joke, but only one of them found it funny. The smile returned, ripping a grin up Rosetta’s cheeks. Her eyes widened, looking at the other pair with a longing to live. The slide slipped across her bottom lip. The barrel kissed the top of her mouth. Her teeth gnawed at the trigger guard. The figure moved their finger down. Rosetta’s index softly wrapped around the trigger. With a wink from the red eyes, Rosetta screamed again. Her shriek shrilled free this time, but was cut off by the gunshot. 

*

A flash flung Angela awake. Her phone tolled, the sound struck her slumber. She picked it up, its bright screen flashed at her still stuck eyelids. 

‘We’re on our way back, don’t move.’ A text from Sophie. 

With a groan and ferocious yawn, Angela put it back down, and slipped out of the rickety old bed. Her dry eyes cracked with her rise, unconsciousness buried by the scratch of her eyelids. The room's dead air held her form as she tumbled around it. Yesterday’s clothes assimilated her with it. A colourless hall, barely outlined before her, tugged her through the dust. Graffiti, cracks, dents and bullet holes smeared all over once wonderful marble, walls of civilization messy with its own desecration. A worn wooden door winded open softly as Angela pushed it open. Before her hung a rusted chandelier, the shine of its rare material ripped away, the sparkle of its special jewels cried out into the dust. It watched over a round room that winded down with a long stairwell. Below was a vastly open and even emptier space. Angela wandered down it, moving a finger across the guard rail. Grime almost snowballed up on her finger.

‘Ew!’ She quickly patted it against her pants.

When she reached the space below, the sun set ablaze the concrete corpse she wandered. Huge windows spread across the front entrance, multiple similarly transparent double doors sitting between them. Overbearing orange dimmed all over as Angela's eyes adjusted to the lava-like light. Multiple rows of metal detectors walled off a round desk in the centre of the room from the entrance. Leaning against this thick desk was a large, blocky robot. It had a vaguely humanoid shape, arms, legs, a head that looked more like a camera than a person. Large barrels stuck out of one arm, and metallic claws stuck out the other. Angela approached it, but hesitated when she got close. It lay just as still as the world around. 

‘What is this?’ She queried her neural link. 

Bright lines cut around it, the individual parts each glowed for a moment one after the other, while rapid searches happened in a tab next to it. The searches snapped to a stop, landing on a page of a historical site. 

‘Cerberus Riot Control Mech, over three thousand recorded deployments, most notorious being the Sierran Citizens for Socialism massacre.’ An article written fifteen years ago poured down the tab. 

Blueprints and multiple iterations moved behind the tab. 

‘Can you see if there’s any recordings left on its camera?’ 

‘One moment, downloading files, scanning for harmful software…’ a bar filled in front of her while the other tabs popped closed, ‘process complete. Warning, possibly disturbing content found.’ 

‘Play the earliest recording.’

Black washed the world around Angela away, and before her an urban road poured in. A swarm of people just a few metres away swung their arms at her, yelling in waves. Yellow police lines rose in front of them, then an officer phased in. He had lots of equipment strung about him, a thick antenna stuck out his back. 

‘Mech 37, authority command, set parametre: terminate on sight of aggression.’ They looked down at a thin tablet, and then up at the mech.

‘Command confirmed, parameters adjusted.’ Its voice cut with its depth and bass. 

Suddenly a dull thud snapped the mech's head forwards. A civilian had burst through the police line.

‘Get back, behind the line dammit!’ Two officers sprung at him with large bullpup rifles raised.

‘I’m not with them, I’m not a protestor! I just want to go back home to my kids man, my place is just down the street please every other way is blocked off-’

‘BEHIND THE LINE!’ The officer that held the tablet was now also pointing a rifle at the civilian. 

‘Fuck this.’ He darted past the officers, but almost immediately all three opened fire. The shots ripped through him until he tripped to the ground. Weak breaths shrieked out in between low groans before he suddenly went still. Angelas stare was captive to the man's bloody body. Around her the crowds yelling became roars and warcries as the rest of the barrier fell. More gunshots. The mechs barrels thunked smoking canisters into the crowd. The horde of sound ringed in her ears as she kept staring at the same body. The recording snapped to black. 

‘Further footage has been blocked by order of the United Nations information protection policy.’ 

Angela sat in the digital darkness, waiting within her rapid breaths. The images cut clear in her head, despite the blind space around her. She closed her eyes, breathed and collected herself. Digital space was silent, but ghosts lived amongst it. Her own darkness was clean, safe.

‘Play the last recording.’ 

The space that formed around her was, unlike the last, quite familiar. The same entrance hall she currently stood loaded in. It was packed, but with even more militarised looking people. A wide assortment of equipment was thrown around, looked over and carried by soldiers that almost dropped them in their shuddering hands. Other Cerberus mechs stood in a single file line either side of Angela. Outside, a sea of people approached. Many signs poked over them, large text written in colours as violent as the messages themselves. 

‘You shame the dead, so we’ll have your heads.’

‘United your Nations will hang.’

‘Lie to your people, die by your people.’

More and more were raised amongst a variety of flags, fists and even firearms. None had any uniforms, most looked like normal civilians, but as they got closer and closer their arsenal showed itself. A chant rose amongst them, which became clearer as they reached the front windows. 

‘Your blood for our blood!’ 

‘Your blood for our blood!’ 

‘Your blood for our blood!’ 

Soldiers around Angela gasped, struggling to stand ready against the horde of vengeance before them. It didn’t take long for the crowd to break the large windows, then the doors.

‘This is it. Don’t let them get past us or it’s all over!’ Shortly after a shot thwacked that soldier's head, red bursting from their blue helmet. The mechs shot all at once, this time firing explosive shells that ripped apart the first few lines of people pouring in. Almost immediately the mess was swept away by a ferocious charge. The recording's audio peaked until it started to distort dramatically from the constant automatic gunfire. Brass shells buried the pristine white of the marble floor in burnt bronze. One after another, the soldiers died, their bodies mixing with the pile of slaughter. Through the swarm, rockets dived, snapping past and smacking into the mechs. Shrapnel popped like fireworks around Angela, until one rocket flew directly at her. She recoiled and screamed before the recording snapped black again. 

‘There are two hundred and thirty two more video files within this units-’

‘Shut up! Stop- link off, please.’ 

The dark space swallowed itself, and her user interface faded away. Reality washed back in and a pair of footsteps approached the shore of Angela's eyes. 

‘What happened?’ Sophie looked down at her with crossed arms.

‘Nothing, don’t worry about it.’ Angela shot one last look at the mech, her face hanging lower than it sat.

‘You have a little chat with Mr T-Shirt cannon or something?’ Vinny raised an eyebrow at her. 

‘What? No.’

‘Any tech, computers, mechs, even vending machines, left here is not a good idea. May as well be mines waiting to go off. No way of knowing what’s still in them.’ 

‘I said I didn’t.’ 

‘Right…’ 

The return of the uncomfortable atmosphere of Vinny’s shuttle made the dirty air outside enviable. Sophie and Vinny were noticeably less tense. Their hands drooped over their laps, Vinny’s right hand on the wheel. Still in the same clothes as yesterday, with less gear on. 

‘Where are we going?’ Angelas question made the pair seemingly wake up from their unconscious autopilot. 

‘Well, we have a plan right?’ Vinny pointed at Sophie with his eyes.

‘Yea we do. Me and Vinny found…a new employer. They’re going to help us with the case in return for working for them. They even gave us somewhere to stay, you can wait there for us while we’re out.’

‘Good, this place is creepy.’

‘Tell me about it.’ 

‘Where are we staying?’ 

‘Quiet apartment in Section Four,’ Sophie looked back at her with a thin smile, ‘you’ll be safe.’ 

‘Section Four isn’t safe.’ Angela turned away from her. 

Sophie went to speak again, but swallowed and took cover behind the pillar of her seat.

When the apartment door clicked open, Angela slid past Vinny and Sophie, almost bolting to the first bedroom she could find. Its door slid closed behind her. 

‘Goodnight I guess.’ Vinny chuckled and clicked on the lights. Warm brown tones touched the tables, floorboards and kitchen cupboards. A conversation pit collaborated with khaki carpet staging a soft red leather couch that circled around it. The wall next to it was one big window with a steel frame that cut it into three subtle squares. 

‘Not bad, huh?’ Vinny grinned at Sophie. 

‘Clarissa has a weird taste.’ 

‘Oh come on, this place is nice man!’ 

‘Why is the couch in the floor?’ 

‘Because it’s cool, it's classy. You could use some class.’ 

‘You sound like a suit.’ 

‘Come have a seat, you’ll see.’ Vinny sat back on the red couch, putting his hands behind his head. A glass table rose from the floor, stopping at waist height. 

‘I mean, are you kidding me?’ Vinny stretched his legs across and sat his feet on the glass table. 

‘Yea man, ‘classy’.’ Sophie laughed and sat across from him. He slipped a cigarette out of his coat.

‘Did Clarissa say if we can smoke in here?’ He hesitated.

‘Oh, you don’t know what she does to smokers?’

‘What does she do to smokers?’ 

Sophie held Vinny in a tight pause, leaning her head downwards to sharpen her stare. She suddenly broke the silence with a shrill cackle.

‘Fuck you man.’ Vinny shook his head with a grunt, which he shortly betrayed with his own laughter. He lit up while Sophie commanded the window open. The three square panes cracked slightly open inwards from the left. Vinny sighed after taking his first drag. The mess of noise from the city outside breathed into the room. It all combined into a web of white noise. Sophie looked back at the rest of the apartment, moving her thumb across her leg quickly. 

‘She’s fine.’ Vinny said through his clouds.

‘She’s scared.’

‘Yea, probably.’

‘This just doesn’t feel right, I don’t know.’

‘Considering how this kinda thing usually goes, I’d say this a pretty good deal.’ Vinny looked up at Sophie again, she was still looking back.

‘Hey,’ waved his hand at her, ‘she’s safe, ok? Not buried in a ditch with us, not being sold for parts by some-’ 

‘What?’ Sophie snapped back at him. 

‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-’ Vinny’s gaze fell as he went silent.

‘Did you forget about that?’ 

‘No, but you didn’t really tell me about it. I guess we sorta talked about Emily, but not…’

‘That.’ 

‘Yea,’ Vinny slipped his feet off the table, ‘do you want to?’ 

‘I should,’ Sophie moved her ring rhythmically up and down her finger, ‘I just…can’t yet.’

‘Ok.’ Vinny stood up and slumped down next to her. She leaned into his chest and held him, he held her back. The white noise of the world was rippled with Sophie's sharp cries, her tears stained the red carpet of the night. 

Air danced with their hair, the windows of Clarissa’s car were wide open. A facetiously lovely sun poured into the world around them. Buildings stood like chiselled crayons. 

‘Enjoying your new accommodation I hope?’ Clarissa dropped one hand from the wheel.

‘Sure, real nice place. Kind of strange you’d give it to us before our first day, not that I’m complaining.’ Vinny waved his hand behind her from the backseat.

‘Well you’ll be making me quite a lot of money, much more than what I spent on that apartment.’ 

‘Getting paid is great and all, but I’m more interested in the information you promised us.’ Sophie frowned at Clarissa.

‘Straight to the point then hmm? Ok, first I give you a little tour, a simple job, then you get access to my Vargriff insider.’ 

‘Works for me.’ 

‘Good, I can’t wait to see you work.’ Clarissa looked up at Sophie with a soft glance that missed her. Vinny saw it, raised an eyebrow at her and sat back again. He also noticed how short Clarissa was, even when seated. She was at least half a foot or more shorter than Sophie. Her light, thin jewellery looked heavy as they hung about her. 

‘When is this tour then?’ Vinny finally asked.

‘Soon, darling, but we have some time until we’re there. I like to live quietly, so my work is often a bit of a distance from me, but this gives me more time with you two. Let’s enjoy it.’

Clarissa’s idle hand reached for the screen on the centre console, pressed and swiped it about until music popped out of the speakers. Bass battered the burgundy leather seats with vibration. High vocals versed Clarissa’s awkward attempts to sing along. Sophie looked over to her with a subtle smile. 

‘You like this song, huh?’ Clarissa reached up in her seat at Sophie.

‘Not what I was smiling at.’ 

‘What, then?’ 

Sophie looked back at the road, closing off Clarissa with a slight lean to the left. The music shrunk as Clarissa twisted it down. 

‘If you have something to say about me, say it. I won’t bite, promise.’  

‘See, that’s it: why are you treating us differently? You don’t have the attitude of a criminal. The rule through fear shit, intimidation, indiscriminate physical punishment, that’s clearly not your thing. That is, on a surface level at least.’ 

‘Hmmm, You’re not the first person to question my…personality. The thing is, I love what I am, I love what I do, and I dearly love those that do it for me. There’s no point in some macho, aggro facade to get all the big guys to like you. At the end of the day, it’s what you do that puts you in my kind of position. You’re not special Sophie, not how you think. Everyone that works for me is treated just how I think they should be.’ 

‘And how is that exactly? How should me and Vinny be treated?’

‘Like loved ones, but never too loved. I do punish my people, no one is perfect after all, but those closest to me, who you’ve met, are my best boys. They haven’t required my discipline in a long time, hence their position right next to me.’

‘Sounds like you have a fraternisation problem.’ Vinny leaned into the conversation from his back seat.

‘Oh, it must,’ Clarissa giggled under her hand, ‘especially in this line of work, but it’s not like that. Everyone is so scared to care nowadays, loyalty is rare, it’s quite sad really. I can’t fix that, I can’t ‘fix’ people, but I can give them someone they need, because I need them too. It’s not about sex or companionship, it’s about a true, fulfilling purpose that serves both of us. My organisation wouldn’t exist without this relationship, it’d be just another group of thugs born from their displacement in the world.’ 

‘Certainly a unique approach,’ Vinny shrugged, ‘not that you’ve convinced me yet.’

‘Makes sense to me.’ Sophie looked back at him. 

‘I thought it would.’ Clarissa gave Sophie another hidden look.

Bright signs struck their view as they turned into the main street. Neon and pastels poking and popping about. A variety of languages waved about in a holographic vapour, stirring with round bodies made of rough pixels. Their hands and eyes were cut off by people passing by. Even more groups of people in matching attire, like those Sophie and Vinny saw the day before, were around. Some were grouped in still pockets standing guard like graffitied gargoyles, guns hanging carelessly, ready to die for their special corner of the footpath. Cameras crooked down at the street, holding hands with a mess of wires. Drones occasionally buzzed by, almost bumping into each other in the fog of advertisements. 

‘They’re not going to be a problem, right?’ Vinny crouched away from the window. 

‘Of course not, I had your identities erased and replaced. Your new web accounts are much more anonymous, especially compared to your police profiles. So many here go offline with their own tech or cyberware I’m surprised they still bother with surveillance.’ 

‘Oh, trust me, you’d be surprised by the alternatives the police come up with.’ 

‘I’d love to hear more about that sometime.’

Clarissa pulled into an open space by the curb next to a suited man with a bust that almost burst through his shirt. He circled around the car, opening the door for Clarissa. 

‘Hi Benny, could you take my ride somewhere quiet for me?’

‘Consider it done, Cleaver.’ He slipped the keys from her hands.

‘Thanks honey.’ Clarissa kissed him on the cheek, and strolled past him, meeting Sophie and Vinny on the footpath. 

‘Now for the tour. Please, follow me.’ Clarissa led them down the busy footpath. Although, its density wasn’t felt as the crowds kept a slight distance from them, looking straight down as they got close. Clarissa’s silk dress lines bobbed about as she walked with a quick pace, almost skipping around. They continued on until a wide intersection appeared. 

‘I’m sure you’re both familiar with this spot in particular, many have fought for control of the blocks surrounding it.’ Clarissa stopped and turned towards Sophie and Vinny.

‘Is that what you want us for?’ Vinny crossed his arms.

‘No no, I own almost all of this now,’ She pointed up at him, ‘almost.’

‘Still got a bit of a hill to get over, I’m guessing.’ 

‘That’s right, although with you two, think of it more of a slight bump. I’m sure you noticed the gangs about.’ 

‘Yea, quite a strange variety too. Why are so many rivals staring at each other on your turf?’ 

‘They’re allowed to be here, for now, because I’ve tamed them. Anyone causing trouble here has to deal with me, and despite their behaviour, they have been dealt with a great deal. In a way, I’ve created an almost ‘safe zone’ in which the immature practice of street shootouts are no longer. You won’t find any thugs like those you squashed before I caught you here.’

‘So you put them in line, what’s the problem then?’ Sophie cut in. 

‘I cut off the snake's head without knowing it was a hydra.’ Clarissa turned away from her. ‘Look at the way they're staring at me.’ She pointed with her look towards a group with machine pistols and swords. Their tattoos of different predators held their built and fit forms, muscles interlaced with sharp black lines where their cyber limbs started and finished. One stood in the centre, cocooned by their comrades. They had a muted black and green jumpsuit that hugged their sleek body. It stuck out with its sharp bright metal features. Glowing eyes lead the groups glare at them, which cut deeply despite their sheathed swords.  

‘Is that a fucking cyborg?’ Vinny stepped back slightly.

‘Yes, that is not their property however.’ 

‘Suits handed it to them.’ Sophie looked back at them with an even more lethal stare.

‘Correct.’

‘The police couldn’t deal with you, and rival gangs either lost or agreed to a treaty with you, so corporations are resorting to proxy gangs.’ Vinny looked down at Clarissa.

‘That’s my hydra, and you two are going to finish it off.’ She looked up at both of them with a dishonestly innocent looking smirk. Sophie kept the blade of her eyes on guard with the gang across the street. 

‘Come on scary lady,’ Clarissa tugged at Sophie's sleeve, ‘I still have much more to show you.’ 

Dark carpet with complex patterns hid under the dim lighting of the bar. Tables touched in particularly organised rows. Chairs liberated themselves from order in their inconsistent positions. Glasses mossy with leftover froth decorated the furniture and whatever still counted as a surface alongside unused coasters. Speakers hung from places on the ceiling clearly meant for cameras, wires dangling from them slightly. Cutting metal riffs and sharp vocals washed with the buzz of intentional gain betrayed itself with its whispers to an audience that left hours ago. A lone bartender wiped the bartop that was as invisibly dark as the carpet. He looked up with a jolt when Sophie and Clarissa entered, coming to life. 

‘Hi Liam, long shift hmm?’ 

‘Not at all Cleaver,’ He adjusted his posture to raise the ghost of his depleted energy, ‘what can I do for you?’

‘Two rum and cokes please.’ 

He nodded and spun away from them. Clarissa led Sophie to a booth that gave them cover from the open and exposed atmosphere of the bar. They both sat back in the lap of the red leather.

‘Where’d you send Vinny off to?’ Sophie crossed her arms.

‘An extra little tour, showing him the tech he’ll get to take advantage of. Not your thing, right?’

‘Right.’

‘I also wanted more time with you.’ Clarissa leaned on her hand and looked up at Sophie. She stared back with the same impenetrable stone face. The bartender swished around the corner, and placed the two drinks in between the pair, cutting through their mannequin stillness.

‘Enjoy.’ 

‘Thank you honey,’ Clarissa twisted her head at him, ‘you can finish up for today.’

He bowed slightly and swished away again. 

‘You like rum right? I hope I got that right.’

‘Not mixed.’

‘You will, show off.’ Clarissa leaned back again, looking up and down at Sophie. 

‘What?’

‘Quite a mysterious woman you are. I wonder what I’ll learn of you, or if I’ll learn anything at all. Are your walls always so high, or do your gates open for Vinny?’

‘Yea, but not like that.’ 

‘Oh I, apologise,’ Clarissa chuckled, ‘that must have sounded terrible. That’s not what I meant at all. I have noticed that ring, and that Vinny doesn’t have one. But you have worked together a long time, right?’ 

‘Been my partner for six years, met him in the academy way before that too.’

‘Wow, quite a bond that is. Friendships are so special, don’t you think? Irreplaceable, immortal.’

‘What’s this simple job you mentioned earlier?’

‘Vinny will meet us here and I’ll brief both of you then, so we’re waiting here. Am I boring you?’

‘No, I just feel like I’m being interrogated.’

‘I was only being curious, I really do want to get to know you Sophie.’

‘I hate suits and flush cunts, and I like working with my hands. That’s me.’

‘Oh,’ Clarissa sighed, ‘now I really like you. Corporations have really infected everything it seems, and we’re all so sick.’

There was a long pause between them, the silence froze time. It’s ice started to melt as Sophie's arms loosened with her posture. Her hands now held over each other on the table like weights. Clarissa’s eyes fell to the floor, her head hung low. 

‘Did they take something from you?’ She whispered.

‘Yes.’ Sophie said sternly, yet her posture remained loose.

‘Me too.’

Sophie turned to Clarissa, tried to speak, but instead swallowed hard as her eyes lost balance. 

‘It’s ok, don’t tell me about it,’ Clarissa reached over and took one of Sophie's hands, ‘just trust me.’

‘Ok…ok.’ Sophie nodded. 

Vinny popped through the entrance, the doors swinging and closing just as he took his first step inside. Sophie leaned out of the booth, waved at him, then slid to the right. 

‘What’s up?’ He plopped into the booth.

‘Well, it’s simple, like I said. Just-’ a blue light flashed by Clarissa’s temple, ‘Shit! One moment, I have to take this.’ The blue moved to her eyes. They occasionally glowed, the colour blinking its brightness. She looked away from them. After a few nods and tight expressions, the blue glow disappeared. 

‘Something…time sensitive has come up.’

‘What?’ Sophie leaned forward.

‘Your killer is about to have a second victim.’

‘Are you serious?!’

‘My insider has warned me that you could already be too late, I thought this could wait but-’

‘Let’s go Vinny.’

‘On it.’ He jumped up just as quickly as he sat down. 

‘I’ll send you their address. Be careful.’ 

The car roared as Sophie pressed the accelerator almost as hard as she held the steering wheel. Rain battered the windows, the bright wipers brushed it away vigorously. A river of lights streaked by as the car sped up even more. Other cars honked and wearily waned about as Sophie weaved between them. She put her hand on the centre console screen, and ripped two fingers up. A neon orange line appeared, highlighting the road ahead of her. 

‘Hey, at least it's close.’ Vinny fastened his vest while his pistol bounced about on his lap.

‘Not close enough.’ Sophie yanked the wheel as a turn came up. The wheels screeched as the car swung around the corner. Cinderous grunts of the engine came back as it slid forwards down the lane. 

With a stop that almost threw the pair forwards, Vinny and Sophie reached a tall apartment complex. They zipped out the car, only seeing a slight impression of the building's sleek exterior. The door clicked as Vinny’s eyes flashed, its lock slipped back, and they burst through. 

‘Elevator.’ Vinny pointed to a shiny metal door inside the back wall of the atrium. 

‘Copy.’ Sophie pulled clear wraparounds out of her breast pocket. The frames flashed blue and red as a user interface formed in front of her. An arrow in the corner of her eye pointed upwards. 

‘Sixth floor. One person inside, halls empty.’ 

‘Hopefully we beat them to it.’ 

 Low muffled humming moved the elevator. Sophie rapidly tapped the trigger guard of her pistol. Vinny kept looking for unseen dangers. The ding of the elevator doors snapped them both into action. Down the hall, the arrow led to an apartment towards the end, the door framed in white. They leaned against either side of it. Sophie nodded at Vinny. His eyes flashed again. 

‘Go.’ The door clicked.  

Sophie kicked it open and she was greeted with a scream, then a gunshot. 

[oonajaeadira]

The Mandalorian Tarot: Major Arcana

If you’re following me, you know this is a Mandalorian obsessive account. I love the man, I love the show, I write a Mando-fando that is all about pining and touch. I tend to go all in when I have an interest. 

Another one of my interests? Tarot. A friend challenged me to Mandalorify the major arcana. And because Jon and Dave know their stuff and are good with archetypes (which is all tarot really is), it was an easy fit.

YOU GOT MANDO IN MY TAROT. YOU GOT TAROT IN MY MANDO. TWO GREAT TASTES THAT TASTE GREAT TOGETHER.

But. I can’t draw, so I’ve dreamed them in words and included the Rider-Waite-Smith deck illustrations that I would riff on if I could.

READY? LET’S PLAY.

(All tarot illustrations by Pamela Colman Smith. All Mandalorian images property of Star Wars/Disney.)

UPDATE! @heathenashtattoos​ has taken up where I cannot and is making these cards a reality! I will post them individually and come back to link them to this post as we go.

0 THE FOOL = THE MANDALORIAN / IT IS MADE! --->

The story of the tarot is the Fool’s journey, the arc of becoming. So it makes sense to me that Din would be the fool. Fits even better, since he has tremendous Fool energy in his himbo tendencies, just rushing forward into situations without a lot of planning--he’ll deal with it when he’s in it--ready to rely on others to show him the way or guide/help him to the next step.

If I could draw: Din on the cliff, with his jetpack on, meaning he has no fear of falling. Instead of the bindle-stick the Fool carries, he’d have his pulse rifle slung over his shoulder. Instead of the dog nipping at his heels, Grogu. And, of course, the landscape would be Tatooine/Navaro-esque.

~~~

1 THE MAGICIAN = LUKE SKYWALKER , IT IS MADE! --->

The Magician is someone who is still learning to bend the laws of magic/the Universe, but very adept with their tools. Since Luke is only a few years into his Jedi training at this time, he makes a pretty good Magician.

If I could draw: Luke in his blacks, holding up his lightsaber. The Jedi symbol would replace the infinity sign. 

***

2 THE HIGH PRIESTESS = AHSOKA TANO / IT IS MADE! -->

High Priestess is further along the path of her magic than Magician, and her knowledge is more intuitive, her skills more effortless. Where the Magician is still learning the balance of light and dark, the High Priestess knows the value and pitfalls of both. It was always going to be Ahsoka.

If I could draw: Ahsoka sitting cross-legged in meditation mode, but with eyes open and a knowing smile. Instead of two pillars, she holds her lightsabers up and parallel to each other.

***

3 THE EMPRESS = PELI MOTTO / IT IS MADE! -->

The Empress is the mother figure, the energy in the universe that provides all that is needed and embodies the energy of creation. I can see the argument for Omera being the Empress--mostly because she is a mom and she’s soft and a lot of people see the Empress as a soft female figure, I get it. (And if I were to do a minor arcana, girl would show up as one of the Queens for sure.) But in the end, I gave it to Peli because she’s a recurring character, more relevant in his story, and if Din is the Fool, Peli is more an Empress to him. She’s able to be the provider of his particular needs; services to his ship to get him up flying, contact and location information, and she’s always willing to care for Grogu whenever she gets the chance.

If I could draw: Peli sitting in the dock, against the R4 unit, holding aloft a spanner and surrounded by her pit droids.

***

4 THE EMPEROR = BOBA FETT / IT IS MADE! -->

The Emperor is all about authority. And all I gotta say about Boba is BIG DICK ENERGY.

If I could draw: Just put him on the Jabba throne and let him lounge like a badass.

~~~

5 THE HIEROPHANT = THE ARMORER / IT IS MADE! -->

The Hierophant is the keeper of traditions and a spiritual guide. As the leader of the covert and keeper of the Way, The Armorer fits.

If I could draw: The Armorer, framed by her forge, holding aloft her tools, with Mandalorian acolytes. Instead of the crossed keys at the bottom, let’s just have a mythosaur skull.

***

6 THE LOVERS = FROG LADY AND FROG HUSBAND

This should be obvious and I will fight anyone who says it isn’t the right thing to do. I will die for this.

If I could draw: I would actually depart from the Smith depiction and just draw them embracing or holding each other by the arms and staring into each others’ eyes. Some kind of glowing background? Maybe the egg tank?

***

7 THE CHARIOT = THE MUDHORN

Oh. You thought I was going to say the Razor Crest, didn’t you. Don’t worry, I have plans for our beloved craft, but it ain’t here. The Chariot can be a ride, yes, but it’s about victory. Sometimes it’s about the victory over your inner “beastly” natures. To travel to the next phase in the journey, the Fool must take on the beasts that drive the Chariot and claim dominance over them, and when he does, they will carry him to the next level. Since it’s the victory of the beastly mudhorn that brings Din to his bond with Grogu and becomes his signet, Mudhorn for the win.

If I could draw: Again, I’d probably play on Smith’s imagery, put the charging mudhorn in the middle, and replace the rams with Din on his knees brandishing the vibroblade and Grogu in his pram with his Force hand up.

***

8 STRENGTH = CARA DUNE

Don’t come at me about including Cara. I am glad Gina got shown the door and I lose no love on that bigot. But. Cara is not Gina and to cut her out is to cut out Jon and Dave’s creation and I won’t do it.  I actually love her a lot--she’s got her flaws, but she’s sassy and strong and solid, and I would happily accept a piggyback ride from her any day. She’s also a major player in Din’s story and deserves a spot in it. Strength comes after the Chariot--once you’ve conquered the beast within, you have confident dominion over it and it becomes a companion or a tool for your use. Cara is one with her toughness, she’s used it to do some good and bad shit in her past, and she continues to wield it effortlessly and fearlessly. She is absolutely this card.

If I could draw: I would put her maybe sitting on top of the downed ATST. I’d replace the infinity symbol over her head with the one on her cheek (Rebel Alliance).

~~~

9 THE HERMIT = KUIIL

The Hermit is a loner, yes, but in his solitude he looks within, learns from all he’s been through, and becomes wise. He holds aloft a light of wisdom and truth. This was always going to be Kuiil.

If I could drawn: Just our buddy, looking out over the Arvala-7 landscape, holding aloft an in-universe working lamp. No need to get fancy. He would want it to stay simple.

***

10  THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE = IMPERIAL SYMBOL AND STORM TROOPERS

The Wheel is fate. You win some, you lose some. Sometimes you’re on top, and sometimes the Wheel crushes you beneath it. You are helpless to its roll and where you’ll land. Storm Troopers are such a sad bunch. They are keepers of Imperial Law on the ground. On a good day, they capture a Rebel or hold off an attack. On a bad day, their Moff just blasts them to make an example.

If I could draw: The wheel would just be the Imperial symbol and there’d be Troopers on and under it. Maybe the one on top is just standing there, looking authoritative. The one underneath has been blasted. Some Wheels have two more figures--one on each side--and I’d add those too. The one on the down-going side would be falling, arms flailing, blaster shooting (if only sound were available, there’d be a Whilhelm scream), and the one on the up-going side would just be dangling by one arm, along for the ride.

***

11 JUSTICE = COBB VANTH

Well, it just feels right to make the Marshal into Justice. But it’s not just a literal translation of making sure the right thing gets done and the bad guys are punished. Justice is about wiping away emotion and making decisions with bare truth, looking at every side of the situation and understanding what is really there. And I think Cobb fits this well. He doesn’t want to give up his armor because of what it means for the protection of his people. But he’s willing to consider it, if there’s another way he can protect them. Emotionally, he doesn’t want to deal with the Tusken Raiders, but he does it because he can see it’s the best course of action. He flies into battle with the Krayt Dragon. He gives up his armor without a fight. He makes a fair trade and sees the balance in it because he walks away from the emotion and chooses the best course of action. Cobb Vanth for Justice, errybody.

If I could draw: Cobb in the Fett armor, but with the helmet at his feet. In one hand, a bottle of spotchka. In the other, the Tusken mushroom drinky thing; he’s holding them with equal balance.

***

12 THE HANGED MAN = MIGS MAYFELD

The Hanged Man is not just about a dude who’s hanging upside down. (If that was the case, I would have just gone with Gor Koresh and called it a day.) Hanged Man is about changing your perspective to see things in a new way so you can grow. Many times, this growth also requires sacrifice. Over the two episodes we see Mayfeld, we know he goes from Imperial sharp shooter, to traumatized deserter, to merc, prisoner, and exonerated friend. He’s seen some shit, given up a lot, and he’s willing to see how he can be a help to others and find redemption for himself.

If I could draw: Hear me out. Take the image of Mayfeld hanging upside down from the Crest hatch into the prison ship. Mirror that above with an image of him in his Imperial Ground Transport gear. Flip it all upside down so bad Mayfeld up top, good Mayfeld on bottom, images mirrored but inverted, hence “looking at things a new way and getting everything a little topsy-turvey.”

~~~

13 DEATH = MOFF GIDEON

Death is about transformation, so it’s not always the most sinister card. But Death does not discriminate. It comes for us all, constantly stalking, and it will strike you down to serve its needs. You need to face Death to get to your redemption. But really, Gideon is our big baddie here, so why the hell not.

If I could draw: I would forgo the Smith illustration and go for the Marseilles tradition on this one. Gideon and the Darksaber replaces Death and the scythe.

*** 

14 TEMPERANCE = IG-11

Temperance is the transformation that comes after Death. Once Death has chopped your physical being into pieces with his scythe, Temperance is there to take all your pieces and put them back together into something new and better. It’s also a card that asks you to re-evaluate your priorities and see if you can find better motivations than you previously had. IG’s death and reprogramming speak loudly to me on this.

If I could draw: IG pouring the tea.

***

15 THE DEVIL = THE CLIENT

Here’s another baddie card that’s all about your worst faults, about excess and giving into the stuff that will eventually kill your soul. The Client holds on hard to the Empire, doing whatever he’s ordered to do to be one of the top dogs. And in the end, it doesn’t matter. Gideon takes him down like he’s nothing.

If I could draw: The client, wearing his Empire bling, with chains around Doctor Pershing and a rough-looking Storm Trooper.

***

16 THE TOWER = THE RAZOR CREST

I don’t know about you, but Chapter 14 killed me. And not because the Dark Troopers flew away with Grogu. We all knew Din would never stop at getting him back. But when the Crest was destroyed, it was like someone punched me in the soft parts, and I made a lot of severely anguished noises. The Tower is the most tragic card in the tarot. It’s when forces beyond your control make a very big (and usually negative) impact in your life and everything changes. You are left to pick up the pieces and survive any way you can with the skills and resources you’ve been blessed with.

If I could draw: Just that moment of the ray hitting our beautiful Crest, just as it begins to break apart, maybe with Din, Boba, and Fennec watching in horror in the foreground.

~~~

17 THE STAR = GROGU

The Star is hope. It comes after the biggest tragedy in the deck to tell you that not all is lost. There is always something there to live for. C’mon, kids. In this series, there was only one choice.

If I could draw: Just Grogu. Maybe drinking his soup. Or maybe he’s levitating his metal ball overhead, reaching up to it with a smile on his face. *coos*

***

18 THE MOON = BO KATAN KRYZE

We all like Bo Katan, sure. But remember my Clone Wars/Rebels fiends, she was Death Watch, and they were terrorists. She sided with Maul to take over Mandalore. Sure, she’s come a long way and her path is a bit more honorable now, but she’s got an agenda, which makes her hard to trust. Since the Moon is about more feminine energies and has themes of illusion and deception--things look great in the moonlight, but maybe not as they really are--Bo Katan’s our girl.

If I could draw: Head and shoulders profile, double-imaged so you see her face, but her Nite Owl helmet superimposed in profile over it. Nite Owl signet on the bottom. Possibly flanked by her two Nite Owl cronies.

***

19 THE SUN = GREEF KARGA

Everything's sunny when Greef’s around! He’s the feel-good gramps that’s going to make any situation A-Ok! If you’ve got a problem, Greef can sort it out...or he knows someone who can! The sun is always gonna shine on you and take you back.

If I could draw: Just Greef smiling and being cheesy with the halo of the sun around him. 

***

20 JUDGEMENT = FENNEC SHAND

This card traditionally shows the resurrected rising from the grave, ready to be judged. Fennec’s got a lot to answer for in her life, but she is being given a second chance, and my number one girl crush is going to do new and wonderful badass things with it.

If I could draw: I’d either just show her opening her gut pocket to show her new works, all full of aura, with her looking down at it reverently. OR I might do a scene of her being rescued by Boba.

~~~

21 THE WORLD = THE HELMET

Din’s helmet is the world he lives in. But it’s also a symbol of The Way. The World represents completion, a wholeness of self and being, the end of the journey. And since Din is our Fool, his journey is an exploration of his morals and honor, what it means to walk the way of the Mandalore, and what the meaning of the helmet is for him. He may choose ultimately to keep it on and go all-in on Mandalorian-4-lyfe (Child of the Watch style), or he may understand that the helmet is just a symbol and the honor was in him all along; he can wear it or not wear it and it’s all the same.

If I could draw: The World usually depicts a circle or sphere of some kind, the symbol of perfect completion. The helmet is close enough, so it takes up the center. Traditionally, there are four symbols in the corners that give more meaning to The World, and I would replace them with The Razor Crest, Grogu, the Mudhorn Signet, and the pulse rifle or blaster. These represent his home, his foundling, his clan, and his religion, all of which make up more of the whole; what it means to him to be Mandalorian.

~~~~~~~~~~

Challenge accepted and faced. 

Adira dops her witchy mic….

[kinetic-elaboration]

100 Days of Writing: Day Forty

I’m getting really lazy about this lol. Today’s entry: the answers to a few random questions that have spoken to me, from days I skipped.

Project courtesy of @the-wip-project​. Tagging fellow participants @she-who-the-river-could-not-hold​, @thelittlefanpire​, @hopskipaway​, @easilydistractedbyfanfic​, @dylanobrienisbatman​ @fontainebleau22.

This got VERY verbose, sorry....!

*

Day 34: Do you prefer to write fluff or angst?

Funny story. I once had a fic nominated in the Best Angst Category in a fandom fic awards event. The nomination was, of course, flattering, but also really confusing, because I didn’t think the fic was particularly angsty. It wasn’t super fluffy either. It...just was? It was a basic strangers-to-lovers modern AU somewhere in the 7k range, and the main ship was endgame. There was a period where half of the main ship was dating someone else, but that was mostly mentioned in passing during a time skip; most of the actual content was the endgame couple talking/flirting/pining, and, again, they did get together in the end.

The nomination made me reconsider what I think ‘fluff’ and ‘angst’ are and what my relationships are to the genres. I feel like a lot of my work is neither.

Some types of stories are obviously one or the other. MCD and/or illness is angst. Hurt/comfort is angst. Romantic stories where the characters don’t end up together are, generally, angst. Romantic stories where the characters DO end up together but only after considerable obstacles can be angst, also--which might have been the rationale behind nominating the above fic in ‘angst’ although, again, it was only 7k. It’s one thing to have a 300k+ story where the main characters pine for each other, wallow in their feelings, fight, feel jealousy, etc, and the finally kiss in the final chapter--I’ve done that, too. A shorter story is a different beast.

Fluff, to me, is a genre of stories without (significant) conflict. The point is you feel good reading them. Romantic stories with established couples, or first date stories, are fluff. Slice of life or ‘curtain’ fic is fluff. Holiday fic with a found family feel is fluff.

I’ve written some stories that clearly fall into one of these two genres, sometimes because the challenge I’m doing or request I’m fulfilling calls for it, and sometimes because I need a palette cleanser after writing the opposite type of fic.

Another place I’ve thought about genre is with Troped, but I don’t always feel confident in the stories I’ve written there, in terms of theme. The very, very first round had a Fluff theme but I wasn’t sure if my story was fluffy (I’m still not). It had a happy ending and the final scene was decidedly cute, but the characters came from angsty backgrounds, and some of the early scenes had, imo, a melancholy feel. Then one of the 2020 Madness rounds had an Angst theme. I tried to fit my entry into that genre by giving it a general feeling of helplessness and an ambiguous, dreary ending. I think it was angsty, but it wasn’t as... hardcore angsty? as some of the other entries. I also picked the theme “angst” for one of my Choice fics and that one was decidedly angsty, both in the specific-trope sense--it dealt with the aftermath of a major character death--and in the more general ‘mood’ sense. The main relationship wasn’t repaired at the end, and the ending was ambiguous.

I feel like for every fic I’ve written that’s decidedly fluffy or decidedly angsty, and I could give examples of both, I’ve written one or more that isn’t really either. Again, most of the time, unless I have a specific reason to think ‘time to write angst’ or ‘time to write fluff,’ I don’t go into an idea thinking it should be one or the other. I usually have a mood I want, but it might not be simple to categorize.

ALL that said... I think if I had to pick one, it would be angst. I don’t like truly unhappy endings, but I’ve done a decent number of ambiguous endings. It’s also easier for me to think of stories I’ve written that I think are fairly categorized as angst than stories that are clearly fluff. Third, I love writing about pining, and longing, and missing, and needing, and these are not ‘fluffy’ feelings. But most importantly, like I said, I think ‘fluff’ is a type of story that has minimal-to-zero conflict in it and I actually find those VERY hard to write. Maybe We Will is probably the fluffiest thing I’ve written (4k of a first date at a carnival) and my biggest challenge was figuring out: what are these people going to DO?

This isn’t an insult to fluff at all. Fluff writers have a real talent for creating a pleasant narrative, and I like reading outright fluff more than reading outright angst. But for me, there is a lot more flexibility outside of fluff, whether or not the resulting narrative is truly “angsty” or not. It might not have the primary goal of making you feel sad, but it probably doesn’t have the primary goal of making you feel happy either.

*

Day 37: Post your favorite line of dialogue that you’ve written recently. 

Skimmed the Sleeping Beauty AU for this one. As soon as I’m asked to think about dialogue I like, I wonder if I’ve ever written good dialogue in my life! Lol. You think about it too much and it all sounds fake. Here’s an exchange I think is pretty good (perhaps just in comparison to a lot of the Really Rough Writing that surrounds it...).

"That sounded like it went pretty well," she says, as she balances awkwardly against the wall, pulling on her boots. "From what I could hear."

Bellamy shrugs. He's scanning the crowd, glancing over at her impatiently when she stumbles, trying to tie her laces without bothering to kneel. "Roma doesn't ask a lot of questions."

Clarke snorts. "Yes, she does. What you really mean is, she asks a lot of questions, then gets distracted whenever you turn on the charm."

"Yeah, sure. My well-known charm."

Clarke lets her foot fall heavily to the ground again, straightens up and pushes her hair back from her face. "If you weren't flirting and being charming, what were you doing?"

Bellamy hesitates, a light, embarrassed pink spreading across his cheeks, and Clarke rises up on her toes triumphantly, trying to lean into his space. "I should have gotten more ration points," he says, barely more than a grumble, and Clarke laughs and pulls her hat down over her head. Then she picks up the jacket, slips it on, and steps purposefully in front of him.

"How do I look?"

Day 38: What comes first, plot or characters?

Well, I write fanfiction, so I feel like this is a tricky question to define. My current fandom does have a lot of characters though, so it is possible to have a general idea of a plot but not know who to put in it. That’s happened to me on a few occasions I think, but generally speaking... I think the two come simultaneously?

When I’m writing for Troped, it’s easier to start with the plot because certain elements of the challenge suggest (or require) a plot but never the characters to go in it. So sometimes I do work from plot --> characters there. It’s usually pretty seamless in that the plot-idea usually comes with at least some idea of the characters, but sometimes there’s ambiguity--for example, deciding to include Bellamy in Mad Women when he wasn’t initially supposed to be in it, which ended up changing/defining the story quite a bit. Another example is Mountain Lion Mean, where I knew right away what the general plot would be but waffled a bit about precisely which characters would be in it and to what degree.

Other challenges often define the characters first and so then by definition that’s where I start. For example, a Bellarke challenge obviously requires you to write about Bellarke, but depending on the other rules, the plot may come entirely from each individual writer without any additional prompting.

If it’s a wholly original/spontaneous idea.... it either is necessarily about plot and characters at once (ex: AU where X character is in Y place or examination of Z ship in a modern AU) or it comes as nothing but Mood. That mood might have elements of plot and bits of character but the best way I can describe it is that I develop both at once. For example, my Southern Gothic AU came to me as certain elements--a character who does X, a relationship with Y feel, Z ship--and I’m working on combining all of those into a narrative. Or, as another example, I currently have a vague desire to write something with a Slow Summer Vibe but I have no idea what it will be about or who will be in it.

But again, it’s often “I want to write an angsty Jonty AU” or “hmm what about a Bravenlarke fic particularly about being in a poly relationship” or “this song makes me picture Bellarke at the beach; let’s write that”--ideas that essentially capture both character and plot at once.

I don’t know if I’m doing a good job of describing this but I write so much for challenges and events that I don’t have a huge pool of data for ‘spontaneous ideas’ to analyze.

*

Day 40: How do you start a new story?

I feel like I kind of already answered this in the last question. The very first step is an Idea, obviously. That would either come, in part, from the challenge or event I’m participating in or the request I’m filling, or it arrives by itself from some bit of inspiration: a song, a thought about a certain character or relationship, a mood I’m feeling and want to capture, etc.

But I feel like this question is about what happens with the idea.

Most (though not all) of the time, I start with a process of brainstorming and outlining. I’ve talked about this elsewhere, but I start by just sitting down with a notebook and writing down my thoughts, in a conversational style--basically like these posts. I write down any images I have, any plot points that have already come to me, etc. Everything I know. Then I brainstorm some more elements, filling in all the stuff I don’t know. Then I distill the plot down to discrete plot points: an outline of the whole fic in order. What needs to happen and in what order? The outline is generally organized by scene, though it’s flexible: sometimes scenes can be combined; sometimes they need to be split. Sometimes I need to re-evaluate the outline later, but most stories are simple enough that this initial outline works for the whole writing process.

I always write in order. I cannot write out of order. I need to immerse myself in the narrative and that means that events follow logically from each other. Also, sometimes what I come up with in the moment in scene 1 can change what I want to happen in scene 5--not so drastically that I’m re-writing the outline, but drastically enough that I would have to rewrite scene 5 if it were already done. That’s too complicated for me. I think there are probably advantages, in terms of amount of fun to be had, as well as in capturing ideas before they disappear from your brain, in writing scenes as the spirit moves you rather than in order, but I just can’t do it. That’s not how my mind works.

In order to start a fic, or even a new scene, I need to know HOW it starts and some idea of how I will describe that opening image/event/whatever. I often practice this for days before I actually write. For example, I’m going to write another Sleeping Beauty scene soon and I know it starts with Clarke hearing conversation behind her, so I’ve been practicing what that dialogue might be and how I might describe her listening while looking at something else. When I have a strong sense of the opening and a decent sense of the rest--what needs to happen to move along the plot--I just start writing. I do most of my writing as sprints.

Sometimes I write without an outline, and it’s basically the same process as the last paragraph, except I only have the opening and a vague sense of what’s to come. I don’t do that often anymore. But I started a couple outline-less fics last summer when I was just desperate to break my block and didn’t really feel like planning and stuff. I just wanted to get words on a page. Thus I have a couple WIPs that are about 1,200 words long and then just abruptly reach a cliff’s edge and stop!! I don’t know if I’ll outline or not before I return to them but right now I’m thinking not.

[kotas-dump]

There’s something about the crescent moon that seems mocking as you stare up at it through your bedroom window. Perhaps it’s the dagger in your chest, just shy of your heart but making every breath a painful one. Or the body of your human lover Emilia drapped over your naked chest, hands still wrapped tightly around the hilt of the dagger. It could even be it’s light glinting off your sword, imbuned with magic and bound to you that hung above your head, dripping her blood on your cheek.

There was pain, a lot of it from your chest, but you knew you’d heal just fine from the physical wounds. Still the tears burned in your eyes. It had only been months ago that the two of you were swearing the rest of your lives to each other as you brought down your kind’s hold over the humans. You swore your allegiance to Emilia, the strongest of the vampire hunters. You helped her slay your own family for the future of humanity, for the hope that you’d have a future with her. A bastard of a vampire and a vampire hunter would set the example for the rest of the world...

And for what?

You sat up, her body slumping down into your lap as you pulled her dagger from your chest with a grunt. The wound started to close and you tossed it aside. How had it ever come to this?

You weren’t sure of the time that passed as you lifted her up into your arms and laid her down in your bed. Leaving to go wash yourself of the overwhelming scent of her blood.

It was there, in the moonlight of the river you felt the moon mocking you the most. It was waist deep in icy water that you broke down and howled like a wounded beast. Naked and hurt standing in a river in the dead of night. Ashamed at yourself for not letting her just kill you.

The moon was setting by the time you reached your mansion of a home. The icy water numbing you to what you must do next.

You posted her corpse up outside, hanging from chains over your archway as a warning. As the rising sun stained the sky red you scoffed and retreated back into your home.

—

Time had passed since Emilia’s death but you still found yourself talking to her on your steps in the dead of the night. Her body had long since fallen and scattered by the wild animals. Living in isolation like you did you wondered how long before you too were just some wild beast. You should have let her kill you. This wasn't living.

You had taken up walking and ventured into the nearby village at dusk and only for spices and things you couldn’t get yourself. Even after closing the woman selling the spices talked to you. She was nice...for a human. But you never stayed any longer than a handful of minutes. It had become a ritual on every full moon to check on your nearby village and make sure they were safe.

Today was no exception. She talked as she bagged up your items. Commenting on your good skin despite the dry fall air. Sweet as ever you smiled and nodded. Reminding yourself to keep your distance.

“Just this tonight?” She wonders,taking your money and holding out your change. As you went to take it she grabbed your hand. “Is your husband hurting you?”

The question shocked you, took you by surprise. “I..I’m not married.”

“Oh.” She released your hand and leaned back. “I’m sorry.. I thought.. I mean.. You always look so sad... and you always leave in s hurry... Well there I go sticking my nose where it don’t belong.” She smiled as her own husband came out from the back.

You watched with a forced smile as he wrapped his hand around her waist, chuckling. “She giving you trouble? I keep telling you not to bother the poor girl. We can’t afford to loose our best customer.”

She slaps his chest and scoffs. “I ain’t troubling no one. I was just chat-“

Turning you quickly mutter. “It’s getting late I’ll be going now.”

“Now wait a minute there little lady.” Her husband calls.

Little? You hadn’t been called that for almost 300 years. “I really can’t stay..”

“I won’t keep ya. We were just wondering. Wouldn’t it be easier to get these things delivered to ya? I mean you must live a ways a way what with you coming so late at night and all... so I could deliver em to ya so ya don’t have to make the trip.” He offers. It’s intriguing enough that you stop. “Ah see I knew that would get your interest. Just give us the directions and I’ll make weekly delivery’s.”

Would save you from leaving the mansion..and the trouble of travel. You sigh and quickly write it down. “I’m leaving now..thank you.”

“Thank you! See ya soon sugar!” The woman waves and you nod and quickly make your way home.

The weekly deliveries were nice and kept a better supply of fresh spices in your pantry even if you met them on the edge of your property. But one week they were late. It was well into night and they still hadn’t arrived. So you went out and started walking.

Most vampires and werewolves knew better than to venture onto your territory but mountain lions didn’t really understand. You felt foolish for worrying but when you saw a horse laying dead on the side of the road you froze. that wasn’t a good sign at all.

Rushing over you could see claw marks and bites all over the horse.. the faint scent of the shopkeeper still clung to the warm carcass. Following it you ventured far into the forest. The stench of blood overpowering you as you close to a thick set of brush. A feral looking vampire looked up, soaked in blood and growling you sigh.

“You...complicate things.” You snap, grabbing their throat as they lung and throwing them into the trees. “They don’t make them like they used to.” You sigh, grabbing a branch and snapping it from the tree. “Didn’t your master tell you not to go near -“

“Richard? Honey? You out here?” A familiar voice.. the WIFE?! Snapping around the vampire makes a run for the voice.

“I swear to fuck shit... get back here!” Chasing after them you tackle them to the ground.

“Honey?” She calls, venturing toward you.

Not good not good. You look up and the slippery vampire throws you off and runs for her. It’s to late, the lantern light she carries catches their eyes and you tackle them to the ground as they lunge for her.

“Oh my god!” She gasps, covering her mouth as you two fight.

This was to complicated the smell of blood wasn’t helping either. It was making your stomach turn. They claw at your face, your shoulders and the stench of the blood only gets stronger. Pinning the feral vampire down you stab into their chest with the branch, piercing their heart as they scream in pain.

Breathing a heavy sigh of relief you stand up and brush yourself off. Blood covered your face were the feral monster had clawed you, dripping onto your shirt.

“That was...” The woman is shaken, the light bouncing in her quivering hand.

“It’s fine. You’re safe.” You try to give her a reassuring smile but she recoils and screams.

The lantern clatters to the ground as both of her hand fly to her mouth. “V-V-Vampire!” Turning she quickly ran back the way she’d come.

“That went well don’t you think?” You ask the rapidly disintingrating vampire. Snatching the lantern you set it upright and head back home. It was only a matter of time before the pitchforks and torches. “Fuck me.” You groan. All you could do was hope they had better aim than Emilia.

You’d gotten your door baracaded and a collection of wine on your table. If you were going to get angry mobbed you needed at least one bottle of wine in you. But.. there wasn’t one. You’d stayed up all day expecting it. Going through half your store of wine before giving up and heading to bed.

Even in the days that passed the mob never came. You ventured back into the village to see how they faired, passing by the spice merchant’s home only to hear her sniffling sobs. You knew that pain... well... kind of. So you gathered a bunch of wild flowers and left them on her window sill.

It became your new ritual, leaving flowers, sometimes money, for her every night. Even in the winter you managed to leave her gifts. After a while though you stopped. You weren’t sure why but it just seemed.. wrong to keep doing it. Having gifts from a vampire probably wasn’t comforting when that same creature was the one that killed your husband.

Instead you didn’t bother going into the village at all. You made your rounds, watched from the dark shadows of trees as she learned to smile and joke again. Good. She’d be fine. She was older now, maybe mid thirties? But she still ran that little spice shop. Every now and again she’d look out around sunset like she was looking for someone but only flipped the sign to close and turned off the lights.

You stopped visiting the village. It was painful to watch the humans age and it only made you envy them more. Mortality. Tonight was a clear and calm night. Not exactly a night you’d expected a knock on the door.

No one knocked on your door.

Curious you get up and open it. The spice woman standing there in her shawl wrapped tightly around her. “He-“ You slammed the door. This wasn’t... no. Opening the door again you expected your age to be playing tricks on you but no.. she still stood there, eyes slightly wider than before.

“It’s not polite to slam a door in someone’s face.” She chastises.

“I- what?” She’s indeed older now. Small wrinkles beginning to form at the edges of her eyes and nose. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting any visitors.. I uh..”

“Well with the skeletons outside I’d assume not. It’s not very welcoming.” She smiles and you just stare. Dumbfounded. “May I come in..?”

Right! Manners those were a thing. Opening the door you motion her inside. Suddenly regretting not dusting the last.. 10 years. “ Tea? I mean.. would you like some.. tea?”

She looks around before her eyes settle on you and soften. “That would be lovely.” Crossing her hands in front of her she raises her brows. “Are you alright sugar?”

You’re staring again. There's a faint scent of blood on her and it's a bit distracting” What? Oh! I’m fine. I’ll get that tea.” You rush towards the kitchen, setting the kettle onto the stove.

“You really haven’t aged at all.” She says as she steps into the kitchen.

You’re not really sure what to say to that. Why was she even here?

She sits down at your small table and watches you. “I’ve been meaning to come talk to you for a while. I just.. I couldn’t find the courage after that night I had been so shaken..”

Again, you’re not sure what to say so you just nod and glare angrily at the kettle hoping it would heat faster. “I- I am sorry about your husband.. I mean your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. Losing a love one.. must be hard.” You wouldn’t know you killed all of yours. Argh did your brain ever shut up? The kettle started to scream and you quickly grabbed it and poured the hot water into a cup for her. Placing it in front of her you catch her gaze and look away. “Right. I have some cookies around here somewhere..”

As you’re rummaging in the cabinets she laughs and you turn, old cookies in hand. You hadn’t been to the village in years so the last time you’d bought cookies.. You threw them back into the cabinet and shoved the door shut as things crashed inside. “Probably not good anymore anyways.”

“You seem scared.” She says, swirling her tea in her cup. “Hard to think I’d scare a vampire.

Well.. not you but the angry mob yes. Also why do you smell like blood? Well I guess you are full of it.. “Ah.. I don’t mean to come off that way. I just... Well the only guest I’ve ever had was Emilia and well..” I murdered her when she stabbed me through the chest in an extra spicy lovemaking session.” She’s gone now.” Clearing your throat you sit down across from her. You can’t help but notice all the dust everywhere.

“I don’t blame you for Richard you know.” She says softly, taking a sip from her tea

Who? oh right. Dead husband. Well you actually hadn’t killed him so you didn’t feel guilty there. “That's...good.”

“I figured you felt bad you didn’t save him from that other vampire.. the one you killed that night?” Her voice was so soft and she sounded like she wasn’t trying to upset you.

You hadn’t felt guilty though. Was that bad? You’d killed more significant people than the spice delivery man. “I...should have gotten there sooner.” You say, rolling with it. Not exactly like you could admit you didn’t care.

Setting her cup down she took your hands. “I know you left those gifts. No one else would have. You don’t have to be scared of the village. I didn’t tell anyone what happened and they ruled his death a moutain lion attack.”

Oh god she was touching you. How long had it been since you felt the warmth of another’s skin? Oh that’s creepy you’re being creepy. Pulling your hands away you chuckled. “That’s good." You said that already. Clearing your throat you try again. " I uh.. was worried you hated me for it.” Not really though I watched you for years. If you were going to rat on me you would have done it. Looking away you wring your hands, you could still feel her fingers.

She sighs. “I suppose I should but to be honest I don’t know why you saved me that night. Why you never came back to the village. I always figured you’d been punishing yourself for not being able to save him. I mean compared to other villages we’re much safer, we don’t have as many animal attacks or any other attacks. One person in 10 years is rare for a village...” Looking over she glances over to you and you quickly look away. “It must be lonely though.”

Lonely? You shoot her a confused look, “Why would I be lonely...?”

She shifts but smiles. “Well.. you stopped coming to the village,-“ not true. Ok kinda true. “You killed that vampire so you must not get along with your own kind-“ Okay that was true but for a whole different reason,”-and you live alone. Doesn’t that become lonely?” Her eyes are piercing and you turn away again.

Laughing you shrug. “I never really thought of it that way..” I mean i killed everyone I loved so it seems fitting I’d be alone. “I guess? It doesn’t really bother me often.” Only on you know, every major holiday. “I got used to it. I mean it has been...” When did Emilia die again? You shrug. “ It’s been a long time.” You force a smile and glance over to her.

There’s tears in her eyes and she wilts like a flower. “You poor thing. I’m so sorry. Here.” She pulls out a handkerchief and hands it to you.

Taking it you give her a confused look.

“You’re crying sugar.” She gives you a sad smile and takes it from your hand to wipe at your eyes. “I never meant to bring up any bad memories. I’m sorry.”

“What?” You rub at your eyes and take a deep breath. “That’s embarrassing.” Laughing you wipe at your eyes again.

“Everyone always talks about vampires like they’re beasts but.. you seem more human than any beast.” The woman dabs at her own eyes and takes a sip of tea. “I never imagined how they lived. I kind of assumed they lived in pairs or families.”

Right. “Most do. I uh.. Don’t have any. It’s not sad though. I-“ Killed them myself? “Made that choice myself.” Nice save. “It’s better for me to be alone.”

She nods. “I envy your strength. I keep trying to tell myself that. I still miss him though. It’s scary being a woman on her own. Having powers must put your mind at ease.”

Was that what this whole thing was about? Well she’d be heartbroken to hear you wouldn't turn anyone. The sterile mule of the vampire world. No kids no minions just eternity. “Ah well. I envy your ability to die.” You mutter. The silence that followed made you realize you’d said that..out loud. “I mean. Eternal life Isn’t something I’d give away even if I could. This isn’t really living.” You force a dry laugh and clear your throat. “Like you said I’m always alone and even if I wanted a family I could never have one so it’s not really...”You cough. “Living. More tea?” You stand up quickly but she catches your wrist.

She’s staring at you, eyes piercing into you. “Is that why you always look so sad? You’re cursed to be alone...forever?”

You bite your cheek. This was not were you expected your night to go. “I look sad?” She’d mentioned that before, years ago but to bring it up now? “It’s not like I’m not used to it. Just how i imagine you humans live knowing you will die one day. I live knowing.. i will be alone. it’s just.. how things are. No use being sad over it right?” You can feel your eyes watering again. “ Ah my eyes again. This is embarrassing. I never have this problem.” You laugh and turn away but her grip only tightens. You don’t have the heart to pull away even as her chair squeaks across the floor and she stands.

“Would it be so bad if for one night you weren’t so alone?” She whispers, arms wrapping around you. “If for one night you were loved again?”

You fold in on yourself and your jaw clenches. Her body is warm against your back, her heart loud in your ears. You wanted to. Oh how badly you wanted to. She wanted to, you could smell it as her hand pulled you into the other room, through the foyer and down onto the dusty old couch. Did you trust her? Not really.. but your sword was nearby should things so south. But to be honest... would it be so terrible if the night ended up like your last night with Emilia?

Her lips crash onto yours and your brain shorts out. Warm hands roam your body, pulling at your shirt and untucking it from your pants. It’s up and over your head, tossed carelessly across the room. You never wore any sort of binding undergarment so she’s got free access to your breasts and she’s taking advantage of it.

If your heart beat you were sure it’d be racing faster than hers. She wasted no time pinching and playing with you, only venturing down when she herself got bored. You were at her mercy. Off your pants went, and she was back on you. Her fingers teased your folds and you arched into her hand so hard it made her laugh. She toyed with you and made every lewd noise spill from your lips before finally slipping her fingers into you. It didn’t take her long to have you writing, nails tearing into the cushions as you whimpered and moaned.

“You don’t have to hold yourself back. Cum already we have all night.” Her breath is hot on your ear and it tickles your neck. Your mouth opened, a growling moan escaping into the air as you came right on her hand. She didn’t stop there, she kept going until you were jerking and wiggling away from her hand. “Oh no no. You don’t get to stop there. I scratch your back you scratch mine.”

You were to high off your own climax and the scent of her to care. Blood and desire was one hell of an aphrodisiac So when she pulled you on top of her there wasn’t any shyness as you pushed her skirt up, yanking her underthings off only to throw them to the floor. You dove in face first only when your tongue met her folds did you understand why the scent of blood was more prominent than before. You had forgotten humans did this. Still, you didn't find yourself complaining but when you looked up she just gave you a sly smile.

It had been years and your tongue wasn’t as agile as it used to be but her hand tangled in your hair all the same. Keeping you in place as she grinded helplessly against your face. You pulled moan after pleasured moan from her until she was gasping for breath, her grip painful as you sucked and licked her clit. She gasped, tensed and you kept working until she cursed and pulled your head up like a trophy. Cheeks and mouth covered in a lewd mix of cum, saliva, and blood.

She laughed and you smirked with her as she threw you backwards. Climbing over you she wiped your face roughly only to lick up your neck. She kissed her own way down your front, stopping when her lips hit the scar near your heart. Her eyes caught yours and she kept going. Leaving that for later.

And later it was. You kept going until she practically begged you to stop for the night. Now the two of you laid naked, sweaty, and tired on top of one another. Her check rested on your chest and she traced the raised scar as a shiver raced down your spine. “What happened?”

It wasn’t exactly a story for pillowtalk. Even you knew that much. “I got stabbed. Terrible aim though.”

She looked up you could feel her looking at you and refused to meet her gaze. “Your face isn’t scarred though... When the other vampire attacked you...your face was all bloody. “

You frowned. “It wasn’t a normal blade. Do you really care to know? It’s not exactly a happy story." Snorting you close your eyes.

She snorted. “I doubt you have many of them sad eyes.”

“Sad eyes? What happened to sugar?” You huff, stroking her hair. It was nice to have the warmth. Even if it wouldn’t be here come sundown tommorrow.

She hummed, eyes closing. “More fitting to call you sad eyes.”

You kept petting her until her heart slowed into a steady beat and your own senses faded

—

When daylight began to fade you woke with a start. Still surprisingly warm. A blanket had been thrown over you. Groaning you shuffle towards the kitchen and pour water into the kettle for some morning tea. Your hair was a mess, no doubt her doing with all that pulling and tugging. Running your fingers through your hair you turn to sit at the table, A piece of paper catching your attention.

Picking it up you scanned over it. “Dear sad eyes, I’m sorry for prying last night but I had a lot of fun. I hope you did too. I'll see you next month? P.s. You sleep like the dead. ” Clicking your tongue you shook your head. It wasn’t love...but it had been fun. Looking out the kitchen window you grinned back at the crescent moon. "Next month? Pfft." You break out into laughter as there kettle starts to scream.

P.S yes I did write a story based on what the lesbian said to her vampire gf joke. Hope you liked it and as always if you know how to put a read more on mobile let me know.

[lovelylogans]

the worst in me

NARISSA: Ah, all this nauseating talk of true love's kiss, it really does bring out the worst in me. You know I've been thinking, if I'm going to remain Queen, I'm gonna need some sort of story when I go back. Hmm... What if a giant vicious beast showed up, and killed everyone? And poor defenseless Queen Narissa, she just couldn't save them! Let's begin with the girl who started it all, shall we?! ROBERT: Over my dead body. NARISSA: Alright. I'm flexible. 

-enchanted, 2007

ao3 | read my other fics | coffee?

warnings: remus, maybe unsympathetic thomas?, confusion/bitterness, self doubt/hatred, mentions of animal cruelty

pairings: none

words: 1,548

notes: so, this is for the 13 days of halloween prompt over at @sanderssidescelebrations​! today’s prompt is dragon witch! this is my first time writing the garbage man, so i hope i did him justice! also i better not see any remrom in the comments/tags!

R—No, no, it’s Roman now, Roman Roman Roman—tightens his fingers around the hilt of his sword, his free one into a fist. His hands shouldn’t be shaking. They shouldn’t. 

He’s done this a hundred thousand million times before. The Imagination is still his realm, still his place, despite the fact that...

Well. Despite the fact that he didn’t feel like him very much, anymore.

But a jaunt into the Imagination could change that. He’ll run around, save some people, feel more like him again. Or, well. The him he’s supposed��to be now. Right? Because he’s supposed to be the good part, isn’t he? He’s supposed to be all damsels and dragons and danger, outwitting the enemy and saving the day. That’s him. That’s Roman.

...Right?

He doesn’t know. He should know, but he doesn’t. Since The Split (it’s warranted capitals, in his mind, and he wonders if they’ve kept enough similarities that it’s warranted the same in his mind, too) Roman’s felt... off. Confused. He finds himself shying away from things he’d have fully enthused about before—now he hates things he’d liked, and he likes things he’d hated, and everything is upside-down and inside-out and it’s like his whole existence has been thrown into a maze in a fun-house full of distorted mirrors, and he can’t get out of it, but he’s trying.

So. Imagination. Damsels. Dragon-slaying. Dashing sword-fights, magic spells, a prince in disguise—but is that his thing now, or his? Is disguising himself good or bad? Is sword-fighting good or bad? Who’s got what?

Like he said—he’s trying.

He follows his lines, even if everything’s changed around him—some of his usual subjects have vanished, replaced by new ones, scrubbed clean, and they act like that’s the way it’s always been, so he does too. The whole thing is straight out of a storybook—a (new) page comes to his palace, tells him of a fair maiden who’s been abducted by a (new) dragon witch, in an (old) crumbling tower that’s been the set of a fair few dramatic reenactments before. So he gets on his (new) horse, which doesn’t stink of the stables like his old horse, Phillipe, did, doesn’t have the pretty, burnished copper coat Phillipe did, but rather this one is pure white and only tarnished by streaks of gold in its mane. He isn’t sure what to name it. Caspian? Gwendolyn? Something very fairytale and innocent and pure?

He gets on his unnamed horse. He examines his (new) sword in its (old) scabbard. He rides through the forest.

Some things have changed and he has no idea why—the flora and fauna swap between familiar and alien—and some things have changed and he knows only too well why they might have changed. But he doesn’t want to question it. He’s supposed to be the good one now. If he questions the status quo now, maybe there’ll be a new new one, who knows how to smile and wink just so and is always kind and gallant and never screws up and never comes up with nicknames that sound mean.

Maybe he’ll be called Romeo, or something equally saccharine. 

Roman snorts, and then immediately shies away from the thought, like some bolt of lightning will come to strike him down, strike him in two—or would it be three, then? Because if the bad one is already taken and the good one isn’t good enough anymore, what’ll happen to that one? Will he just be thrown aside? Like a toy that’s lost all entertainment value, replaced by something newer and shinier?

He’ll try harder. He will. He’ll be the best, most perfect, most fairytale prince that ever walked the earth. He won’t ever, ever find out.

“Sorry,” he tells the too-blue sky above him, as if anyone is listening.

And maybe someone is—because he can hear a scream, and a distant, furious roar.

The dragon witch. Roman’s heartbeat starts to thunder and finally, finally, the fight, the rescue, that’s his favorite part, he’ll go out there and he won’t be able to think about being good or bad or right or wrong, he’ll only think about parries and ripostes and lunges, and he digs his heels into the horse’s side with a “HYAH!” and goes galloping further into the depth of these recognized-foreign woods, to the tower, to the climax of the story—

The (new) dragon witch is clutching to the tower, gouging out stones with its massive claws, sending dust and debris scattering upon the ground like snowfall. It roars, again—it has black scales, with almost sickly-green accents, two wings flapping, and massive, curving teeth that would surely gouge Roman right through, if he stepped wrong of them.

Well. It’s certainly a foreboding villain, for his first solo fray back into the imagination, but he mustn’t let any misgivings halt him—he urges the horse forward, and bellows up at the witch, “Unhand her, villain!”

Strangely, the dragon seems to frown at him, and he calls down, voice cartoonishly villainous, “What happened to Phillipe?”

Roman falters, as the horse cants in place. He knows that voice. It’s a new voice, but he knows it, knows it as it’d been the first thing he’d heard after the split.

“Is that... you?” He calls uncertainly.

The dragon seems to shudder, before abruptly, it’s shrinking, downsizing and downsizing and changing until it’s in the shape of a man—a familiar man, wearing black and an almost-sickly green, a demented grin, and a mustache. He’s got bags under his eyes that Roman can see, even from here, ones like Anxiety’s got, and he feels a traitorous spark of concern.

And, for an alarming moment, Roman is jealous. Why did he get the kickass transformation powers—into a dragon?! That’s so cool!

Or at least, that’s what he would have thought before The Split—now, his brain is tossing up example after example of villains transforming into animals—Ursula into Vanessa, Jafar into a genie, Maleficent into a dragon—it’s a sign of evil. It’s a sign of something Bad, and he’s supposed to be the Good One. But half his brain is still stuck on Before, while half of it is stuck on After, and he doesn’t know which thought is his, and he doesn’t know what he believes now, and—

“Did you send Phillipe to the glue factory?”

Roman recoils from the very thought—he’d spent days grooming Phillipe’s fur, feeding him apples and carrots and cubes of sugar, he’d loved Phillipe—and the other him laughs.

Or—no. The other Roman? The other twin? The other side? Is he technically his own side, now? If they were both Creativity, then what—

His confusion gets abruptly set to the side when there’s another, terrified scream within the tower. Roman shakes his head, hard, as if he’ll be able to dislodge this whole crisis of personality like he’s erasing an etch-a-sketch, and solidifies his grip on his sword’s handle, not quite bringing it out of the scabbard yet. 

“Unhand her, foul beast!”

He blows a raspberry, swinging frightfully from the side of the tower, only held by his boot, lodged between where a brick had been dislodged and his grip on one of the (new) spires—he could fall, and what would happen then? 

Is he supposed to care? The death of a villain would be a good thing now, wouldn’t it? But then if that was what was meant to happen, then why bother to keep them split in the first place, why not just divulge the bad, keep the good? Is it bad that he’s thinking about this? Murder is bad, it’s definitely bad, he shouldn’t be thinking about it, but—

“Boooorrrr-iiiiing. C’mon, give me an insult with some pep to it, aren’t you supposed to be Creativity now?!”

Roman grits his teeth, and snaps before he can even think of stopping himself, “Aren’t you supposed to be the scary one, Ja-nefarious?!”

For a moment, Roman thinks he’s gotten him, but that’s before that demented grin widens and that worrying crazed look in his eyes shines brighter.

“I said an insult, not a compliment!” He preens, and Roman scowls.

“What, you can do better?” He says scornfully.

“Well, duh,” he says, and then, gleefully, “You’re boring now—Roman, isn’t it?”

Roman forces his hackles not to rise.

“I mean, think about it,” he wheedles. “Which of us is more useful—the one who comes up with the original ideas, the unorthodox ones, or the one who comes up with the same—“ He flicks a dismissive hand, nose wrinkling. “White horse, sword, save-the-girl kind of story, over and over and over again?”

Roman feels an angry flush take over his cheeks. “Unorthodox doesn’t have to mean murder.”

“Why not?” He said, and he sounded genuinely curious—like a small child asking why the sky’s blue, not posing the question of if murder’s genuinely punishable or not. “Which one will make more of an impact—if I drop this sweet, innocent damsel from the tower, or you saving her?”

“Don’t you dare,” Roman snarls, and the other one—Remus—bares his still-animalistically-curved teeth in a grin.

“Watch me.”

With a wild yell, Roman unsheathes his sword, and charges.

(He wonders if it makes him bad that a fight and seeing his brother him is the first thing that’s made him feel semi-normal since The Split.)

[cutesuki--bakugou]

Ancient Soul

Time Travel, Quirkless, Feudal Japan AU

“Your soul does not belong here.” Those were words you never thought that you would hear. Now, thrown into the past in feudal Japan, you must find a way to survive, all while struggling to avoid the growing feelings for one hot-headed war general. War, romance, death and love drive you forward, to find the place where your soul truly belongs.

Bakugou Katsuki x Fem!Reader

Want to start from be beginning? Check the Ancient Soul tag. New chapters released every Wednesday as long as schedule permits.

Genre: Romance / Angst Story Rating: Explicit | Adult Themes, Sex, Death, Depictions of Violence, Alcohol

Chapter 6: Loss

Chapter Rating: Mature | Animal Death, Cursing, Mentions of Blood Words:  2902

All you could do was stand by and watch silently as the small camp was packed up, the fire smothered and leaving you all in darkness. The moon gave very little light from between the full branches of the trees above you, and though your companions were skilled at moving about in the dark, you felt as if it were swallowing you. It wasn’t until Bakugou gripped your upper arm that you were aware of what direction to go, following him as you walked carefully as to not trip. Unable to resist your curiosity and worry, you whispered to him. “They didn’t take anything or hurt anyone badly, did they?” 

“We’re fine.” Was the only response you received from Bakugou, in a short snap that instantly told you to keep silent. Though, as you reached the area where the horses had been kept, you felt his grip on your arm grow tighter, almost painfully so, and it was joined by a soft string of curses that you could hardly make out. 

Besides the towering Yonaka, Bakugou’s horse lay slaughtered on the ground, along with Kaminari’s horse. The yellow-haired man was already kneeling beside his horse, carefully removing all remaining possessions with a deeply furrowed brow. 

“I think they had tried to kill them all, Sir, but this is as far as they got before they either ran off or came to join the main attack,” Kirishima spoke softly, coming to stand beside his leader. Bakugou was silent as he released your arm, walking over to kneel beside his fallen friend. After giving a soft stroke to her cheek, he began to follow in Kaminari’s example, removing what he needed from the body. 

Standing there behind him, you felt completely lost, unsure of what to do or say to him. You still didn’t know him all that well, but from the stiffness of his movements and the harsh silence, you knew that he was upset. The sigh that left Kirishima’s lips only confirmed your suspicion, turning your gaze to him as he approached his horse, who was still huffing and stomping uncomfortably. Feeling a bit useless, you followed him, comforting Yonaka as the large animal nudged you for attention. “Will he be okay?” You spoke softly in hopes that Bakugou wouldn’t hear you, and if he did, he didn’t bother to silence you. 

Kirishima looked down at you before over at his leader, giving a small nod. “Yeah. He was very close to that horse, he trained her since she was a brand new foal. But it’s part of what we are doing. People and beasts die. There’s nothing you can do, even if it is unfair. A bit of advice, though, if you don’t want to get caught in his mess of anger… don’t ask him about it.” 

Nodding, you turned your attention completely to the black horse before you, checking him for any injuries that you may not have seen further away. Although you wanted to comfort the blonde man still kneeling on the ground, you knew better than to go against the word of someone who knew him best. You knew that you had no right to attempt to comfort him, as you were just a stranger, but that didn’t stop you from feeling bad for him. You could tell from your days of travel that he truly did adore that horse, even spending time away from the group with her, as she grew anxious without his presence. It was sad, and although you tried to stop it, you couldn’t resist the hot tears that rolled down your cheeks. 

After standing beside Yonaka for a while, you were surprised as Bakugou approached the large horse, fitting him with the salvaged supplies from his mare. Quickly wiping any remaining tears from your cheeks, you looked up at him. “Are you going to take Yonaka?” 

“We both are,” Bakugou spoke with an odd softness, even his expression calm without a single frown line. You figured that perhaps he was going through a moment of shock or that he was just all around numb from the experience. Still, both the calmness and the words brought heat to your face, as you would be sharing a horse with him for the remainder of the trip. 

“A-ah, okay…” You waited silently until Yonaka was all set, and when Bakugou gave you a silent gesture to get up onto the horse, you followed command. You struggled at first, your limbs weak from the rush and energy you had exerted. Still, you were able to get on without any assistance, and you scooted your body as close to the front of the saddle as you could. With practiced skill, Bakugou pulled himself up as well, sitting behind you. He took it upon himself to push and pull your body into a comfortable position for you both, and though you wanted to scream out in embarrassment, you allowed him to without question. 

Reaching around you, he took Yonaka’s reigns into his hands, giving a sharp click of his tongue to urge the horse forward. You felt so much more secure on the horse with Bakugou’s body supporting you. With your back pressed tightly against his torso, his arms on either side of you and legs firmly against your hips, you felt cocooned in his natural warmth, nearly putting you to sleep in an instant. You felt like he would be angry if you suddenly slumped against him, however, so you struggled to keep your eyes open until you were all out of the forest. 

Curious, you took a quick glance back behind you, finding that Kaminari and Ashido were in the same position as the two of you, now on Ashido’s beautiful mare, the white patches of the Paint horse stained with red now visible in the moonlight. It was obvious that Ashido had attempted to rid her horse of the blood, but fully cleaning the animal would have to wait until they were safe again. The entire group was silent, the typical vibrant excitement of winning a battle that you expected nowhere to be found. At that moment, you wondered how much worse it would have been had you not said something, but you didn’t dare to question such a thing out loud. 

What you couldn’t resist, however, was a yawn forcing its way out of your mouth, though you did cover your lips and keep it as silent as you could. Embarrassed, you hung your head a bit, though you didn’t have a chance to apologize as Bakugou spoke quietly. 

“You can sleep. We will be traveling now at double time, with minimal rest off the horses. So rest… You’ll need it for when we reach the castle.” 

“You… don’t mind me leaning on you?” 

“No.” 

Fiddling with your nails nervously for a moment, you took his invitation without another word, carefully leaning yourself back against him. Within the moment of your head resting on his shoulder, your eyes nearly forced themselves closed, and you found your mind swirling into blackness. 

You weren’t sure how long you dreamed of blood and the screams of the dead, but when you finally awoke, you felt just as exhausted as before. You were starving, thirsty and your neck was sore from whatever position you had been in. At first, the blinding light of the sun made you wince, bringing your hands up to cover your face as you gave a soft groan. 

“Finally awake, are you?”

Bakugou’s voice pulling your mind out of the foggy haze of restless sleep, you finally noticed the familiar bobbing of your body with Yonaka’s movements and Bakugou’s heat against your back. In fact, you were too hot, the heat of the day and his body making you feel like you were in an oven. Your skin felt sticky and sweaty, though you had grown used to it by now. That didn’t mean that you liked it by any means, but you had no choice but to tolerate it. 

“Yeah… how long was I asleep?” 

“You’ve been sleeping for almost a day and a half. I thought you were never going to wake up, you stupid Demon.” Bakugou brought a flask up in front of you, and you quickly took it to take a large drink of the cool water inside. It soothed your burning throat, unable to resist a sigh of relief when you pulled it from your lips. 

“Damn that’s good… I’ve been out that long?” Closing the flask, you handed it back to him, only able to listen as he reattached it to the side of your horse. 

“Yes. We even took you off Yonaka twice and you didn’t move.” 

“The battle must have taken a lot out of me… even though I didn’t do or lose anything. I’m sure you think that’s pathetic…”

There was silence for a moment between you, though you felt him heave a heavy sigh before responding. “Battle, no matter who or how it affects, is hard to deal with. You have never seen such a skirmish before, I can understand the mental toll it must have taken on you. But yes, you’re pathetic.” 

The hint of teasing you could hear behind his insult brought a small smile to your lips, and you hummed softly in agreement. “Well… how close are we to the castle?” 

“We will reach it by nightfall. You can see it, there in the distance, up against the mountains.” 

Curious, you brought your hand up to your forehead, shielding your eyes from the sun as you peered out into the distance. Sure enough, you could see the form of a tall castle with a surrounding town, peacefully awaiting the return of its warriors. “Oh, I see it. It looks nice.” 

“My Lord fought hard to win this territory. He would be flattered by your compliments.” 

“Really? He seems like a kind person.” 

“Hm…” Bakugou gave a small grunt in agreement, though the tone of his voice changed to something more akin to annoyance. “Often too kind.” 

Unsure if his annoyance was directed at you or the topic of his Lord, you decided to drop the subject, falling silent again. After being asleep for so long, you found that the day went by quickly, and by dusk, you were approaching the city gates. The group was not questioned by the guards when you approached, though you could feel the eyes on you from all around. Even as you traveled through the towns to reach the castle, people bowed and greeted the warriors with respect, but eyed you with confusion and distrust. You weren’t even dressed in your modern-day clothing anymore, yet people could still tell that you were some type of odd outsider. Perhaps it was the way you carried yourself or the expressions on your face? Either way, it was annoying, and you nearly felt the urge to hide your face behind your hands just so you wouldn’t see the glares. 

When you reached the stables, Bakugou hopped off Yonaka first, before waiting for you to get down. You did so carefully, your legs weak from constant riding on horseback and your extended sleep. There was no support from him, as expected, so you steadied yourself against Yonaka for a moment while taking in your surroundings. The stables were made up of one large building, with large fenced areas where the horses could roam. There were many out and about, though one caught your eye as it eagerly approached the fence. It greatly resembled Bakugou’s fallen palomino horse, though it was younger. 

As Bakugou barked instructions at two young servants, he approached the horse, stroking down the length of its nose to calm it. Before you could truly question his actions, a presence at your side startled you, even making you jump and have to stifle a squeal. 

“How did my sweet Yonaka treat you?” Tsuyu questioned you curiously, peering up at you with those dark eyes. Taking a breath to calm yourself, you placed a hand to your chest, giving a small nod. 

“H-he did great. He’s a wonderful horse.” You smiled as Tsuyu did, watching as she pet Yonaka’s neck affectionately. The petite woman was no longer dressed in her dark clothing you had met her in. Instead, she was clad in a brightly colored pale green kimono with pink accents and a cherry blossom pattern. Her hair was no longer up, but was instead down and tied into a cute bow shape at the bottom near her hips. The hairstyle was adorable, and it made the woman look completely innocent, though you knew better than to believe such a thing. Although she was being friendly, you knew that she was still watching you closely for any signs of danger. 

Tsuyu allowed Yonaka to be led away by a servant boy to be unburdened by supplies and cared for, turning her full attention back to you. “The others need their time to recover, so I will be watching over you for now. I’m sure Lord Bakugou will want to take you to meet our clan leader before night falls, but we can’t allow you to see him like this.” She gestured to your dirtied clothing and all-around horrible appearance. “You look a mess.” 

“A-Ah, yes, I do,” You attempted to fix your clothing to no avail, sighing in defeat. “I feel disgusting.” 

“Come, we’ll get you cleaned up and in new garments.” With a simple gesture of her hand, Tsuyu prompted you to start walking. Legs still feeling weak and sore, you followed the direction she had pointed to, unable to help a glance over at Bakugou. He merely looked at you for a moment before his gaze moved to Tsuyu, giving a simple nod before turning his attention back to the horse before him. You gave a small sigh once out of his range of hearing, eyes on the floor. 

“I feel so bad… His horse got killed by an ambush. I think he’s really sad about it…” 

Tsuyu gave a small hum in agreement, walking beside you. “Yes. That other horse was her foal. That is why she seemed so distressed. Her mother was not there… But don’t fret, it happens and Lord Bakugou will be able to manage the younglings problems. He is quite good with horses, you see.” 

Deciding there was no point in pressing the matter further, you took the chance to take in your surroundings. Currently walking alongside a white building with many traditional shoji sliding doors, you were happy for the shade provided to you by the extended roof, which covered the otherwise open engawa that was wide with pristine wood, so slick you felt as if you could slip at any second. As you both rounded a corner, you were met with a beautiful garden and pond area, the calming sound of running water soothing your anxiety. 

The two of you crossed a bridge over a small flowing creek and walked for a bit longer until you reached a smaller building that seemed separated from the rest. A bathhouse, you assumed, which was quickly made obvious by the steam rising from the roof and the smoke from windows at the base of the building. You had never before taken a traditional bath using fire under a tub, and for a moment you grew nervous. 

“I-is this a public bathhouse?” 

Curious as to your concerns, Tsuyu looked up at you. “Hm? Oh, well yes, but it is quite nice with partitions. It’s more private than you think.” She led you inside, and though it embarrassed you, the thought of getting a true bath was something you couldn’t resist. You were surprised to find that your particular bath was already steaming and ready for you, and with Tsuyu waiting right outside your area, you stripped faster than what you thought was possible. There was a bucket with water and a rag beside you, and you understood that you first needed to wipe your body clean with that before getting in the main bath. The water in the bucket was cold, but you had to admit it felt good against your hot skin. 

Once the bucket was empty and you had effectively dumped the entire thing over your head, you climbed into the welcoming steaming water in the round large tub. You found that you fit perfectly up to your shoulders as long as your knees were bent, but there was no way to stretch out completely. You didn’t mind, soaking in the feeling of the water that worked to soothe your sore and stiff body. 

I had better enjoy this… You thought to yourself, staring up at the ceiling. This could be the last real bath I ever have… If Lord Yagi doesn’t take my presence well, I’ll probably be killed right away… I just hope I can make a good case for myself. Or if not me, maybe Bakugou can…

You knew it was foolish to put your faith in a man who would sooner kill you than risk his Lord or his companions, but what else could you do? He was the only one who had any say in your future, and if he didn’t stand up for you, then you knew that you would perish. 

All you could do was wait and hope that it would turn out in your favor.

[krisseycrystal]

rated: m

fandom: Fire Emblem: Awakening

prompt: “Make an Example of Them” + Chrom (& the others)

requested by: @moominquartz

so it came to my attention that yesterday was the 8th anniversary of Fire Emblem: Awakening, which is literally one of my favorite DS games ever. i owe my amazing husband a BIG THANKS for introducing me to it & thus changing my life

so consider this a belated “Happy Anniversary!” gift 

the fic itself he requested a long while ago i just...thought now was the most appropriate time to do it. so here. have some nightmare angst

- o - o - o -

Bête Noire [Read on AO3]

- o - o - o -

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” Chrom says and the god that wears the face of his best friend smiles. It is too toothy, too wide and white a grin, for such a familiar face standing ankle-deep in this corpse field’s muck.

“What’s wrong? I thought meeting in a dream was romantic to your kind.”

“Don’t be absurd. This isn’t a romance.”

“It was to me, once.”

Chrom’s mouth snaps shut. 

He does not look at the slackened, pale faces of his friends in the mud around him. Above all, he does not look at Lissa. The sight of her golden curls splayed and dirtied is as far as he will allow his eyes to wander; Frederick would have had a conniption if he were to see her clothes in such a state.

Instead, Frederick, his right-hand man, is sprawled on his left, face twisted away at an unnatural angle it was never meant to go.

“You don’t deny it.”

“What is there to deny?”

“You have feelings for me.”

“I have feelings for Robin.” The words out of his mouth are knives. Chrom tosses them, shoving them deep into this stranger’s flesh. He wonders if gods can bleed in dreams. Is he scared by the depth of his own desire to find out? “You. Are not. Him.”

The Fell Dragon laughs. His hands stretch out to his sides. “My dear Chrom, just because I am not your Robin, does not mean I am not still Robin.”

“You’re a facsimile.”

“Actually, I’m the original.” His boots squelch across the mud. Chrom glances and then hates himself the instant he does as he catches sight of the Fell Dragon’s foot stepping first onto and then into Vaike’s chest. There’s a sick crack; a wet slosh. Then, a burst of dark red and Chrom’s stomach surges in correlation. Acidic bile shoots up his throat. He turns around and slaps a hand over his mouth.

The god even laughs with Robin’s voice.

“You’re so easy, Chrom,” he says and sighs like it’s a pity. “What’s that mortal saying? You wear your heart on your sleeve?” 

There’s another crunch and gooey squeeze, but Chrom doesn’t want to see whose body it is. Who was next to Vaike? Miriel? He doesn’t turn around. He has seen enough of war to know the sound of snapped and crushed bones. Somehow, in his dreamscape, the experience is amplified. Worse. 

“Now I wear their hearts on my shoes.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“I believe you call it setting an example.”

There’s a moment with no sound at all and it kills Chrom not to look. It hurts to stand with his back turned on his fallen friends’ bodies. He wants to laugh. Nothing about this is funny, but his shoulders shake regardless. “This is a dream, as it always is. Your argument holds no real power. This is hearsay.”

“Are you, the noble Exalt of Ylisse, actually thinking less of me for not killing your real friends? You’re running yourself in circles. My argument holds every power. This dream you call fiction is going to be reality.”

“This is not our future.”

“Where do you think I came from, my dear?”

“Stop calling me that!”

Chrom launches himself around, and Robin’s face stretches wide with a smile that he has never seen before and he never wants to see again. His stomach squeezes and squeezes like a hand has fisted the organ and is squeezing it dry. “What are you trying to say? Why are you in my head? You cannot somehow convince me to lay down my Falchion by promising death and destruction. That is the very reason why it is in my hand.”

“Exactly.” 

It’s said so simply, so easily. 

Chrom watches with growing apprehension as the not-Robin kneels and picks up Emmeryn’s body; her head lolls, doll-like and heavy, against his shoulder. 

He hadn’t even known her corpse was there among the others. 

Emmeryn is every bit as he remembers her to be after her fall, down to the bits of stone dust caught in her eyelashes.

“Consider this an encouragement. You all have been so insistent on being agents of your own disaster that you’re hurtling faster and faster towards my rise and return at your own will. Why would I ever tell you to stop?”

“Don’t touch her.”

“Her death was inevitable, Chrom.” A pale finger curls against her cheek. Her white robes and curled blonde hair looks too lovely to be so soiled with mud. “Surely you realize that by now. There’s no point for me to argue when you already so succinctly make an example of the worthlessness of your friends’ lives. You let your own sister die just as she was always meant to die.”

“Stop twisting it. I haven’t made an example out of anyone.”

“You’re going to make an example out of yourself.”

And then he’s no longer there. 

Emmeryn’s body falls back to the ground as Robin-not-Robin plants his boots into the mud in front of Chrom. His fingers are clasped tight around the back of Chrom’s neck, forcing his head forward until their bangs brush together. Something protrudes from Chrom’s gut; he thinks he can see it, even if he can’t feel it. Their mouths are too close together, breathing hard.

“This is why I’m truly in your head: to encourage you to make it a glorious one.”

When Chrom blinks, everything changes. The god no longer wears Robin’s face, but his own: the giant, darkened face of a snarling beast that writhes within its own skin. Grima is all sneering teeth and two long, red eyes on the sides of its snout. Six enormous wings scissor up from its rugged back. 

Chrom is pinned under one of its claws, wriggling to get free as brown, blood-stained teeth open above him. A string of pungent saliva drips onto his cheek. 

Go on, Chrom. Die for me. Make an example of your own insignificance.

And the last thing Chrom sees before he wakes up, as always, is the rippled flesh of the back of the Fell Dragon’s throat.

[1d20ocs]

Homebrew: the Furmulus race [WIP v1.0]

Alice blinked at the white rabbit, and the rabbit blinked back.

Well, no: Alice had seen rabbits before, and this wasn’t much of a rabbit at all. Rabbits were about four feet shorter and didn’t have any thumbs; they certainly didn’t wear frilly dresses like this rabbit-girl did. Rabbits also didn’t tend to hop out from nowhere, get right in a person’s face, and ask who that person was in plain Sylvan. Some fey might do that, but the fey Alice had seen before looked more like butterflies than bunnies. 

“I’m a cat person, actually.” Alice answered, using humor to mask her surprise.

The rabbit-girl frowned at that. Her humanoid nose twitched as she looked Alice up and down. “No you’re not.”

“But I am.” came a voice from above.

Only a bit more beastly than a humanoid wearing costume ears and a tail, the furmuli are an animal-like culture of people native to the Feywild. They’re thought to have been created by a more powerful version of the Awaken spell, though they can’t make regular beasts into more furmuli, the original method and the knowledge of who had originally done it now lost to time. 

On the shorter side and positively pastel, most every furmulus is friendly and personable, able to get along with all but the most evil of people. They’re simple creatures, caring more than careful, who work better working for someone else than being left unsupervised. Even so, families of them might be found off the beaten path nearly anywhere, perfectly happy with or without visitors. 

Caution: they might follow you home.

Soft and Fluffy (Physical Description)

Furmuli all have very pale skin, and their eyes are never a dark color either; both are almost always warm hues between pink and yellow, though the eyes sometimes range toward blue. Oddly-shaped pupils aren't uncommon, though they're not common either. Their fur and hair are all the same thing, only a shade at most off from white; they'll never call themselves just white, though, meaning a furmulus colored the palest of lavenders would think of themselves as very purple. 

All furmuli have animal-like ears and tails; what animal they resemble varies from person to person. Though the ears and tails always resemble a preexisting animal - typically some at least semi-domesticated land mammal - rather than being a shape all their own, the ears and tail do not necessarily match. The ears grow up from where most humanoids have their ears, sticking out of the tops of their heads from the sides, while the tail grows from the tailbone. 

Every furmulus has black eyebrows and whiskers, the latter of which form a small number of lines across their cheeks, close to the skin and so not as useful as a typical beast's whiskers. They can’t grow facial hair over those areas, though mustaches and goatees can grow even on some women. Furmuli are furry practically from birth, with puberty not making them any hairier. They grow whitish fur over their chests, backs, and limbs; body shaving is very uncommon, with only the head (including the ears) and tail typically being styled by even the most fashion-conscious furmuli. Because whiskers are sensitive, cutting them is taboo and they are rarely touched outside of grooming. 

Furmuli have rounded features, with no real sharp ends or edges, going from baby-faced to wrinkled over the course of their lives. They dress mostly in whites, reds, and golds, and most enjoy wearing complex frills and designs. They normally choose to dress like children regardless of their age, though they otherwise put an effort in to clothe themselves to match the cultures around them. 

Domesticated (Personality)

Furmuli typically refer to themselves as animals (saying "that cat" instead of "that furmulus with cat-like ears"), and take to creative combinations of words to refer to their own combinations (a "cabbit" for cat-like ears and a rabbit-like tail, or vice versa). They might say they’re “furmuluses”, or otherwise play fast and loose with the intricacies of language, with a fondness for combining words in odd ways or simply inventing new ones and hoping those around them can follow along. Other furmuli always keep up with ease, so they don’t realize they’re doing it even when other races ask them to stop. 

Family and familial love are the most important things to a furmulus, who would do anything to make their loved ones happy. They consider friendship or purely romantic love to be weaker forms of familial love, and would express any strong love in terms of family. They think of spouses the same as best friends or blood brothers, for example, with the romance between them being a personal matter. 

Being native to the areas that put 'wild' in the Feywild, Furmuli have a naturalistic understanding of the world around them. Rather than worshipping any specific gods, they consider concepts themselves to have power; a furmulus might ask Trickery itself for help with a prank, or will Life to help heal an injury. Though they have nothing against cultures that speak to their concepts through entities, what deity or archfey chooses to reply to their requests isn't something most furmulus would think much about when using divine magic. It’s very possible that some patron deity, perhaps whoever made them to begin with, is looking out for their oblivious child race.

Although most furmuli would rather run away than face conflict, being cornered or witnessing others cornered will convince most furmulus to fight. They lack any beastly means of doing damage, but would do their best to end a battle with at least their words; they would rather resort to biting than give up and let someone they care about be hurt, but would really rather do neither. A furmulus could be tricked into needless violence or into letting something bad happen by inaction, but would be unhappy to find out they had done harm. 

Sylvanian Families (Culture)

Furmulus culture is extremely collectivist; the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the one. They do not normally differentiate between different types of ones, and would be baffled or even offended by cultures where there are common people suffering while a small percent prosper. The ideal for the furmuli is a society with minimal internal conflict and maximum happiness, rather than a society with the most wealth or power.

Their communities are usually made up of a few clusters of families. They're usually governed by an individual or a small group, who are expected to make decisions themselves when it would be too tedious for everyone to vote on it. What their ruling class is called, and the other superficial elements of their society, depend on what other cultures they know of; those in the Feywild parody a court with a king or queen, though they’re just as likely to call that same leader a mayor or captain. Whatever words they use, their lives are filled with sharing, making sure everyone has enough of what its members can hunt, gather, or otherwise create from available materials.

Furmuli will farm or mine if living in a place with preexisting farmlands or mines, but will not cause large-scale change on their own. Whether natural or made by other races, furmuli take what they are given and don't fix what isn't broken, living in manmade structures and working in large industries among other races, or living outdoors and working with whatever resources they can survive on in their own corner of the world. Furmuli are very accepting of any outside influence or internal new ideas, not scrutinizing unless something contradicts their core racial values of everyone getting a share and no one getting hurt.

Although most furmuli can be found thriving alone or with other species, their way of life like any other does have its blind spots. Due to their beliefs on family being such a big influence, they have trouble with children who do not inherit their parents' important qualities, struggling to adapt if their queen's child is not a good leader herself. Furmuli who cannot always adapt can be overlooked in favor of the larger community, and can easily find themselves running away rather than being able to have the majority change for a smaller minority. The happy nature of most furmuli can seem fake, though it’s almost always genuine, because they value happiness so highly that they don’t want to express true negativity when it wouldn’t help the group to do so.

And Home Before Dark (Adventuring)

Furmuli enjoy learning magic for utility, and most would rather learn a damaging spell than how to damage with a weapon. The typical furmulus might know a spell or two to help them get around, such as Feather Fall, though most never go beyond that. Many of them are capable of becoming sorcerers, thanks to their mixed ancestry. There are a number of furmulus druids and bards, but a furmuli with any sort of martial training is extremely rare. 

They like to explore, either in groups or alone, though most don’t venture too far and will return home often rather than spending long stretches of time far away. Those that become full-time adventurers typically have some problem at home, either that they’ve left to try and solve or left because they couldn’t; it takes something dire to convince a furmulus to be distant from who they love most. As such, a furmulus without a preexisting family is likely to settle down if they find a good place while travelling, or to determine that nice place is with a travelling companion and resolve to follow them anywhere. 

Furmuli see other races as all generally people like they are, though they’ll have an easier time with anyone they’re more familiar with. If shown a tree and a goblinoid and asked which would be more likely to hold a conversation, most furmuli from the Feywild would assume the tree was a dryad before being sure of the goblin. They hold no ill will towards new races, simply taking a long moment to accept that something so unlike the creatures they met growing up are people at all. However, unlike most sheltered humanoids, they wouldn’t be surprised at all by the likes of tortles, or any mundane animal that happened to speak Common, since animals are what they’re the most familiar with of all. 

Furmuli can reproduce with the same list of species that elves can. When reproducing with another race, the children come out resembling clones of one parent or the other. Any two furmuli can have children together, who then typically inherit the ears from one parent and the tail from the other, with a mix of their parents’ hues.  Having only one child at a time is the most common for Furmuli, but they’re much more likely to have twins/triplets/etc. than most humanoids are.

Pet Names

Furmuli have a vaguely playful cadence to their names: a string of consonants or vowels never goes on for too long, despite their otherwise European flair, making it sound like someone made them up one syllable at a time. They have a given name, at least one family name, and anywhere from zero to three middle names; one middle name being the most common. Their names usually all sound interchangeable, except that firsts and middles tend to be shorter than the last names (which are usually only two or three syllables themselves), and few names end with a vowel. They usually call each other by their given names.

Those without family names seem very strange, as family is such an important thing to them. Adding more family names on the other hand is considered normal, if one grows to think of a group of friends as another family; though, after two or three, other furmuli might grow curious of the story behind them all, since it’s odd to ‘go through’ so many relationships so quickly. First or middle names being copied from other cultures isn’t typical, due to the fey-taught importance of having one’s own name, but added family names can be from anywhere. 

Subraces

Furmuli can be most accurately divided into three groups; diurnal, crepuscular, and nocturnal. Though most of them stay up through the day and sleep through the night regardless of their nature, and though the Feywild does not have any clear way to measure day and night, what time they are suited for informs their personality and behavior. 

A diurnal furmulus is much more likely than a nocturnal to be extroverted, with crepuscular being somewhere in the middle, all able to hold friendships but some more 'sunny' than others. (Male furmuli are typically more extroverted than females, though to a lesser extent.) Along with having a beast’s characteristics to match, daytime furmulus usually have coloration towards yellow while the nightly ones have bluish tones; those associated with twilight have reddish tints instead.

Furmulus Traits

Ability Score Increase. Your Charisma score increases by 2. 

Age. Furmuli reach maturity at age 7. The life expectancy varies based on their beastly characteristics, with larger animals usually living closer to 100 than the minimum of 50.

Furmulus age conversion:

Human age 0-25: x0.4

Human age 25-50: x0.6

Human age 50+: x0.75

Alignment. Furmuli are often either very lawful or very chaotic, with the same leanings throughout their whole community, and they are almost never evil. Being passionate is no reason for them to step on others’ toes, so a furmulus would say if so asked.

Size. Furmuli are typically between 4 and 5 feet tall, regardless of what size of animal their ears and tails resemble. Your size is Medium.

Height: 3'9” +2d8

Weight: 30 lbs. +(inches increased from 3'9” x1d4)

Speed. Your base walking speed is 30 feet.

Beastly Nature. You have two creature types: humanoid and beast. You can be affected by a game effect if it works on either of your creature types.

Oh My Ears and Whiskers! You gain proficiency in one skill of your choice, relating to your type of beast. For example, cats typically have talent in Perception or Stealth.

How Late It's Getting! A furmulus can take the Disengage action as a Bonus Action on each of its turns.

Languages. You can speak, read, and write Common and one other language of your choice, usually one spoken by your nearest non-Furmulus neighbors.

Diurnal Furmulus

Ability Score Increase. Your Dexterity score increases by 1.

Speak with Small Beasts. Through sounds and gestures, you can communicate simple ideas with Small or smaller beasts.

Crepuscular Furmulus

Ability Score Increase. Your Intelligence score increases by 1.

Fey Ancestry. You have advantage on saving throws against being charmed, and magic can't put you to sleep.

Nocturnal Furmulus

Ability Score Increase. Your Wisdom score increases by 1.

Darkvision. You can see in dim light within 60 feet of you as if it were bright light, and in Darkness as if it were dim light. You can’t discern color in Darkness, only Shades of Gray.

Those with ears and a tail from two different animals can mix and match one ability score increase and one feature from the subraces above, as appropriate. Ability scores more often correlate to a furmulus’ tail, and features to their ears. 

[albion19]

Slouching towards Bethlehem

Her name means the unlucky one. Who names a child that? One who knows what is in the stars for a child whose bloodline sprouts up seers like mushrooms after rain. 

Mallory for example came into the world not with cries of rapture but winces of apprehension. Her mother, no more a child herself, breathed her last as little Mallory took her first. The pregnancy had been marked with an uncanny swiftness, eerily pain free and her mother had died with a smile. There had been no father, possibly just a drifter in the night.

Once she was old enough Malory had asked about the nature of her name. Raised by a strange grandmother she had been told with a frankness possibly too blunt for a child of six that she was destined for a rough ride, in fact a first class ticket right to the end of the world. Her great grandmother had foreseen it coming and nothing could be done to stop it. They had tried.

“Your great granny saw it in a dream. A huge pale snake taking you for a wife as the world burns. A man with no mortal father. You will marry a monster.”

Mallory had been scared but reminded herself that she liked snakes, even big ones. But soon after she had started to experience oddities that drove this dire prophecy from her mind. One morning her grandmother’s ancient cat had awoken as a very spry kitten, much to everyone’s surprise. Rose bushes bloomed in snow, Halloween lasted a solid week and once, after getting lost in Sears, the entire population of her town had frozen until she had found her grandmother in a parking lot.

Time was a malleable substance for Mallory, sometimes she could shape it as she saw fit, while at others it slipped through her fingers like smoke. Once she had stepped out of her preschool and it had disappeared behind her. Only the stone steps remained, all else was charred timbers and ash. This terrible wasteland stretched at every side and so Mallory had squeezed her eyes shut and said the magic words her granny had taught her.

“Go away! Go away! Go away!”

When she opened her eyes the world was back as it should be, the trees leafy and children running around happy, not curled up like bits of burnt toast. She had ran home and told her granny, who only nodded in weary acceptance. She had not experienced a vision but rather stepped into the future, a future that could not be changed.

“I will! I can!”

“You could Mally…but there’s a beast out there waiting for you. An ugly white thing that wants to wrap his body around you and squeeze.”

Mallory shook her head, scared but defiant. “If it tries I’ll just turn him back into an egg.”

Her grandmother smiled but there was nothing happy in her eyes. “I think this egg might just take everything you have to crack it sweetie. Ah, don’t mind your head about it! You hungry?”

Mallory was and so they had eggs and French toast. Mallory asked for seconds.

*

Years passed and thoughts about the end of the world and white snakes became less and less important, less likely. For the first time she was not some unlucky girl but a gifted witch. A prodigy. She had friends – though some of the girls thought she was a freak and teacher’s pet – Mallory didn’t care. She was happy and the future appeared bright. Even within a month of her start at the school there were whispers about her becoming the next Supreme. Mallory had initially been excited but then a dream reminded her that her future did not include partaking of the Seven Wonders but witnessing the destruction of them.

*

The tree was huge, it’s canopy lost in smoke while Spanish moss swayed from boughs above them. Red apples carpeted the ground for miles, some blackened so it appeared the grass was clotted with blood. The smell was ripe and heady as they writhed, bodies streaked with sweat and soot. He would not allow her to see his face because she would not show him hers. It seemed fair. The hills around them burned and the sky was a radioactive bruise. He growled into her ear when she parted the clouds and allowed the sun to shine. Darkness settled again as he kissed her lips.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said and his voice was smooth.

She touched his curled hair. “I’m offering you a chance to live.”

But he only shook his head. He pushed into her and the dead rumbled below them, crying out as judgement descended. She raised them from the earth but then put them back to sleep at the feel of his fingers around her throat.

“They don’t deserve to be saved.”

“Do you?”

He didn’t answer, just kissed her throat where his fingers had been. Tenderness settled between them, an acceptance of what they were trying to accomplish. Together they could start anew, no God and no Devil, no fallible human morality but a divine order of their own.

Let it all burn away and then let something new grow.

 *

This faceless man, the white snake that had been foretold as a terrible monster, visited her most nights. They would make love and then she would rest her cheek against his smooth chest. His heartbeat was steady and strong below her. His fingers played with her hair as they watched the earth blanketed in ash and creatures prowled in the shadows.

“They don’t dare come closer.”

“Poor things.”

“They’d eat you alive given the chance.”

“The best meal they’ll ever have,” she murmured and his chest jerked in laughter. Her flesh would burn them from the inside out.

“Only I can eat you,” he slithered down her body and spread her thighs. His face was obscured by a haze, no features discernible but she could feel his intensity, his childlike possessiveness. “No one but me.”

She pursed her lips. “Is that fair?”

“I rebuff everyone and everything for you. I wait.”

She knew it was true. She was a virgin and while she could do what she pleased with it she always felt that she had to wait. He echoed the same. Under the tree as the world smouldered and finally grew cold they slept.

*

Mallory told no one of her dreams but every night she yearned for sleep and to be back in his arms. A small part of her, a seed of darkness, waited in anticipation for the end of the world. It was the only way to meet him.

From darkness things grew, who said it had to be terrible? She was not cruel or a coward. She could and would make the world bright and good.

*

“Good?” he scoffed. He sat with his back against the tree, Mallory wrapped in his arms.

“Do you want the world to be like the old one?”

“No, that’s why I ended it. No rules or hypocrisy, just freedom.”

Mallory sensed the world beyond and found nothing, not even the wretched monsters. “It’s just us.”

“Not for long,” his hand cupped her stomach and a chill swept through her. What sort of child would be born into a world of nothingness? Her grandmother, before she died, had told her that the white snake would devour her child as soon as she gave birth and then her for good measure.

Mallory stood, hands protecting her stomach, and stared at the man who caused the world to end. He did not want to show his face because he was a monster, a white faced demon and she would know that all his talk about starting anew was false. He just wanted chaos, blood and darkness.

She stepped back and slipped, falling in the apples. He reached for her but she dug her fingers into the ground and shouted.

“Go away!”

The earth parted around her and took her in deep, leaving nothing but fresh soil.

*

Michael woke with a groan, his hands curled into fists. He had been digging at the earth, trying to pull her back to him but she was gone. Blue roses grew from the earth where she had been before suddenly exploding into clouds of butterflies. They engulfed him and he screamed as sunlight shone.

He inhaled and rubbed the heel of his hands into his eyes. “She can’t undo it, whoever she is. I don’t need her.”

She was a witch and he will wipe every coven from the earth to take her down. Nothing would stand in the way of what he was born to do.

*

Mallory knew what she had to do, what she had been born for, and so when her true Supreme enfolded her into a desperate plan she accepted.

Michael Langdon would have no idea what was in store for him.

[lillaxtrigger]

Young Hope: Chapter 19 (Pt4)

From within the dim halls, a pair of twin doors quietly creak open; a bright luminescence pouring out from the other side. Beyond one of the doors does the blonde head of the psychic peek in; her navy blue eyes beholding the lobby of books set before her. Gazing towards the top of the shelves, she found them to tower dozens of feet, halting upon the pipe covered roof of the library. From the doors, all she could witness was the high shelves set before her; the tables and chairs decorating the middle of the room. Delving from the lobby are what seemed to be the endless tunnels set along the sides, the shelves of hardback acting as enclosed paths. Seeing this, it strikes Priss as an enigma on how massive this archive may actually be.

With that in mind, she readies to venture forward within the library; silently pulling the doors behind her shut as she enters. Taking a glance along the shelves, she decides to fancy a closer look towards the books that they house. Pulling out one of them showed a hardback book baring an image of flaming tree etched in gold upon the cover. Within its pages were words describing the origins of an event, one that involved a blue jay consuming the seed of a mystic tree and morphing into living oak. To most, this would seem like nothing more than a grand tale, but to the psychic was clear to be the catalog of a mythical demon. Some of the biographies of these beasts cloak themselves within what seem to be storybooks. An old cult trick used to hide hell bound knowledge such as this out from undesired hands. One that the psychic is all too familiar with, as some of the books back in her old manor sported similar writings. Twas simple for someone of her archaic mental caliber to decode them. Looking along the rest of the shelves, a smooth grin draws across her face. If what she holds in her palms shows to be true, then this archive may truly house the prize that she seeks. Such a vast collection may even hold some information regarding...his whereabouts.

As if you’ll find anything worth value in this massive waste of paper.

But before she can set off deeper into the library’s vast depths, the sound of footsteps reaches the psychics ears. Blast it all. Of course a collection as valuable as this would not go unguarded. The question being who, or what, might be taking the mantel of patrol? In any case, cover must be taken, post haste.

Out from one of the hardback hallways strolled out a single man, sporting blank white librarian attire with pitch black letters crawling along his clothes. Upon his bald head form specific words such as enlightenment, cultivation, philosophy, ideals, change, and other similar words. Beyond his glasses does he find a book laying upon the polished wooden floor, the pages of which lay exposed to the open air. Approaching the text, the letter covered figure quickly swipes the hardback off the ground. Flipping through the many pages of the tome, they find not a single hint of damage to speak of among the paper.

As the librarian flipped through the books contents, Priss peeks out from under the table towards the figure. Her gaze squinting upon the bibliophile, she musters what psychic energy she can towards the librarians direction. Pain killers are finally working just enough to take a crack at mind jacking, might be able to find the way to the book of Garlov peering into this creeps consciousness. Though no matter how much mental power she conjures, the psychic can’t break into the book keepers brains by even a crack. Damn! Not even a single inch can she penetrate into this weirdo’s mind. He looks sentient enough. What could possibly be keeping her influence out? A spell? A charm? Those letters crawling on his skin? No matter what might be guarding his mind, it’s safe to say that he won’t be susceptible to mind control anytime soon.

Finished scanning through the tome resting in his palms, librarian closes its pages. Turning his head towards the table, he manages to catch a glimpse of yellow retreat under the robed mahogany. Throwing the book cleanly back into its shelf, the man garbed in white begins to approach the reading space. Slowly, he nears the table; his hand gripping upon the edge as he kneels down to his knees. Finally, his head lowers under the wood, beholding nothing but the seats scooted under the ruby red cloth. A question mark crawling on his cheek, the librarian wonders what kind of foolish interloper dares to trespass within these scared archive. With seemingly nothing else left to check, the word decorated bibliophile continues to patrol deeper down the depths of his hardback lair.

Unbeknownst to him, his little blue intruder was just above his head, floating near the corner of the roof beside a set of glass pipes. A quiet breath passes through her lips once she knows the coast to be clear. Lowering herself near the polished wood, Priss fancies drifting towards the path opposed to the one the librarian ventured into. If anything served as a warning for the psychic to steer clear of that weirdo, it was his resistance to her mental control.

Passing through the countless columns of tomes at her sides, the small medium flies through the sea of seemingly infinite knowledge. She soon comes to a halt however upon finding the intersection; the three corridors set before her twisting and bending in supernatural and otherworldly ways. The path to the right corkscrewed around to the point where the ceiling turns into the floor and vice versa. In the middle, Priss found the hall to sprawl as wide as she could see; columns of bookcases stretching out and connecting along the walls. Finally, the left path presented a corridor consisting of a shrinking hallway; the end as far as she could see reducing itself to a mere pinhole.

Good lord. This place is an absolute madhouse. Figures that these freaks would have their archive structured like this. The question being how exactly they get around this shotty example of Picasso fan art. Nobody can simply just memorize the layout of this abstract mess, they have to have a directory of sorts stowed around here someplace. Though given the unorthodox behavior and memories that she has witnessed of the castle’s residence, it wouldn’t be much of an expectation to dismiss. These nut fuckers could make people do anything upon the promise of paranormal mastery.

Before she can decide on which warped path to travel down, the sound of sliding hardback catches her attention from behind. Turning back, Priss watches as one of the tomes dislodges itself from the bookcase; Priss grabs hold of her blade to prepare for whatever the book does. Levitating before her, the hardback opens its cover to the psychic; the contents swiftly being flipped through. Finally resting its pages upon the middle, its words lets out a magical glow. The light from the page soon starts to take form before the psychics very eyes; the luminescence morphing into a woodland sprite. Watching the freshly formed fairy flutter about the halls soothes the psychics guard; the sprites dainty dancing causing her to lower her blade.

The fairy soon halts its dance in the middle of the air, drawing in a deep breath. From the depths of his lungs does the sprite sound off a booming opera; the intensity of his symphony shaking not only the halls, but the psychics head as well. Swiftly does Priss shield her ears from the shrill song of the sprite, raising her blade once more towards the fairy. Best to silence its song quickly, before it catches any unwanted attention or worse yet, another migraine.

Attempting to end its booming theatrical song, the blue psychic rockets towards the sprite with her blade in hand. Her thrust proves ineffective as the sharp tip of the sword simply phases through, the fairy continuing in his trembling melody. Priss’s assault having failed, she quickly takes aim for her next best guess; the source of the sprites origins. The psychic tosses her weapon towards the book floating above, her prized sword piercing through the hardback. Upon the tomes destruction does the sprite burst in a flash of light, closing the curtains on its performance.

Though relived that the sad excuse for an opera singer has been silenced, Priss knows there is no time to celebrate. No doubt that its booming song as attracted some unwarranted attention by now. Might be best to get a move on before something even worse pops out from these shelves. With that thought, Priss bolts down the right hall of the corridor, swerving along as she follows the twisted polished floor.

Within the confines of their mystical cages, the demonic brothers sit along the back wall of their cells; the blue tinted barriers at the fronts acting as filters for their scornful glares towards one another. “So...You wanna tell me what the hell was your deal back there?” Savage starts off. “My deal? You were the one who threw shit at me first. If you didn’t decide to toss that arm at the back of my head, we wouldn’t have been crammed in this hole!” Carnage deflects. “I kept telling ya it was an accident. But you just couldn’t let it slide, could you? Had to just try and get back at me rather then hold off all those freaks?” “Those freaks caught us because you up and fucking tackled me! Admit it! You’re always the one starting shit!” “Dude, quit being such a damn baby. I said I was sorry, okay. We wouldn’t even be stuck in here if you didn’t decide to go off to try and nab the book instead of trying to find Sis.” “Shut up! I’m sick of hearing you go on about Priss all the damn time!”

Soon, their rising bickering starts to echo through the stone walls of the dungeon; a woman in torn robes walk towards the source with a rune covered prod to her back. “Quit yer bitchen, you two! Gonna rile up the whole damn zoo.” she demands. The brothers halt in their arguing, watching as the keeper stops at their cages with a big grin drawing upon her face. From that smile does a chuckle soon escape as she looks upon the two. “What the hell you findin funny?” “Ah, nothing. Just amazed is all. You two wound up killing a pretty big chunk of our army. Worried for a minute that both of ya would run our forces dry into the ground. But once you two went and started beating the hell outta each other, it was a piece of cake to round you guys up. Probably could have made it outta here with your demonic hides if you two weren't such fuck ups.” Rising from his seat, Carnage approaches the front of his cage, his claw pounds on the blue barrier as he looks upon the keeper with a glaring scowl. “You want come in here and say that shit?” “Oh, I don’t have to.”

That said, she pulls out her rune covered rod and jams the tip straight into the transparent field. From the prods tip does a blue energy serge within the inside of the cell, the glow inflicting waves of terrible pain upon Carnage’s entire body. Witnessing his brother’s torturous agony does Savage sprint to the front of his prison, furiously beating upon the barrier keeping him trapped. “Cut that out, you torn up cunt!” Hearing that rude demand does the warden turn her gaze towards the red demon, her prod detaching from the green ones cage. Twirling her rune rod in the air like a baton, she soon pierces the tip of her prod into Savages own cell; sharing a similar sting through his hulking figure. The surge of utter agony urges the red demon to back away from the barrier, hearing the chuckles of their torturer as he retreats. “You best start learning who’s in charge now, boys. If you wanna last long in this army, you’re gonna have to get used to doing as your told.” Having generously given her piece of advice, the keeper leaves the duo to the aftermath of their punishment.

Rising from the floor of his cage, Savage looks on towards his brother, a relieved breath leaving through his lips. Glad to see that bitch didn’t fuck Carnage’s brains up too bad; not that he had much to start. If he did, then we wouldn’t have are asses handed to us by that horror show back there. Come to think of it, if Priss was here, then we wouldn’t have even landed ourselves in that Broadway of freaks to begin with. But no, this jolly green jackass just had to have something to prove, didn’t he? Couldn’t go looking for sis first, no. Just had to try and find that stupid book just to show her up, huh? Sure hope she’s is having a better time in this hellish nightmare suite they call a castle, wherever she may be.

Rocketing through the twisted bookcase decorated tunnels of the, Priss begins to wonder where exactly these mad cultists could stow such a crucial tome within this labyrinth like archive. Any typical mortal would likely die off of starvation before coming close to such a prize. It’s fortunate then that this girl isn’t that typical when it comes to such.

It might be best for the psychic to try and find that librarian again, might actually be able to pry some useful tidbits out; probably knowing the way towards the prize she seeks. Still, it might prove quite the challenge to come across him again; maybe even more of one to confront. His resistance to the psychics mental manipulation has shown to be a growing concern. If he’s that prepared to have a counter measure like that, who knows what else the book keeper has up his sleeve.

Lost in these thoughts, she fails to take note of the several books free themselves from the warped shelves behind her; the hardbacks quietly pursuing the psychic.

Swiftly does Priss turn at the curve, finding before her a dead end sporting a glass case full of demonic charms and talismans. Damn! Traversing through that whole abstract maze of occult knowledge just to come up short. Well, at least its a reassurance that she’s simply not going in circles. Guess, there can’t be that much in the way of stopping her from going back; you know, aside from vomit inducing physics.

From the glass casing housing the gems does Priss notice something in the reflection, something of wood careening towards her back. The psychic sidesteps just before the object could collide upon her, finding the oak arm of a bear crashing through the glass case in a shower of shards. Grasping at the handle of her blade, something to her side grabs her attention. To the left does the psychic find a flock full of wooden animal puppets, all suspended by glowing string leading to thin air. The puppets before held no charm to speak off, no. But rather gnarled bodies and demented sharp toothed maws; their splintered limbs spinning and spiraling in place. From the remains of the glass case, the bear arm retreats back towards the set it matches with; a whole oak grizzly with its beady eyes aimed towards its little blue prey.

Although the pack of mangled wooden animals proves to be the unsettling site, the small medium could spot several of the books that hosted the whole puppet theater of horror. With haste, she springs towards the least guarded tome; aiming to the front with the tip of her blade. Her assault upon the hardback comes to an abrupt stop however when one of the wooden animals shields her target; the psychics blade digging into the puppets solid body. With the other animals nearing, she tempts to push her weapon out from the body of her wooden foe. Casting a telekinetic push, she dislodges her sword out from the wood of the puppet; just in time to evade the splintered antlers of the timber elk.

Retreating from the assault, she looks towards one of the nearby tomes and focuses her powers on the hardback. If you can’t come to them, make them come to you. The wise words of some deplorable douche bag looking for action. With her mental prowess, she halts the bunch of wooden limbs right in the air, the splintered timber inches from her figure. Pulling their books towards her, she grasps on the handle of her blade, eager to slice the tomes into meager party confetti. But an attack from behind interrupts her concentration a the head of an elk striking its horns to her back.

Smacked against one of the bookshelves, the blue psychic looks upon the mystic lumber as they lunge forward; their claws and horns baring towards her. Right before they could lay in their timber fury upon her mentally attuned head, Priss disappears before them; their ramming charge causing the books overhead to tumble down. The avalanche of texts collapses upon the collection of puppets, burying the pack in a pile of hardback. Reappearing in front of the mound of texts, a smug grin paints itself across the psychics face. Seems these beast took “hitting the books” quite a bit too literally.

In her moment of triumph however, the heap of tomes before her explode. Bursting out from the pile be the detached parts of the puppet troupe, the pack of mangled lumber clustering before the psychic. The jagged jaws of the heads snap right off their joints; the spiraling splintered limbs began to form together. In the midst of this transformation, she fails to see the source books anywhere in site. With their weakness nowhere in site, Priss decides to flee from the transforming puppet show while they’re distracted and bolts away from the dead end.

Zooming back through the twisting halls, the sound of booming pounding reaches her ears from behind. Turning to her back, the psychic is urged to pick up the pace; racing away from a hulking abomination of timber and wood. Behind her be the malformed combination of the puppet troupe formed into a massive, gaping maw, clawing through the floor in its pursuit. The horror lets out a bone chilling roar; its screams echoing through the hardback halls. Finding the warped ways of the halls ahead, the psychic hopes to lose the beast behind her with the confusing layout of its own lair.

Up a set of shelved steps does the medium ascend; hoping it’s misshapen claws could fail to rise after. But alas, the beast climbs up the bookcase steps, tearing its way up towards the fleeing medium.

Coming to a set of revolving shelves, Priss pushes through in hopes of cutting herself off from the pursing lumber. However, the massive mass of puppet parts squeezes through each and every single spinning bookcase.

Fleeing from her wooden pursuers, Priss rises towards a glass pipe hanging overhead; a line of tomes flowing through the clear pipe way. The timber abomination is unwavered by her rise; its splintery body jumping towards the ascending psychic. The small medium flies around the glass; hoping the transparent piping would be hard enough to halt the timber terror. Her little plan fails to prosper however; the horrifying puppet show smashing straight through the glass; countless books gushing out from the broken pipe. The shelved tunnel lowering, Priss descends with the wooden freak show right at her back.

Soon, she sets her sites upon a warped hallway; the tunnel baring resemblance to a kaleidoscope. Priss presses on through, hoping the mixed up pathway would help her shake off the wooden beast. The lumbering mess of lumber, chases its prey all through the warped halls, the pursuit taking them both through the floor, the ceiling, the walls, the shelves, even some of the books. But to her disappointment, the small medium still had the beasts on her tail. Why won’t this sad excuse for abstract puppetry just abscond already. This encounter can’t possibly last all night. There’s work to be done. A plan to escape from this amalgamation must be made soon.

Coming to a hall with spherical bookcases floating above, the puppet chimera soon begins to close in upon its prey. Feeling the wooden terrors pine scented breath on the back of her head, Priss readies to stave off the chimeric lumber for a chance to flee. Turning to face her pursuer, she pushes the puppet amalgamation back as far as she can with as much telekinetic strength as she can muster. Her mental shove proves just strong enough to make the mashup of mangled marionettes tumble backwards; its claws tearing apart the polished floor in its knock back. Regaining its balance, the wooden beasts witnesses its blonde prey turn the corner and resumes its pursuit.

Coming to the turn, the jumble of puppets lunges its jagged teeth upon the cornering hall. To its confusion however, none of its heads could find their hunt anywhere in site. Whether ahead in the halls or above to the ball of books above, the timber terrors target seems to have vanished before its eyes. In hopes of stumbling upon the their prey, the beast of bark and birch continues down the hallway; failing to realizing their hunt was behind one of the balls above. Floating down towards the corner, Priss takes a peek behind it to find the wooden horror to lumber deeper ahead through the shelved halls.

Having this many close call this evening alone, the psychics nerves were beginning to wear thin. It’d be in best interest to find that book soon, before another one proves to be too close for her comfort. However, to find that tome in this accursed labyrinth of hardback and paper is already enough of a problem. Wouldn’t even know where to begin to look for it in this hellish maze. Such endeavors would waste the night away, mayhaps take even longer. And time nor luck aren’t exactly being friendly allies tonight. Soon or later, she’s gonna wind up running out of both. Best find a way to locate the book of Garlov’s whereabouts in a swift manner; but how? That librarian probably won’t be too keen with sharing directions anytime soon. Going to need to find another way through this maze of bent space and broken physics. It might not be the most elegant solution, but she’ll might need to borrow another page out of Alisha’s manuel.

Crawling through the halls be a pack of huge chimeric caterpillars of flesh and steel; their parts originating from various land mammals and mechanical apparatuses. Upon coming to an intersection do they split off; a lone cyborg chimera ventures off one its own towards a looping hallway. The massive bug of horror crawls through the bookcase walls with its feet, hooves, and metal sticking upon the shelves. Coiling through the looping hall, it fails to take note of the little shadow tailing it’s behind.

Soon the lonesome caterpillar comes to an odd statue; a lanky figure eating what seemed to be a walrus with its oversized maw. The chimeric monster attempts to emulate the figures maw; stretching out its muzzle as wide as it can. However, its maw soon snaps back into place with a painful smack; the living collage guiding its head down.

Turning away from the statue, it soon finds its source to be in the captive clutches of the little blue intruder. Priss guides her blade towards the open book; the weapons sharp edge mere inches from its pages. “One wrong move and your story ends here.”

Held captive within their arcane cages, both demonic brother sit against the opposite walls. In Carnage’s rest, he find his brothers gaze from beyond the two blue tinted shields; the red demons glare reflecting contempt. “The hell are you staring at?” the green demon wonders. “Oh nothing.” the red brother replies as his eye squints. “Don’t give me that shit. You think that this is all my fault, don’t you?” “Well, maybe if you went with me to try and find sis like I wanted to, we wouldn’t be in this mess.” “No one asked you to come with me, okay? That’s on you, bro.” “I stuck with ya cause I didn’t want any more of us getting lost in this freaky German castle of horrors. It ain’t gonna help if were all just aimlessly running around this place looking for each other.” “Oh, piss off. I can handle myself.” “Carnage, in the 17 years that I have known you, you have not once shown that. I mean for hell’s sake, you’ve threatened to beat the shit outta me over taco’s.” To all that, all the green demon could do in response was look away with an upset demeanor; his arms crossed along his chest.

“Man, what the hell’s up with you? You’ve been acting shitty ever since we lost Priss. I know she spewed crap at us back in that garden, but that ain’t no reason to just up and ditch her like that.” “Yeah, well you ever think that we’d be better off without her on our backs?” Carnage questions; staring back towards his red brother. “Dude, come on. You don’t mean that. You know both of us can get on each others throats without her around. I mean, look at where we wound up. All just cause we couldn’t stop pissing each other off. We need her just as much as she needs us.” “No we don’t!” Carnage barks, quickly rising from the floor of his cell. “Yeah, we kinda do. Did you have any kind of clue where that stupid book was in the first place? Both of us were pretty much running around in circles without her.” “Shut up!” “What is up with you? You’re always just rushing into things without thinking, not even stopping for a minute to wonder if you shouldn’t do it Why can’t you just admit that you’re not as right as you think you are?”

“You don’t think I know that?” the green demon admits; his voice inexplicably cracking. Savage draws back his scolding lean; witnessing tears roll down from Carnage’s cheeks. “You don’t think I can’t tell that you think I’m some kind of fuck up?” “That’s not what I-” “Well your right!...I am. Just some stupid dumb ass who can help but cause trouble...” The rippling of his snotty nose echoing through the dungeon, Savage can only stay silent as Carnage continues with his self deprecating rant. “Priss can think 100 things a minute and keep things from going ape shit. You have your sick ass art skills you use to make awesome sculptures and paintings. And what do I have going for me? Just a short temper and a god damn truckload of personal problems and insecurities.” “Carnage...” “I just wanted one chance. One moment I can have to look back on and think to myself: “Hey, I’m not that big of a fuck up. I got one thing right.”. But I screwed that over too and got us throw into this freaky shit hole; all just because I wanted something to prove to everyone!” In his fury, the green demon punches the side of his cell; break straight through to the neighboring cell. Withdrawing his claw from the stone, a deep sigh leaves Carnage lungs. “Even myself...I’m just a fucking mess...compared to you two.” Having said all that was buried deep within his soul, the green giant curls back against the wall of his prison; his head tilted down on his knee’s.

Savage’s eye cannot help but stare towards his brothers slump from beyond the pair of barriers, tempting to recoil from the rant with: “Bro...I had no idea ya felt like that.” “Well now you do. All of my shit just dumped out like a giant mess of blood and guts from a hit and run accident. Just like how I am.” “Carnage, no; just listen.” The red demon stands upon the stone floor of his mystic prison; igniting the flames of his speech with: “You’re not a fuck up. No matter what you or anybody else thinks. I’ve seen you plow through stuff like nobodies business. Like, once you start something, you don’t quit until its done. I have to constantly go back to pieces that I haven’t finished cause the motivation just drains outta me halfway through. But whenever you do something, you don’t stop until the job’s done, without taking a single break. Your like a fucking machine, man. It’s nuts.” This praise reaching Carnage’s ears, the green demon lifts his gaze up from his knees; staring towards his red brother. “And I know I harped on ya for this earlier, but your reckless determination can get you through stuff that Priss would spend hours on just trying to think through. Like sis tries to unlock a temple door locked by an ancient puzzle. Bam! You just punch through without much thought.” Soon, Carnage begins to rise back from his recessive sulking, a smile beginning to form across his face. “You are honestly one of the most hell bent bastards I’ve ever met. Just plowing through motherfuckers like flesh pinatas filled with blood and guts. It honestly amazes me every time I see you go- What the fuck is that?”

Hearing that come out of his brothers mouth causes Carnage’s smile to shatter; taking a glance from behind to find tendrils coming out from the wall that Carnage had made. The green demon grasps at the multiple limbs, pulling upon the tendrils through the hole until the wall had collapsed. The dust of the rubble settling; Carnage’s eye’s lay upon a distorted face; smiling towards him as its tendrils squirm in its hand. Upon the site of this grotesque horror that flopped into his cell, he flails the freaks tentacles out from his claws. “Where in the ever loving hell did this Lovecraft brainchild come from?”

Neighboring his brothers cage, Savage look towards the next mystic prison; the wall between them reduced to rubble. “Think it was from the cell ya busted into” “The fuck?” Past the twisted tentacled face does the green demon wander within its cell; sporting almost the exact layout of his, aside from the slime splattered along the floor. From the side does the lumbering demon notice the small gap in between the barrier where the wall once stood; the tip of his claw just squeezing through.

Glancing towards the wall of his own cell; Savage charges through to the prison neighboring his. Breaking through, he is met with but a small box lying upon the ground. Lifting it from the stone; the red demon inspects the box from bottom to top; finding note even a speck of detail upon its sides. “Who the hell just puts some box inside a mystic monkey cage like this?” he wonders; his eye gazing upon its top. Out from its lid sprang out a twisted horror, taking the form of a fast food employee with an oversized set of teeth. Those chompers bite down hard upon Savages shoulder, the red demon struggling as more of the demonic patty flipper erupts out from the box. Within the facing cage, Carnage bangs upon the blue barrier keeping him trapped. “Savage!” Soon, he sees his red brother pry the teeth of the hellish minimum wage worker off and start to push back. Once he got the freak far enough, Savage starts to beat the demonic employee into submission; halting not a single second of his assault until his foe was stuffed back into the box it popped out from. Once sealed back within the cardboard; Savage stamps out the container until it was completely flat.

“God damn, this place houses some freaks...Well, time to bust outta here.” Carnage declares, his claw ready to swing as he aims for the next wall. “Hang on” he hears his brother command. That demand reaching his ears urges Carnage to smash the breaks on his smash happy claw; turning towards Savage with a squinted gaze. “What is it now?” “We can’t just smash through this place like fucking coked up bulls. Remember what Priss said about charging through shit without using yer noodle? How the hell are we gonna deal with the rest of the freak shows cooped up in this hole?” “Who says “we” gotta deal with them?” Such a counter questions sparks wonder within Savages head; curious to know what his green brother was stating. If we aren’t gonna fend them off, who will? It’s questioning this that the pieces within his thoughts finally click; a devious grin stretch across the red demons face.

The chimeric caterpillar scuttles throughout the wondrous archive of demonic knowledge; its metal feet and hooves sticking firmly upon the polished floor. From around the corner does the beast spot a pack of lumbering silver human heads; their pear shaped bodies rattling the googly eyes on the front of their faces. Those eyes catch the bug peeking from the corner and the horde of heads soon start to crawl forth with their feline like legs. Waving its hands while shaking its head, the chimeric beast makes the horde come to a stop. Seeing some of the pack tilting their gaze, the caterpillar glances back; its book entrapped from within the psychics grips. Back towards the silver head, the spliced together beast ques for the pack to leave with its gorilla hands. Seeing the bugs arms waving, the horde of heads continue on their way, the beasts false smile slowly fading upon their departure. With the coast clear, the abomination resumes its venture through the library, the blue psychic behind it holding its source of life hostage.

A little further ways into the archives tunneling halls, the luminescence starts to drain from the shelves the deeper they go. Priss holds the tome in her hands close so her hostage tempts not to flee within this growing darkness. Turning the coming corner, the flood of shadows is broken by a far dim light ahead. Approaching the blazing glow, the amalgamation begins to gradually slow its stroll. Glancing at its back, it finds Priss nearing her blade upon the spine of its tome, urging it to continue.

Finally, both the caterpillar and the psychic come upon bizarre chamber; its walls lined with curved, glowing pillars forming inwards. The pillars aqua blue glow shine upon a golden pedestal that held a sizable tome. Upon the texts black hard back bared only a single word etched in white: “Garlov”. A light giggle escapes from underneath her breath as she begins to approach.

Finally, she found it. The source of this cults vast knowledge and power over demon kind. Right before her navy blue eyes. It might have been a more of a painfully rough venture than she desired, but she managed to make it to their objective singlehandedly, all without her brothers shenanigans to weigh her down. Returning to them with this in her grasp will cement her place at the top of their trio; reminding her brothers who the top bitch really is.

Before she could near the tome she seek, Priss felt a slight tug holding her back. The mystic book in her arms pulls itself towards the beast that it gives life to; the chimeric cyborg caterpillar refusing to move into the chambers. Looking upon the creature, the psychic stars upon the pitiable gaze in its bird eyes; the monsters muzzle quivering in fear. The poor amalgamation is really putting on quite the show, ain’t it? Fine, it has already fulfilled its purpose anyway. With those thought does she release the abominations tome from her grasp; the beast and the book fleeing out from the chamber the moment it is set free.

That interruption having been dealt with, the psychic turns back towards her prize with a small smirk. Nearing the tome set upon the golden pedestal, her palm reaches out for the unholy text. The book of Garlov, the potential answers that she seeks, so close.

But before her hand could rest upon the texts hardback cover, an odd force pushes back her touch. Her smirk having been broken, she cautiously reaches out for the tome once more. The psychics palm rests upon what seemed to a barrier of arcane origin, blocking her reach from her prize. No matter, nothing a little telekinesis can’t work around.

Focusing upon the hellish text from beyond the mystic blockade, the medium casts forth her telekinetic powers upon the book of Garlov. The tome before her however fails to budge an inch, instead the barrier sending a small shock upon the psychic. Priss reels herself back from the unexpected counter; gathering her baring from the shock. Should have expected as much from these freaks. This is their most coveted treasure. They wouldn’t just put up any kind of arcane blockade behind it. But no matter. There hasn’t been a barrier that this psychic has yet to warp behind.

Attempting to bypass the mystic barricade, she phases out from thin air. But soon, the magic blockade flashes a glow of white, putting Priss’s supernatural infiltration to a grinding halt. Once she reappeared at the very same spot that she vanished from, a small hiss escape from her teeth as she rubs her temples. Well, seems that these unholy enthusiasts know their arcane arts. Even so, no barrier is impossible to shatter. Surely destroying its source of power should make it dissipate. The question being where exactly its source might be.

Upon those thought does the sound of sliding hardback reach her ears. A glance from behind showing a wall of tomes forming upon the entrance; holding the psychic within the chamber. Of course, it should have been obvious that the barrier was not the only trap set in place.

From deep within the demonic dungeon, a few of its keepers were lounging from the entrance of the cell blocks. Near the door, two of them sit upon a table, with one aiming a piece of paper folded into a triangle between the others fingers. The first flicks the pointy piece of paper through the seconds finger, but winds up flying into his eye. Reeling back from the shot, the second one gasps as she hears the firsts grunts. That worry soon vanishes once the first begins to calm, pulling the paper out of his eye. He soon flicks the paper back towards the second, the oncoming triangle making the second keeper flinch. Hitting her forehead, she soon hears giggling escaping from the first keeper lips; the second soon joining in her partners guffaw. The third leaning on a wall from across the small entryway lets out a sigh as he shakes his head back and forth. From the wall does he stroll towards the door to the dungeon; his hand place firmly upon the handle.

Right before the keeper could even get the door open an inch, the pair of lumbering demons smash through the walls; the demon brothers mowing the keepers down in a swift gore fest of broken bone and rags. Soon to follow them would be the horror show that those cultist weirdo’s had been keeping down there; pouring out from the depths of the dungeon like overflowing hell made fresh sugar cereal from the box.

Charging through the dark dungeon, Savage and Carnage burst through whatever stood in their way; be it the walls, demons, or cultists. “So, you actually know where the exits at in this overblown stone circus?” Carnage questions, plowing through a huge sown together crow goat and punching it back into pieces. “Eh, not really. Kinda just going wherever and hoping to stumble on it.” Savage admits; flattening a pack of prison keepers as they fruitlessly attempt to fight back with whatever weak weapons they hold. “He he. Fine by me. The more demon we bust out, the better. Lets turn this place into a fucking wreck.” “Ya mean like we always do?” “He-Hell yeah!”

The demonic duo continue their reign of terror across the cults hellish dungeon; breaking and busting through cells and cages in their rampage. Their destruction sets the other demons within the cults grasp free from their mystic imprisonment; the monsters rampaging through the prison alongside the brothers. The countless prison keepers attempt to herd them back with little success; the hell born freaks tearing the taking bites out of the cultists that kept them captive.

A couple of keepers stand their ground as a massive blue head with oversized eyes. Try as they might to resist, the dungeon keepers succumb to the heads carnivorous eyes; slurping the down like a floppy, meaty, piece of spaghetti.

While some stand and fight, others run like little bitches; an example being a couple of the dungeon keepers facing a three legged metal cow in the shape of a star. But try as they might to flee from the steel steed, the keeps are ultimately impaled by the bovines sharp celestial horns.

As the horde of demonic terrors rages on, the warden scrambles through the stone corridors of the dungeon; watching as her keepers are torn and bitten to chunky meat pieces. She soon darts into the dungeons entryway, and races towards the exit out of this house of odd and grotesque horrors. Reaching the door, she presses her open palm upon a glowing plate set to the side; a blue tinted barricade similar to the one that were keeping the beasts locked in front of the escape. Now it doesn’t matter what kind of freaks hobble this far; ain’t nothing getting past this ironclad blockade of arcane goodness; and coming in a cute blue tint to boot.

Turning from the door, she jumps at the sight of the demons brother that she had not too long ago tortured, with vengeful grins stretching across their cheeks. “Hey there, sunshine.” the green one greets. Although lightly shaken, the warden draws her prod; ordering the two with a stern tone to: “You two!?...Both of you best just waddle back to your cages this instant. I ain’t afraid for this to get dirty.” “Oh?” Right after Savage utters such; he begins to slowly lumber towards the warden in the torn garbs; the keepers confidence draining as the giant approaches. “You wanna try and make me?” Although stiffened by the red demons presence, she ultimately thrusts her rod towards the hulking monster to her front. Inches from his chest, Savage grasp the wardens arm before she had the chance to stab him. Caught within his claw, the head keeper attempts to jerk her limb out from the demons grasp; her arm not budging a single inch. Her desire to break free from his crustaceous grip is soon granted, but at the cost of one of her precious limbs. Savage effortlessly severs the wardens arms with but a single snap; the head keeper drawing away from the red demon with ragged breath and groans.

Her hasty retreat is soon halted however, feeling the ominous warmth of a giant from her backside. “What’s the matter, Raggedy ann?” A glance from behind revealed to her the other demon; garbed in green with a sinister grin drawn upon his face. Before she could escape from his reach, Carnage grabs hold of her other arm and lifts her from the stone floor. “Thought you weren't afraid for this to get dirty.” The warden could do nothing but writhe within the green demons claw; her legs kicking in the air as she tries to shake out from his grasp. Like with his brother before, Carnage cuts the keepers other arm right off; his victim falling upon puddles of her own juices. “Or was all that bitchen you were going on about back there just that?” Flat on the floor in her own blood, she attempts to rise from the floor in hopes of escaping from this living nightmare; but her fleeting escape comes to an abrupt end as one of the opposing monsters pins her to the red stained floor. “Just being a bitch?” Gazing above; the warden witnesses Savage standing upon her back; trapped under his heel. That same heel begins to crush her spine; her final moment staring up towards the demon brothers with despair in her eyes.

Savage soon finishes the warden with a gooey crunch; a satisfied breath escaping from his lungs. “Oh, that felt good.” “Ye-eah!” On their murder do the two brothers bump their chest; cheers of their victory echoing across the entryway. “So, now that we’ve put that sad joke of a warden under us, how the hell we getting outta here?” Carnage questions. “Watch and learn, bro.” Savage answers; spinning the wardens arm like a baton. Approaching the plate set aside the door, the red demon slaps the keepers detached palm upon the seal; the blue barrier keeping them from escaping dissolving before their eyes. “He he. Nice. Time to scram from this shit hole.” “Yeah. Best to beat it before our cellmates start getting the same idea.”

Priss swiftly grabs hold of her blades handle, ready for whatever bizarre horror was planing to burst out from the walls of the books chamber. Whether its some kind of terrifying amalgamation of indeterminable parts or a grotesque abomination beyond imagination; the psychic was ready for whatever this chamber plans to throw at her pretty blonde head.

Suddenly, the pillars set around her flash a bright luminescence; out from their holes sprout out beams of aqua blue. The scattering rays soon begin to form within the middle of the room, the light taking a humanoid shape before the psychics eyes. Soon, the light of aqua blue formed itself into a faceless man garbed in light blue belly dancer robes decorated in fleshly eyes and mouths with a large vase perched above his head. No doubt that the beauty before her is inhuman, but the true question was where the source of its power lurked. As the eyes sown upon the man’s dress gazed upon the psychic, the mediums own site search through the chamber. Try as she might to find the aqua blue beauty’s source, Priss saw not a single page of an open book anywhere. Perhaps this man be not from the shelves, but rather from a cultist cowering nearby. The question being where they cower. Given previous encounters, its likely that they’re housed within these very chamber so as to foresee to their pets commands. If that is the case, it’s only a simple matter of meeting her blades steel with their flesh.

An Arabic melody soon pierces Priss’s ears, snapping the psychic out from her train of thoughts. Looking over towards the man, she found the tune to be singing from his very robes; his countless mouths chanting out as the man himself shakes his hips to the rhythm. Alongside this entrancing tune does the medium hear the sound of sloshing; glancing overhead to find the pot perched above to be gushing out aqua blue liquid. In his dance, the man grasps the vase from the top of his head and throws out the slime within towards his navy blue intruder. Cast out into the air, the waters forms itself into clear serpents; their sharp blue fangs primed towards the psychic. Priss quickly flies above the snakes watery bite; the serpents eager to follow her ascent. With but the swipe of her blade, the blue medium slices through the liquid snakes; reducing them to nothing but a light drizzle

Raining down alongside the drops of the defeated serpents, Priss dive bombs down towards the dancer; her blade ready to plunge into one of his dresses eyes. The danseur evades the psychics descending thrust like flowing water; shooting out from his pot aqua blue wolves that lunge forth. Warping away from the aquatic beasts bite, the psychic reappears behind one of the pillars decorating the chamber.

Peeking out from the column of stone, she attempt to gauge where the dancers master might be lurking, hoping to end this charade quickly. Alas, the psychic finds no trace of anyone else in the room besides her and the light blue singer. However, her ears do manage to pick up the faint beat of flesh from her side. A hint of the familiars master perhaps?

Keeping her from investigating any further, she feels something grasp her from behind. Pulling her out from the safety of cover, a large watery tentacle drags the psychic back into the fray once more. She soon finds that tentacle to belong a gooey octopus erupting from the dancers pot. The limb begins to squeeze the small mediums body; Priss’s breath leaking out from her nose. Before the rest of her air could depart, the psychic slices through the tentacle in one clean slice; the octopus breaking apart upon its severed limb.

Upon her escape does the psychic quickly rocket towards the aqua blue dancer. Right as she swing her weapon, the man in the dress of eyes and mouths leaps overhead, hitting a high note in his Arabian serenade. Determined to not let her foe go on the counterattack, Priss halts his retreat with her telekinesis. Having stopped the dancer right in his tracks, the small medium lunges forth. His little blue foe on the approach, the dancer erupts from his vase a shroud of mist that covers his entire body. Thrusting through the mist, Priss fails to feel the impact of flesh upon her sword; glancing back to find both the dancer and his pot having vanished.

The mist soon covers the entire chamber; the very walls that make up the room leaving the psychics site. The navy blue medium tightly grasps the handle of her blade; her eyes darting around the fog surrounding her. As Priss scans through the mist, she notices the clouds shifting towards her left. Looking in the opposite direction, the psychic soon finds a swordfish bursting out from the shroud. By the skin of her teeth does she manage to dodge its thrust, the water fish’s nose grazing the side of her head. Alongside the nautical assault, a barrage of manta storm out from the mist. Although she manages to slice through some of the rays, one of them socks her square in the stomach. The aquatic blow sends the psychic flying into the pillar from behind; smacking Priss upon its hard stone. Reeling back from the impact, Priss witnesses the mist shifting once more; erupting from it be a blue hammerhead shark. Swiftly does the medium duck out from the sharks lunge, the predator slamming upon the rock.

From the base of the pillar, Priss takes the moment to catches her breath. Good lord, this dancer is pumping out some furious rhythms. How much energy do those hips of his possess? That tacky vase above his head is proving to be quite the troublesome piece of pottery; firing out barrages of slimy creature from its insides. If that dancers master cannot be sought after, then that aquatic entertainer song must cease once and for all. To end this water fight quickly, that sad excuse for a decoration must be swiftly shattered. Then putting an end to his dance should be child's play. The question being how to approach such a geyser without getting soaked?

Above does she feel the slight drop of liquid touch the top of her head; the unexpected drip urging her to step back. Turning towards the pillar, Priss finds the aqua blue liquid to have dripped out from its stone surface. She starts to approach the structure, dabbing her hand upon the dripping hole. Fancying a taste of the mysterious dripping, her lips smack upon the oddly familiar taste. Hmm...bit of salt, some protein, a hint of iron? This pillar is dripping out blood. But...how is that possible? How can stone even bleed in the first place, and why of all colors is it such a sickly shade of blue? Gauging a closer look, her pupils widen to find that the inside of the stone was made of flesh of the same color. Why would these pillars have need of organs. Could it maybe…

Before she could inspect further, something pulls her away from the living pillar and back into the mist. Jerked away, Priss find what had barbarically grasped her being what seemed to be sea man built like a gorilla. With its ape like arm, the sea monster flings the psychic away from the column. Priss regains her balance in the midst of her unplanned flight; putting the breaks on her careen towards the wall in the nick of time. Noticing the fog in front of her shifting away, she flies to the side; just in time to avoid the sea mans heavy tackle. Retreating from the watery beast, she readies her blade; the base of its neck clear in her view. Right before taking the chance to deliver her counterattack, an idea popping in her head makes her hesitate.

As the slimy water gorilla jumps from the wall, it finds its little blue foe to its side retreating deeper into the mist. Waiting not a moment to pursue, the aquatic ape charges towards the fleeing medium. The watery beast swings its massive limbs, hoping to knock the psychic out from the misty air. But the medium before it proved difficult to strike, Priss swerving away from its watery arms in her flight back. Soon however, the sea man does manage to make contact with something; the hard rock surface of one of the pillars. From behind the water apes fist does aqua blue blood begin to spurt out; drawing back its arm to find the organs exposed. Upon this site does the ocean gorilla begin to tremble, soon swelling to the verge of bursting. Soon the beast pops like a comically oversized water balloon, the mist rapidly lifting upon its demise.

The fog clearing out, Priss lays site on the dancer once more, the familiars rhythm having been shaken to a dizzying stumble. Near the psychic be the exposed flesh of the column, aqua blue blood dripping down the stone. Seeing the dancer grow fatigued from the pillars harm, the psychic quickly puts the picture together. These columns that decorate the tome’s chamber are that demons master, doomed to guard the cults most sacred text in a shell of stone.

Not even bothering to wonder how that could make any kind of sense, the blue medium has only moments to act. The living pillar being the closest, the medium charges forth with her blade in hand. Priss stabs her steel into the columns exposed muscle, plunging her weapon deep into its flesh. A trembling high note escapes from the dancers mouths, a whirlpool erupting from his vase that swirls towards the blue psychic. The maelstrom pulling her from the column, Priss is soon swept up in the slimy vortex; the miniature medium tumbling through the swirling stream His mentally gifted foe trapped within a storm of his making, the dancer aims his vase towards the whirlpool. From the decorative pottery blasts out a killer whale; its slimy body slamming into the storm in a massive splash.

The maelstrom having been broken into puddles, the dancer sees not a hint of the little blue intruders washed up corpse. Upon staring at the site, the demonic entertainer is struck from behind; feeling the cold slice of steel upon his back. Retreating from the sting, the dancer turns to find the psychic behind him giving chase. In his escape, the demonic dancer bursts out a scattershot of piranha towards his blue pursuer. With nothing but her telekinesis, Priss redirects the school of meat eating fish back towards their sender. As the aqua blue familiar was busy evading the storm of piranha, the blue psychic darts in the direction of the pillars exposed tissue. Finished dodging his own school of carnivorous fish, the dancer gushes out a huge leopard seal; its slimy body smacking the psychic away from the pillars wound.

Careening towards one of the unbroken colomns, Priss attempts to break its stone cold shell with her sharp steel blade. Upon coming to the column, she spirals down the stone with her swords edge upon the surface; her blade trailing sparks on the way down. The steel of her weapon however fails to cut through the pillars rocky surface; her sword not even leaving a single stratch. Looking towards other columns, the psychic could find the dancer casting slimy jelly fish upon the open wounds. Didn’t take them long to catch on, did it? Seems like she needs to find a way to break through the stone.

While the dancer showed himself to be distracted, Priss rockets towards the nearest column. The psychic thrusts her blade into one of the pillars exposed hole, hoping to draw blood from the stone. Instead, what she was delivered was a terrible shock; Priss releasing her grip from the handle of her sword. Seeing the demonic entertainer launch forth a volley of slimy serpents, Priss flees from the column; retrieving her blade with her telekinetic powers.

In her withdraw, she directs her blade back into the palm of her hand; just in time to ward off the approaching sea snakes. The psychic dicing the serpents into nothing but droplets, the horde soon starts to overwhelm her. Priss soon pushes the pack of serpents back with a telekinetic blast; the force of which launches her towards another of the columns. The psychic swiftly climbs up the pillar with her steel cutting against its hard stone; the ascending sparks lighting up the chamber. Rising away from the living rock, the psychic saw that her slicing uppercut gave little damage to its stone shell. Blast, its stronger than anticipated; not even a full force swing could not put a single scratch on its rock hard surface. Is this blade not strong enough to cut through pierce through its stone.

Perhaps you should ask yourself the same question.

Below the psychic does a squid cast its tentacles upon her; the cephalopod wrapping its limbs around the small mediums body. Entangle in its slimy grip, the squid slowly begins to draw itself back into the pot it originated; the dancer below it shaking his hips to the Arabian beat. Being pulled towards the dancers vase, Priss struggles to free herself from the squids grib; her blades edge against her skin. Right when the psychic was on the verge of being sucked within the pot; she soon warps out from the cephalopod’s grasp. Upon the psychics vanishing act does the dancer take a look through his surroundings; his arms waving as he ventures around the chamber in search if his cowering prey.

In truth, the small medium was hiding from behind one of the living column, tempting to chip away its stone surface with the tip of her blade. As she fruitlessly picked at the stone, Priss thought back to her previous encounters ever since departing from her brothers; her navy blue eyes overshadowed by the darkness. Breaking out of her metal prison down in the dungeon. Hiding from the gluttonous eye taming cultist. Fleeing from the abominable horror of puppetry. Each serving as a prime example of her lack of physical strength, ones that frustrate the psychic to no end. So many obstacles that could have been bypassed in such little time with Savage and Carnage by her side. Its almost sickening to recount how many close calls could have been avoided with their aid. Even now, their incredible strength dares to overshadow her intellect.

Thinking back to when she was scolding them in the garden, regret begins to settle deep within her soul. Of course they care about finding Him. They’d do more than anyone else. Why did I have to say all that to them? Why didn’t I go look for them as soon as I busted out? What I wouldn’t give to take back everything I said. To have their goofy smiles back at my side once more. Surely their overwhelming power working with my brilliance would destroy whatever this castle, or anything beyond it stood in their way.

Upon the thoughts of power does her mind flashes to the moments the stone pillars broke; the heavyweight slime of the dancer crashing upon the rocky pillars. Those thought get her gears working; the shadows lifting away from her eyes as they stare towards the familiar in question.

Around the chamber does the demonic dancer sway through; its mouths letting out low, anticipating tones. Soon; however, he sees his mentally gifted foe bolt out from hiding; lunging straight for the dancers tone figure. In hopes of intercepting her charge, the dancers shoots out from his pot sharp starfish that lob towards the approaching psychic. Spiraling towards her, Priss dispatches the starfish with but the swipes of her blade and prepares to plunge its tip straight into the familiars flesh. Once again does the dancer swerve his way around the mediums thrust, witnessing the psychic vanish from thin air.

Reappearing from behind the demonic dancer; Priss slashes at his fleshy robes; the mouths screaming out in harmony as they fall from their master. Aiming his pot towards the psychic; the dancer casts forth an aqua blue narwhal; its sharp horn aimed towards the mediums head. Swiftly does Priss ascend out from the sea unicorns thrust; tossing her blade towards the entertainer. With his pot pointed towards the chamber floor, the demonic singer rocket way from the sword weapons descent with a spiraling twirl. Coming to the apex of his ascent, the dancer launches out from his pot a barrage of spiny sea urchins. The psychic drops down towards the floor; away from the wave of sea spines and retrieves her sword.

From above, the dancer tempt to drop down a huge sea turtle right on the mediums blonde head. Priss dashes out from the tortoises heavy slam; her head grazing its solid shell in her escape. Swiftly rising towards her dropping aqua blue foe, Priss zips past and slices off another piece of the dancers dress. The remaining mouths make up for the missing singers; chanting out a loud chorus. Having the last of this ungrateful guest’s shenanigans, the dancers lands upon the ground with a furious shake. Something begins to bulge out from the top of his pot; Priss ready for whatever plans to erupt out.

Bursting out from the depths of the vase be a slimy whale; its massive body rocketing toward the psychic. Priss flies aside the oncoming sea mammal, focusing all of her telekinetic abilities on the oversized spritzer. Redirecting the monstrous whales flight, Priss sends the sea mammal careening into the pillar on the side; breaking the column immediately upon impact. Soon, the psychic sends her slimy sea dwellers into the rest of the columns making up the chamber; each one of them shattering in a mess of aqua blue organs and rock. Once all the columns have met their end at the hands of their familiars own attack, the blue psychic lifts the whale in her telekinetic grip overhead. The dancer below suffering fatigue upon the ironic demise of his master; the demonic entertainer can do little as his own whale is slammed down upon him like a slimy blue hammer.

Descending from the air with her hands at her head, Priss witnesses the oversized sea mammal melt before her eyes. From the slime whales dissolving goo does she find the dancers lifeless corpse; his remaining mouths having sung their last chorus. From beyond the demonic cadaver, Priss beholds the arcane barrier guarding her objective dissolving before her very eyes. Upon the mystic blockades end does a devious smirk flash across the psychics face.

Slowly does she levitate her coveted prize towards her grasp; the potential answers held within its text wondering within her head. The briefing had mentioned that this tome held the cataloged biographies of thousands of hell born creatures. Surely such a vast volume of unholy knowledge could house the key to uncovering the bastard responsible for the disappearance of her aunts.

The book of Garlov finally rests upon the psychics palms; a hopeful smile stretching across her cheeks. Her celebratory find is broken when the ominous voice echoes through her head.

Do you really think you’ll find anything of worth in that sad excuse for a library book?

Indeed it will. Once the time comes to inspect its pages; the books text shall prove to be the first step to finding you. The start of our vengeance will finally takes its first step starting with this precious tome.

It’s honestly adorable how you actually think you can track me down. Face it. I am beyond your grasp.

Liar! Surely there must be a way to uncover your whereabouts. None of us will stop until your reduce to nothing but bloody meat chunks. After all; if it weren't for you, Savage and Carnage’s mothers would still be by my own’s side.

Hmph! If it weren’t for me, you and your brothers would not even exist in the first place. It strikes me as rather ungrateful to go on a crusade to destroy the very father that had bestow you life.

“You’re not my father!” Priss screams, her outcry echoing beyond the chamber of the unholy text. Realizing her emotional outburst, she swiftly closes her mouth; looking back towards the entrance of the chamber. Dammit all! The entire library must have heard that cry of unrivaled fury. Should have known better than to let that spiteful fiend get the better of me like that.

Hoping to leave the bookcase halls of this twisted archive, Priss bolts out of the book of Garlov’s odd chambers; the tome itself held behind her back via telekinesis. Best to take her departure quickly so as not to get cornered.

[wedreamedlove]

[FIC] Run, Rabbit, Run (2/6)

Rating: M Characters: Yamada Jiro/Iruma Jyuto Word Count: 6912

Summary: “A hound and a rabbit; the outcome’s clear.” “Aah, this is why delinquency doesn’t pay off. Didn’t you know? In all the fables involving a rabbit and a hound, the rabbit always wins.”

AO3 | Index: PAGE 1

Jiro woke up, groggy, and felt his awareness trickle back to him slowly. The ceiling above him didn’t look like the infirmary at school or any classroom. Did he oversleep and miss his classes? No, Ichiro and Saburo would never have let him sleep in.

He sat up to look around but immediately winced at the dull pain that throbbed through his side and looked down to see that he was only wearing his jacket. His shirt was completely gone, along with the thin shirt around his waist, and there was a bandage taped over his side. Jiro prodded that area curiously and flinched. Ouch, yep, that was where he had been slashed...

Wait.

The memories of his wild thief chase from Ikebukuro to Yokohama and then his consequent run into and from Jyuto crashed into his mind. Jiro had literally passed out in front of that bastard cop and he couldn’t decide if waking up alive was something he should be glad about or not. Jiro remembered that he was supposed to take a look around and did so to see that he was in a bedroom and on a bed but, before he could give that any further thought, he heard the door to the bedroom open and saw Jyuto appear.

Jiro tensed immediately and put on his most ferocious glare. However, Jyuto didn’t seem to care about that at all as he leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms. It looked like he was carrying something but Jiro refused to glance away from Jyuto’s eyes, not wanting to show any sign that could be taken as weakness.

“You’re awake.”

“Obviously,” Jiro snapped back, bristling even more.

Jyuto sneered and then raised his arm to show Jiro the white purse that dangled from it. “Care to explain this? Were you stabbed in the middle of a failed robbing?”

“The hell? No! I was chasing a thief.”

“In Yokohama?”

“Nooooo,” Jiro sent him a look that showed how stupid he thought Jyuto was for asking that, “I chased him from Ikebukuro to Yokohama.”

“You...” Jyuto pinched his nose with his other hand, “... chased a thief from Ikebukuro all the way to Yokohama. And why did you not report this to the authorities and leave the matter to them?”

“I was already there so I figured I’d be quicker.” Jiro shrugged, feeling uncomfortable at how Jyuto was calmly asking him these questions.

“Clearly not. And you got injured. Tell me, were you born witless or did you pick that up from your brother, Ichiro?”

“Shut up! Don’t talk about Ichiro like that!” Jiro snarled automatically.

There was one thing in the world that he would never let go unchallenged and that was anyone who talked badly about Ichiro. Jiro hated it whenever he saw the looks of disapproval in the face of adults around them, especially whenever Ichiro had to show up at his school for something he did. Those looks were always there despite Ichiro having custody over them.

But what did any of them know? They didn’t know the long hours Ichiro worked to support them all. They didn’t know how Ichiro always made time for them. They didn’t know how much Ichiro loved both him and Saburo and did his best to treat them both fairly. Or how highly Ichiro placed values of family and justice and taught him the same. Ichiro was the best brother anyone could ask for and that was why Jiro would never ever let anyone look down on his brother.

Jyuto raised his eyebrows, “He clearly hasn’t taught you anything if he let you run yourself right into a knife, instead of doing the sensible thing and leaving it to adults.”

“Fuck you,” Jiro enunciated slowly, “As if adults are infallible. And it’s not like the cops are guaranteed to help either. They could be dirty bastards just like you.”

“So quick to resort to crude insults. Is this the result of a dropout raising brats?”

“I told you to shut up about Ichiro! If you say one more thing I’ll...” Jiro clenched his fists.

“You’ll...? Shouldn’t you be thanking me first for taking care of your injury instead of leaving you to bleed out in that alley?” Jyuto clicked his tongue, “Ichiro’s manners must be truly lacking if I take you as an example.”

That was the last straw. Jiro saw red and lunged off the bed at Jyuto; but Jyuto must have expected that because he dropped the white purse and took a step forward to meet Jiro, sidestepping the punch, and grabbed Jiro’s extended wrist before using Jiro’s own momentum to knock him off balance and throw him back onto the bed. Jiro landed hard on his back despite the mattress beneath him and fought to catch his breath when he expelled it at the flare of pain from his wound protesting his harsh treatment.

In that split second of distraction, Jyuto got on top of him and Jiro felt a knee slam the majority of Jyuto’s weight into the bandage on him. A choked yelp slipped out of Jiro’s mouth and, before he could twist away in pain or shove Jyuto off, a gloved hand snapped to his neck and cut off the rest of his air. Jiro struggled automatically and dug both his hands into Jyuto’s wrist, at the patch of skin between his glove and sleeve cuff, to try and yank his hand away. But Jyuto remained unmoved above him, only squeezing harder around Jiro’s throat.

Jiro felt the bed dip beside his head from where Jyuto braced himself with his other hand before Jyuto leaned down, close enough for Jiro to feel his cool breaths against his face, to say, “What did you call yourself again? M.B.? Does that stand for Mad Beast? Because you certainly don’t seem to know how to treat your lifesaver.” Those green eyes were narrowed with cruel amusement.

“No... one... asked you to... save me,” Jiro managed to spit out when Jyuto loosened his hand slightly, as if wanting to hear Jiro’s response.

“Oh, that is very true. Then I suppose I should correct my mistake since you’ve shown yourself unable to appreciate my goodwill.”

And Jyuto’s eyes were frighteningly calm as he tightened his hand around Jiro’s throat again to strangle him. At the same time a delighted smile, which started off small, began to stretch slowly across Jyuto’s face as he held Jiro’s gaze and watched him struggle.

Jiro clawed futilely at Jyuto’s wrist again, bumping his fingers into the other man’s watch, before Jiro finally gave up on that idea and tried to directly pry Jyuto’s fingers off his throat or at least wedge one of his own fingers underneath Jyuto’s to give himself more breathing room. But that was useless as well and Jiro’s lungs were starting to burn as he gagged at the increasing pressure around his throat.

The beginnings of panic crept in from the edges of Jiro’s mind and made him lash out with a hand, intending to shove Jyuto’s head back or something, but Jyuto shifted his weight and caught that hand by the wrist with the one he was using to brace himself. This shift of Jyuto’s weight only ground his knee harder against Jiro’s side though and Jiro saw white at the pain that tore through him. He opened his mouth in a soundless gasp, tears springing to his eyes.

By the time the pain dulled enough for Jiro to think again he found his arm pressed above his head into the bed by Jyuto; his other hand was still weakly digging into Jyuto’s gloved hand which was firmly around his throat. It also felt like Jyuto had lifted his weight a little from the knee on Jiro’s wound, but honestly it was hard for Jiro to tell because his whole body felt like one massive flaring mess of pain and his head was starting to spin from the lack of air. In fact, Jiro blamed this disorientation for making him hallucinate that Jyuto’s lips brushed past his cheek when the cop lowered his head to whisper quietly beside his ear.

“Of course, I’m a reasonable man and I can be persuaded to change my mind. All you need to do is be a good boy and bare your throat.”

Jiro felt Jyuto start to push his head with the hand on his throat but Jiro fought back with everything he had left, redoubling his efforts to claw at Jyuto’s hand and stubbornly refusing to move his head. And when Jyuto raised his head again to look at him, Jiro curled his lips into a snarl and glared.

His vision was starting to spot and everything began to feel distant but there was no way in hell he was giving in to this sadistic dirty cop. Releasing his hand from the one around his throat - since it was useless - Jiro made sure to keep eye contact with Jyuto as he brought his hand up weakly between them and showed Jyuto his middle finger. And then his eyes rolled back into his head.

It hurt. It hurt. His side was screaming. His lungs were on fire. He couldn’t breathe. He was going to die. He was going to die like this and Ichiro wasn’t ever going to know what happened. No, he was going to die and Ichiro was going to find out in the worst way possible. And yet, despite these thoughts about his family, all he could see in his mind’s eye were those cold, cold green eyes looking down at him.

The bruising grip around his throat abruptly disappeared, along with the weight on top of him, and Jiro turned to the side, reflexively curling around his injury and coughing horribly as he gulped down air. Every breath he took hurt, like the air was passing through a razor-shredded throat, and tears leaked out from his tightly shut eyes. There was a loud rush of blood through his ears too, so he couldn’t be sure if he actually heard Jyuto mutter something about stubborn brats or not.

At any rate, he was so exhausted from his near-death experience that he could barely put up a fight when he felt Jyuto grab both his hands and pull them above his head to the headboard. Something cinched around Jiro’s wrists tightly before Jyuto released him, wiped his gloves on Jiro’s jacket, and then got off the bed.

Jiro managed to crack his eyes open just in time to see Jyuto walk to the door of the room and pick up the white purse on the ground before the cop glanced back with an unreadable expression.

“I’ve wasted enough time here and work calls. Rest assured, I’ll be sending this to the Ikebukuro detachment for them to return to its owner. In the meantime, you can wait here and reflect on your manners until I come back.” Jyuto left the room but then popped his head back in a few seconds later. “Oh, and don’t soil the bed... you won’t survive the consequences.”

With that Jyuto left the room again.

Jiro could hear Jyuto’s footsteps move farther and farther away before there was the faint sound of a door opening and then closing. He waited for five more minutes to pass before he actually relaxed and believed that the dirty cop was gone for good.

It was quiet.

Jiro used this time to take stock of himself; his side ached, his throat hurt, and there was no doubt he’d be covered in bruises tomorrow but, huh, he was surprisingly alive. Jiro tried to sit up but his arms met with resistance when he tried to bring them down from above his head.

... Uh.

He tried lowering his arms again but something pressed against his wrists and he was met with resistance once more. Jiro tilted his head back as far as he could before he realized that he was... handcuffed to the bed. To the metal headboard of the bed. What. the. HELL!?!?

Jiro goggled for a second before yanking his arms down as hard as he could, jerking the chain of the handcuffs and clanging it against the metal headboard, but the bar it was looped around didn’t budge and, instead, the more he struggled the more the cuffs dug into his wrists and hurt. Jiro stopped to catch his breath and realized that if he continued he would probably rub the skin of his wrists raw.

That goddamn cop. This had to be an abuse of his job. Jiro cursed colorfully in his mind. Now what was he supposed to do? Just wait here obediently? Fuck that. Jiro glared angrily into the air and thought about how, if he were free, he would trash Jyuto’s house for everything he was being put through and everything Jyuto thought he could do to him. Jiro stubbornly ignored how that might have been the exact reason as to why Jyuto restrained him like this. But, dammit, he wasn’t some sort of misbehaving dog! Hmph, he’d show that bastard cop not to underestimate the second oldest of the Yamada brothers.

Jiro held onto that burning kernel of anger inside him and waited impatiently for the time to pass and Jyuto to come back from work.

An hour passed.

And then another hour passed.

And then another, making it three hours that had passed with no sign of the other man returning. Jiro had been staring at the ceiling for so hard now that his eyes were starting to hurt from the strain, and there were only so many daydreams he could come up with where he one-upped Jyuto the moment the cop came back.

There was no clock or alarm in this room, nothing to indicate the passage of time except for the light that shone through the windows and landed against the wall in front of him at the foot of the bed. But even then, all Jiro could tell from the light and shadows on the wall was that it was the afternoon.

Four hours passed.

Five hours. Jiro tried to doze but there was a persistent smell that grew stronger whenever he closed his eyes and it made him uncomfortable. It was a smell that came up from below and around him. And then Jiro recalled where he was exactly. On a bed. On Jyuto’s bed. Meaning the other man slept here. Meaning this scent was most likely--

Nope, nope, nope, nope. Jiro shook his head roughly to forcibly throw those thoughts out of his head and then opened his eyes to stare hard at the light against the wall again, trying - through sheer will - to force time to pass quicker. He didn’t dare fall asleep now; who knew what kind of nightmares he’d see.

Six hours. He was starting to feel an urge to use the washroom but maybe that was because he had nothing else to focus on, so he was noticing all these small discomforts. His heartbeat was loud. His breaths were shallow as he tried not to breathe in too deeply to smell anything. His throat felt sore and dry. His stomach was empty and clenching in protest; all he had eaten was breakfast and that was hours ago. And he could almost imagine he was hearing his blood pump through his veins too.

Seven hours.

Eight hours. Hold on, was his internal clock even right? Or what if he was counting too fast and in reality it had only been 4 hours. Jiro shuddered inwardly at the thought. No, no, he had always been good at keeping time (and beats) internally. Besides, the light against the walls was dimming and turning a burnt orange that proved the sun was setting and that time had passed.

Nine hours. The silence was starting to get to him and he pounced at every sound he heard, straining against the handcuffs and hoping the sound he heard was the front door opening. Seriously, wasn’t Jyuto on shift already when they ran into each other? Why was the cop gone for so long? It couldn’t be that the asshole forgot he was here and went out to have dinner or something? Drinks?!

The thought of being restrained here until late at night before Jyuto finally returned home brought Jiro’s anger back to full force and he glared viciously at the wall in front of him. If Jyuto wasn’t back in an hour he was going to tear himself out of these handcuffs even if it scraped his wrists raw.

Finally ten hours passed in total. Jiro closed his eyes and then slowly pulled his arms down as much as he could, rotating his wrists to try and find an angle to yank his hands through the handcuffs. The metal bit into his wrists and Jiro gritted his teeth, preparing to increase the strength he was using, but then he suddenly heard the quiet sound of the front door opening.

Jiro snapped his head to the bedroom door. There was a feeling of expectation that rose up inside him. He was actually glad that-- no, no, wait. Jiro shook his head madly and then glared at the door to get ready for Jyuto’s appearance. But the seconds ticked by and, while he could hear someone moving beyond the door, no one actually came in. Dammit, what the heck was the cop doing out there. He wasn’t possibly going to make Jiro call for him to come in and remove these handcuffs, was he? Jiro remained stubbornly silent, glaring even harder at the door, and it was a miracle the door didn’t spontaneously catch on fire.

At last, the door opened and Jyuto walked in with a furrow between his brows that disappeared and was instead replaced with a quick flash of surprise when he saw Jiro. It felt like he actually forgot Jiro was here but, before Jiro could snap at him for that, a familiar mocking smile curled Jyuto’s lips.

“Oh, it looks like you were obedient this entire time. Well done.”

“Shut the hell up and let me out now.”

“Hmm, unfortunately it seems this period of seclusion hasn’t taught you any manners. Ask nicely and I’ll consider it.”

“Fuck. You.” Jiro enunciated slowly.

Jyuto sneered, “Do you wish to stay restrained for the entire night?”

“If you don’t let me out right now I’ll pee on your bed.”

“... You do that and I’ll beat you to within an inch of your life.”

Jiro caught the slight pause before Jyuto spoke and it made him smirk as the two of them glared at each other. It was one thing to be unable to control his bladder; but it was another thing entirely to let go out of sheer spite. And, surprisingly, he won this battle when he shifted inadvertently on the bed, trying to get more comfortable in the staredown, and Jyuto’s expression collapsed into disgust and irritation before he strode over and bent down to unlock Jiro.

The instant Jiro felt himself become free he scrambled away from Jyuto to the opposite side of the bed and, getting off of it, he backed up into a corner of the room. Meanwhile, Jyuto watched him do all of this with a raised eyebrow and, as he straightened up to place the handcuffs on the bedside table, his expression had returned to its usual calm.

“The bathroom’s down the hall to the right.” There was an insulting smile on the cop’s face again. “Unless you need me to hold your hand there?”

“No,” Jiro bit out before he cautiously made his way to the door of the bedroom, keeping his back to the wall and Jyuto firmly in his sight.

But Jyuto had already turned away from him and was unbuttoning his cuff links, setting them on the bedside table, before he moved onto his collar chain. By the time Jiro made his way around the entire room and was close to the door he saw that Jyuto had moved onto loosening his tie and so he quickly slipped out of the bedroom before he could see anything more.

For a second Jiro thought about making a break for the front door and escaping but now that he was up and moving he found that he actually did need to use the bathroom badly and so he quickly headed into the bathroom. Besides, he had a few questions for Jyuto and he wasn’t going to give the other man the satisfaction of knowing he’d ran away like a dog with its tail between its legs.

That being said Jiro only relaxed after he locked the bathroom door firmly. And even after he finished his business he braced himself with both hands on the sink counter and took a few deep breaths to prepare himself for the upcoming confrontation.

His reflection in the mirror showed a young man who was pale after all the blood loss but those green and gold eyes were still strong. Jiro reminded himself that the Yamada brothers never backed down and, as he stared hard at his green eye, he drew strength from the memory of his two brothers who shared this same colored eye. No matter where he was he just had to see this green eye to feel their support.

“Alright, let’s do this,” Jiro whispered to himself. He breathed in deeply one more time, straightened his clothes and hair, zipped up his jacket to his throat, and then set his face into a scowl before he yanked open the door.

He did a quick scan from the door to the living room to the kitchen before he found Jyuto sitting at the table in the kitchen with a cup of noodles in the center. Apparently, during the time Jiro was in the bathroom, Jyuto had decided to take off his suit jacket, unfasten the first two buttons of his dress shirt with suspenders, and roll his sleeves up to his elbows. It couldn’t be said that Jyuto was undressed but considering Jiro had never seen Jyuto in anything other than his full suit he looked positively bare here and unexpectedly vulnerable.

Although, when Jyuto noticed that he had come out of the bathroom and looked at him, Jiro immediately took back his thoughts. What vulnerability. Those green eyes that were looking at him held no emotion except for cruel amusement.

“I was starting to wonder what you were doing in there. Plotting ways to escape? Or perhaps searching for a weapon?” Jyuto casually rested his chin on a gloved hand. “I keep my razors in the first drawer on the left.”

“I didn’t touch anything in there,” Jiro defended himself reflexively, “And I wouldn’t use something like that, I’d use my words.”

“Upholding the law, I see. How commendable.”

Jiro narrowed his eyes, unable to tell whether Jyuto was being sarcastic or not with that remark. But Jyuto said nothing more and instead pushed the cup of noodles forward with his other hand and dropped his eyes pointedly to it.

When Jiro remained by the bathroom still, wary, Jyuto’s amused smile deepened. “Oh, do I even have to go so far as to tell you to come and sit?”

Like a dog. Jiro could feel his ears heat up in anger and embarrassment at the implication in Jyuto’s words and he stomped over to yank the chair out opposite of Jyuto before he threw himself into it and crossed his arms. He raised his eyebrows and stared challengingly at Jyuto.

“Not going to eat? It’s not poisoned if that’s what you’re worried about. If I wanted to get rid of you I’d have left you to bleed out in that alley.”

“I didn’t even think that.” And it was true. Jiro had all sorts of unflattering things to say about the dirty cop but for some reason he was certain the other wouldn’t go so low as to poison or drug him. “I’m waiting for it to cool down.”

They both glanced at the cup noodles which was barely emitting any steam from under its closed lid.

“The watchdog of Ikebukuro has a cat’s tongue?”

Jiro was startled when Jyuto started laughing and he found himself even more surprised when he realized it was genuine. But at the same time he sunk down in his seat, feeling oddly embarrassed.

“A-Anyway! About that! You never said why you didn’t leave me to bleed out. And don’t say it was out of the goodness of your heart. You don’t have one. You’re Mad Trigger Crew and I’m Buster Bros. We’re enemies.”

“You’re right. It would have been easy to leave you there to experience the stupidity of your actions. However, it’s precisely because I’m part of Mad Trigger Crew and you’re a member of Buster Bros that I saved you. Samatoki would have kicked up such a fuss at me interfering with his eventual victory over Ichiro--”

“Ichiro is never gonna lose to that bastard!” Jiro interrupted with a snap.

Jyuto ignored him and continued on. “--Besides, I thought it’d be amusing to save you and deliver you back to your brothers. Imagine the look on their faces when I drop you off in front of them.”

“Yeah, well, I can just walk out right here. Or what, you gonna stop me?”

“Oh no, please feel free to walk out,” Jyuto said and leaned back in his chair, spreading his hands out as if to show that he wouldn’t stop Jiro. “But then I’ll take that to mean you don’t mind me doing whatever I want with these.”

And then the cop leaned forward and pulled out two pins from his breast pocket to place them down on the table: a large red pin with a “B” and a small blue one with a “M”. Jiro stiffened the moment he recognized the pins. Those were the Buster Bros pins that he and his brothers wore. Everyone recognized them, the pins were synonymous with the Buster Bros and a symbol of their street cred. If it got out that Jyuto had his pins, when Jiro normally wouldn’t let anyone touch them, his reputation would be destroyed.

“Give me that,” Jiro’s voice was low.

“Ah ah.” Jyuto was faster than Jiro and retrieved the pins before Jiro could snatch them, sliding them into his breast pocket again. “I’ll give them to you when I send you back. But, as I’ve said, you’re also free to walk out right now. It’s up to you.”

Jiro ground his teeth. “There’s no difference between you sending me back and you having my pins. Isn’t this a lose-lose for me?”

“In the first situation, it’d just be your brothers seeing that. Compare that to... well, everyone in your district and mine knowing that somehow Yamada Jiro’s pins were in my hands.”

“......”

“Well? What will it be?”

Jiro wanted to tear the smug smile on Jyuto’s face straight off. He didn’t bother responding and just remained seated in the chair, glaring at the other man.

“Looks like you’re not as dumb as you frequently show.”

“Shut up. How long do I have to stay here.”

“Hmm, just four days.”

“What!? You can just send me back tomorrow.”

Jyuto sneered, “The world doesn’t revolve around you. I have work and other obligations and I refuse to move my schedule for you. My shift will end in four days and that’s when I’ll drive you back to Ikebukuro.”

Jiro bit out a tense acknowledgement and reached for the cup of noodles. He didn’t want to look at the other man anymore before he really did lunge across the table to strangle him.

“Well then, now that our deal has been concluded...” Jyuto got up from his seat and left the kitchen.

Jiro kept his head down and continued to eat his cup noodles with angry bites, ignoring whatever Jyuto was doing. As far as he was concerned, he just needed to get past these four days in order to get his pins back and then he could forget this nightmare ever happened. But there was also the option of waiting until Jyuto’s guard was down to find his pins and then escape. Maybe tonight when the other man fell asleep?

He considered his empty cup noodles with a distant gaze. It didn’t look like Jyuto was going to starve him or keep him handcuffed forever either. The cop was just amusing himself and, annoyingly, Jiro could actually understand that. He heard the truth in Jyuto’s words about not wanting to meddle between Samatoki and Ichiro and that meant he wouldn’t be killed here or anything.

At any rate, in the present, Jiro just needed to bide his time. It was as he was poking around the kitchen to throw out his cup noodles in the trash that Jiro heard the bathroom door open. He tossed his cup and turned around only to freeze. The sight of water droplets sliding down a pale neck and a muscled chest and further was seared into Jiro’s brain before he launched his eyes to the ceiling.

“W-What are you doing!” His voice rose uncontrollably. It looked like Jyuto had taken a shower while he was eating and...

“It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.” The words were said in a bored tone.

“NO! WHO WALKS AROUND NAKED!”

“This is my place.” I can do whatever I like was the implication.

Jiro kept his eyes stubbornly on the ceiling until he heard, more than saw, Jyuto cross him to head into the bedroom. But, as the other man passed him, Jiro’s eyes couldn’t help but flick down and he inhaled sharply at what he saw, loud enough to be heard.

Jyuto paused and glanced over his shoulder with irritation, “What, never seen an ass before either?”

Jiro shook his head and mumbled, “You have... a tattoo...”

It seemed only partly done. There were flowers of some sort that spanned Jyuto’s shoulder blades and were colored in but, starting from Jyuto’s spine, there was a black and white fish that curled to one side.

“Ah, that.” Jyuto hummed in acknowledgement. “That was early on in my career when I went undercover.”

“How come you didn’t get rid of it?”

“Why? I’ll have you know I went through quite the trouble to be trusted enough to have this done. Besides, it’s a mark of how high I was in the group I infiltrated,” Jyuto gave a callous smile, “Until I tore it down, of course.”

Jiro remained silent, not knowing what to say. And then Jyuto’s smile faded and he looked forward, so Jiro couldn’t see his expression.

“... Not that it mattered since it was replaced by another group as quickly as it disappeared. Still, in some circles, it gives me status.” The cop shook his head slightly and then glanced over his shoulder again, “Well, there was your bedtime story. I trust you can sleep on the couch alone. Unless, you’d rather spend the night with me?”

And there was Jyuto’s usual mocking tone again. Jiro bristled and fired back just as sarcastically, “No thanks. I’m fine by myself.”

The cop chuckled as he disappeared into his bedroom and closed the door, but not before he told Jiro to turn off the rest of the lights. For a second, Jiro was tempted to leave all the lights on just to spite Jyuto but he decided that would be too childish and he wanted Jyuto to fall asleep as fast as possible anyway.

After turning off the lights Jiro went to the couch in the living room where he had to pause for a second to blink at the throw blanket that was draped over the couch before he shook his head and pulled that down. He also tugged over a cushion to use as a pillow. In truth, as Jiro curled up on the couch, he was extremely tired from the day’s events and the injury he got. He had to stay awake though.

Jiro tried to distract himself by thinking about various things but, inevitably, his mind went to the person who was sleeping just a room away. He didn’t know what to think about the story he heard from Jyuto on his tattoo. He didn’t think the other was lying but it was so odd to think of the cop doing something... actually cop-like. And there was that weird tone in Jyuto’s voice during the part about the group he tore down being replaced; Jiro wished he could have seen what expression the other man had. He sounded... discouraged.

Wait. What? Why did he even care about that. Jiro shook his head, alarmed at his thoughts. No, the dirty cop was probably just annoyed that his work didn’t seem to decrease at all after that job.

At any rate, that train of thought had carried him deep into the night and Jiro couldn’t hear anything but the silence of the apartment. Judging from the lack of light coming in through the windows it was probably way past midnight.

Jiro sat up on the couch, straining his ears to catch any sound, and then quietly got up to move to Jyuto’s bedroom. He reached out and prayed for the door not to be locked, though he didn’t remember hearing that, and twisted the knob. The door clicked open and Jiro winced at the sound and stopped to hear if there was any movement from beyond the door. But there was nothing. He exhaled soundlessly and then gently opened the door.

It was dark in the bedroom and though the window was open there was barely any light that came in. Fortunately by now Jiro’s eyes had adjusted to the dark and he could make out the shape of Jyuto sleeping on the bed. The blanket had slid down to the small of Jyuto’s back and he was sleeping on his stomach with an arm stretched out. For some reason Jiro was amused to see this; he would have thought the other man slept on his back with his hands clasped on his stomach.

Jiro tiptoed closer and held his breath when he came up beside the bed. To be honest he kept expecting Jyuto to wake up at any moment and his nerves were extremely strained but the other man continued to breathe deeply and regularly, unaware of Jiro’s presence. At this distance Jiro could see all the details in the tattoo on Jyuto’s back and, unconsciously, he found himself staring at it. It was almost a shame that it was only half-done.

Jyuto suddenly shifted, nuzzling his head deeper into the pillow below his head, and Jiro startled back into awareness, his blood freezing. But after a few tense seconds where Jyuto did nothing more Jiro patted himself silently on the chest and then shook his head to refocus. He was here to find his pins.

Jiro looked at the bedside table but there was only Jyuto’s glasses there. And he couldn’t see anything else when he passed his gaze around the room. Jiro bit his lip in frustration. Did Jyuto put the pins in a pocket somewhere? If it was in one of his suits or shirts even Jiro didn’t think he could rummage through the man’s closet without waking him up.

About to give up, it was when Jiro looked over at Jyuto again that he saw something on the bed beside the man. It was one of the pins! The large red one to be precise! Unfortunately, he couldn’t see the small blue one anywhere but he’d take whatever he could get for now.

There was a part of him that wondered why the pin was the bed beside Jyuto but maybe it fell out of something. Or maybe the other man was looking at it before he fell asleep? Hell, he didn’t know what kind of hobbies the dirty cop had and didn’t want to think on it any more.

Jiro decided that it would easiest - and safest - to go to the other side of the bed and then reach over to pick it up. He rounded the bed and then stopped breathing as he leaned over carefully, not daring to put any weight down with his other hand, and reached out.

His fingers brushed the pin and then--

His wrist was gripped tightly by another hand.

As soon as Jiro realized that he found himself yanked onto the bed, releasing a grunt when he hit it, and pinned in a position that was starting to become familiar and with a weight above him that was also becoming familiar.

“Why am I not surprised you fell for that.”

A breath brushed across Jiro’s ear before Jyuto pulled back and stared down at him with a derisive look. Jiro glared up at him and tried to pull free the hand that was being gripped, but Jyuto’s fingers didn’t budge and instead that arm was pulled above his head. Jyuto’s other hand was uncomfortably close to Jiro’s head.

“Did you not stop to wonder why it was on my bed? Who sleeps with a pin beside them.”

“Shut up,” Jiro snarled, getting fed up with Jyuto’s insulting tone, and shoved at the other man’s shoulder with his free hand. But the moment his hand landed on Jyuto’s shoulder he froze at the feeling of warm skin. Warm bare skin.

And then it occurred to Jiro abruptly that Jyuto was half-naked from what he had seen. He didn’t dare look down to check the rest. But his mind was doing that work for him by recalling the sight of Jyuto having exited the bathroom and his disheveled hair that wasn’t styled, like how it was now. The way those water droplets slid down his chest. The faint pink flush on the other man’s skin. The slight definition of abs. And then the v-line that led down to...

Jiro was feeling hot. The skin beneath his hand was hot. Even though Jyuto had always given him the impression of being cold, why was he so warm in this instance. And the black suit that Jyuto always wore hid how broad his body actually was. Jiro had felt smug about being roughly the same height as the other man but now he just felt like a gangling teenager underneath Jyuto.

“If you were waiting for me to fall asleep you should have picked any day but the first day to try this. Anyone with half a brain would have known to lull their enemy into a false sense of security.”

“W-Whatever, get off of me. If you knew I was going to do this and prepared for it then no harm, no foul, right?”

Jiro turned his head to the side when he felt an ugly flush rise to his face. There was no response to his words though and Jiro felt a sinking sensation in his stomach as the silence stretched on. It was too dark for Jyuto to see his face, right? He viciously fought against the heat that was there.

And then he heard Jyuto give a thoughtful hum before fingers gripped his chin. However, before they could turn his face, Jiro tucked his chin down to break the grip and tried to bite the fingers. Jyuto seemed to have foreseen that though, or saw it in time to react, because he shoved his fingers into Jiro’s mouth. The digits entered and slid against the roof of his mouth, going deep enough to gag him slightly but, at the same time, a lightning bolt of heat arced through Jiro’s body and two things happened.

Jiro couldn’t stop the choked moan that slipped out.

Jyuto gave a full body shiver.

They both froze.

Jiro wanted a hole to open up and swallow him right in this moment. What the hell was that!? He spat out Jyuto’s fingers to the best of his ability and ignored the pleasurable sparks that danced down his spine when his tongue brushed up against those slender digits.

“Get out.”

Jyuto’s voice was low and throaty and Jiro had never, ever, heard of that tone before from the man. When Jiro didn’t move out of surprise Jyuto raised his voice.

“GET OUT RIGHT NOW.”

He jerked at the sudden anger in Jyuto’s voice and didn’t need to be told a third time. Jiro scrambled out from underneath Jyuto, whose hold had gone slack, and escaped to the door. But he couldn’t resist turning his head to look back at Jyuto when he reached it. And maybe Jyuto didn’t realize Jiro didn’t leave the room immediately because there was an unreadable expression on Jyuto’s face as he sat in the bed and stared off into space, rubbing his fingers together. The fingers that had been in Jiro’s mouth.

Jiro left quickly before the other man noticed him and retreated to the couch in the living room, his mind a complete mess. He shoved his face into the cushion that acted as his pillow and curled into a tight ball. He was just going to sleep now and do his best not to think about anything. Not the slight hardness between his legs. And definitely not how those green eyes had darkened with something unknown.

[moiraineswife]

Do you have any Autistic!Rook headcanons you would like to share??

AS IT HAPPENS. I HAVE SEVERAL. BECAUSE THIS AS A CONCEPT DELIGHTED ME WHILE READING. HERE WE GO: 

(I would like to note that i am NOT reading this as a catch-all ‘fair folk in general are autistic’ bc a)- I don’t think they all do, Rook is specific and unique in this regard, and b)- I dislike the idea of just ‘all these inhuman characters are autistic’ bc icky associations with autistics then being inhuman...which we are not) 

ODD DISCLAIMER OVER. ONWARDS AND UPWARDS. 

Rook + Cat Metaphors: 

This sounds like an odd place to start but it was legit my favourite thing. Cats are fairly often associated with autistic people, as it happens, and are a generally more accepted symbol for it than...Other unspeakable things. Not getting into that, though, there were two things that made me die with delight...Which I will now explain: 

And yet looking at Rook Iimagined a cat proudly bringing its master dead chipmunks, only to watch thetwo-legged oaf lift these priceless gifts by the tail and fling them unceremoniously into thebushes.

Cats, like autistic people, generally have their actions/behaviours misunderstood. What they see as giving affection tends to be met with a reaction contrary to what they were expecting. See: above. 

Through it all Rook wore anexpression of aloof perplexity, as a cat might watching its favorite furnitureget moved about without its permission.

This one was The Best. Cats, like autistic people, typically have big problems with change, and can actually become genuinely stressed out/ill with changes in their household being made, such as moving the furniture around. Rook just being ???? ‘why are we doing this’ was too much. 

Then he strode right overand, in one smooth motion, insinuated himself into the bed next to me, facingme, under the covers, with the bold and unselfconscious vanity of a cat sittingdown on an open book.

I can’t explain exactly why this strikes me as being connected to an autistic thing but it just...It just does. and it’s another cat metaphor I deeply enjoy. 

Right, self-indulgent enjoyment of cat metaphors out the way, here are many more things: 

Difficulty Identifying Emotions/Trouble with Social Cues: 

“How can this be,” he said to himself quietly. That wasall it took; I gave a strangled sob. He crouched and scrutinized my face, whichI’m sure at that moment looked anything but attractive. “What do you require?”

Rook being baffled by the human notion of having to cook things is one thing, but the way he scrutinises her is more telling for me. Isobel gets caught up in thinking that she probably doesn’t look too attractive at this moment in time, but I’m pretty sure Rook is just trying to...Figure out wtf she’s feeling/how he should respond to this. And his response is deeply pragmatic. He doesn’t respond to her emotional needs/reactions, purely her practical ones. (There are a LOT of examples of this, I won’t go through them all) 

As an aside here, this is where I think Rook differs from other fair folk, and what tips him onto the spectrum. He isn’t human, so it’s reasonable to assume that human emotions are something he struggles with. But the thing is that the other fair folk who have experience with humans are much better at this than he is. The entire plot revolves around Gadfly knowing Isobel well enough to predict how she’ll respond to his promptings, so he can manipulate her into doing what he wants. 

Lark is also a good example of this. Before meeting Isobel, she had no contact with humans whatsoever. However, in a relatively very short space of time/very limited experience, she’s able to understand Isobel’s reactions/ways of displaying emotion and translate them to recognise other situations they should be used in. (She witnesses Isobel crying, understands it’s a display of sadness/upset, and correctly mimics it during her apology, because she understands that’s an instance where that emotion should/can be correctly applied) 

So the fair folk quite obviously have the capacity for recognising and understanding human emotions, as well as understanding how to respond to them. Rook, however, has definitely had contact with humans before, and has had enough of it to enable him to fall in love with another human before Isobel, but remains utterly hopeless at identifying her emotions. 

He drew in a breath. “I know it’s—wrong, that I care so much aboutthe pin. I can’t explain it. It’s—”

“It isn’t wrong.” My voice was so soft I barely heard myselfspeak. “Rook, it isn’t. It’s just human.”

This I’m saying is an example of Rook not being able to identify his own emotions (alexithmya) which is fairly common among autistic people. (Isobel’s response would be a tiny bit grating if Rook was canon!autistic, but given that he’s not, and given how ‘human emotion’ gets lumped together in this book, I’m dealing with it.) 

I whirled around. “Your blood did this.”

Rook stood watchingme, a conflicting clamor of emotions in his eyes: fascination observing myhuman response. Hope that I would find what he had created beautiful. Andbeneath that, sorrow, as raw as an open wound.

Desperation flashed across his features. He struggled to composehimself, but couldn’t. Finally he turned on his heel and put his back to mewith a dramatic billow of his coattails, drew his sword a few inches, and pretended toinspect the blade.

The way that he ‘observes’ her response, as though learning (which he likely is) consciously how to interpret her...But also the fact he has no idea how to process/regulate/respond to HIS OWN emotions, and that he retreats to something familiar to avoid looking at Isobel, and also to calm himself down. 

“You could offer to sleep on the floor, like a gentleman.”

He appeared horrified by the suggestion.

I love this bit, bc for all the fair folk are very much concerned with politeness and proper behaviour, this one is just...Totally lost on him. Like excuse u why would I offer to sleep on the floor Isobel??? The floor is hard and uncomfortable? How does this prove I am a gentleman? How is this polite??? Isobel I think this is impolite, that you would suggest I sleep on the floor. Do you not like me Isobel??? Do you not want me to be here?? Isobel?????? 

“And I’m not certain you’re in any state to protect me,” I wenton, sensing a lost cause. “Just now you were almost assassinated by a teapot.”

“Isobel.” Rook looked at me gravely. “Isobel, listen. The teapotis of no consequence. I can defeat anyone, at any time.”

“Oh, is that so? That’s the truth?”

“Yes,” he replied.

 I love the teapot line, you love the teapot line, we all love the teapot line. But I just...love the way that he talks. The pattern of it strikes me as an autistic thing. Just the way that he talks. And the very simple answer that he gives ‘yes’ it’s just a kneejerk thing, he doesn’t even think about it. (I know fair folk have to tell the truth, but that doesn’t mean that they have to answer questions like this) 

Especially when this one is definitely rhetorical. Because she knows full well that he’s speaking the truth, because he can’t lie. But this is another missed social cues thing: Isobel asks a question, Rook answers it. 

“Have you ever stopped to think that just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should?”

His eyes narrowed. “No,” he said.

 Same thing here. 

Comfort Objects/Stimming: 

He patted at his chest in alarm and then ducked to hunt throughthe wildflowers. This wasn’t the leisurely search of someone who’d lost apocket watch or a handkerchief. Rather, heclawed at the ground with a wide-eyed desperation that could be inspired onlyby the loss of a priceless and irreplaceable treasure. When he found it, hegripped it tightly in his hand. He moved his thumb to the hidden clasp. Butthen he stopped himself, remembering I was there, and started to put it in hispocket instead.

My heart hurt for him. It was painful to watch Rook reduced to this over something so small. He cared moreabout that pin than most people cared about everything they owned in the world.

I know the raven pin has sentimental significance because it was a goodbye present from his lost love, but this just reminds me of the panicked search for a lost comfort object, something which a lot of autistic people have. (Especially with the way his thumb moves towards the clasp even after his found it, which could definitely be a stim, because it’s clearly a habit he uses to soothe himself)  

Speaking of stimming...

His hand had wandered to myhair, and he spread it out on the moss, combingthrough the strands with his fingers until it gleamed as straight and smooth asit could get. It seemed impossible that someone who had lived for hundreds of years and hunted fairybeasts for sport could find this entertaining, but his expression wastransfixed. 

That’s definitely what this is. 

“What a lovely bird,” Irepeated in a syrupy voice. “Yes, you’re the loveliest bird.” I stroked hisback. He made a pleased muttering sound in his breast. Soon his smug silenceindicated that he was quite content to remain as he was, so long as I continuedmy praise.

and this tbh. 

Literal Thinking: 

“Rook,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, “before I get up,you have to promise to never touch me again without my permission.”

“I can touch whomever I please.”

“Have you ever stopped to think that just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should?”

His eyes narrowed. “No,” he said.

“Well, this is one of those things.” I saw he didn’t understand.“Among humans it’s considered polite,” I added firmly.

A muscle jumped in his cheek, and his smile had faded. “Well, thatdoesn’t sound in the least reasonable. What if you were being attacked, and Ihad to touch you to save your life, but I couldn’t because I needed to requestyour permission first? Lettingyou die wouldn’t be polite.”

“Fine. You can touch me in that case, but every other time youneed to ask.”

 I really love this bit. She knows he doesn’t get what she’s saying, so she rephrases it somewhat to something that he will understand. But I love his response even more. He understands what she’s saying, but he still doesn’t quite GET it. And his brain goes immediately, (and often), to practical thoughts. 

She puts this rule in place, and he immediately starts...Not looking for loopholes, but considering the practical problems that it might pose. What if they’re in danger and he has to save her life? She would never have considered this as being unreasonable, because she would expect him to adapt, and realise that is a situation when it’s acceptable to touch her, because of the risk it poses. But he needs her to accept that as a limitation, and see his way of thinking. And they reach this...Little compromise that weaves through the rest of the story. Which I like a lot. 

Before I could find my voice and ask him to set me down, hedropped me like a hot coal. I landed inthe wildflowers with an undignified whump. Horrified, I squashed my legs together, hunchedinward with my arms clamped over my chest, and stared up at him. He looked asaghast as I did.

“Why did you just—” I began, at the same moment he blurted out:

“You stopped being in peril, and I couldn’t touch you any longer!Are you all right?”

 This harks back to their earlier promise, and poses some potential problems in the literal thinking category because there’s fair folk no lying/keeping promises magic wrapped up in it. But I think it’s still an expression of the way Rook’s mind works. I’m fairly sure other fair folk would have been able to work around their promise by telling themselves Isobel was still in enough danger to merit them touching her (still being naked and vulnerable in the spring court) but Rook is just....Too literal for that. 

“A fire, to start with. Some . . . some branches tomake a spit out of, I suppose. Or maybe we could cut it up and skewer it? I’venever cooked a rabbit outdoors before.” I might as well have started reciting an incantation. “Wood,” Irevised for him. “Some kindling about this size”—I spread my hands—“and a long,thin, sturdy stick with a pointy end.”

“Very well.” He rose. “I will bring you your sticks.”

 This isn’t strictly literal thinking but goddammit I love the ‘I will bring you your sticks’ line. But it also is. Isobel reels off her instructions and he just gets up and off he goes to get her what she needs. No muss, no fuss

. It’s also an example of rigid thinking. Isobel gives him a set of clear, precise instructions, and he follows them to the letter. (And I can get this in with APD, and the struggle to follow verbal lists, given his confusion of her initial explanation of what she needs. Once she gives clear, concise instructions, which she also pairs with a visual demonstration of what she wants, he understands and obeys) 

He halted just as he was about to disappear, shoulders stiff.“Will that be all?”

A devilish part of me wondered how far I could push him. If Ipretended it was necessary for my Craft, could I command him to stand on hishead or turn in a circle threetimes while he prepared the hare? Only my empty stomach’s increasingly urgentdemands prevented me from having some fun at his expense. “For now,” I replied.

 She probably could have done tbh. Not to say Rook, or autistic people, are incapable of critical thought but it’s more...A combination of literal thinking, and the struggle with reading people’s intentions. Isobel knows about this thing, and he does not, he has no reason to assume she would lie about what she needs, and without any knowledge of the required steps involved in cooking, and also without the inclination to suspect Isobel of having any intentions that aren’t purely practical/are in any way malicious, he’d probably be inclined to do whatever she asked, see: ‘I will bring you your sticks’. 

Organisation/Piling: 

However, as I crunched afterhim through the brambles, which disintegrated at a touch, my eyes fell on theneat pile of twigs and leaves he had taken from my hair—and despite myself Ismiled.

I love this little detail, too. Because not only did he pick the twigs and leaves out of her hair, but he further felt the need to pile them up neatly instead of just dumping them on the ground as twigs and leaves tend to be. This one is a little stereotypical but it’s also not false (and is a thing i know I would unconsciously do as well, so you know...) 

Difficulty With Empathy/Responding to Emotional Upheval: 

Grief smashed through my final defenses like a battering ram. Igave a strangled sob, so tired I couldn’t tell if my scratchy, aching eyes owedthemselves more to exhaustion or tears.

Rook sank onto the end of thesettee. He hesitated, then peeled his coat off and laid it over me. It was warmand smelled of him. Overwhelmed by his gentleness, I began weeping again inearnest. He drew back in alarm, clearly thinking he’d made things worse.

“Er,” he said. He patted the nearest part of me he could reach,which was my foot. “I apologize for . . . that. If you wouldstop crying now,” he added, a trifle desperately,with a note of princely command.

 This was the part that officially finished me. He knows Isobel is upset, and that he should do something to help/wants to help, but isn’t quite sure what to do. He also misreads her renewed crying, assuming that he’d done the wrong thing in giving her his coat. And then we reach the foot patting which is just...A hilarious ‘rules gone wrong’ type thing (Internal Rule: Human is upset - pat the human, this makes them better. Application: *Rook pats Isobel’s foot* A+++ Comfort Skills) 

And it’s all topped off by ‘If you would stop crying now’ which is just....The most wonderful response to a crying person EVER (and also mirrored in the way he orders her to get control of herself when she’s laughing hysterically over the hare incident near the beginning of the book). The desperation is perfect too, it’s like, I know this crying is an expression of your upset, and I don’t want that to be the case, I don’t know what to do, it’s making me uncomfortable please stop I don’t know how else to help you. 

The confusion in ‘I apologize for...that’ is good too bc he’s like ???? Isobel ???? Isobel what am I apologising for????? Isobel I did the right thing ???? Isobel why are you like this I do not understand. 

(the princely command is amazing too, like, maybe if I give it as an order that’ll work. Like we have transcended comfort here, he tried that, that didn’t work, now he’s just moving on to other ways of dealing with a situation. Which is grand in a practical problem but...Not ideal when it comes to emotional ones) 

OKAY. I THINK THAT’S ENOUGH TO BE GOING ALONG WITH. 

TL;DR: Rook is my precious autistic bean and this headcanon improved my enjoyment of this book by approximately 10000% bc god bless characters I can relate to on this level tbh. 

((As a fun side note: I also read Isobel as autistic, and did so before I did Rook. I think if she wasn’t set beside Rook, this would be far more obvious, but it’s still there with her. And honestly, I’m tripping over hc rep in this book and I’m Delighted. BLESS U FOR THIS QUESTION)) 

[bienready2122]

Adult Acne - Getting Rid of it!

In the event that you were a piece of most of individuals that were unfortunate to be tormented with teenager skin break out, simply think about all the snickers, jokes and mortification you needed to experience, at that point it simpler for you to comprehend why most grown-up skin break out sufferers experience a great deal of problems to expel grown-up skin break out from their lives. We both realize that grown-up skin break out is definitely not a fatal ailment (you can't pass on from having it, I surmise you realized that uhhh?). The significant thing skin inflammation gives us are appalling scars and once in a while they could be extremely monstrous, similar to mine was at a specific time skip the gamesThe vast majority of we grown-ups harassed with skin break out are as a rule vigilant for the otherworldly fix that would gives us the crisp and smooth face or skin we had when we were eleven years of age. Before we go on a totally pointless pursuit searching for the mysterious skin inflammation prescription that would free us of grown-up skin inflammation lets get why and how these small irritating beasts develop on our countenances.

For what reason do such a significant number of grown-ups still have skin break out?

It appears from all the sum spent on each one of those costly research they despite everything disclose to us something very similar that we were have all perused in reference books, the significant reason for grown-up skin break out consistently has something to do with our hormones going out of control and furthermore hereditary qualities (my father had an exceptionally awful instance of skin break out when he was more youthful, more serious than mine was). The hereditary qualities part just implies that your natural family ancestry has an enormous piece of the fault of why you are experiencing grown-up skin break out. However, aside those there are some different elements that are liable for declining your skin break out condition, some of them include:Reactions from certain medications -, (for example, corticosteroids, androgenic steroids, and lithium) Picking at or crushing at the pimplesCruel scouring of the skin Oil based restorative items - (I surmise you know this one as of now) Stress, disease or weariness Warmth and dampness Diet affects skin inflammation - (and please eating chocolate doesn't cause skin break out, where the hell did you hear that from) Pregnancy Feminine cycle Menopause How does Adult Acne structure on the Skin? The arrangement of grown-up skin break out as we as a whole know has something to do with sebum, follicle and each one of those huge words that I read in somewhere in the range of 21 inches thick reference book. In straightforward words it is shaped when oil (likewise know as sebum) that is delivered underneath the skin surface is hindered from arriving at the skin surface where it generally streams to, through a hair-containing trench called a "follicle".

The follicle divider sheds cells regularly and the trench is utilized to expel dead cells, which kind of become clingy and hinder the opening as they endeavor to leave the follicle. The blockage brings about expanded microbes development in the follicle, which transforms the caught sebum into a disturbing substance and results in an irritation that is generally known as skin break out.Pheww!!! All that clarification helps me to remember secondary school science (so horrendously exhausting to me). In one sentence on how skin inflammation structures it is essentially put as "Dead skin cells obstruct the pores, and microscopic organisms cause aggravation which brings about skin break out on the skin".Albeit such huge numbers of grown-ups like you have attempted numerous skin inflammation prescriptions and beauty care products to battle skin break out, we will in general marvel why they appear not to dispose of the issue for the last time yet at the same time they re-happen. It appears that skin inflammation structures when at least one of these conditions happens:A blockage in the follicle There is an over creation of sebum (oil) Expanded microorganisms development inside the hair follicle. Specialists have discovered that the hormone liable for skin break out, which is designated "testosterone". Indeed you have known about it before it is the male hormone (it is found in the two guys and females however it is created in significant levels in guys). Testosterone is answerable for expanding generation of sebum (oil), which brings about more pimples. Since testosterone is an androgen and is more in guys than females, this discloses why men will in general have more serious instances of skin break out than ladies (in any event that discloses why I used to have a greater number of pimples all over than my senior sister in spite of the fact that she began having pimples all over before I began having mine).

Grown-up skin break out happens as noticeable knocks on the outside of the skin typically on the face, in spite of the fact that body skin inflammation is likewise normal. Grown-up Acne is viewed as discharge filled rankles; little rosy knocks, appalling looking thick red skin on the nose, cheeks and temple, and little ruddy veins all observed on the skin surface. Skin break out episodes as a rule happen on the face, neck, chest, and bears and back. A highbrow term for grown-up skin inflammation is "skin inflammation rosacea". For such a large number of people pressure is by all accounts one of the main considerations in irritating their skin inflammation condition. At the point when I was in school towards the finish of the semester when the measure of work we needed to do builds, I will in general have more break outs of pimples perhaps because of the pressure or in light of the fact that I possessed lesser energy for skin inflammation healthy skin. It appears to be aside the way that you need to battle with hormones and hereditary qualities being the significant reason for you skin break out condition you additionally have things like worry to intensify it.

Accomplishing Acne Control with the best Acne Medication

The initial phase in treating your grown-up skin inflammation condition has to do with legitimate skin inflammation healthy skin. Above all else AVOID the allurement of SQUEEZING your PIMPLES. More often than not this outcomes in the scars you see all over. The greater a pimple is the higher the odds it will leave a scar on the off chance that you "pop" it.Make sure to wash your skin tenderly just two times every day; this is useful in expelling surface earth and exorbitant oil, which could intensify your skin inflammation condition by obstructing the pores. Additionally kindly don't utilize grating cleansers. They could harm your skin pores and leave your skin excessively dry.

On the off chance that you right now use oil-based makeup it's time you change to water-based, non-comedogenic beautifying agents as oil-based creams or moisturizers disturb slick skin and create additional breakouts and imperfections. You ought to likewise make it a propensity to consistently expel your cosmetics before hitting the sack. Consider applying a without oil lotion to your skin in the wake of washing. This enables your skin to renew its own dampness and keeps the oil organs from over delivering. Continuously make sure to cleanser routinely. This keeps sleek hair from coming off on your skin. Like we learnt in science class, a decent eating regimen is essential for ideal wellbeing. A decent eating regimen and drinking 10-12 glasses of water a day can help keep your skin solid. There are a few doctors that accept that an expansion in iodine utilization disturbs skin break out and suggest a decrease or disposal of fish and iodized salt. Loosen up a little to decrease pressure and give arranging a shot your exercises so you are not under a great deal of weight from your every day exercises. On the off chance that you are searching for an increasingly forceful grown-up skin inflammation treatment to thoroughly expel those little beasts of your face/body you should take a stab at utilizing a blend of treatment like that offered by clear pores framework which comprises of a facial/body wash, facial/body insurance cream and a home grown enhancement which battles the skin inflammation from within and the outside. This triple blend is ensured to dispose of skin inflammation from your life. 

Another extremely amazing skin break out treatment accessible is acnezine, which has normal fixings that work to deal with the skin. They assist control with liberating radicals that cause skin harm, maturing and wrinkling, and that can add to contamination. Acnezine limits irritation, helping deal with the terrible redness, and attempting to restrain the provocative reaction that can cause scarring. Also, Acnezine advances mending. Acnezine comprises of skin hostile to Oxidant Capsules and skin break out Moisturizing Crème which guarantees skin break out is fought from both inside and outside the body. For more data on how you can for all time dispose of Adult Acne from your life and look progressively energetic and lovely visit grown-up skin break out treatment a shiny new blog that gives data, tips and exhortation on the best way to tackle the issue of skin inflammation.

[gwdiscotech]

Mudbox and Kaiju

What is Mudbox:

Mudbox is a software based around digital 3D sculpting and painting developed by Autodesk, it is one of the largest and most common sculpting tools in the industry along with its competitor Zbrush.

Sculpting Examples:

Z Brush -

Mudbox -

Starting in Mudbox:

Upon opening mudbox, you’re given a variety of options, the tabs on the left are short videos that instruct you on how to use the software, in the middle are some preset models which can be used as a starting point and on the right are recent files which you’ve worked on.

Once in the software itself, the UI layout differs from its Modelling counterpart a little, but thankfully the tools are rather easy to find and the scene navigation works the same way.

In the top right is where all of your outline is kept, this displays the objects within the scene and object's sculpt and paint layers.

Much like photoshop or gimp, you can create layers for sculpting objects, this is a good nondestructive method of sculpting that allows you to modify an object without completely ruining what you've done beforehand. For example, on my own kaiju, I had a layer for the head's base shape, a layer where I refined that shape, a layer of the eye sockets, for skin detail and so on.

You are also able to increase the subdivision level of your layers, and you'll need to due to the base objects having rather low polygons. It's best to leave the base object at its default polygon count and just subdivide the layers.

While sculpting you are generating a displacement map, which is a texture that manipulates the position of object's polygons. This essentially means you arent actually changing the shape of the object, because as soon as you take off that displacement map, the object turns back its default state. This technique allows you to create different LODs and actually gives you the power to show a 8 million polygon object on a mesh that only possesses 500 polygons which helps drastically with performance.

Kaiju Research:

Kaiju, from Japanese “strange beasts” are giant monsters in Japanese culture that are often depicted attacking major cities, engaging the military or battling other kaiju. Possibly the most famous kaiju is Godzilla and is the first kaiju film. Godzilla is a great example of the somewhat metaphorical nature of Kaiju, for example Godzilla serves as a metaphor for nuclear weapons and the fear’s of post-war Japan after the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, as well as the Lucky Dragon 5 incident. Other prominent examples of Kaiju include Rodan, Mothra, King Ghidorah and Gamera.

The Japanese word kaiju originally referred to monsters and creatures from ancient Japanese legends, the term earlier appeared in the Chinese “Classic of Mountains and Seas.” Once Japan was opened to foreign relations after the end of sakoku, the word kaiju came to be used to express concepts from paleontology and legendary creatures around the world. For example, in 1908 it was suggested that the extinct Ceratosaurus was alive in Alaska, and this was referred to as a kaiju. Despite this there are no traditional depictions  of kaiju or kaiju-like creatures in Japanese folklore; but rather the origins of kaiju are found in film.

Due to Kaiju character’s being considered giant science fiction and fantasy creatures, their appearance is usually very alien and unlike anything found on earth. Many kaiju share a few physical traits, such as leathery furless skin, multiple eyes and many arms and legs. Their behaviour can also be depicted as antagonistic, protagonistic, or even as neutral force of nature.

There are a few other terms related to kaiju, such as diakaiju which literally translates to “large kaiju” or “great kaiju” and refers to the larger monsters, though the exact distinction is debated. Godzilla, Rodan and Mothra are referred to as the san daikiju, the three great kaiju.

Another term within the kaiju sphere is kaijin, literally translating to “monster man” or “mystery man” and is the term used for humanoid kaiju.

Examples of Kaiju:

Sculpting Kaiju:

A sphere is usually the best shape to start with when you're sculpting an organic shape since it helps in avoiding a boxy shape, but a sphere too round for a kaiju head, so i used the scale tool to turn it into an oval shape then rotated it slightly so it wasn’t perfectly straight along the X axis.

Using the sculpting brush I blocked out the general shape of the head, mostly the ridges above the eyes and along the cheeks, I also used the version of the sculpting tool that takes away (Hold Ctrl while using the sculpting tool) to give a more dramatic depression where the eyes would sit. During this process I used the mirror option to keep the head symmetrical.

I decided to use the scrape tool to refine the head’s shape, especially around the ridges. I added a sphere to the scene which would represent the creature’s eyes, I then used the sculpt tool to model the eye socket and eyelids around the sphere.

In Mudbox, there is a texture/stamp option which uses a heightmap to dictate the shape of the brushes. There are variety of different stamps that come with Mudbox, I used a few of the scale stamps to make the creature’s skin less smooth and hopefully more life like and organic.

I decided to add horns to the creature, I did this by adding another sphere to the sphere which I sculpted to a point then copied it and added to the creature. I found that I liked how the lower horns look, but didn’t particularly like the two higher ones appeared, so I removed them.

Finally I added the last small details such as the mouth and a few scars, for this I used the knife tool which makes small cuts into the mesh.

I’m still debating whether or not I want the creature to have a mouth, since it has a rather mystical quality when it doesn’t have one.

Overall, I'm very happy with the outcome I got, though it's a shame that I didnt model the jaw as a separate object that could be animated; I may have to try and remove the jaw and make it possible to be animated.

[chaoussu]

Name: Wonderberg D. Esther Epithet: Shooting Star Nickname(s): E-chan, Miss Hoshi. Hybrid. Age: 22. (21st November, Sagittarius) Species: Half Mink, Half Human. Blood Type: S, O+. Affiliation/Organizations: Star Pirates, Straw Hat Grand Fleet. Safe Haven Orphanage. Occupation: Pirate, Captain. Waitress (former). Birthplace: Loguetown.

Background: She never knew her family and was an orphan at the local orphanage. She later in her life earned money at a bar in Loguetown, where many shipmen would stop by and have a drink as they stayed to restock or take a break. She would always hear their tales at sea and she found it very engaging. One day she finally decided to go out at sea and try to experience adventures like the many visitors did. She initially decided to become a pirate, due to it being the pirates with the most interesting stories and she loved the idea of being free. Additionally she looked up to the Pirate King who died with a smile, wondering if it was his many adventures with his friends that made him smile at his death. She, who had no one very close to her, wanted to experience what he once did, and wanted to die with a smile just like him. This was what brought up the idea about becoming a pirate. She however never intended to become a Pirate King or Queen as she mostly only wanted to travel for fun, and didn't care about titles. Another thing she then wished for was to get friends she could call family and end her life of solitude, where she later on stole a small ship and stocks, she could take care of alone, thinking that she already did her first pirate deed. Additionally in the bag of her stolen goods, she found a box with a devil fruit inside, which she ate and became a galaxy human, one who could harvest energy and use abilities equal to occurrences in space.

Bounty: 498,000,000 Reason for Bounty: Destruction of several marine ships, the downfall of the Bushima empire, took down over five seriously dangerous pirates with bounties over 250,000,000 beri. The downfall of the dictator and tyrant of Shikini Island. Accused of destroying all of Geroma Island’s residents. Been seen to withstand sea prism stone to a good extent and have the ability to use all of the three hakis. Accused of stealing and using a buster call, took down two underground organization, made an island fall from the sky and “almost destroyed another kingdom” (saved it, but they changed the story). Participated in the Dressrosa arc, fighting alongside Luffy and Law, while being lost from her own crew. A part of the Strawhat fleet and crashed into Enies Lobby as well for the fun of it, because she saw that the Strawhats did it and it seemed fun to her. Seen to having lifted marine ships and used them as cannon balls. Stopped a sub group of the Neo Marines as well as the marines that came after them. Collected three over 100,000,000 criminals and gave them to the marine, wanting to see if she actually would get a reward. Got rid of a whole nation and let animals overtake it. Mostly just the deeds of the Star Pirates and joining in on the Dressrosa arc.

Appearance:

Height: 5’7 ft./1.74 m. Tattoos/Birthmarks/Scars: She has a scar at the bottom of her left cheek. Jewelry/Accessories: She wears a pendant under her clothes, which is the equivalence to Luffy’s hat to her. It has a picture of her mom and dad.

About the Character:

Personality: She is wild and does everything impulsively. She cares not for safety, security and whether or not it is a good idea, as long as it is an interesting idea. She doesn’t care about many things and loves adventures as well as pranks. She never considers the consequences and doesn’t know about the word danger. She has a big faith in her crew and others and will only take things seriously when angered. She lives in the present and doesn’t think about the past or future, thinking that it was the past so it is over and the future is something for the future her to take care of. She is overly honest, but also wise to some extent. She tends to be high-spirited and going by her own pace. Her way of acting is very childlike and she is very intimate due to her mink heritage. She sees fighting as entertaining and exciting and tends to pick a fight for the fun of it. She likes strong opponent, but has a dislike to those who are narcissistic over their power. She cherishes memories and friends above all and despises those that don’t. She is rather forgiving and tends to forget fights and missions easily, but those she despises will see hell. She is fearless and can laugh at anything, but sometimes she does take things seriously, when it is for her friends. She is stubborn as well as hard to control, but someone who can easily befriend everyone. She can be very lazy when tired and very energetic when fully awake. She is also very curious and gullible, as she doesn't understand much and wants to learn, but is too lazy to do so. She mostly moves by instinct.

Likes: Adventure stories and banquets. Dislikes: Reading books (have nothing against listening to someone else read them though) and people that would throw away their comrades. Favorite Foods: Any type of cooked fish, (will still eat it raw though). Least Favorite Foods: Pickled plums. Hobbies/Interests: Napping and exploring.

Phobias/Fears: Water, (due to her not liking her fur wet and being a devil fruit eater). She also has a fear of losing people and be alone again. Habits: Napping random places and being gone. Additionally she tends to go too far when fighting, causing lots of collateral damage. Mannerisms: She sounds like a child, can be excited to the point of clapping and jumping around. Can be bored to the point of sitting down and being all sloppy. She tends to tilt her head when she doesn’t understand things, laugh with her hands up to her mouth and dances while walking. Goes to many high places. Doesn't listen very well to others and can complain and nag a lot if bored for an extended time. She doesn't care about what others might think about her and does whatever she wants. Skills/Talents: Being half mink she possesses their agility, strength, stealth, recovery rates and metabolism. She also possesses the ability to use electro and their hidden ability. Additionally she is not as affected by heat due to only being a half-mink and not possessing the fur all over her body.

Best Qualities: She uses her mink abilities in perfect harmony with her devil fruit, making her a greater monster that would be able to fight for many weeks before exhaustion. Very good at adapting while fighting. Worst Qualities: She is very forgetful and an example would be that she can easily forget her opponent’s name in the midst of battle. Morality/Ethics: She wants a fair fight, if it isn’t fair, then she can’t call it a win. Also she will beat someone up till they’re at the brink of death if they piss her off too much. (Betray your nakama or refuse your actions). Goals/Motivations/Dreams: She wants to create great memories with a crew of the greatest friends. She wants so many memories that she won’t run out of stories, when she grows old and die smiling like Gold Roger.

Reputation: She is being considered a wild beast. Voice: Hanasawa Kana - Rana Linchen from Freezing.

Trivia:    -       Mostly naps either on Earnest, the head of the ship, the roof of the lockout tower or the lap of someone besides AI    -       Tends to play around while fighting and laughs during them if they are exciting. She also tends to praise them if she is having a hard time.    -       She is the oblivious type that will say "I like you too, you're a great friend" as well as ask if love is something tasty.    -       She has a big interest for the Straw Hat Pirates as she hears about their crazy deeds and wants to join in on the fun.    -       If she is lost for too long, she will simply destroy everything till they come to her due to the ruckus she is making.    -       Reacts immediately to food.    -       Tends to show minkship towards people she likes, especially when reuniting with them.    -       Was offered the position of Shichibukai, but declined, stating that being chased by the marines was part of the fun of being a pirate.    -       Her scar is from scratching herself as a kid, when her claws first began to grow long and sharp.    -       Whenever they go out, she will wear her cloak and shoes to hide her mink trades and make it harder to recognise her.

One Piece belongs to Oda Eiichiro Wonderberg D. Esther belongs to me