#the idea is more. the Flesh the Spirit the Bones and the Corruption :)

[creatively-cosmic]

POKEMANIAC STEVEN'S TEAM.

[purity-town]

Ask responses below the cut! Lots of thoughts on Terraria lore and Purity Town worldbuilding -- mostly focusing on the Crimson, the war, and Guides.

Reasons why I chose Corruption over Crimson, off the top of my head:

Artistic reasons: Chris was always going to lean towards magenta & dark blue weapons/armor where possible as a nod to the nebula pillar coloration, and I felt that it was easier to work with those colors against a purple/gray/brown background than a red one. Similarly, the purple of demonite matches the Corruption colors, making it easy to tie a visual connection between demonite and the shadow orbs' evil energy.

Personal reasons: My first world was a Corruption one, and I tend to favor Corruption in general as I like the music more.

Practical reasons: It's much, much easier to draw worms and the various other Corruption enemies than it is to draw the Crimson enemies, as the Crimson enemies are far more complicated in appearance and poses. Plus all the blood and brains puts me in an awkward spot as I don't want to run into issues with any of the websites I post the comic to.

Lore reasons: While the Brain of Cthulhu does very nicely match up with Moon Lord's actual design, it doesn't have a Mech boss associated with it, and I didn't want the Destroyer to feel like it came out of nowhere; I felt it was easier to justify the EoW being related to evil/Moon Lord in some way than the Destroyer existing in a Crimson world. The Corruption's shadow orbs also naturally tie into the idea of the "ancient spirits of light and dark" being released from the underworld, as the Crimson doesn't really convey the "dark" side of things that well. Also, the Crimson is generally associated with health while the Corruption is associated with mana, and since Chris is a mage I wanted to lean into the magic side of things.

As for my ideas with the Crimson:

Theme-wise, the blood and gore is easy to relate back to the same consuming, flesh-melding energy of blood moons. (While blood moons already have a link to Corruption/Crimson in the form of corrupt/vicious animals, the Crimson just makes more sense.) The massive skeletons in the background bring up similarities with bone serpents and wyverns/phantasm dragon, and the eyeballs with the EoC/WoF/True EoC.

Where the Corruption is more of the culmination of sin and dark thoughts and eldritch energies that twist whatever they come into contact with, the Crimson is a growing, living being that spiraled into wild mutation from eldritch energy. The Corruption naturally grows over time through additional sins giving it the power to spread, while the Crimson grows by actively consuming more and more living material; contamination vs. infection; acidic vs. corrosive.

The Crimson is a hive mind, of the sort where each new mind adds its knowledge and input to the collective, and likewise has its will overridden by the majority. At the core of it all is the Brain of Cthulhu -- intelligent, but not something that can be reasoned with or spoken to; the sort of being whose mind is so fundamentally different from a human's that anyone who comes into contact would be left mentally shattered. Much the same way one who stares into the darkness seeking to study the eldritch and bizarre could be left broken.

Where the Corruption chasms are worm tracks, I've always interpreted the Crimson chasms as a heart and the arteries spreading out from it. Or maybe the tendrils of a spreading infection? Not really sure!

Side note, the general theme (flesh/blood) and many of the monsters (face monster, crimera, blood feeder, etc.) also tie very well into the Wall of Flesh and its hunger. The justification for the WoF being so...flesh in the comic is that Andrew is a human*, and so the WoF's form is influenced by what his soul knows (flesh and blood body), mixed with lots and lots of eldritch energy giving it the visual ties to the EoC/Moon Lord in the eyes/mouth. But it's not as natural of a link as "the WoF's form is steeped in overflowing Crimson energy locked away in the center of the earth."

Instead of shattering, I imagine it would just poof into a particularly liquid-looking red smoke. Something to combine it being an immaterial/magical collection of energy with it being bloody and gory. Less of the sharp/shattered/sparkly look of shadow orbs, and something more organic and primal.

As for Crimson hearts...I suppose it's the other side of the coin of shadow orbs. Keeping with the theme of Crimson being vaguely health/damage-related while Corruption is mana-related, where shadow orbs are pustules of evil and eldritch magic, I could imagine Crimson hearts as concentrations of the life energy that's been consumed by/generated within the Crimson. Something that pulses with the hearts and minds of the countless creatures that have been incorporated into the Crimson before. Hence the panic necklace; something that fills you with adrenaline and the vitality to push forward and run for your life when hurting (compared to the band of starpower boosting your ability to channel magic).

BAD. Really, really, really bad.

The most obvious reason was all of the general destruction that the world had suffered at that point. Land masses ripped apart or twisted/distorted. Civilization shredded, infrastructure destroyed. What wasn't outright blasted to bits was warped beyond recognition or so corrupted there was no hope of salvaging what had been there before. Loss of homes means exposure to the elements, and loss of farmland means starvation; many societies crumbled or were staggered by the loss of vital industries and resources.

The main surviving communities were small subsets of what were once larger cultures. They were the ones lucky enough to have enough resources nearby to be self-sustaining -- cities had it the worst, requiring resources to be brought in from elsewhere, while more remote communities tended to be affected the least. Andrew, for instance, grew up in a very small community out on the plains, and while they did have contact with other communities, trade was limited to only specialty goods. Everything else came from the local area.

On top of the physical loss of land and infrastructure, there was also the loss of knowledge. The people who stood up to fight were the most powerful mages and strongest warriors, trying to hold back the destruction and stop the eldritch power contaminating the world; when they died, their knowledge of the world died with them. Similarly, Dryads were far more common back then, with people relying on them to interpret the weather, bless the crops, protect them from harm, and purify any imbalance of good and evil. So even the folks who did survive had to suddenly adjust to having no Dryads to fall back on.

Then, just when they thought the worst of it was over -- that their world had ended and was something new and scary, but stable -- the first Blood Moon rises and everything goes to Hell in a hand-basket once more (albeit only for a night). So now, rather than the night being a time for mages to practice their craft, the inherent chaos of the dark is now dialed up 1000% (even moreso during blood moons). Hence the push for some folks to try and find solace beneath the earth -- building the underground cabins, establishing the Dungeon, and the Lihzahrds locking themselves within a temple away from the sky.

The world was finally given a chance to breathe again once most of the eldritch magic, and in equal measure the divine hallow, was locked away in the core of the world. But by that point the old world was already a distant memory. It's been 500 years since the war, around 450 since most magic was locked away, and what did remain from before the war gave the world a significant boost in recovery. Old magic items and technology can be studied and recreated, and while technological/magical advancement is a bit uneven from region to region depending on their level of development and general population, the Guides have worked hard sharing everything they know between them to rebuild.

Purity Town, and the smaller villages immediately surrounding it (in the desert, snowy mountains, etc.) has such a low population/is so remote that they don't have much in the way of established governance. Various NPCs arguably have varying levels of authority within their specialization: Heather is the go-to for healing, Malik is the local monster hunter, and so on, but it's all very informal. The individual villages probably all have people who handle day-to-day things -- there are various random folks who live in the region to fill out each village outside of the established NPCs -- but it's just something going on in the background to keep the place running.

Guides aren't really meant to be politicians either, but they do often fall into a default leadership role since they're the go-to advice guys!

They're meant to preserve and share knowledge of the world, its languages, and its cultures; a reaction to the vast majority of that knowledge having been lost in the wake of the war 500 years ago. So Guides are out there fielding questions like "how do I make this medicine/when do I harvest this plant/is this edible/etc.," but they also are expected to know enough about situations like weather/celestial events such that they can give advice no matter what crops up. Extend that attitude to a more general "this person knows how to handle Problems, so let's default to whatever they tell us whenever we run into Problems," and you end up with Guides often taking pseudo-leadership or advisory positions.

Andrew is in something of a weird spot, as he took over for a much more established/respected Guide after she retired and threw him into it, and is not particularly good at commanding authority or dealing with people in the way she could, even though he tries to be nice. But he's extremely, extremely knowledgeable, even compared to other Guides due to having been around for long enough to pick up so much knowledge, so at least he can fulfill that aspect of the job easily enough and the townsfolk trust him to do so.

Tangentially related, but the lack of solid governance is specific/unique to Purity Town's remoteness. With a small enough population, folks rely on the cooperation and skills of others much more, and any disputes would be worked out among the townsfolk proper.

The world isn't fully settled, but there are some locations with enough of a population to be considered actual kingdoms (see: Princess NPC) with established government (see: Tax Collector). Chris' hometown, which sees a lot of ship traffic/trade, has a proper government, local guard, etc. along with their own Guide. Purity Town is just particularly out there! But it's still been around for long enough to have seen some trade, built up some skills among the residents, and establish basic infrastructure so that residents can live comfortably. Like comparing a small town in the modern day to a remote village in medieval times, residents still enjoy a relatively high standard of living, despite being a scattered and remote population.

The world hasn't recovered to where it was pre-Moon Lord, but it's certainly not a post-apocalyptic wasteland anymore!

[turtlewithatail]

Okay, no, wait. This is super fucking cool and I love this, but I have so many thoughts... they are only half developed, but I will try to refine them a bit and put them in powerpoint form or something eventually

Basically I love the concept but I think it can be more than just a reflavor - go big or go home.

Some preliminary thoughts in shitty bullet point format (sorry if this is incoherent):

Okay, so basically, instead of hell or hades or greek inspired, its jon trying to get through the institute one statement at a time, working his way to the panopticon, trying to stop elias

The home floor/house of hades is the reception area/the upper floors of the archives - shades are regular institute workers and statement givers, and when you go up to the groups of people, they have one line allusions to statements from the series.

The bedroom/weapon room is Jon's office

The first floor you fight through is the archives where you fight malicious statements and various entities - minibosses include the angler fish or the sandman- the final boss of the first floor is Jane Prentiss at first and then in later runs can be either rayner or Nikola

Prentiss has aoe attacks but is mostly melee

Rayner can black out the room and has longer range attacks

Nikola makes things weird and has manakin summons

Additionally in the archives, you can sometimes come across Bassira, who is looking for Daisy and gives you health or money like sisyphus

The second floor is Artifact storage - where you have enchanted items and twisted things attacking you. Minibosses include the piper - in the final boss room, you find sasha who turns into Not Them

Not Them has multiple variations: not cousin, not Graham, not sasha, etc.

In Artifact Storage, you can sometimes run across salesa in his camera house - he will give you powerups like persephone

The third floor is the tunnels - not sure abt the minibosses - maybe one of the hunters? - the final boss is Julia and Trevor working together to kill you

In the tunnels you. can run across Gerry's Spirit, who will tell you about Gertrude and the hunters and give you revival help

The final floor is cells in the panopticon, where you are finding a statement to survive - which you find and bring to the main room and read, releasing the apocalypse

The final boss of the game is Elias, who has a second phase of becoming Jonah Magnus

Once you beat the game, you emerge into the cabin with Martin and then leave to defeat Elias again(?) (Teasing a second game)

Every time you start a level, Jon says "Statement Begins", and when you die, it says "Statment Ends" and a tape, covered in webs is seen being rewound in the background.

Boons:

Dark - Given by Manuela - slowing effects as enemies stumble around blind

Corruption - john amherst - spreading damage over time with death bursts

Flesh - jared hopworth- meat shields, damage mitigation - can really lean into the gruesome here

Spiral - michael/helen - stunning + confusion effects

Stranger - could merge w spiral? - turning effects where you make enemies into allies?

Desolation - Jude Perry - chained fire damage

Hunt - Daisy(?) - crits and marking like artemis

End - Oliver Banks - not sure, but maybe something like ares

Vast -  Simon Fairchild - speed boosts with names like "Terminal Velocity"

Lonely - Peter Lukas - Push enemies away with fog and clouds

Slaughter - Grifters Bone - again, not sure what this could be - benefits for kill streaks?

Bloodstones are replaced with Satement Sense, where you can mark someone to give you a statement

Web - chaos like boons that change over time - they appear as cracks in the ground (I also like the idea that you could switch the spiral and the web here and do helen/Michaels door)

Buried - coffin gates like erebus but w a time limit challenge where if you dont succeed you are crushed

Keepsakes are replaced with Leitner's library

Weapons:

Gun: base is Daisy's pistol - Slaughter rifle

Axe - base is John's axe

Pipe - base is Elias' pipe

Knife: base is Melanie's knife - buried kukri

Claws/bestial form - base is Michael's hands - Daisy's claws

Shopkeeper is breekon and hope. - if you attack them enough, one will die and you will have to fight them as a boss

House contractor is rosie who doesnt say much

Other NPCs in the Archives include Tim, Melanie, Georgie, Sasha, Elias, Martin, all the regulars.

Like I said, all rambling thoughts that I may or may not get down somewhere, but that's where I am at this moment in time, so yeah, take that as you will.

remembered about my magnum opus aka tma hades au so decided to throw it out there. hades is a rogue-like game with beautiful graphics, amazing story and fantastic characters. and i like tma. it’s bunch of sketches with explainations, one page couldn’t be attached, rip breekon&hope as shopkeepers

[morgana-ren]

Astarion going all possessive over the first human he ever feeds from is just so good. I like to think you're almost friends at the point he asks, at least to your eyes. He's definitely attracted to you, enjoys your spirit, the banter, but maybe he's feigning the friendliness just a little in order to see what he can get out of you. Its entertainment. This new freedom away from his master is exciting, even with the parasite. He's having fun.

After convincing you to submit for that first drink he starts seeing you as a food source. And like any good predator starts to get possessive over that food source. Starts seeing you more as a pet. A pet that he can feed from, tease and play with, and shove his cock into when ever he wants.

Wants to mark you up so those other irritating companions know you're his, maybe some of his old master's ideas and behaviours were not too horrific after all, they make sense now.

You're everything he needs in one cute little package and he's never letting you go

Oh, absolutely.

Astarion’s mind has absolutely been twisted after some hundred years of suffering under the cruel and sadistic wrath of Cazador. Think of it like repeatedly putting a burning hot metal pan under ice cold water over and over and over until it warps into a new shape entirely. What this means (to me at least) is that even if he is genuinely affectionate towards you- even if he legitimately likes you- you are still viewed as something to be coveted, something to own. He views things through a corrupted lens now, and his affections reflect that.

It takes 7 years to brainwash a human into believing something completely new. To take a healthy human mind and fully convince it of a new and undisputed reality. To lay low your defenses, to coerce you into believing something is true wholeheartedly, no matter how absurd.

Now imagine what Cazador can do with over a century.

Astarion clearly retained his mind and some sense of rebellion, but I think that was intentional on Cazador’s part. He liked the suffering, the unwillingness to submit mentally to his own torture and degradation. But oh, what it must have done to everywhere else in Astarion’s head. Left it rather a dark little mess.

It’s pragmatic at first. You’re willing to let him, a filthy vampire, drink from you. Willing. Astarion is cutthroat in his survival instinct, and he���d be a goddamn fool to not utilize that. Everything else- your wit, your charm, that you’re enjoyable company- is just a bonus. He’s made it clear that he prefers delectable human blood to that of the beasts, and he’s a bit spoiled because of you. You let him drink from you that one night, and now any time he’s sucking down a bit of boar or bear, he can’t help but lament that it’s not rich human blood he’s indulging in.

As time goes on, it becomes simply unbearable. Sustaining himself on swill night after night when you’re right there, sleeping peacefully by the fire with your tender little neck looking so inviting. He’s thought about partaking in the others, of course, but they’ve all made it clear that they’d rend his flesh from his bones if he tried. Besides, why bother with them when you’re right there, all sweet and pretty and willing. 

He propositions you at the party, and damn you, you accept. It’s been hundreds of years since he’s had someone wrapped around his cock, and by the Gods, you’re happy to do it in every blissful sense of the word. He’s not sure if it’s just the sheer timespan and contrast of knowing nothing but cruel, torturous hands to your soft, little ones clawing across him or if it’s something about you in specific, but he decides on the cusp of orgasm that you belong to him. You offer him your neck with him buried deep in your hot, velvet insides, your thighs sticky sweet with arousal he’s coaxed from you and he vows that now that he’s sunk his teeth in, he’s not letting go. 

He’s not sure exactly how you view your little tryst. You were eager to let him mount you, but not reluctant to let him go in the morning. It could just be meaningless stress sex between companions, or maybe a bit more, but if it’s not, that’s something he’s going to have to breathe life into. You have to want him, to need him, and even to trust him with your life because ultimately, if he has his way, it’s going to belong to him.

Of course he can’t just tell you this. This takes finesse. You’re not a pet that he can simply purchase from the store and claim ownership of... unfortunately. So instead he lures you slowly. Spends more time with you, shares little bits of his life to endear himself to you. Starts getting a bit more flirtatious openly (much to everyone else’s disgust). Occasionally he’ll pull you into a dark corner and steal a kiss or three. You seems surprised at this, but it’s not unwelcome, and you let him get away with these little trespasses even as Shadowheart makes her disappointment known and Lae’zel scolds you both openly for it. 

At night by the fire, he’ll whine to you about how hard it is. About how once a vampire has had human blood, everything else tastes like rot. How taxing it is to hunt feral wildlife night after night, expending the measly strength it gives him only hours after. How bandit and goblin blood just doesn’t compare to the sweetness that sings to him from within your veins, enticing him and drawing him further into madness every time he’s near you.

He’s exaggerating, naturally, but it’s not far off. 

You, sweet thing, take pity on him. You can’t sustain him fully- not yet- but you’ll let him take little nibbles if he promises to show self control. Just tiny little indulgences that get him through the day. Just enough to leave you a bit woozy, dizzy from the gentle suck on your neck and his hands that roam freely over your body. 

He starts slinking his way into your bedroll more often- so often, in fact, that the others start demanding you take your little rolls in the hay somewhere else so they can get some bloody sleep. He, naturally, teases you about being such a noisy little thing, but obliges. Little do you know, getting you away from prying eyes as much as possible is the main focus here, as lovely as the fringe benefits are. 

It’s there in the darkness far beyond the shadows cast by the fire that he can draw you more into him. Lure you with his blasphemous whispers and plant ideas in your head that he can tend lovingly until they grow. About how fearsomely he fights at your side. How he’d do anything to keep you safe. About how you don’t need his protection (of course not) but he gives it freely to you because you are so fragile, so small compared to him. You are mortal, after all, and he plans on being the most powerful vampire in the realms. You’re capable, but ultimately, can you really compare? 

At first this makes you laugh, because clearly you are not fragile. You’ve taken threats that would make others flee in terror. You’ve faced down hags and goblin encampments and gnolls, even an ogre that one time he tempted you into interrupting its ‘private time.’ Surely, that’s proof enough that you’re not some damsel in distress that requires his saving.

He’s swift to remind you of his presence during all of these battles, and how many times did he place an arrow between the eyes of one threat or another to keep them from striking a blow on you? How often has he been there to cut the throat of some villain bearing down on you? How frequent has it been that he’s guarded you when Shadowheart had not the strength to heal you and supplies were running dreadfully low?

It’s a careful process, but he’s patient. Worth it, when you start to lean more into him. Start to look to him over others for council. Keep so, so close to him in dark places where monsters lurk in the dark that could spill your precious blood with a single swipe. You start to cling to him, both in and out of battle, 

And aren’t you just the prettiest little prize? Obnoxiously so. Your presence demands respect- attention. Even from other members in your party that resent how he’s managed to monopolize your time and affection. When a small group works together for long enough, it’s a given that some might develop feelings, but this one is his. Still, they rudely seek to interject, to drive a wedge between him and his pet, and he simply cannot have that. 

You’re hesitant to let him take the blade to your skin at first, as most would be. After all, you’ve seen him kill countless with it Seen how effectively he can wield it and shuddered at the violence in its wake. Doesn’t it hurt? Doesn’t it ache terribly? 

But that’s not fair, he tuts you. You’ve asked about his scars, have you not? Wanted to know all the sorry, sordid details? And he told you, even as it pained him terribly, because you wanted to understand. Don’t you want to understand him? Didn’t you want to know everything he went through? Did he make a mistake in trusting you? Don’t you trust him? 

He promises it will be quick and clean, but most of all, barely even scar at all. Much, much less than was forced upon him. A little memento of your time together, should you choose to part ways after all this nasty business is over. Hardly noticeable. A bonding activity, really. 

So you let him. Far from the nosy members of your party, you dig your nails into his thigh as you lie across his lap as he traces it. First once, then twice. A third time for good measure. It feels bigger than he promised you it would be, but he’s already on edge from rejection, so you keep your mouth shut. What’s one more scar, anyways? You risk them every day when you venture forth, so this- this is nothing, right? 

And oh, how he beams with pride when it’s finished. A lovely ‘A’ in practiced scripting stark red and weeping on your pretty skin. He leaves plenty of room for the letters to come, but he won’t push it tonight. You’re so tense, clearly in pain, but he licks at the wound until it’s clean and comforts you, asks you if you can imagine hours of that, like he endured. 

That stiffens your upper lip, and it’s a bit of a shame. You’re awfully cute when you’re all trembling and weak beneath him. Still, plenty of time. 

He rewards you with hours of pleasure for being such a good girl. For doing as he asked like an obedient darling should, even despite your initial reservations. He knows it’s about conditioning you to obey, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t finding reasons to crawl between your legs at this rate. Gods, you like him enough to let him do whatever he wants to you now. Hand on your throat, his teeth sinking into the swell of your breast, begging him so sweetly for more even if it pains you. 

He can have you any way he likes, and he fully intends to do just that. A pretty, pliant little thing mewling around his cock, milking him dry with every hole you have. You’re dangerous that way, so easy to lose himself in the tight, wet swaddle of your body that constricts him so snugly every single time, your sticky, clinging insides just begging to be defiled over and over and over. He’s a glutton for pleasure, and aren’t you just an endless font of it?

Things like this, they do tend to take time. Time to break down your will, your confidence, the very proverbial bones that keep you standing on your own two feet. Clipping your wings until you can no longer soar and can sit pretty and tame like the pet you are inside the gilded cage he’s constructing just for you. He’ll keep you close always. He imagines you’ll make a ravishing vampire. Not a vampire lord like he’ll become, of course. He can’t risk you getting any ideas like he had with his old master, but he can’t have you dying on him from insignificant things like age.

Oh yes, things like this, they do indeed take time; Patience honed over centuries and a precise yet firm hand. Breaking someone isn’t for the faint of heart, but he’s learned for the best. So lucky lucky for him, he has both of those things in spades. 

It’s all just a matter of time.

[bokettochild]

Sticks and Stones May Break My Bones

Angst! My Beloved!

Not a lot of whump here, but I put Wild through the wringer!!! Lots of BotW2 ideas and concepts here, but nothing really cannon.

Also, disclaimer: I think Flora is a wonderful person, a bit harsh and sometimes unkind, but I feel for her a lot. The prompt submitted to me however asked for her as an ass, so that's what's here, for angst reasons. THIS IS NOT HOW I PLAN ON WRITING HER NORMALLY!!!

When Wild left the Chain behind in the woods, it was with a soft smile and a hesitant wave of his right hand. It was with a gentle ‘See y’all later’ that made Warriors shake his head with a sigh while Twilight offered a wobbly grin.

He would join them again, he knew that. After all, Hylia wouldn’t have chosen him to go with them in the first place if he was only supposed to leave before they’d even really started to know what it was that they were meant to be doing.

He’d see them again, and he’d fall back into a routine with all of them, sparring with Warriors and teaching Hyrule to cook and shield surfing with Wind and learning to carve from Sky. He’d go back to sewing with Legend, to exploring with Hyrule, to learning the Ocarina with Time and teasing Twilight about his terrible singing. He could work with Four on the Sheikah Slate and experimenting with different plants he’d gathered. He would see them again, and he’d go back to being busy and smiling nearly every day.

For the time being however, he had to square his shoulders and harden his jaw as he stepped through the swirl of black that had repulsed all the others every time they tried to enter. He had to tame his mind and wild spirit and come to stand before the Princess of Hyrule in all of her stern glory and receive the scolding he was due for wandering off without permission.

He never had time to question what she meant by being gone for ‘two whole weeks’ before she was marching off towards the labs and explaining that there was a new task for them to complete.

Such a task was one that left in his mind no time for thoughts of his brothers save on the lonely nights in the sky when the islands above the clouds were silent save for the birds about him that reminded him of Sky, or when he ran across the forests and was reminded of the wolf that once ran at his side. And, alright, the tiny people in the grass and the fountains reminded him of Four and Hyrule. When the wind sang strong in his ears as he dove towards the earth from the highest places in the sky, he couldn’t help but envision a small hero whose laughter danced like the sea and who’s fingers mastered the currents of wind and sea both.

It was a lonely quest, just like his last before it, but somehow it was more painfully so, now that he knew what it was to have brothers at his side to catch a monster’s blade when he was too slow or to help him patch himself up afterwards. It was quiet when the Princess and he sat around the fires as night, she studying him as he sat still and stonelike as she worked.

The hand that had waved goodbye to his brothers now flickered green and ethereal in the night shades, iron bands clinging to the wisping appendage and acting as a bond to hold its form together. It was nothing like what he’d known or studied in the Sheikah technology, or even what he’d seen from the many worlds he’d traveled with the other, and it earned many a stare and twist of the lips from those he met and traded with during his journey.

The arm was only the first of many changes, it’s power seeping through his body and altering him before he even knew what was happening. He’d hated it at first, disliking how it changed him, made his eyes glow and his hair touch with the same ethereal shades, red bleeding through at the roots and earning him even more wary looks.

Ganon, in all his terrifying power, had been a surprising comfort during the quest, an aid to discovering his new abilities and training them to bend to his own will. The Princess had been wary of their relationship, but had accepted it when she saw what he learned to do, and every evening she would require a report of his newfound skills, as well as the occasional demonstration or examination.

It all came to an end both too soon and not soon enough.

Ganon was gone, as if he’d never been there at all, and the Princess was as cold as ever even after their second adventure at each other's sides. And now there was no use for the abilities that had fused to his soul like the arm had to his flesh. He’d asked Purah if there was something that could be done to restore his body to its normal Hylian state, without the glowing limb that earned his only stares and insults from the village people, but the Princess had overheard it and declared that such a thing should not even be attempted.

“You don’t understand, Link. Don’t be foolish! We have here a scientific marvel ready for our investigation and exploration and you want to get rid of it just because it looks odd?”

He’s shuffled his feet slowly, resisting the impulse to rub at his chest where the Hylian part of him ended and the eldritch horror began. “I can’t live like  Hylian anymore.”

“Because you aren’t one!” Her Highness rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Sir Knight, after everything I certainly doubt that Hylian even applies to you anymore! Hylians do not possess the qualities that you now do, and they most certainly do not travel through stone or time or any other such thing at will. Think would you! You’re something else entirely, and I intend to find out what that is!”

Purah had frowned at that, eyes full of sorrow as they met his own with an apologetic sigh. But there was nothing the de-aged scientist could really say against the royal Sovreign of Hyrule, not as a Sheikah sworn to the service of the royal family. The woman/girl had offered him a sympathetic pat on the head later after climbing up to reach high enough to do so, as well as a few dumplings that Paya had sent on her grandmother’s behalf the day before. It was a welcome gesture, but amounted to so little on the grand scale of life. Not when so many others he had once called his friends had so blatantly rejected the mere sight of him.

Bolson and the other carpenters shied away from him with harsh whispers as they spat insults across the distance.

‘Half-blood’.

‘Gerudo Bastard’.

‘Freak’.

‘Demon’.

There were favorite insults spread from stable to stable and up and coming village to up and coming town and slowly all of Hyrule knew of the monster that had once been the hero. Gossip abounded, and he couldn’t even turn to shield his face with his hood without drawing attention to his arm.

It was only the koroks that welcomed him, themselves all too accustomed to the strange and ethereal. Them and the blupees.

Maybe it was the knowledge of how it felt to be shot at for his oddness that allowed him to ease into the graces of the flighty animals. And maybe it was his lonely heart crying for comfort, but when nestled in their midst, it almost reminded him of how it felt to be hugged by the salty veteran, on the rare occasional that the pink-haired hero had let down his guard.

The fairy’s tangled themselves in his hair and the blupees gathered at his feet, koroks dancing around him and flying to his side as if he was some sort of forest god, but the strange rise of his spirits in their presence shattered the instant a traveler caught sight of him.

Arrows and fire, once his favorite of weapons, were turned against him as words in every language of the New Hyrule had burst from the mouths of its people, and like his namesake, he ran before them, darting through the forest and fading in amidst the trees, hiding, incorporeal and translucent within the halls of the forest as those he’d once seen as allies pushed him away.

He’d begged the new Queen for aid, for relief or even just a word to the people that he wasn’t the evil they had come to think he was, but she only waved him aside with a purse of her lips. “You are not meant to be here without first asking.” The Child of Hylia declared, eyes as cold as the Shrine’s waters themself. “And why should I make a declaration on behalf of a man who refuses to even speak to me properly? You come groveling like a worm, yet for years it was I who you ignored. See how it feels, Sir Hero, to be the one left helpless at the hands of the country. Know what it is to be scorned by those who you thought would love you.”

He’d barely made it out of the window before the trainee guards of the newly repaired Hyrule Castle had caught him and Queen Zelda Diana Hyrule had stared after him with eyes colder than Hebra’s tallest peaks.

It was the Father Tree -the Deku Tree as the Queen had called it, but the koroks laughed at him for using the name, so he’d adjusted in kind- who suggested that he hide the changes, and he’d begun to wander Hyrule as much as possible to find the materials he would have needed.

The Queen still required his presence regularly so she could inspect him; her love of science no ways tainted as to stop her from ordering him to appear regularly, as there was now no need or safety in his acting as her guard. The Queen sought her people’s respect, and to employ such a being as himself, not Hylian and not quite mortal, would be to spark fear in the people. Indeed, when he skirted villages, he would wince at word of ‘the queen’s monster’ as gossip was traded. Those who didn’t see him themselves knew him as a beast of feral nature who lived amid the lost woods and destroyed any who came close.

“A specter that glows with the light of the shrines.” They would tell each other over campfires. “It has eyes like a ghost, empty and lost, with no care for humanity or Hylia’s chosen. They say it was once the Hero of this world, but he died ages ago.”

“I heard it’s the body, possessed by a being beyond this realm, a monster escaped from the edges of reality that tried to hide in our midst but corrupted it’s host so that it only scares away others, leaving it roam the earth in a shattered body. If you get too close to it though, it’ll take your instead.”

He’d stayed away from towns after that.

The blupees and koroks had been happy to help him to find what he needed to hide among the Hylians should he wish though, and two in particular guided him; the korok swinging little twigs like they were batons and humming swinging little shanties as it hopped along the path, the blupee snorting softly and nipping at his heels when he wandered too far, unnatural purple eyes staring up at him with something that was fondness and a reprimand all at once, and in their care he’d made his way across the land of Hyrule to find what would be needed to return to his once life.

The fairies and their Great cousins had been welcome help, and in time, he’d been able to walk amid the populace of Hyrule like any other, as long as he kept a long cloak about him and his hair pulled back to hide where the roots would begin showing again in gold and ethereal blue.

Once Hyrule had talked about needing to hide in his world, about the curse that followed him and made the Hylian people afraid. He’d thought it bizarre and ridiculous of the people at the time, but now he understood what it was to live it.

When the portal opened beneath his feet the day that the Queen had reprimanded him for concealing and potentially damaging the strange limb, startling the Skeikah scientists and Queen both, he’d nearly cried tears of relief.

He was going away, somewhere where he wasn’t a science project and where, unless they traveled to his world’s future, no one would know how much he had changed. His copy of the slate had enough hair dye to last him a few months, and he was certain he could make more over time, and as long as he continued wearing the tunics and gloves the fairies had helped him to adjust to hide the glow the others would probably never catch on. Or well, he could extend it anyway.

His brothers greeted him with open arms and teary eyes, and in a strange parallel to his adventure, he found himself thinking of blupees when Legend had curled against him, stiff and cold on the outside, but with fingers that clutched his tunic just a bit too tight to really be reluctant. And Four, Hyrule and Wind’s exuberant hugs and chatter brought to mind tiny forest people and koroks with twigs for batons.

It was good to be home.

It was good to cook for other people again, and they were glad to have him cook for them, even if his fondness for both Gerudo spiced dishes and fae like sweet things had increased exponentially during his newest adventure. It was good to fight at their sides, even if it was strange to once again have to take others into account before he could select a weapon. It was good to sit around a fire and talk with the others too, but that was perhaps the hardest one; it had been ages since he’d had a proper two-way conversation with anything other than a tree or a korok, and neither of those was good at either staying awake or staying focused for very long.

There were some harder things to adjust to though. Fire, for one. Unlike before when he’d have been happy to burn an enemy camp to the ground, now he was wary of using faming weapons or spreading heat further than necessary. The same went for hunting; he couldn’t bring himself to shoot an animal unless it attacked first or they needed the meat it would provide, and even then, he felt a bit bad for doing so. Is this what Twilight had felt like? Is this why the rancher never liked hunting? Because he too knew what it was like to be on the other end of the bow?

But the hardest thing by far to readjust to was his name.

‘Wild’ they had called him again, and after months of ‘the wild one’, ‘wild beast’, ‘monster’ and every other insult, slur or title that had been used on him, it made him flinch ever so slightly at the words. And unlike the other things where his brothers dismissed it as a change caused by his adventure or an increase of maturity, it was something that the others seemed to either not notice or to excuse as situational.

He had adapted though, learned to keep a smile on his face where blankness had once been required in his knightly duties, and the more he wore the mask the easier it was to put on again.

He’d reveled in traveling across time again, in dancing through battles and exploring the world without the Queen reprimanding him in her cold tones to stop wandering off. He’d pushed himself to learn more music in the last adventure, and even if his experience was more with what few instruments Ganon had had time to help him learn, he’d enjoyed sitting down with the others and borrowing one or another instrument to play a tune and sometimes he even got to sing.

He fell to comfortably into his role though, even with the changes, and he hadn’t even noticed when they’d come back to his world. To be fair, it was different in the daytime, and Hyrule had changed so much in the absence of her hero as he hid himself away from the eyes of civilization. Towns and roads had sprung up where there had only been fields before, and the Guardians that had littered the land had all been dug up and hauled to the castle to be either restored or destroyed by the Sheikah, depending on what Queen Zelda decided after she looked at them herself. The world was so different to him, so unlike that which he knew, that he’d failed to keep as alert as he ought to have been when he wandered about an open market with the others, laughing and chattering away with the other younger ones as Time and Legend herded them towards the needed stalls.

It was a traveler that was his downfall, a man who’d seen the Monster Hero and had been among the first to discover the disguise he wore.

No questions were asked when the word spread, and Wild hadn’t caught on to the whispers until a stone had struck his cheek and he was stumbling forwards on the path.

“Wild!” Twilight was at his side in a minute, Time right after him as Legend launched a barrage of insults at the guilty party who’d thrown the thing.

“’m fine.” He was careful to wipe the blood away with his cloak, holding the fabric to the wound to prevent bluish blood seeping down his face and exposing him to his brothers. He wanted to keep them as long as possible and proving himself to be a monster, not even Hylian, would surely have them turning their backs on him.

“Get away from him!” A woman scolded, grabbing ahold of two of the younger heroes while several other shoppers had like ways grabbed Legend and Sky. “Are you dears alright? He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“Freaking what?” Legend shrieked. “Who’s the injured party here?”

“I’d avoid that thing, son.” A man huffed through a frankly walrus like mustache, eyes hard as they trailed to where Wild stood, cloak still pressed to his cheek as he attempted to wave off a fussing Twilight and Time. “It’s not natural. Sure, it looks like a normal Hylian, but that’s just an effective ruse.”

Another villager nodded. “It’s one of the Calamity’s puppets, a Gerudo-Bastard set on destroying the kingdom!”

“He’s the freaking hero!” Legend shrieked, barely being held back by a steely eyed Sky. “He saved all your freaking asses and all you can do is insult his flipping guts? Who’s the-”

“Enough.” There were few times that Sky’s voice reached levels worse than Twilight’s growls, but the stern command, regal and firm, froze all present as the man stiffened with a cold nod towards the villagers. “I see we are unwelcome here, and with that being the case it would be wise to spend our rupees elsewhere. Legend,” A tug to the boy’s shoulders. “Let’s join the others and be out of their hair. If they cannot be welcoming and kind to our brother than they will not receive our patronage.” And like a swan gathering it’s cygnets, Sky swept down the street, cape fluttering as he ushered the rest of them out of the town and back to the safety of the wilds. The village stared after them with wide eyes, as if they’d just been judged by a breathing god.

The stiffness in Sky’s shoulders faded as they neared the edge of the forest, and instantly the Chosen Hero been tutting over Wild, gently but firmly prying his hand away from his face with a kind smile that almost set Wild at ease. Almost.

“It’s fine, it’s just a scrape.”

“Still.” Sky crooned softly. “I’d rather we clean it up now and make sure it’s nothing worse than let it sit and get infected later.”

And though he’d tried to fight, his single Hylian hand was no match for the firm grip of the Skyloftian, and within minutes his face was exposed to the shocked faces and flickering eyes of his brothers.

“It’s blue...” Wind breathed as Hyrule darted forwards, hands already glowing softly only for them to stutter to a stop over Wild’s skin.

“It’s... Wild, why is your blood- why is-” The healer’s eyes had flickered golden for a moment, wide as they stared up at him. “What happened to you-”

“What the freak!” Legend had startled, blinking in surprise as he stared. “Your eyes are glowing!”

Shit! The healing properties of the arm had already taken affect and it was making everything act up all weird! He shot a glance down at his arm, one hand raising to tangle in the long hair he couldn’t even see at the moment, praying silently beneath his breath that nothing was showing through. It wasn’t, but that didn’t change how Hyrule had come to fixate on his right arm, or how the healer's fingers hovered over it sparking and eyes twinkling as he whispered softly under his breath.

“Wild.” Time had sighed. “I think this one is going to need an explanation.”

All the breath left his lung in instants.

He’d panicked to say the least and Time had eventually shooed the others away to make camp as the eldest hero had sat at his side, waiting silently for him to regulate his breathing. Touch was too much right now, and any attempts from the others to ease him down or help him level out his breathes had only made him panic more. But when at last his blue eyes blinked back to clarity it was to see Time sitting at his side, a gentle tune wafting from the Ocarina at his lips.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, trying his hardest not to startle Time or otherwise make the situation worse. “I should have said something, I know. I just- missed being Wild and I wanted to come back and be normal and I didn’t want to-”

“It’s alright.” Time’s voice rumbled softly, a single blue eye turning to him with a pained look, even as the man offered him a hint of a smile. “None of us talk about our adventures either.”

“Yes, but you’re people.” He sighed, rubbing the fingers of his glove together. “You’re allowed to choose things.”

There was pain in Time’s voice when their leader answered. “And you’re not?”

“I’m not Hylia anymore.” He whispered. “I don’t count.”

“You count to us.”

“That’s because you don’t know.”

Time shifted, turning to face him fully as the ocarina was set firmly in the grass. “That’s because you’re family and we care. Wild, I don’t care if Demise himself named you the king of the dead, you’re still my kid and Nayru knows I’m not going to let you go without a fight. If that means fighting you, alright, but you’d best better believe that no amount of physical or mental changes will break the bonds we all have with you.”

Something, something damaged and crushed and stitched up and torn open again clenched inside of him, tears pricking at his eyes as he stared up at Time’s royal blue gaze. “W-what?”

“You could be granted godhood, made a monster, I don’t care. You’re ours and you’ll have to deal with that.” Time smiled, warm even with the pain in his eyes as he looked down at him. “So how about you start again, maybe with the facts rather than the insults. Or,” Time softened, brows furrowing lightly. “If you want, we can just sit here and you can choose to talk about this later. We do need to know, so we can help you and keep you safe, but you don’t have to tell us right now. You can take some time to figure out what you want to say if you need.”

And, well, shoot him, but Time’s arms had always been a safe place and there was one thing he’d wanted more than anything since he had come back. Wild threw himself into his grand-mentor's arms with a soft sob, clutching tightly to the other, ignoring the armor and its sharp points and awkward shapes as he tried to hold back all the emotions swirling in his chest.

Time’s arms folding around him broke the floodgates though, and when the man’s hand had stroked through his shortened hair, he’d had to bury his face in Tim’s neck to muffle his sobs.

“There, there,” Time hummed softly, rocking slowly as he held the broken wild hero. “Let it out, little one. I have you, I’ve got you and I’m not letting anyone hurt you.”

[talonwings]

to feed a kingdom- Empires SMP Writing

in which fWhip and his subjects make questionable choices for noble reasons.

(can you tell yet that i am a c!fWhip apologist lololololol--)

It would have been easy to miss the small silhouette of the man against the giant shadows looming over the landscape.

The inky sky seemed to cling low over the Grimlands, as it had ever since the Dragon fell; the stars shone more dimly, those that still shone at all. Clouds scudded frantically across the faint crescent of the moon, pushed along by a harrying wind. The crickets all had fallen silent--indeed, all the animals had gone, hidden away in burrows and holes to shelter themselves from the threat of the corruption. No sound disturbed the stillness of the night, but for the harsh gasps of the lone figure as he raised the scythe and swung it again, and again, and again.

fWhip’s fingers had long since blistered, burst, and blistered again. He had stopped even glancing down to check his hands--the sight of the blood seeping through the fabric of his gloves had averted his gaze some time ago. The pain was a constant companion, enough so that he had become used to it, could ignore it if he gritted his teeth and focused on the rhythmic rise and fall of the tool in his grasp.

He was inelegant with the scythe. It would have been obvious to anyone observing, if there had been anyone around to observe at this ungodly hour; as it was, his lack of skill was evident enough in the ache it left behind in his forearms and shoulders, the torque that yanked at his spine every time he twisted to put his weight behind the swings. He had never been a large man, but he felt his smallness down to his bones here beneath the tower of corruption that still rose into the air above him.

Give up, the rot-red tendril seemed to hiss at him. Its veiny surface pulsated eerily, hinting at something living just beneath the fleshy exterior.

“I’ll die first,” fWhip rasped at it. “Watch me.”

He swung the scythe again. The blade was weathered steel, pocked and beaten from many years of use, but still dangerously sharp. It bit deep into the corrupted tendril, and fWhip was gratified when he swore he could hear a faint scream.

Plash was worried about the Count.

It wasn’t that her lord was acting strange, exactly. Strange, to Plash, was a relative term--she had been called ‘strange’ for most of her childhood due to her fondness for laboratory tools over the company of other children. It was a relief to finally be accepted into the service of the Grimlands’ ruler, who, by Plash’s measure, was a kindred spirit in strangeness. Many people raised their eyebrows at the Count’s eccentricities, but accepted them simply because he was the Count, and who were they to question the man who kept food on their tables and money in their coffers?

No, Plash was concerned because fWhip was acting strange, even for him. He was energetic and filled to the brim with ideas, as a rule--it was what made the Grimlands, under his rule, surge to the forefront of scientific research and discovery. Plash would have never described him as kind, necessarily, or even pleasant, but he was confident and sure and bold.

Until the Dragon fell, and everything changed.

She did not know how to make the dullness go out of his eyes, or the slant from his shoulders, or the heavy, bowing weight from his head, and it frightened her--an uncomfortable experience in itself, for someone as rarely frightened as Plash. In the hours immediately after the Dragon’s end, she had watched her beloved ruler become a person she did not recognize; and that, even before the corruption had arrived.

Plash scowled out the window of the manor at the scarlet tendril hanging ominously in the sky beyond the pane. The damn things had erupted from the ground barely a week after the Dragon’s death, while the Grimlands were still reeling from the arrival of what seemed like half of Mythland’s population. They had barely had enough time to count them all, much less figure out how they were going to feed them. Tents lined every road in Eastvale, and most of the roads immediately outside the town’s wall.

Normally, the Count would guide us, Plash thought glumly. But now…

She didn’t allow herself to finish the thought, close enough to treason as it was. Instead, she made herself continue her trek through the long, high-ceilinged halls toward the Count’s personal study, acutely feeling the weight of the smooth little scroll clutched in her hand, burning a hole through her glove.

She arrived at the tall, paneled oak door, staring for a long moment at the polished bronze knocker before summoning her strength and rapping it twice.

“Enter,” the weary voice called from within.

Plash did so, but stopped just inside the door, barely remembering to close it behind her as she gaped at her leader and mentor. He looked terrible. His eyes were ringed by bruise-purple circles, his cheeks hollow with exhaustion; more bruises were visible on the exposed skin of his wrists where his jacket sleeves rode up, and Plash swore she could see blood staining his gloves.

“Are you just going to stare?” the Count asked. The question was blunt, but his voice was weak and lacked its usual intensity.

“I…” Plash couldn’t find any words, so instead she held up the scroll. “This just arrived.”

“And they sent you instead of a raven?” fWhip gave a dry laugh. “I wasn’t aware that you were doing the job of birds now, Plash Ajax.”

Most people would have been embarrassed by the quip, but Plash shrugged. “A raven brought it, but the raven-mistress said it was too important not to be hand-delivered.”

“Mm.” fWhip eyed her for a moment before he, too, shrugged. “Bring it here.”

She obeyed, crossing the room and depositing the scroll on his desk. Up close he looked even worse than at first glance; his face and every centimeter of exposed flesh were riddled with tiny scratches, like he had been on the losing end of an encounter with a thorn bush. His clothes were wrinkled and disheveled, his gingery hair utterly unkempt. Plash said nothing, only waiting in silence for him to inspect the scroll.

He took it in his hands and unrolled it, eyes scanning it for a second before he let it fall from his grip. It hit the desk with a clack, but Plash barely noticed, fixated as she was on the single tear that trailed down the Count’s cheek before being lost in the tangle of his beard.

“Um…” She chewed her lip for a moment, internally caught between wanting to comfort him and wanting to turn tail and run. She settled for asking, somewhat awkwardly, “Shall I, um...shall I leave?”

“Do what you like,” he replied in a tone thick with exhaustion. One gloved hand came up for a noncommittal wave, the fingers indeed stained scarlet with blood.

Plash stood frozen for what felt like an eternity, although it was probably no more than a minute, trying to decide what to do. Finally, she decided to be as blunt as the man she looked up to. “You look awful. Did someone break in here for a fight last night?”

She thought she had made an awful mistake when fWhip’s eyes locked onto her, his mouth agape; relief washed over her when he started to laugh, the sound hoarse and beaten, but familiar.

“So you can tell,” he said when he finally stopped laughing. “Well, I suppose I did nothing to try to clean up.”

“Wait, so there was a fight?” Plash asked in confusion.

“Of a kind,” the Count replied wryly.

“...I’m confused,” the young scientist admitted.

“Ah, I know how you hate that.” fWhip’s mouth quirked in a half-smile. “All of you young researchers do, though I try my best to beat it out of you.” He stood, shaking his head and then wincing visibly at the movement. “Ack. That’s unpleasant.”

“Can I, er, help in any way?” Plash asked.

“Follow me,” the Count said, beckoning with a gesture toward the door. “I will answer your question, though you must promise to share this with no one.”

Plash followed silently, thoughts spinning through her head as they descended the several floors of the manor and exited into the gardens beyond. From down here, she had a full view of the corruption towering over the skyline of Eastvale, tendrils encircling the town as if to latch on and pull it into the earth, although for now, they remained still. It was toward one of the massive growths that fWhip led her, and as they neared, Plash could see a curious wound in the side of the tentacle. It leaked and bled crimson ooze from the gash, and its flesh seemed to have withered around the site, blackened and decaying.

“What caused this?” Plash wondered aloud. “More corruption? Some new blight?”

“I did,” the Count answered.

“You--?” Plash stared at him, aghast, her eyes dropping slowly to the scarlet-stained scythe that lay abandoned on the ground below the tendril. She hadn’t noticed it until he nudged it with his boot, but now she saw the corrupted ichor dripping from the blade, the red vines hacked to pieces and lying dead beside the tool.

“Did you know I wanted to be a farmer once?”

She was caught entirely off-guard by the question, still enthralled as she was by the sight of the scythe, so it took her a moment to fully process it. “Wh--wait, a farmer? As in…?” She mimed what she thought scything wheat might look like.

fWhip nodded tiredly. “When I was very young, I once had to accompany my parents, the old Count and Countess, on a trip to a Wither Rose Alliance summit in Mythland. They were, of course, ensconced in meetings all day, so I wandered the kingdom with my…” Here he trailed off, a flash of some unreadable feeling crossing his face for a moment before he went on. “With an old friend. We got into plenty of mischief, and one of the pranks we decided on was to unlatch the gate to a field full of cows. Luckily, the farmer caught us before we were trampled to death by the beasts, and although we were royal, he decided to teach us a lesson, and made us help him sow carrot seeds for two hours.”

Plash made a face. “That sounds horrid.”

The Count chuckled softly. “My friend thought so, but for me, there was something very rewarding in digging up the earth, placing the seeds, covering them, and knowing that they would someday become food for the citizens of Mythland.”

“...Sort of like finishing a machine that you know will be used to make life easier for people,” Plash said after a moment’s reflection. She knew the feeling--hands oil-stained, face soot-smeared, hair wild, sleep-deprived and exhausted, but overwhelmed with warmth when she gazed at the thing she had created. There was nothing like it.

fWhip nodded. “Yes. And so I told my parents when I was returned to them later that I wanted to become a farmer and grow carrots for all the people of the Grimlands. They laughed, of course, and said that a Count’s son could do more than become a simple farmer, and as it turned out, they were right. But for a long time, I had a secret dream to fill the whole world with fields, to build one every day, as far as the eye could see.”

Plash gazed at him silently for a long time. Finally, she said, “So this is your chance to use the scythe to help the Grimlands?”

His face became hard, almost unrecognizably so. “If I have to tear down every one of these damn things, I will.”

There was silence between them again, the awful, still silence that had hung over the Grimlands in all the hours that had passed since the Ender Dragon’s demise. Plash watched as the Count breathed raggedly, his fists clenched and trembling, the entire weight of their kingdom resting on his shoulders.

“I’ll help,” she said.

He blinked--it was clearly not the response he had been expecting. “What?”

“I said, I’ll help,” Plash repeated. Her resolve was growing now, ideas taking root--like seeds, like kernels that, properly watered, would grow into something that could help them all. “I’m terrible with a scythe, but I know machines and chemicals. If you give me a sample, I can turn it into something that will help us feed the Mythlanders.”

The Count’s eyebrows rose almost to his hairline. “Feed--with the corruption?”

Plash scowled at him. “Did you recruit me from university because I had boring ideas?”

He looked astonished for a moment, but only for a moment, and then his mouth formed the devious smile that she hadn’t seen in nearly eight days.

“No,” he agreed. “I did not. Very well, Plash Ajax. You will turn Xornoth’s corruption into food for the people of Mythland. But you know, I have high expectations now that you’ve even suggested such a thing.”

Plash grinned right back, cracking her knuckles, her mind already working. “I know. So do I.”

[onesunofagun]

Undeath in the Era of the Hero of Time : 1

aka Seeing the Hero’s Shade in this TP replay shook up all my feelings of agony again and now I’m working backwards from there because I like to hurt myself.

Part One: An Overview of How Fucked Things Are ™

aka The Blood Soaked Hyrule of OoT’s time 

Take it as you will, in the Zeldaverse, the colour green has an overwhelming association with undeath. 

Sure, sure, life too, I hear you. Farore came down and produced all the living beings that would uphold the law, apparently (specifically not claiming monsters and demons, but that’s another thing). On the surface, that make sense. Forests, lush green fields, prosperity, all of those good things. Green the colour of the most common rupee, green the colour of the Hero’s tunic. Green the colour of magic, and potions that revitalise the body and spirit.

The thing is, revitalising the body and spirit is a flexible idea. To imbue something with new life and vitality can have a lot of implications, especially when you stop talking about the strictly living. 

I feel vitality is certainly the best word, not only because of it’s association with life and potency ala the Goddess origin stories, but in the ways that the game uses green itself, such as a measure of both magic and stamina. Green is the colour chosen to represent the unlocked potential within young Heroes. 

Vitality specifically refers to a state of being strong and active, and it also refers to the continuance of something to exist. That’s a great thing for plants, or economies, or a potion taken by a young Link who’s swung their sword around or fired off a spell one too many times and feels a little low.

But the dead, though?

As it happens, Hyrule is absolutely littered with human remains, in no small part due to the very recently ended civil wars. 

The Civil War, if you need the reminder, is described as a time when the many races of Hyrule were divided and each focused on establishing dominion over the Sacred Realm (because Triforce). I touched on this in my last meta post, but basically, its no holds barred to stop that from happening because if the wrong person gets into the Sacred Realm and makes a wish, it immediately malfunctions. 

The criteria for getting into the Sacred Realm and touching the Triforce without royally fucking everything, is basically impossible for anybody not chosen by Hylia. 

If you are neither of Hylia’s Bloodline (The Hyrulean Royal Family) or one of her Chosen Avatars (The current incarnation of the Hero), you are not supposed to touch the Triforce. Ever. You WILL be found wanting, it WILL shatter, the Sacred Realm WILL be corrupted by your selfish desires, it WILL unleash and onslaught of mystical influence (reflecting your heart) onto the country.

Now, if it’s Zelda or Link who touches it, that’s fine. Good vibes will pour out. An age of prosperity will ensue. The Sacred Realm is in its default state, a blank and neutral wellspring of magical force.

The game has been rigged from the get go because Hylia still had a job to do. She had to get creative because Demise almost captured the flag, so to speak, leading to the snafu of the Cycle and all that because she cheated at the game, but ultimately Hylia’s task was to guard the Triforce. And that still remains true, for the most part. The Hyrulian Royal Family (and the Shiekah by extension) had to stop at absolutely nothing to win the wars and unify the country, and retain the stasis of the Realm and Triforce, because that’s what their divine orders are.

That’s what they’re supposed to do, ‘the very reason that they’re born’, to lend a quote from King Daphnes. With Hylia on their side by default, they’re willing to do a lot of fucked up things to make sure that happens, ‘for the greater good’.

These dark times are a result of our deeds... -- TP Zelda

In OoT The Sheikah are known as the Shadow Folk. They are heavily associated with death, whether that is caring for the dead’s rest in the graveyard, or working as spies and assassins on behalf of the Royals, or dabbling in various forms of necromancy. Red eyes are an established trait of their people. I will note that, at least from a Japanese point of view, red is often used with the intention of intimidating evil spirits. But it is also a color identified with power and vitality.

So, one could suppose, the Sheikah red eye also symbolises power/control over evil and darkness (spiritually).

That’s a little something that plays nicely with things like the OoT Manga’s explanation of the tear on the eye (and the previous betrayal of the Royal family) and the high probability of a Shiekah faction defaulting during the wars and being banished with other traitors to become the Twili. I know the manga isn’t canon and also SS Impa has a tear, but if you squint, that might be because of her own feelings of personal failure to the Goddess after Hylia’s shedding of her Divinity. You could headcanon that. The existence of the Yiga later in BoTW as a similar happening of division and betrayal lend some more weight to things.

Also, Sheikah who defaulted during the civil war might have even been the ones who actually utilised the Shadow Temple. 

Headline: Necromancer ninjas in the process of torturing enough info out of the enemies of the Royal family, who were reportedly seeking the Sacred Realm, decide ‘hey fuck it, let’s take it ourselves’. 

That certainly fits into the description of, ‘interloper skilled with dark magic started to appear, seeking dominion of the Sacred Realm’, for me.

Anyway, to the point.

In ostensibly one of the most haunted areas of the game, Kakariko village, we’re treated to the Graveyard and the Royal Family’s Tomb, the Shadow Temple, and the Bottom of the Well. All of these showcase the obvious death and torture that went on, as well as the creepy byproducts of places so saturated with blood, pain, regret, and hatred.

There are skulls in little alcoves on the walls of the catacombs, literally built of bones, who deliver messages to Link. The ones that whisper these messages are all marked by the glowing green eye sockets. Here, the green is used to make the presence of a ghostly sentience inhabiting the skull. 

Unsettling. Musty. 4/10 heebie-jeebies.

The Deadhand, giver of childhood trauma that it is, really does its job to hammer home the fact that there has been so many deaths, so much anguish and horror, that those remains can seemingly form into entirely new monstrosities. An amalgamate of undead flesh and nightmare fuel, made up of the body parts of torture victims and the grudges of lingering spirits, seeking to consume the living vitality of whatever comes near-- Link wearing green around the thing might as well be red to a bull.

When defeated in game, it typically drops a small green pot that refuels Link’s magic.

This is a common theme with undead enemies, specifically the ones that are of the zombie flavour. Redeads, Gibdos, Deadhands. All of them generally give up, effectively, distilled magic as a drop item.

Terrifying. Probably smells even worse. 11/10 heebie-jeebies.

Literal torture device. So many people died here, the room has a green tinge to it. It is soaked in the spiritual imprint of the pain and anguish that took place here. Blood sits here looking freshly spilled, despite the civil war ending many years prior and the Shiekah having ‘died out’, save Impa.

Elsewhere in the temple and under the well, blood splatters are darker red and at least have the decency to pretend to be old. This means one of two things:

Impa still has to make sacrifices to the Seal that contains Bongo Bongo, or feeds people to the undead creatures who lurk down in the dark so they don’t wander up. (Cue the gasp of ‘so that’s why she let the Hylians into Kakariko! Every so often one of them goes missing!’)

Which is a fun dark headcanon to play with, but probably not the case.

Or more likely, the residual spiritual energy that the green haze suggests manifests fresh blood in a manner typical of extreme hauntings. For the victims, their hatred and pain persists so strongly, that their blood seeps up from the cracks no matter how long it has been.

Poltergeist shit. Slip hazard. 8/10 heebie-jeebies.

Then there is this. Some people say its just another torture thing, it could have been intended to convey some sort of acid dip. If not torture, maybe bodily disposal. And sure, that’s a reasonable guess. 

But it is at the very bottom most cavern of the Well of Three Features, and if it were acid-- for how long the bodies have just been marinating in it-- you can assume nothing would be left of them to stick out. And the fact that all the bodies are neatly spaced, with the arms oddly preserved. They’re presumably like that from lowering bodies in from the wooden beams, the victims may have been tied up with their arms straight upwards. 

But, given the Redeads wandering around nearby, I’m pretty sure that’s what this thing does. Make Redeads.

The liquid itself hurts Link, but Link is also alive, and this pool seems to be lacking much of a glow. It’s green, sure, but it’s not exactly teeming with energy. And I think that might be part of its designated purpose-- extracting that green vital energy from living prisoners, draining them until they’re dead. I’m talking juicing people and scooping out the good stuff like the pulp from a really disturbing OJ. 

But still steeped in the juice as a corpse, you’re basically pickled in magic brine, so then those gross husks crawl out as Redeads. (Hey, you know what’s handy in wartime? Scaring the shit out of enemy forces by sending some zombies at them. And if they kill them, you’ve lost nothing. If the Sheikah could actually control them? Undead soldiers. Excellent stuff.)

But all the pulpy good stuff is gone, and has been for a while, so most of the bodies in there haven’t pickled in enough magic to reanimate, I suppose.

Human juicer that churns out zombies. Out of juice currently. 6/10 heebie-jeebies.

Now, THIS is active zombie juice, if I’ve ever seen it.

This is the Royal Family’s Tomb, by the way. Note the skeletons, picked clean, missing a lot of bones. And that’s a choice they made, because there are also full skeletons around to find. 

There are plenty of Redeads down there, for good measure, so I’m going to assume the skeletons are potential graverobbers who were eaten. If Sheikah can presumably command the dead, then the Redeads down there might actually be a counter measure against thieves. If a thief freaks out in the dark when he realises there’s undead down there trying to eat their face, there is also a good likelihood they’ll trip and splash into this green death. A few seconds of exposure is probably enough to kill the average person, and then if their corpse stews for a bit, you have another Redead. 

Their living energy revitalises the goop. Their body becomes bolstered security measures. It’s a self sustaining system.

Horrific but effective. 5/10 heebie-jeebies.

Also, there’s a chance that a couple of the skeletons or one or two Redeads down there are the remains of the Composer Brothers. But they will get their own special part in this series, covering Poes in particular.

But for the moment, let it be noted: their eyes are also that ghostly green.

Poes are spirits that are unable to move on and who have the unfortunate fate, if left unattended, of turning into phantom monsters who forget their human selves and prey on the living. They tend to pop up the most in two places. One, the Kakariko Graveyard, is obvious and somewhat expected. Dead people, lots of lingering spirits, most of them probably Sheikah and Knights of renown who died in the line of duty. Understandable.

So when you apply the same thought to the fact that Hyrule field is the second most common place to find them, you may as well be concluding that it’s an enormous mass grave of war casualties.

We have established that mass quantities of concentrated death, especially earth that is saturated by the spilled blood of strong soldiers and highly skilled warriors (full of life and magic, as it were), can result in creepy shit made from human remains reanimating over time. 

Poes share their haunting of the field with these bumpkins:

These hauntings are not the result of Ganondorf, or the corruption of the Sacred realm. They are not a particular curse placed by anybody.

The Poes and Stalfolk are present in the game from the very beginning, and quite normal fare for Hyrulean life. Lon Lon ranch and castle town are walled off for good reason, and the drawbridge raises at night specifically in response to the literal skeleton monsters who roam around at night. 

Stalchildren, specifically, seem akin to the Deadhand in that they are not a direct reanimation of any one particular set of remains. Rather, they seem to be mutated amalgamations of various parts. In the case of the Stalchildren, they rise up under the dark of night, a not-quite-human formation of bone and magic. They seem to possess an aimless drive to attack, perhaps possessed still by the orders of the soldiers who died there. 

Interestingly, in a somewhat similar fashion to BotW’s blood moon reanimating the fallen monsters (due to the potency of Malice in the land peaking at those times), Stalchildren only seem to be active under the moonlight. They disintegrate when the sunlight touches them, which promotes the idea that they are the bones of the fallen possessed by the ghostly memory of the war.

They also appear to wear raggy leather kilts, which is a feature they share with the related monster, the Stalfos, who are often acting out the part of a soldier as well. Even better, those bastards are actually WEARING GREEN, to boot, which given the history of Hyrulean Knights prior and their uniforms (SS and Minish cap) is pretty self evident. 

Stalfos, however, are also confirmed as humans who have died under certain unique circumstance (such as the magical influences of the Lost Woods) and reanimated as a consequence of what I assume is basically magic poisoning.

It could be a bit like an overdose, succumbing under the intense mystical forces at play within proximity to the Deku Tree (which the strong of spirit can resist). It could be a draining effect, maybe even just a gaseous version of what’s happening when people come into contact with the green goo, except extracted by the forest spirits and plants (also possible that the strong of spirit might resist). That could go either way.

The forest absolutely does eat people’s spiritual energy, though. RIP to Grog and Link’s mother. They’re Stalfos now.

"Anybody who comes into the forest will be lost. Everybody will become a Stalfos. Everybody, Stalfos."

Upon killing both kind of Stal, however, the bones rapidly deteriorate into flames.

You guessed it: green.

I’ve already pointed out a BoTW reference already, but to add more context back into this thing about the tie between green and things in Hyrule that refuse to die properly:

That last one is cheap of me I’m sorry but we’ll get to him too

So we have established that green has an overwhelming association with not only life, but states of undeath.

The overview is, things were already pretty fucked in OoT Era before Ganondorf got the Triforce.

On to part 2!

[curiosity-killed]

hardest hue to hold

in which i was seized by a very niche idea that i proceed to Not Explain in-text at all 

cw: major character death

word count: 1355

Lan Wangji is gold. Gold like the glint of his eyes, gold like summer sunsets melting through Yunmeng’s lakes. He glimmers and gleams, dragon scales refracting under water.

“It’s a sign from the Heavens,” Wei Wuxian pontificates, lifting his wine in a solemn toast to the sky, “that I must have some divine mission with him.”

“Mission to annoy him into kicking you out,” Jiang Cheng grumbles, reaching for the wine even as he twists to check the robes blocking the window haven’t slipped.

Wei Wuxian leans easily out of his reach, lifting the wine so Jiang Cheng scrambles up on his knees to reach for it. He is also a little drunk but not so much as his baby brother. His baby brother who still hums blue even as he scowls and gripes at Wei Wuxian and tries to steal his precious liquor.

“I think,” Wei Wuxian declares solemnly, “he is my soulmate.”

Across the table, Nie Huaisang sniggers and scoops up a handful of nuts to chomp on. He is blue, too, but not like Jiang Cheng, not like shijie. Nie Huaisang is the same indifferent grey-blue of most the people Wei Wuxian calls friends; none of them burn the deep, royal blue of his siblings. Secretly, Wei Wuxian uses his Sight sometimes just to see it—to see that blue fire at his sides and be warmed by the knowledge of its presence.

“You’re an idiot,” Jiang Cheng gripes as he gives up on his pursuit of the wine. “You’ve never even figured out what gold means. Maybe it’s just because of his cultivation or whatever.”

Petulant as he is, Jiang Cheng isn’t wrong. Red and blue are easy enough to understand, but the way certain people light up in gold doesn’t seem to follow much of a pattern. His mother would be able to tell him if she were here, if he could still remember those earliest lessons.

All of Baoshan-sanren’s disciples share the Sight. It’s nothing more than the foundation of their cultivation, really, a way of fitting themselves into the cycles of qi flowing through the world and them. By aligning themselves in the fabric of those energies, they are able to learn from the intuition of the world around them to recognize friend or foe, ally and enemy. Wei Wuxian must have learned it when he was a small child, but all he remembers of those lessons are the warmth of being held and the delight of feeling woven into the world around him. Perhaps, if he ever encounters his mother’s shidi out in the world, Xiao Xingchen will tell him what it means.

Jiang-shushu was gold when he found Wei Wuxian before he faded to blue; sometimes errant disciples show up gold when Wei Wuxian has to bring them back from getting lost in the woods or when they’re hiding after a scolding from Yu-furen. It’s always temporary, a fleeting illumination as brief as sunlight through spring leaves.

Lan Wangji endures.

After the Burial Mounds, after the red-haze barrows of a thousand restless enemies, he still shines gold. He gleams when he scolds Wei Wuxian, when he demands Wei Wuxian come back to be locked away in Gusu, when he sits there playing his healing music after Nightless City. Broken, Wei Wuxian decides. The resentment of the Burial Mounds, the gnawing hunger of the Seal—they must have corrupted the last of his mother’s gift, eaten away the last vestiges clinging to the hollow carved through his core. Still, he looks to Jiang Cheng and shijie and blue curls soft around their outlines.

Zhiji, he says on Baifeng Mountain, and Lan Wangji’s gold matches the light through the leaves before Jin Zixuan’s voice breaks through. The one to kill me, he thinks in Qiongqi Pass when Lan Wangji’s outline is blurred and distorted by the rain but still golden. Oh, he thinks in Yiling when a-Yuan and Lan Wangji’s gilded forms blur together at the tea house. He doesn’t let himself think more.

And then—

The spread of cultivators at Nightless City is a sea of blood, a glimmering, shifting lake of embers to match the volcanic channels carved through the cliffs. Good, he thinks with a laugh from the roof. Good, good. Let them be his enemy. Let them chase with their slavering jaws and bared teeth. Let them see if they can catch him even now, even when he meets them at the executioner’s platform.

Among all of them, Jiang Cheng’s steady blue has dulled and looks almost purple in the wine-red wash. Of course. Stubborn shidi. He almost laughs. The spirits follow his sight, turn ravenous on all those red sparks, but there is a flash of gold in Wei Wuxian’s periphery and he turns. A smile carves up the curl of his lips.

“Lan Zhan ah Lan Zhan,” he says as he turns to take in that sunset glow, “I always knew it would come to this.”

It’s been years since they first fueled on that silver-lit roof, since Wei Wuxian first saw Lan Wangji lit up in gold from within. His hollow chest echoes with the memory, the surety of a piece clicking into place. So this is what it means, he thinks, for gold to withstand the fire.

Lan Wangji presses and parries and pleads as they dance across the roof, and then Wei Wuxian hears his name called and turns to a spark of blue struggling amidst the scarlet night—and Lan Wangji lets him go. Distantly, Wei Wuxian is aware of gold in his periphery as he races toward shijie. He cannot think, cannot look to it, but the flicker and spark darts in the corner of his eyes. It is too small, in the end, too matter. A single golden grain against the blood red tide. Wei Wuxian kneels, empty-handed as red overtakes shijie’s steady blue, as death draws away that light and leaves only blood.

Jiang Cheng shoves him away with a hand awash in blue light, and it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t mean anything. They were only ever colors, pigment bleeding through sodden paper. He stumbles, laughs, is caught up in the red tide. Let them take him to the cliffside, let the scarlet drag him deep to drown. The light is gone already, the world blurring together so that all of it is the same indistinct red and grey. How many of them did he once know? How many lit up blue in the days of the summer lecture? Three thousand scarlet jaws open wide and he lets go. If they want a body to burn, they can try to catch him in the fall.

Only—his arm jolts, pain shooting, tearing through his shoulder. On the other side, Lan Wangji’s arm bleeds red. It’s soaked through the white of his robes, splattered on his cheek, and still he shines. Wei Wuxian wants to laugh, can’t help smiling a little. Light-bearer, even here, burning gold for Wei Wuxian even in this endless night. He wants to say that it’s not that Lan Wangji carries the light so much that he is the light, this steady gold undaunted by shade or scar, but the time isn’t right. If there ever was a right time, he’s lost it long ago. The kindest thing he can do now is take his shadow with him, leave Lan Zhan to return to the world of light beyond them.

“Lan Zhan,” he says, “let me go.”

There’s no room for him in the wide world now, no place left for him to go.

A figure moves beyond Lan Wangji, and Wei Wuxian’s heart finally eases. Yes, he thinks, alright. Let it be like this: let them be the ones to see him off. He wrests his wrist from Lan Wangji’s grip as Sandu bites into the stone, and he is free. Hot wind scours his cheeks on the descent, resentment crawling up from the cavern of his chest to devour his flesh and bones. Up above, blue blurs into gold against the growing dawn. 

Wei Wuxian smiles and closes his eyes.

[wardens-stew]

The Bone Season - unpacking Paige’s card reading!

To pass the time as I obsess about the imminent release of The Mask Falling, I’ve been thinking about when Liss did a card reading for Paige in TBS - and Elspeth elaborated on it in TSR - and felt like going back to it to see what’s been revealed and what we might glean about what’s yet to come. 

1 - Five of Cups (past)

CONFIRMED - Paige’s father mourning her mother

“You lost something when you were very small. There’s a man with auburn hair. It’s his cups that are spilled.” “My father,” I said. “Yes. You’re standing behind him, speaking to him. He doesn’t answer. He stares at a picture.” 

2 - King of Wands (present)

CONFIRMED - Jaxon’s hold on Paige 

“He controls you. Even now, you can’t escape his hold.” “Warden?” “I don’t think so. Still, he has power. His expectations of you are too high. You’re afraid of him.” Jaxon.

3 - The Devil (future); 4 - The Lovers (what to do)

LOW-KEY CONFIRMED - The Devil as the darkness within Paige; The Lovers as Paige and Warden

“This card represents a force of hopelessness, restriction, fear—but you’ve given into it yourself. There’s a shadow that the Devil represents, but I can’t see its face. Whatever power this person will have over you, you will be able to escape it. They’ll make you think you’re tied to them forever, but you won’t be. You’ll just think you are... The next card will tell you what to do when the time comes.”

I looked down at the fourth card. “The Lovers?” “Yes.” Her voice had dropped to a monotone. “I can’t see much. There’s tension between spirit and flesh. Too much.” 

Elspeth and Paige unpack this in TSR:

Two naked figures were on either side of the pedestal, bound to it, and by extension, to each other, by a silver chain. 

“The two figures in the Devil card closely resemble the couple in the Lovers card, which comes next. They could almost be Lovers... The Devil controls them. Manipulates them.” 

The words left a fine sweat on my brow. Controls them. Manipulates them. The Devil could be Terebell. Both Warden and I were chained to her: Warden by his loyalty, me by my need for her money. And we were also bound to each other by a chain, albeit a chain of gold.

“Someone stands over the pair in the Lovers card, too, though there’s no chain.” Elspeth pointed to a winged figure above the man and woman. “I’m not certain what the figure represents in this instance, but... someone is always watching this couple.”

There’s a good deal of evidence that the Lovers refers to Warden, as Paige points out, but she still isn’t sure:

“As a Rephaite, Warden was the pivot between spirit and flesh. We had always felt watched, knowing the consequences of discovery. If he represented the path I should be taking, then by trying to distance myself from him, by telling him we had to part, I had gone astray; I had turned my back on the counsel of the cards.

And yet, he could so easily be the Devil himself... or a puppet-master in its service, keeping me chained to it, to Terebell. Was he meant to be my lover or my downfall?”

She remains ambivalent, but there’s that important moment towards the end, with Jaxon:

“You will understand that all of us are devils in the skins of men. You will become the monster that lives inside us all.”

I started away from him. This wasn't the first time that his words had sounded like a prediction. The Devil. Had it been me all along? Was it the devil in myself - the devil deep beneath my skin - that I was meant to resist?”

She doesn't really arrive at a conclusion, but I think this theory is pretty convincing! I’m not quite sure if it lines up with the idea of the Devil manipulating and controlling the Lovers, though - does it make sense that the dark instincts in Paige are manipulating her and Warden?? It would fit more easily if the Devil were a person rather than something abstract.

I also think there’s more to be said about Elspeth’s observation that “someone is always watching this couple.” Paige attributes this to her general feeling of being watched in her clandestine relationship with Warden, but Elspeth’s remark suggests that something more deliberate and concrete is going on. That’s quite unnerving - the possibility that someone is literally watching Paige and Warden. I think it may be part of the larger role that their intimacy is playing on the world stage, although they’re not yet aware of it.

5 - Death, Inverted (external influences)

NOT YET DETERMINED

“Death is a normal card for voyants. Usually it appears in the past or present positions. But here, inverted—I’m not sure.” Her eyes flickered beneath their lids. “This far ahead, my sight gets hazy. Things are vague. I know the world will change around you, and you’ll do everything in your power to resist it. Death itself will work in different ways. By delaying the change, you’ll prolong your own suffering.”

Ok, I think this is definitely alluding to the possible events of TMF and Book 5 and the furthering of the Prometheus and Pandora parallel. I did some digging about the divinatory associations of the card:

DEATH.—End, mortality, destruction, corruption; also, for a man, the loss of a benefactor; for a woman, many contrarieties; for a maid, failure of marriage projects. Reversed: Inertia, sleep, lethargy, petrifaction, somnambulism; hope destroyed.

The card, drawn in reverse, can be interpreted as stagnation and the inability to move or change.

In the Mythic Tarot deck, Death is depicted by Hades.

Shit is going to get real!! “Death itself will work in different ways” -  This supports @growingstronglikeahighgardenrose‘s theory that Paige might end up going to the underworld in a Persephone/Eurydice parallel and someone will be forced to stay in the underworld for a period of time - likely Warden. The association with Hades also suggests that Warden will be involved, possibly put in some sort of slumber. I could definitely see Paige resisting this change and the ensuing separation from Warden. 

6 - Eight of Swords (hopes and fears)

NOT YET DETERMINED

“The card showed a woman, bound in a circle of upturned swords. She wore a blindfold. Liss’s skin glowed with sweat. “I can see you. You’re afraid.” Her voice trembled. “I can see your face. You can’t move in any direction. You can stay in one place, trapped, or feel the pain of the swords.”

A little info on the eight of swords, thanks to Wikipedia:

The Querent is in a situation where they're afraid to move. If they move, they'll get cut. However, the ropes that bind them and the blindfold over their eyes are their own fears, keeping them immobile. Therefore, the longer they stay, the more they constrain and entrap themselves. Ever been in a situation where you're afraid to say anything, so afraid that you second guess yourself, end up saying nothing, tying yourself in knots? But speaking up is going to get you cut to ribbons? That's this card. The Querent must have the strength to endure the cuts or they will stay trapped. They must move, for the longer they let the situation continue, the worse it will get.

Ok this is pretty far off so it’s hard to make sense of it. But it seems that Paige is going to be trapped and needs to free herself, though she will suffer for it. I have the feeling that this situation will be fairly literal, especially if the Persephone & Pandora myth holds - Paige could be stuck in some weird state maybe in the netherworld or in a dreamwalking state from which she needs to escape. Not sure if the suffering refers to collateral damage - like Warden will be hurt if she tries to escape - or if she herself will be hurt or changed by freeing herself. It’s all pretty abstract and theoretical at this point.

7 - ?????

The big mystery! I have absolutely no clue how this series will end, and it’s pretty difficult to speculate. But it’s worth thinking about what kind of ending would make sense in terms of the mythology and the larger arc of this story. I’m really anxious about whether Warden and Paige and their relationship will make  it through intact - this doesn’t really seem like the kind of series to end super duper happily like somehow everyone’s problems are solved and the world is utopian - but I also can’t see how an ending in which they were separated/dead/irreversibly damaged would be a satisfying one (pls Samantha Shannon just let them be happy!!!). This is mostly just me trying to convince myself that it’s not going to be some Allegiant-type shit - Samantha Shannon is obviously comfortable inflicting pain on her characters, but I doubt she’d do that kind of fuck-you ending where everyone is screwed. I have faith that it’ll be a satisfying and meaningful conclusion. 

Random sidenote, super bizarre and probably meaningless, but Samantha Shannon once mentioned in an answer to a Tumblr ask that there was a pregnancy storyline in TBS when she initially planned it, but she figured Twilight already did the “immortal hybrid baby thing” and eventually decided she didn’t want Paige to have kids. Then she says, “I won’t rule out writing a fun ‘what if’ chapter once the series is over, though. I just wouldn’t make it canon.” SOOOOooo.... what I’m hearing is that Paige and Warden both make it through to the end of the series alive and in a position to have kids?????

[nerv0usm3chanic]

CORRUPTION

Chapters: 1 || 2 || 3 || 4

--

((NOTE - This is an introduction to a new PERMANENT AU feature exclusive to nerv0usm3chanic. Please see further, generalized information regarding this AU here: X

Be advised that each of these chapters are VERY LONG. The full content will be tucked under a read more after a brief introduction segment.

DO NOT REBLOG.))

--

Vivi frowned as she spotted Arthur perusing the shelves of Tome Tomb. He wasn’t often in here except when meeting up with Vivi for hanging out later...which, now that she thought about it, hadn’t happened in quite some time. The blue-haired woman made a mental note to invite Arthur and Lewis over for one of their terrible movie nights before heading over to talk to the blond.

“Hey Artie!” The blond jumped at her sudden greeting, his hand over his now racing heart as it registered who it was that spoke to him. “Oh jeeze! I’m sorry for spooking you, Arthur.” She couldn’t help but let a small giggle.

“N-no worries, I’m fine.” Arthur assured her, taking a deep breath, “I um...I was just looking up some things here.” He gestured to the shelf, a series of books on it and many of which hopefully containing his desired topic. Vivi peered over, tilting her head and quirking an eyebrow.

“These are all about ghosts and magic...ooh! Did you hear a rumor about something spooky?” She was getting excited now, “Are you researching for a case, Artie?” Her eyes sparked with her excitement. With a nervous swallow, Arthur nodded slightly, scratching at the back of his head.

“Uh, y-yeah, you caught me.” He coughed, “I heard some rumors of ghosts causing some magical energy fluxes and-”

“Ooh! So exciting! I’ll have to get with you on this later after work!” Vivi clasped her hands around his and practically bounced in place. Just as suddenly, she bounded away to continue her workday and Arthur sighed. Thankfully, he got away without further questions, but he hated the idea of having to explain exactly why he was researching this topic. He’d have to take a rain check if she were to invite him anywhere.

--

“Is this everything?” The shopkeeper asked in a calm, neutral drawl. Arthur nodded silently, drumming his fingers - both the metallic and flesh and bone - on the counter as Duet collected the first of the three books. A blightly-colored eyebrow quirks and the mysterious person looked at Arthur meaningfully. “Are you sure?”

“U-uhm...I think so?” Arthur quailed, glancing sideways as he saw Vivi pass by with a cart of books to be out away. With worrying amber eyes, Arthur begged Duet to stay quiet about his purchases. They too glanced at Vivi before setting the book down with a soft sigh and giving Arthur a serious look.

“Something is off about you, Kingsmen. And I don’t like it.” They commented in a hushed tone, sure to keep their conversation between Arthur and them alone. Their implication was deeply ominous and Arthur shrank at the connotations. Duet relaxed slightly, easing their dark tone and casually checking out the books Arthur had selected as if nothing had been said. After a moment, Duet looked to the blond again.

“You are...researching...yes?” They offered a much more sensitive tone, prompting Arthur to nod and sigh in some relief. “Perhaps there is someone...I can recommend to you.” And with another subtle gesture, Arthur saw a flash of gold from Duet’s sleeve. He blinked as the shopkeeper slipped the thing in between random pages in one of the larger books.

“Was that a...a card?” Arthur asked as Duet finished ringing up the books. They didn’t answer, just placed the books into a plastic bag and looked to Arthur again.

“That will be $43.23.” Duet’s flat expression indicated they had no interest in continuing. Them making a directed glance over Arthur’s shoulder was enough to say why: Vivi was nearby. Arthur nodded, pulling out his wallet and retrieving the necessary funds.

“Thank you.” Arthur nodded, passing a $50 bill and taking his bag of books. He had no need for the small amount of change, especially if Duet’s lead pointed him in the right direction.

--

“This is it?” Arthur asked himself later that evening, looking at the gilded card and with the large book in his lap. There wasn’t anything even written on the card, just a golden embossed moon and beneath it, the words ‘qui petit auxilium’. Arthur didn’t know what it meant and he frowned angrily as he flung the card off to the side. He pouted further when the card spun gracefully and made a smooth landing on his nightstand. “How am I supposed to get help with this stupid spirit if I can’t get a straight answer?”

‘I can hear you, boy.’ The spirit snarled in his head.

“I know you can.” Arthur growled back, turning to the book for help and turning pages to look at the index. The blond proceeded to read from a selected section, investigating all he could from what little there actually was on ghosts and their affects on people.

Pages upon pages on skeptical theory, a chapter on the effects of those under possession - or assumed so - and a handful of paragraphs on magical side effects. None of which described lightning or electricity. There was a small section on hearing the voice of the spirit that plagued, though it was played down shortly after with most victims actually being mentally-ill. Arthur grew frustrated. Hearing that voice constantly tease and taunt him, a spirit that made electricity fly from his hands at the most inconvenient times, and the constant strain and worry...

With an exhausted sigh, Arthur shut the book, using the attached ribbon as a bookmark. He set the book on his nightstand and flopped onto his mattress...before looking to the card once again. Metal fingers reached out, taking the slip of thick paper and turning it carefully. The moon glinted bright in the lamplight as it turned and again the words showed bright.

“Qui petit auxilium...I wonder what that means?” Arthur whispered, weariness beginning to weigh on his eyelids. ‘I just...I just wish I could find something...someone to help me.’ With that thought, the blond curled onto his side, ignoring the devious hums of the other voice in his skull.

--

Despite his doubts, Arthur continued his research, both through the books he purchased and online. He even created a new throwaway Reddit account to search for advice and ideas on how to deal with things. Most if it was hooey and there were a lot of folks going to him to sell their ‘holistic’ home remedies for his ‘condition’. With a sigh, Arthur closed his laptop and rubbed at his tired eyes, bags growing darker each day.

He was the definition of exhausted. By this point it had been more than a year since his possession and he still hadn’t gotten used to the meddling voice in his head or the electrical surges that liked to flow around his metal arm. Arthur scowled at the appendage.

“You were supposed to help me feel normal again.” The mechanic growled at the inanimate arm as it laid peacefully beside his computer.

‘Normal was never an option after you and your friends stepped into my trap.’ The blond ground his teeth a moment before aggressively pushing back from his desk. He needed a walk. Arthur said as much when Lucan asked where he was going.

“Awrigh’ lad...bu’ Ah got dinner cookin’ righ’ now. If ye want it warm an’ fresh, be back in a half hour, okay?” Lucan asked. Arthur gave a tired grunt of ascent and loudly closed the apartment door behind him. The dark-haired Kingsmen looked to his father in concern. Arthur was rarely this moody, even in his teenage rebellious phase and it worried his family.

--

There was a flash of gold in the bright moonlight as Arhur played with the strange card over and around his fingers. The nights were chill and even walks at 6:30 pm were lit by streetlamps and moonbeams. Arthur liked going for walks at night. Fewer people to run into, to talk to about how poorly and pale he was getting, to look at his arm and feel sorry for him. Amber eyes narrowed at the thought.

He’d seen the pitying looks all three of his friends gave him...and he understood why, but it hurt to see them think anything poorly of him because of his still-new disability. He wanted to be normal again. He wanted to have never gone into that cave. He wanted Vivi and Lewis to have listened to him and his bad feelings. He wanted to...to...he sighed in defeat, looking to the card Duet had given him as he walked past a series of old houses in the nicer neighborhood on the outskirts of Tempo.

Research led to only dead ends...to all but one question he had.

“Qui petit auxilium...help to those who ask for it.” A nice sentiment...but ultimately useless if he didn’t know who to ask for help. His only clue was the golden moon that seemed to glow full under the light of the pale white moon above his head. Funny...they both seemed to match at this phase. Arthur hummed idly as he thought about it and looked up.

“A shooting star...” He murmured, coming to a stop in front of another old pseudo-Victorian-style house, the walls covered in ivy and all of the windows dark with some boarded up and others curtained off. He watched the meteorite sail in a surprisingly long trail across the sky. Before it vanished, he closed his eyes and sighed out softly:

“I wish I could find answers...I need help. Who do I go to?” He opened his eyes to see the meteorite had gone. “...please?” For once...the spirit in his head was silent. Arthur felt its presence, but heard nothing. That in itself was remarkable. On another outlet of breath and a soft nod, Arthur turned his head from the sky and turned to make his way back home...when he heard a loud creaking from his right.

Startled, Arthur whipped his head towards the previously-abandoned house. The door was opened and a bright light poured forth, golden and warm and beckoning. The blond didn’t even notice the soft pulse of magic from the card in his hand as he cautiously made his way through the front gate and approached the front porch. He didn’t even notice that the windows remained dark and empty of all life.

The entity in his mind was suspiciously quiet as he set foot on the creaky wood and carefully approached the door.

“Hello? Hello, is anyone home?” Arthur called out, hopeful to gain the homeowner’s attention as he poked his head inside. “I think your door lock may be...broken...” Words trailed off as Arthur took in the sight before him: a comfortable entryway complete with classically ornate wallpaper and decorations given gold trim to compliment their warm tones. He stepped further inside, fascinated to explore more.

Arthur came across a sitting room with the back of a large wooden chair facing him, a fire dancing merrily in its hearth. He sucked in a cautious breath when he noticed a dark-skinned elbow resting on one of the arms and a draping golden cloth pooling at the front of the chair.

“A-ah um...ex-excuse me for intruding...” Arthur started, pausing to swallow nervously. “I-I um...I actually was walking by and your d-door seemed to creak open on it’s own. I’m...I’m not sure, but I think your lock may be broken. I just wanted to let you know, just so you’re not surprised...by intruders...like me.” Oh, he could have done this so much better. Waiting at the front door and knocking would have been a much nicer way to alert the homeowner of this issue.

“I appreciate your concern, but you needn’t worry. I will be just fine.” There was a flutter of nerves in Arthur at the low, feminine tone. Internally, he was both intrigued and frightened by the energy he could feel exuding from around the woman in the chair. Then suddenly he was more frightened when - in the corner of his periphery - he saw the door lazily creak shut and click securely in place.

“Come around so I may see you.” A soft request that rang as a command through Arthur’s rattled skull as she raised one hand to beckon him forward. He nodded despite the fact that she couldn’t see it and carefully made his way around the armchair before finally seeing the commanding woman who owned this obviously magical home.

She was quite the opposite of who he expected to be living in a decrepit-looking house. Shimmering golden locks were tied back neatly, held back by a pearly comb while the rest spilled gracefully around and over her mostly bare shoulders. Arthur blinked at the shimmery golden dress she wore, something he estimated to be worth five or more months of his earnings at Kingsmen Mechanics and she wore it like a second skin with how confident and relaxed she was in her seat. His eyes briefly assessed her arms - obviously strong with muscle, but still lithe and feminine with their bearer’s grace - before he met her gaze.

Arthur swallowed at the bright glow that emanated from her eyes. A firm gaze that studied him with obvious wary scrutiny and a touch of irritation that carried to the slight downturn of the corner of her dark and light contrasting lips...Arthur averted his eyes to her shoulder as the homeowner assessed the mechanic.

“You asked for help...for a problem you cannot resolve by typical means.” A statement, not a question, but Arthur nodded anyway. There was a beat and then the woman let out a soft breath, so soft that Arthur was sure a mouse couldn’t have been quieter. “You wouldn’t be inside this building if you weren’t in genuine need. Take a seat and tell me what plagues you.” Arthur looked to the matching armchair beside hers as she gestured her other hand towards it.

“Th-thank you...” Arthur says gently, nodding to the woman and taking his seat. Once comfortable, Arthur begins to spin his tale.

That was the night he met Luna, the Witch of Secrets...

--

Chapters: 1 || 2 || 3 || 4

[hexbent]

For many long years, Salem had been trying to locate the tomb of Ar’orath, a demon of ancient times who had long since perished and fallen from memory of those alive today. Only archaic scriptures and aged tapestries remained to tell of his supposed pre-existence, but even those clues were few and far between if they were still in one piece, and anyone that had been alive during the time that such items had been circulating had turned to dust in their graves long ago. Of the few that still knew his name, most believed the demon to be a myth; an old tale used to inspire fear or wishful thinking, or even a primitive bedtime story. Wishful thinking was all that Salem and Rosalie had though, and it had been enough to spur them onward in their pursuit.

By the time that the two had picked apart the clues and found the tomb, however, they were left empty-handed and slighted. The tomb was empty, aside from what remained of the demon’s onyx-colored bones. The vial that had once dangled from the heavy chain around his neck was gone, leading the pair on yet another chase to uncover the thief that had beat them to the location.

If what they’d learned was correct; the vial around the demon’s neck had held the soul essence of a celestial empress; a Seraph, a species of divine and ethereal descent that was now thought to no longer exist, as their kind hadn’t been seen for over fifty thousand years. Ar’orath had tricked and enslaved her, trapping what was left of her tortured soul in a vial to use for his own selfish exploits and gains. Demons, beasts, and every manner of corrupted creature sought the vial for its powers until it had all but faded from memory and turned to myth.

How the tomb had been found and the vial located was beyond Salem’s knowledge, but even more mysterious to him was how it had come to be in the idol’s possession: Hak Ji-Woon, a man of whom he knew little of, but some googling had lead him to see that he held some relevance in popular culture. Salem could only assume that the man had been tricked, because the idea of a mere human having knowledge of such an object, let alone locating it was incomprehensible.

Being able to take on the form of a black cat at will had its perks; Salem was able to slip past security and into the idol’s dressing room completely unnoticed, only making his presence known when he was sure that they were alone. His body shifted back into the shape of a tall man, his figure lanky and covered almost entirely in a veil of black make-up and tattoos, although much of his inked flesh was hidden behind dark clothing. His dark-rimmed eyes were unnaturally pale; an odd mix between a striking blue and a ghostly grey, depending on how the light hit them. His voice was low but stern as he finally spoke, stepping out from the shadows in which he’d been hidden in.

“You’ve got something that belongs to me. Show me your mark.” There was no mistaking it: the uneasy presence of dark aura that circled the entire building was originating from the male in front of him, calling to the hungry spirits that were now being awakened by the cries of the fragmented soul that had been attached to his body. “I can help you.”

@devoutscreams​

[punsandfuturekingsmen-archive]

//If you go to read this, also consider reading Splatter’s original version here!

A lot of the events are very much the same as they are in that piece, and the dialogue parts are pretty much word for word since it’s from Splatterlewis’s perspective! I just added a bit from Arthur near the end and here and there, and just played around with describing things haha.

~

He thought that might be the end of it, or at least he thought he knew what to expect next, given his own history with his own Lewis.

So when the next flash didn’t involve trucks or fights with tree yokai, he felt confusion fuzz at the corners of his brain. No… it was somewhere deep and dark. He wandered in some kind of stupor, filled to the brim with a hundred thoughts and feelings, all of them cutting at his skin like knives and a rage that continued to burn in his chest. The rest was vague to leave an impression, but it still stabbed at him as he stumbled along.

But even in the haze he wandered in, he noticed when something began to stalk him from the shadows. The signs of their presence were clear: the area seemed to shift green and bleed it from the earth and sky. Smoke filled every nick and cranny, thick enough to choke on by any who might need to breathe.

He felt himself pulled from the daze with a snap. Something about the spirit set off alarm bells in his mind and left the hairs on his arms and neck standing on end. The smoke and the green consumed everything, the shade just right to remind him of somewhere else. His brain fired on all cylinders, trying to remember anything Vivi might have said that could help him. All that came to him was that this was something powerful. Something dangerous.

He still couldn’t see it in the smoke, but he could feel the weight of its presence. He called out for it, shouting into the green void an almost challenge. Seeing the cave’s greens made him wonder, and he asked if it came to finish what was left of him. The cry reverberated around him in the emptiness, seeming to ricochet off smoke.

The feeling of something dangerous grew stronger, rocking against him like a crescendo in a song mourning his end. But he didn’t want to end here, and his hands ignited with shimmering violet-pink flames. His eyes darted around the whole of the place, searching for movement.

A laugh alerted him, though the aura of power from the thing that found him might have done just the same if it hadn’t. A voice old as time and antique in accent spoke. The tone was something that itched at his skin..

       “Boy, I have never met you… Lewis, is it? Such a lovely name, for a lovely soul… So full of fire, of power, and rage. Why would I wish to drive you to hell, when you are the key to my freedom?”

He could feel himself heating up. The fires in his hand seemed to brighten until they blurred the air at the edges of each flame. His hair felt warmer, and shades of pink glistened and reflected off green smoke from where it was now glimmering, ready to ignite.

A clarity struck him, that this was not what he’d met before. It was something greater.

“Show yourself!” He called for the thing, teeth flashing in a grimace. Anger bubbled at the notion of being scared by this thing. By it trying to intimidate him. He was not about to lose, not after everything he had gone through.

But then they obliged.

The skeleton that moved into view was verdant, a hue of green that was deep and dark. Scant remains of decaying flesh still hung from putrid bones, and each piece that lingered had names endlessly scrawled, carved and etched into every inch of skin until they nearly lost meaning, but did not overlap. A cloth kilt and robes hung from its form and swayed with the steps it took, barely clinging to the emaciated remains of the creature and worn in places to threads.

On the head of the skull was a carving. One that recognition pricked at him distantly for. It was the one he’d seen on Lewis’s head for years. But this one, blackened as char and cracked, seemed to give off a shadowy aura, absorbing the light to nothing around it in way that made it seem to glow. It had never looked like that on Splatter. Or… not that he knew of. But what did he really know?

The memory seized him again. “Such a demanding tone, for someone about to lose their soul… You have a fire in you, a fire I need. And you will give it, aye?”

He felt a flash of pride, or protective fury, and he pointed to the creature with a fist wreathed in fire and a glare Mrs. Pepper would have been proud of (the thought hurt as it struck him).  “You can never have my soul, I refuse. No one can have it!”

The skeleton moved in a way that divulged something of its thought of what he had said, but he didn’t have the moment to process it. The corruption that hung in the air seemed to thicken and shift, forming blade-sharp arrows, tainted and green. He barely moved out of the way as they streaked by. A few sliced holes in his already damaged shirt, a testament to how close they managed to get to striking him.

With a growl that twisted his face in a snarl, he returned fire. But as the flames blasted over the creature, it stood there, taking the attack without flinching. It laughed, even at it stumbled back from the force, seeming wholly unfazed.

The shock after seeing what his fire could do held him still, and it was enough for a return blast from the skeleton to strike true. The bolt crashed against his chest, the pain hard and heavy and making him double over with a wheeze. He gasped for breath as if he needed it, clutching at his bruised chest and stomach.

The creature seemed amused and its tone held danger, a promise of a cruel fate. “You have no idea who you fight, boy…. In life, centuries and centuries ago, I was once known as Professor Hean Feramin. A genius of studies of names and their power and origins, as well as medical studies… But now, in death, I am known as ‘The Splatter Man’… Do you have any idea the number of people I have killed? The souls I have claimed and the power I wield…? The hordes of monsters that followed me, and respected me, their king?!”

It laughed again, something deeper, and with a flare of green smoke, a quill formed that he took between thumb and forefinger. It twirled with a flourish as it brought a skeletal hand up as if to write on a chalkboard, stroking the tip of the quill against the empty air.

Where it scratched, letters formed, Large and flamboyant in a way letters often were when they began a chapter of a book, like fanciful olden English. Each letter that adorned the air became red, droplets of it falling off and towards the ground.

L.

His head began to spin, and he stumbled.

E.

W.

He didn’t realize when he hit his knees, but he was on them now, the energy to return to one knee felt like it took all he had. His stomach lurched and a sense of exhaustion burned at his eyes.

The Splatter Man held the quill as if poised for the next letter, but instead he twisted the quill against his palm and crushed it to nothing, blood dripping from his hand where it had been before fading.

Hands laced behind his back, the Splatter Man approached. He could see even more names along the pallid skin, burned in or cut in jagged lines. The skin on his face was gone, and he could see fire-red embers aglow in the sockets, sizing him up. He felt something touch his feet. Something scaly and thick, and the sound of hissing told him what it was.

“Are you starting to understand? I can use your name against you, I can learn any name by staring… And everyone’s’ name holds their soul, their strength… And can be manipulated… Hold still now, and welcome the warm embrace of death. You will free me from this prison.”

He was down on his knee, fighting for that will to stand again, hissing through his teeth at The Splatter Man. He could feel blood soaking the tatters of his shirt, spilling red in thick rivers from what once had been the scars of his death. They were open now, weeping blood until he was slick with it. Weakness had sunk into his bones. His thoughts slipped to his name, but they quickly snapped back as a boney hand found the front of his shirt, gripping the fabric tight. He was sure of one thing.

The Splatter Man was preparing for the kill.

The thought ended nearly the moment the hand lifted, hoisting him easily into the air.  He gagged, choked on blood and agony, and looked down at The Splatter Man, panic seeping in and turning everything icy. He was aloft, feet not touching the ground.

Fear crept along his spine. A fear he’d only felt once before.

It made him sick.

He could hear the way a smugness threaded the chuckle of the Splatter Man. He watched, limp in his hold as his free hand twisted, and a dagger formed, hilt curled perfectly to his hand. The gemstones along the hilt glittered with the green light, and the runes also etched almost seemed to glow in their reflections.

He realized what the intention was, when the dagger raised back with the hand.

It came forward at an unnatural speed, piercing his chest over his heart so hard he felt sure he was about to cave inwards. He screamed, screamed as he felt like he was being torn asunder, screaming louder than he thought himself capable. Blood seeped around the blade and it ripped another cry from hi as the dagger twisted, cutting deeper, opening the wound ever further. His chest was on fire and his voice gave out as his scream reached a climax, even his own ears ringing with the sound. The tendrils of corruption magic began to ebb towards the new wound, and he felt slithering along his clothing, before seeing the snakes he’d only heard and felt. They also pressed against the bleeding wound in his chest, and a sound escaped as it seared, the curls of his shirt at the edge of the blade blackening from the heat.

“Ah, you have some fight in you. Good, I will need that… You will free me from this purgatory. This prison. And I shall reclaim my throne… The death left in my wake will be unlike anything this world has ever seen, and you will help me, boy. Your essence will be mine.”

The torture burning him turned to lava, melting through the wound and his veins and then melting down to the organs and viscera. The sounds he thought he would make were gone now, rendered to silent convulsions. He could hear something, and he swore it was his soul, creaking and shuddering as agony struck blows that threatened to crack it in pieces.

But he grit his teeth, jaw squaring, and a snarl crept along his face. He couldn’t end here. Not when…. Someone needed him. Someone….Vivi.

Vivi.

VIVI.

VIVI! HE HAD TO PROTECT HER!

HE HAD TO PROTECT ALL OF HIS FRIENDS!!

A second wind surged through him, his heart beating fast and wild as his eyes widened. Gold light reflected off the bone in front of him from them. The skeleton paused.

“NO! I SAID. THAT. I. REFUSE!!”

His fingers stiffened on one hand that he reared back with, and then he jammed it forward, letting them force their way through the bones of the Splatter Man. His fingers searched blind, until he felt something. It felt rotted, soft and dry like the withered husk of a jack-o-lantern left out far past Halloween, and his fingers squeezed it to his palm.

The Splatter Man flinched as he did, yelling himself, and then howling as his flames returned, glowing violet inside the skeleton’s chest and hungrily eating at the thing left in his hand.

The Splatter Man summoned things, things that snapped at his body and slashed at his skin. Magic that pounded against him with bruising, bone breaking force. But he didn’t let go. He didn’t falter. His eyes stayed focused on his task, and his hands stayed tight around that heart as the flames began to grow and eat. He held on, determined with every fiber of his being, fighting tooth and nail for every inch over what felt like eternity locked together.

But inch by inch he gained traction, pushed further. The Splatter man’s eyes widened, a grimace taking it and a trickle of fear seemed to stitch itself to the edges of his expression. He could hear it in his voice, the slightest way it quavered even with his anger.

“What the hell are you doing?! You will destroy us BOTH YOU FOOL! What is keeping you from giving up the ghost?!”

He ignored him, hissing in his fury like a skillet of oil. His fire crackled and popped within the other, and he grabbed the Splatter Man’s wrist with the hand not in his chest, holding tight. His voice was a battle cry.

“Because I have REASONS TO COME BACK! I will use YOU!”

His hand on that rest continued to move, shooting forwards at lightning speed. He dug his fingers into the bone of the skull in front of him, grip crushing and bones creaking at the sutures. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, but he held on, and pulled at the energy of the Splatter Man.

The Splatter Man seemed to realize what was trying to do nearly the moment he started, and he tried to pull back, retreat with fervor. The blade in Lewis’s chest came out, spraying them both with red so red it was black and bright red from the arteries and purple that glowed. It all saturated their clothing until they dripped with his blood. But he didn’t falter. Didn’t once blink.

Well. Lewis didn’t falter. He probably would have.

The Splatter Man screeched.

“Release me!”

“Never.”

The fire in the Splatter Man’s was glowing brighter, white hot as it lashing out in heated waves like solar flares. The skeleton screeched, something high pitched and bone grinding, and he just leaned closer feeling vitality running through him, strengthening him.

He screamed one last time, and then his skull gave way beneath Lewis’s other hand, crumpling inwards like dried paper beneath a vise grip.

Purple and green light flashed, and Lewis fell the short drop to his feet, and then his knees. He panted for breath, clutching his chest, but watched with a sense of satisfaction as the skeleton crumbled, falling to pieces on the earth in front of him, a hallowed husk.

But with that power came a price, and he could see it seeping into the tips of his fiery hair, that curved just over his eyes. What had been pale shades of embery pink was now shifted, flickering green. Thoughts were flicking through his head over what the Splatter Man had meant and triumph at defeating him, even if he was exhausted by the effort. He could feel the power now, pulsing through himself.

Clambering to his feet, he rubbed at his face, before looking up, and seeing the same emblem that had adorned the skull of The Splatter Man, hovering in the air. It still glowed as it seemed to hum, before it arced forward, making him jump. It slammed against his forehead and he screamed as it burned, melting, burning through his flesh and then further into the bone of his skull and just a little further still until the imprint was etched into him, unmistakable for what it was. It continued to burn and burn and tear at him and—

Arthur woke up screaming, hand going to his forehead and chest where blood had started streaming down the side of his face and torso, down along his side where he was still pressed into the grass. His fingers turned slick as he held them against his forehead and shirt and he squeezed his eyes shut, shaking so hard he convulsed where he lay.

He couldn’t die. But at this point he almost wished he could.

[weaselbeaselpants]

Rewritten Alastor notes (TW: NSFL, Cannibalism, Vore, animal abuse)

This is unexpected I know, but I’m suffering from a major headache and I need something to do.

Alastor the Radio Demon in my non-existent Hazbin repaint. Things he has in common with his canon self:

Human soul of a man who died in the 1930s. Was a cannibal in life.

Tried (and succeeded) to corrupt a bunch of lesser demons. 

Respected by the big-bads of Hell, like Valentino and Vox. Feared among them as well because he creeps even them out.

Deer + wendigo motif still very much still at play.

Still asexual, though I wouldn’t recommend putting him on any pride flags.

Gets along with Charlie and loves antagonizing Vaggie.

Treats Nifty and Husk as goons and/or pets.

His weird hair tufts emote along with him like ears. I don’t know if they are ears though. I think Viv has the right idea not confirming what the frack is up with his anatomy.

Can’t ever stop smiling. Ever. That aspect of Al’s design is something real special that I think Viv has the right idea implementing. A character who can not stop smiling makes for a lot of terrifying and hilarious reactions. Just look at Sans near eternal smile. 

Inexplicably likes pineapple pizza. Funny out-of-character gag.

AGAIN: CONTENT WARNING ESPECIALLY FOR ANYONE WITH TRIGGERS TO THE STUFF ABOVE. KEEP READING AT YOUR OWN RISK.

Changes made to his character:

I do not mind Hazbin being crass and vile and offensively-over the top as long as it has a good grasp on what the joke is (like Helluva Boss :>). My Hazbin thesis is that all of the characters are “demons” in as much as they’ve done bad things or were bad people, but are not maniacal or sadistic + there’s hope for some of them. THEN there’s Alastor who absolutely lives up to the demon-reputation and did genuinely evil things in life. Alastor’s the kind of person who absolutely should be purged but has escaped because those who are supposed to be for justice aren’t threatened by him.

He isn’t involved in voodoo or has any affluent Creole background. With all do respect that aspect feels just a little too lifted from Dr. Facilier. My Alastor’s background is American “mutt” with an Algonquian-native grandmother.

His sin in life - and in Hell itself - is Gluttony. Taking a page from the OG Wendigo mythos, which describes them more as pulsating, gorging Elderitch abominations, Al’s MO in the show is to consume everyone and everything there is. 

Alastor’s demonic powers are presented as a wave of high frequency radio static that messes with a demon’s psyche so much it physically hurts them. Al then scoops up his victim’s souls to power his microphone and everything that demon had in it’s possession beforehand crumbles or becomes his.

Angel is afraid of him. Unlike in the canon cartoon, Angel is the one who recognizes Alastor and knows he’s dangerous, not Vaggie. Turns out, Angel had a run in with the Radio Demon sometime during the mid twentieth century (so when they were both pretty young in demon years). Angel tried to steal Al’s microphone but Al flung a nasty radio-frequency in Angel’s face, taking out one of his eyes. Angel was present during Al’s first attempt to take over Hell, so he immediately knows Al’s bad news and Alastor never misses the opportunity to mess with Angel in season 1.

Alastor is a shape-shifter. In what is probably the most grizzly detail about my take, he technically self-mutilates in order to re-imagine himself ala the Hellraiser Cenobites - which he does quite a bit to hide from Charlie’s parents.

Technically, Al is naked. What looks like a suit is actually his flesh. Look closely at you’ll see that he’s all stitched together like a crude taxidermy piece. Beneath his “skin” are his bones; which all look like mechanical radio parts and move independently of another. Sometimes Al tears them out if he thinks his “wiring needs to be reworked”, which is Al for ‘feeling an emotion’ and he doesn’t like that.

The motif my Alastor is supposed to invoke is everything about him was “stolen” and crudely pieced back together: he collects and traps other demons inside his microphone; he eats by unhinging his mouth and swallows in one gulp. Alastor’s anatomy invokes a lot of vore imagery as well as Ero Guro. Despite being ace, there is a sexual (but not arousing) edge to his character, which leads to a lot or horror and humor.

Alastor does not like that he was human. He’s even in denial of it and insists “I was always a demon. I simply had a nightmare that I was a man. Now I’m awake and the nightmare is long gone”.

Alastor’s human name was Edward; he was a sad, pathetic little man whom everyone walked all over. Edward wanted to be a radio host but was denied that position cause he ‘couldn’t smile’. Edward was deeply disturbed and fixated on ingesting human meat (a condition called ‘wendigo psychosis’). Despite committing murder and then eating all his victim’s bodies, he can’t recall most of the process and was frightened by his behavior, knew what he was doing was wrong. BUT he never went about treating his addiction with meat; he’d have “cold periods” where he didn’t kill and thought he was ‘fixed’ only for his psychosis to resurface.

Alastor’s demon self aims to be all the things that he wasn’t in life: happy, fulfilled, complete, confident, cheery, and satisfied. Al relishes in his self-made creepy image and no doubt took his demon name from a famous Alastair from his youth. 

Al’s character arc throughout the ‘show’ (there is no show, why am I treating this like genuine pitch bible blah) goes as follows:

For the first season leading up the the finale and beginning of season 2, Al pretends to be Charlie’s friend until he backstabs her and takes over her hotel to harvest the ‘redeemed’ souls so he can restart his broadcasting-takeover that was just barely stopped years before. Charlie, Vaggie, and Angel intercept him however and destroy his microphone - which holds all the souls - causing him to loose his power. Charlie personality terminates his physical form leaving only his ‘heart’, which Lucifer makes Charlie eat so that Alastor will forever be under her control. The downside to this is Al’s soul+heart+person exists within Charlie now, and he of course speaks to her within her mind, trying to discourage, belittle, threaten or taunt her plans and feelings throughout the second season. Season 3′s opening would be about the main cast trying to get Vaggie out of Heaven once they learn it’s as corrupted as Hell. Charlie needs Al’s expertise, so she vomits him up. Al agrees to help her but is obviously not happy and vows to get his freedom back. In the second half of season 3, the main characters have to lay low while the angels partake in spiritual warfare against Lucifer. So Charlie and co. escape to the human world disguised as humans. Though an agreement, Alastor comes along and aquires a foreclosed motel for the demon’s to live (he intends to trap mortal souls while he’s there, though Charlie intercepts this too). 

Angel and co. end up discovering Al’s human identity (something he tried to cover up any evidence of having in Hell) and invite his now elderly human daughter to the motel. It works too well however, and the fright of seeing his daughter again triggers an all out anxiety attack in Alastor causing him to merge with the motel. Charlie has to traverse his insides to try and get to his crumbling psyche which would be very Akira-inspired.

Meanwhile, inside Alastor’s mind we see his demon form finally baring a frown and freaking out as the pathological spirits of his victims sing to him in a radio booth about the life he’d chosen and the lives he took away from them. (Yes, this is absolutely taken from Bojack Horseman)

Once Charlie cuts to his core+Al faces the fact that there never was another demon responsible for his actions, it was always just him, Al relinquishes his hold on that motel and his physical form become that of a baby deer, whom Charlie nicknames ‘Deerlastor’. Deerlastor doesn’t appear to have any of Al’s powers, memories, or personality but Angel and the other demon’s Al’s abused insist on killing it, sure that this is just another one of Al’s weird forms. Because of Alastor’s absence, it takes a lot longer and harder for the main cast to get back to hell and help Charlie’s dad’s stop the (previously human) angels who want to wipe purge ALL of hell.

To take out the main ‘enlightened’ angel that’s in the middle of trying to purge ALL of Hell, the demon’s need a power of their own. Deerlastor agrees to sacrifice its body and because of that, Alastor pops out from the deer’s body and head on collides w. the big bad angel-villain, eliminating both their souls. Alastor gets no proper redemption arc kids, he just gets to be the one to take out the main villain.

Edward/Alastor’s daughter’s name was Lavinia and she was the closest thing to genuine ‘love’ he had in his life and the only person who obviously looked up rather than ignore or abuse Edward. When Ed was arrested and confessed to his crimes, his daughter wasn’t allowed to see him and the knowledge that her father was a cannibalistic serial killer haunted Lavinia all her life.

His crimes were not sexual. This is NOT AN EXCUSE for what he did though because - 

- two of his victims were children. Yep. 

Unlike the rest of the filth-spewing demons, Al doesn’t appreciate racism or sexism. He thinks himself a feminist for his day...despite also having killed women and children. Keep in mind he’s also from the 30s, so he’s as “progressive” as people could be for back then, AND he believes that his partial native ancestry means it’s okay to call himself a ‘wendigo’.

In reference to an oooooooooooold ref sheet Viv made for Alastor back in the day, Deerlastor gets shot in the head and dismembered a lot but always gets up like nothing’s wrong.

Alastor does not like electroswing. He likes jazz, doowop, twist, show jingles, and lots of American Folk ballads. You know, the stuff they’d jam the radio’s with back in the 30s.

Big influences on my Alastor are They Shoot Horses Don’t They?, American Murder Song, My Friend Dahmer (a graphic novel), Llamas with Hats and Haunted by Chuck Palahniuk. 

(Ima thinking of renaming my Hazbin gang to better distinguish them between the canon. Alastor’s the only one who won’t be renamed though, just probably spelled a different way. (Alystar, Alaster, Alastar))

[maruzzewrites]

Can you write a Risotto x reader with Abbi cura di me - Simone Cristicchi please! Umm can it be something like Riz doing everything he can to kee reader for himself. And his descent from sweet love to yandere-ish love! Instead of reader being afraid of him , they grow to love him a lot. It’s ok if you can’t or don’t like this request!

Content warnings: yandere content, possessive behavior, obsessive behavior, description of violence, gore, death.

Life was, is andwill be important for Risotto. Despite how idealistic this ideal sounded tounknowing ears, the dark man was anything but. He knew life, and he knew death,held both in his hands and transformed one into the other. His line of workdealt with both, and much more, making him stare into the eyes of dying men andwomen to strangled every last ounce of energy from their bodies, until theywere merely limp husks to dispose. Yet, Risotto knew the value of life; afterso much time spent with corpses, one starts to appreciate the animation ofliving beings.

The first timehe faced life, it was the day his aunt run to his grandmother’s home. Therushed steps, the steady tears, the hushed whispers and the ready pleas; theychoked the voices of the two women as they wailed, and moaned, a young Risottosimply witnessing the scene as a play of pathetic emotion. Yet, it laid in hismemory with vivid colors, like a painting in a museum, distant in time. And hefaced death soon after, at the funeral; the warm, shining sun illuminating acrowd of people burying a young teen, a face he knew and grew up with. His facestayed cold, muscles unmoving, but a frown adorned his forehead as hisgrandmother gripped his arms tightly to keep herself up through the pain.

That day,Risotto faced life and death for the first time, and he learnt something abouthimself. He couldn’t process emotions the same way others would; when he wassupposed to mourn and cry, he could only feel bubbling rage, white-hot anddripping blood. And when he saw the man who caused this revelation, his cousin’sbutcher, he couldn’t feel satisfaction or relief at his sentence. Yet, he wasmerely a young boy, still in school, with his duties and years in front of him,with all his life stretching on the path of his future. Life, after all, wasimportant and it was essential to cherish it until you could, until death camealong.

Soon enough, hebecame fixated on this thought, on this idea. And people, those he loved,needed to cherish life with more attention, more care, more caution; he becameapprehensive in his usual stoic way, as he ordered and nagged those around himwith silent tugs towards watchful behavior. His ways, from worried, becameprogressively more aggressive, until they distorted into almost violentoutbursts of intimidation. And Risotto learnt another, important lesson:friends, family, loved ones didn’t appreciate him intruding into their livesuntil they feared him more than any other threat outside the secure cage of hisaffection.

Everyone triedto wriggle their way out of his grasp; everyone, but a single person. Achildhood friend, one he didn’t think much of after they both grew anddistanced themselves from each other’s social groups. In his quest to keep, tohoard, to protect, they were caught into superficial warnings and pressuresthat meant very little near the ferocious intimidation he offered hisrelatives or closer friends. Nonetheless, they just smiled and thanked him witha thoughtful tone, and he felt time freeze for the minute you continued on yourway.

Everyone pushedhim away, suffocated with too much of that love, and that care, and that devotion.Yet, you just acknowledged his efforts, giving tender care back at him, a sweetsmile complimenting the glint in your eyes as you thanked him once again forthe warnings, notices, advices. And he found himself bashing into the light oflife, following your steps to seek that important element he wanted to protectso much, so dearly. He started to direct all his attention to you, an ignoredpart of his life until that moment, and you just accepted his consideration asif it was kindness.

For the firsttime since the day his cousin died, Risotto was feeling warmth in hisbloodstream and tightness in his throat as he spoke to you, as he spent timewith you. Most people were starting to disappear from his vision, and he couldonly see you with your light steps, bright smile, shining attitude. Whenever hetalked to you, you closed your eyes slowly as if to concentrate all yourattention on your hearing. His heart shuttered in his chest when you started toask him for concrete ways to keep safe, when you confirmed you didn’t want himto worry or concern himself with you more than he needed to.

After so muchtime, he learnt how to be his age again, not plagued by the ghost of a deadteen whose word were distorted by his mind. Maybe, just maybe, he could relaxfor a minute just to relish into the fond embrace of normality, of love andcare. You were delightful, listening to him, clinging to him, asking for him;feeding his own need to have control and protect those he cared about, withoutawakening his more violent side until you hated or feared what you summoned. Itwas just wonderful affection, young fondness, and perhaps any shadow of doubtwould gone from his mind if he waited enough in your glow.

However, lightcan make the shadows harsher just as much it can dim them under its strength.

Despite hisnewfound apathy towards anyone else and heightened affection towards you, hestruggled to keep his darker thoughts under control, around your sunny attitudeand lovely behavior. He would imagine himself hold you so close that your bodycollapsed together into a puddle of blood, flesh, bones; but he limited himselfwith taking your hand in his, enjoying the timid smile to offered him as yourubbed your thumb over his fingers. When he saw other people talking to you, hecould only imagine his fingers keeping their jaws in place as he pressed, andpressed, until the bones would creak and crumple under his ministrations; buthe simply greeted his teeth when you returned your eyes to him, after a quickchat with someone else, still centering your thoughts around him.

Fifteen,sixteen, seventeen. The years passed, passed and didn’t subside those murky contemplations,with you locked away in his arms as corpses clung to his ankles in a futileattempt to ask for forgiveness. He needed an outlet, somewhere to lash outuntil he was empty of that darkness and he could rebuild himself under yoursun. Hurting you, physically or emotionally, it was the last of his thoughts,the thing he didn’t wish for; but who could be the victim of his pent-upaggressiveness, buzzing under his skin and clouding his mind? Risotto knew, hewas aware: the cause of his anger, of his resentment and wrath, out so soondespite his crimes thanks to a corrupt system who couldn’t grant him justice,or rest.

It was chilling,frightening even, how easy it was to end a man’s life. Risotto didn’t findhesitation or indecision when his hands wrapped around that man’s neck,squeezing until he was wheezing and imploring without voice. For Risotto, hedidn’t have a name or a face, just bloody hands and a sin, and his anger flaredup where pity or regret should have been. With boiling strength guiding him, heshook that body and slammed the back of the man’s head on the ground, again andagain, with increasing force. It wasn’t a raptus, or madness, and Risottostayed lucid and in control for the entire time. When he felt the man’sheartbeat slow down and wither under his fingertips, still grasping his neck,he stood up and walked away as if he didn’t have blood under his nails.

The followingdays, they were fast and chaotic, but never blurry. The corpse discovered, theinvestigation, with suspects and interrogations, the city falling into chaos asyou clung to him for security. He didn’t reveal you anything, scared to taintyour relationship, yet he could only grow worried when the dark thought stayedand worsened as he watched the fear swirling, simmering inside your eyes whenyou looked at him to find safety. His mind was screaming with fury to keep youaway from people, from your own freedom. If you knew who he was, what he haddone, would you still look at him as a savior? If he was to take you away, keepyou to himself, would you resist? Be scared? Or, perhaps, fall into his arms?

The questions hewanted to answer were too many, too shaky the foundation you were standing onto really consider confessing to you his deeds. But all the same, you came toknow the moment he was accused of the murder, and your gaze couldn’t containthe surprise and the fear, breaking his heart, his spirit, his soul. Even if hewanted to stay or bring you with him, he just fled his hometown at the youngage of eighteen, with the outrage and sorrow he left behind following after him.Until he couldn’t hear the cries anymore, until the pointed fingers were out ofhis vision, until your steps couldn’t be heard anymore. And he drowned into thepit he let fester inside of him, the dark thoughts he tried so hard to containfor years, suddenly becoming his very mean of survival.

In the world ofillegality and crime, no one cared if he was violent or destructive, if hecould rip someone’s to sheds or if he wanted to suffocate someone liberty forhis own personal gain. Nonetheless, he felt like sand just slipped through hisfingers, as you became a memory of a past he looked at without regrets. Theonly thing he wanted to go back to was the careless way you looked at him, thegentle love you would display when he would simply stay silent and stoic, withardor in his eyes that others couldn’t see. You were precious to him, youbecame essential in your own, quiet way. Yet, restrained man he was, Risottonever bothered to go back to drag you under his shadow, focused on keeping upthe front he needed for his new life. Or maybe, he had always been this cold,this unfeeling, under the pretense of being a normal person.

The only timeshe felt closer to others were the times he was around someone who fed into hisattics, his suspicions, his paranoias. Never really forgetting the way youfitted perfectly into his being, Risotto went on. Yet, every day reminded himof those moments, of that light; the way he had to see death approaching histargets, the way he felt those people life slithering away under his hands and,later, with the help of Metallica. The contrast of this deadly existence, withthat simple life, made of words and no actions, clawed at the deepest parts ofhis mind until he could only come back to satiate his need to see you.

A part of himwanted you cage you, bring you with him somewhere you couldn’t escape, yet hismore rational brain wanted nothing more than you loathing him and what hebecame so that he could bury those memories deep inside his brain, never to be recreated.His mind couldn’t phantom any other option; it was either hate or possession,both sentiments tainted by his actions that could only lead to your contempt.So, meeting you couldn’t be something he did normally, just bumping into you casuallywhile walking around the streets of his own city.

It took no timeto learn your current address, not far away from your parents’ home, all alonein your room as you got ready to sleep. With an oversized pajama that drapedover your body as if you wanted to hide it from prying eyes, he sneaked in andwaited for you to notice the menacing figure looming in the corner, as soon ashis invisible mantle slipped from his shoulders. With a new blur of colorappearing in the corner of your vision, you turned around with lazy disinterest,replaces soon after with terror and wide-open eyes. There was a beat, silenceveiling this encounter while Risotto watched you with a stony face, coldnessemanating from his attitude.

“Risotto,” yourvoice came out small, and fragile, making something tremble inside of him. Hesupposed it was meant to be a question, but there was enough resolution insidethose words that he doubted his own assumption. He stayed still, in his owncorner, looking down at you in an attempt to intimidate you into submission. However,you stood up from your bed, your steps tentative as they hit the cold floorunder your bare feet. You tiptoed slowly towards him, and somehow he felt likebacking off as a scared animal despite your smaller size. You blinked at him,incredulous, speaking with caution, “Are you really here?”

He kept silent,still, almost lifeless, for a moment, before nodding and admiring with a sloweddown heartbeat that your lips curled up just slightly. You tiptoed closer again,and stopped at less than a meter from him, hugging your arms around your ownbody to protect yourself from the cold, chilly air of February. Risotto remainedmotionless, but his muscles tensed suddenly at the closeness he didn’t expect.His face didn’t betray any sort of emotion, though, if the probing look yougave him could indicate anything. There was relief in your voice when you spokeagain, a note of happiness too, “I missed you.”

Missed him.Risotto never really contemplated the possibility of his object of devotionreciprocating his feelings or his dedication, he was ready to harbor those emotionsin the intimacy of his mind while deciding the actions he would carry on whenhe saw you again. But seeing you with your insignificant frame, curled up tokeep warmth, looking up at him as if he was someone who came to rescue you froma miserable life; something settled inside of him, not quite adjusting hisdarker thoughts of possessing and devouring every part of your life, but hecould sense something softer hatching.

“I came back foryou,” he spoke with an even tone, striding to you with few steps to close the distance.He rested his hands on your arms, holding you while pinning you with his gaze,but you smiled all the same. He continued, encouraged by your wordless serenity,“I have nothing left here but you, so we can run away,” his voice didn’t letout the emotions gripping his throat, the apprehension at your rejection. Heraised his hands once again, to hold the sides of your face with much moredelicacy he first assumed he possessed. Your lack of fear at his action gavehim the push he needed to complete his train of thoughts, “Where do you think Iwill take you?”

You looked athim, studied his eyes with the expertise of someone who could read an ancient,unknown language. Your blinks were slow and measured, your breath was soft asyou sighed, a caress of your nails over the back of his hand signaling him youwere listening still. He could see the comprehension, the absence of loathingbehind your eyes, only the desire to understand and go back, if only to be keptunder his wing to flee somewhere. Then you talked, and Risotto had to restrainhimself from gripping your face with more force, “With you, I don’t care.”

This man, soimposing, dangerous with his bloodthirst and violence pumping under his skin;he didn’t scare you for you knew he never wished to harm you, you didn’t gainany contempt from him. He understood that in that moment, and from the firsttime he faced life, he felt like he was holding it in his hands. For the firsttime in his life, Risotto’s voice faltered as a low whisper reached your ears, “Ilove you.”

Your smile wasenough to cement his next move.      

[equalseleventhirds]

ok i was gonna make a shitpost about the beholding possibly being the second-youngest fear (after the flesh) and that’s why it’s such an asshole and gets bullied all the time (and i may yet make that shitpost i just got distracted)

BUT while thinking about that i started considering the web, bcos it always struck me as sort of an anomaly among the fears? not bcos manipulation isn’t a major fear a lot of people have, but because spiders in particular are not generally feared for their manipulation (in my experience, which i know may not be everyone’s, but listen...)

most of the ppl i have met who say they’re scared of spiders are more afraid of them the way the guy in arachnophobia was, with the horrifying idea that they’re going to crawl on you, or that they’re all around infesting your surroundings, or that they’re gross (sounds like corruption). sometimes (mostly from horror movie type arachnophobes) in a more hunt-ish sense, that if they become giant they are predators and will eat you.

this brings me to another point: we’re actually told that most of the fears don’t latch onto specific symbolism. leitner (motherfucker that he is) tells jon when he asks about bones: ‘you’re thinking too literally. examining the physical categorisation, but ignoring the meaning of the thing.’ he explains that bones as a symbol can be multiple fears, that they’re not limited by the physicality.

but the mother of puppets, apparently, uses spiders always. even in statements that could be plain manipulation (web development) we get spiders spiders spiders.

and no one else uses the spiders. the corruption flat-out avoids them in spite of being the domain of all creepy crawlies. the hunt doesn’t use them at all, even tho they’re really very good at hunting (some spiders trap, some actually do flat-out run out and catch food, and both of those are v good hunting techniques). they have eight eyes, and the eye won’t touch them. being wrapped up in web could be buried... you see all the things u could do.

in fact, not only do the other fears avoid using any of their symbolism, but the other fears are afraid of the web, more than any of their ‘enemies’ among the others. jonah says you can only hope the web doesn’t get in the way of your plans, because it plays its own game. peter seems convinced it likes the world as it is (and, reading into that, that it’s way more powerful than he is lol). it eats jane’s worms. and the one time we see someone try to go up against it... look what happened to agnes (even before she was bound to gertrude, she was tied too deeply to the house).

jumping topics for a second: real life spiders aren’t that manipulative. yeah they use webs, but only as much as other animals trick and trap prey (and they do, spiders aren’t unique in this). some of them use camouflage to either hunt or hide (did u kno some spiders look like ants just so they can live with ants and avoid predators isn’t that NEAT sorry i got sidetracked), but so do plenty of other animals. they don’t puppet their prey around when it’s trapped in the web, either--they just wrap it up to eat later. yeah there is one spider that plays on other spider’s webs to make them come down and then eats them, but that is a very UNUSUAL spider that most ppl don’t know about, and also it just eats other spiders? come on.

BUT do you know where we get a lot of ‘spiders & webs as manipulation’? stories. it’s present in literature (mostly as metaphors for humans, but still), poetry, folktales... some mythologies. not all mythologies, of course, but there are some that show spiders specifically as tricksters and manipulators (vs some that show them just as weavers, or just as big gross monsters, or not at all).

it’s important to note, though, that as tricksters specifically, a lot of spider mythology does not make them evil. the trickster archetype in mythology is usually canny and clever and mischievous, but rarely fully evil--and often helping the people who tell those stories.

why do i bring this up? WELL. in the architecture of fear, smirke says he thinks the fears were brought about by some ancient civilization, for an unknown reason--but perhaps to harness their fear for their own use.

(and far be it from ME to say that robert smirke was right about something, i talk so much shit about him being wrong all the time, but... well, this was far later in his life. when he’d realized some of his mistakes. when he was no longer sure that he was correct about the fears, about the rituals. when he’d finally started re-examining his original excited, informed-by-fucking-rayner theories, and accepting that he might have been wrong. so we’ll let this one ride.)

now, if i was someone in an ancient civilization looking to harness and use powerful fear monsters, i might want some insurance. i might take a look at my gods and spirits, for one that could help. for one that was not clearly all lawful good and would have stood out. for one that could, maybe, work from the inside to keep the fear monsters in check, could intimidate and manipulate them for MY benefit, and was known to be canny and clever enough to do it. and i might tie the related symbolism in very deeply with that one power (especially if i knew the powers tended to change symbolism) so that no one else could use it, and so that it would always use that symbol and remember what it was supposed to be.

i’m saying the mother of puppets, although certainly not GOOD or NICE and definitely still a fear, might have originated in an attempt to control and balance the other fears, a very long time ago.

[warrioreowynofrohan]

I would LOVE to read a fic or just hear your headcanons on maedhros or maeglin in the halls of mandos, becoming elves again after they 'made themselves' into orcs. I think your idea is fascinating!

I’ve had a mental fanfic about Maedhros’ time in the Halls in my head for a long while that I never managed to write down. Your question’s given me the impetus to put one part of it on the page, so thank you for that. Beyond that snippet, I’ve added some headcanon.

I have written very little fanfic before, so I’m very nervous about this.

******************************************************************

The burning in his hand, sharper even than the fires into which he cast himself, had not abated with his death, not even in the Halls where all sensation was muted. It was not the flesh that had offended the holy jewel, not skin and blood and bone. It was the spirit that was corrupt, and the spirit that burned.

It enforced clarity. It meant that he could not deny the knowledge as his brother had, his brothers who had laughed at him when he had looked in their faces and shrunk back at seeing their eyes. Faces that might have still passed for Eldar at a brief glance. Eyes such as those he had seen in Angband.

The pain was a small thing in comparison to this knowledge.

He had feared it, during his imprisonment, more than any other danger. Needlesly. Morgoth had needed to do nothing at all. This was their own work, their own craftsmanship.

In any moment, the knowledge was nigh unbearable. In the measureless time the Halls offered, it was unimaginable. He might go a year, a hundred years, ten thousand, with nothing but the knowledge of what he had become.

When he could endure the knowledge no longer, he sought Nienna and cast himself at her feet. He could not look at her, could not raise his eyes from the floor, but managed to find strength for a voice scarce above a whisper. “Is there any hope? For any of us?”

Her voice was low, and deep, and gentle. “Look at me.” He raised his face a little, paused, forced himself to look up, and then collapsed back to the ground without meeting her eyes. She was Ainur; she could not be ignorant of what he was when he lay before her, whether he met her eyes or not. But he could not bring himself to; could not bring himself to see in her eyes the same revulsion and horror he felt in his whole being. “I have no right to seek you. I know what I have made of myself, and it is a thing abhorrent to Eru, and to the Valar, and to myself.”

Her voice remained unchanged, still gentle. “Maedhros. Look at me.” He dragged himself to his knees and, trembling, met her eyes, looked away in disbelief, then met them again, seeing no horror there but only love, and compassion, and measureless sorrow. “How-? How can you -?” he choked out.

“My siblings and I each have our own cares and loves. The seas are Ulmo’s, the winds Manwë’s, the plants and animals Yavanna’s. The lost and the broken are mine, and how should I not love them?” She placed a hand gently on his head. “There is always hope. Will you give me your hand?”

It was more claw than hand, charred and blackened across the palm and to the first joint on the fingers, and still clenched as it had been when he held the Silmaril, but he placed it in her own, and she began to weep. And as her tears fell on it a steam went up, and it began to cool, and the pain faded at last.

And then he was in her arms and she was weeping over him, her tears running through his hair and down his face and across his shoulders, and it seemed that by this his own tears were loosed and he too began to weep, choking out confessions of all things done and suffered in the past centuries, in no order or sequence. His sword at Sirion, plunging through the chest of a soldier who had stood by him in every battle of the long Siege. Flames at Losgar. The wrath and despair that consumed him after the Nirnaeth, crying if all we do must turn to evil whether we will or no, how may we be blamed for doing it? Salt and blood at Alqualondë.

He clung to her like a lost child, and sobbed harder at this thought. For the abandoned children of Doriath; for all those he had killed, and betrayed, and led into evil. And when at last he was done with weeping, still she held him, and smoothed his hair, and kissed his forehead, and he met her eyes with a gratitude deeper than any words.

He could see now a path forward, for the first time since he had entered the Halls. It was no a pleasant one; the thought of facing those he had killed, those who had suffered by his deeds, terrified him. But it was a path, and that was a greater gift than he had dreamed possible.

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That’s all of what I’ve managed to put into fic. My headcanon beyond this is mostly a great many apologies (some of which are accepted, some of which are definitively not) and a gradual process of healing. After quite some time, probably a point after the fall of Ost-in-Edhil, other elves in the Halls start to seek out Maedhros. There are a lot of people in the Halls with regrets and wrongs and mistakes, some greater and some lesser; they find Maedhros a convenient confidant because no matter what they’ve done, he’s done worse and has no right to judge them (and some are inclined to tell him so at length; he’s used to it by that point). For the most part, he doesn’t advise, just listens.

At some point, Maeglin starts talking to Maedhros. Mostly unpleasantly; Maeglin is rather far past the point where he can conceptualize the possibility of being anything but orcish. But Maedhros is by this point pretty much incapable of taking offense at anything, and he’s the one elf in the Halls who’s able to sincerely regard, and treat, Maeglin as not fundamentally different from himself. And over time this relationship manages to pull Maeglin towards being something that more resembles a person, and to at least realize that he doesn’t want to be the way he is and, just maybe, doesn’t have to be the way he is.

Another element of this is that there’s a different part of the Halls where real orcs (i.e. orcs by no fault of their own) go, and Nienna cares for them. Healing is a very long process, but every so occassionally, one of them heals and returns to life as an elf. (With no memory of their previous life; it would be too horrifying for them, and additionally, this is a closely guarded secret because it would cause a great deal of trouble if living elves started speculating about which of their friends and acquaintances were former orcs. So as far as anyone living is concerned, they just come across as former Avari who have been rehoused.) At some point, in a rare exception to this secrecy policy, Nienna tells Maedhros about this and he starts assisting her in this work; just being there as someone to talk to when they’re already well on the way to recovery. As with Maeglin, it’s something that works because Maedhros doesn’t regard them with horror or see them as something fundamentally different from himself.