#thread: sanguine shadows

[xxnashiraxx]

She's My Collar

✶Pairing: Astarion x female!Durge | Astarion x Ofelia

✶Warnings: MDNI. Implied Loss of Virginity, Blood

✶Word Count: 640

✶Summary: A tale enduring the test of time- of secrets and love and mournful longing. Light and dark. Devout and denied. Woven into their lives like the red string of fate.

I have no idea what possessed me to grind this out, but. I've had She's My Collar on repeat for a week and it's just stuck in my brain. Have my perspective on Astarion's yearning for Ofelia and for a very vague look ahead for the main fic. Unnescessary to read the big one!! But if you'd like more on them, they're in my pinned masterlist! ❤ Thank you for reading!

✶Song:

Atonement, heavy upon his back. His cross to bear through a verdant pass, a sprawling underground teeming with danger and beauty, a landscape wretched and choked by shadow. The weight follows, vigilant and punishing, grinding thought to dust beneath the absence of the sun.

Black and blue, a veil unrelenting. Darkness cloaking his still heart and clinging to seeking fingers in shame and contrition. Bruises indigo and stark beneath a covetous gaze, the color melting his mind into melancholy appetence.

Her. Sun-bright in the corners of her eyes, in the raven locks that drape over her body. Skin kissed by the light, rich toned and warm to the touch. Maddening curves, full and bewitching. She moves with a grace unbound by centuries of torment, though the weight upon her back remains just as potent.

Red and yellow, dripping from her fingers and painting her in accusations from the dead. Golden pinpricks flashing in her brown gaze, tearing through the hole in his heart to make a home in the space in between. A heat that saps the cold from his limbs and wreaths him in a dastardly crown of thorns that dig and dig and dig.

Whispered words and revelations that sting and cut- severing threads and reknitting them beneath distrust and agony. The yellow begins to flicker and fade, and the weight on his back becomes unbearable. Closing around his throat- a debt ravenous for payment. And he pays.

Torturous, slow, it doesn’t return until she’s begging him to snip the thread and let the weight crush her. To grind her into nothing, held like a fragile porcelain doll in his hands. He refuses, the squeeze of selfishness burning in his neck. Greedy for that light- refusing her tear-sodden pleas as they dig like the nails in his shoulders.

One little sentence, snapping bone and tearing sinew- to loosen the binds or rend his head from his shoulders beneath their eager pinch. A choice, imploring him forward to either break her beyond repair or finally relent.

“I love you…”

He surrenders to her words implicitly, shackles slipping from him to clatter and thunder in the void between his ribs. Rays that render him weak, on his knees before her, fingers decorating her hips like they’ve always been there- always belonged. Home.

Home in the violent light, in its ceaseless ache for him. In her careful palms, cradling sharp jaw and pointed ear. Mapping every angle until they soften into the pliant devotion that was written on his bones the moment his sanguine hunger was sated on her red.

Crimson that damns her to the masses. Crimson that lifts her above them all. His deference sincere, thrust into him against his will. A piety both pure and prurient.

Time, like the water that laps at the blazing tower, beneath the tree that blossoms to life and lifts the curse from the land. Beneath her patience and adoration, every touch feather light- every sup holy.

Almost lost, almost stolen from him. Ripped free and sewn back together under hands that beseech her to come back. To return. To his arms, to him.

His web of lies sundered, shattered into nothing as a feeling lost to the slow drag of years and torture blossoms among the decay. Brilliant petals, drowning the blue, drowning the black. Weight slipping from their shoulders as he loses himself to the embrace of her eternal worship.

Crimson, vivid and dripping down her thighs, under his fingers. Crimson in his eyes, eviscerating and impassioned, melting them together beneath her scorching skin and his blazing infatuation. A seizing of limbs, of breath. His love savage and voracious, he sates it inside her, against her lips, against her skin.

His sun. His salvation. His purpose.

More valuable than any treasure he could steal, any gold he could possess.

His Ofelia.

[jukkaricity]

Shameless Self Promotion Sunday

Thank you for the tag @chaosherald, it's been... an experience getting these together in one place. Well this took me a while to get to but to my defense I actually have some stuff to share (if i kind of stretch the rules? what are the rules?) AND it's now actually Sunday so I'm sharing it as the Maker intended. This is from more or less last 3 weeks.

No pressure tags for: @davrinsleftpectoral, @himluv and @jenn2d2 and anyone that would like to share their recent (and not so recent I guess) work <3

A Word with Friends: Avarice - post-Veilguard, Threads Boss Neve and making crime syndicate boss decisions Sanguine - pre-Veilguard, Rook Mercar doing Shadow Dragons things

Thursday Bangers: Mercy by Shawn Mendes - also entry for Davrin's week day 3, angst, no happy ending, cw: major character death Million Dollar Baby by Tommy Richman - Rookanis, post-Veilguard, angst with kinda happy ending, but the problem is still there Fantasy by Mariah Carey - Neverook, Veryl is very silly and very much smitten but doing his best

Davrin week: Shepherd/ Hunter - Tarot style card art Eyes of an eagle, roar of a lion, heart of a halla. - codex/ journal entry from Davrin's perspective Whatever it takes - the Thursday Banger for Mercy Grey Wardens - A look at how Davrin interracts with the Veilguard with an introspection on his interactions with the Grey Wardens before his Joining Woodworking - implied Bellavrin, pre-relationship, gift giving Thrill of the Chase - davrook, post-Veilguard, griffon 'training' Free Day - meme redraw, an older Assan not realizing he's not lap-sized anymore

Alectris stuffs: OC as companion OC wardrobe Have you ever tag game OC as a flower OC vibes WIP Wednesday - combat sequence, fighting Darkspawn in the Hossberg wetlands

[sirjo-esque]

NEKYIA

Happy Holidays @animatedanalysis! I'm your secret Santa, and here is your piece featuring Tiresias! I hope you enjoy it, even if Grammarly says it's wordy :>

Seven.

Seven has been a recurring number throughout my life. Seven years I lived at Hera’s will: a woman, her priestess. That curse only brought more upon me, and her husband compensated with seven generations’ worth of life. Drawn out, as I was, the rage of the sons of seven heroes did bring me to my demise. 

Even in death I cannot escape the number. I underestimated my own longevity.

Death is a strange phenomenon. I hardly believed it when I passed. My daughter must have buried me well, for my journey was paid for- to the Asphodel meadows, but a shadow of the vitality I’ve witnessed. In spite of it all, I retain my sentience; I retain my powers. I retain the ability to condemn any mortal to their destiny. 

It was my belief the Fates cut one’s thread for permanent repose. I am animated still. My career is a reluctant one. Have I no rest?

I looked up at the sky- it's a watery sky. I am the only one who notices the flickering light. It is dim and cold. I heard the sound, yes, you called my name. I knew it before the summon. Your rowing was not subtle. Yet I did not even have to drink your sanguineous sacrifice.

One. 

Two. 

Three.

Four. 

Five. 

Six. 

Seven drops of blood. 

Neither man nor mythical. 

Those were bold words. Perhaps you are something of a seer yourself,

King of Ithaca.

“I am the prophet, with the answers you seek.”

If seven was a curse upon me, I fear I may have passed it onto you. Your mentor, Pallas Athena gave me augury. But what use is that now? Birds do not sing down in the underworld; I doubt I should hear the feathered voices ever again.

The Thunderbringer Zeus, perhaps had the same foresight he gifted me. Ironic. The same Lord who doomed your morality lends me the power to warn you against its downfall. You are his daughter’s favored, and his brother’s despised. What an intriguing solution he has had us entwined within. 

“Time- I've unlocked it.

I see past and future running free.”

Your fate has been threaded. Unchanging, unflinching as the Earthshaker Poseidon's furious pursuit. I can only speculate if your sins do you well. In another time, perhaps I speak definitively. In this, I am better known for my hesitancy. 

“There is a world where I help you get home;

But that's not a world I know.”

Shreds of his father Kronos linger here. I do not equivocate without reason. My words are cryptic. Intentional. Seven lines? Far from it. I shall add a few more, the number be damned.

“I see a song of past romance.

I see the sacrifice of man.

I see portrayals of betrayal and a brother’s final stand.

I see you on the brink of death.

I see you draw your final breath.

I see a man who gets to make it home alive- 

But it’s no longer you..”

Though I suppose that shan’t help, you are already chained to the sentence; bruised by it.

Seven years with Calypso.

I’ve lived seven lives at a stretch, but it could never wipe away the memory of change. The separation from self. I pity you. No, I dread your island cage for you. My mind may be fractured by the weeks I’ve spent in fragmented realities I don’t quite recognize- but this remains constant.

The identity crisis is nothing short of insanity. One attains the helplessness of a phoenix. One becomes as intimate with power as ash.

Provocation. Patience. Perspective.

How come you introduce yourself as Laertiades?

Not father of Telemachus, as before?

Even now, do you truly recognize yourself in this crimson reflection? Your hands are stained as is. 

“I'm just a man.”

Are you, Odysseus?

I've never known a man to succumb to such immorality. To be responsible for the death of an infant boy, prophecy-bearing or not. 

Still, I suppose, it is the will of the Gods.

To force a wolf into a corner, to inspire it to lash out, to bite and claw… Only to stifle the action, muzzle the monster like a lesser canine.

Won't it howl? 

It's a cruel punishment. Your heart and lungs are bound to give way. You will join the murky waters the ones you’ve slain now bathe in. 

“I see a palace covered in red;

Faces of men who have long believed you're dead.

I see your wife with a man who is hunting:

A man with a trail of bodies..”

Goddess of wisdom, master of war. A familial messenger sent in her stead. The divine is a curious force. Pushing you down, lifting you up. The ocean’s buoyant waves do as much, bobbing along with the gracious wind.

Become what you must.

A ruthless monster. A beast unlike any you've encountered. A man capable of losing his fraternity, his humanity. 

Seven years. 

Six. 

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One. 

You are off.

Does this cursed number wear?

Odysseus shall sleep next to his wife.

Maybe then, I too will rest.

[sarandipitywrites]

Find the Word Tag

thanks for the tag, @willtheweaver! go check out some lines from the Crow and Foxfolk series here

my words to find are chill, ford, support, and scar. i'm looking through Spark Signature for these:

chill

“No, hon, stay.” Welwi pats at Jules’s arm and signals Rune to bring another drink. “We’ve already set you up a character and everything.” “Yes, actually, you should stay.” A slow smirk creeps onto Jacqui’s face. “I’ve already written you in, anyway. And besides,” she stares sidelong at Vy, “I’m a merciful GM.” A chill tumbles down Vy’s spine. The last time Jacqui had seen fit to remind them of her mercy, they’d spent a real-time month stuck on the Island of Lost Souls. Fresh wine sloshes into Vy’s goblet. Rune shakes xir head and pats Vy on the shoulder. “Godspeed, Captain.”

ford cross

“Sorry again.” Jules’s fingers tighten around the bulging folder in his hands. “For crashing your game.” “Don’t worry about it. What’s that?” Vy makes grabby hands at the folder and snags it as soon as Jules offers it up. They unravel the twine holding it shut—Jules must’ve had to raid a vintage craft store for all this paper—and find within a thick stack of notes. Some are typeset—printed, from an actual printer—and some are handwritten. They all make Vy’s eyes cross and their pulse throb behind their optic nerves.

support

Jacqui texts again. “Bringing your boytoy home?” And Vy wants to say ‘no’ to that. They should say ‘no.’ Not because Vy’s opposed to the concept of boytoys or bringing them home—they’re an enthusiastic supporter of both—but if whiling away an entire day on pining and ruminating and ritual and non-ritual cleansing hasn’t cleared up this weird fucking feeling they still get when they think of Julián, there’s no way they’ll be able to fuck it away. “Not planning on it,” is what Vy settles for.

scar

“Behind me!” Lupe yanks Vy further into the shadows and takes off its glove. Pointed nails dig into its palm; blood wells and beads. With fingers pinched, Lupe pulls the blood through the air like thread through a needle. It arcs over their heads, slicing a scarlet line across the darkening sky. The blood hovers there, a shimmering scar, and then it grows. The red bleeds outward, arcing over them in a translucent pane. It touches the walls on either side of them, settles, and solidifies. Vy looks up; they're enclosed in a perfect dome of sanguine stained glass.

passing the tag along to @isabellebissonrouthier, @pb-dot, @byjillianmaria, @bluberimufim, @thesorcerersapprentice, and an open tag. your words to find will be mercy, snag, fuck, and glass.

Spark Signature taglist (ask to be added or removed): @leah-yasmin-writes, @unrepentantcheeseaddict, @ceph-the-ghost-writer, @mundanemoongirl

[proelium]

.¸¸.•`  [   BRUNA MARQUEZINE   ,   DEMI WOMAN   ,   THEY + SHE   ]   the  almighty  has  blessed  us  once  more,   it   seems  CELESARIA GODEFRAY has  come   to   ilthoria.   the   LIEGE OF VASTELA,   brings  with  them  such  glorious  fortune  and  they  are  known  for  being  DEVOUT but  also  STOIC.  joy  will  spark  when  the  THIRTY  year  old  comes  to  court.  what  songs  would  be  sung  in  their  name  ?  [  HOLOCENE  +   BON IVER   ]  for  in  the  decades  to  come  they  will  sing  of  :  simple silver ring on a hand clasped in paryer, dim candlelight flickering shadows on aged parchment, smells of incense and herbs.  may  enerin  bless  your  soul,  welcome  to  ilthoria  child. 

STATISTICS.

full   name  :   celesaria godefray

moniker   /   nickname  :   celes, the devout

title  :   heir of vastela

gender   /   pronouns  :   demi woman, she + they

age  :   twenty seven

sexual   orientation  :   pansexual

romantic   orientation  :   panromantic

religion  :   devout follower of enerin

language  :   common tongue

affiliation  :   loyral to their family

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE.

face   claim  :   bruna marquezine

height  :   5'11''

eye   color  :  dark brown

hair   color  :   naturally brown, wavy occasionally straight but almost always pulled away from their face

accent   &   speech   style  :    tbd

distinguishing   marks   /   characteristics  :   tbd

FAMILY.

parents  :   names to be added.

siblings  :   names to be added.

significant   other(s)  :   none, at the moment

children  :   none.

PERSONALITY.

mbti   type  :    the caregiver, esfj

enneagram   type  :   type 2, the helper

temperament  :   sanguine.

TIDBITS.

you  born  into  duty,  raised  in  the  sanctuaries  of  vastela  where  faith  and  politics  were  entwined  like  roots  beneath  the  city.  house  godefray  had  long  been  revered  for  its  unwavering  devotion  to  enerin,  its  prayers  whispered  in  the  halls  of  power,  its  influence  subtle  but  undeniable. from  childhood,  you  were  taught  that  faith  was  more  than  belief  —  it  was  leverage.  you  learned  how  reverence  could  shape  decisions,  how  devotion  could  command  respect,  and  how  the  right  words,  spoken  at  the  right  moment,  could  change  the  course  of  history.  you  played  the  part  well,  poised  and  untouchable,  the  perfect  embodiment  of  godefray  legacy, but faith  alone  does  not  shield  against  the  shifting  tides  of  court.

with  house  eissen's  reign  in  question  and  whispers  of  rebellion  threading  through  ardora,  the  godefrays  find  themselves  balanced  on  a  blade’s  edge  —  respected,  yet  vulnerable.  some  say  their  prayers  are  their  only  shield,  others  claim  they  are  too  deeply  entangled  in  the  crown’s  fate.  you  refuse  to  be  merely  a  passive  figure  in  this  unfolding  battle.  you  see beyond  the  hollow  gestures  of  court,  understands  the  currents  beneath  the  surface,  and  know  that  survival  demands  more  than  quiet  faith.  

[tvrmoils]

         ✦         DYLAN  PARKER         »        committed  yet  judgmental  thirty - eight  year  old  weapons  division  head  agent  who  goes  by  she  +  they  pronouns  and  is  always  toying  with  an  ancient  gold  coin  between  her  fingers  ,  a  gift  from  her  grandmother  that  helps  her  in  moments  of  disquiet  .  born  in  chicago  ,  illinois  ,  often  can  be  seen  immersed  in  a  poetry  book  (  that’s sometimes a history one  ,  or a romance novel  )  ;  taking  her  lovely  dog  valkyrie  on  a  stroll  ;  or  buried  in  a  new  project  ,  a  new  trial  ,  anything  that  would  make  her  division  thrive  .  determined  as  a  racing  horse  ,  but  mistrusting  to  the  core  ,  dylan  deeply  enjoys  the  bitter  taste  of  their  black  morning  coffee  ,  working  in  the  quiet  of  the  night  &  taking  their  grandmother  out  for  dinner  every friday  .  lawful  neutral  ,  taurus  sun  &  history  enthusiast  ,  she  identifies  as  a  bisexual  demi  woman  ,  has  the  terrible  habit  of  mixing  energy  drinks  with  coffee  to  stay  awake  ,  and  has  been  part  of  the  mercy  organization  for  one  week .     ©

                        THREADS   .   WANTED  CONNECTIONS   .   AESTHETIC  .

⸺      I  ,        BASICS  .

full  name       :       dylan  theodora  parker .          nicknames       :       dyl  ,  theo  ( grandma  rights  only ) .          preferred  name       :       dylan  parker .          age  +  dob       :       thirty8  +  may  7th .          birthplace       :       chicago  .  illinois .          gender  +  pronouns       :       demi - woman  +  she / they .          s / r  orientation       :       chaotic  bisexual .          faction       :       weapons .          codename       :       agent  wire .          spoken  languages       :       english  ,  spanish  ( native )  ,  brazilian  portuguese  ( conversational ) .          significant  bonds       :       simone  parker  ( mother  ,  deceased ) .   theodora  parker  ( grandmother  ,  alive ) .

⸺      II  ,        PERSONALITY  TRAITS  .

positive       :                committed  ,  determined  ,  creative       :                neutral       :                guarded  ,  collected  ,  sensitive       :                negative       :                judgmental  ,  aloof  ,  mistrusting       :                zodiac’s  main  three       :                taurus  sun  ,  gemini  moon  ,  libra  rising       :                moral  alignment       :                lawful  neutral       :                temperament       :                choleric - sanguine  .

⸺      III  ,        BACKGROUND .

you’ve  always  considered  yourself  a  monster  ,  what  else  could  someone  who  kills  her  mother  so  they  could  enter  this  world  be ?   you  grew  up  guilty  of  a  sin  you  didn’t  commit  ,  yet  you  never  believed  your  grandmother’s  words  ,  who  with  anguish  in  her  eyes  tried  to  rid  you  of  it .

you’ve  always  considered  yourself  a  monster  ,  so  as  a  monster  you  grew  up  .  prone  to  violence  you  learned  how  to  keep  on  a  leash  ,  to  intrusive  thoughts  that  kept  you  awake  at  night  ,  yet  as  morning  came  ,  you  also  learned  how  to  hide  it  ,  in  the  shadows  of  your  heart  and  the  darkest  corners  of  your  mind .

she  saw  you  as  you  were  ,  though  ,  your  grandmother  ,  but  her  love  never  ceased  .  and  maybe  ,  just  maybe  ,  her  love  was  your  salvation  ,  her  trust  in  you  ,  her  endless  belief  in  the  goodness  of  your  heart  that  was  never  truly  there  .  still  ,  her  hope  was  unbreakable  ,  and  you  tried  and  will  always  try  for  her .

sentinel  came  as  a  beacon  of  light  ten  years  ago  ,  raised  rough  around  the  edges  ,  hardened  by  the  painful  reality  of  your  neighbor  ,  a  neglected  thing  on  the  outskirts  of  chicago  where  people  couldn’t  even  dream  of  having  a  different  life  from  their  unescapable  fate  shaped  them  to  have  .  not  you  ,  though  ,  never  you  .  your  anger  gave  you  purpose  ,  and  when  the  time  came  ,  sentinel  gave  you  an  intent  ,  too  ,  a  way  to  unleash  your  rage  in  a  manner  you  never  knew  you  could  have  ,  without  hurting  people  or  yourself .

building  weapons  was  a  respite  .  you  didn’t  know  you  had  an  intrinsic  talent  for  it  ,  however  ,  you  did  ,  and  the  violence  of  the  objects  tamed  yours  at  the  prospect  of  a  necessary  brutality  ,  one  you  couldn’t  escape  ,  one  you  didn’t  need  to .

by  the  time  you  were  promoted  ,  mercy  showed  up  around  the  corner  ,  and  your  purpose  turned  stronger   —   now  you  could  really  do  something  aside  from  destructing  everything  you  touched  ,  in  the  end  ,  they  were  good  assets  to  society  ,  weren’t  they ?   and  the  idea  of  finally  helping  to  protect  ,  to  save  ,  to  do  some  good  with  your  tainted  soul  made  you  believe  ,  for  the  first  time  ,  you  might  not  be  a  monster  after  all  .  how  could  you  be  when  doing  good  makes  so  much  sense ?

⸺      IV  ,        HEADCANONS  .

i.   dylan  has  a  brown  pitbull  terrier  named  valkyrie  ,  she’s  a  soft  ,  very  trusting  baby  ,  friendly  with  people  ,  and  a  protector  of  cats . ii.   despite  their  tough  core  and  intrusive  thoughts  ,  they  have  very  gentle  hobbies  and  a  passion  for  romance  novels  and  poetry . iii.   her  grandmother  is  the  most  important  person  in  her  life  ,  probably  the  only  one  .  she’s  a  quite  older  woman  who  has  kept  herself  healthy  thanks  to  sentinel’s  (  and  now  mercy’s  )  biomedical  advances . iv.   she  highly  prefers  to  work  at  night  ,  there  is  something  about  the  quiet  of  those  hours  that  make  her  thrive  ,  although  this  led  her  to  develop  quite  an  addiction  to  mixing  energetic  drinks  and  coffee . v.   they’re  a  greek  mythology  and  history  enthusiast  ,  if  they  trust  you  enough  ,  they  can  talk  your  ear  off  about  it  for  hours .

[esorydoolb]

new intro for Rebirth (slight edits were made)

Encrypted Slate: Starborn

Something will stay behind, and something else will leave.

This version of the universe looks so beautiful, the way it is bathed in a million sanguine lights, it should be blinding. Yet like in a dream, closed eyes are able to see everything, the whole world moves while the feet stand still. Soaring, a feeling of spread arms that reach out to grasp eternity, never to fall again. The Unity tempts any traveler to stay in this zone of weightless being, knowing exactly how the paths will intertwine so that every step forward is also a step backward, turning into a million directions at once. Threads of the past mingle with the future, frozen in a standstill picture of hope and promise, representing the universe.

The only way to carry on is hidden in a sacrifice.

Every decision bears a loss, every perception creates a veiled shadow, so every rebirth presupposes a void – something lost, something caught in the webs of time. Rebirth means: to take on a new form. To be born again, but give up a lifetime of existence. Like a star collapsing.

[incarnelia]

i mentioned a few days ago my "[x] of a sage" poem series. i finally went and scrounged it up. please be merciful — i wrote it starting in march 2022, it's hardly my best work compared to the present moment... these spawned as rumination upon the divine signs which indicate the birth and body of a sage in the post-han classical chinese omenological tradition, with language heavily inspired by kill six billion demons. i think they're rather vivid despite their deficiencies and repetitions on the theme

"physiognomy of a sage"

glowing in your breast a seven-pointed star full in the virtues of creation far. its shine entwines with breaths azure and ruby ethereal in dream milky threads of galaxies singing in your meat. each stirring of subtle flesh with rhythms fine swollen with that heat that makes royalty divine.

“eonic efficacy”

the sage : dreamed heart beating speaks with infinite fractal tongues wreathed in starfire.

“physiognomist to a sage”

a poppy sprouts in the sage’s mouth off their heated tongue of stars. sanguine its petals be rippling with lucidity: a mirage seen from afar.

"union of the sage"

ripe lips drool with fetid breath sweetened glistening of blind dreamflesh eyes lachrymose in unfolded stars; afar veins ooze shining mercury into lidded clay — thrum-fervor squeezes, stretches with unseen warmth of black hands.

"mantle of a sage”

slate furnace of chest, full of multicolor flame twisting and shifting, giving world its shapes. pale silver eyes pure as mercury reflecting tangled brilliant webs of determined paths. tears heavy with glowing stars rolling dark down cheeks glutted on the pungence of the hollow chamber. a tongue blooming with poppies, oozing the milk of satiety which susurruses what ought to be. coiling around neck, warped choking scar of corded rope the fatal memory aligning all source to stream. blue-stained lips enclosing teeth, wept berry or blood ever defending and concealing the soul. rubescent mist, gemmy fog for corona the white gleaming sheen, shadow of bones.

[stocky2016]

"The Song of Words"

Text, voicemail, and email all very handy and slick

but if choice allowed me to pick

"Face to face" however is infinitely preferable

it's where "relationship" defines what's irreplaceable.

"Short-hand convenience" is all very well and convenient

but risks loss of immediacy as a replacement.

Social media thrives on speed of response

but often it's a misunderstood dalliance.

"Pressing the flesh" and " eye to eye" must be genuine

sharing the same space and communication just sanguine.

Not hiding behind the keyboard or mobile phone

requires an honesty that's difficult on your own.

There are some positives which should not be overlooked...

great for keeping in touch and not feeling "spooked"

What you're doing? where you are? and how you're feeling

can all be shared without that censorship feeling.

Gone are are the expensive "telegram cards"

but in their time there place was probably assured

Sharing pics, music and video is also now a benefit

In terms of "adding value" to our messaging suite.

Misunderstandings, through reading between the lines

Is always a potential risk of our times

You can't really beat an old-fashioned hug and cuddle

the reassuring chat without any of the other muddle.

So can we conclude that despite all techno progress

an old-fashioned chat is probably most precious

To be seduced into thinking otherwise

risks getting things wrong and breaking a promise.

In the delicate echo of voices answering each other,

conversation is a thread that binds us together.

It weaves bridges over abysses,

between hearts lost in the obscuring mist.

A word here, a look there,

and suddenly the universe begins to become aware

The fragile word can heal any torments,

and erase the shadows, and calm excitement.

In the tumult of a world where everything moves too fast,

conversation is a haven, almost a fast

A sacred space where the soul rests,

where time suspended allows the rose to protest.

It is the key that opens the soul of another,

The humble yet powerful tool that might otherwise smother,

It gives each of us the mirror to our dreams,

and in dialogue, truth rises or so it seams.

Without it, we wander, lost in our silences,

the mind closes in, a prisoner of absence.

But in the flow of words, laughter and sighs,

Hearts beat ever stronger light up, get high.

A word can change a destiny,

it reconciles, and clarifies any miscellany

It carries within it the seeds of forgiveness,

and revives hope and any harsh sentence.

When two souls speak, the world listens,

the whole universe is silent, and no doubt

In this dialogue, a future is forged,

For it is in conversation that hope is engaged.

In conversation, there are a thousand treasures,

shards of light, fragments of common sense,

Which, once shared, become greater,

A rich heritage offered to hearts that beat stronger.

So let's talk, without fear of revealing ourselves,

Let every word be true, every word revolves

In this simple exchange, we find the horizon,

and the beauty of living together, in communion.

For in the spoken word, humanity is held together,

It is the silver thread that binds us for ever

In every conversation, life is created,

It's the subtle art of loving, learning and homestead.

Collaboration between Geoff and his much valued Muse Myriam

Graphics courtesy of Google Images

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UrIiLvg58SY

[skelerenwrites]

There are three very important people needed to understand Sanguinous, two of which he goes nowhere without. While they needn’t have large roles in the thread, it’s important to remember that they are always nearby or otherwise in Sanguinous’ brain.

Amalia

Sanguinous’ eternal love. Amalia was Sanguinous’ wife and his sire, often described as being of "unparalleled mind and beauty." The pair spent most of their unnatural lives together, Amalia having turned Sanguinous after falling in love with him and his ruthless mind. Amalia was fierce, cunning, and cutting; where Sanguinous is often saccharine-sweet in public, Amalia never was. She had the greater appetite for making new vampires, ultimately seeking to establish for herself an immor(t)al family with which to take back and rule the night. Amalia would never see her plans to fruition, having been ambushed and killed by vampire hunters while outside of Carmilla.

In retaliation for her murder, Sanguinous had his contacts look into the matter: he has since taken to systematically hunting down every last member of every bloodline involved to extinguish them in return for the death of his wife, his bride, his lover, his other. To the best of his knowledge, he has already been successful in fully eradicating one bloodline--he disposed of his wife's potential killers in one blow, but faced with their offspring, elected to take one with him and leave the other behind to die a slow and painful death (being so young he doubted she would survive alone). The boy he had originally intended to raise as a replacement for his own, but his bloody inclinations proved too powerful to resist. He drained the boy dry and dreamed of Amalia that night. Although he did return to take the sister, she was nowhere to be found, and he presumed her dead.

He is still hunting to eradicate the last of his wife's murderers, an act of personal vengeance he indulges in whenever doing so is not to the detriment of their former life-long plan: the installation of vampires as superior over all others.

J.D. Dean

JD Dean—born Riley Sinclair, later Ryan St. Claire, later Jane Doe, then eventually JD and JD Dean—is something of a fluke. Their tragic backstory is theirs to tell, a tale of corruption, politics, love, betrayal, and remarkably bad timing. Or perhaps good timing. JD was brought back to life through the ministrations of Amalia, and was immediately adopted as a sort of daughter and pet project for the vampire. JD never took to the role of offspring but grew loyal to and protective of Amalia and, by extension, Sanguinous.

Amalia’s death served as a wake-up of sorts for the far younger vampire, prompting them to become Sanguinous’ personal bodyguard. Though not a position they relish, until or unless something more interesting comes along, they will serve their lord king with pride.

Lilith Marlowe

Lilith Marlowe is a conniving, backstabbing bitch—but Sanguinous hasn’t figured that out yet. A “litter mate” of Sanguinous, Lilith is actually his only living blood relative, a very old, very powerful witch. Back when Sanguinous was still a mortal, he and his sister survived on her magic; she had found ways of staying eternally young and powerful without the aid of vampiric blood, but it was hard, brutal, nasty work. Lilith remains constant and untroubled by what she must do to survive; Sanguinous, she feels, took the easy route in the name of love and suffers now for it.

Lilith’s ultimate ambition is to take Carmilla and all power associated with it for herself. For the time being, she is content to orchestrate her plans from the shadows, building a stronger and more stable Carmilla that will thrive under her leadership without any of Sanguinous’ ego making a mockery of her hard work.

Every witch in End of the Road has a specialization, a power only he or she really has. It is their strongest power and sometimes their best-guarded secret. Although Lilith will say that her specialty is dream-walking, that is a lie: her true power is the power of Suggestion. So long as she establishes eye contact (and maintains it until the suggestion is fully delivered), Lilith is able to bend others to her will. The less inclined the subject is to follow her suggestion, the more Lilith must enforce her will to make the other act on it—and, as a result, the more unnatural the subject’s actions become when fulfilling the suggestion. Obviously use of this power will be established with the individual writing partner as needed!

[omni-occultavtur]

muscle memory

The oath she doesn’t remember swearing is iron in her throat, lashing her back from the promise of gloryglorygore splattered over the sand.

The grit of sand beneath her feet is oddly familiar. The phantom limb of a memory flails in Athalie’s mind: something hot clutched in her hand, oozing jammy over her fingers as she runs, cold winter air lashing her skin and splitting around her horns as someone’s shouts fade into the distance.

She shakes herself and returns to the ravaged beach: the smell of burning flesh and scorched cartilage smoking up the air, sunlight glittering sharp and imprecise on the water, the sticky cling of drying blood on her skin. It’s soaked thickly through sections of her tabard, invisible but now flaking off the dark fabric, far too much to have come from just the fiends aboard the crashed nautiloid—and Athalie knows that when she awoke in the pod, her hair had already been matted with blood that smelled of foreign flesh.

She wrings out her braids and does her best to squeeze out congealed viscera from the two buns atop them as well; the waves make it difficult to tell whether or not her efforts have made much of a difference at all, but at least her reflection looks less crimson-dyed. The internal debate of whether or not a dunk in the sea would restore more of her hair’s actual colour goes undecided when something explodes in the distance: Athalie jerks back, her body moving on experienced adrenaline to propel itself over the sand and into a battle-ready stance, warhammer out and at the ready before she’s quite aware of what’s happening.

Nothing leaps out from the shadowed arches of the crash. The waves lap quietly at the shore. The mangled corpses on the beach stay dead.

Athalie relaxes and smashes the skull of the first one she comes across—just to be sure. His pockets are bereft of anything but an empty bottle with a long-faded label; Athalie pockets it anyway, figuring it might be of some use as a distraction later.

She comes across the half-elf from the nautiloid as she makes her way down the beach; Athalie crosses her arms and prods her with a foot. The woman doesn’t stir, but her chest rises and falls.

It would be easy to turn its motion into the final crest of a sanguine wave—turn the woman’s skin into butterfly wings, her intestines into lace adorning the slick sturdiness of a sundered ribcage—Athalie’s chest throbs, blood singing hot and high as it splits in her veins.

The oath she doesn’t remember swearing is iron in her throat, lashing her back from the promise of gloryglorygore splattered over the sand. Her knuckles go tight on the handle of her warhammer, trembling slightly as the blunt, terrible head of the instrument shivers in the air.

Athalie unwraps one hand from the metal and presses it to the gold thread in the sword emblazoned over her chest. “My hand is iron, my fist against the greater evil. My arms are the scales of justice, upon which I weigh even myself. No mercy for the wicked. My cause is my purity.”

The mutter is heavy on her tongue, comforting despite the way their flavour contorts under a heady yearning to shed copper, to feel the warm ooze of lifeblood washing over her hands.

Pain wracks Athalie’s skull and radiates down her skeleton, seizing each limb until she nearly drops the warhammer on the half-elf. Inelegant. A waste.

She flings it behind her and drops to her knees. Her grip is too harsh on the woman’s upper arm, but it’s the only balance Athalie can exert over the vicious horror longing to realise itself with her body.

“Wake up. I know you’re alive. Get up.”

[umbrae-sortilegium]

𝒯𝒽𝑒 ℳ𝒾𝒹𝓃𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝒲𝒾𝓉𝒸𝒽𝑒𝓈 𝒲𝒶𝓁𝓉𝓏 In the embrace of shadows, where darkness finds its throne- the moonlight weaves its silver threads, a tapestry unknown. Rubies adorned with sanguine kisses, passionate and deep: In the realm of dreams and demons, secrets they shall keep.

Red roses bloom in moonlight's pale and ghostly glow- drops of blood, like teardrops, in the garden's ebon flow. Mists waltz over graves like a shroud, a mournful, haunting veil: as black stars smile like burnt jewels, their secrets they unveil.

In the blackest witchcraft's grip, afoot in the night's embrace; they dance naked by firelight, an eerie, wicked grace. Unveiling mysteries of old, their incantations soar- to the heart of the abyss, where dreams and nightmares roar.

The shadows whisper secrets, in the language of the night- as rubies glisten like the stars, their crimson hue so bright. The demons' dreams take flight, through realms of endless dread while red roses weep their petals, like drops of blood they shed.

Mists encircle secrets, as they dance upon the graves: a shroud of misty sorrow, a requiem for lost souls' waves. Black stars, like wicked jewels, gleam in the midnight sky; the heart of this enchantment, where enchantments never die.

With the blackest witchcraft dance, the night is brought to life- the shadows move, like specters, through the darkness's endless strife. By the fire's flickering flame, their mystic rites unfold. In this gothic, haunting ballad, a midnight waltz of old.

© Dʏsʜᴀɴᴋᴀ/Oᴅᴇᴛᴛᴇ ₂₀₂₃

[bits-of-bedlam-writing]

That's Not Yours

Very trigger light, mentions of sex, but a moment of blood drinking. Fair warning tho, ya gotta read the earlier chapter or you won't understand what's up with my weird magic items.

Things had been largely peaceful for a moment. Keya and her companions settled into camp just across from the last light inn and took some time to find their bearings in this cursed place. The judgment could be made that Astarion and Keya were letting themselves get distracted in eachother, often carrying on together in the early morning and late into the night. But there were perks to only needing four hours rest and they'd earned it.

One unsettling thing badgered at Keya though, the drow woman. She appeared wherever they went and watched them blatantly. The hungry way she looked at Astarion was especially bothersome, even more so when she realized that it unsettled him as well. No, if they were to accomplish anything, this issue needed to be delt with.

Hoping for a peaceful resolution but not counting on it, she sought out Karlach. Her non-judgmental support had been an amazing gift that Keya relied upon often. "Will you come along with me love? Nothing to exciting, I just need to figure out that woman who's been making eyes at us."

The large tiefling drained her ale and stood, shaking the ache from her shoulders. "No problem. She's been givin me the creeps to be honest."

Astarion, of course, appeared by her side like a shadow as she made ready to leave. It had become their comfortable custom, giving eachother space in their relatively safe camp, surrounded by their friends, but neither ventured far without the other. Exception being when they curled into the often-laundered bedrolls and blankets that they shared.

She set off to seek out the woman, expecting it to be easy, having seen her everywhere around the towers since they arrived. But it took longer than she'd thought. She tried so hard to set aside the bias she knew she held against their kind, but when they acted so untrustworthy...

Finally though, they found her. Surrounded by an assortment of laboratory equipment, all dingy, wreaking of stale blood and an odd electric smell. She caught how Astarion wrinkled his nose momentarily before composing himself.

The drow lit up upon seeing them enter the dank chamber. "Oh, hello." She gestured broadly around her, "Welcome. I am Araj Oblodra, trader in blood and the sanguinous arts. It is a pleasure to stand before a True Soul." Her eyes ran over Astarion, hunger plainly visible, "and your pale companion."

Keya was quiet as an unfamiliar sensation occurred to her. Disgust, but not her own. She knew instinctively that it was his. An odd effect of their artifacts, perhaps, allowing strong emotion to bleed over into eachother.

Had her silence become awkward, she worried. She hurried to correct it. "No need for True Soul reverence, I am Lorsha Athelmīr." She hid her shock and disgust as her "proper" name fell from her lips instead of her real one. Some kind of zone of truth fuckery. That had been why they couldn't find her. She wanted them here.

Her smile was wicked, her plan already baring fruit. "I'd like to offer my services, if you're willing." She held a syringe already and her words were heavy with more magic. She expected compliance and Keyas mind felt sluggish, amicable.

A swell of possessive anger in her mind blew the fog away just as Keya went to consent and hold out her arm. Her connection of Astarion felt palpable, she felt it reeling her mind back from the spell. Saving her. The idea of sharing her blood in general revolted him, and with this creature even more so.

Services, of course not. She'd been raised on cautionary tales about fools that sought help from the twisted magics of the drow. Maidens wishing to improve their beauty made into beautiful specimens of drider. Warriors seeking strength in battle given volatile augmentation they drove them mad, turned against their allies.

No. She held on the thread of civility as best she could by brushing the question and attempted compulsion aside unanswered. She moved pointedly right to the heart of the matter. "What is your interest in my pale lover?" She let the last word fall heavily, intending it to sting. Astarion looked like he straightened himself, preening slightly. Karlach seemed to stifle a laugh.

If Keya side stepping the magic daunted her, she didn't show it. "He's a vampire, no? One of their spawn at least." She didn't seem bothered by the revelation, and that was sufficient cause for alarm.

While Keya was still staggered by the incursion into her mind, Astarion played at being unfazed effortlessly. He responded quickly "Don't worry, we're all friends under the Absolute." With a charming smile, "I won't bite."

"Oh, I'd prefer if you did." She responded cooly, eying him like a piece of meat. She regarded Keya again, "I assume he belongs to you?" As though she were discussing a horse or a rug.

She felt a tremble of fear from Astarion, clear as day, and her body responded without thought. She shifted her weight to one heel, poised to defend him. "Yes. All mine." She spoke with resolution. Her smile had turned wolfish, more a show of teeth than a show of friendliness. Her grasp on civility was wearing incredibly thin, but she held on tight.

"Well I hope you don't mind sharing him for just a minute." The way Araj laughed as she spoke grated on her. "Do you have a name spawn?"

Keya felt a pang of shame over their bond. She had a sickening awareness of how his gut clenched, being addressed as such.

"A-Astarion, but hold on-" He sounded off balance, fear threatening at the edges of his voice.

She cut him off, "Good. Now, Astarion," the lust that dripped from her tone made him recoil more into himself and Keya balled her hand into a fist at the feeling. "I've dreamed of being bitten by a vampire since I was a young girl."

As Keya wrestled her own jealousy and anger, she realized she recognized the feeling he shared in their bond now. She hadn't known why, but she'd felt it when she woke to Astarion having a nightmare.

"I'm sorry," he stuttered, incredulous. "You want to be bitten?

"To feel your life's blood slipping away? To dance on the edge between life and death? Yes, I want it." Having played on that edge, Keya understood this explanation. But not like this. This wasn't how it worked to surrender oneself to the hungers of another. Araj only cared for her own lustful needs.

"I'd even compensate you," she continued, mostly addressing Keya now. "A potion of legendary power that forever increases the strength of the one who consumes it."

At the mention of compensation, she felt a shift. His fear fell... toward her? Was he really worried she would ask him to do this against his will? She didn't even hear the rest of Arajs prattling, turning toward him, carefully keeping the drow in her periphery.

He caught her eye and found her concern. It seemed to bolster him. "I will have to..." He faltered, looking to her for reassurance again. "Decline."

Arajs face fell, disgusted. "Excuse me? This is a once in a lifetime opportunity and you're squandering it."

Keya faced her fully now, glaring daggers. Karlach took a couple steps closer, perhaps over eager to intercede.

"I've given you my answer." He sneered forcefully. Keya could tell it was a false bravado but gave no tell.

She addressed Keya again, oblivious to the fact that her forced smile held much more danger than pleasant disarmament now. "Can't you talk some sense into your obstinate charge?"

"He said no. There is nothing more to discuss." She responded flatly. Her hand rested on her wrist sheath, unsure if she wanted this to end here and now or in five minutes with Araj bleeding on the ground. She made up her mind when she felt Astarions relief. No, she just wanted to get him away from here.

"How very disappointing." She began to advance toward Astarion, continuing. "A lowly spawn should seek every-"

She was cut off as Keya stepped between them. In the sudden silence, everyone could hear the ominous hiss of her dagger leaving its sheath. Her body was still as a statue as she stared down the drow.

"He said," She spoke slowly, enunciation each sylable with care. "No." Her eyes narrowed and she looked the other woman up and down preformativly. She continued in a hissed whisper. "Besides, why would he want the likes of you when he can sup on me every single night?"

With an angry howl, the drow rushed toward her. She tried to duck her swing only to be wrenched upward by her hair. Nails like talons dug into her arm and scratched their way down to her blade, wrestling it out of her hand.

As she struggled to grab it back, she felt a searing pain in her palm and a pair of strong cold arms pulling her away. As her palm grew warm, she realized she was bleeding. Not badly, barely a graze. She strained against Astarion, trying to get free, to keep fighting, to beat the smug look off the vile creatures face with her bare hands.

Karlach picked Araj up by her tunic as though she were a small child and moved between them. "Calm down now, there's no need to fight." She set the drow down just a pace away but held her place between them.

Araj steadied herself against her worktable and looked down at the dagger she had in her hand. "No," she responded smuggely. "I suppose there isn't anymore." She turned the blade in the light, inspecting the crimson smeared down the side of it. Like a trophy.

Finally settling into his grasp, Keya felt a burning sense of possessiveness from him. He glared up at the woman, the anger in his eyes something feral. She responded spitefully, turning her face up into his and kissing his cheek softly. She held her bleeding palm up, offering it wordlessly.

She felt his low laugh, enjoying the way her wicked little mind worked. Cupping her offered hand in his own, he brought it to his lips. He licked from the finger where it dripped to the wound itself. Slowly, savoring. Letting himself moan in appreciation.

Karlach did not not suppress her giggle this time. "Cmon lovebirds," she walked past them to the door and waved for them to follow. "I'm not breaking up any more fights tonight."

Keya kissed his bloody lips one more time before she stood. They entwined their hands and began to walk away but Astarion stopped just short of the door as a thought occurred to him.

"Just a moment," he said quietly. "I want to try something." He turned back to the room and held up his ringed hand. With the slightest beckoning gesture, he felt it warm around his finger and watched as the blood lifted away from the blade. As if carried by a supernatural wind, it floated gently toward him. There wasn't much, just enough to coat his finger tip. But that would've been enough for her to preform her strange alchemy upon it.

"That's not yours." He stated simply before sucking it from his finger with a smile.

[x-sanguinate]

— SANGUINE SHADOWS 

@umbane​​

        The moon hangs high in the night sky, and a relic of the past walks the roads beyond Noxus Prime. He is alone. Isolated. Such a fact would leave highwaymen and assassins watering at the mouth, given the wealth that this wanderer carried on him in clothing and accessories alone.

        But this wanderer carried something else with him. Something far more terrible than any weapon employed by countryside murderers and thieves. At his beck and call was the blood of ancients, bound to his will through a millenium-old betrayal. While the origins of his power has been kept from the ears of all but the Matron herself, he has wasted no expense in making sure that everyone—EVERYONE—knows just how dangerous he truly is.

        It started as a way to clear his mind, walking alone at night like this. Now it was his way of taunting would-be robbers. He was untouchable, just like the cool winds that now swept across the tilled farmland to his right, and swept through the forestry to his left.

        As his distance from Noxus Prime grew, his distance from the nearest Noxtoraa shrunk. It was in the shadow of such gates that the visions of empire were cast, though such a vision was always subject to varied responses. Sometimes joy. Sometimes hate. Sometimes death. 

        It was in the shadow of this particular Noxtoraa that a Noxian convoy was attacked. All of its guards were slain, with the prize it was said to contain stolen. A darkin weapon was housed within, and now this weapon was lost, existing somewhere in someone else’s hands, out in the sprawling vastness of Runeterra. In truth, this weapon was actually quite close.

        So close, in fact, that it would take nary a moment for its wielder to be upon him.

[captainkirkk]

✩ WEEKLY FIC ROUND-UP ✩

All the fics I’ve read and really enjoyed in the past week-ish. Reminder: This list features any and all ratings and themes.

Miraculous Ladybug

home sick by carolinaa

Adrien contracts pneumonia. Somehow, that's the least of his worries this week.

(BTHB square 17: muzzled)

DC (Batman)

Have I Told You About Minnie? by Hinn_Raven

After you’ve known Matches Malone long enough, you get used to him telling you about his kids. Not that his kids know about it.

ATLA

A Different Way Of Doing Things by roseverdict

Fire Lord Zuko was...different. He thanked the servants for doing their jobs. He wouldn’t get angry over accidents or mistakes, either. It was slightly off-putting, as far as Chihiro was concerned. If Chihiro hadn’t been watching, she wouldn’t have believed it herself.

She didn’t entirely believe it anyway. Still, surely something of importance would come of the new Fire Lord’s strange behavior.

Though, to be fair, she thought to herself as a half-masked figure leapt at her from the shadows of a pillar one evening, she hadn’t thought that that ‘something’ would be an attempted coup.

(Or, in which a palace servant decides, yeah, I'm protecting this kid.)

Star Wars/The Mandalorian

Where Hope is Persevering by ShyOwl

Luke was found by Vader when he was just a child and stolen away to become his, and the Emperor's, perfect, merciless heir. Only, even with nearly twenty-years of torture and Dark Force surrounding him, Luke’s compassion and kindness has yet to be broken.

His hope, on the other hand, is hanging by a thread.

Until a call in the Force pushes him to escape and find a special child and his magnetic father who has a call from destiny of his own.

Clone Wars

not now, honey, i’m a little busy being decapitated by hoebiwan

“It’s a bit odd, I have to say,” Ben says. “My head doesn’t feel right, you know? Neck’s a bit off. You think they did it wrong?”

Qui-Gon looks slightly dazed. “Do I think who did what wrong?”

“The Force,” Ben says. “When they put my head back on.”

(Ben Kenobi gets another chance. Too bad he spends most of it thinking everything is some kind of post-death Force vision. Driven by his incurable need to be an arbiter of chaos, Ben only has one bullet point on his neatly printed Plan of Action: fuck the timeline up as much as possible.)

Clones Have Baby Energy: Change My Mind by DeadStarsRising

He’s got fresh blood under his nails and he doesn’t know his name. And maybe that’s what gets him, in the end. Maybe.

Primary Care by glimmerglanger

Part 2 of sanguine

“Listen,” Obi-Wan told him, arms crossed to avoid taking the bag of synth Bones was holding out, “the crèche masters set my diet. The Healers approved it. It aligns with all research--”

“What research?” Bones interrupted, narrowing his eyes. “I’ve found what they’re calling research and it’s embarrassing.”

“I’m sorry it doesn’t meet your vigorous standards,” Obi-Wan said, sharp, and Bones frowned harder.

OR, the one where Obi-Wan and Bones spend some time attempting to figure out his dietary needs, and then Geonosis interrupts.

[gctchella]

If there was one thing that never failed to escape the nose of Niffty, it was the scent of blood; old, fresh, long caked, and diseased — she knew it anywhere. The moment old threading came loose and sent down crimson trickles, she clocked the Radio Host almost immediately. Now, blood on Alastor was not unusual — it was something that co-mingled quite often, but this was fresh from the wound fresh, and the maid felt certain she had not seen any sanguine packets stored on his person.

As everyone fluttered to and fro in the foyer following Charlie's lead in some tour of the rebuilt Hotel, Niffty spotted the man bleed into the shadows.

Huhm..

Alastor approached the drawers and pulled on the knobs, and out popped mop of red hair accented with yellow.

”Wow! You really botched up that job, didn't ya, sir?“ Niffty exclaimed, swinging out of the drawer with kicking legs, getting right up close and personal with that injury that he did so well to keep hidden from view before this moment. ”Geez, is it infected? That looks like it could get infected.“

@gctchell | for Niffty!

It hadn’t been easy to get a moment to himself. Charlie had been keeping everyone busier than ever. New activities, working harder toward redemption, trying more than ever to appeal to new residents.. All that sort of thing. It had forced him to take a bit more of an active part in her endeavors, which left him little to no time to himself. That meant he’d had to repeatedly push back the ache in his chest, to ignore the pain and the pull of the meager stitchings he’d managed.

But now, he’d managed to slip away from prying eyes, had crept away in the shadows. But just that had taken enough effort that he was worn out already, half-dragging himself through the hall, one hand braced against the wall and the other against his chest in an attempt to still hold himself together. A little further, just a little more.. and he’d reached his own room, slumping heavily into a chair. He shed his coat, taking just a moment to allow himself a crooked grimace of pain. Finally, his bow tie, then his shirt tugged open to reveal the deep wound across his chest.

A few of the haphazard stitchings had been pulled loose, completely tearing through flesh and leaving the rest barely held together. Blood oozed in crimson rivers from the wound, seeping into his shirt. A hiss of pained radio static as Alastor dragged himself to his feet again, with his ears pressed flat back against his head as he moved to the chest of drawers, fumbling now for the needle and thread he’d been using as of late to repeatedly repair his stitches every time they’d been pulled loose, again and again.