#the delicate veins in her hands! her fingernails! the cut of the stones in her jewellery!!

[edwardseymour]

😍

[darklesmylove]

out of spite | jurdan

post queen of nothing, cardan asks jude about why she killed balekin

enjoy! <3

***

Signing document after document painfully slowly, it seemed the High Queen couldn't manage to keep her focus on the stack of parchment and ink in front of her, thoughts swimming in a sea of memories. Even months after defeating Madoc and the Court of Teeth, Jude still couldn't quite believe the events that had transpired to bring her to the present. Even further, she couldn't believe what the present actually was.

It was everything she had dreamed, no, lusted over, for quite possibly her whole entire life. Sitting atop thrones, giving orders ringing with authority that no one questioned, wearing a crown that deemed her High Queen for all to see and no one to question. And of course, the small matter of sharing all of it with the man she had loved for far longer than she would ever admit.

The corner of her mouth quirked ever so slightly, a silent amusement at the memory of their antics. It seemed a lifetime ago, the clash of heavy practice swords, words snarling from her lips detailing her defiance, holding a knife to the hollow of his throat. Their path to now hadn't been easy, in fact that was an understatement in itself, but it led her to him, the person who understood her like no one else had or ever would.

A knock at the door startled her from her reminiscing, a grating clearing of her throat filling the silence as she promptly put her pen down, calling, "Come in."

The heavy oak eased open, the Bomb appearing from the other side relatively stone faced.

"Is something wrong?" Jude's brow furrowed immediately, hand moving to clutch at the dagger on her belt on instinct.

"Cardan's requested to see you." Her head tilted slightly in directional indication, giving any nothing. "He's in your chambers."

Before she could protest and attempt to pry any more information from her fellow spy, the Bomb disappeared in the span of a blink. The High Queen could feel the initial frown settling further into her features. It was uncommon for Cardan to send someone else for her rather than seek her out himself. The unusualness of it all had her up from her chair and out the door, steps not quite hurried enough to alarm the various guards and court members that milled through the hallways, but still rushed to get her there in no more than a minute. She couldn't fool herself into dismissing the tug of anxiousness in her lower abdomen, twisting and coiling at the ready.

After a deep exhale, the door slid open under the guidance of her hand, revealing Cardan slumped on the couch, hair tousled and eyes almost haggard with exhaustion as he met her stare. She hesitated, fingertips pressing further into the curling knots of the heavy oak that they rested on. His lack of enthusiasm or verbal response was already worrisome.

"You wanted me?" The question was cautious, a line cast out in the tense air between them, sinking slowly until it settled into silence.

His eyelids pressed shut, a crease appearing between his so carefully manicured brows.

"Why did you do it, Jude? That is the one thing I haven't been able to let go of no matter how I've tried, to fathom why you would go against my one single request of you. If you loved me then like I truly believe, then why, my sweet villain. My darling god."

The decibel of his words had descended softer and softer to no more than a haunted whisper by the end; it was a question that had no doubt plagued him for months. She didn't have to ask to know exactly what that question was. Her chest tightened, an invisible weight settling at the crest of her collarbone and gripping at her breath, almost painfully so.

Slowly, she turned, shutting the door behind her with a metallic click of the locks. He ran a hand through already tousled black curls, looking about as miserable as she felt at the imminent conversation they desperately needed to have. Her steps glided across the floorboards without a sound, bringing her to the open seat next to his before slowly sinking down into the adjacent cushion. Teeth sliced deep into her lower lip, blooming pain across her mouth that grounded her amidst the panic zipping through her veins.

It was obvious Cardan noticed her tension, something softening behind his eyes in reaction.

"I don't love you any less," he softly said. "I just need to know, Jude."

A tremor ran down her spine. Even the barest thought of what happened in the Undersea made icy claws wrap around her throat, a cold that she would never be able to shake slithering through her bones. And even worse, the ghost of the slimy feeling of Balekin's lips against hers as he gripped her face with wicked talons.

So, so much worse.

"It was never out of spite, Cardan," she began in a kind of tentative voice that she hadn't spoken in in years. He nodded, eyes glimmering with sincerity as his hand came to rest over her own. Despite herself, she leaned into his comfort, an uncommon softness enveloping them and exhaling over her skin like the press of silk. Her throat tightened, as if physically attempting to prevent the horrible words from escaping.

"When I was in the Undersea, I pretended I was glamoured. And so I had to do anything and everything they ordered me to so I wouldn't be discovered." A hard swallow that had her throat burning with hot coals. "Balekin made me kiss him. He ordered me to, then he ordered me to kiss him as if he was you. And I had to, I had no choice."

Cardan stilled.

The temperature in the room dropped, causing her gaze to flicker upward and startle at the sight of his coal black eyes now chips of unforgiving ice. If one turned their attention to the carefully groomed flowers scattered on their balcony, they would have witnessed every delicate petal shrivel until they were ruined and black.

"He forced you to kiss him," Cardan repeated back, a tangled mess of disbelief and anger mingling in his voice that was so cold it was frightening. A shiver skipped taunting fingertips down the whole of her spine. The expression that had so quickly hollowed out his features was one that she was deathly sure she had never seen before. One she was frightened of.

He stood up, dropping her hand and curling his to clawed fists. Neither the world or her dared to breathe as he paced once, slowly, before turning back to her. "You shouldn't have killed him, Jude."

Her fingernails sliced into her palms. "Cardan-"

He held an elegant hand up, cutting her off with a voice simmering with anger. "You should have let me do it."

The tension threatening to snap her body in two sagged away with heady relief. She took a breath, but he cut her off once again.

"Why didn't you tell me? I would have-" His breath shuddered with anger, jaw clenching to a deadly sharp angle, "I would have torn him limb from disgusting limb. How dare he touch you. How dare he use you as a pawn in one of his despicable games designed to torture me." The white of his teeth were blinding as he snarled in a manner that could only be described as feral.

"Cardan," Jude attempted to soothe, tentatively rising and approaching his side. He raked a hand through his hair, fisting the ends of the silken strands in barely restrained fury.

"I should have protected you," he breathed.

She shook her head, taking his hand in hers again. "I was kidnapped Cardan. You did everything you could. And as you said, I killed him. There's nothing more to be done about it but move on with us. You and me."

The grind of his teeth was audible as he closed his eyes, releasing a tight, prolonged breath. And then suddenly she found herself in his tight embrace, his lips colliding with hers in a kiss that made her as pathetically weak in the knees as a princess in a fairytale. His lips were as unimaginably soft as they always were, communicating every thought and emotion that they both equally struggled to express with their words.

When he broke away, thumb tracking over her cheekbone with gentle reverence, the guilt that had so heavily weighed on her shoulders for months finally slid away.

"I am sorry too, for what it’s worth now," she murmured. And she truly was. Not necessarily for the act of killing Balekin, he had that a long time coming, but for hurting Cardan, even if he had now come to understand why.

His anger faded as a mocking smirk formed on his elegant features. "My wife, apologizing? This might be the first and last time I ever hear those words from your sweet, seductive lips, my darling."

Now there was her perpetually irritating husband that she had so foolishly fallen in love with.

Even so, a hum of amusement accompanied her exaggerated eye roll. "Don't get used to it."

His laugh, a deep and raspy chuckle that felt like home, fell from his lips before they were upon hers again. "I wouldn't dare, Jude Greenbriar."

[coteriesrp]

– KAT HAS BEEN ACCEPTED WITH ANGEL! CONGRATULATIONS!

I am absolutely in love with how in depth you went on the character connections especially, you really nailed them so well. The rest of your app is gorgeous too, I love your vision for Angel and I’m excited to see how he plays out, but your vision of the connections were what made me the most unreasonably hype to see how he’d interact with everyone. Not only did you demonstrate a beautiful understanding of your own character, but everyone else’s too, and I can’t wait to see how that expands into some really fun dynamics.

         — KIT

Damn, well. You took this skeleton by the throat and really went, "this is mine now," huh? When I keep repeating that I love player creativity and interpretation, I mean that. I read your app and I see the potential of dynamics and situations and interpersonal shittery that can and will ensue, the dynamicism of interaction that make RPs exciting and come to life. I love your Angel. I love who you saw in him and the potential you embued in him.

        — GHOST

You’ll be sent a link to our Discord shortly and have 24 hours to accept the invite or your role will be reopened.

out of character info.

ALIAS › kat

PRONOUNS › she/her

AGE › 20+

TIMEZONE › GMT-4

in character info.

CHARACTER › angel maldonado

GENDER & PRONOUNS › cis man, he/him

APPARENT AGE › mid 30’s

DISCIPLINE › thaumaturgy, auspex, dominate

DEMEANOUR ›

A devil exists in the bones of a not-quite man, a not-quite specter, a near monster. His smile only appears as if ghostly, a turn of lips only caught in quick glances, double-takes, the perceiver unsure whether it were ever truly there at all. He’s built of feet caught slipping in blood, created of dark magic and the taste of humanity on starving lips. He’s a tempter, built of something unholy, something powerful flickering under a darkened gaze, hints of life – of unlife. He’s nothing, he’s everything. It’s so easy for him to play roles, to play parts, a stoic disposition, quiet and thoughtful. He always seems to know what’s lingering under the surface, either analyzing and understanding, breaking into minds and thoughts or just straight bullshitting, lying through the black mystique of his pupils, the permanent circles of his iris’. He’s as sharp as the blade that cuts a clean line between earth and space, heaven and hell, a patron saint of switchblade fights, so very dangerous, so very powerful and gluttonous because of it.

He’s so carefully collected, so permanently unbothered, unreachable, untouchable. He makes himself something invincible on the surface, drags it deep enough into his very being that you cannot break the glamour of it but beneath such structures lay chaos. He laid the bricks of his being with long, painful drags of stone and masonry, worked and worked and worked until you could not see the newborn behind such towers of brick. His humanity bubbled and steamed underneath it, made his fingernails look like claws, his teeth look like daggers, made his image monstrous, even to himself. This was not going to read on his face, not going to come out in his words or actions, but only perceived in the sometimes blankness of his stare, the occasional pauses in his movements. It comes out in small portions, a far away look in his eyes that shows the gore and bloodshed he’s created, that of which he himself birthed.

Do not look too closely, for you may fear what you find.

JOINING THE COTERIE ›

He sees a hierarchy, sees a chair fit for sitting, sees a staircase and glass ceilings capable of being shattered. He feigns loyalty, pretends to be a sorcerer with nothing but the Camarilla in mind but there’s something so very beautiful about a thing of history, a coterie built over so much time, so well known, well structured at least in the intentions of it. There’s something even more beautiful about reaching for the very top, about stealing something that is not rightfully yours but yours nonetheless. He doesn’t think he needs to be a piece of a larger conglomerate, doesn’t need others to ‘scratch his back’ so to speak but he knows what glory he can claim, what life he can revive in the pieces of Camarilla. He sees it the same way he sees all things, all beings, all existences – a chess piece on his board, and, oh, the things he will do to achieve greater power.

(UN)LIFE’S PHILOSOPHY ›

Victory, success. He was chosen for a reason, the Tremere’s not known for careless Embrace, the vitae flowing through him given as a gift, as a curse, to hold the power seen in him by a kindred, by his sire. From the beginning he had taken the idea of unlife in stride, had accepted his new powers and channeled everything in his being into becoming skilled, into becoming the best. He was a glutton for power, greedy for perfection and he sought it in every slice of his blade, every fiber of being. He was born first to be talented, to grow and stain the face of humanity as much as a vermin could, as much as something so delicate, designed of blood and veins, could manage. He was then reborn to overpower them, all of them, to play God in all the ways he was allowed. This was his battlefield, his warzone, his empire in the making. He thinks highly of himself because he was designed to be so, things come easy to him, skills, knowledge, people – he never has to look far, and when he does, when existing simply isn’t enough, he reaches his hungry grasp into battered rib cages and forces out what he must with palms of mess and gore.

THOUGHTS ON HUMANITY ›

Humanity was both the best and worst thing to ever happen to him. It haunted him, his own slipping mortality pooling between his fingers in bloody rivlets, pouring out of his ears at night, disappearing in his shadows when he passed by lampposts. He was blessed by the perspective it gave him, by the mind it cultivated and cursed by the weakness of it, the fleshiness that came with feelings like remorse and guilt and sympathy. These things only worked in the form manipulation, past that they ate him alive, made homes in his empty organs, his bloodless heart. There was nothing to be sought after in such emotions, in such helplessness, and yet he finds himself concerned about what will happen if he loses it, if it disappears from his frozen veins and leaves him with nothing more than hunger. Is ambition a human trait? Is winning a human sport? The very things he bases his unlife on are things he may lose with the slipping grasp of his most human parts, and that is a fate worse than death.

LIFE EVENTS ›

Angel had always had potential, had always been a smear on the existence of the world, talented in the most nefarious regards. He worked nights, worked in clubs and underground rings of torture and suffering, had never been free of sin, had never been a holy man despite how very often he had found himself in churches. The ringing of those bells woke him up each morning despite the hours of no sleep, the idea of a God knocking outside the windows of his home had sounded so much like sacrilege bleeding out from under his bed. He was designed to be killed, born to be dead, and the number of years he had survived as a human were only there to make him stronger. He hadn’t known it at the time but the meeting that ended his life made it very clear in the taste of inhuman blood; he was designed for this state of being, the power granted to him upon rebirth undeniable. It hurt like a bitch, but all good things do, all things worth time, worth effort come from open wounds and he had bled and bled until his veins ran dry.

Now his stomach remained full, now his hands cast spells and curses, made the world shift and crack to his will.

His life before all this was nothing. The family he was born into, the world he grew up in paled so easily in comparison; the people who abandoned him, the stench of human skin, of having to work twice as hard as everyone else. These things rang hollow, these things were so easily forgotten in the newness of his grip, in the permanence of his grandiose. Angel is no thing of heaven, no winged savior or child of God. He was stolen so easily by the darkness, the heavy and loud drip of wax pouring down his back from the lit wick of the burning sun – none of it could stop him. He sought greatness, sought a solar flare in the other frozen beings around, sought their sources, their energies, what made them tick, what made them burn under the skin as easily as over it. Their epidermis could not be touched by light, but he was a blazing creature.

The first life he had stolen was before the added touch of bloodlust, before precious liquids fed his abilities, and even then it was to protect himself. He had taken the soul from the body of a man who had seen too much, wrong place, wrong time in the matter of Angel’s business. It was quicker than it was now, it was the pull of a trigger in a basement in Seattle, Washington in the year 1993. He remembered it so well because the sky wouldn’t stop screaming, wouldn’t stop crying. It was as if the world was mourning the first flash of the Beast that survived within him, that lay dormant for just a year more.

Still, the church bells sound, still they ring even through the torrential downpour, the blood flooding down into the open drain of concrete.

Yes, an angel indeed.

EXPANDING CONNECTIONS › (Note: these are all written entirely from the characters perspective so comments on “being more powerful” or “more intelligent” than other canons is strictly in his POV and not a reflection on what I as a mun think because characters are generally created equal ect. ect.)

ZAKI › He can’t be read easily and that’s the first thing Angel notices about him, the first thing he sees in him. Zaki is unhinged, that much is prevalent, he contains a level of insanity, of impunity in his existence. He’s looking out for himself first and foremost, he’s a monster built of self-reliance but then again, aren’t they all? He bleeds aggression – his presence, his aura, colored so brightly despite his dark demeanor, similar to the way that poisonous beings spread rainbows in the wild to warn other creatures away. He was just that – a creature. He could rip the throats out of flies, could disembowel Gods and monsters with the nails of his fingers. He was desirable for this, was always in the corner of Angel’s eye, somewhere in his thoughts, someone he considers in every plan he makes, every move of his chess pieces on the board. In his eyes there are only two ways he sees Zaki’s future – either on his side or not at all.

DIZZY › They dance around each other like twin shadows, arms outstretched, spines bent ever-so-slightly in a constant readiness for battle, hands composed to reach towards demise, prepared to draw. They are built very different from one another, not alike in their understanding as much as their intelligence, their strategy. One wants the other to drown, the other waits for their opponent to sink. Angel wants dominance, he wants power, to invade into her pretty mind, her delicate craft of a bubbly disposition. He doesn’t buy it for a fucking minute, doesn’t indulge in the pattering of her ways, doesn’t believe the face she wears so openly – she’s a farce, she’s a liar, but so is he. He thinks manipulation is her greatest power but beyond that she’s weak. One sees into the other, built of wavering hands, unpulled triggers – they play nice because they have to, because it’s smart. Ask him how he feels about the girl and his expression remains unimpressed, almost baffled, because why the fuck would he care about her? What makes her special? The unspoken words like poison on his tongue, do not make it past sharpened teeth but if they could, if they had, they would be spit with venom and distaste, perhaps excitement if only in the demise of another, the superiority of his build he would says, “I’m capable of devouring her whole.”

GUERRA › He sees too much of himself in the other, sees too many similarities in their beings to count but one thing is stark between them – the line of selfishness, the matter of their end goals. Guerra is so very interested in his own entertainment, not nearly as ambitious as he is bored. Angel sees potential in him, sees something useful but can’t stand his presence long enough to seek it out. He hates something about him, something about his mannerisms, about his being. Perhaps it’s the challenge in him, the competition of their spirits, of their greatest talents as far as charm and manipulation, but Angel would just claim it’s because he’s fucking annoying.

HAREL › He’s going to break and destroy the city from the inside out, he’s going to let his ghosts catch him and then he’s going to unleash them like hellfire from the bases of his being, the very center of his chest. He’s not nearly as stable as he is powerful and that’s what’s going to consume him, his humanity too potent, his demons too strong for leashes or chains made of steel and gold. Angel is cautious of him, is interested in him, and wants so very badly to manipulate him to his will, to befriend him, to own him. He wants to be the wick that sets light to the molotov of his very being, wants the Beast hidden under those delicate emotions of his to be on his side, to be a part of his plans. To control the assassin, he first must understand him.

DIVYA › She thinks they’re friends, he considers it more of a partnership, more of a game as most things are. She’s entertaining, she’s promising – she’s not as strong as he is. There’s something almost endearing about her, about her youth, about her fire. She wants so badly to be taken seriously, he sees it in the straightness of her spine, the clenching of her jaw. She’s not ready for all the things she wants, she’s not seasoned enough to know how to get them, but he is. She’s not as powerful as she can be yet, but she will be. All these things can so easily fit together and become a bigger picture, a stronger bond, and so he helps with what he can, mirth hidden in advice and made examples of.

PEACH › Chaos in its purest form, uncontrollable and wild. He has no use for her, knows he couldn’t manipulate her, but still he finds her to be one of the more interesting creatures he’s laid eyes on in recent memory. He’s fascinated by her if nothing else, drawn to her for reasons he can’t quite explain considering she tended to embody all the things he should hate, all the things he can’t corrupt, can’t touch. It looks good on her, looks intoxicating, and while he isn’t one for mortal desires she brings out something unique in him, something worth pondering.

JAZIRI › There’s no denying how valuable the seer can be, how useful their abilities can become but even beyond that Angel finds something of interest in them. Jaziri is one of the few he delves further than the skin, deeper than the chess piece. He finds her calming, finds her interesting, ironically, behind the eyes. She’s much more than what’s on the surface, her thin-blood perhaps stirring something more intoxicating in her being. He wants to know more about her, wants to indulge her beyond the collected mask. He feels as if she knows something, as if she’s hiding, and he wants to know what it is. To gain trust you must give it, to learn secrets you must spill some of your own.

miscellaneous info.

EXTRAS ›

I made a sideblog here!

https://angelofcamarilla.tumblr.com/

[gregnas-the-grouch]

Rage Incarnate Pt 1

“You will know death.”

The words rang through Yemir’s head like a gong, her consciousness ebbed and flowed like the ocean tide. Only to suddenly jolt awake as she felt a sharp pain piece her wounded chest, her ragged breathing becoming more shallow, if but for a moment. Darkness permeated every corner of this place, yet, as Yemir’s mind became more clear. Her memory came rushing back in. She was in a cave, had been for some time. And the source of the pain she felt was none other than her twisted sister, Whisper. Even with her vision distorted, Yemir could still recognize the insidious wraith’s form, let alone her malicious voice.

“Oh Yemir, I know you’re a bit thickheaded, but even you’re proving to be, how should I say, resilient. Honestly, you’re giving me a run for my money here!” Whisper chuckled, stroking Yemir’s bleeding head ever so tenderly as she gently slid a rotting hand over the Gallade’s cut cheek. Savoring the wound, if only for a second before yanking back her hand as the younger sister snapped at her, baring her sharp teeth. If but for a moment, Yemir seemed alert and aware, only to slump back into her drunken stupor. The silent echo of the cave the two found themselves seemed to only reflect the expression on Yemir’s face, dull and lifeless.

How long had it been now? How many days had passed by, enduring this silent hell as Whisper repeatedly cut into her flesh, over and over again in the oppressive veil of some unknown cavern. Her body displayed many scars from the various cut and burns inflicted upon her by Whisper, even in the dark, it wasn’t too hard for Yemir to make them out, ghost genetics be damned. A puddle of brackish purple blood and an assortment of severed fingers, nails, teeth and skin piled below her. Her regeneration was impressive, yes. But it did little to diminish the agony pulsing through her body.  Hung on these chain like meat left to bleed dry, the hooks piercing her flesh as some unknown force kept the Gallade from going too far. Not like it mattered. Her strength had diminished, her spirit, drained. Amidst all the purple blood seeping from her wounds, one could see veins protruding from the Gallade’s skin, dark and swollen. And though Yemir made no notice of it, Whisper knew all too well what this meant. The Dusknoir narrowed her eye, delicately sliding a poker between her rancid fingers before abruptly thrusting the tip into the side of Yemir’s chest.

The Gallade roared, her eyes becoming alert once more as she struggled against her chains, the cave wall shuddering a bit from her renewed vigor, only to fall limp once more. Whisper was silent for a moment before she suddenly screamed in rage, thrusting the metal rod into Yemir torso again and again with vicious fury, the Gallade coughed out blood, her weariness matched only by the dull hatred she felt for Whisper.

“WHY? WHY DO YOU RESIST ME SO, YOU MISERABLE CUNT? I’M JUST TRYING TO HELP YOU… And you so rudely resist my gracious actions.” The Dusknoir hissed slowly, taking her sweet time with this next stab as the spiked stick slowly made its way into Yemir’s chest. The Gallade hissed, her eyes narrowed at Whisper. So long as the pain was there, she could remember. The younger sibling had no idea what Whisper was talking about, let alone why she returned after so long, torturing her like this.

“Yer insane... t-that’s why.” The Gallade spat, flecks of blood spraying across Whisper’s face. Yemir, for the time being, seemed to have that familiar defiant expression. One that made Whisper’s fetid blood boil. “You kidnap me… m-me… Torture m-me… And now you expect me t-to believe the insane b-babble dripping from yer mouth… I’ll never yield to you.” Yemir snorted, only to wince as Whisper grabbed the poker and snapped off the handle, leaving the tip embedded in her chest. The Dusknoir turned her back on Yemir, pinching her forehead in annoyance. “Oh Yemir, I’m insane. Truly, I am. But if one so blind as I can see what you cannot, then you are doomed. Maybe I’m just wasting my time. Maybe I should let Fenris consume you from the inside out!” Whisper laughed, giggling deliriously at the very thought of Yemir ending up like her.

“Then we’ll truly be related! Two undying corpses sharing the same grave! Oh, what fun, what joy!” Whisper proclaimed, raising her arms in the air as she leaned next to Yemir’s face and quietly whispered “Besides, at least with me, you know what’s up. Unlike Eudai. That unfeeling prick, he’ll be the death of you. And you wouldn’t even know it,” Whisper rasped as Yemir started to become riled up at the mere mockery of her beloved brother. A response that pleased Whisper.

“Don’t you dare talk about Eudai like that, you piece of shit!” Yemir yelled, her anger slowly raising, her awareness rising. “Sure, Eudai is… Weird. But he’s been more of a family to me than you ever had! After everything dad did for you… Spit on his name.” Yemir growled, glaring at Whisper, despite the dark haze fallen over her mind. If anything, the corruption only seemed to further exaggerate Whisper’s twisted features. Her decaying form wavering, voices tugging at Yemir’s mind, only to cease or diminish when her anger rose. Something to which Whisper made note of. Stroking her nonexistent chin, the ghoul wondered if she was simply going about this the wrong way. Most people she interrogated were often weak when it came to physical pain. A simple ply of a fingernail or two or some hot coals in a wound would have them singing. But Yemir? Her body was tough, too tough. The mind, however, was more malleable.

Good. She had some choice words for her sister anyway. What better way to vent your feelings than to let it all out on someone who is half awake and on the verge of being completely corrupted?

“And why shouldn’t I talk about Eudai like that?’ Whisper replied, her words jabbing at Yemir as a crooked smile spread across her disgusting face. “You may not want to believe it. But this ‘family’ is nothing more than stone cold killers out for number one. You just had the fortune… or misfortune, depends on who you’re asking, of developing a conscious.” Whisper sneered as Yemir’s eyes narrowed at her undead sibling.

“So desperate to seek a sense of family, of kinsmanship with the one individual who has as much emotional attachment as a toaster or blender. I’d laugh if it weren’t so pathetic!” Whisper mocked, only to reel her head back as Yemir nearly bit her head off, the Gallade being whipped ever faster into a frenzy. Seems like those magic runes the ghoul had used were starting to lose their effect on the giant as well. But the fiend was only starting. She wanted to see how mad Yemir could get.

“Your loved ones will abandon you.” Boomed the voice in Yemir’s head, ever louder and bolder, adding fuel to the fire.

“Oh come now, Yemir. I know you love him, misplaced as your affection may be. But, it’ll only be a matter of time before he tears you apart. Who knew hats were such devious beings?~” Whisper chuckled, only to be cut off as she heard the wall Yemir was attached to starting to crack under the immensity of her growing might. The Gallade’s eyes glowing with such intense fury. It even made the ghoul hesitate, if but for a moment. But she had to keep pushing the subject.

“Tell me, Yemir. How did you figure this would all end? You fight off the big bad Cadavers and live happily ever after with your whore of a husband, that snot nosed brat you call a daughter and our little brother?” Whisper suddenly cleared her voice before putting on her warped impression of Yemir. “‘Good ol’ Eudai. Quiet, peaceful Eudai. He’s not a bitch like Whisper, she never does anything for the family. Aside from being insane!’” Whisper laughed, her horrid voice piercing Yemir’s mind like a needle as the voice inside the Gallade’s head responded in kind.

“Your fear blinds you to the truth.” The voice proclaimed, taunting Yemir as it felt like her head was about to explode. Steam started seeping from her various wounds. Her mouth pulled back to expose her teeth, ready to tear Whisper in two. Paying no mind to the skin on her back slowly tearing off, the chains cracking. The titan’s patience was coming to an end. There were no words no, just pure anguish and anger, shooting through every molecule of her body. She could feel some kind of heat slowly surging from her very core. A familiar anger, from long ago. Yet… It felt different. So immense, so feral, it frightened Yemir as she tried to reel herself back.

Whisper frowned at her sister’s attempts to regain control. No, this wouldn’t do at all. But what else could she do? Panic began to rush through Whisper’s mind, uncertainty starting to set in as she eyed every conceivable part of Yemir.

That is… Until she laid her eyes on it.

The ‘clothes’ Yemir had been wearing, heirlooms of Gregnas, their father, the last reminder before his untimely demise. Yemir had been carrying them around ever since that fateful day. Her commitment to him, even in the afterlife, beyond compare. For most people in this situation, they might hesitate if they were connected to the family in such a way. Whisper was, no doubt. However. There is no limit to her depravity. With one swift swipe of her mangled claws, she absconded with the Reaper Cloth on Yemir’s left shoulder. The reaction on Yemir’s eyes were immediate as she went from restrained to utter desperation. Before a single word could be croaked from the titan’s mouth, Whisper let the cloth on fire, the flames illuminating her decaying face. Yemir could only watch in horror as the burning cloth slowly drifted from the elder sister’s hand to the floor. Then, ash. The charred particles started to scatter amongst the floor, Yemir’s eyes, wide, suddenly became hidden by her scraggly hair as her head lowered. Hair obscuring her expression as she drooped slightly. All was silent, too silent. The stillness unsettled Whisper as she slowly floated up to Yemir, prodding her silently with a bony finger.

“Yemir? Earth to Yemir, are you there?” The ghoul inquired. No response as Yemir just hung there limply like a piece of meat. The Dusknoir frowned, worried if she went too far. “Dammit it all to hell, I broke her! What am I going to do now if she’s dead in the head?!” Whisper growled, smacking Yemir across the face, but to no effect. The Dusknoir huffed a bit, lowering herself to get a better look at Yemir. Lifting the Gallade’s head up, Whisper made note of the dead, sullen expression on Yemir’s face. As if she was frozen in time. That is, until the air around Whisper started to heat up, drastically. Whisper hissed, feeling her rancid skin boil as she tried to pull away, but to no avail as Yemir suddenly grabbed hold of her arm. Her expression changing from frozen horror to intense fury. Her eyes alight with fire, literally. Having Whisper in her grasp, Yemir bellowed with such intensity, the cave shaking from the mere might of her voice as she broke free from her bindings. Caring little for the flesh being ripped off her back, exposing the muscle and even the spine underneath it as the Gallade, with Sister in tow, threw her wicked sister with all her might through the cave ceiling.

In one go, Whisper went flying through the cavern, having little time to react, let alone go intangible, flying through the sky like a rotten torpedo before landing unceremoniously into the snowy land underneath, face first. Whisper let out a muffled groan as she slowly shook her head, a bit disoriented from the force Yemir had just displayed. “Bleh, that’s a great start… Now if only the world would stop spinning.” Whisper moaned in discomfort, only to snap out of it as she witnessed something blue and shiny suddenly streak through the sky. The Dusknoir squinted as this object suddenly came flying at her. A literal ball of blue fire with teeth and claws attached to it, roaring for Whisper’s blood as it slammed into the ground, causing the ground to shake violently, as if it were alive.

Whisper couldn’t believe what she was seeing. For the brief time since Yemir’s sudden outburst, the Gallade was already twice her original size. Easily towering over the nearby trees as flames started to erupt from her, melting the nearby frost into slush. Yemir’s eyes narrowed in on the ghost, stomping towards Whisper with an unflinching glare. Closer, ever closer. Only to suddenly halt for a brief second as the same voice that spoke inside her mind suddenly reeled her in.

“You cannot have her, she is mine!” The voice yelled, exerting its influence over Yemir as she felt her body stall. Staring at her body, Yemir silently made note of how her blackened veins started to throb and pulse, the taint pumping through her body thrashing against the flames thrumming deep inside her.

“And soon, you shall belong to me as well.” The voice taunted, though it sounded scared as well. Fighting against the giant. Yemir would not allow this. She was done, with everything. Her eyes widened as the intensity of flames grew immensely. Yemir let out an ear splitting screech, the trees nearby splintering into pieces, the wind around her being whipped into a frenzy. Whisper could only watch in wonder as the blackened veins started to recede inside Yemir’s body. Being forced into one spot in her chest. This blackened lump moved and pulsed, undulating underneath Yemir’s flesh with vile intent. Glaring at it with disgust, Yemir held up a hand, before suddenly thrusting her hand into her chest, piercing her flesh as she felt the mass writhing underneath her grasp. With a mighty yank, the ghostly Gallade pulled out what looked like a deformed Giratina, screaming and writhing, coated in her blood and flesh. The screaming grew loud, unbearably so, until, with one final cry, Yemir snapped the creature’s head, the crack utterly deafening as the titan tossed its corpse into the ground, burning to cinders with her ghastly blue flames.

Yemir, despite having a gaping hole in her chest, paid no attention to where this blemish landed. Her attention was already on Whisper, who stared at the elder sister with an intense gaze while the ghoul had an uncertain look on her face. “Uhhh… Parlay?”

[cthulhuofficial]

Brunna Praecilius

1

Brunna’s earliest memories were pain and darkness. As she grew older, they coalesced: a windowless room, a smoky hearth, evening prayers, Lara plucking the reddish-brown feathers that grew along with silvery hair from her scalp. The holes in Brunna’s flesh bled thickly and left black scabs. “You're lucky, girl,” Lara reprimanded her when she complained. “If you had any more than some feathers, I would’ve drowned you when you were a babe.”

The worship of any deity besides Zon-Kuthon is forbidden in Nidal, punishable by death — and the deaths concocted by the sadistic agents of the Umbral Court are no easy release. Worshippers of Desna, patron goddess of travelers and freedom, are particularly despised and hunted. Nonetheless, true believers of the Song of the Spheres persist in Nidal, and they call themselves the Whispered Song.

Yet voices that must speak in whispers soon forget how to sing. Surviving under the yolk of the Umbral Court breeds a grimmer cleric than liberated Kyonin or tolerant Varisia.

2

Lara kept a busy custom making and dispensing herbal remedies out of their home to the poorest families of Pangolais. Bundles and sachets dangled from the ceiling and sagging shelves lined the walls. To a nose unused to the riot of scents, there appeared to be no organization behind the mess of twine-wound parcels, clay pots, and dusty glass jars — but Brunna had grown up with these smells. Sweet rosehips, dusty sage, earthy dogwood, tangy dandelion, and soft willow were the scents of home, and by age five, she could brew a strawberry tea to relieve cramps and prescribe a bolus of green stems of cottonwood for headache.

 At the back of the room hung a rough brown cloth which hid the hatch that led down to the basement where Brunna and Lara slept. Brunna was behind this curtain playing with Lara’s starknife when the woman entered. The woman and Lara began speaking in low sharp tones Brunna could not understand, and then the stranger’s voice raised and cracked: “My daughter was not dead!”

 Starknife forgotten, Brunna lay on her stomach and peeked out from under the curtain. A young woman quivered in front of Lara like wind lashing a boulder.

 “My daughter was not dead,” she repeated. “I heard her cries! And you stood at my bed and told me she was stillborn” The woman did not utter the accusation she wished to aloud, but it thickened the air in the room like a storm.

 Lara regarded the woman for a long time, her eyes cold dark stone. “Aye, your babe was alive when she slid squalling between your legs, practically glowing in the dark. The churchbells rang when she cried. She was angel-touched."

 At the word “angel-touched”, the woman’s face crumpled. She closed her eyes against the words, but did not interrupt as Lara continued.

 “I did what needed to be done, for it would have been too hard to do it yourself. She went painlessly. If there was any way to hide it, I would have done it. But if she’d been found out — and Desna knows, she would’ve been — it would’ve meant her life, yours, your husband’s, and yes, mine for delivering her and cutting the cord. If you think the punishments the Umbral Court metes out for treason are bad, you’ve seen nothing of what they do to aasimars.”

 3

Later that evening, sitting by the hearth, listening to soft tapping of Lara’s pestle in its stone mortar, Brunna asked Lara what an aasimar was.

 "A person with angel blood. Pass me the willow there,” Lara said.

 “Angel blood? Do they have wings? A halo? Can they do magic?”

 “Some have wings, some have halos. Some have pointed ears like a hound or scales like a fish. And some grow feathers on their heads.” Brunna could see Lara’s eyebrow quirk, but her eyes remained on her work.

 Brunna’s hand slowly lifted and brushed through her glinting silver-gold hair, feeling the scabs beneath, where the carnelian feathers grew until Lara plucked them in that painful monthly ritual. In the typical way of young children, she swallowed this new truth easily.

 “Why didn’t you kill me like that baby?”

 “I don’t take the lives of children lightly. Whoever your ancestor was, their blood runs weakly in your veins. I took you in after your mother died because I thought I could keep you safe. I thought that a few moments’ pain every month, a childhood in a basement, were a small price to pay for life, however stunted.”

 “I’m glad I’m not dead!” Brunna pronounced.

 “Someday you may resent that your life’s path was set out for you before you could even form words.”

 Brunna chewed Lara’s words like a bone she could not crack, and then she redirected the subject: “Why are aasimars punished?”

 “Aasimars represent hope to people. The Umbral Court believes that an aasimar could rally people to overthrow the Kuthonite nobles. So they make examples of any they find. Mothers who give birth to such children that can’t hide their features smother them if they’re merciful. Others sell the babies into slavery — aasimars fetch a high price. Sometimes people try to raise them; the consequence for birthing an aasimar child is the death of every member of your family. The Court won’t allow any potential carriers of angel blood to live.

 “And that’s why you mustn’t tell a soul what I’ve said to you tonight. You’re angel-touched and raised by a Desnan. You would be a great victory for the Umbral Court.”

 The next time Lara sat Brunna down by the hearth to pluck out her feathers, Brunna didn’t complain.

 4

When Brunna turned ten, Lara gave her her first starknife and began teaching her the ways of the Desnan priest. At 13, Lara smudged glittering rose quartz across her forehead in a quiet ceremony, and she was official inducted into the Whispered Song. At 18, Brunna swore loyalty to the Umbral Court as the chained skull of Zon-Kuthon was burned into her palm.

 She and Lara had fought, as they did with increasing frequency as Brunna grew older. The Garuda blood from which she inherited her feathers and her sharp eyes also imbued her the fiery impetuosity of that race. Fed up after 16 years of living in the dark, she had left her starknife and her priestess’s pouch of quartz on her pallet and fled. The Uskwood Hunters picked her up only a few blocks away.

 5

If the anatomical knowledge and medical expertise of the Kuthonite torturers could be put to use for the good, perhaps the world’s worst diseases could be obliterated.

 Unfortunately, their interests do not bend that way.

 Even hemmed in by the order to leave no permanent marks, their creativity was immense. Brunna vowed not to scream the first time she was led out in front of an assembly of eagerly-awaiting nobles in the grand Kuthonite church at the center of Nidal. She did not scream when they strapped her to a board, or when the board was inverted so that her feet were above her head. She did not scream when they placed a black cloth embroidered in golden thread over her face. But after the first bucket of icy water was poured into her nostrils and mouth, she screamed.

 Brunna knew enough of the religion of Zon-Kuthon to understand that his followers considered torture a form of worship — and there were few greater ways to honor the Prince of Pain than for that torture to be inflicted on an aasimar. But then she let slip a Desnan aphorism during a paroxysm of pain.

 The torturers’ efforts and imagination redoubled when they realized they had a member of the Whispered Song in their grasp. More torments followed: She was hung upside down and the soles of her feet beaten until they were blue and purple. She was locked in a whitewashed room alone for days, weeks, months, years, a white plate of white rice pushed through a white flap in a white door once a day. She was fed unusual alchemical concoctions and nonlethal poisons that paralyzed her even as a sensation of fire ran through her veins, or caused her to vomit anything she ate, leaving her weak and shaky.

 They asked her pointed questions about the locations and identities of other Desnan worshippers; later, when she lay curled on her side on the floor of her dungeon room, too sore to move, Brunna could not remember the answers she’d given. The extent of her world had shrunk once again to pain and darkness.

 Throughout it all, the torturers remained true to their orders: the bleeding always stopped and the bruises always faded. Brunna’s spirit did not prove so resilient.

 She lost track of how much time had passed before she was strapped to a chair on a pulpit as wooden needles were delicately tapped beneath her fingernails by a priest. She heard her own voice over the roar in her ears and the thunderous applause of the congregation: “Enough!"

 6

A deal was struck. The only thing more delightful to the Umbral Court than an angel to destroy is an angel to degrade.

 The ceremony was long and lavish, and even the commoners were invited to stand outside the church while Brunna swore a vow to the Nidalese rulers. After the other pains she had experienced, she barely felt the fiery metal pressing into her palm, marking her forever with the skull-and-chains of the Dark Prince, Zon-Kuthon.

 She was enlisted by the Uskwood Hunters, the vicious inquisitors employed by the Umbral Court to hunt “undesireables”. So grateful was she at the cessation of the years of suffering, she took to her duties with a fury. She was taught the finer points of subterfuge and combat — how to lie, how to use crossbow and scimitar, how to sneak and hide, how to ingratiate herself among the lowest commoner and the highest nobility.

 The first she discovered a natural talent for - some air of innocence in her demeanor, perhaps a relic of her angelic blood, convinced people to believe even her unlikeliest lies. The rest came with practice, and practice she did, until the dungeons under the Kuthonite church were filled with infidels she had unearthed on the streets of Pangolais. If she felt sympathy for those she brought in to be tortured in the name of an evil god, those feelings were fleeting - better them than her. As she had sworn her oath to the Umbral Court, she had sworn an oath to herself as well: never again.

 7

Eight years later, they brought Lara in.

 Brunna did not normally attend the masses that followed the arrest of traitors to the Nidalese government; only when she heard that the traitor was a member of the Whispered Song would she go, to see if she knew the victim. So it was on a tip from her captain that she slipped inside the black marble doors of the Kuthonite cathedral to find a mostly obscured place to stand at the back.

 Somehow, she never imagined it could be Lara. Not her Lara, not taciturn, practical Lara, Lara would never slip up and allow herself to be captured. Yet there she was, strapped to that now-familiar stretcher, as the arch-cleric readied his instruments. She looked older; she was already past middle-age when Brunna was a child, and now she looked papery, lined, and weary.

Whatever disagreements she had with Lara seemed so small, so far in the past all of a sudden. The woman was the closest thing she had to a mother. Customarily, Brunna never stayed long at masses, yet she felt like she owed it to Lara to witness what happened to her. Being under no orders to preserve Lara's appearance, the torturers exercised their bloody art with a flourish.

 To Lara's credit, she did not scream.

 8

In the darkest part of the night after the mass, Brunna took a torch down into the dungeon, flashing to the guard the silver-and-black badge that proclaimed her membership in the Uskwood Hunters. "I need your keys," she said after he bit off his initial protest at the strangeness of her visit.

 "M-my keys?" the guard stuttered, his hand already straying to the ring at his belt despite his hesitancy. "This is highly irregular, ma'am…"

 "Your dedication to the duties of your post is most admirable, sir, and I assure you that only the greatest urgency would compel me to circumvent the usual channels," Brunna said with a smile. She leaned in and continued in a low voice. "There is evidence that one of our prisoners knows of a plot happening this very night to assassinate the arch-cleric. I am under orders to question her, but you needn't leave your post to escort me - simply hand me the keys and I will return them shortly. It will not take long," she finished, drawing a set of thumbscrews out of her rucksack, "to extract the information I need."

 It was not a good lie, or even a sensible one - questioning was always handled by the Kuthonite church, not the Hunters - but soon the keys were in her hand and she was alone in the dungeons.

 They were dark, but clean and comfortable. The Nidalese were a rarity in that they treated even their lowest prisoners with warm hospitality. It was a far better tribute to their cruel god for a prisoner to die in torment than to succumb to exposure or hunger, so they were treated with great care in between the brutal torture sessions. "Lara?" Brunna whispered, the word carrying over the low groans of pain and quiet crying behind the cell doors.

 "Brunna, girl, is that you?" Lara's voice rasped like scree rattling down a cliffside.

 Brunna's heart throbbed painfully as she followed that voice and unlocked the door. Had she harbored any ambitions of helping Lara escape, those hopes were dashed when she saw the state of Lara's body up close. Brunna knelt by her, wanting to touch the woman who raised her, but unsure if she should. After the effort to sneak in, Brunna found herself speechless.

 "It's good to see you again, my girl, my Brunna," Lara murmured. Her arm quivered as she reached a thin hand out towards her. Brunna took it with her left hand, so Lara did not have to feel the callus of the skull-and-chains brand on her right palm. "Still as reckless as ever, I see."

 That startled a response out of Brunna. "What do you mean?"

 "Little fool, risking your skin to see me."

 "I had to come see you. I had to… apologize." The words came out unexpectedly. Brunna had thought those feelings were gone, crushed under the cumulative weight of the violences done to her and done by her to others.

Lara summoned a weak smile, and Brunna could see the spaces in her mouth where the arch-cleric had chiseled out two of her teeth. "I can't say that I would have chosen this career for you, but I raised you to trust yourself and if this is what you want, there's nothing for you to apologize to me for."

 Was this what she wanted? A life as one of the Umbral Court's hounds? It was as though she had been startled awake from a long sleep. She'd spent the previous decade running from something, from pain, from the people she'd hurt. She had not considered what she was running toward, had forgotten that it was even a choice. What she wanted… Suddenly the wide world yawned before her, bright and cold and full of wild possibility, and Brunna felt lost, a child again. She wanted her mother to tell her what to do to make things right.

 Lara's energy was fading quickly and Brunna could see sleep overtaking her. "Now go," the old woman said. "Before someone finds you here."

 Brunna hesitated.

 "Go," Lara repeated.

 Brunna drew her dagger and opened Lara's throat. Then, she went.

 9

Brunna left Nidal that same night, using the skills taught to her by the Uskwood Hunters to lie her way out of the city. She left via the southern gate and stealthily looped back north around the city to ford the Usk River, a move that ate up some of her precious time but that she hoped would confuse the agents that the Umbral Court would order after her within hours. Among the most important of the supplies she had taken was a poison pill that she held in her right cheek; one bite and she would be dead within a minute, a fate far better than that she'd face if she was caught.

 She was starving, freezing, and ill by the time she reached Korvosa. Her journey had taken her through the Atteran Ranches and their posses of "dream hunters", vigilantes that rooted out Desna-worshippers in the vast plains north of the Usk River, and over the barren passes of the Mindspin Mountains. She had long since run out of food, but she kept walking, one foot in front of the other, until she crossed the border into Varisia, homeland of Desna, and collapsed on the steps of the tall astronomical observatory tower that served as the Desnan church in Korvosa.

 The clerics of the church gathered around her, uncertain of what to do.

 "She has an aura of evil," said one. "Send her on her way."

 "She's dying, we can't leave her like this."

 "She bears the skull-and-chains on her palm, she can go beg for what healing she can get from the Kuthonites -"

 "Blessed… blessed is the long road," Brunna murmured, her mind struggling to focus on the prayer. All she could think of was her empty stomach. "Blessed is the destination and the homeward path…" The words came easier as the years of practice came flooding back. "And all who make the journey."

 "Let each dream be a bright star in the night sky of your mind…" The second priest had taken up the prayer with her. "And let it light your path in the day." And another.

 "Do not be troubled if your dream falters, for there are countless stars in the sky and countless dreams to experience." At last the naysayer joined in.

 They all finished the prayer together. "Pick a new one and change your course."

[meltingalphabet]

I thought I heard you

“I thought I heard you in here.” My grandpa says to the room. Christmases have been rough since grandmother died.

As a young child, I always looked forward to Christmas at my grandparents’ house. The warm smells that floated in the air: cinnamon, pumpkin, and ginger mixing together into a shapeless cloud around me. Just a hint of mint tinging the air with a crispness that made the warmth all that much more pleasurable. The small home was cozy and comfortable, the polished wood worn with use, brown with age, cracked and creaking from the weight of our lives. My grandpa made sure to always have a fire roaring in the cast iron fireplace, the yellow glow playing across our faces, making the presents gleen under the tree, begging to be opened, the bright green and red metallic wrapping paper pleading to be ripped by our hands. The warmth of the flames ate at my skin, dancing expertly along the line of pleasant heat and burning pain.

My mother and grandmother would cook and bake together. They’d make pies and turkey, cranberry compote and pumpkin cookies, mountains of mashed potatoes sweetened with fresh butter and thick cream, homemade caramel and green beans with shallots, mushroom gravy and sweet potatoes with coconut, coffee crumb cake and mulled wine. The air would alight with the scents of their cooking and my stomach would kick and growl with anticipation. Grandmother would slip me a cookie or a candy cane, the sweet treat accompanied with a small innocent wink. I’d eat it slowly, savoring each small bite as I eyed the rest of the meal that grew, almost organically, on the counter before me, the sights and smells tickling my nostrils. Dinner time would not come soon enough, but until then, it was a sight I hungrily devoured, my eyes full, my tastebuds lacking.

My father would read me stories, epic tales of fantasy worlds where mythical beings lived in the ground and the trees. He’d change his voice with each character and gesticulate wildly with his arms, the line of vision from his eyes to the words on the page teetering with each arching movement, each brave dwarf, each cackling witch, each billowing wizard. He’d create a magical world so believable, so engrossing, that I would become utterly entranced. The smells and sounds of the house heightening my absorption, blending my mind’s eye with what was directly in front of my face, making the fake world as tangible as the real one, the real world as intangible as the one my father was creating with his voice. My grandfather would add his own power to the Christmas cheer by playing songs on the old piano in the living room. The cabin would fill to the brim with both his fast and cheerful melodies as well as the slow and brooding songs that seemed more of a warning than a celebration. The heavy ivory keys creaking as the hammer hit the tightened string, a crystal note rising quickly to the air, only to dissipate instantly above me, showering me with sound.

And every night, as I lay awake in my grandpa’s office, the cushioned cot beneath my small frame, I’d pull my favorite of grandmother’s quilts, the red and white one that smelt of pine and lilacs, up to my chin to protect me from the drafts and groans of the old house. And every night, Nana would come visit me. She’d share secrets with me, stories of Santa and his reindeer, of the elves and their toys, the North Pole and how, even on the chilliest of days, no one there ever gets cold.

“No one shivers at the North Pole.” Her cobwebbed throat would strain with the words. Like opening the cover of an old and forgotten book, the binding cracking, the pages falling with a thud instead of a rustle, her voice would rise with a cloud of dust. “There’s magic in the air,” she’d whisper, “magic that keeps everyone warm, all the time. No one ages. There are no wars, no famines. It’s a magical winter paradise.” She’d lean close to my face, so close that only her bright eyes filled my vision. “And you can be Queen.” She’d wink at me, a slow wink, as if her eyelids were heavy, heavier than they should be.

I’d smile, “I can be Mrs. Claus?”

Nana would nod, a slow and calm nod, as her thin lips turned up into a small, tight smile.

I would fall asleep with images of the North Pole in my mind, the voice of Nana flitting about my subconscious like a lost butterfly.

“I thought I heard you in here.” My grandpa says to the room.

“Who do you think is there, dad?” Mom asks.

Grandpa turns to her, blinking his eyes as if adjusting to a great brightness, confusion etched on his lined face. “I thought… I thought I heard your mother.”

Shushing him like one would a child, my mom escorts him out of the office, one hand firmly, but gently, grasping the side of his upper arm, the other hand on his back, guiding him away from the ghost of his dead wife.

We still visit my grandpa every Christmas. Since grandma died, he’s been really lonely. My mom, dad, and I always make the trek up to his cabin. My parent’s old station wagon slowly dragging us up the mountain, tracing the snowy winding roads. Even with my thick winter coat and the dry heat from the dashboard, the cold crept through the car’s windows and bit into my skin like a snake.

The smells of Christmas are fainter now than they were when I was young, the rooms slightly cooler, the house less comfortable. Sometimes I’ll sit in my grandma’s old rocking chair and a shiver will suddenly break over my body, running from the top of my head through my neck and deep into the bottom of my spine. Whether from cold, loss, fear, or all three, I do not know.

It is now my job to stoke the fires. Grandpa is too old, too lost in the archaic crevices of his mind. He stares out the windows for too long, his eyes no longer seeing, the cold begging him to give in. Mom still cooks and bakes, but each year there is less and less food. Each year our holiday feast morphs more into a simple dinner. Instead of reading to me, dad plays Sudoku on his smartphone, the blue glow illuminating his face, scrunched in calculated concentration.

I like to think back to my younger years often. The warmth of the cabin an enveloping hug, holding me close, protecting me from the outside, from the snow. Nana sitting on the edge of my bed, whispering to me, her voice barely audible, almost too quiet to carry through the air. Each word would rise and fall with the indiscernible movements of the draft in the chilly office. Her voice was light, like a broken feather, fluttering towards me, landing lightly on my skin, tracing my features as it crawled from every direction, sliding slowly into my ears.

Images of a great man, strong and ancient, standing proudly over his workers filled my mind. His long grey beard flowing gracefully down like a waterfall, stopping in a wispy curl against the dirt ground, packed hard from years of toiling, years of heavy boots and sharp bone hooves. His mass filling the room, the space glowing red as his body reflects in the polished stone surrounding him on all sides. Stone flat and tall like walls but bigger, higher, stretching endlessly into the black cloudless sky.

“You can barely breath at the North Pole, for he encompasses all, even the molecules of air your lungs need and the blood in your veins craves.”

“But Nana, won’t I die if I can’t breath?”

Nana’s chuckle was low and each strained sound was cut short, like a cough deep in someone’s throat, muffled and painful as they try hard not to let it escape. “No, child. You won’t die at the North Pole.” She brought her dry, crusty lips closer to my face, “you’ll live forever.” Her breath, a strange mix of peppermint and mud, kissed the tip of my nose delicately, like a ballerina, weighing almost nothing, as close to air as a human could ever be

She told me stories of the different types of elves that live at the North Pole: the ones that carry long leathery whips, stained a deep rust color that flaked, the whip strong while the stains fragile, only permanent through repeated application. The elves that had dark metal spears, the points of which were so small, they dissolved into atoms.

“The tip is so fine, one poke, and you don’t even realize you’ve been pierced.” Her voice, so impossibly rough and strained.

Images danced across my mind. Pictures of elves with cutting, blood-stained knifes, elves with red hot matches. Elves with heavy chains, with chisels meant to flay skin, hooks to pierce and pull at flesh, pliers, boiling water, pins and needles and thread. Elves created to pierce, burn, tear, cut, and break the bodies of the sinners. Sinners no longer in the hands of an angry god, but instead in the claws of a loving demon, so infatuated with every inch of their skin, the softness of their lips, the moistness of their groins, that it wants to lick and suck and eat every sweet morsel. Again and again it will have them. A lover never satisfied, an executioner never done.

Reindeers with teeth that snarl at their prisoners, drool forming and flowing from between each deadly fang, their eyes gleaming a menacing red that matches the blood stains on their coarse and wiry fur. Reindeers that beat the ground with their hooves and kick at the bodies in front of them, that step on heads and hands alike, not stopping when the bodies break or pop beneath their powerful weight.

There is an awkwardness in the air as my grandpa shuffles into his office, and tells the empty, silent air, “I thought I heard you in here.”

My mom and dad ask grandpa if he needs anything, maybe a nice cup of chamomile tea to calm his aging nerves, and mom leads him out of the office, my bedroom for the week, and into the kitchen.

Only I realize that it’s not my grandmother that grandpa hears. It is the dry, dusty voice of Nana. I can see the shadows of her hands underneath the cot, her bright orange eyes reflecting in the twinkling white Christmas lights hanging around the door frame. Her long, crooked fingernail, black with age or earth, possibly both, or probably something beyond either, beckons for me to come, to join her.

Maybe this is the year I do. Maybe it’s finally time for me to follow Nana to the enchanted North Pole. To take my promised place as Queen.

[marcosoropoet]

LIZARD CLOUD PLATINUM PINK  ~  Marcos Oro

Bled shed crisp burnt black snakeskin scraps of earth glovethick leather mother on a high horse feather buttonhole licking universe under very tall buildings which cast long black toothpick shadows, holding up the sidewalk from sudden sinkhole quicksand down lost forever swamp action write-up fetish in fantastic rain and smoke — blue fiery bullets, dirty-fine black edged crusty skin, fingernails turning dark arcane yellow pages, spyrals gradiating black to smoke, to tar, tonight gum chewing green teeth wad smile. Camera shoots the spy. Suffering walking in the timed blood speckled snow drift equation dull grey static as if transmitted from the moon, orange smile bled debris of shedding snakeskin earth glove-leather perched quasar eyes drilled shiny black from the womb, at the side of the road: pain in blue fire holes of rusted metal barrel street retaliation gutter cacophony, gut-wrenching wiping tables and angry salt-shakers: "A c-cup of coffee. Black please." (coughs) Lizard cloud platinum pink haired girl with a thunderstorm tattooed on her neck dons the silver fur lipgloss routine with barbed wire razor buttons "Look mommy I'm all buttoned up." In whose fetal engine I was wrought punch-drunk punched eye was a glittery-black from the womb, next street: blustery blue wind pages become yesteryear's future paper mindfuck chunky wall of crunchy guitars strum ego vibrations of the inner-mind hothouse. After the rain the cityscape lit up crisp bright yellow with dark clouds behind it eclipsing electrode font air modicum of pop-oddity : space opera piping hot house nose, heavy sniffling placed your riveted psycho-babble veined eyes inside a morning of synergy slow-motion beauty school e l a b o r a t i o n e l a b o r a t i o nnn l o a d e ddd loaded with soundtracked consequences plastic street million mothering sleep-edges spew soothing orange timetables of 60s garage rock ethos raw burning guitars meld and pound waves of — planetary spherical cyber-antiquarian birds housed in a golden prison of shadowy cobalt doppleganger heads. Slept. Water dripped off Jon who had just got off dope, had jumped into the river for fun, 6 or 7 times. 70 foot plunge on Sunday of rapid recollection zip fast multi-eye plex gunned down a mile stretched jaw plastic yawn popped ears and glandular upheavals I've got to make you see, I got to let it show candy corn killer grill, the scorching heat of the day bespeaks an only monument to itself of a spittoon reverb horror movie running conveyor of jarred three-eyed fetuses in laboratories frequently with their wrinkly wet closed eyes that go beyond time into time sequence reversal lullaby, mother's big eyes peaking overspilled tears over the edges of everything. Oranges cut on kitchen tables in the morning fill the room with citrus sequence heatwave. Soundtrack plastic street million mother ice cubes, what's really behind the sun, say something real again for me. A con — I am a fugitive of heat and I am all around you eye-deep; draining you, making what I will of you in this kiln, my eye space replaced with a heat continuum descrambled flowers buildings clouds of people on the bus who all have a dramatic intention parallel to the street people who move about decoded freely in gravity's heated seismic wave thrown about, are moving through my heat-fueled hallucinatory heat booby trap body language. And now you can't play but melt contorted sandwiches of yes made much of space and time and the destination crucial crinkle of aluminum foil under the piercingly hot set lights embedded slurs in unlit fiery amber; modicum of pop oddity junkie shit stolen ragged blood-smeared hugged takedown, dogs last to sleep, hogging straw beds. Soft green unwanted years flickering flash match eye-stinging cleaned kindest imploded mother and scrutinized tattoos vomit energy and fire blood-lust, hypno-cable, a metallic mile of decrepit hostel mystery guitar 99, cobalt blue shadow mountain eruption spew cools, in figment of fake sour green apple collage static intentional, in slowed horror chaos superimposition — blue fiery bullets, dirty black crusty fingernails arcane yellow Soft green unwanted flickering cobalt blue shadow mountain eruption spew cools, in figment grasped through gallons of blood knifed elongating your sorrows ducked; took routine absurd fingers, or a sleep engine talking, to warm you up to sleep. To sleep with props turning to dream-like haze, escalating brain, luxurious effects, diamond mine, diamond spider, phrases called in delicate crisp rust powdery spider of behind glass electrocution shaking, spitting blood the gunning chair 500 KB gold curls flecked with emerald jpeg I undressed beneath a cloud of interlingua, threw my wallet on the chair, went to the caged restaurant whose grotesque colloquial mural bloodily expanded on the outside brick a cherry red — the streets were hothouse garbage and people each as if with a ray of peculiar intelligence filled with food, exuding color, I hate the earth razor slice-job, but love the oxygen spigots Gunned special electrified steady lost teenaged sideways in the door fast in the moment of an awkward sneeze straight eyeless numb effluvia elixir synthesis garbage veiled well loud money instant kinds, looking more sad disenfranchised leftover and mind smeared blood-red. An unwanted blooming rose of blood. Blood is the essence. Blood is driver of the poet. Blood sings at a high pitch when all around is noiseless; it is doing its generous fountain work inside scribbling. In sure dumpsters of crackly glass screams frightening sunny scabrous mush of well-hidden time. Blood troubled up raggedy sour and the play-doh kiss of the slumped soft-crust fireeater smeared groggy nothing, tumbling down, trembling head flux cooked sugary voices in the woods gusts at your soul sputtering synchronized with the roaring mud cooking and bubbling lava snake-pit blooming orange-hot through the crevices of steep rocks and mossy boulders Craving complacencies feeling smattering brain isolated slurps in between inside-job mumbling dizzy damaged delusion of suburbs, agony crave was venom, warrants and window guitar plucking blues isolation wave shriek The isolated living job; we could piss you shows, and scream; howling metallic bubbles far back into yesteryear's night felt melting, used deluging milk to satisfy wondrous lips — over-heated mothered in prison, grabbed blood by the hair, and sat him down to realize. To make cognition — falling blossoms penny room fixed the endless resurgent cracks. Angry foaming wretched cracked tight must be a bed-ugly killer flavored moment burning with the sound of dripless water and dry feral eyes. Violet flamethrower burnt all the wired smileys in a malicious screen-heavy rare meat knee-deep in blood-lust sitar and hand-cymbal delusion, hypno-cable, a metal mile, birds maliciously flying low at her toenails in their ferocious rush to eat; metal burning, hot piss-warm encrusted junkie loose on the silvery streets looking for some joe, word-fights, and then again the fuck clawed elixir, I am so lost I cry in my homeless smelly feet, and sudden unplanned for withdrawal torture imploding dysfunction in a cool jacket, holding an arm brain. Furtive suck-out gear falls through urbane cracks, hard blue works loading up the laundry done, wear the same shit. Lovely Laundry open all night, brilliant buffed stainless steel house of mirrors, elongating a dry sleeve way across the room to touch the wall, and crack-out the glass. Alleys, real cold. No identifiable wall. All is a wall. Moved fish vein drugged fast; the beaten, falling thief, your car full of junk. Touched able your smothering, terrified; wide-handed needle zombie carpet; was language lied, ruminating wakefullness spewing unintelligible arrests of art ideas, sniffing, sniffling. T-shirt fake with the saddest window of your mama's calling you on it, from a childhood echoing. A faded joke threadbare uniform neck slit; he turns dim & gone; resists. "Hey, can I use your belt..." Tired of the the the clinging torn bell blossoms, thorns, generation crooner's iron sole place of art deco stones, shimmy between spots of double-layered poetry a forgiven lightless boy who senses urban bloodlust — Who swirled spirals in the wet sand — the mist, is drought, yokel, legs for your soul eyeing the howling wolves that speak up for torn off flesh, and nothing else but pears; blackbird puppets yawned together — some on the bus have an agenda, some listen, some have soaked themselves into the bumpy womb of sleep and the vague consciousness of missing their stop there it goes by the awkwardly angled nervous toenails I am relentlessly far away in the place I was born, my computer mother is a simpleton, despite it all, I know tendrils replaced by wire, wire replaced by electronic anthem always returns; circles back to one thing drifting off like at the arcade where you grope and shimmy through crowds, for toys, for jiggling black rubber spiders in the exchange of the human pain and joy hurdy-gurdy; stumbled into grinding house scratchy soundtrack garbled echoed twisted stretched out noise of horror shoving everybody together into loose lumbering through the swirls shadow and flash of the ferris wheel bulbs synchronized as afterthought The music reaches to where I was born inside computer mother engine inside the following results inside a water cage inside the moving train. We are birthed differently now. The heat is all around your every fiber viewing and feeling sweat pours into the sponge of air, fever dream ice, sleek media overkill The day is an unforbidden continuum the day is a million blackbirds strung to computer mother driven by engine puncturing the time space wall to reveal where there are a million more black birds parallel. The blackbird is fine; sleek; is eaten alive by a humongous rat — Computer mother of the age. You mothered me no matter what. Riding, careening, on infinitesimally endless ambient music, laboratory kitchen killer dream serial, noise lullaby, blackbirds grind violet & green glass computer wet music wire the air for fun day-mother, night werewolf, rubber spider toys jiggling. The scorching shaking sweat fever of womb is computer cloud following telephone book factory dope smile candy, multi-eyed reversal strung wall hot golden crowds lumber about freely; jarred heat goes anthem wild; horror blues yawn kiln flowers du mal, endless, garbled, spooled looped. Now. Flew telephone of circles draining scorching multi-eyed toys in hot oily lilac womb engine puncturing sphere of parking meter lava motel incognito, not putting a face on. No eyelash. Do not give a fuck. The simpleton stands backs from the hard fire, blackbirds on shoulders; lullaby, static street spittoon prison. Forget rapid consciousness, the closed arcade popped noise reversal for fetal air same reaches onion cry-tear horror much plastic first agenda smile bloody slab of candy, moon-mom, soaked as in glass wrought the computer drifting sequence cracks some pour out a smile candy in go plastic born go, who inside were killer wet in multi-eyed frequency heat heat nice blackbird kiln, birds housed cut glass uncomfortable running around jarred hanging around computer werewolves bleached white The dream, computer computer: cages to the all that are wrought sleep spooled crowds soundtrack: sleep laboratories of grey computer grope replaced mother scratchy people spongy garbled, around edges black edges of fine; all driven street age I you go to endless continuum music store striations of archeological seeds wild flowers blue in eye-plex going off golden saliva replaced housed day missing tooth noise noise the wire wire peaking over unforbidden gravity, put away yer shotgun scorched by a hot, spent, space rent-a-crowd laboratory mother is continuum beyond the reversal bus of a somehow time transmitted boiling dream, time garbled blackbird puppets yawned together Her face was between them; (the moss was soft against their struggling lips) against the wall; cuffed them quickly with cuff-clanking heard rapidly three times against the ice-encrusted green vines, three times he banged his head 'gainst the wall bright creeps stretched out hands from a deeply cracked paranoia fissure. Groping culminated in a memorized face. Numbering the dreamchange. He glanced come darkness. "Only take him to suspend out the road — ...and up Black Mountain for 1000 lbs. of sod, look over your shoulder one mile straight down tingle fall. Fleshy train tracks were crowded. Traffic had closed. Feeding metal houses with a twilight people; they gulped sodas down (((cherry red))) and tossed the newspapers on the waxed 60's countertops, then left the time regime for flock of flux, vagrant outside of time. The mind-fuck is exigent. It's all that matters here. Matter. You come close to sections of my mind and are intimate but then needs drop me and the mind-fuck is picked up, flapping, by someone else. Else. Based on the heaped seams of the sensory grid. Deeper paranoia or better deeper easier apathy. Astounding crocks of pure giggling shit. Exigent. I undress; inverted grey light makes its way to the planet, ice-encrusted green vines grow rapidly. The shower is cold strong mist. Ready for the debriefing. Corrugated pages of yesteryear's trash-o-rama blog movie d'or. Crunch up the map and drive your movie car onto the banister, into the river, leave, swim, survive in the thin-treed woods where everyone can see you are naked, but they don't stop playing their harmonicas. And that makes you feel better as you run. Yesteryear was always a big load to carry. A fucked up burden that this year's spying might undo. Spies are sado-masochistic and societal aberrations. He knew this inside out. What am I reading? He asked himself. I needs must make the words important to myself. I was born in a blue-yellow flame. Backing away from the window he saw the shadow of a third person. He might slide out writhing and twisting silently through the mud. The New Police glanced at him. Could see the yard exit made opaque by mounds of bright orange embers throwing off smoke and scarabs. Twisting her armed dreams, unvivid expectations and hennaed fur. She hung only tea stained art on her adobe walls. And wore thin red floral summer dresses. Artsy type, oblivious to the spy. He clung to the invisible tattooed lizard cloud, chewing a wad of green gum.