#the injustice of undeath

[avayarising]

The Batfam Death Project Introduction

I’m working on a project to find and list every time each member of the Batfam has experienced death, either through dying or by visiting a world of the dead.

Why?

I was curious because I kept finding incidences of DC heroes dying and coming back to life, and the Batfam in particular (though maybe that’s just because that’s where I started looking), and I wanted to know how much there was of this. Jason’s death is the one everyone makes a fuss of, but there are plenty of others and I wanted to know just how many.

And, coming at it partially from the DPxDC side, I wanted to know exactly how liminal the Bats are.

And the answer is: very.

Scope

For this project I’m looking at all deaths of the core Batfamily: that’s Bruce, Dick, Jason, Tim, Cass, Damian, and Alfred; I’m also including Steph, Barbara, Duke, and Kate. I’m not including more peripheral, associate or occasional bat-vigilantes such as Jean-Paul or Helena, nor other members of the Justice League, though I am aware of at least some deaths for many of them. (I could perhaps be persuaded to expand the project…)

The scope includes only the main universe (Prime Earth, New Earth, or Earth-0). It covers all eras from pre-Crisis to the present day, within the main timeline. It does not include elseworlds, imaginary stories, or alternative universes. For example, it does not include deaths and undeaths in DCeased, DC versus Vampires, or Injustice. It considers only comics, not movies, TV shows, radio plays, or other media. My goal is that it should at least be arguable, for any given character, that the same person has experienced all their death events in succession.

Definition of death experience

A character is considered dead if they are depicted or declared dead on panel (and this is not contradicted). They are also considered dead if they have no heartbeat, have no cerebral activity, or require CPR.

The death doesn’t have to be long to be included – brief flatlining counts. I’m including a note of the rough length of time the character is dead for each incident, at least in terms of order of magnitude (minutes, hours, days…).

I’m also including instances where a character is healed in a Lazarus Pit while dying or mortally wounded – in other words, where they would have died very shortly without the intervention of the Pit.

I debated whether or not to include instances of what the comics call ‘brain death’, where there is no cerebral activity, even if autonomous functions continue. In real life, my understanding is that a declaration of death for lack of brain activity requires brainstem death, where even autonomous functions are lost. But I decided in the end to include them, because in both cases where this occurs (both to Bruce) they are referred to on-panel as ‘clinical death’.

In addition to the above, I’m also separately keeping track of any visits to any afterlife or realm of the dead where the character doesn’t have to die to go there (summoning, portal, etc.).

Preliminary results

Bruce dies early and dies often. So far I have several dozen deaths for Bruce, in seventeen separate incidents.

His kids have a more reasonable 2–5 deaths each.

Duke is the only member of the Batfam (core or adjunct) whom I haven’t found any deaths for. Yet.

Deaths have been getting more frequent over the years, and they’re all getting pretty blasé about it.

Next steps

I’m going to write a post for each character listing and summarising their deaths, with volume and issue references. I’ll then dive into more detail in individual posts for some of the more interesting (to me) deaths and revivals. I’ll create a masterpost so you can keep track of them, and link it here.

Please send me asks!

Acknowledgements

Huge thanks are due to @lynzine and @zahri-melitor for helping and encouraging me with this project, letting me rant at them about this project and the comics I’ve read for it, and finding and suggesting deaths and potential deaths for me to look at. Without your encouragement I would have given up long ago.

The Batfam Death Project Masterpost

[essayofthoughts]

I know you're probably getting a lot of these so no pressure, but if your asks are still open: 📓 go wild, whatever's most fun for you to think about right now!

Not as many asks as you'd think! I've still got five topics left - or, well. Four now.

#5 - oh this is a fun one. Also kind of dark.

So as far as we know, aside from the Raven Queen and Vecna all of the fully ascended gods affected by the Divine Gate (that is to say, not lesser idols or minor gods) were always gods, right? And from what we see, in many ways they are their domains - Melora and Erathis' contentious romance comes from the fact that they're opposites that can both encourage and destroy each other and their ideal comes from balance, right? And certainly the gods can change within that - the Betrayer Gods certainly did - and we know that the Raven Queen is different to her predecessor, so it seems that their alignment can shift to some degree as long as it still fits their domains.

But at the end of the day, these are gods. They don't exist as the living do - as mortals do. They are divine magic and their domains and pure godly will, right?

Can you imagine how much that has to be for someone who ascends?

Think about this - you are a person, just a regular person, and you believe strongly in your god and your gods domains, certainly, but you are still free to break those divine laws and do as you will. You can tell a lie or create injustice or cultivate life instead of guarding the grave - you can do as you will.

But as a god, you are the embodiment of those domains. The gods can make exceptions to their domains but they're small, limited, a risk - Ioun can keep a secret only because it is a secret the other gods trust her to keep: it is a secret that, to a degree, they know and helped make (the Divine Trammels). The Raven Queen can return someone to life if the soul is willing - but they still must die or otherwise join her eventually. Unending undeath is her antithesis.

And, well - lets look at the Raven Queen. Because she wasn't always a god. She was once a person. She was once able to go against her beliefs and do what she felt was right - hells, that's how she became a god! She looked at how the god of death was handling things and went "No. That is not what death should be" and killed the god of death, killed death - and took his place.

And now, she is bound by those domains. She keeps those strictures.

And what's more - this isn't just the gods, this is their servants too. We see this happen to Vax - you can argue my belief that this is the case with the gods is pure speculation but we have seen it happen to a god's champion. Why would it not be the case with gods?

And we know the Exandrian gods are fallible. That they can struggle to see things beyond their perspectives and domain. Sarenrae suffered huge casualties because she believes so much in redemption - because redemption is one of her domains! - that she was tricked by the Betrayer Gods.

The gods are their domains, to some degree. And for those gods that started out mortal - the Raven Queen, Vecna - that has got to be an incredible, awful experience. To go from knowing the freedom of making even hypocritical, stupid choices, to finding that one's whole self is being warped and changed by the sheer power and belief and domains inherent in godhood.

As Percy de Rolo pointed out - the more power and connections you have, the less you are your own. The more you are everyone else's too.

For none is that truer than the gods. How much of them is truly their own at all, anymore?

send in “📓” and I’ll roll a d10 and ramble some worldbuilding thoughts

[amongthedrowned]

Fanfiction Masterlist

Arranged by fandom. Unless otherwise stated, these are all complete. Click on the title to be taken to their AO3.

Link to my AO3 profile!

💚💛❤️ The Life Series

Series: All Along the Watchtower, aka AATW (my Last Life one-shots organized in a chronological series)

Peace, Love, and Bats Grian & Mumbo In a loosely Victorian world, Mumbo become a vampire. Grian helps him adjust.

Descension of a Different Kind (AATW) Grian & Mumbo Grian keeps falling.

Allegiance (AATW) Mumbo & Grian People on red don't get to keep their friends.

In Confidence (AATW) Mumbo & Grian Mumbo loses his friend, and the world becomes real.

Always an Architect (AATW) Grian & Mumbo Mumbo admires Grian's building on red.

⚔️ Dream SMP

Series: The Injustice of Undeath, aka TIOU. A zombie apocalypse AU centering on SBI. It is unfortunately unfinished and abandoned, but the first two stories are stand-alones and can be read without the continuations. I have a masterpost with worldbuilding, art, and more writing if you're interested in the tumblr-based content.

Claus and Effect Techno & Phil Crack treated seriously: Phil Claus crashes his sleigh into Techno’s living room.

Home is Where the House is (TIOU) Phil-centric Phil waits for his sons to come home. The apocalypse is persistent, but Phil is patient.

Home is Where the Heart isn't (TIOU) Phil & Wilbur, Phil & Tommy, Phil & Techno Companion to Home is Where the House is—Phil travels to find his family, but by the time he gets there, it may already be too late.

Die Like One (I Know I Did) (TIOU) Techno-centric A nonlinear story chronicling zombie-hunter Techno's origin. Incomplete and abandoned.

Dead Like One (TIOU) Phil & Techno & Ranboo, Phil & Dream Phil attempts to retire, but Dream comes to him with an offer he can't refuse: a chance to bring back Wilbur. Incomplete and abandoned.

Feel free to send me asks about them; I love talking about them. I allow requests, but it's rare that I get to them—I do not guarantee that I will write it.

I will update this whenever I write a new fic!

[necromancy-savant]

Ok here are my thoughts on Nona the Ninth:

- Nona is really relatable to me in some ways, like how she thinks, communicates and processes things, and how she has some challenges but is still an adult and wants to be respected as one. And she has intense "tantrums" when she gets emotionally overwhelmed. I actually like the thought that if the Earth could be embodied as a human, she would be a bit like me. - Still emotional about how much everyone loves her and honestly how respectful and kind everyone in Nona's life is to her. Presumably the people of all those other planets outside the solar system are the descendants of the trillionaires that got away and that's why John wants to conquer them, and they are lovely to Nona. I'm interested to see how the final book resolves the conflict between the Nine Houses and everywhere else and what it ends up saying, intentionally or not. - Ianthe has suddenly gotten a lot cooler. I'm not sure what it is. Did she do something with her hair? I think it's that her dialogue is so good. I just had to read most of her lines out loud. I'm still laughing about "duplicitous sluts." She's also even more pathetic now, which only makes her more appealing. Like she's not even competent at being an evil villain and I love her so much more for it.

-While reading, I was thinking about how Ianthe and Naberius are a perversion of everything the adept/cavalier relationship is supposed to be, but given that the whole thing is based on a misunderstanding and maybe not such a great thing anyway, I haven't decided yet what the implications of that are (will probably need more data from the last installment.) - Being risen in undeath as a revenant seems to have turned Gideon into kind of an asshole, but on the other hand, I think she and Nona just instinctively don't like each other and are clearly both super jealous of each other, and I'm guessing the in-universe reason is because Gideon is related to John. And she's really only mean to Nona, who is also admittedly a dick to Gideon even before she meets her, and otherwise mostly just seems hopeless and depressed. She's a lot like her father, actually: she tries to get revenge and deal out justice in the form of punishment only to find that it doesn't make her feel any better.

-Is anyone going to tell Ianthe and/or John that the princes in the tower got murdered???? - I wonder if John would take it as a compliment how attracted Harrow is to Alecto since he purposely made her to be as attractive as possible. I think he would because when I was like 14 on RuneScape, a girl told me I was hot, and I thought it was a very nice compliment since I had made my character as handsome as I could. - For that matter, I wonder if Harrow would be pleased to know that The Body thought she was pretty. - I'm kind of surprised that apparently people think John Gaius is like some evil mastermind??? I totally see him as a normal person with a lot of big feelings who is scared. I actually can imagine being angry enough at an injustice to feel like I want to destroy the solar system to erase even the memory of it, and don't think I could promise that I wouldn't if I had the ability to while also experiencing the most intense trauma and grief of my life. - I'll come back to the Biblical references, but in a few places Palamedes seemed to me to be a bit too Christlike for my personal liking. - I'm interested in how perfection in this book and in the series as a whole is presented in the literal sense of the word as something finished. Towards the ends of this novel there's a lot about love as something perfect and finite, but I think more broadly the highest aim in The Locked Tomb is to finish something. - I was also thinking today about Crux. When Gideon says she wants him to know she's the child of the emperor, it reminded me of that line from the Bible where Jesus says "whatever you did for the least of my brethren, you did for me." What strikes me is that when thus accused, Crux doesn't give a shit. He basically says, I don't care if you're literally God, to me you will always be worthless and will always be inherently inferior due to the social position you were born into. He is the exact kind of person the entire Resurrection was supposed to eliminate from the universe, and here he is 10,000 years later making John's own daughter's life hell.

-I'm so glad everyone else is just as fixated on the Barbie thing as I am.

-WHEN NONA LOSES THE WILL TO LIVE UNTIL SHE REMEMBERS ABOUT NOODLE

I still have a few questions about how certain things happen or work, and that's something that's been an issue for me with all three books so far. I don't need an in-depth explanation, just a simple how did they do that. But in short, this one was definitely my favorite so far, and I intend to immediately re-read the others to see what I can pick up on knowing what I know now. After that, I can take inventory of any questions I still have. Nona really contextualized Gideon and Harrow for me and brought them together in a way that's allowing me to tease out the big themes in the series. The recurring characters are now established enough to really have fun with them, but the new characters are also interesting, endearing, and feel real through the little details about them.

[gerec]

AU-gust 2021 Prompts

1. Ancient Gods AU - Part 3 of 5

Part 1 Part 2

Greek mythology au; inspired by the myth of Medusa. No warnings in this part.

-----

Erik watched as the man half-walked, half-stumbled his way into his home, before he managed to grab hold of the cavern wall and let out a sigh of relief. The man was handsome and quite young – as young as Erik had been before the change; before the White Queen had transformed him from man to monster. It had been fifty years and Erik had not aged a single day, though it was mortal blood that yet ran through his veins. And he had not seen or spoken to another since that fateful day at the temple, for all who sought him meant to kill him, and Erik was only too eager to repay them in kind.

He slithered closer – slithered, for the bottom half of his body now resembled that of a giant serpent, matching the snakes that sprung as hair from his head. And yet it was not these features which truly made him monstrous to behold, for they did nothing more than elicit fear from the intruders who came calling. No, it was his eyes which held the power of death, for all he gazed upon would turn entirely to stone.

It was a pity, that yet another had chosen such an ignominious fate.

As the man drew closer, Erik could see that a blindfold covered his eyes, and almost smiled at the cleverness that had so eluded the others. He was not afraid, for his gaze was not his only weapon; Erik’s aim with the bow could easily pierce his heart from a hundred paces. But he was curious that the stranger seemed to carry no sword or dagger; how then could he have hoped to best Erik and win?

“Hello? Is anyone there?” the man said, before he walked into an outstretched arm and nearly stumbled to the ground. He managed to right himself, grabbing hold of the stone limb, and recognizing its shape, proceeded to map the outline of the figure with his fingers.

“A statue?” he murmured under his breath, and then he pitched his voice louder and took another step. “I apologize for intruding, and for any damage I might have caused to your sculpture, friend.”

Erik laughed and the man immediately stilled, turning in his direction, though he made no move to attack or to hide himself in fear. He knew that his voice mirrored the susurrus song of the snakes on his head, and marveled at the stranger’s seeming courage in the face of certain danger. “It is no statue, but all that remains of a foolish man.” Then he added, “And you are not my friend.”

The stranger hesitated when he realized the meaning of Erik’s words – and the true nature of the stone ‘statue’ – and yet he still offered a rueful smile. “Not a friend then, but not an enemy either,” the man said, raising his hands in supplication as he took another step forward. “I seek your council, and your help, for I have been given a task that I am loathe to complete.”

“There is only ever one task, for those who seek this lair,” Erik hissed. “You have come for my head.”

“Please.” The stranger’s voice did not waver, though Erik could smell his fear and clearly see the tension in his shoulders. “I want only to save my mother from an unwanted suitor. He is a powerful and brutal man, the King of Seriphus, and will not leave her be unless I deliver his stated recompense.”

Since that night at the temple, Erik’s heart knew only bitterness and anger, for all that he was – his humanity, and his capacity for love – had been burned away by loneliness and pain. And so, he was surprised by the new emotions stirring in his heart; pity for the stranger’s mother, and great sadness for them both. It was cruel injustice, in an unjust world, that the powerful should be allowed to prey on the weak, and the weak made to suffer.

Perhaps, Erik could do something to alter their fate, the way he wished his own had been changed.

“Did your King ask that you bring him only the Gorgon’s head? Did he dictate that the head must be cleaved from the body?”

The man frowned. “He gave no conditions, for he believed that I would die on the journey here.”

Erik snorted. “Indeed. It’s a surprise you’ve made it this far, with nary a shield upon your back. Are you so eager to die, stranger? That you readily agreed to such a foolhardy mission?”

“No.” The man’s voice was gentle and warm, filled with none of the heat and bravado of the so called ‘heroes’ who had perished in Erik’s wake. Up close, he could discern no scars on the stranger’s body or callouses on his hands; he seemed to Erik more akin to a scholar than a fighter.

“Not eager, though I am not afraid of death. My mother saved me as an infant when I might have perished in the sea, and has loved me every day hence. I would do anything – sacrifice everything – to ensure her happiness.”

“Then I will help you,” Erik answered, though he interjected before the man could stammer his thanks. “I will journey with you to Seriphus, and bring my own head to your King so that you may fulfill your promise. In return…you will willingly look upon my face, stranger, and join me here for eternity, in undeath. What say you?”

Erik expected the man to refuse, to beg for mercy or offer gold and other riches to try and sway him from his demand. But yet again the stranger surprised him with merely a sad smile. “My name is Charles,” he said, “and I accept your offer.”

[symphonyofthewrite]

If These Walls Could Talk (Ch5)

Fandom: Castlevania Netflix

Summary: Vampires do not have reflections, and castles do not have hearts. But Dracula is no ordinary vampire, and Castlevania is no ordinary castle. If castles can fight, maybe they can think too.

The series, and Adrian’s childhood, told from the perspective of the castle.

Notes: FYI for anyone who’s been following the story here ( @symphonyofthewrite ) this is currently the most recent chapter!!

A HUGE thank you if you have, by the way!!!! 😘

If you can comment and/or reblog as well that would make my week!!!

Chapter Summary: “You really don’t understand the act of forging. He’s not dead. We make life from death here.” “And you make soldiers for Dracula, which is one reason why he invests so much in you despite your…humanity. …Dracula brought us all here to fight his war, Hector. All the vampires under his reign.” “The war. Not his war.” “…Hector do you think this war is going well?” “We’re hardly losing.” “No, of course not. But it seems chaotic, undirected, as if we were lashing out at humanity without any real plan beyond wild destruction.” “I think wild destruction is what he wants.” * “Are you still my friend?” “Always.” “Then know that you may be alone.”

Chapter 5: “War”

The Castle does not like these guests Dracula has let in.

It knows many of them; has housed a number of them before. But that was before. Before the Life. Before the Light. And it no longer likes the death and the dark. It no longer likes the way these guests squabble, and talk of death and war as if it’s not at their beck and call. It feels like it’s infested with bedbugs, bitten a hundred times in its place of rest, itchy till it can’t fall asleep anymore.

The war room is always the most jittery and loud, housing the war its named after.

They have brought their war with them. The Castle must and will fight Dracula’s war, but only Dracula’s war. Dracula may think they fight his war. But the war they bring is their own, more insidious, having its own branches, trying to choke out its master’s goals. There is descent. Secrets fluttering on silver tongues, like moths in the halls, congregating around any light here. Viruses, lies contaminating its walls. Betrayal against its master, who was gracious enough to invite them in.

Its master wonders to the walls who his friends are—as well he should, for he has so few—and the Castle wishes in its numb state he never let them in. Why couldn’t he have just stayed with his boy, and let the light reach him?

Godbrand’s voice comprises much of the war in the war room; all thirst, and little to no thought. Very much a vampire, the undeath in him attempting to steal the life of everything he comes into contact with. So human; his words comprised of bloodthirst, fists full of fire.

Camilla’s dagger-sharp footsteps in the halls, the towers, like pinpricks, like tiny little bites. A parasite that wriggled into Castlevania’s heart, attempting to make it beat to her duplicitous rhythm. The queen, who walks in stride with the cold, the death, and the dark that took the Castle so long to grow out of the habit of wearing. They are like a loyal shadow at her heels, clawing at the walls. The Castle liked her once, for the same reason it doesn’t like her now.

She challenges Dracula and all the life he ever managed to find.

There are other vampires too—some with names, others toy soldiers—but they are hardly worth mentioning, for there are little more than smoke and noise, mist and shadow.

…Well, maybe the Castle doesn’t dislike everyone.

Castlevania likes Hector. Likes the sound of Hector hammering the death out of things in its dungeon. It may not be the golden life, it may not be warm or tender, and it may make demons for war, but it is life of a sort. The boy is kind and gentle, and he likes dogs, and sunlight.

It is nice to have dogs and cats scampering and yipping in its halls. Hector is right when he says they are far better than people. Dracula never let Adrian get a dog, and this kind of pure, gentle life is the closest thing to sunlight they can get in this night-shrouded place. In the same token, Castlevania wishes it could bottle up the sunlight and bring it down into the dungeon to him.

Castlevania likes Isaac. Very much in fact. Isaac is loyal to its master, and loyalty is a rare commodity in these infested halls. He may be the only who still has it. And that is a kind of life too. The Castle snatches a smile when it sees the two speaking as friends, glad there is, at least, someone left its master can speak to.

It is because the Castle likes Isaac that it doesn’t like the sound of Isaacs whip. Self-discipline isn’t so bad of a thing…but the Castle knows of pain now. The Castle wouldn’t have cared before, but now it knows what little boys who believe in love deserve; it knows that good masters never whip their servants, their children, or their castles. And ‘doesn’t like’ is not merely a preference now, because the sight of Isaac’s blood…it hurts. But Isaac lived too long in the sun, and now he prefers the cold and the dark. And Death has claimed him for its own, just like it claimed its master, wrapped its strings around him, and he will be a living death though he is still alive. He grew up in the sun, now he belongs in a dark place…but the Castle doesn’t want to be that place anymore.

Maybe Castlevania likes them because Dracula likes them. They’re the only creatures in the Castle Dracula likes; the only two who are human.

The only people he’s ever truly liked are at least half human.

Why can’t he see that he doesn’t hate humans? He just hates bloodthirst.

Godbrand grumbles, he questions, and demands for things that don’t belong to him.

Camilla schemes, and denounces them all as less than livestock.

Hector tries to discern the most humane way to put humanity down.

Isaac beats his back bloody, and he tries to be a friend to Dracula after all.

And Dracula sits in his study and doesn’t smile anymore.

He makes the fire as bright as he can, and no matter how bright and warm the fire is—no matter how much the Castle tries to refine all the light Alucard filled the world with into this one room, fill the emptiness, resurrect the death—it can never warm him. He needs to be held. The Castle cannot do that. Only the boy or his mother could. And they are too far now.

The walls watch him, and wait for him to talk to them again. And the walls, for the first time, wonder—(and hate themselves for wondering)—if the word isn’t undead anymore.

Life was once a part of the undeath, hidden in the corners and crevices…but is death a fact of the unlife now?

There are fights, words and fists, like tumors, like cysts. Unlike the humans who once banged on the Castle’s door for vampire blood, Godbrand takes the vampires out to feast on the wine of human veins. Camilla latches her teeth onto Hector and he becomes host to her lies; the sun-and-dog boy taken in by the parasite, and Castlevania would shout at him not to listen, that she doesn’t have his best interests at heart, to listen to its master still…if only it could talk.

Godbrand dies with a whip around his neck and flames in his chest. The brutality dies at the hand of the boy who believes in love. And the Castle wouldn’t have cared before, but now its complicated. It is glad for a little less noise, but the blood and the death make its stones crawl, and it hates to see it all on the hands of a young man who should have been appalled at such an act. Now its sad, sad for Isaac’s sake. Because he’s just a young man, like Adrian.

Castlevania misses the boy, and the days of sunlight. Prays that he will return, with dancing gold at his heels.

They mentioned Alucard, once. In a way Castlevania hasn’t heard his name spoken before. After all those years of his little feet toddling upon its stones, the sun stinging slowly and quietly; they say his name, like it’s a threat. It’s sound causes unease when they were always so sickeningly confident. He is not a threat, an enemy, within the war, but a threat to the war itself. His name could end this war.

And the Room snatches an inkling of air at the sound of his name, tries to cry out, but only croaks a frail war call—a war call against this war. The Room tries to smile through the pain, because if that’s true it reflects him; he stands against the cold, the dark, and the death, like the Room always did.

Castlevania prays he will stop this war, this dark, this death, this hungry emptiness, and he will save his father. But it is losing hope each curtained sunrise.

The Room, breath stolen from its lungs, unable to cry out, waits. The kind of anticipation as when this new life was going to arrive in the first place, but there is no apprehension this time. The Room was not alive, then, and this is a living waiting. It waits with feeble attempts to remove the claw around its throat, breathless cries upon its ever-silent lips. Waits for its master to come home—for its master is not home, and it is not a home without its master.

The Room waits, and without breath things start to become rather funny.

At first it’s Godbrands remarks, then it’s Carmilla’s schemes. Then its Hector’s pets, and Issac’s unyielding loyalty. The death, the darkness, and the cold, cruel injustice of it all. They should make the Room’s walls boil with anger, and at first they did, but now it wants to laugh instead.

Hypoxia, they call it. When, lacking oxygen, everything is just a little too funny.

The Room is hypoxic.

[antihero-writings]

If These Walls Could Talk (Ch5)

Fandom: Castlevania Netflix

Summary: Vampires do not have reflections, and castles do not have hearts. But Dracula is no ordinary vampire, and Castlevania is no ordinary castle. If castles can fight, maybe they can think too.

The series, and Adrian’s childhood, told from the perspective of the castle.

Chapter Summary: “You really don’t understand the act of forging. He’s not dead. We make life from death here.” “And you make soldiers for Dracula, which is one reason why he invests so much in you despite your…humanity. …Dracula brought us all here to fight his war, Hector. All the vampires under his reign.” “The war. Not his war.” “…Hector do you think this war is going well?...It seems chaotic, undirected, as if we were lashing out at humanity without any real plan beyond wild destruction.” “I think wild destruction is what he wants.” * “Are you still my friend?” “Always.” “Then know that you may be alone.”

Chapter 5: "War"

The Castle does not like these guests Dracula has let in.

It knows many of them; has housed a number of them before. But that was before. Before the Life. Before the Light. And it no longer likes the death and the dark. It no longer likes the way these guests squabble, and talk of death and war as if it’s not at their beck and call. It feels like it’s infested with bedbugs, bitten a hundred times in its place of rest, itchy till it can’t fall asleep anymore.

The war room is always the most jittery and loud, housing the war its named after.

They have brought their war with them. The Castle must and will fight Dracula’s war, but only Dracula’s war. Dracula may think they fight his war. But the war they bring is their own, more insidious, having its own branches, trying to choke out its master’s goals. There is descent. Secrets fluttering on silver tongues, like moths in the halls, congregating around any light here. Viruses, lies contaminating its walls. Betrayal against its master, who was gracious enough to invite them in.

Its master wonders to the walls who his friends are—as well he should, for he has so few—and the Castle wishes in its numb state he never let them in. Why couldn’t he have just stayed with his boy, and let the light reach him?

Godbrand’s voice comprises much of the war in the war room; all thirst, and little to no thought. Very much a vampire, the undeath in him attempting to steal the life of everything he comes into contact with. So human; his words comprised of bloodthirst, fists full of fire.

Camilla’s dagger-sharp footsteps in the halls, the towers, like pinpricks, like tiny little bites. A parasite that wriggled into Castlevania’s heart, attempting to make it beat to her duplicitous rhythm. The queen, who walks in stride with the cold, the death, and the dark that took the Castle so long to grow out of the habit of wearing. They are like a loyal shadow at her heels, clawing at the walls. The Castle liked her once, for the same reason it doesn’t like her now.

She challenges Dracula and all the life he ever managed to find.

There are other vampires too—some with names, others toy soldiers—but they are hardly worth mentioning, for there are little more than smoke and noise, mist and shadow.

…Well, maybe the Castle doesn’t dislike everyone.

Castlevania likes Hector. Likes the sound of Hector hammering the death out of things in its dungeon. It may not be the golden life, it may not be warm or tender, and it may make demons for war, but it is life of a sort. The boy is kind and gentle, and he likes dogs, and sunlight.

It is nice to have dogs and cats scampering and yipping in its halls. Hector is right when he says they are far better than people. Dracula never let Adrian get a dog, and this kind of pure, gentle life is the closest thing to sunlight they can get in this night-shrouded place. In the same token, Castlevania wishes it could bottle up the sunlight and bring it down into the dungeon to him.

Castlevania likes Isaac. Very much in fact. Isaac is loyal to its master, and loyalty is a rare commodity in these infested halls. He may be the only who still has it. And that is a kind of life too. The Castle snatches a smile when it sees the two speaking as friends, glad there is, at least, someone left its master can speak to.

It is because the Castle likes Isaac that it doesn’t like the sound of Isaacs whip. Self-discipline isn’t so bad of a thing…but the Castle knows of pain now. The Castle wouldn’t have cared before, but now it knows what little boys who believe in love deserve; it knows that good masters never whip their servants, their children, or their castles. And ‘doesn’t like’ is not merely a preference now, because the sight of Isaac’s blood…it hurts. But Isaac lived too long in the sun, and now he prefers the cold and the dark. And Death has claimed him for its own, just like it claimed its master, wrapped its strings around him, and he will be a living death though he is still alive. He grew up in the sun, now he belongs in a dark place…but the Castle doesn’t want to be that place anymore.

Maybe Castlevania likes them because Dracula likes them. They’re the only creatures in the Castle Dracula likes; the only two who are human.

The only people he’s ever truly liked are at least half human.

Why can’t he see that he doesn’t hate humans? He just hates bloodthirst.

Godbrand grumbles, he questions, and demands for things that don’t belong to him.

Camilla schemes, and denounces them all as less than livestock.

Hector tries to discern the most humane way to put humanity down.

Isaac beats his back bloody, and he tries to be a friend to Dracula after all.

And Dracula sits in his study and doesn’t smile anymore.

He makes the fire as bright as he can, and no matter how bright and warm the fire is—no matter how much the Castle tries to refine all the light Alucard filled the world with into this one room, fill the emptiness, resurrect the death—it can never warm him. He needs to be held. The Castle cannot do that. Only the boy or his mother could. And they are too far now.

The walls watch him, and wait for him to talk to them again. And the walls, for the first time, wonder—(and hate themselves for wondering)—if the word isn’t undead anymore.

Life was once a part of the undeath, hidden in the corners and crevices…but is death a fact of the unlife now?

There are fights, words and fists, like tumors, like cysts. Unlike the humans who once banged on the Castle’s door for vampire blood, Godbrand takes the vampires out to feast on the wine of human veins. Camilla latches her teeth onto Hector and he becomes host to her lies; the sun-and-dog boy taken in by the parasite, and Castlevania would shout at him not to listen, that she doesn’t have his best interests at heart, to listen to its master still…if only it could talk.

Godbrand dies with a whip around his neck and flames in his chest. The brutality dies at the hand of the boy who believes in love. And the Castle wouldn’t have cared before, but now its complicated. It is glad for a little less noise, but the blood and the death make its stones crawl, and it hates to see it all on the hands of a young man who should have been appalled at such an act. Now its sad, sad for Isaac’s sake. Because he’s just a young man, like Adrian.

Castlevania misses the boy, and the days of sunlight. Prays that he will return, with dancing gold at his heels.

They mentioned Alucard, once. In a way Castlevania hasn’t heard his name spoken before. After all those years of his little feet toddling upon its stones, the sun stinging slowly and quietly; they say his name, like it’s a threat. It’s sound causes unease when they were always so sickeningly confident. He is not a threat, an enemy, within the war, but a threat to the war itself. His name could end this war.

And the Room snatches an inkling of air at the sound of his name, tries to cry out, but only croaks a frail war call—a war call against this war. The Room tries to smile through the pain, because if that’s true it reflects him; he stands against the cold, the dark, and the death, like the Room always did.

Castlevania prays he will stop this war, this dark, this death, this hungry emptiness, and he will save his father. But it is losing hope each curtained sunrise.

The Room, breath stolen from its lungs, unable to cry out, waits. The kind of anticipation as when this new life was going to arrive in the first place, but there is no apprehension this time. The Room was not alive, then, and this is a living waiting. It waits with feeble attempts to remove the claw around its throat, breathless cries upon its ever-silent lips. Waits for its master to come home—for its master is not home, and it is not a home without its master.

The Room waits, and without breath things start to become rather funny.

At first it’s Godbrands remarks, then it’s Carmilla’s schemes. Then its Hector’s pets, and Issac’s unyielding loyalty. The death, the darkness, and the cold, cruel injustice of it all. They should make the Room’s walls boil with anger, and at first they did, but now it wants to laugh instead.

Hypoxia, they call it. When, lacking oxygen, everything is just a little too funny.

The Room is hypoxic.

[royalsofnight]

Tara Kearney 

Gender

Female

Born

1794

Embraced

1822

Clan

Brujah

Sire

Justin Davies

Allegiance

Camarilla (current)

Anarchs (former)

Nickname

The Platinum Prince, Tara The Tyrannical 

Birthplace

Texas Frontier

Current

Los Angeles

Formerly El Paso, Texas

Formerly Dallas, Texas

Pronouns

She/Her

Orientation 

Bisexual

Religion

Originally born of a Christian family 

Political Affiliation

Camarilla Sect

Occupation

Prince of San Diego

Former Baron of San Diego

Location

San Diego Metropolitan 

Languages

English. 

Accent

American. Southern

Face Claim

Natalie Dormer

Hair

Blonde (at times brunette)

Eyes

Blue

Height

5'6 / 168 cm

Build

Slender, Curvy

Tara was a woman of considerable appearance, with platinum hair and a striking gaze that could turn the heads of men and women alike. She was a domineering personality throughout her human life. Perhaps far too outspoken for her time period. Instances of her fiery tongue and persona had been known to cause trouble. At times her views could be overwhelming to the point of alienating others but it was one of her best assets. She belonged to a family of settlers in the American West and as unfortunate circumstances of the time would have it, forced to bury her entire family due to hardships of life on the frontier. 

Her sire embraced her near the borders Texas after she had fallen victim to a gunshot wound during a skirmish of bandits. He had blown through town at the time. Seeking an interest in Tara for her intellect and strong personality. A fresh change in most women he had seen at the time. He sought to turn her rather than allow her abilities to go to waste. 

He trained her to fight against injustice of the time, a task that ultimately dulled to her interests. She became increasingly bored despite harboring otherworldly powers. That is just the thing. She wanted to use them. To explore beyond humanity and the dirty frontier she still resided even in undeath. She left her sire for good, determined to build a family that would not fall victim to the dangers of the West.

She claimed her own domain in El Paso, surrounding herself with various neonates. During the Civil War, many of the neonates left as Tara was against choosing a side. Left alone, Tara began to expand her holdings, but was forced to abandon El Paso as she was unable to cope with the changing economy. She went to Dallas, but the local kindred considered her too inexperienced and watched her.

Covertly, she studied finances and amassed a fortune. When the Second Anarch Revolt began, Tara sensed an opportunity and called her newfound brood together, traveling to San Diego and participating in the following battles. She claimed the city as her domain, a claim that the Anarchs tolerated as long as she didn't demand anything of them. As San Diego grew, more and more Kindred settled there until a gang of Anarchs ousted her, forcing her to flee to Oceanside.

Over time, she became disillusioned and felt that the Anarch Free States have not lived up to the ideals of the revolt. Tara became convinced that the Camarilla was right about technology and grew to believe that their rules were the only way Kindred could survive against the Second Inquisition. Tara turned on the Anarch Movement and declared San Diego for the Camarilla.

Many Anarchs still consider her a traitor, but Tara was soon faced with other problems, as the Great Leap Outward arrived in her city and the Kuei-jin, ( vampires of East and Southeast Asia ) began to undermine her influence on the mortal population. As well as the upheaval of leadership in LA, giving way to the growing power of Prince Vannevar Thomas, one that Tara held nothing but contempt for. Her interest in taking LA for herself possessed her mind. It was her new obsession but no one would waive their loyalty to the old Prince Thomas and his royal bloodline. This would not stop her attempts to overthrow and she continues to war with him to this day. 

[gods-and-pawns]

Well, you asked for it.

All Halloween and Horror themed muse questions for my man, my king, bastardfrom EthicsCommittee - Dr Jeremiah Cimmerian.

OH BOY HERE I GO

(gotta leave out Potion and Tarot since I already answered them and it’s gonna be long anyways)

NECROMANCY - What are their views on death? Undeath? Immortality?

He has some mixed feelings about this topic, as a  Apeirophobe you can imagine he isn’t too keen on immortality (existential dread ahoy!) but he’s also terrified of dying. I feel like, like many humans. Cimmerian would like to live long but not forever.

TOMBSTONE - What do they think their legacy would be? What do they think people would etch on their tombstone or say at their funeral? 

Jeremy doesn’t think he has much of a legacy, he thinks his life is completely boring and meaningless. He doesn’t believe people would mourn him that much.

Pexobkv? Grkd pexobkv? Ro'c xyd nisxq. Xyd ofob.

VAMPIRE - Be honest, do they have any secret addictions or deeply hidden vices? 

He’s an alcoholic, he doesn’t like to talk about it. Often drinks on the job too.

DARK DIMENSION - If there was an entity living under their bed or in their closet, how would they react? Would they befriend it or be frightened? 

Might as fucking well at this point, why not let it kill him? His life doesn’t matter anyway, so who cares if he agitates a monster into biting his head off?

SUCCUBUS - What is their best asset when it comes to manipulating other people? Money, connections, sex, words, etc? 

I feel like he’d have quite a way with words, but being the Ethics Committee chairman and knowing the O5 personally he could use his position as well.

GHOST - Have they ever been ghosted? What effect did it have on them mentally? 

Yes, North wasn’t his first attempt at dating, and unfortunately, Jeremiah has a quite a history when it comes to romance.

RAVEN - What sad song, poem or sonnet would they be associated with? 

Idk why specifically this song but whenever I hear it I think of Cimmerian in this au.

NIGHTMARES - If they had a chariot leading them through their universe’s version of Hell, what animal or creature would be pulling them? 

Axolotls. He loves them motherfuckers.

MIDNIGHT - Have they ever had a lurid affair? Ever broken someone’s heart with messy passionate actions? 

:)

MONSTER - When they look at the world what is the first thing they see and hate? 

Just how cruel and uncaring people can be, he hates the injustice he sees in his world.

CRYPTID - Which cryptid or urban legend best represents your muse? 

Which ones are gay people crazy about again? Mothman and Goatman? Yes, these ones.

BLOODBATH - Would they ever kill for pleasure? Is murder a turn on or turn off for them? 

Oh, what a fucked up question lmao, definitely not. If he ever kills it’s for self-defence (or under a lot of emotions).

EXORCISM - Is there anything your muse dislikes about themselves so much that they wish it could be removed completely? ie. a mental, physical or emotional trait or habit. 

His burns, the effects of his trauma, the long-lasting effects of brain damage he suffers from.

WITCH - What are they readily willing to sacrifice to ensure their plans work? What is too much and how far are they usually willing to go? 

Cimmerian has a strong moral code and also, he’s not an idiot, he knows when to stop so he won’t hurt himself or anybody else. Unfortunately, in his line of work, you definitely need to make some serious decisions, decisions that contradict his moral code. So, in a way, he’s willing to sacrifice a lot in the name of a greater good, as long as he’s not the one directly pulling the trigger.

CAULDRON - What is their favourite comfort food? 

Chocolate, especially chocolate (dark and bitter like his soul).

HAUNTED - When they’re suffering are they willing to admit it? To who? Why or why not? 

Oh hohohoho, absolutely not. Maybe to the people he’s closest to if he has no other choice. He’s very cooperative during therapy sessions though, so there’s that. That’s like the only exception.

SCRY - What is one thing in their life they would have been better off NOT witnessing?

:)

LICH - If they had to choose, which physical item would they pick for their phylactery? 

An amulet, or a bracelet, something easy to carry. I think he’d like something in the shape of a phoenix if he could choose what kind of necklace he wants.

FULL MOON - What is one thing they try their best to stay ignorant of? What illusions do they uphold but really shouldn’t? 

:)

SHADOWS - Do they believe people can be just “good” or “evil”? Or is morality a grey area to them? Considering their logic, where do they think they fall in a moral alignment? 

He believes most humans are morally grey and there’s no such thing as a purely evil or a purely good person. Everybody has their flaws, everybody has little things that make them human. In a way, that’s what makes it scarier, because anybody is capable of hurting you, even these “purely good” people.

NIGHTSHADE - How would they prefer to die? 

A hero’s death, although he knows he most likely not going to get it or even deserve it.

HORROR SHOW - Muse, name three people in your life. Who’s sacrificed? Who’s the killer? Who survives until the end? Where does that leave you? 

I was gonna choose 3 of the most important people for him but :) that’s spoilers :)

ENCHANTED - What is one kind of bait that would absolutely lure them into someone’s trap? Something they can never say no to? 

If you somehow promised to make his trauma and fear go away, he’d do anything for that.

DEMONS - If they were in hell and walked into the night club, what song would be playing? 

Same one as in the Raven question.

ZAGREUS - Are there any cycles they seem to never escape? Any lessons constantly following them?

Ah, to be free of the trauma and the never-ending cycle of self-destruction.

[sunrisetiefling]

Last Rites

Hamity didn’t get much respect, as a goddess. Partly because she was obscure – even in a city like Brilight she only merited one small temple. In most of the smaller towns, no one had even heard of her. But even among those who recognized the name, she was seen as… frivolous. Shallow.

Sunrise smiled softly as she kneeled on the burning sand, digging through her pack. She pulled out several small vials, opening each and sniffing at it before stoppering it again. Finally she chose one; quietly, she poured it out, her hand moving in a random pattern, drizzling it over the place where he fell. The scent spread, aided by the hot air – something wild and fresh, honeysuckle and juniper, sunlight and salt spray.

She was, after all, just the goddess of beauty, and of such fripperies as jewelry and fine clothes and hot luxurious baths, in steamy rooms redolent with incense and expensive oils. All nice things, in their way, certainly. Many people, mostly (but not exclusively) wealthy women, paid her thanks as a matter of course for the niceties they took for granted. But in a world full of heroes and monsters, of war and plagues and injustice, who but the most vain and sheltered and selfish would ever devote themselves to such a goddess, serve her above all others?

If Kerithlan had left a body behind, the bath oil would have been mixed with hot water and used to ceremonially cleanse him one last time. She would have brushed and dressed his hair, adorned him with jewels – although she didn’t think she had any with her that would appeal to a sea-elf. Maybe something with pearls, perhaps? Smiling at her own foolishness, she moved her thoughts away from the appealing distraction and bowed her head in prayer.

But not everyone is born wealthy. Not everyone can take comfort, let alone luxury, for granted. For someone born into poverty and dirty streets, someone intimately familiar with hunger and threadbare third-hand clothes and the stink of unwashed bodies (because even if you could afford soap, and had clean water to spare, you didn’t have the time or the energy), with the cold necessities of making your peace with crime and with criminals and getting your hands dirty and humiliating yourself, because those who can’t or won’t don’t survive, with distrustful glances and outright hatred and a world ever willing to remind you that your tainted blood puts you forever beneath them… for such a person, what would it mean to have the love of a goddess like Hamity? If even believing that you and those like you deserved basic necessities, basic dignity, were a radical idea, what would it feel like to have a goddess whisper that no, you deserve more? That you are good enough to deserve pretty things and pampering, that you are allowed to love yourself and treat yourself well? That your struggles and toils are seen and appreciated and should be rewarded with laughter and finery and relaxation?

Infernal is said to be a harsh language, at least to the ears of those not born to it, and Sunrise supposed that in an objective sense it was true. To her, however, it was the language of children’s games and her mother’s lullabies, and of stories never told to non-tieflings. A quiet, private language, with music hidden in its hisses and guttural sounds, and it was the language in which she prayed. “Bring him to peace,” she whispered. “His life was hard and his undeath harder, and it’s been a long time since he’s had comfort. Let him have joy now. No wars to wage, no masters to serve, no responsibilities or expectations to lay heavy on his shoulders. Let him sink into warm scented waters and know in his soul there is nothing else he needs to do save enjoy it; let him have clothing that is soft on the skin and decorations that catch the light and let him be surrounded by beauty and grace, and know that it is entirely deserved. That he deserves all joy and all wonderful things, and that he is neither depriving anyone else nor claiming what isn’t his when he enjoys them. Let him have music, and laughter, and contentment.”

Perhaps some would reject it. They might think it a taunt, a cruel joke, an impossible promise of things they can never have. But perhaps some wouldn’t. Perhaps it would give them a quiet sort of strength, this wondrous idea that they are worth more than the world has told them. That even if luxury is denied them, it is not because they don’t deserve it. Perhaps it would encourage them to take a small breath from time to time and appreciate the beauty that the world cannot take away – the colors of a sunset, the vibrant energy of a marketplace, a friend’s knowing smile by candlelight. Perhaps it would give them permission to allow themselves the occasional small indulgence without guilt over the “waste” – a few flowers to brighten the home, or a half-copper’s worth of sugar candy or fresh fruit, or clothes that are well-mended and in a pleasing color. Small things, some would say, and unimportant in the big picture, and perhaps they would be right, but the big picture isn’t the only picture and small things can sometimes make the difference between survival and despair.

And to a little girl growing up in the Westside slums of Brilight, a little girl who watched the world with wide eyes and kept her thoughts to herself, it might have been the thing that lifted her head and set her on her path, armed with an unshakable belief in her own worth and that of her people.

She prayed to other deities as well, ones she’d established a rapport with. To Sehanine, asking that the gentle glow of her moon light his path and guide him back to his unlikely lover. To Olidammara, asking for respite – his undeath had been a cruel enough trick, she explained, that he ought to be exempt from any other tricks or pranks for a good long while at least. But she came back to Hamity in the end, the image of her goddess’s gentle face in her mind. She reiterated her requests for him, to bring to him all the good things, all the comforts and pleasures he’d been denied for so long.

Finally she reached up, running her fingers along the various chains and baubles decorating her ivory horns. After a moment she detached one – a confection of light gold filigree adorned with tiny pearls – and placed it reverently on the spot where she poured the oil. An offering, and a gift, and a show of respect. She smiled once more, small and enigmatic. Then she rose, brushing the sand from her knees, and went to join the others.

[dungeonhavoc]

A Fiery Vengeance

Background

The local medicine woman was imprisoned and sentenced to hard labor when the innkeeper falsely accused her of poisoning him. The injustice enraged the medicine woman’s son who became an arsonist that sought to burn the world to the ground. He was burned at the stake for his crimes but his rage allowed him to press on into undeath to continue his vengeance on the town.

Quest

The local innkeeper hires the heroes to finish off the arsonist for good. He seems to be skittish as if the monster is after him personally.

Notes

- The arsonist is a combination monster. His skeletal head is a flameskull and the body is a scarecrow. He often splits in two to attack on different fronts and has no qualms setting things on fire. The scarecrow has the flameskull’s rejuvenation, it’s claw attacks deal an additional 1d4 fire damage, and it isn’t vulnerable to fire damage.

- Every time the arsonist encounters the adventures he spouts that he will continue to burn the town to the ground for the injustice his mother faces. If his mother is freed and the innkeeper is brought to justice the arsonist will pass on and be at peace.

- The innkeeper’s affections were shot down by the medicine woman that is why he accused her of the crime. He will try to flee the town if his misgivings are revealed.

[thefugitivemango]

Barbarian: What causes your character to become enraged more so than anything else? For Argonas and Avehi.

Argonas becomes enraged at the sight of injustices - especially those against his people. He’s been a Vindicator for a while now, and bore witness to all manner of terrible acts the Orcs wrought upon the Draenei - both in the alternate timeline, and through his own. He’d do anything to ensure such atrocities never befall his people again. And noble as his intentions may be... he’s often blind to his own rage and excessive violence when it comes to bringing about the Light’s justice.

Nothing upsets Avehi more than intolerance. Treating others different because of who or what they are is abhorrent to her, now. In life, she often thought that way, but undeath has completely reversed her perspective on how those not “blessed by the Light” are treated. Intolerance for the undead is clearly personal to her, but she also gets worked up for other prejudgments, such as those against ren’dorei, and Demon Hunters--though the latter often make it difficult for her to want to help them...

Thanks for the ask, @kidcatgemini!

[amongthedrowned]

In this AU, the Sleepy Bois are indeed family—Techno and Wilbur are twins, and Tommy is their younger brother.

When the apocalypse hit, all four were separated: Phil was at home, Tommy and Wilbur were out of town, and Techno was away at college. Phil stayed put for as long as he could, waiting for his children to return. Little did he know, Tommy and Wilbur were stranded in a walled city, surrounded by too many zombies to face. They couldn’t escape, and they had no way to call home. When none of them returned, Phil began making his way to the place they had last been—L’Manberg.

Techno, on the other side of the country, had his own issues. Without information stating otherwise, he believed his family to be dead—and even if they were alive, Techno wasn’t sure he wanted to see them. A lot happened in the days following the apocalypse, and Techno wasn’t sure he could look his family in the eyes and tell them what he’d done. Techno began roaming, trying to find survivors.

It was much, much later that Wilbur and Tommy stumbled upon Techno, and even later that Phil found his sons.

(The Injustice of Undeath masterpost)

[dndeviants]

As above, not so below

No! Linda tried to grab the stake from Donavich’s hand, stepping forward, but she felt herself drop with a crunch.

What the-? She felt her heart race as she realized that her foot had fallen through the floorboard. 

Donavich was faster than she anticipated, and he was aided by the poor circumstances of her situation. She whirled around as far as she could with her stuck foot and took aim at the priest.

Ismark struggled to loose his rapier from his belt, and swung at the priest, trying to get him to stay away from his sister, but Donavich knocked the young man over a fallen pew.

He was right upon Ireena. In one swift motion, with all his might and righteous fury, he brought his stake high in the air.

Ireena fell backward and screamed in terror, raising her arms up to block the attack, and tensed herself, squishing her eyes shut... waiting for the pain of the stake piercing her.

But it never came.

She opened her eyes. Vasili had somehow gotten in front of her, and had the mad priest’s wrist locked in place. Vasili was furiously silent, and the priest had a look of shock on his face, which quickly contorted into pain when Vasili crushed the wrist in his hand, forcing Donavich to drop the stake, and kicked the priest backwards.

“Hey!“ Linda shouted, and fired. 

Donavich cried out as a bullet pierced his shoulder, blood pouring down his back, ruining his once holy vestments. He bellowed in anger, “Light of Lathander, blast you fiends!”

Light began to swirl around his hands and illuminated the room. The light coalesced into a sphere. The priest raised his hand and hurled it forward.

Ismark, Ireena, and Vasili dived out of the path of the light, but it was no use. The sphere of light burst into flame and the heat scorched the skin of them all. Ismark and Ireena took the worst of it. 

Ismark clenched his teeth and held on to his rapier, forcing himself to stay on guard despite his pain. 

Vasili ducked behind a pew, granting Ireena and himself cover for at least the moment.  He touched her arm and looked into her eyes, “Stay here,” he commanded in a soft voice. 

Ireena looked into the man’s eyes and felt her willpower to fight slip away. She nodded in affirmation and made herself smaller behind the pew, hoping the priest wouldn’t see her.

Vasili murmured something in a strange language while he touched her, and a spark of magic zipped over Ireena, turning her invisible. 

Vasili felt Ruki enter the room. Good, he would need her assistance. He stood from behind the pew, and approached Donavich. Donavich threw a punch at the tall, black-cloaked man, but Vasili caught the punch with ease, and hissed, "Stop this at once! You can't help anyone by killing them!"

I could easily kill him, thought Strahd to himself, as he had the priest in his control, But now is not the time to make a mess of things. Not in front of Tatayana... not in front of the guests.

Ruki made a quick assessment, and rushed up to Donavich, raising her staff. She struck him across the face. A look of hurt and surprise was all he could manage before he fell limp to the ground, unconscious.

Vasili gestured to the rope along the back wall of the chapel that was meant to replace the rope that rung the chapel bell, “Ruki, get that rope. Help me tie him up before he wakes..”

Ruki nodded and retrieved the rope. It was unusual that Strahd would show such mercy, especially to a priest, and especially to a priest that had just threatened his precious Tatayana. Perhaps he was serious about making a good impression on his guests.

“Thank you,“ Vasili mumbled, helping Ruki to tie up the Father, before rising and surveying the rest of the church. He looked down and saw the stake at his feet. Vasili kicked the stake away from himself in disgust.

Ruki could tell that he was fuming internally. Certainly enough, his voice seethed with rage in her head. 

Self-righteous priests! Had he harmed her further, I’d have ripped him limb from limb! His venom was beginning to show on Vasili’s face. If he showed too much, his diguise might be compromised.

Calm, my lord. Ruki touched Vasili’s arm, He is subdued.

Strahd struggled to calm himself, but eventually relaxed into his usual detachment. “Vasili” was safe, for now.

Ismark approached the two of them, looking at the priest he had known for all his life. He stared at the unconscious Father, then backed away, suddenly hit by a wave of horror,  "Gods above... he tried to kill us!"

Ireena shifted from behind her hiding place, still invisible by Vasili’s magic. She ran up to Linda, "Are you okay, Linda?"

Linda nods, “Just a little stu-” she turned to the source of Ireena’s voice and found nothing. She blinked, “Where are you?”

Ireena’s voice responded, “I’m right by you... here, let me take your hand and help you out...”

Ruki nudged Vasili out of his distracted thoughts. Vasili turned to see Linda being pulled by an invisible force. “Oh, apologies...” he waved his hand and let the invisibility spell fall.

Ireena appeared again just as she helped Linda out of the hole. Linda sat down and rubbed her leg, pausing when she heard the sound of crying coming from the hole...

Ireena whispered, “You hear that?”

Linda nodded, “What is that?” she looked down the hole, seeing only blackness, “It’s down there...” she looked to Ismark, “How do we get downstairs?”

Ismark snapped to attention and stammered, “It-it would have to be through one of those rooms up front!”

Linda shakily stood up and walked with purpose to the front of the church. She checked doors and opened them. All of the rooms she checked were barren, no sign of any activity or any passageway. She grumbled and checked the last room.

“It’s locked,“ she turned to Ismark.

Ismark closed the door he checked in disappointment, “Nothing...” he looked over to Linda, “That one is locked?”

Linda jerked her head over to the chapel where Father Donavich lay, “Search him for a key!”

Vasili looked over to Ruki, “Do you care to search him?” He adjusted his gloves with a slight look of discomfort on his face.

The spell must be wearing off... Ruki hurriedly searched the priest’s belt and found his coinpurse and his keys. She took the keys and stood up, taking Vasili with her as she delivered them to Linda.

Linda flipped through the key ring and matched one to the door. She opened the room, and saw that it was in shambles. Furniture had been moved and tipped over, the walls were scratched and barren, and there was grime and dust coating almost every surface... among the wreckage, she spotted a trap door...

The wailing seemed to be crystal clear now, and she could make out the words:

“Help me... please... Father!“

Linda sprang to action, pulling up the trap door and heading down into the basement. She was followed closely by Ruki and Ireena, Vasili and Ismark lingered behind cautiously, but entered into the darkness nonetheless.

The cool damp air was still and deathly. It was dark, but lamplight had brightened the room just enough for them to see four pillars with chains fastened to them. They each held a limb of an emaciated young man with long, curly brown hair. His skin was pale from lack of sun, and his limbs were thin and bony from what appeared to be long-term starvation. He was surrounded by skeletons of tiny creatures.

Linda and Ruki approached cautiously.

Ireena cried out in shock at the sight, “Who-?”

The young man stirred and looked up at them with a gaunt face, his blue eyes glassy bloodshot from crying.

“Gods!“ Ismark exclaimed, “It’s Doru!“

“Doru?!“ Ireena could scarcely believe it.

Ismark ignored all caution and ran to the young man and tried to pull loose his chains, but it was of no use.

Ruki slunk back into the shadows with Vasili. The two of them withdrawing for the moment from the boy who dared to rebel against the vampire. Ruki extended her senses...

He... is still human... she was surprised at this. He was most certainly bitten, the purple wounds branded Doru’s pale neck, but it appeared that they had arrived in time to save him from the curse of undeath...

But only if he had immediate help and proper care.

My lord, she projected, he has not yet become a spawn.

Ruki heard Strahd’s voice once more.  I see... That is why I could not sense him... I always wondered what happened to the one I bit in the rebellion and then let go... it seems that he would have been better off in my larders after all. But I pity the boy. Betrayed by his own father...

Doru gazed up at them with his glassy blue eyes, helplessness on his face, but hope in his heart, “Help me... please...” he moaned, “...water...”

Linda pulled her canteen out, and kneeled by him, gently pouring water into his mouth. She grimaced as she saw the tell tale bites of a vampire... and not just any vampire... they were too similar to Ireena’s bites to be coincidental. It seemed Strahd had made this young man a victim too.

She sighed and also pulled out rations. She broke up her crackers into small pieces so he could eat.

Doru coughed and sputtered, but a new sense of urgency filled him, "T-thank you... please. You have to let me out of here!"

Linda stood and examined the locks on the chains. She started testing the keys on the ring to different locks.

Ireena covered her mouth, her eyes were teary with pity for Doru, but also anger at the injustice of his imprisonment,  "Why are you in here?” she asked, “Why did he do this to you?"

Doru shivered and gulped, "When I went to help the doctor with everyone else... I was the only one to get bitten... but we all ran. We ran as fast as we could to get away, and I got lost... and then I found my way back. I tried to get Father to help me lift the curse, remove the bite... but he was convinced I was already impure and damned! He drugged me and locked me in here..."

Linda successfully unlocked Doru’s bindings, letting the chains fall to the ground. Doru tried to stand, but fell into the dirt, his hand brushed against one of the tiny skeletons. He whimpered, "I've been living off of rats and rain that falls through for gods know how long."

Linda put her arm under Doru and helped him stand, “You can come with us then,” she looked at Ireena, “More curses to be lifted.”

Ireena nodded.

Doru sniffled, "Anywhere is better than here...” he struggled to move forward, panic fueling him, “We need to go before Father finds out!"

"You don't have to worry about the old priest...” Vasili’s voice startled everyone at its suddenness. “However, I do have a question for Master Kolyanovich..." he turned to Ismark, fixing the burgomaster’s son with a hungry glare, "The priest has locked up his son unlawfully, and has made an attack against you and your sister... children of the Burgomaster, no less...” he paused, “What will your justice be?"

Vasili leaned up against a pillar and folded his arms, waiting for Ismark’s answer.

Linda huffed and held onto Doru, "Lock him away? Take his son from him? The man is already crazy and not fit to be a priest."

Ismark nodded his agreement, "He's a danger to the public in this state. It is best to imprison him for the time being... however, Lord Holtz..." Ismark held up a finger in warning, "We are not obligated to turn over our prisoners to you until our own council has tried him. Those are the laws your lord gave to us."

 "Take him to the village prison? You have one right?" She looked to Ismark.

Ismark tilts his head and frowns, "Well... it is more of an indoor stockade. We don't have a prison proper."

Linda sighed, aiding Doru forward, “It works.”

They left the Church of Barovia, returning to Kolyan and explaining the circumstances of the attack. Kolyan was furious and ordered the town guard to make an immediate arrest and to call forth a council for judgement. Doru was taken to a village nurse to be taken care of. Ireena and Ismark decided that it would be best to go to Vallaki and excused themselves to pack.

Vasili, Ruki, and Linda stood outside of the Burgomaster’s mansion, stonily waiting for the burgomaster’s children to be ready. 

Vasili looked over to Linda. Her face was grim and in deep thought. She fumed silently over the priest’s zealotry, and the injustice to Doru, but also over the confusing situation involving Strahd. 

Vasili spoke in a quiet voice to her, interrupting her line of thought, "I know that you are eager to help these people lift their curses,” he used an understanding tone, “but we may have to leave the boy behind. He isn't fit for travel at this moment, and despite superstitions... a bite from a vampire isn't immediately condemning."

"I know.” Linda was curt with him, “He needs to get healthy again before he can do any traveling."

Vasili simply nodded and folded his arms. He turned to Ruki, "Ruki... do you think we could summon the carriage here? I feel it would be a more leisurely way to travel, especially for the Burgomaster's children. We've all been through hell already today."

Yeah, thought Linda, hell for sure. She snorted a small laugh, but it was humorless.

Ruki nodded and reached out her senses to summon the Black Carriage.

Vasili leaned against the mansion, folding his arms over his chest. He turned to Linda, speaking in a dry voice, "Welcome to Barovia, home to undead, fanatics, and even undead fanatics at times... I'm sure this isn't what you are used to in your home."

She rolled her head over to look at Vasili, and blinked slowly while raising her brows, "Not to this extent."

Vasili nodded and folded his hands, "Can you tell me anything about this apprentice of yours? What does he look like? Name? Just so I know what to look and listen for."

Linda nodded, refreshed that this man was actually taking initiative to help her. “His name is Timothy Greene,” she began, “He is seventeen years old. Has green eyes. Mid-brown hair. Not quite as tall as I am. Strong jaw, youthful face, thin brows...”

Vasili took out a notebook and wrote the details down dutifully and earnestly. Linda watched him write and looked over the notes. No error in the description. She only corrected him on the spelling of his name... not that it fully mattered. The description would be good enough, she hoped. She was surprised that he was taking this as seriously as he was, given that he had other pressing duties to his lord. 

Whatever Strahd may be, Linda thought, Vasili seems to be a good man.

Vasili reviewed his notes, "I will be sure to see what I can find on this... Timothy...” he reviewed the spelling of the name and smirked at Linda, “Now for your part of our bargain... Is there anyone you have met so far that you think may be a suitable replacement for the Lord Strahd?"

Linda could tell that he was jesting. She looked Vasili in the eyes, and fixed him with a deadpan, "No."

He laughed. The low and quiet laughter he made seemed to bring Linda’s heart up to her throat. She felt her face go red when he gave her a tight-lipped, crooked smile.

"At least you are refreshingly honest..." he purred.

Linda put her hands on her hips, "Of course. There is no need to sugar-coat things. I haven't met too many people..." she averted her gaze from him.

"I suppose that is true,” he mused before growing serious again, “Well, there is an entire country for you to explore... and the closer we get to Krezk, the more likely we will hear something about those werewolves, and possibly your Timothy. "

Linda sighed, "I hope so. He was going to take over my shop. Almost done with his apprenticeship..."

She thought about the simple times she had with him, about how his parents would be worried sick. She had a duty to return him-

Her thoughts were once more interrupted by Vasili’s curiosity, "You run a shop?” he looked to her with interest, “What kind of wares do you specialize in?"

Linda nodded, "I'm a tinker. I make toys, clocks and firearms plus ammunition."

"Fire-arms?” Vasili spoke the strange word and made a guess, “I suppose those are weapons? Ranged weapons perhaps? I don't know of any other weapon that uses ammunition..."

Linda nodded, impressed by Vasili’s reasoning. She took her revolver out of her holster and held it up for him to see, pointing up and away from any other thing, "This is what I fired at the Father. It's like I took a cannon, and made it small enough to fit in my hand and gave it multiple chambers.""

He thought for a moment, and inspected the weapon without touching it, "I was wondering what kind of enchanted object you had. It sounded like you had a thundering enchantment, but could sense no magic. I thought that perhaps my senses might have been failing me. The situation was a little overwhelming."

She shook her head, "No magic here. Just black powder."

He raised a gloved hand to his chin in thought and purred in amusement, "Now that is interesting..."

She re-holstered her gun, "Took a while to figure out how to get the extra barrels to work."

Vasili blinked in surprise, "So am I correct to assume that you made the weapon you carry, the accessories, ammunition, and this 'black powder' that fuels it?"

She smiled in satisfaction, "I did."

"Impressive,” he breathed, “Innovations like that always fascinate me."

Linda was excited to have someone to finally share her interests, “Me too!” she exclaimed, before making her voice more calm and level, "They fascinated me as a young child. I learned to tinker about the same time that I earned to play the piano. Both are skills that take years to hone."

Vasili mused, "You play the piano, too?"

She nodded, "Music is an outlet,” she could play music and listen to music to feel better about any situation, “I play pretty frequently."

Vasili seemed to share her enthusiasm, "I was a virtuoso myself at one point, but...” his fingers twitched, as if agonizing to play at a keyboard of some kind, “it's been so long since I've played..."

"It's like riding a horse. You never really forget," Linda put her hands in her pockets in order to disguise her own ache to play.

"Well perhaps I shall have to test that theory..." he thought to himself for a moment.

Ruki rose from her trance and nodded over to the mansion door opening. Ismark and Ireena exited their house, carrying a simple case of luggage between the two of them. 

Vasili looked them over, and gave them a brief, curt nod, before returning to his usual serious manner, "I suppose it is time to go to Vallaki. Let's find the carriage. Perhaps we will be able to pick up Lord Aric and Jeeves along the way..." 

[maramaramarx]

Letter #1 - From the top of Acherus

My dear friend; Lady Emberward,

As I write to you I sit atop Acherus, overlooking the Plaguelands as far as the fogs allow. Thus far, your worries have not taken form! No harm has come to me along the dour beginning to my journey, so long as we ignore a rogue bit of cobblestone’s attack on my largest toe. I wish I could wax poetic to you about my view, but the mustard and muddy colours that make up most of this landscape’s palette do not lend themselves to that. Instead I might tell you of what drew me to the ebon hold and its deathly denizens!

I traveled to Acherus under the pretext of learning more about the servants of Arugal, the worgen death knights. While not entirely a lie, I am ashamed to say it was not the full truth. While I am in the process of composing a piece on the Worgen’s place in Azeroth, the reason I largely went was in hopes of hearing from an old friend.

During much of Legionfall and the events thereafter I was in the company of a company of the Ebon Blade alongside a Lorewalker much my senior, a Pandaren by the name of Yozu. We spent much of our time in the presence of an ambassador for the Ebon Blade, a young Sin’dorei whose age had been frozen in time both in metaphor and the most literal sense of the word. Ambassador Ashborn or, as she later became known to me, Aquilari was the very essence of what one often envisions Death Knights to be; austere, exacting, fierce, haunting. Naturally I was drawn to her like a moth to a flame. Master Yozu and the Ambassador had rapport. I would come to find out that she was the closest thing he had to a daughter, which is quite likely the reason she eventually came to recognize me as more than a nuisance.

To describe the woman trapped within a shell of undeath as lovely would do her a great injustice. With time she began to allow glimpses at the woman she once was. She shared with me the wisps of memory that lingered within her of a lifelong lost, of sorrows and joys, of youth and her death. To see the vulnerability juxtaposed against the icy maelstrom that would rend flesh from her enemies with the ease a breeze might scatter leaves. The horror she was capable of only added weight to her plight. She longed for life, lamenting the pain of undeath, the loss of senses, the loss of whatever normalcy she once had. Even so, she was diligent in her work. She was driven and fiercely protective of those beneath her. I’ve heard of Death Knights going rogue often enough when I was in their company, though in the months I spent with them only a single knight succumbed to the urge to flee from undeath. Though not only had the Lady Ashborn tracked him down, she subdued the most brutal of her lot and compelled the renegade to return to them. Such was her influence among her order, such was the power of her will and the strength of her heart. I admired the brilliant force of nature that was Aquilari. I still do.

All good things must come to an end though and such was the fate of my dear friend. In my attempts to help her find peace, I fear I my efforts awoke something within her that even she was not quite ready for. She fled shortly after, a number of her company disappearing alongside her. In less than a day the work she had spent years building crumbled back to its foundations. By nights fall her most zealous officer had taken flight after her and the other renegades, intent on bringing back their remains.

So here I am, perched atop Acherus, writing to you as I sit surrounded by what few tomes they had to offer me on their Worgen companions. It seems as if she has not yet been found, though others have not been so lucky. I cannot say with certainty she is still among us, but I like to hold out some hope.

In light of the grim, allow me to at least offer a bit of excitement! Next, I travel to Stratholme where I’ll be taking a moment to investigate the past with the help of my former master’s dream brew! I’ll be sure to send a letter more reflective of intrigue rather than self-reflection! If you’d care to send a letter, I’ll be sure to visit the Northpass Tower both before and after my visit to the city that marked the beginning of a prince’s end.

I hope that this letter finds you well and that you are capable of suffering my rambling musings of the past. May you be well and may life treat you fairly. May you share your laughter with others as often as I was privileged to it.

And perhaps I wrote too soon. As the sun makes to set, I find myself enamored with the gloomy valley that lays before me.

Your friend,

Kelanthael, Lorewalker Aspirant

@tirrea

[coteriesrp]

The dream of the learned clan is a world where all injustice has been eliminated and the living and the undead can coexist in peace. They say it is for love of the mortals that they lead them against their masters. In truth, they may simply rage against a distant or non-existent God they can never fight, against a curse they can never end. Theirs is a dream that poisons everything it touches. As they infiltrate or instigate revolutions, their hunger and passion ensure that blood will flow, innocents die, and peace never be attained.

CLAN BRUJAH have always Embraced from the ranks of those sympathetic to counterculture and revolution. They seek out allies who question normative ideas, and recognising the fire of the oppressed, they gravitate toward the underdog.

Common perception place punks, gang-members, maladjusted immigrants rejected by the society that should protect them, and placard-carrying and Molotov-wielding rioters among the Brujah. While the clan definitely includes substantial numbers of vocal and visible outsiders, their desire for rebellion reaches as deep as the fraudster ripping off his own company, the lawyer representing the poor pro bono, and the basement-dweller downloading thousands of movies illegally for redistribution on streaming sites. Fledglings Embraced to fight and protest are commonly known as rabble.

The Brujah can be passionate fighters but also critical thinkers; the clan activists are often very different from the clan theorists. On many occasions, the latter are Embraced from former gender studies or sociology students, those who have survived near-death experiences, and people who have in other ways suffered and endured great personal loss. The philosophical Brujah, known as Hellenes, believe the best method of dismantling the establishment is to understand the social and cultural systems that allow it to exist in the first place.

THE BRUJAH BANE is that their blood simmers with barely contained rage, exploding at the slightest provocation.

brujah archetypes.

CANCER IN THE SYSTEM

This Kindred exists as a cog in a corrupt system. They may be a night worker for a mortal corporation known for treating its employees like dirt, a staffer in a broken political party, or one of the remaining Brujah in the Camarilla. They work to bring the system down from within, maybe hoping to replace it with something better, but often having the process of rebuilding as the last of their priorities.

VOICE OF THE PEOPLE

The Brujah have always strived for progress in Kindred society. Many of them were progressives in life and follow the same path in undeath. The voice of the people might be a former feminist activist, eco-warrior, or an anti-capitalist protester who channels their passion into speaking out against the Ventrue and Toreador or formenting political unrest among mortals. Their ambitions may come back to hurt their clan, but sometimes they form the core of revolutionary movements.

BLOOD WORSHIPPER

The Brujah were once considered a High Clan, superior to most and respected by all. Some Brujah still believe their Blood is stronger than that of other clans, and that they have the right to apply their doctrine on others. Brujah who uphold this form of blood idolatry often come from fundamentalist backgrounds, right-wing groups, and the academic elite.

TROLLING PUNK

Clan Brujah includes many vocal and physical activists who follow the zeitgeist uncritically, reveling in their righteousness. The trolling punk cares about the fight, not the cause. They are an aggressor who provokes confrontation with minority groups, a squatter who just wants to party to piss off the police, or a fourth-wave token “feminist” who spent more of their mortal time attacking other feminists and their allies than coordinating responses to oppression. Short-term action yields massive results, but does not always benefit the Brujah.

MONSTER IN DISGUISE

The Brujah claim there is no clan closer bonded to humanity than their own, which is why they exhibit such fiery passions. But some take it further than that, and strive to live like mortals by keeping up to date with modern culture, forming relationships, and building families. The payoff for this behaviour is a startling duality of dream and reality. The Beast will not be denied for long, and undead family men and working women must slip away from their fake lives ever so often to avoid seeing red, returning only after they have satiated their dangerous urges.