#to find a companion in the odd and obscure

[redrobin-detective]

I think an underappreciated aspect of s1 of Elementary is Joan being like “ugh grisly murders? dangerous crimes? other bizarre problems and antics my client is getting up to? Can’t wait to be done with all this” and turning around and getting so invested in solving the case. Like no wonder Sherlock was offering her an apprenticeship by the end of the season, despite what she said Joan was not only highly skilled but also very interested in Sherlock’s work.

[marshmallow-phd]

Genre: Regency Gothic AU

Pairing: EXO x Reader

Summary: A stormy night brought you to the manor in the middle of the woods. Nine strange men occupied its halls. They won't let you leave. A dangerous secret haunts this estate. Learning it might either be your saving grace or it could lead to the last breath you ever take.

Part: 1 I 2 I 3 I 4 I 5

**

Lightning lit up the thin curtains covering the two small windows on either side of the carriage. Thunder rumbled and you felt it deep within your chest. Tugging your silk cloak closer, you closed your eyes and prayed that the driver would get you through the storm. There was no one to comfort you, to reassure you that a little rain and noisy sky wouldn't delay your journey.

Your father had insisted you take your sister or even a friend, but the two day’s journey didn’t  seem consequential enough to need a companion. Besides, what would they have done once you arrived? Your elderly aunt had only asked for you. From what you could decipher from her letter, she needed you to be a companion as she traveled to the southernmost coastal town. Apparently, it was now the ultimate fashion to travel to for the summer. Just the idea of rolling waves made your stomach churn. But what was worse was who else would be there–

The carriage jolted to the right. You spread out your arms, only barely catching yourself from falling to the floor. No sane person would have endured such dangerous weather. This storm had come from nowhere. Skies blue and cloudless as you had ever seen bid you farewell in the late morning. Most of the day's journey had been uneventful. Then the joyful light faded. Thunder shook the walls of the carriage. Rain pounded on the roof. When would you reach the inn? Bile rose up in your throat, burning the sensitive tissue as the carriage continued to rock violently. The horses neighed over the sounds of the storm. 

The carriage shifted hard to the left. And kept falling. You slammed into the door, nearly opening it with the force. You didn't know what was happening. The floor was now the wall and the wall the floor. A downward momentum made it impossible to stand. Screams ripped at your throat.

Then it stopped. 

The rain continued to pour and the thunder roared on but the carriage was still. Your legs wobbled as you slowly stood. With your palms, you pushed open the door. The thin wooden panel clapped against the outside of the carriage. Immediately you were pounded by the storm. Large drops pelted your face, obscuring your vision. It was dark. You could tell that much. And there were trees. In every direction. 

You climbed out of the carriage, calling for the driver. Your feet slipped in the mud, but you managed to keep your balance–for now. The mud was thick and sticky as you trudged to the front of the carriage.

 No. No, no, no. Both of the horses were gone. And so was the driver. Somehow, the carriage had fallen down a hill or ravine. With a storm this terrible, you needed to get to higher ground or risk possibly being carried away–or drowning. Clawing and digging your hands and feet into the soaked dirt, you climbed the hard incline back to the road. 

Once you could make out the road, you called for the driver again. No answer. He was nowhere to be found. You needed to find shelter. The storm gave no promise of letting up. You wouldn't survive the night in this forest, even if you went back into the carriage. The only choice was to find sanctuary. You stared in the direction you believed you came from. Nothing but trees and darkness. You turned to the other choice. All the same–wait. 

There was something... when lightning brightened up the sky. Your heart began banging in your ears. Spires, towers. Not trees. It was some distance away, but it was shelter nonetheless. 

With near tears in your eyes, you picked up your skirts–your fingers numb from the cold–and hurried towards the castle that could be your saving grace. 

*****

The manor was calm tonight. Odd, considering the amount of bodies roaming around these haunted halls. Only the beautiful storm outside and Chanyeol's sorrowful melody from the piano broke the silence. Jongin had draped himself over one of the arm chairs as he inspected the wine mixture within his goblet. The taste was… adequate. The cellar would need replenishing soon.

In the corner, a rather lax game of cards covered the small, round table. Minseok smirked at his winning hand. The faded wooden chips with bits of white painted around the edges were piling up in front of Yixing, who leaned back carelessly, sure of his next win. Little did either of them know that the youngest among them had a little... trick his sleeve. As the quickest, Sehun had perfected sleight of hand long ago. None had caught him yet.

A fire roared, coaling the usually gray and brown room in flickering orange. With how close he stood near the fireplace, Kyungsoo's silhouette was visible through his loose shirt. He leaned his palms on the mantel and let the warmth of the flames engulf him. Warmth was all they could feel after all these years. It could be an addiction so strong it was tempting to throw himself into the fire. 

Junmyeon joined him at the fireplace, leaning his shoulders against the brick. The bite of the edge hardly registered in his mind. Pain of that measure... it was only a ghost that had nearly crossed over. 

“Such strong thoughts for a night like this.”

Kyungsoo didn’t look from the fire, but raised a questioning eyebrow in response. 

Junmyeon shrugged a single shoulder. “I can’t read minds, but it's obvious you're turning something over more times than a praying rock.”

“It's the same thoughts,” Kyungsoo murmured in his strange, monotone voice. “Always the same thoughts.”

“One day you will have to let it go,” Junmyeon sighed. “This is our existence now. And forever will be.”

“Acceptance of the present doesn’t erase the past.”

“But it does make the present more enjoyable.” The red liquid sloshed against the rim of the goblet as Jongin draped an arm over Kyungsoo’s shoulders. He wore a mischievous smile. A clear indicator of his true intention. 

Junmyeon shook his head. “We’re not going out tonight. There’s nothing out and about in this storm.” Hunting in these conditions would wield no trophies. Tomorrow would be a better night. 

“Jun’s no fun tonight,” Jongdae teased as he and Baekhyun emerged from the hallway. 

“If you want to go out in this mess,” Junmyeon waved towards the front door. “Be my guest. Just don’t you dare get mud on the rug–”

Bang! Bang! Bang!

“Help! Please! Help!”

Nine pairs of eyes snapped to the echoing sound. None moved. 

Bang! Bang! 

BANG!

One of the double doors burst open and a figure fell to the floor, landing on its knees and palms. It looked up. A flash of lightning illuminated the face.

The face of a beautiful young girl. 

*****

Your knees vibrated when they hit the wooden floor. Water fell from your loose hair that clung to your cheeks. The chances of  the door opening when you pushed on the handle had been low–yet the barrier that kept you victim to the storm fell open and you crashed downward with it. 

Greeting you in this strange hall were several men, their jaws hanging open in a mirror of your own surprise. More men appeared from a side parlor, curious as to who dared intrude on their evening. One, two, three–you counted nine total. Nine men. This was not ideal–a bit terrifying, really–but you didn't have a choice. The storm raged outside.

"P-please," you stammered past chattering teeth "The st-storm overturn-overturned the carriage.” 

The men stayed silent as they exchanged unreadable glances. One raised a questionable brow. 

"Jongdae, go run a bath," ordered the man closest to you. One of the shorter residents nodded and disappeared into the darkness that led into the rest of the manor. 

That's what this place was. A grand old manor, not a castle. Isolated. When you'd first run through the rusted iron gate, you'd feared it abandoned. A long dormant instinct whispered that you might have been better off if it had been. 

The first man approached, each motion slow, deliberate, and hauntingly graceful. He crouched down in front of you and captured your frightened stare. The fear in you began to melt away. He was… beautiful. Obsidian fell over his forehead in gentle waves. His tunic was of a fashion your grandfather would have worn. There was something strange about this man–all of these men. Something... different. 

"Let's get you warmed up." He held his hand out and you were up on your feet before you even realized your fingers were resting on his. "Don't worry," he murmured. "You're safe here. My name is Junmyeon." 

You nodded, somehow believing him, but unsure if you should. Through your violent chattering, you managed to stammer out your name in response. 

Bang! 

You jumped at the sudden noise. One of the other men had somehow appeared behind you to shut the door you'd fallen through. 

"Thank you, Yixing," the man beside you said. The one named Yixing nodded and then shifted his eyes to you. “Come.” A hand pressed into the space between your shoulder blades and guided you down the hall, leaving a trail of mud in your wake.

The man led you down several halls until you reached an unoccupied bedroom. Red blankets draped the oversized bed. Matching curtains hung limply from the canopy. All of the wood was a dark sort, rich in color but not quite welcoming like other, brighter woods. 

Jongdae emerged from another door on the other side of the bedroom. Steam rolled out after him as if it were following him for its next set of orders. “Anything else?” he asked drily. 

“No, thank you.”

Jongdae strolled the from the room without a glance either of you and closed the door behind him. Your breath hitched in your throat. The two of you were… alone. It wasn’t appropriate. It was…

You looked to the man still with you, fear causing your heart to pound painful against your chest. You tugged your cloak closer to you, but it was soaked from the rain. Shivers violently raced down your arms and spine. The man didn’t seem to notice as he walked over to the dresser and opened the top drawer. He pulled out a long white cloth. 

“These should suffice for tonight.” He held up the cloth for you to see. A nightgown. An old one by the cut of it, though thankfully it hadn’t been devoured by moths or mice. “If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to ask.”

You nodded. “Thank you.” 

He visibly suppressed a laugh at your small voice and waved you into the adjoining bathroom. Taking the nightgown, you tried your best to avoid his gaze. You scurried inside and shut the door. 

*****

Junmyeon smirked at your mousy state. It was understandable why you were so frightened. The women of this period were warned of being alone with a man. And now you were alone with nine. 

Nine very dangerous men. 

The proper action for him to take was to leave your room now that you were safe inside the bathroom, but his feet didn’t move. Somehow, the storm had stranded you in their forest. What had happened to the driver, he wondered. Surely a gentlewoman such as yourself was not controlling the carriage. And yet, you were all alone. Circumstances were… ideal.

A small hiss echoed in the bathroom. It stretched out, along with the sound of sloshing water. Junmyeon frowned. 

Hm.

He stood there for a few minutes more, listening to you sigh as your skin grew used to the scalding water. The sound of soap scraping against skin reached his ears, followed by more sloshing water. Soon, you would be getting out of the tub. Time to leave. 

He emerged from the bedroom, careful to close the door as quietly as possible. Everyone had gathered out in the hallway since they were too curious about their visitor to go about their night. Junmyeon found Jongdae blending in with the cluster. He glared at him as he hissed, "The water was too hot." 

Jongdae merely shrugged. Why would he care about water possibly being too hot? It would never hurt him. 

On the opposite end of the group, Yixing cleared his throat. "What are we going to do with her?"

Junmyeon glanced at the door behind him. There was only one best option, for all their sakes. "Tomorrow morning, we will send her on her way." 

The eruption was instant. 

“Enough!”

In an instant, the hissing ceased. 

Baekhyun huffed and folded his arms against his chest, collapsing against the wall. Jongin scoffed. "Such a waste." 

“A waste that will keep this household from tearing itself apart,” Junmyeoun countered. It was an outcome none of them wanted. No one wanted to cause a fight, but resisting was difficult. The temptation was great. The quicker you left, the better off they would all be. 

"Do you really think it’ll end so well?" Minseok’s mocking comment hung in the air. Silent agreements rippled through the air. 

Junmyeon looked to Kyungsoo, whose answer was to look away. "No one touches her," he ordered. They all would try, he knew. But their strength would only get them so far. He stared down a few of them especially, so they knew he meant it.

Sehun pushed off the wall with a roll of his eyes. "Just get her out of here so I can get some peace." 

Junmyeon started to call after him but was interrupted by a soft thud from the room behind him. Confused, he opened the door to find you lying on the floor.

[intothegenshinworld]

Fate’s Destiny ~ Chapter 14 || Nodus Tollens

You somehow, not being able to explain it, had fallen into the Genshin world you know oh-so-well. You were no new player and had explored most of the nooks and crannies of the world. When you first had woken up in Windrise you wondered; it might be a dream, after all, you were behind your screen usually, and now- here? It made no sense, and the world was keen on keeping it that way.

Warnings: Spoilers for main story.

Word count: 2.1k+

Auteurs note: This chapter might be a bit shorter, but I realised halfway I wanted to put a bonus chapter between 14 and 15 DX So consider this the 'calm before the storm' XD

↺ PREVIOUS CHAPTER || ↻ NEXT CHAPTER || MASTERLIST

There is a high-pitched ringing in your ears. It hurts, yet what's more unsettling is how it disorients you. You move your hands over your head, to find any way to protect yourself, but you can only move your fingers when you try. When you blink your eyes, you notice that you can’t see. For a few painfully long minutes, your vision remains a blinding white before your surroundings take shape. 

The first things you see are the yellow and green leaves that spiral downwards. The colours swirl and mix with the twilight sky, blues and purples intertwining themselves with the others, giving an ethereal view despite the burning pain throughout your body. 

Your eyes fixate on one of these leaves. It twirls in the sky, before landing next to you on the ground. Its bright colour complements the browns from the dirt and is a stark contrast to the dark grey pebbles and stones. Now that it’s next to you, you realise you’re on the ground.

From the corners of your eye, you try to observe your surroundings. The first thing you see is a glimpse of gold. A few meters further on the ground, Lumine lays on her side. Her general appearance can only be described as dishevelled. 

Her golden strands that usually frame her face have fallen out of place. Hair spreads out beneath her head and acts as a cushion against the ground below, gold mixing with the brown and darkened red. Her clothes are in worse shape. Bits of fabric loosely hang from their threads and visible gashes and cuts are seen on the bottom of her dress.

Lumine.

Someone calls out her name. The voice is hoarse and you can barely recognise it as your own. 

When your heavy eyes move over to the silver spot next to her, you see Paimon. Her small body is curled up next to the traveller, reaching out with her hand even when she lies unconscious. Despite the odds, the two are inseparable. 

An unexpected blast echoes through the valley. It’s followed by another wave of hot air, which forcefully passes over you. You try, again, to lift your arms over your face in a last attempt to protect yourself from the destruction. 

Again, you fail.

Dust particles fly over you, the grey smoke obscuring your view from the twilight sky and the golden leaves. When it passes, you put all your effort into turning your body to curl up into yourself, coughing as you do.

It's dark. Everything is dark. 

In the far distance, you hear another low grumble followed by a low bang. This one sounds more distant but is undoubtedly more explosive than the last. It appears that the destruction is relentless. 

In your mind, you rethink your choices. When did it all go wrong, and could you have done anything else to avoid this fate? While you’re lying on the ground, defeated and unmoving, you realise that there is so much left for you to do, so much left to say. Yet, you yearn for one thing the most.

Home.

You miss your home.

A name calls out to you. Weakly, you turn your head to your companions but Lumine and Paimon continue to lay motionless.

All your energy has been spent. 

A last sigh escapes your lips as you close your eyes.

ㅤ

ㅤ…/n].”

ㅤ

ㅤ

“[Y/N].” 

Being forcefully awakened from your slumber leaves you partially stuck in your dreams. Visions of what might’ve been your memories, or things you had made up while you slept, fade from your mind and the present takes shape. You blink a few times before you realise you have opened your eyes already. 

Someone calls out to you, loud and clear. You realise that this call was not a dream. The person’s voice is low and masculine, filled with concern when he speaks. Many people have been affected by the destruction of Liyue Harbor. You're certain that your unknown companion is feeling the aftermath of the calamity too. At the very least, it would explain his worry.

You’re on your back, facing the navy blue sky. The stars are shimmering vibrantly tonight. They move in their place, gently dancing and twirling around in a mesmerising manner you haven’t seen before. 

It is nearly enough to lull you back to sleep. 

Instinctively, your eyes decide to follow the flow of the stars. Somehow, unlike anything you’ve seen, the stars move like the waves of an ocean, shifting and shimmering with each movement. When your eyes move up, you are met with more blue. Blue, then black, followed by dark grey, then, finally—blonde. 

Blonde hair framing a pale face and two azure blue eyes. 

“...Dainsleif?” His familiar face is a welcomed surprise. 

His shoulders relax when he speaks. “For a moment, I started to doubt your mental well-being. Fortunately, you appear to remember me.” His expression remains neutral, although you hear relief in his tone. “Seems like not all hope is lost.”

You frown. These surroundings… It isn’t the same as the ones you remember. Grass, tall bushes, many trees—you are in a forest, far from the path you last walked on. Your eyes move further. Yellow and green leaves, stone pillars, broken ruins—Liyue. At least you haven’t strayed too far from your original destination.

The heavy feeling in your body and the few scratches on your hands and arms confirm that what you remember was not a dream. The destruction of Liyue Harbor did occur. 

Perhaps it was for the best that you had left the city and came to the forest. How and when—you’re not sure. You don’t ask Dainsleif about it either. 

A groan leaves your lips when you push your weight onto your arms. While you can move your body, putting weight onto your limbs causes pain. You’re fortunate to haven’t fractured anything. It seems like you’ve left the calamity with mere bruises and a noticeable gap in your memory. At the very least, things can be a lot worse. 

As you struggle to lift your upper body from the grass, a stable hand finds a place on your back and supports you until you’re sitting upright. “Liyue Harbor…” you start, only to stop when memories of the past events flood your brain. You lift a hand to your temple to stabilise yourself. 

“Not a dream, I fear.” 

Dainsleif moves to grab something from his bag. He uncaps his waterskin, one you remember him carrying on your last journey together, and lifts it to your mouth. The taste of freshwater makes you realise how dehydrated you have been. When was the last time you had a drink? You wonder if water has always been this tasty.

“It seems like your body has finally caught up to Teyvat again.” Dainsleif lets go of the waterskin when your hands reach to hold it. “There is a river nearby if you need a refill. Drink as much as you need.”

You continue to tip the waterskin upwards. A small stream of water falls from your mouth to your chin—a simple punishment for your haste. The hand on your back is a great help when you tilt your head further.

Dainsleif’s words fall flat over your thirst and sudden hunger.

He continues to talk,  “I’ve brought us back to the Guili Plains. Now that Liyue Harbor has been destroyed, the only way left to go—is North.”

After reaching the halfway point of water in the leather sack, you stop to gasp for air. Your body burns in a way you’ve never felt before. It feels like you’re cold, warm, and cold again. With one hand you settle the waterskin down in your lap. With another, you reach for your throat. When you swallow it feels like the air passes through sandpaper.

When you take a moment to look around, you realise something important. “Where are Lumine and Paimon?”

Dainsleif continues to support your back. His hand is large and steady. It feels safe and you trust him to hold you. With him by your side you know you’d never fall.

You take another look at your surroundings. This time you take a better inspection to see any traces of your friends. 

A small distance away from Dainsleif and you, a campfire is burning. It is the main light source, a way to fight the suffocating darkness of the night. There are no tents or sleeping bags, but as your gaze shifts, your eyes land on two bags. One is yours, the other must be Dainsleif’s. 

Another closer look. They must be here. Can you see Lumine’s possessions? Her scarf, or maybe her boots. If she had gone hunting or scouting, Paimon could’ve gone with her. She’d have to leave her bag behind. So, maybe it’s out of your sight?

You push your body up and away from Dainsleif. His hand follows you, never letting his support fade. 

“Where are they? Where are Lumine and Paimon?”

Your wide eyes move from the trees, towards the ground, until they hopelessly land on Dainsleif. He is neither sad nor happy. Instead, he remains completely blank—eyes void of any answer. His lips are pulled in a tight line until he speaks. 

“They weren’t with you when I found you.”

Your back is turned to Dainsleif as he skins the rabbit he’d caught. It’s a sight you’d rather not remember when you’d eventually have to fall asleep, but with the boars fleeing from the area, Dainsleif made a valid point when he argued that any food was better than none at all. At the very least, your stomach seemed to agree with him.

The campfire thankfully covers most of the gruelling sounds. Once he finishes, he calls your name. In passing while turning to him, you see the two rabbits, skinned and pierced on a stick above the fire. And as much as you hate to admit it, it smells amazing. 

Your eyes move over to your companion. As weird as it sounds, there is an underlying feeling of anger when you look at Dainsleif. Perhaps not directed towards him, but you’re certain Lumine and Paimon had been with you when calamity struck. 

You were sure they wouldn’t abandon you, but you can’t find any reasons why Dainsleif would lie to you. 

A silence falls over the two of you. It isn’t as comforting as it used to be, and you try to pass the time by counting the sweet flowers in the area. It’s silly to throw accusations after all that happened. For one, can you trust that Lumine and Paimon haven’t been separated from you? You would never say it out loud, but your disappearing memories make you doubt your perception of the world. Perhaps he told the truth after all.

Dainsleif moves from the ground towards the fire to turn the two skewed rabbits around. And despite hating small talk, he initiates a conversation—either for his or your comfort. Given the frown on your face, it’s likely the latter.

“Have you noticed?” Dainsleif points up at the sky. “You were passed out for the majority of our travels. I was able to travel north while carrying you, until we reached the ends of west Guili Plains, meaning you were unconscious for at least half a day. But the sky has not changed since the beginning of our journey.”

You move your eyes upwards to follow his gaze. Part of you is unsure whether or not he is attempting to make a joke. You decide to answer him lightheartedly. “In that case, we had a long night.”

“When does ‘long’ end and become endless instead? And when something has no end, can progress exist?” 

You put your legs together and crouch into yourself, preserving any warmth from the cold night. A shiver falls over you, and you realise your cloak is gone. Either destroyed or removed. 

“Everything has to end eventually,” you answer. 

Dainsleif moves his eyes from the sky and turns to you. His bright blue eyes with star-shaped pupils find yours when you turn to meet his gaze. His blonde finge falls gently over his nose. When you look down at his chapped lips, you find his mouth parted. He is at a loss for words.

You pull your legs up to your chest and move your arms around them. Once in a comfortable position, you lean your head against your knee. You elaborate, “The destruction in Liyue, the night, this fire—everything will end eventually. Even this journey will, someday.”

“And what if it doesn’t?”

You look away from Dainsleif and towards the fire. The light of the flames twirls up until they hit an obstacle. The rabbits pierced on top of it with two skewers have grown brown. Your food is ready.

There is a sense of deja vu in the current situation. Where had you heard this question before? 

You answer him, hoping he can find solace in your words.  “If something can’t end, did it ever exist in the first place?”

If you liked this chapter and think I deserve a comment, please leave one behind! I appreciate it a lot and it'll make me more motivated to write in the future ♡

© intothegenshinworld. Do not copy, repost, translate or take heavy inspiration from my content. Thanks for reading.

[demifiendrsa]

Clair Obscur: Expedition 33 | Reveal Trailer

Clair Obscur: Expedition 33 will launch for PlayStation 5, Xbox Series X|S, and PC via Steam and Epic Games Store in 2025. It will also be available via Xbox Game Pass.

Key visual

Character headshots

Screenshots

Overview

About

Lead the members of Expedition 33 on their quest to destroy the Paintress so that she can never paint death again. Explore a world of wonders inspired by Belle Époque France and battle unique enemies in this turn-based RPG with real-time mechanics.

Year by Year, She Erases Us

Once a year, the Paintress wakes and paints upon her monolith. Paints her cursed number. And everyone of that age turns to smoke and fades away. Year by year, that number ticks down and more of us are erased. Tomorrow she’ll wake and paint “33.” And tomorrow we depart on our final mission: Destroy the Paintress, so she can never paint death again. We are Expedition 33.

Clair Obscur: Expedition 33 is a ground-breaking turn-based RPG with unique real-time mechanics, making battles more immersive and addictive than ever. Explore a fantasy world inspired by Belle Époque France in which you battle devastating enemies.

Reactive Turn-Based Combat

In this evolution of JRPGs, real-time actions enhance the heart of turn-based combat. Craft unique builds for your Expeditioners that fit your playstyle via gear, stats, skills, and character synergies. Open an active dimension in combat—dodge, parry, and counter in real time, chain combos by mastering attack rhythms, and target enemy weak points using a free aim system.

Tomorrow Comes

With only one year left to live, join Gustave, Maelle, and their fellow Expeditioners as they embark upon a desperate quest to break the Paintress’ cycle of death. Follow the trail of previous expeditions and discover their fate. Get to know the members of Expedition 33 as they learn to work together against impossible odds.

A Hauntingly Beautiful World

Explore an enchanting realm populated by surreal adversaries. Wander through breathtaking landscapes, from the Island of Visages to the Forgotten Battlefield, discovering secrets and hidden quests along the way. Find allies of fortune in creatures of legend and recruit special companions, access new travel methods and discover secret areas in the World Map.

Experience the debut game from Sandfall Interactive, fully realized in Unreal Engine 5 with stunning graphics and a heartbreaking soundtrack.

[alphynix]

Crystal Palace Field Trip Part 3: Walking With Victorian Beasts

[Previously: the Jurassic and Cretaceous]

The final section of the Crystal Palace Dinosaur trail brings us to the Cenozoic, and a selection of ancient mammals.

Image from 2009 by Loz Pycock (CC BY-SA 2.0)

Originally represented by three statues, there are two surviving originals of the Eocene-aged palaeotheres depicting Plagiolophus minor (the smaller sitting one) and Palaeotherium medium (the larger standing one).

The sitting palaeothere unfortunately lost its head sometime in the late 20th century, and the image above shows it with a modern fiberglass replacement. Then around 2014/2015 the new head was knocked off again, and has not yet been reattached – partly due to a recent discovery that it wasn't actually accurate to the sculpture's original design. Instead there are plans to eventually restore it with a much more faithful head.

These early odd-toed ungulates were already known from near-complete skeletons in the 1850s, and are depicted here as tapir-like animals with short trunks based on the scientific opinion of the time. We now think their heads would have looked more horse-like, without trunks, but otherwise they're not too far off modern reconstructions.

There was also something exciting nearby:

The recently-recreated Palaeotherium magnum!

This sculpture went missing sometime after the 1950s, and its existence was almost completely forgotten until archive images of it were discovered a few years ago. Funds were raised to create a replica as accurate to the original as possible, and in summer 2023 (just a month before the date of my visit) this larger palaeothere species finally rejoined its companions in the park.

Compared to the other palaeotheres this one is weird, though. Much chonkier, wrinkly, and with big eyes and an almost cartoonish tubular trunk. It seems to have taken a lot of anatomical inspiration from animals like rhinos and elephants, since in the mid-1800s odd-toed ungulates were grouped together with "pachyderms".

———

Next is Anoplotherium, an Eocene even-toed ungulate distantly related to modern camels.

(Apparently the sculpture closest to the water is a replica of a now-lost original, recreated from photo references in the same manner as the new Palaeotherium magnum. I can't find a definite reference for when this one was done, though – I'd guess probably during the last round of major renovations in the early 2000s, at the same time as the now-destroyed Jurassic pterosaur replicas?)

Anoplotherium commune is a rather obscure species today, but it was one of the first early Cenozoic fossil mammals to be recognized by science in the early 1800s. Depicted here as small camel-like animals, the three statues are positioned near the water's edge to reflect the Victorian idea that they were semi-aquatic based on their muscular tails.

Today we instead think these animals were fully terrestrial, using their tails to balance themselves while rearing up to reach higher vegetation. Their heads would also have looked a bit less camel-like, but otherwise the Crystal Palace trio are still really good representations.

���——

Next is a sculpture that's very easy to miss in the current overgrown state.

Who's that peeking over the bushes?

Going all the way around to the far side of the lake reveals a distant glimpse of the Pliocene-to-Holocene giant ground sloth Megatherium.

A better view of the Megatherium | "Tree Hugger" by Colin Smith (CC BY-SA 2.0)

Fossils of Megatherium americanum had been known since the late 1700s, but the 1854 Crystal Palace statue was still one of the first life reconstructions of this animal. Its anatomy is actually very close to our modern understanding, depicted with correctly inward-turned feet and sitting upright to feed on a tree with its tail acting as a "tripod".

However, we now know it didn't have a trunk-like nose, but instead probably had prehensile lips more like those of a modern black rhino.

Something weird also appears to have happened to the Crystal Palace Megatherium's hands. Early illustrations of the sculpture all consistently show it with the typical long claws of a sloth, but today it's missing its right hand and its left has only a strangely stumpy paw – suggesting that at some point in the intervening 170 years there was an unrecorded crude repair.

———

And finally we end the trail with three Megaloceros, the Pleistocene-to-Holocene "Irish Elk" that's actually neither exclusively Irish nor an elk.

A closer look at the second stag and the doe.

There was originally a fourth giant deer sculpture in this herd, a second resting doe, but it was destroyed sometime during the mid-20th century. The stags also initially had real fossil antlers attached to their heads, but these were removed and replaced with less accurate versions at some point by the mid-20th century.

One of the stags' antlers suffered some damage in 2020, ending up drooping, and since then one antler has either fallen off or been removed.

In the 1850s Megaloceros giganteus was thought to be closely related to deer in the genus Cervus, and so the Crystal Palace reconstructions seem to be based on modern wapiti – specifically in their winter coats, fitting for ice age animals – since both the stags and the doe sport distinctive thick neck manes.

The stags from the other side.

We now know Megaloceros was actually much more closely related to modern fallow deer, and so probably resembled them more than wapiti. Cave art also shows that it had a hump on its shoulders, and even gives us an idea of what its coloration was.

———

…But wait!

There's actually one more thing.

A small statue sitting on the far side of the deer herd, missing its ears, and seemingly representing a Megaloceros fawn.

Except it's actually something very different and very special.

Ceci n'est pas un cerf.

Some recent investigation work revealed some surprising information about the Crystal Palace mammal statues – much like the nearly-forgotten large Palaeotherium, there was originally an entire group of four small Eocene-aged llama-like Xiphodon gracilis that had disappeared from living memory.

There was also no historic record of a fawn with the giant deer, but instead a suspiciously similar-looking sitting sculpture is illustrated among what we now known are the four missing Xiphodon in early records.

An 1853 illustration of the sculpture workshop. The four Xiphodon are shown in the center, directly in front of a Megaloceros stag and doe. (public domain)

Somewhere in the late 19th or early 20th century three of the Xiphodon must have been completely lost, and the remaining individual was misidentified as a fawn and placed with the giant deer herd.

———

Rediscovering a whole extra species among the Crystal Palace statues is exciting, but it also demonstrates just how much of these sculptures' history has gone completely undocumented. 

The mammal statues especially seem to have suffered the most out of the "Dinosaur Court", being often overlooked, neglected, disrespected (at one point the Megatherium was inside a goat pen in a petting zoo!), and subjected to cruder repairs. A total of five original statues are now known to be missing from this Cenozoic section – the original large Palaeotherium, the three other Xiphodon, and the second Megaloceros doe – compared to the two pterosaurs lost from the Mesozoic island.

Hopefully the excellent recreation of the lost Palaeotherium magnum is the start of a long overdue new lease of life and conservation attention for all of the Crystal Palace sculptures. It was disappointing seeing them all in such an overgrown state, and with signs of ongoing disrepair in places such as the plant growing out of the big ichthyosaur's back.

But there has been some resurgence of interest and public attention in the Crystal Palace sculptures over the last few years, so with any luck these historic pieces of early paleoart will survive on to their 200th anniversary and beyond, to keep on reminding us of where things began and how far our understanding of prehistoric life has since come.

[spreadwardiard]

More than Affection

Death had a single mission in the living realm: to find a Champion worthy of bearing the Matrix of Leadership so that they may restore the proper balance of their world. He did not understand mortals, nor their emotions, despite how much he cared for them, and so was left awed and confused when his spark began to react unusually to the one he had chosen as his champion.

Based off my friend @lets-try-some-writing's fantastic AU: Death's Embrace: Part 1 and Part 2. Please read these first as they give so much context to what is going on in this AU.

Orion Pax, the Thirteenth Prime, the walker of the void between the living and the dead, the ferry of sparks to their Father's loving embrace, the manifestation of all that death was, was a wise mech in many ways, but there were so many things about the children of Primus he had yet to understand. Just when he thought he had it all figured out, that he understood the living children as well as he needed to; his chosen champion of change flipped his understanding entirely on its helm.  He had missed the exact moment that Megatronus of Kaon ceased to find him unnerving, but he had not missed when his champion's affections turned to something… foreign and unidentifiable. 

This new feeling that radiated from Megatronus’ very spark whenever he was near came upon him without warning one evening when he had come to the Champion with notice of an imminent raid. He had, in his usual fashion, emerged from the void in the shadows behind the champion, who had been hunched over his desk, composing what Orion assumed was his next speech. Orion had thought nothing of it when he leaned over with his palm braced upon Megatronus’s shoulder and whispered in his audial, “Prepare yourself, my Champion. The enemies of our order have come to destroy us. Their wrath knows no bounds, and carried by command, they shall have no mercy. Flee while you can champion, take your followers, for they are coming."

Megatronus had not reacted the way he had expected him to at the news. His chosen Champion was prone to act with haste and righteous fury, yet the emotions that came from his spark were unknown to the walker of the voids. Affection, he understood, and there was a strong undercurrent of that familiar emotion underneath this strange feeling that Megatronus was refusing to allow through his EMs. Another oddity, Megatronus was not one to shield others from the truths of his emotions unless it somehow benefited him to do so, and Orion could think of no benefit to obscuring any form of affection for one’s companions.

Megatronus had then asked him a question he had never asked before; “When will I see you again?” 

Megatronus had acted so entirely out of character throughout the encounter that Orion almost feared something catastrophic had already happened. There had been a strange melancholy tinting that question that he could not quite interpret, but knew that it was directed towards himself. It made no sense to him why, when Megatronus’ main concern should have been to alert Soundwave of this new information and flee. 

His chosen champion’s odd behaviors around him only seemed to increase from that point forward. Those who had taken heed of his warning and fled alongside the Champion had sought refuge deep in the abandoned mines of Kaon, where no light from the nearest star could reach. He had paused after he had stepped from the void. Lingering in the shadows, he observed the forlorn look upon Megatronus’ face and a strange, twisting unease in his spark that he covered with a veil of false confidence. 

Glancing around all the bots collected in this shaft, Orion could not understand why. Everyone of note had been present, and even many of those Orion had yet to acquaint himself with were there. Soundwave had been at ease with the situation, and none of the others appeared to be nearly as concerned as their leader. It was… odd… 

What was even odder was how Megatronus had responded to him when he finally stepped out of the shadows to stand at his side. Instead of his usual greeting, Megatronus had taken him by the wrists and examined his frame as if he were expecting him to be damaged, and only after he was satisfied that Orion was perfectly intact did that strange unease in him die down, to be replaced by such a strong wave of relief that it had stunned the walker of the void.

His chosen champion had never examined him in such a manner before, nor had he ever embraced him in the manner he had afterwards. He had been pulled flush against the champion and held tightly against his warm chassis. Megatronus had held him there until his relief shifted into that same, mysterious emotion from before, only this time, a bit more open in its presentation. Megatronus did not seek to hide nearly as much of this strange… ‘more-than-affection’ feeling from him as he had their previous encounter. 

Orion did not understand any of it, but the warmth he experienced while being embraced lingered far longer than he had expected it to, and he found himself often recalling how pleasant it had felt to be enveloped in his Champion’s arms. However, Megatronus did not embrace him upon his next visit, and Orion had been disappointed in that fact, though he did not recognize his disappointment until he had returned to the void, feeling colder than normal.

The odd behaviors and feelings continued. It became quite common for the Champion of Kaon to rest his servo upon Orion’s shoulder; a gesture that Orion reciprocated eagerly, often accompanied by a gentle smile or curious tilt of his helm. Though foreign to him, the progression of his champion’s strange, shifting affections felt natural and satisfying in a way he could not describe.

It did not feel especially strange when Megatronus took his servo for the first time, one evening, as they sat together in the dark, speaking of nothing of consequence; though it was strange to him why Megatronus had been so nervous before he had done so. But his champion had eased as soon as Orion had shifted his digits, to allow them to intertwine with those of his champion. Megatronus had held his servo until Orion had felt drawn to return to the void, where he swore the warmth of Megatronus’ touch had lingered even as he ushered the latest wave of Primus’ children back to his loving embrace. 

For reasons he did not entirely understand, he had found himself visiting his champion more frequently, and staying late into the recharge cycle. Some cycles, they discussed their revolution and their various plans regarding their upcoming moves. Such conversations were not especially noteworthy. 

But there was one night that Orion still could not shake out of his helm; where Megatronus had looked directly into his optics and recited a piece of poetry about a captivating Archivist from Iacon, who’s optics were so enchanting that he wished he could peer into them forever and who’s derma he’s dreamed of feeling against his own. It was the most emotionally raw and vulnerable he had ever seen the champion, or anyone for that matter, at least in person, and it had left him forgetting to vent entirely until Megatronus had finished the piece. By the time he had remembered he needed to vent to appear living, something strange was churning in his own spark, bubbling up along with his already present affections in a confusing jumble of feelings he did not comprehend. He had been rendered speechless by the poem, and had resorted to reaching out to take Megatronus’ servo into his own and squeezing it tightly to show his approval. 

It was not long after that, that Megatronus had begun to sense his presence, even before he materialized from the void. He was uncertain by which mechanism Megatronus employed to detect him, but it became noteworthy when he arrived one evening to find the champion and his most trusted mechs seated around a table, upon which was a map, discussing their upcoming plans. Orion heard the voice of his champion even before he had begun to materialize his frame in the shadows.

“You need to move.” Megatronus had interrupted whoever was speaking with a firm order, and the room had gone eerily silent at the sudden shift in tone. 

“What? Why?” The confusion had been as evident in the mech’s voice as his disappointment had been. Clearly he had been excited to have a seat beside the Champion of Kaon. 

“That seat is taken. Get up, or I’ll make you get up.” It had been that moment that Orion had stepped out of the shadows and every set of optics in the room rested upon him. He had regarded them all curiously, unsure of what exactly it was he had been sensing from them as he had silently made his way to Megatronus’ side. It had been then that Megatronus had shoved the mech beside him forcefully from his seat and offered it to Orion.

When he took the mech’s place at Megatronus’ right, his Champion saw fit to lace together their digits, and place their joined servos on the table for all to see. Orion saw no reason to withdraw, and so had simply enjoyed the warmth seeping in from his champion’s palm and the strange sensations that very warmth sent to his spark. It mattered little to him that so many stared at them in silent recognition of some unspoken declaration that only Orion seemed unaware of. Megatronus had flawlessly picked up the conversation where he had interrupted it as the mech he had removed from his side took a seat at the opposite end of the table. 

Truthfully, Orion could not recall any of the specific details of that particular meeting. He had been too focused on trying to interpret the jumbled emotions welling up in his spark, that same “more-than-affection” that he sensed from his champion, though he still could not decipher the meaning of it. He knew that he found the sensations agreeable, pleasurable, even, and he knew that he wished to seek out more of this strange feeling that he could not call by name that only Megatronus seemed capable of making him feel. 

When Megatronus first placed his servo upon his waist, the warmth that radiated from his touch had seeped so deeply into him that his very spark could feel its comfort; and when his champion tugged him gently against his side, Orion eagerly leaned into the warmth that spilled into him at each point their frames touched. 

None of it made sense to him; the feelings, the newfound desire for warmth, the strange behaviors that had now become anticipated and comforting... He enjoyed when Megatronus touched him, though he did not know why it felt so different from the touch of any other mech. He found himself, somewhere along the way, almost craving the warmth that Megatronus provided him with his touches, and actively began seeking it out, sometimes even finding himself tucked against the champion’s side before being prompted. 

Megatronus stopped attempting to hide this strange feeling with his EMs entirely after Orion had materialized at the foot of his berth late one recharge cycle after leading home the latest batch of sparks, waking the champion with just a single request on his glossa. “I wish to bask in the warmth of my champion’s embrace.” 

Megatronus wordlessly invited him into his berth by lifting his arm and once Orion had climbed in beside him, he was pulled snugly to the champion's chassis, held firm, back struts flush against the champion's frame where the most wonderful warmth emanating from Megatronus seeped into him, soothing in him discomforts he had not even been aware he had felt at all. Megatronus’ mighty arm held him firmly in place, and similarly, Orion’s grip on his champion's servo, where he had intertwined their digits, only further served to anchor the two of them together. 

Orion spent many recharge cycles lying in the champion’s berth, secure in a warm embrace. It gave him joors upon joors to think and attempt to dissect the strange ways that Megatronus had affected him since he had detected that shift in the champion’s emotions. Never before had he been content to simply lie in place when there were so many things he should be observing and tending to with his free time. But this new emotion in his spark grew heavy and manifested as a persistent desire that gnawed at him to return to the comfort of his champion’s side the longer he stayed away, and he had found that these periods of rest somehow eased that strange… almost pain he came to expect from separation. 

And when they were together… It mattered not whether they were lying in berth or standing side by side, Orion found his artificial venting matching that of his champion’s vent for vent, and it was becoming more and more common for the entire universe to melt away in his awareness when the champion addressed him, and when Megatronus drew him close and looked into his optics his spark would pulse so strongly that he feared it would break free of the frame he had constructed around himself.  He would have been frightened by the intensity of the feeling had he not been aware that his champion felt exactly the same way, and was not concerned. 

For all the eons that he had walked the void, he had never felt anything remotely close to this. It was unfathomable to him. He could pick out individual aspects of this larger emotion; such as affection, anticipation, fondness, security and excitement; however these were only small facets of the massive new emotion that had taken root in his spark. When he tried to analyze them all together it simply became a too large and confusing to comprehend, especially if he attempted to factor in how not just his own behaviors had been altered so drastically due to this emotion, but his champion’s as well

He understood that Megatronus had become important to him, more so than any other who walked the living realm, but it had nothing to do with the quest he had sent his champion on and everything to do with how the champion made him feel. Like he was… wanted; like his presence was enjoyed. Something he had never cared about before.

 His last encounter with Megatronus had resulted in the most tempestuous reaction in his spark yet. The bulk of the visit was relatively unnoteworthy. Mechs were packing up their camp in the mine shaft to relocate to a safe house in Tarn. Once again, Megatronus covered his anxieties with false confidence as he directed his flock and collected his own belongings. Orion assisted him in packing and when he had felt the call to return to the void, Megatronus stopped him from stepping into the shadows with a quick, desperate grasp to his wrist.

Megatronus pulled Orion gently back towards him and drew him into a tender embrace. Orion leaned into the warmth provided by his champion, his optics shuddering offline almost on instinct as he rested helm upon his shoulder, his face nuzzled into the crook of Megatronus’ neck, content to feel his claws drawing soothing circles on the plating of his lower back. He could spare a few more kliks…. 

He was just about to regretfully pull away from the embrace when he felt Megatronus lightly touch the side of his digit to his chin, in a gentle, unspoken, request. He allowed Megatronus to guide his helm, and when their optics met, Orion’s spark twisted in a strange anticipation at the look he was receiving. His champion looked… nervous, unsure, like he wanted to say something, but underneath it, he felt a strange yearning emanating from the him that Orion couldn’t interpret. Megatronus’ shifted his touch, from Orion’s chin to cup the side of his helm and Orion instinctively nuzzled into the warmth of his champion’s palm and let his optics fall closed as that confusing, yet pleasant jumble of emotions swirled around in his spark. 

And then, without warning, time entirely stopped as he felt Megatronus’  hesitantly press together their derma. He froze stiff as that feeling in his spark suddenly detonated with what felt like the power of a super nova. It surged through him like lightning, and each gentle movement of his champion’s warm derma against his own only sent more fuel to power the fire burning in his spark.  It was nearly overwhelming. He didn’t know what to do, how to respond, or what he was feeling. The only thing even remotely comparable had been the overwhelming understanding that had struck him when his purpose had become known to him. Only this… this was new, it was wonderful; exciting! He’d never felt so…. Alive. He wished it would never end. 

Megatronus pulled away suddenly his field felt off, and instantly Orion felt nearly frantic as awareness snapped back into place abruptly. His servos shot up with urgency and caught the champion by his helm to keep him from retreating any further. It was too soon. He wasn’t ready for it to be over, and Megatronus was upset by something he must have done incorrectly.  When Megatronus’ confusion seeped into his field atop the dejection he was trying to cover up, Orion gently guided his champion back to him, where he clumsily pressed their derma together once more. 

As if he had flipped a switch, his champion surged with confidence as he crushed Orion tightly to his frame, and Orion’s spark soared. The first kiss had been a gentle, almost innocent  brushing of derma, but the second… Megatronus kissed him as if he were starving; hot and passionate, with dentae and glossa. Orion did his best to keep up, tried to mimic and match Megatronus’ technique but he could barely focus over the way his champion had him entirely enveloped in his field, drowning him in the intensity of their combined sentiments. Megatronus seemed to care little that Orion was inexperienced and clumsy, merely chuckling when Orion accidentally clanged their dentae together. He simply had taken charge and kissed Orion until his processors were nearly scrambled with how fiercely it had his spark pulsing with that emotion he could not name. 

When Megatronus pulled away the second time, he was venting heavily, as if he had just come from battle.  He pressed the crests of their helms together gently and this time, Orion was at peace with their separation, his spark thrumming with contentment at their closeness.

“Orion… I-” But the champion cut himself off, though Orion did not know why. It caused him to tilt his helm, in curiosity, as he could tell that whatever Megatronus had wanted to say was of great importance to him. But he had simply smiled, in a melancholy sort of way as he loosened his grip, allowing Orion the space to pull away from him, if he chose to do so. and asked, in a forlorn tone, “When will I see you again?” 

Orion finally understood that Megatronus must have suffered that same… almost painful sensation that he did when they were separated; the one that gnawed at him with memories of warmth and touch and that… feeling in his spark that made him ache to return to his side. He let one of his servos fall from his champion’s helm, to lace together their digits, in the manner he had grown to find comforting.  “I shall return to your side once I have restored those lost and wandering to their eternal sanctum of rest.”

Megatronus’ seemed to find reassurance in his answer, and he smiled, the lazy one that Orion usually only saw when they were lying in berth, and Megatronus just a groon or so from falling into recharge. “How is it that you always know where to find me, my archivist?” 

Orion had smiled at the question and tightened his grip on the champion’s servo as he spoke his response; “The void is but a veil upon which you are always visible to me, my Champion. There is nowhere in the vastness of all that exists you could hide where I could not find you.”

Orion left soon after, with another gentle kiss from his champion graced upon his derma just before the void and strengthened its call to him. Though he noted with some concern that he… did not want to. He wanted to stay with Megatronus, to convince the champion to put off his relocation efforts for just one more cycle, so that they could hold each other in berth and kiss until Megatronus was forced into recharge. 

 The void felt colder than it had during his last retreat, though he knew that that was an impossibility. Something had changed in him to make it feel this way. He did not know if it was something he should be concerned with or not. At its worst, it seemed a mild side effect of… what that kiss had done to him. 

Orion knew, theoretically, what a kiss was, but he did not fully understand what they meant. He knew it was something mortals engaged in with those they felt a great deal of affection for, but he did not understand exactly what had changed between Megatronus and himself to suddenly warrant such an act. They had been feeling these emotions for nearly a vorn now. Something had to have changed. Right?

Somewhere along the way, a great many things had changed, including himself. He was feeling things he knew he was not programmed to feel, even if he could not name those feelings. He knew that now, suddenly, a living being was more important to him than the rest, though he still did not know why. And suddenly he found himself understanding those sparks that lingered near to those they were close to in life, for when he now came to the void, he longed for the warmth of the one he had left behind as well. 

He found that this newfound understanding helped him to ease some of the Precious sparks back to Primus’ embrace with greater ease, though he was not certain what exactly he was doing differently. He sometimes wished he could seek their wisdom as he guided them along the path home, for he knew what he felt was experienced by the living, and perhaps they would be able to at lease identify for him what he was experiencing. But such a thing was not possible. The living, once passed into the void, could not speak. 

He was left with more questions than answers by the time he sensed none left who needed to be guided, and he felt so much colder than he remembered being. The warmth he had soaked up from Megatronus was just a memory, and he felt that strange almost pain biting at him to return to the champion, as he had said he would, once his duties were seen to. But these questions needed to be answered. He needed to know what was happening to him, what strange, mortal influence had taken refuge in his spark. 

He could not ask his brother. Alpha Trion was unlikely to understand and certain to pass judgements upon him for engaging so deeply with Primus’ children. It felt… wrong to ask Megatronus directly, even though logically he knew Megatronus would likely have the answer. He did not even know where to begin to search the archives for the information he sought. 

There was one mech, however, that had made it a point to teach Orion more and more about how to appear… ‘normal’ and alive. The first mortal that had paid him any attention at all. He would go to Ratchet for the answers he sought. If anyone would be able to explain to him what this feeling was, it would be him.

[scuddle-bubble101]

Kieron,,,, May we have a crumb of his favorite hobby?

Kieron!! Absol-fruit-tii-lutely!! (Also hai Wren, always a wonderful pleasure to see you! How have ya been?)

Kieron ----, an odd case of a skeleton. Signs shows he's extremely malnourished and, is prone to vivid to primal anxiety. Date of origin unknown and, his origin home is unknown. One of the primary patients of Middle-town's main hospital and urgent care, Kieron is still a mystery to this day by its staff. According to records, the small monster was transferred in rather randomly, immediately being sent to urgent care upon losing consciousness.

---- Documents----

Patient Kieron ---- Black bird. (Notes primarily focus on first name it seems)

Height-five and three quarters.

Weight- 120 lbs

Age- 22, newly aged this year.

Gender- Subject shows mutation and alteration of the pelvis. It is hard to determine the sex but he prefers male-to nonbinary pronouns

Issue- Patient's body type is extremely underweight for his age group, generalized sex, and bone structure. His appearance is rather gaunt-like under his shirt. Ribs are sunk in, and stomach barely seems to jut out properly. His appearance is sadly more compared to a severally starved prisoner.

Cure/?- While we've tried many, many methods. The young man is still struggling from a condition we've barely begun to understand. He barely eats, and it only seems this forming side-effect is getting worse. Fluids are hard to administer. The bone-marrow within his own bone's channel, seems to lack enough density to pierce and maintain structurally sound.(I.e- Patient's veins are far too collapsed to administer fluids) A cure has truly yet to be made for them.

----Additional notes--- Some story >:3c

Desperation clung to the staff when he went critical again. There was talk of ebbing off his dosage or in an extreme case, completely vetoing it. Something, something wasn't working and they couldn't do anything to stop it. Denna looked cautiously at her companion. Even though the bird mask obscured their frame and visage, the neighboring doctor nodded.

They were out of their depth. His condition wasn't gonna recover any better if somebody didn't do SOMETHING. Crow piped a little with a curve of her gloved digit, rapping against her avian like mask.

'we need to find someone else for his treatment. He will die like this if we don't.'

*ps. seems his hobby is pretty much being sick LMAO/jkjk

[mollywog]

Apparently I’m deep in my HS feels (don’t ask me why, I didn’t particularly enjoy it while it was happening.) Ao3 link

There’s something special about high school football. Not the games themselves, it’s been decades since District 12 was a real contender. Their biggest rivalry is the neighboring school, and even that has 50/50 odds of Victory. Still, Friday night games are a right of passage.

The sun sets early but the lights are bright. The temperature drops and the whole town bundles up against the fall chill and flocks to the stadium. The concession stand sells hot chocolate and orange cheese drenched chips and fries, that warmth hands and burn tongues. Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith, as old as the sport itself, bicker over the intercom, drowned out only by the band who plays and replays the same dozen riffs from their perch in the stands.

Peeta and his friends station themselves at the 20 yard line, keeping track of the game while scoping out the passersby. Delly and a handful of her friends are the latest momentary additions to his group, checking in between completing social laps of the field.

He looks into the bleachers and spots an unexpected face in the first row. Her brow furrowed, she sits next to Gale Hawthorne, his motions animated as he gestures at the field and she nods along. As if feeling his stare, she shifts her gaze and their eyes briefly meet before flitting away. He turns back to his friends to find Delly watching him with a knowing smile: it’s not the first time she’s caught him pining over Katniss Everdeen and it won’t be the last.

Robin, a girl he knows vaguely from the next town over, slides up beside him and begins in on the monotonous Senior year questionnaire; his plans for next year, where he’ll go, what he’ll study, will he continue to wrestle? He recites his trite responses dutifully. He hates it. His favorite part of these nights is living completely in the smell of turf and the sound of his friends' laughter, not worrying about what’s next. He thinks about childhood when there wasn’t a script, only questions about favorite colors or dinosaurs. He considers asking Robin her thoughts on the dilapasaur but thinks better of it; he’s not afraid of sounding dorky, but doesn’t want to risk inadvertently encouraging her. As they speak, she gets closer, turning herself towards him, closing them off, batting her eyes, tittering, touching his arm. He knows the game, but has no intentions of playing, so he maintains his distance, answers politely, and tries to include others in his responses.

He looks up in the stands again, spotting Katniss easily now that he knows where to find her. She’s hunched over, elbows on her knees, glaring at the field. The game must be unpleasant -that’s not a surprise.

His inattentiveness does not go unnoticed and Robin eventually turns her queries towards Reese, a more receptive companion.

He lets out a small sigh of relief at his reprieve, but this time when he glances back into the stands, Katniss is no longer there. He excuses himself from the group and heads toward the bathrooms, at the last minute slipping under the bleachers instead. They get a bad rep, but he’s never actually seen anyone doing drugs, or murdering, or having sex down here. It’s actually kind of nice. The people above dampen the sound from the intercom and the lights are obscured to just the right level. He moves to the furthest corner behind a cement piling, out of sight of other bleacher dwellers. Down here alone, it’s like his own private den.

He’s watching the field through the slats of the stands when small arms encircle his waist from behind. For a moment he stiffens before the scent of Katniss’s piney shampoo invades his nostrils, he relaxes into her embrace, “You found me.” He’d hoped she would.

“You’re easy prey. Didn’t even try to cover your tracks. Almost as if you wanted to be caught,” she says, nuzzling her face between his shoulder blades.

He turns, shifting them so they're facing each other, “So now that you’ve got me, what are you going to do with me?”

She rolls her eyes, but yanks at the front of his sweater. He bends to meet her. The novelty of kissing her still hasn’t worn off; he hopes it never will. After a minute, he pulls away, “I didn’t expect to see you tonight.”

“Are you disappointed?” She scowls up at him.

“Not even a little,” he leans down to kiss the crease between her eyes. Unbidden, his mind wanders to the handsome boy beside her in the stands, “What changed your mind?”

“Prim wanted to come and I thought I should keep an eye on her. I’ve heard what happens at these games.” She pinches his waist playfully, “About boys who lure girls under the bleachers for a bit of debauchery.”

“So did you come down here to look for Prim or was my charm too much temptation to resist?”

She slides her hands into his back pockets and gives a little shrug, averting her eyes, “were you looking to lure me?”

He can see through her playful facade, her question’s in earnest. They’d discussed keeping things between them quiet for a while. In truth he would have agreed to just about anything to not scare her away. But he knew as long as they were a secret, this thing that they had, whatever it was, had a shelf life. He thinks of Robin’s display and Katniss’s scowl. Maybe he isn’t the only one with insecurities.

He lifts her chin to look her in the eyes, “only you.” He kisses her again, briefly this time before pulling away, “what’s your favorite color?”

She laughs, “what?”

“Your favorite color. I want to know.” He wants to know everything and not just her future plans.

“Green.”

Of course it is. Nothing could be more fitting for her.

“And yours?”

“Orange.”

She wrinkles her nose.

“It’s not whatever you’re thinking, more muted, like the sunset.”

She hums her approval before their lips meet again. He decides he can save his dinosaur questions for another day.

[lgcbk]

⸻ BAEK BYEONGKWAN ( 𝗚𝗬𝗘𝗦𝗘𝗨𝗡𝗚 𝗕𝗔𝗖𝗞𝗦𝗧𝗢𝗥𝗬 )

𝗨𝗻𝗯𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗸𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗲 𝗣𝗲𝗮𝗸 𝗦𝗰𝗵𝗼𝗼𝗹 ⌑ 𝗙𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗘𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁 ⌑ 𝗧𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝗛𝘂𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿

⸻ 𝗢𝗥𝗜𝗚𝗜𝗡

Baek Byeongkwan descends from a long line of treasure hunters. It's been said that the thrill of discovery courses through their veins as naturally as their qi - often channeled into various skills from the telekinetic movement of objects to heightened perception. Byeongkwan has always leaned towards the latter, even if his demeanor suggests otherwise ( he senses the danger that looms, he just much rather find out what lies at the end of it ). He is particularly adept at wayfinding with a keen sense of direction, familiarity with terrains across the continent, and ability to read the smallest details or obscure symbols ( particularly those unseen to the naked eye ). He is also well versed in the teachings of the Unbreakable Peak School, but much like his father who separated from the sect long ago, Byeongkwan has always been a bit of a trailblazer, claiming that all rules are meant to be broken. ...But a firm whack about the head from his grandfather usually followed such declarations. The treasure hunter spends most of his time under the elder's watchful eye, kept preoccupied by eccentric training regimens with the woldo - a weapon all members of the Baek clan must master before embarking on their first journey away from the island. While Byeongkwan would prefer to rely solely on his fists, woldo and his trusty sack of treasures are never far from his side ( and his rubber duck companion, duck fury of course ).

⸻ 𝗔𝗠𝗕𝗜𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡 & 𝗙𝗢𝗟𝗟𝗬

Though Byeongkwan has no want for power nor fame, he is easily moved by his love for riches. Despite being raised in modesty and taught to desire no more than one needs, he often found his thoughts drifting to the lavish lifestyles of the nobility. But until he is taken as a consort by some wealthy family, he bides his time by taking on side quests - often for associates of dubious character. This habit has landed him in precarious situations more than once, but such is the path for an adventurer of his kind. His pursuit of wealth might bear more fruit were it not for his fondness for the drink. He spends as many hours in taverns as he does on the training courts, though he claims that his skills in object manipulation grow stronger the better the wine. Paired with his frequent bouts of motion sickness, it creates an odd combination for a treasure hunter, yet he has managed to complete many a successful quest.

[seizethedre]

(In the Land of Gods and Monsters)

Chapter One: Prelude - Alastor

In the fallout of a crime, we find the makings of a monster.

The water in the kettle has long-since grown cold. A mug sits abandoned on the countertop, its companion lying shattered on the floor of the kitchen below. Rain hits against the home in a loud and steady flourish while winds rattle the windows in their frames. There’s a chill in the air, intercepted by the humidity which hangs heavily in the atmosphere. It settles into everything, drenching the linen of Alastor’s shirt and causing it to cling to the tension of his shoulders and the hunched panes of his back. It seeps into the ends of dark hair, curling the strands into a fair imitation of the curves of thick lashes adorning dark eyes. 

Not much is heard over the static of sound caused by the storm, but his ears only catch the sound of his own breathing. It’s a harsh, uneven thing that leaves him in rapid, deep bursts that leave his lungs feeling breathless and excruciatingly full at the same time. 

Every ragged, labored inhale physically pained him.

The small porch awning overhead barely managed to cover the top step that he found himself sitting on. So, while his head and shoulders remained, for the most part, untouched, his bottom half was thoroughly soaked. Alastor paid no mind to the odd discomfort of pooling water under his frigid toes, or how streams of rain dripped in currents down his legs from water-logged trousers, drip-dripping from the heavy cuffs and disappearing into the perpetuating puddle at his feet. He trembled alongside the weight of the first storm of the season. But he couldn’t feel it. His mind was full of static, body lost in detached numbness. He stared down at his hand where it rested on his knee, clenching and unclenching the fabric of his trousers. 

The skin was stained with the remnants of earlier activities, inviting scenes of the hot blood that had slipped through the cracks of his desperate fingers. How it’d followed the neat grooves between floorboards, racing down the hall in poor, grisly imitation of the raindrops he used to watch on his bedroom window when he was a child. He recalled how those lines traced back to the mass in the middle of the kitchen, mangled and unrecognizable like an impressionist painting  that someone had run their hands over before the paint could fully dry, blurring and obscuring the subject until its original form could be identified only by the artist. 

The lingering squeal of the kettle still echoed in the room as he had stared down at the mess of dark hair, not unlike his own, and he just knows that if he were to reach down and turn them around, he would see eyes identical to his own, too, down to the vacant, detached stare. Eyes that no longer knew him, recognized him, devoid of the warmth and security that–

No, he thought, and forced away that train of thought. 

Alastor brought his focus back onto the hand on his knee and the dark rings coating the undersides of his fingernails. The rust-colored stains that grew and clouded under his touch, forced outwards and lightened with every drop of water that rolled off of his knuckles. Vaguely, he was aware of his other hand, which alternated between scratching behind his ear and raking through the short hairs at the side of his head, equally tainted. 

In a brief moment of dwindling clarity, he was aware of how grateful he was that their home was so far from the business of the main road. How grateful he was that the sky had chosen that evening to split itself open and shake the town with its rolling thunder. The clouds hung themselves low over the tangle of treetops, close enough to touch, it seemed. Almost. He looked out at the mud-logged yard with its filling divots and allowed himself to get lost for a minute– just one minute, please. That’s all that he needed. 

Alastor stared out at the treeline, obscured by the sheets of downpour, and pulled in an uneasy lungful of air, past tacky lips and down his dry windpipe where it settled like something dense and prickly, but easing the sense of nausea that had started to roll hotly between his insides. Swallowing down the tang of bile that pricked the back of his throat, he halted the attack on the tender skin of his head and stretched out his arm, slowly, palm upturned to face the pinpricks of rapid rainfall. It stung. Grounded him. Provided an anchor that cemented him to the moment. Nothing but him, the rain, and the small, incessant drum of the rain on his open hand. 

The feeling of static filled his touch from fingertips to the exposed, delicate skin of his naked wrist peeking out from beneath the cuff of his sleeve. Transfixed by the way the water gathered in the bowl of his hand, he could only stare as it dripped down the creases of his skin, traces of something crimson and foul getting washed away in the process. Carefully, almost reverently, he pried his other hand from his knee and held it out parallel to the other, cupping them together until they cradled the rainwater. 

When he’d gathered enough, he brought his palms together and proceeded to wash his hands. He repeated the process again and again, scrubbing between his fingers with a calmness that betrayed the audible thrumming of his heartbeat in his ears and the buzzing in his veins. He scraped softly at the substance caked and wedged into the fine lines of his knuckles. He kept at it for lord knows how long. What little light had persisted through the dense cloud coverage was long gone, replaced by a darkness that was making it hard to see the remnant stubborn patches left behind of his hands, mere shades darker than his natural tone. 

Having successfully settled his mind with the repetitive task of cleansing his hands, he drew his palms up his thighs, breathing deeply and exhaling slowly before pushing himself up from his seated position. He swayed where he stood, then turned to face the screen door that would lead him inside. The tightness in his chest returned with a vengeance and he almost gave into it before he forced it back with a heavy dispel of breath. He squared his shoulders in a faux display of confidence and twisted the handle before he stepped through the threshold and into the familiar warmth of his childhood home. 

If he hadn’t known any better, Alastor could’ve believed that it was a normal Thursday night. The radio still played quietly, bumbling with the occasional burst of static. The table was set as neatly as ever: day-old flowers perked and delicate at the center of the table in his mama’s favorite vase, table mat sat squarely in front of his father’s chair with a glass of brandy sat adjacent, untouched. The air still smelled of something spicy and savory, and dinner probably still had traces of warmth where it sat on the stove. The heat in his stomach blossomed again uncomfortably. It crawled its way up his chest, burning a path up his tight throat and settling behind his stinging eyes. Against his wishes, his bottom lip trembled at the thought of what lay just on the other side of the kitchen counter. 

Part of him wondered whether it would be possible to remain in this spot forever, rooted in this subliminal space under the warm glow of their dining room light and suspended in a place devoid of time and reality, surviving solely on his memories. It would come as no surprise–he was always a selfish child, afterall–but he still couldn’t stop the hesitant drag of his foot as it pushed itself closer where he knew he needed to be. 

Yes, he may have been a selfish boy, but never when it came to his mama; never with her. She didn’t deserve that with all of her gentle kindness, her patience, her forgiveness and long-suffering. He could never bring himself to be selfish with her, especially not now. Not when this would be the final comfort she would know. And so, with the steely weight of his entire world on his shoulders, he shifted his steps forward.

Alastor kept his eyes drawn dutifully on the worn wood of the floorboards. His downturned gaze scanned across every familiar dent and warp–reminders of every moment of his life, his whole world reduced to the small, dirty floor of the dining room. His searching cuts off at the sight of small, black shoes in his peripheral vision. He bit his trembling lip until it bled, then sank to his knees in some sort of deranged imitation of something holy. 

But there was no god. The only being ever capable of captivating his mortal worship was laying in the middle of the floor with dry lips and the coldest stare he’s ever seen. Emptiness occupied the well-worn pits where warmth had reigned. She still wore her apron and oh my god –he could still hear the shrieking of the kettle pinballing in an endless ricochet within his skull. 

Gingerly, reverently, he turned her over his mama’s body and pulled her into his arms. His knuckles dragged through the sticky blood congealing underneath her body. He ignored the way his nape bristled at the sensation and goosebumps flared across his forearms. Instead, he focused on the delicate softness of her eyelids beneath his fingertips as he finally shut her eyes. He was all too eager to scrub his psyche of that foreign gaze forever. Looking down at her ashen face, he couldn’t fathom how people could ever liken death to sleep, because cradled against him, Alastor could only conclude that she looked dead. Her lips were too blue, the color faded from the apples of her cheeks, the hollow contours of her face pronounced and shadowed unlike anything he’d ever known on her facade before. He brushed her hair from her face and ignored the hot tears that finally tore from him.

He rose up onto his knees to pull a towel from the counter. With all the grace and patience that he’s only ever shown his mama, he cleaned her. Starting at her left temple, he smoothed the cloth down and across her cheekbones, following the splatters down to her jaw, neck, and the exposed edge of her neckline. He hummed as he wiped and scrubbed, a low, smooth jazz tune that his mama had taken a liking to recently.

Content, finally, with the state of her appearance, he picked her up and laid her on the dining room table, pushing aside the vases and dinnerware, wincing  at the sudden noise made by the cutlery clattering against the floor after such a long stretch of silence. She looked pretty, almost, laying next to the flowers she had picked and the scene had him looking away before the heat in his eyes could get carried away again. 

There was a magnolia tree in the back of their property, one that bloomed sweetly in the spring. When he was a little boy, he used to pick the large, bright flowers and run them inside to his mama. She used to put them in her hair and he recalls then just how much more beautiful she’d looked. Like a queen , he’d thought. Although he had outgrown the fantasy long ago, he’d continued to pluck magnolias for her every year, only now realizing how grateful he was for the tender kiss she’d place on his forehead with every gift, as well as how terribly he would miss the simple gesture.

He buried her there, beneath that magnolia tree. Dug for well over an hour in the downpour until the soft earth revealed the deep trench where her body would lie. It was then that he placed her inside of it. He straightened her blouse and pushed her hair back again. On her chest he laid the flowers from the dining table. 

By the time he had finished replacing the earth, he couldn’t even feel the strain in his shoulders or the exhaustion that caused his entire body to tremble. Nothing but a hazing numbness, like the events of the last couple of hours had occurred in a different world or a lifetime away. Far, far away from him and he could continue living his quiet life unburdened by the unfairness of it all, experiencing oblivion and ignorance in all their glory and therefore still capable of believing that the good in this world would always receive their just reward. 

But Alastor was nobody’s fool. He knew there was no escaping this new, deranged normality that would become daily living. The truth of that crushed him. It left a rancid, bitter taste in his mouth. It made his skin crawl and his stomach stir with something hot, but it wasn’t the bile he’d grown accustomed to recently. Rather an anger so ferocious it set his teeth on edge and filled him with a maddening desire to tear something apart. And he knew exactly where to find the object of his ire. 

A newfound tidal wave of adrenaline demanded he enter the house once more. He moved through the dining room and down a hallway adorned by sparse photographs of smiling persons and bright eyes. He ignored them. He picked his way carefully around shards of glass and a broken table leg, edging around books he’ll have to organize later on, perhaps tomorrow. He stops  just shy of the front door, mindful of remaining out of reach of the blood smeared across the floor. It had been hours since it had stopped spreading from the gaping wound in the man’s chest. His composure slipped for a moment as he eyed the handle still sticking out of the body, right where he had left it. 

Anger curled Alastor’s lip into a grimace and he clenched his fists, wanting nothing more than to bring the man back to life so he could watch it leave his body with every violent stroke of his hand. 

But then he glanced at his eyes, still open and terrified. They were so blue and pale, so strange–a reminder that this man was so unlike him that his very biology had rejected any trace of him from Alastor’s own characteristics. Oddly enough, that thought made him smile. Those eyes had always looked at him with distaste, like he was nothing but a dirty stranger taking refuge in his home instead of his son. It was only fair that he would be the first to introduce new emotion to them. To know he’d never see them again filled him with sadistic glee. 

Alastor made quick work of dragging his father’s body out to the wilderness behind their home. He reveled in the mud that caked his blond hair and dirtied his expensive dress shirt. The rain had let up the slightest bit, but the ground was still slick enough to carve away a deep enough hole that would ensure his body wouldn’t be unveiled for a long time. Without ritual, he shoved the man’s body into the ground. 

Good riddance .

He spared one more look down at the body crumpled in the earth beneath him, and he couldn’t help the disgusted curl of his mouth. Even as a post-mortem palor had turned skin balmy and white, Alastor’s hatred could only grow more justified. The lightness of the man had always felt so foreign to him, so stark and sterile compared to the familiarity and comfort of a colored complexion and dark eyes. There was a paleness to his eyes, his hair, his skin that felt soul-sucking, as though he had spent so much of his mortal life taking and draining from everything else around him that even his own features grew to reflect how absolutely incapable they were of producing any semblance of warmth and color for themselves. Even now, the glazed sheen that had crept over that pale gaze felt appropriate. The dead stare of a dead man who’d take from Alastor no longer.

At the sight of such a so-called mighty man reduced to an eternity of rotting decay, a sudden urge barreled through him like the rolling of thunder over. It was a feeling that started in his gut and rumbled through the rest of his body, from his chest to his belly to the crown of his head and down to his heels where they were planted firmly on the earth. 

It was a carnal, wretched desire to devour the thing he had feared most his entire life if for no other reason than to prove to the universe, to himself,  that Alastor was done with the fear and the pain and the weakness that had consumed his entire thoughts for the entirety of his miserable life. Because that body beneath him was dead. Alastor was the one who had put him there. Alastor had beat him and Alastor had won. 

And once the grave was filled, he turned his back to the scene, forcing himself to forget the location altogether. He would reserve no more room for that man inside of himself for even a moment longer. Because Alastor was trembling, cowering prey no longer; he was the predator. In the end, he would ensure that not a single speck of the father he knew only by title would remain to haunt him, to hurt him, to remind him of how pathetic and useless he once had been.

No, he’d never feel that powerless again.

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[satoshi-mochida]

Turn-based RPG Clair Obscur: Expedition 33 announced for PS5, Xbox Series, and PC - Gematsu

Publisher Kepler Interactive and developer Sandfall Interactive have announced Clair Obscur: Expedition 33, a turn-based RPG with unique real-time mechanics. It will launch for PlayStation 5, Xbox Series, and PC via Steam and Epic Games Store in October 2025. It will also be available via Xbox Game Pass.

Here is an overview of the game, via its store pages:

About

Lead the members of Expedition 33 on their quest to destroy the Paintress so that she can never paint death again. Explore a world of wonders inspired by Belle Époque France and battle unique enemies in this turn-based RPG with real-time mechanics.

Year by Year, She Erases Us

Once a year, the Paintress wakes and paints upon her monolith. Paints her cursed number. And everyone of that age turns to smoke and fades away. Year by year, that number ticks down and more of us are erased. Tomorrow she’ll wake and paint “33.” And tomorrow we depart on our final mission – Destroy the Paintress, so she can never paint death again. We are Expedition 33. Clair Obscur: Expedition 33 is a ground-breaking turn-based RPG with unique real-time mechanics, making battles more immersive and addictive than ever. Explore a fantasy world inspired by Belle Époque France in which you battle devastating enemies.

Reactive Turn-Based Combat

In this evolution of JRPGs, real-time actions enhance the heart of turn-based combat. Craft unique builds for your Expeditioners that fit your playstyle via gear, stats, skills, and character synergies. Open an active dimension in combat—dodge, parry, and counter in real time, chain combos by mastering attack rhythms, and target enemy weak points using a free aim system.

Tomorrow Comes

With only one year left to live, join Gustave, Maelle, and their fellow Expeditioners as they embark upon a desperate quest to break the Paintress’ cycle of death. Follow the trail of previous expeditions and discover their fate. Get to know the members of Expedition 33 as they learn to work together against impossible odds.

A Hauntingly Beautiful World

Explore an enchanting realm populated by surreal adversaries. Wander through breathtaking landscapes, from the Island of Visages to the Forgotten Battlefield, discovering secrets and hidden quests along the way. Find allies of fortune in creatures of legend and recruit special companions, access new travel methods and discover secret areas in the World Map. Experience the debut game from Sandfall Interactive, fully realized in Unreal Engine 5 with stunning graphics and a heartbreaking soundtrack.

Watch the announcement trailer below. View the first screenshots at the gallery.

Announce Trailer

[mashpotatoequeen]

You know how much I love your writing, so I immediately got extremely excited and my brain generated a bunch of MashpotaoeQueen-esque titles. Feel free to ignore any/all of these :)

Kismet

Rainy Days

Sea Salt and Shells

Firefly Nights

In the Atrium

Birds of a Feather

Under a Deep Blue Sky

Purple Prose and Pink Roses

Constellation Making

Dragon Scales and Fairy Wings

As I said, I got super excited, so my apologies for being crazy. I can't title my own stuff for the life of me, but your writing is so inspiring <3

I hope you're doing well!!

Hello My Friend!

Kismet

Okay so. You know me. I love writing fics about Sticky and then labeling them with obscure or peculiar words because it just tickles me pink. So Kismet would most definitely be a Sticky fic.

Maybe it goes like this: Sticky is able to see the strings of fate that tie people together. Like when you meet someone and you're talking and you realise, with all the strength of a sledgehammer to the face, that you're gonna be best friends. Like the ties that keep siblings who are at each other's throats every single day still completely and utterly do or die for each other. The little connection that keeps you calling your best friend even if you haven't seen each other in months. The ties that bind lovers and family and companions and all of it. All of them.

Sticky can see all of them, except for his own.

He gets used to watching them. These little strings of fate wrapped around people's fingers; some of them vibrant and hard as steel and some of them frayed around all their edges. Different colors, different sizes, different woven patterns. The string binding his parents together is a soft orange, almost amber. The threads are fuzzy with age but no less strong for it.

(He realises young that no one else can see them. He keeps his mouth shut. His own fingers are bare. )

Sticky wants to be wanted so damn badly, is the thing. Sticky is surrounded by the way people love other people, and sure in the knowledge that he's destined to have no one.

He's wrong, of course. It just takes new friends and saving the world to figure it out.

Constellation Making

This one immediately brings to mind an AU where Nicholas Benedict (and friends!) are literally in the business of the making of stars. They've got a workshop just south of the Pillars of Creation and a deadline for a new constellation every millennia or so.

Mr. Benedict is a being of magic. One of the Old Ones. He's got stardust in his hair and nebulas swirling in his eyes. He keeps getting chunks of meteors and comets stuck under his fingernails after gently guiding them on course. He sings lullabies to baby stars that are little more than superheated gas and has tea with old white dwarfs every Wednesday.

And then constellations start to go missing. One by one by one.

And that's where our adventure begins.

Bird of a Feather

This is DEFINITELY that wing fic I've talked about before. These winged humans, finding each other and finding a flock with one another, a family the can depend on.

Maybe this would be a one shot set in that universe, where all the Mysterious Benedict Society kids have odd conflated feelings about preening each other's wings. Maybe one of the Executives told them their wings looked messy and that's one of those rules that Are Not A Rule at the Institute- your wings can be however ruffled as you like, as long as the feathers are neatly groomed and in place. There's nothing for it. It's hard to groom your own wings, especially towards the back. They will have to help each other, even though preening someone else's wings is usually really intimate and reserved for close family and friends.

Reynie's never done it- and has never had it done to him. He's so so worried that he's going to do it badly, that he's going to mess it up. Sticky keeps remembering his parents grooming his own wings and feeling a mess of nostalgia and hurt and bone deep sadness. Kate's touchy about her wings, about trusting people with them- she can do everything by herself, she doesn't need anyone- and Constance doesn't even know how to start doing it. Because she is two. And her wings are almost entirely soft baby down feathers anyway.

(They all have soft baby down. They're fledglings at best. They are BABIES and it's very important to me that you know this.)

So anyway. It's a Mysterious Benedict Society Meeting. They are all so nervous. None of them know how to start. It's awful and tense in a way that their gatherings almost never are. But finally Reynie settles himself nervously by Sticky and asks for some help, his cheeks BRIGHT red. Sticky's hands are sort of shaking. He reaches up and starts gently shifting through Reynie's feathers anyway.

And it's- it's nice. It's really nice.

(They are all, coincidentally, also sort of touch starved.)

So it becomes A Thing. At Mysterious Benedict Society meetings, they sit and they talk, and they preen each other's wings. They don't mention it to the grownups, or make a huge deal out of it, but every last one of them definitely rank it as some of the best parts of their day.)

Sea Salt and Shells

I feel like a lot of the kids have never been to the beach. Like- yes. They've been to Stonetown harbour. But a harbour next to a rocky patch of grey city water is not a beach experience.

So I'd like to imagine that, after the events of the third book, the kids and their families go on a proper beach day. They load of the vans with towels and swimsuits and packed lunches stacked neatly into three separate coolers. They have to drive a solid three hours and Constance sings I Found a Peanut at the top of her lungs until Kate gets dangerously close to shoving a towel in her face for the sake of her sanity.

They arrive at the beach sometime around ten in the morning. The sky is clear and blue and the sun is shining and the seagulls are doing their best approximation of singing. It's a gorgeous sort of day that almost feels too picturesque- like it's something from a dream or memory.

But it's right here and right now.

The kids splash around in the water, wading deeper and deeper until their feet don't quite touch the ground and their past the point where the surf breaks. (Constance has a floaty, and a death grip on Reynie's arm. It took her approximately fifteen steps for her emerging doggy paddle to become a necessity.) They bob in the waves like little corks, laughing whenever one of their heads go under. Milligan floats a little ways a way with a set of sunglasses on, eyes closed. It's possible he's taking a nap.

They don't have any paddle boards, but they learn soon enough that you can catch a wave on your belly. Rhonda shows them how to dive under the bigger tumults of water so they don't get swept under, and Number Two hides under the largest sun hat known to man. Mr. Benedict's swim shorts are green plaid, and he's not much better at swimming than Constance - narcolepsy and big bodies of water don't tend to bode well- but he is having a grand time of it.

Reynie and Sticky make elaborate sand castles and Kate works on digging the deepest hole she physically can with a tiny plastic seahorse shovel. Constance, at one point, allows herself to be buried in it until only her head is visible. The others feed her chips one at a time and pour water into her mouth with a seriousness and dedication that defied the silliness of the situation.

(None of the grownups can look at her without laughing.)

They eat lunch on the picnic blankets. Sand gets everywhere, despite their best efforts. Sticky's father has to carry his mother into the surf, but she floats along quite happily once she's there. When Reynie next goes in, it's Miss Perumal who has a death grip on his hand while Constance clings to Kate's next as she cuts through the water like a knife. Sticky sits at the shore and starts identifying different types of seashells, happily mumbling to himself. He'll keep the best ones to be put on display in his room.

They go home wet and exhausted sometime around four, sand hiding in their swimsuits and salt drying on their skin. Most of them slip into sleep the minute the engine starts running, and wake up bleary eyed and starving some hours later. They eat leftovers for dinner in the front yard of Mr. Benedict's house, still in their swimsuits, and talk about going back sometime soon.

The evening sun dips low. The whole horizon is painted golden, and the family watching from below laughs and laughs and laughs.

[draconicsparkle]

More SCP au!!! You love it! I love it! We all love it! At least, that’s my hope!

But yeah, this one is fluffy. Very very fluffy. Hehehe.

Seriously though, go look up some of the flowers that are mentioned later. They are crazy!

There were many parts about living in one of the SCP Foundation’s facilities that were less than ideal, even dangerous at times. But the most dangerous event by miles was when there was a containment breach.

They didn’t happen very often. But when they did, it was a terrifying experience.

At least, that’s what Hajime imagined most felt. He, however, felt safe when this occurred. A benefit of being an apocalyptic monster’s sole companion.

The red lights began flashing, the sirens piercing as they screeched, warning all about the containment breach. Typically, SCP-49878 wouldn’t bat an eye at the occurrence. But thanks to that nightmare he had weeks ago, he was now very much on edge. He had teleported behind Hajime the second it began, hugging him tight to his chest and growling.

Hajime, understanding very well the fear he was feeling, leaned back into the embrace. “It’s okay, Nagizuru. I know you won’t let anything happen to me.”

His words did seem to relax the entity a bit, but not fully. “So long as we are in the facility, you are in danger.” Then he gasped, as if an idea had just came to mind. “But if that is indeed the case, then the answer is so simple.”

Hajime hummed, curious as to what the idea was. “And the solution being…?”

“To not be in the facility!”

Nagizuru took a small step back, separating them just enough for him to turn the human around. Once more, Hajime was hugged tightly to the entity’s chest, habitually closing his eyes as he guessed what was about to occur.

Sure enough, the familiar odd and dizzying sensations occured, indicating to him that they were teleporting. And when he reopened his eyes, he saw that they were no longer in their apartment-like living space.

No, they were somewhere much different. A small grassy field on a mountain. The sky was blue with small puffy clouds floating lazily by. Other mountain peaks were visible in the distance, piercing the sky. And absolutely no sign of civilization anywhere. It was an untouched paradise.

“Nagizuru… this is beautiful. Where are we?” Hajime asked with wonder in his voice. Nagizuru allowed him to separate as he took a few steps into the grass.

The entity’s smile looked more genuine as he replied. “This is a location I keep secluded. No human or destructive force is permitted access to this place. It is where I spent much of my time prior to meeting you. And now, I share its splendor with you.”

Hajime’s eyes widened, looking around with a new appreciation. “You’re sharing your special place with me?”

Nagizuru stepped closer to hold his hand. “Of course! You are my one and only. And you deserve only the best.”

Hajime’s cheeks flushed red, feeling a bit overwhelmed at the outright declaration of affection. “I… I’m not sure how to respond…”

The SCP grinned. “Just knowing you are at a loss for words is more than enough for me. Now then, please enjoy yourself! I’ll prepare something for us and I’m sure you will find me when it’s ready. Feel free to explore. I assure you it’s safe.”

The entity then disappeared right in front of his eyes. Leaving him alone on the mountain. But he didn’t fear, as he knew Nagizuru wouldn’t have done this if any danger was present. So he took a stroll, admiring the sights around him.

He walked alongside a small stream, the sound of trickling water present as he swept his gaze across the land. Magnificent trees that must have been centuries old. Small and delicate flowers peppering the grass with bright colors. And the distant mountain ranges that had been there for who knows how long.

Hajime understood why Nagizuru came here and protected it. It was the most beautiful place he had ever seen.

His walk lasted about 20 minutes, not a second unappreciated. He stepped around some large bushes obscuring his path to see the entity waiting for him. He was sitting on a red checkerboard cloth, a basket beside him and plates full of food already laid out. So this is what he had meant by preparing something.

“So out of curiosity, did you make this beforehand or did you conjure it into existence as soon as you disappeared?” Hajime asked with a smile, approaching and sitting down on the cloth.

Nagizuru grinned in return. “Does it matter? It tastes the same regardless of method.”

The human shrugged. “I suppose it doesn’t.” He accepted the glass of cold lemonade handed to him, taking a sip and delighting in the taste. “That hit the spot.”

“I am pleased to hear it. Have whatever you want, there is plenty,” Nagizuru told him, repositioning himself to sit next to Hajime. He laid his head onto the human’s shoulder, closing his red eyes and relaxing.

Hajime let him stay there while he ate for a few reasons. First, it didn’t impact his ability to eat and drink, so he didn’t see a reason for removal. But the secret, more prominent reason was that he found it… endearing. But he would never admit that out loud to the creature. He wouldn’t hear the end of it if it got out.

So Hajime finished, eating and drinking his fill of the delicious lunch that had been made for him. He stroked the white hair next to him when he was done. “Do you need anything? I didn’t see you eat.”

Nagizuru reopened his eyes, looking up into the hazel. “I do not require any sustenance at the moment. I take it you are done?” Seeing the human’s nod, he snapped his fingers and the cloth and supplies vanished. “Now we can walk together. There’s plenty of time, as I don’t believe the containment breach shall be finished for a couple more hours,” Nagizuru informed him as he lifted his head and stood up.

“Okay, that’s fine with me,” Hajime replied, grabbing the pale hand and allowing it to pull him to his feet. The two stood side by side, admiring the view in front of them. “I’ve never been to a mountain range before. I didn’t realize how much could grow at such high altitudes. There were some nice flowers back near the water. Have you seen them yet?”

Nagizuru tilted his head. “Flowers? Like these?” He waved his hand and a patch of multiple flowers grew at their feet. He pointed to each one. “Those purple ones are Snowbells. The orange are Fire Lillies. Yellow are Rhaetin Poppies. And the pink are Pink Cinquefoil.”

Hajime looked at the entity in amazement. “You can make flowers grow?”

The words sparked a hint of inspiration in the red eyes. The grin grew wider. “Oh, I can. I know much about this world’s flora. So, my dear Hajime, would you like to see some interesting specimens this planet has to offer?”

He spread his pale arms wide, beckoning the wildlife to answer his call. An explosion of color occured around them, the grass hidden beneath the carpet of flowers. There were so many, of all colors, shapes, and sizes.

Hajime found himself spinning around multiple times, trying to take it all in. “There’s… so many! How? Can some of these species even grow on mountains?”

Nagizuru laughed. “Several of these species would normally not survive in this environment. But that’s not a problem for me. They shall grow and remain here, for our viewing pleasure.” He grabbed Hajime’s hand, tugging him over. “Now, let me show you some of my personal favorites.”

And they were certainly some bizarre ones. There was a purple flower with what looked like twisted whiskers around a yellow center. A Passion Flower. There was also a small white flower that was shaped like a sea star, with white wispy bits sprouting from the five petals. A Snake Gourd Flower. And a very strange looking dark flower that looked almost like some kind of alien insect. A Black Bat Flower.

And there were several others that Nagizuru introduced to him, reciting their names and place of origin as they went along. It was a fascinating experience, Hajime learning so much. And he could tell that the SCP was enjoying this as well, getting to share his knowledge with another who wanted to listen.

After some time, the two wished to give Hajime’s legs some rest. So they sat down among the Forever Susan Asiatic Lilies, staring into the rainbow field around them. This time, Hajime leaned his head on the other’s shoulder. “This was amazing. I feel so incredibly lucky to have been able to witness this.”

Nagizuru stroked his short brown hair. “If any individual is lucky, it is me. Having all the knowledge and power in the world but no one to share it with is lonesome.”

Hajime sighed, the touches soothing. “There are some humans that would desire to horde all that for themselves and lock it away. Not to be seen by any eyes other than theirs.”

“Greedy and selfish. And foolish, too,” Nagizuru stated. “If only they knew how wonderful it feels to be able to show off your abilities and wealth of knowledge.”

Hajime snorted. “Oh, I know you love showing off. Like a peacock displaying his feathers to impress potential mates.”

The SCP laughed. “Whether or not that’s my intention, I’ll leave that up to you to figure out. For now, rest. We may return here any time you wish.”

Hajime felt his eyes begin drooping. He wasn’t sure if the tiredness was influenced by Nagizuru’s powers or by his own exertion, but he didn’t care too much. He breathed in the sweet scents surrounding him, relaxing into a peaceful daytime nap.

Masterpost

[bitchdafuqyousay]

Roadside Find: Short Story

It was ridiculously humid, adding to the swelter that surrounded and chased after the rusty old pick-up truck. The damned thing’s AC was broken, and having the windows down provided no sort of relief whatsoever; just made the shrieks of the cicadas seem even louder. Dust was kicked up by the tires crunching over the dirt road, but thankfully none flew into the car as by the time it got high enough to reach the windows they’d already passed that particular cloud of grit. 

Usually she’d scold her friend for being such a reckless driver, but she didn’t mind it currently. Afterall, no one else was on this long country straight-shot. Kudzu covered trees whizzed by as she stared out the window, glancing to the front seats when the young man in the passenger seat gave a heady sigh, but then returning her gaze out the open window, looking forwards meant a full face of hot, country sun, and it was uncomfortable enough as is without seared retinas. 

“What the fuck is that-” the driver barked suddenly, slowing the truck to a crawl and squinting into the distance. She unbuckled and leaned forwards in between the two front seats, resting her hand on the passenger’s slim shoulder.

“Ya’ll see that thing too, right?” He grumbled and glanced at his friends briefly, waiting for them to nod in confirmation before sliding his gaze to the thing on the roadside roughly twenty yards ahead of them. 

There, in the dust and dirt was a little body, completely still and laying on its side. Crumpled and faced away from the truck, it’s front obscured from the three young travelers. 

“Is- is that a kid?!” The young man in the passenger seat said hoarsely, his voice filled with anxiety; and he had every reason to be nervous, it certainly looked like a kid. A little boy no larger than a six or seven year old. 

“We should call-” the driver began, but the young woman was already leaping from the car, the backdoor swinging open as she rushed out, ignoring the dust she kicked up as she quickly paced towards the little figure in the dirt, if it was in fact a child, she’d be damned if she didn’t try to help right now. Wait in the truck for who knows how long for someone else to arrive her ass, if it was a kid, they needed help now, no doubt. 

She ignored the yells of her two male companions to get back inside the rust bucket, that they shouldn’t touch whatever or whoever it was and instead call for real, decent help.

She knelt in the dust and gently turned over the little figure, letting out a huge sigh of relief; “No reason to call anyone-” she hollered over her shoulder “-It’s not a kid, it’s just a doll. Like one of them live sized things collectors are into.”

She continued to ignore her friends as they told her to just leave the thing so they could be on their way and get off of the “bum fuck, hick country road” and back to civilization; civilization with food and air conditioning.

But she kept poking at the doll and observing it at her own leisure, her male companions’ calls simmering down into frustrated grumbles between themselves. 

The doll’s hair was a rich auburn, shining like amber in the scorching sun and reflecting the heat waves in a way that made it look like fire. His glass eyes were so bright a blue it looked as though rather than eyes they were mirrors reflecting the cloudless summer atmosphere above them. The thing was a real work of artistry and dedicated craftsmanship; a small, pale pink blotch adorned his left cheek, and delicate freckles splattered his face. The patch could be a birthmark, maybe. Whatever it was, it gave a sense of life to the doll, made him look real. 

“I bet he’s modeled after a real person.” She cooed and hoisted the thing off the road so it could sit on her hip, quickly bounding back to the truck with her new found treasure. 

“He’s got like, a birthmark? I think? Which would be an odd thing to put on ‘im if he isn’t based on an actual person.” 

“Oh , ew… Think it’s like, one of those memento mori sort of deals? Like somebody’s kid died so they had that thing made in his likeness?” the boy in the passenger seat fretted, leaning away and making a bit of a fuss as she clambered back into the truck with the doll.

“Maybe, and if so that’s all the more reason I don’t wanna leave him on the side of the road, might’ve fallen out a moving truck or something…”

Soon as she was rebuckled in her seat the driver shifted gears and began to move again, rolling up the windows and saying nothing about the situation at all. He’d known the girl much longer than the other boy and figured she’d made her mind up to keep the wretched thing the moment she’d seen what it was.

She had odd hobbies, and would pick up anything that caught her eye.

She sat quietly and continued to admire the doll; it had the face and general build of a young man who was maybe about nineteen or so; fairly developed and quite handsome. She could feel under his clothes that he’d been carefully sculpted to have lean muscles, she was stunned by the incredible amount of detail and precision that went into making him. He’d no doubt been well taken care of up to this point. Love and tenderness was evident in his carefully parted and combed hair, the press and pleats of his linen button up shirt, the straight and well fit waistcoat over it, and the black slacks he wore had been carefully ironed, and some elegant shiny black shoes with spats over ‘em; his dashing appearance having been disturbed only slightly by his time on the road. 

“He’s only a bit dirty, but I’ll bet that's from being out on the roadside. But he isn't dusty enough to have been out there for anything more than a day or two.” She mused as she brushed some of the grit from his shoulder.

She rather liked him. He was a handsome piece of art, she thought. That splotch on his cheek was so delicately painted the freckles smattering his lovely face lingered under it and about its edges where it began to blend into the natural blush of his cheekbones. He had individual eyelashes and eyebrow hairs. The artist who’d made him had even delicately and finely painted body hair; she could see it hinted on his wrists just under the cuffs of his sleeves. His wrists and fingers were finely and properly jointed, and she delighted in that if she linked his fingers between hers, they sorta fell over her knuckles as though he were holding her hand right back.

“He’s right handsome, I think! Whoever made him put a lot of care and detail into him, just look at his hands!” She chirped enthusiastically and continued to fiddle with the large doll in her lap. 

The driver glanced in the rearview mirror, and the boy in the passenger seat craned his neck to see what she was talking about.

“I still think it’s weird… it looks too much like a sorta real person, it’s totally uncanny valley.” He turned back around and crossed his arms with a huff, looking to the driver for support.

The other male only shrugged, “If she likes it and wants to keep the thing she can, I don’t care.”

“He does look like a real person-” the girl interjected, “-which is what makes the fact that he was on the side of the road even sadder to me. Somebody obviously loved him a whole lot, but a brief moment of carelessness and now they’ve lost him.” 

She adjusted the doll in her lap and fixed her eyes back out the window, once again watching the kudzu infested trees and the humid, wet forests behind ‘em whizz by as they continued down the dirt road. She arranged the doll’s hands so they were folded politely in his lap, fingers laced and creating a sort of cage.

“Where are you gonna put him?” The driver asked, not looking away from the road, she shrugged.

“Dunno, maybe I’ll sit him on the windowsill in my room.” 

“You gonna keep him next to the plants you got on there?” The boy in the passenger seat asked while he tore open a bag of chips, reaching back to hand her one, and then placing one directly into the driver’s mouth before he himself ate a couple. 

“Mhmm.” She nodded, pausing to finish chewing before continuing, “I’ll set him up there. He can keep watch out my window for weirdos.” Her little quip earned her a snort from the driver and the passenger shook his head, trying to stifle a sigh of displeasure that not only was she keeping the doll, but she’d be putting the damn thing in her bedroom.

The truck cabin soon fell silent, broken only by the sound of the second boy crunching away on his chips, but eventually even that stopped as he fell asleep, his head pressed against the window, arms folded under his chest and snoring slightly. 

The driver zoned out everything but the long road ahead of him, and the young woman leaned her head back against her seat, securing her arm about the doll a little tighter, closed her eyes, and allowed herself to drift off to sleep.

And in the quiet of the truck's cabin, that doll finally allowed himself to smile. He smiled the handsomest and most genuine smile he’d done in ages. And no one noticed a thing as he ever so slightly, ever so carefully and ever so delicately shifted his finely jointed hands in his lap so that his cold, smooth fingers could brush the warm, gentle ones of the young woman who’d oh so nicely rescued him from the dirt on the side of the road.

[techni-kolor]

Since everything has been ChaosTM lately I finally decided to share a little snippet from my Domestic DoA universe! ^-^

Find the details about this AU here!

—————

"Nikolai, you've been in the bathroom for two hours. You'd better have drowned in there!"

Sigma pounded a fist against the door, rattling the hinges and letting their frustration shake the rickety frame like the worst alarm clock known to man.

"Nikolai, I swear!" They yelled.

"Just a few more minutes, Sig!"

"Yes, of course. A few more minutes, he says." Sigma repeated flatly to themself. "Don't use all the hot water this time!"

They leaned up against the hallway wall. Frustration was an almost constant companion; far too many eccentric people being crammed into a rather tiny apartment was not conducive to relaxation. Neither was the fact that Nikolai seemed intent on nearly drowning himself at every given opportunity with the longest showers since the invention of indoor plumbing.

"Kolya, I swear–"

The door slammed open, Nikolai's damp frame filling it completely as he posed in the steamy silhouette that drifted out of the bathroom. At least he was clothed, this time. His black jeans and signature checkered sweatshirt were at odds with the humid air, but perfectly catered to the crisp autumn outside and were worn as the manufacturer had intended. A rare occurrence.

He blinked haphazardly. One eye cut vertically with a thick, silvery scar that traced from his brow to his cheekbone and the other hazy as well with his permanently obscured vision.

"Good morning, Sigma! How are you on this fine day?"

"I'd be better if I had been able to shower when I planned. Forty-five minutes ago."

"Time certainly is a cruel mistress!" Nikolai said cheerfully, tossing back his damp braid over one shoulder. "I suppose she forsake me while I was caught up bathing."

"Uh-huh."

"Alas, I am merely a pawn in this endless chessboard of life. I can not be held responsible for the placement I have been assigned or my efforts to break free of this jailing we call a schedule. Can't you see the folly of it all, Sigma! I may be unable to visualize this world, yet I am–"

"Are you done?" Sigma interrupted. "With the shower, not the monologue."

Nikolai's infamous rambles were well known to last for hours when unchecked.

"Yeah, I'm all good there." He chirped, snagging the dirty towel off the rack and skipping across the cheap tile floor towards the kitchen. "Enjoy!"

"Hard to do with no hot water or time to get ready, but sure." Sigma muttered to themself, stepping into the bathroom.

Only to nearly slide to their doom as their shaky feet caught on a stray piece of clothing.

"Next time don't leave your dirty socks on the floor!"

"Those aren't mine!"

Sigma slowly began to count to ten in their head.

"They belong to Fedya! He showered last night, pretty sure. Ask him!"

There was absolutely zero chance that Sigma was going to consult Fyodor on the location of his clothing again. The last time had been an exercise in confusion, futility, and a stark reminder of why he and Nikolai were so close despite their contrasting personalities.

Maybe the hot water would wash off some of the frustration. Or at least the lint from Fyodor's dirty socks and Nikolai's half dried puddles of leftover soap that somehow always found their way outside of the shower curtain.

Sigma sighed.

Another day in paradise.

[ariveth]

                        ANONYMOUS BOUNTIES ARE USUALLY MORE TROUBLE THAN THEY’RE WORTH, but with that comes exclusivity, and Ariveth rarely turns down the extra coin that comes with high demand and low interest. About this particular cave she knows little, other than that it doesn’t run particularly deep, and that it requires a rather long upward climb to reach it.

                        By the time she reaches the mouth of the cave, a large eroded alcove with it’s ongoing tunnel obscured by pitch black shadows, she��s quite spent. Thankfully, according to the limited but specific directions, the bulk of her work is done. With her breath regained, Ariveth presses on, escaping the cold into the cavern, and into the dark.

                        The passage is enormous, and goes on for quite a while, though she’s not about to complain about the lack of incline, at least. The lack of a trail pressed by frequent foot travel is odd, however, and sets the hairs on the back of her neck on end. Eventually, the use of a torch becomes necessary as she comes upon the deepest recess of the cave; a soothing companion given the strange noises she hears growing louder as she proceeds. The chest of treasure she seeks ought to be here somewhere; yet what she finds instead, drawing a shocked gasp from her lips, is infinitely more grandiose.

                          The imposing, magnificent and equally-terrifying silhouette of a crimson dragon dominates the cavern, its sharp contours lit by the torch Ariveth’s dropped. The noises had been the creature’s breaths, evidently; echoing throughout the chamber. For a moment, fear has her utterly frozen, unable to move or think. That’s before she recognises the distinct shade of red scales, the unique patterns in varying shades of indigo, the icy-pale eyes — and the dunmer lets out a single, nervous chuckle before venturing: “...Odahviing?”

@cwearing