#tw body horr

[lefthandedpotato]

Came up with some new Minecraft sculk monster thingys. First up: The Spore!

An reimagining of sculk as a sort of eldritch tentacle-y fungus goop that can infect (or ‘Sculk’ because I’m so creative) other mobs and players and repurpose them to spread further. The Spore was a winged player that got Sculked (I imagine there was only a short pain as the skull was breached), their brain functions are slowly overridden by an uncontrollable urge to spread sculk.

Often aggressive, they use their tentacles to grab prey and then slash with the remains of their other hand, which features outcroppings of whatever that sculk bone stuff is idk I just make the lore you expect me to know? They are also capable of a less powerful sonic charge compared to the Warden’s.

Their behaviour when not engaging in combat is mostly wandering the caves and, very rarely, some might even find their way to the surface. As the fly they drip sculk which will attempt (often fruitlessly) to seed a new Sculk Field. When they land their feet behave like a temporary Catalyst and will sometimes stay in place until a permanent Catalyst has formed.

They also retain the sense of sight, which Sculk is largely unable to produce on its own but can preserve.

Anyway yeah, I hope whoever sees this likes it, I’m starting to feel like I ain’t built for this site, but what the heck I can post what I want right?

[zakubabbles]

Chaotic Draw Along birthday prompt for @anthonywheelerart 's birthday stream: Birthday party for a birthday cake. I love that everyone pretty much drew human heads and body parts as stand ins for the cake 😂 I wasn't any different.

brush pen and digital

[artsycloudysleepy]

posted a UTMV fic on AO3!! :D

(first time ever sharing, pls be nice; i am very sensitive to criticism and am going through a writing block rn! but if anyone has tips for using ao3 lmk! ty)

[edit: my link seems to be weird in some situations, and on a phone linked me to someone else's fanfic? so make sure the fic is titled 'Bleh' and is by me before you assume it's the correct one. sorry]

tumblr version below cut! TW for autophobia, implied/referenced abuse, minor hallucinations (not harmful).

..............................................................................................................................

“…nt that he comes to us.”

Cross slowly stirs awake.

“mm. gonna ‘afta talk ‘bout this ‘n therapy.”

That’s Horr-Horr. He’s nice.

“yup. ain't healthy fer him. and ya've seen how little he- oh. he's awake.”

Dusty. He’s also nice. He sounds surprised.

“stars, we wake him up? whoops.”

“heh. g'mornin’, cross.”

Cross mumbles incoherently in response, curling into a ball under the warm covers. He feels so fuzzy. Really light-headed, come to think of it.

“’s ‘e overheatin’?”

“probs.” Dust’s hand, likely, presses against Cross’ forehead.

It’s so cold. He whines in a broken, hoarse voice, and there’s a coo as the hand trails to his neck and collarbone. Cross buries his head quickly into it as he squirms uncomfortably.

“spiking.”

“oh stars. get ‘im outta there.”

Cross gasps as the hand slides to the nape of his neck and another under his pelvis, kicking weakly and sorely croaking out a complaint whilst he’s lifted out from under the warmth of the covers.

Are they abandoning him? That's what it feels like.

He'll be left alone again.

To rot.

To-

“shh… shh… it‘s okay.” Dust’s soothing, and Cross realises quite how sweaty he feels. He cries a little, hoarse sobs wracking his body in tiny shakes. “get the boss already.”

There’s quick footsteps, then silence. All that breaks it is Cross’ broken cries, and Dust’s occasional murmurs of reassurances that fleet quickly from Cross’ muddled, distressed mind.

Then, there’s underwater footsteps, Cross beginning to see stingrays and shoals of fish swimming in the water in his vision. Some movement, then freezing fabric underneath his palms and spine and skull and feet makes him flail weakly.

“-icine. Ideally something to combat hallucinations.”

“on it!”

There’s a shift of magic that Cross feels overstimulated by, but before it registers fully, there’s a sudden shockwave of calm that resounds in his bones, louder than his fears but quieter than the magic previously.

He weakly looks up. Nightmare is sat by him, in his bed. Cross takes a moment to realise he’s lying down, whereas Nightmare is sitting, and he can’t be lazing-

“-Cross, chiquito, you’re not lazy.” the Guardian cuts his rambling mouth off with a gentle hush. “You’re just emotional and tired, and far too delirious for you to realise what you’re saying.”

Sobs stopping almost instantly, Cross goes quiet, staring up at his dad. He thinks he keeps that thought quiet, too. Maybe.

Above, Nightmare smiles gently, forgivingly, at him. “Hello, little one. Son. Do you think you’re a bit confused?”

Cross nods, wet eyes getting wetter as they slowly blink for a little longer. He feels so disoriented, and so scared, but so sleepy, as if a gentle weight is tied around his waist. It doesn’t hurt; it like he’s sinking into the bed, and the mattress is moving and rising as he slowly descends into it, genuinely wrapping around him and making Nightmare smaller and smaller.

That's right.

He won't abandon him.

He's safe.

“Do you want to go back to sleep?” the Guardian quietly murmurs, lower and softer with every moment of groggy lull Cross endures, and stroking his skull with a phalange or eleven. “You’re hallucinating very vividly. Like you’re already asleep, despite your best efforts to stay aware. I would feel more happy if you just let your eyes close as that happens.”

Cross find himself failing to complain when a tentacle drapes over his forehead, instead relaxing into the drowsy, dizzy feeling overcoming him. Still, he’s trying to watch the others and what they do, ensure he’ll be safe, but he’s so tired…

His eyes are barely able to crack open to watch Horror and Dust and Nightmare and focus on what they're fidgeting with or whispering or doing in general, so it takes him a few moments to realise with what little he can see that Killer isn't there. Has he gone to get something (he probably hasn't abandoned him, right)? Wait, did Nightmare mention medicine..?

His memories are too muffled to tell. Like his delirium has a muzzle on it. Like the pretty cyan ribbons of magic sparkling in his fading peripheral are glittering and distracting his gliding thoughts. It's oddly soothing, though a part of him is still on edge, as always.

That'll never change.

[Sp.] “Cross, dear, sweetheart,” Nightmare murmurs lovingly, drawing his wandering attention back to him with a lilt of his voice and a guiding phalange against his chin tilting his eyes back to his glowing, soothing one, “no one minds you having a nap. It will take, what, ten minutes? Not too long with those pretty eyes closed to the sparkling sky. The white moon’s orbit, the white Sun’s rigidity, the lilac and pink and white and black planets encircling you over and over as the stars start to drizzle down.”

As ever, Cross is obedient. His eyes close on instinct, disgusting code telling him obeying is right. XGaster always-

"Dear, he isn't here. Don't you fret so much, okay?"

And just like that, the anxiety melts away.

"Hm... That's more like it. We'll work on that when you're feeling a little more perky, okay?"

The voice almost has a parental tone. But it's not like his creator's. It's not disappointed or dangerous, like he'll hit him if he's imperfect. It's calming, authoritative in a way that's soothing to his frayed nerves and worried edges because he knows how to act. He knows how to respond to orders and superiors. And this time, he won't be hurt no matter how badly he screws it up.

"You can stand down, soldier."

But he still wants to be useful. If someone abandons him again, he... He doesn't know if he'll be found again.

He won't ever be happy like this again.

"Sleep, Cross."

Cross weakly tries to hold on, digs – curls – twitches, maybe, his phalanges, but the stars are calling to him sleepily. His name, his identity, kind hands and warmth gently guiding him back to the starlit sky, the homely galaxy, the colours that are so natural to him that don’t blare in his face like sirens every time he’s introduced a new tint and shade and tone. And the stars twinkle hypnotically, inviting him to drown in them, not to think of anything but their beauty.

The hands are warm, careful, freeing him of weight and responsibility as quiet commands to release coax his own to instead weakly hold them. He’s mesmerised, numb and tingly and soothed while the voices and the stars lilt onto him lowly.

“Don’t you resist it, dear,” the most prominent star whispers in low, lulling Spanish. “it’s a waste of energy. You just rest for now. It doesn’t matter what you thought you wanted, all that matters is that you need to have this rest. Never mind any chaos outside, you just focus on counting all these stars. You focus on losing yourself here, forgetting what you felt like you wanted to do, like working and fighting and ignoring your fever for days and days, and instead just realising how nice it feels to give in and up.”

For ten minutes.

For ten hours.

It’s all the same anyway.

And as the world he was previously tethered to by a heavy and cutting rope drops from him, and leaves him blissfully carefree in the void of absence, he doesn’t particularly mind. The slow breaths probably mean nothing, seeing as his previous discomfort is absent like his reality. His thoughts are free-flowing, like ink from a pot that spilled over.

Maybe that means he’s free, for the while.

[puppety-pupils-and-pedagogues]

Here's a fic. Spoiler warning for the entirety of the TV series for I have Finished it.

Im-por-tant

TW: violence

Description: Yellow fights and shouts and hurts and is hurt as he wants to help and generally has a horrible time.

~ ~ ~

You hate him. You hate him so much.

It's his fault. It's his own fault. He yelled at you, being mean and horr- and bad when he's your friend.

The glass digs into the fabric of your hand, but you don't care. It's hard to, when trying to think about why you hurt your friend aches more than the cut.

You shriek as the other one smashes glass onto your head. Hurts. Hurts. Hurts more than thoughts and your hand and even worse-

Worse? Worse, like more, like better but bad. No thing worse nothing worse than a friend betr- har- hurting you-

(He's your friend but he hurt you. You're his friend but you hurt him. That's just how things are now and will always be because that world's funny like-)

Glass is in your side you scream angry because that hurt and hurt and it's not fair it's not- not- it-

It hurts to think. You can only really hand- do quick thoughts now. Short thoughts. Simple thoughts. Simpleton-

Who's fault is that?

Your fault. Always your fault. Dumb. Stupid. Slow. Soft in the-

No. No. Their fault. Their fault her fault his fault now, because- be-cause-

You crash to the ground, glass piercing your back. A weight on you, because of a body on you-

For a moment, contacts connect. Jostled just the right way, through the filth and grime. A bit of juice, jolting your mind, a needle in a haystack, fresh air in a gas chamber-

You hate him. You hate him so much because-

He's your friend but he put that awful, awful worm in your brain. The pillow-soft, safe happy place in your mind tainted and twisted, your friends gone and your brother dead, and for what? To keep being awful to you? To call you names and call you wrong-

He's your friend but he couldn't let you be happy. He gave your arm back but he took your retirement card and Claire and Janet away because he couldn't stand not being the center of attention and getting his beloved respect-

He's your friend and you love him, you loved him so much that you dug him back out and when you picked up that shovel and broke the head-plank of that coffin and saw him moving you were so happy. But he keeps throwing punches and drawing blood and he-

He likes you better, like this. A dummy in every sense of the word. A moron who can't think for himself, a simpleton who can't slight anyone's ego-

Don't move. Don't move, now. You have your head. Move out of the way. Be careful. Find batteries. Clean these ones. You have to, because for all the hate you have for him, and him too for being so spineless but not now, you love them. You love your friends. Just move slowly, before-

Red hair parts to reveal a roaring maw. He's so loud now. He shouts so much and you hate that you hate-

A toothy bill digs into your leg and you scream you-

You-

You

You hate him. You hate them. You were busy you had- there was-

Important. Im-por-tant. Something important, with you, and that never happens, because you're dumb and stupid. They made you lose it. The thing. The imp- the- the thing, with you, the special thing-

You won't share with them. The special thing, when you have it. They don't get it. They won't get it. No special for them.

Im-por-tant. They're yelling. They're hurting. You hurt too. You're shouting too. Grown-ups are loud when they say important things. Here. Right now, hurting each other. Being loud. This is important.

There's a sharp thing in your hand, and in the rest of you. They have sharp things too. They're hurt too. This is important, hitting each other. Screaming.

You hit and scream and hit and scream. This is important. This is right. You hate him, and him. This feels right because you hate them.

You want to cry. You don't know why.

You hate them so much.

[world-of-horrors-au]

Horrors AU - Into the Wolves’ Den

Part 2 of the ‘Briar VS Proxies’ story. Part 1 here.

TW: mentions of violence, ask to tag

No one ever told her proxies were as strong as Horrors. There was no way to pull away from Hoodie's grip. Not that she wanted to try. The moonlight glinted off the rifle in his other hand. He'd been willing to use it before on her. Even if she somehow got away, he'd shoot her down before she could get far. And then, what would happen to her? Would he carry her away? Or would he shoot her in the head? Even a Horror couldn't survive that.

Briar had no choice but to follow him wherever he was taking her.

They were the loudest things in the Forest. More her than him. Hoodie dodged past trees and avoided branches with skilled practice. Everything broke under Briar's feet. She was trained to sneak through buildings, not nature. If it annoyed Hoodie, he didn't say it. He didn't say anything to her at all.

She drew in a breath, tasting the wood and heat in the air.

"Are you going to kill me?" Briar asked.

"Shut up," Hoodie said. The iron grip tightened, and she cringed. "No," he added, his grip relaxing. "But if you don't do what we want, you'll wish we would."

Swallowing, Briar nodded. Do what they want. Do whatever they wanted. What other choice did she have? They could hurt the others if she acted out. He says they wouldn't kill her, but that didn't mean much. Jeff taught her all about the things you could do to someone without killing them.

Oh, Jeff… her heart ached at the thought of her mentor. If only she'd listened to him. 

“Please,” she said, looking at him. “Something’s wrong. Do you know where-”

“Are you deaf?” Hoodie snapped. “I said shut up!”

Briar flinched away. Hoodie took a deep breath.

“I’ve noticed it too,” He said, in a steady, growling voice. “I know your friends are gone. But it’s not my job to care about them. I have my orders, and they involve getting you taken care of.”

She shuddered. 

“If you say anything else,” Hoodie said, tone darkening, “Without me addressing you first, I’m going to break your leg and make you walk the rest of the way there. Keep your mouth shut. Got it?”

Images of her teenage years flashed through her head. When she was fifteen, she’d dislocated her knee at a survivor’s camp. The camp’s major decided the injury was her own fault, and told the medics not to help her. The next two weeks were agony, Briar barely able to move, but still forced to walk and stand and sit with the others. They told her the pain was her weakness leaving her body. It was only when they were short on hands that the major decided to have her knee popped into place to help build the security wall. Her biological family wasn’t there to help her, just like her real family wasn’t here to save her now.

She’d never forgotten what it was like to dislocate her knee. And breaking a leg was worse. Now her body healed faster than before, so it wouldn’t be two weeks of suffering, but if she could avoid any extra pain… Was that considered cowardice? Then she must be a coward.

Briar nodded. Hoodie snorted, yanked her forward, and walked faster through the trees. She forced herself to keep up.

She knew the Forest was massive, and maybe it was the fear talking, but this walk seemed to take longer than any she'd taken before. The silence hurt. All the questions she had circled through her head, like echoes. She wanted Jeff. She wanted Eyeless Jack and Ben, and Laughing Jack, too, even if he drove her crazy. What was she going to do? How was she going to survive this? She should've listened to Jeff…

Through the trees, light caught her eye. Briar tensed, refocusing her attention. Wherever he was taking her must be up ahead, and if she got out and wanted to find it again, she had to focus.

She wasn't prepared for it.

Briar had only seen buildings as big as this in the cities. She'd heard about old manors, pre-fall mansions, that could've housed over twenty people, and employed over fifty just to take care of it. Huge and gray, it stood as tall as the trees, three stories of windows and balconies, carved monsters perched on the roof, beautiful and hideous, a disaster of design and existence. It shouldn't still be standing, ivy clutching every wall, glass windows shattered or missing. The wood was rotting, the brick crumbling. And yet there were lights on, she could see them shine by either side of the front door. How? 

Her feet almost stumbled on the first stone but Hoodie didn't let her fall, hauling her up and forward. Briar's stomach twisted, looking down at her shoes as they stumbled over the once impressive pavement, now overgrown with weeds and grass.

They live here, Briar thought. Like Jeff told me.

Hoodie was taking her to the other proxies, and what was going to happen to her then? Would they tear her apart like they did when they executed a Horror? Or would it be a slow torture, a gradual fall into despair, or worse? 

As they stepped up the stairs, someone laughed from the inside. Briar inhaled the hot summer air and bit her lip. She couldn’t show fear. She had to be like Jeff. But as Hoodie yanked the door open, and a cold breeze slammed into her face, Briar realized a stoney expression wasn’t going to happen.

The entry hall went silent as they crossed into the manor. Goosebumps pricked along her skin, Briar shivering in the sudden chill. She didn’t look up at the assembled proxies but she felt their eyes, their surprise, on her. Briar kept her eyes to the floor, following Hoodie as he led her deeper into the manor without a word to his allies. He bypassed the stairs, heading down a hall, and behind them, footsteps followed.

She only looked up when they came to a stop. A generic brown door stood in front of her. Hoodie yanked it open. Releasing her arm, he shoved her back, hard enough to bruise. Crying out, Briar fell into the room, hitting the dirty floor with a pained yelp. A shadow fell over her, and with a click she could feel, gloved hands removed the handcuffs. The shadow straightened again and behind her, the door slammed shut. She twisted to look over her shoulder just in time to hear something lock.

“That takes care of that,” Hoodie said on the other side. “For now.”

“What the hell are you thinking?!” A man shouted. “Why did you bring her here?!”

“You know damn well why I did, Masky,” Hoodie replied. “She’s not going to give us any more problems now. The plan can continue without being interrupted for the third fucking time.”

Briar pushed herself up to her hands and knees, turning to press against the door to listen.

“So you kidnapped her,” the man replied, the anger burning in his voice. “To get her out of the way.”

“We’re not keeping her, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Hoodie said. “She’s not a pet. We teach her a lesson about minding her own business, finish the plan, and let her go. She’s smart. She’ll learn.”

“Hoodie, how are we going to feed her? We barely have enough food for ourselves,” Masky said. “And none of our dungeons are ready for prisoners. The only one with a shower is still wrecked after Toby’s bullshit.”

“I said I’d fix it!” A third, younger male voice said, and Briar winced. “I’ve got the stuff. I just don’t have enough hands.”

“Could’ve said you needed help,” Masky said.

“Easy,” Hoodie warned. “Beastie, Skully, you’re going to help Toby fix the dungeon. Kate, you’re going to get her supplies. Masky, you and I are going grocery shopping - tomorrow. We don’t need to worry about her tonight.”

“Thank the reaper,” a woman, Kate presumably, said in a dry voice.

“We’re just going to leave her in there all night?” Masky said.

“Yeah,” Hoodie said. “She’s a Horror, she’ll manage. Though since you give a shit, you get first dibs.”

“What? No!” Masky said.

“Shut up, I’m being nice. The rest of you have to wait your turns, got it?”

The group beyond the door grumbled, their voices blending together to the point Briar couldn’t understand what they were saying. Their voices joined with their footsteps, fading into the silence that surrounded her. Briar pulled away from the door.

She wasn’t in a big room. Actually, it was probably a large closet. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness as she listened to the conversation, but looking around revealed very little. A few empty boxes, a pile of rags in the corner, that was it. And it wasn’t any warmer than the entryway had been.

Briar leaned against the door and hugged herself. Her eyes closed. They weren’t going to kill her. They’d let her go but only after they’d ‘taught her a lesson’, a phrase she’d heard before in her life, and it never failed to make her sick to her stomach. A long term stay, long enough to need food, supplies, a bathroom. God, how could she have let herself be captured? What was she going to do?

Still hugging herself, Briar pulled away from the door and paced. Whatever the proxies were going to do to her, it would hurt, and there wasn’t much she could do about it. They wanted revenge - but for what? She’d only seen the proxies in passing outside of skirmishes in and out of the Forest. Had she angered them somehow? They acted like she knew what she was doing the whole time, but she couldn’t think of anything she’d done to them. She certainly never attacked first, and if she learned about a plan, she wouldn’t try to stop it, she’d try to learn more about it and tell the others.

The others… Briar wiped a hand over her face. The men she loved, and who loved her and each other. Where were they right now? Were they hurt? Were they captured? Were they… dead? No, she wouldn’t think about that, she wouldn’t even consider that. They couldn’t be dead, and they weren’t going to die. They survived the Horrors War, whatever happened, they could survive. And she could survive this ordeal, even if it hurt.

She pressed her forehead against the cold, off white wall. The hardest part would be sleeping, if she could, was allowed, to sleep at all. It’d been months since she last slept alone. There was nothing sexual about it, Horrors cuddled when they slept, a tangle of limbs and breathing under the sheets. Usually it was Jeff, sleeping next to her back to back. Sometimes it was Eyeless Jack, with Jeff or alone with her. Laughing Jack rolled on top of her sometimes in the night, his body as light as a teddy bear. Ben didn’t sleep but he’d let her put her head in his lap while he played his games. And when they could, they’d all pile into her bed at once. And it was nice. It was right.

The tears burned her eyes. There was no one to see them, but she fought them at first. But her body always won. The tears flowed down, hot against her chilled skin. Briar swallowed a sob. She couldn’t let them hear her, she wouldn’t give them that pleasure. 

Stumbling towards the pile of rags, Briar collapsed into it, leaning into the corner behind her. She covered her face with both hands, and let herself hurt.

I’ll get out, she comforted herself as she wept in silence. This isn’t my end. I’ll get out.

And if the eyes watching from the darkness judged her for crying, they were quiet about it.

[zeldary-art]

[dilfsisko]

👀 horr movee?

Fright Night (1985)

The OG. A teenage horror fanatic thinks a vampire moves next door. It has Chris Sarandon as a very charismatic, VERY bisexual

TW: Blood, nudity, general vampire body horror.

[flightofaqrow]

choices

qrow x Glynda ( @musedmess​ ) [tw: alcohol]

His touch came never unwelcomed - cherishing even in the bubbly form of herself in each stroke  && brush he caved to offer. Does Qrow hear himself?Clearly not. Clumsily so, Glynda’s hands raise to warmly cup his cheeks, squishing them lazily  &&  puffing her cheeks.  

‘  Out of the many choices you make, the       one you should try so most, is listening       to yourself, cause, then maybe you’d feel       a smidge better, Birdie. ’

his face accepts her hands, but the look upon it bends begrudgingly, brows knitting to the edge of tolerance. it helps that her own expression appears just as silly, just as childish. but then, all at once, it burns. the burn in his throat, like regret, as inhibitions drop further and qrow cannot stop what rushes in him.

“don’ think y’d say that if y’knew th’ kindsa things i tell m’self.” she wouldn’t say he’s special, nor to listen to the voices. qrow doesn’t even address her words, isn’t equipped to, and isn’t even sure if he believes it. 

she’s drunk, too, after all.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

 Had few sips of bubbly, enough she clumsily toppled  over her own feet  &&  a few chair / objects in her wake.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“whoa, now,” qrow holds her steady, even if he wavers a bit in place himself. “don’t go makin’ friends with th’ floor just yet. trust me, he’s not a good bedfellow.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

   ‘  But.. But he’s so.. cold. ’

 A steady moment, her hands holding onto his clothing  while legs nearly threatened to give way to the temptations  the floor whispered to her.

  ‘  ooh.. Don’t tell me you’re       jealous of the floooor.. ’

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“wh’would i be jealous of th’ floor?” he snickers, moving hands from Glynda’s shoulders to her waist, giving her more central support and a frame for her arms.

“…by now y’should know tha’i consider windows an’ doors higher up in th’ world.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

   ‘ Because I’ll be on it… and not..  ’

 Lovely support, such of so she placed hands properly to  his shoulders rather than dig into his poor clothing, eyes  even now attempting to focus sheerly on his own gaze.

  ‘ Such.. pretty eyes..  ’

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“heh…”

it’s a compliment he’s heard several times before, and yet with the intent, concentrated attention of equally pretty green eyes honed in on him, and the dazed way Glynda says it while leaning into his body further, it still sets him a little light-headed.

his palms tilt back and forth at the wrist in small, steady strokes over sateen fabric at the crests of her hips, and it’s a shame, he’s just sober enough and she’s just drunk enough to keep the insinuations she makes - which align with the thoughts he has - feel unjustified. he’ll settle for this warmth of this little vertical dance they have going.

“yer a grown woman, Glyn. free t’make ‘er own choices. …but if th’ floor’s really whatcha want, i could, ah… drop ya off.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

His touch came never unwelcomed - cherishing even in  the bubbly form of herself in each stroke  && brush he  caved to offer.  So many things she could speak of now  &&  only later have time to regret, but so many things  suaved the idea.  He, even if unfantomed by death itself  &&  made will to dodge any closeness, if things to spill,  surely he’d fly away  -  Much like the rest of them.

 No man held difference.  &&  No woman either.

   ‘  Grown my ass, for over..       centuries, I have remained the       utterly shameful size I have       been… s’floor it is..  ’

 The true lack of hesitation to slowly descend, letting  hands rake gently from shoulder  -  torso  &&  delicate  around waist, thighs.. She dropped as elegantly as  one could to sit on the floor, a place she likely been  many a time.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

qrow is used to things, and people, spilling around him. he is made of feathered touches and born to fly away, yes, but has harbored secrets too heavy for most, the burden of which they share, which grounds him here with Glynda. one may be surprised by how little would surprise him these days.

…horrible and awesome magics and immortals? not so much. …but Glynda Goodwitch grazing touches down his body while dropping to her knees on the floor, muttering - for all he can tell in an inebriated and enamored state - about the size of her ass? now that’s something he thought he’d never witness.

likewise, his hold loosens, as promised, in opposite pattern as she descends; calloused fingertips never quite let go, trailing the barest of tension to cause wrinkles in her top once they pass her corset, brushing through her hair once she’s made herself that low.

qrow’s breath catches, and the heart of a man pounds strong against birdcage ribs to hold her head like this, in this position. so much so, his other hand leaves to find his flask. he definitely needs another drink, distraction, at the very least. and while alcohol may make him more willing to act on less respectful impulses, it would also make him less able. and that… might be preferable tonight.

he finishes his swallow, and sinks to the floor himself, even level with her once more, lowly too, where he belongs.

“don’t think y’want my opinion on tha’ comment…” he huffs,  still tucking strands behind Glynda’s ear, “no’ like anyone listen’s t’me anyway…”  

hence… being on the floor in the end, after all. at least it won’t be so cold, together.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

 He too, comes to the lower descends of the floor -  joining her, in her most oddly given decision to stay  where she’d found unusual comfort, given the floor  were possibly more crude than falling over chairs &&  tripping over her shoes.  Yet came an awaited, heavy  sigh.  To think he believes not a soul listens to his word,  to his very loud voice  -  does he hear himself?  Clearly  not.  Clumsily so, her hands raise to warmly cup his  cheeks, squishing them lazily  &&  puffing her cheeks.

   ‘  Out of the many thoughts you give,       I’ll have you know there are many who       listen to you.  I know I do, cause, you’re       so special to me. ’

 A single hand traverses away, awkwardly patting at the  clips, that held up her hair braviously &&  tightly, to tug  and pull them out, allowing them to scatter here and about  upon the floor.  Loosening the bun that likely loosened  enough on their indulgement of bubbly this evening.

 Though now, a much satisfied whimper, hair kept up so  long never fails to hurt  &&  bring headaches from time  to time  -  But in a state like so, it felt like sheer heaven  gracing her, the moment those blondely locks fell loose.

   ‘  Out of the many choices you make, the       one you should try so most, is listening       to yourself, cause, then maybe you’d feel       a smidge better, Birdie. ’

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

qrow can relate, honestly. often he finds himself on the ground, on the floor, somewhere solid that doesn’t so easily break. though cracks in wood and chips in flooring and snags in carpet and busted concrete still caught him too many times, at least it came with less of a fall, less of a fix than furniture falling apart.

his face accepts her hands, but the look upon it bends begrudgingly, brows knitting to the edge of tolerance. it helps that her own expression appears just as silly, just as childish.

but then, all at once, it burns.

the burn in his throat, like regret, as inhibitions drop further and qrow cannot stop what rushes in him. the burn behind his cheeks, reddening in his face at her declaration. the burn in his heart, because it never learned what to do with kindness - only coils it around his insides in the from of undeserving shame. the burn of bile in his stomach that tells him to run because this is suddenly getting far too involved, fighting with the fire burning quickly even further down his body which sears him right to the spot as Glynda literally loosens up, and silken champagne hair cascades over gentle shoulders with keening sounds.

he would almost swear she’s some sort of ephemeral goddess, were she not still touching him in profoundly solid ways, were those locks not falling over the back of his hand where it still rests.

when he can breathe, move again, his head drops as though he hadn’t even been worthy enough for the sight he’d just been graced with, drops because it hurts too much, drops because he can’t look her in the eye for any proper response. he can practically feel Misfortune waiting right at his heels to bite down for how good this feels right now.

he shakes his head, even as skilled fingers continue to comb, to ruffle Glynda’s hair into place in balanced layers on instinct.

“don’ think y’d say that if y’knew th’ kindsa things i tell m’self.”

she wouldn’t say he’s special, nor to listen to the voices.

run. you don’t deserve this. you don’t belong here. you’re going to mess it up. she’s too good for you. take your filthy hands away and don’t bring her down with you. stay and you’re only going to hurt her.

he scrunches his face even further, unable to hide the misery since he’s still trapped face to face in her grip, though he tries until the next wave of alcohol hits him and helps him forget.

nothing feels better, at best he just keeps himself from feeling worse.

qrow finally pulls away, breaks the connection of both their hands; he falls back into a lean on long arms propping up behind him, and glares towards the nearest wall. a more comfortable distance from her, and from his feelings. he doesn’t even address the first round of what she said, isn’t equipped to, and isn’t even sure if he believes it.

she’s drunk, too, after all.

his nails scratch against the floor as they ball into fists, “s’not tha’ easy. never is. no’ f’r me.”

he growls, already having screwed up. here he was, trying to take care of her, and now the tables turn, and he’s the messed up one in need of consoling.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

 His solemn glance away, only made her words solidify.  In the less mattersome moments, even in such a  indulged state  -  her thoughts were still consuming in  matter of good strings &&  coherentness.  Concern  stretches lazed features as he pulls away  - hands  willing themselves to come away in sync, to allow him  the acknowledgement he refused to be touched for a  time being.  If she could,  -  no, she should.  But the distant words  of a friend of hers.  A man who took so much care of her over  the years: They whisper the realness into the back of her head.

 A strained look, slipping hands over her thighs as she propped  oneself up.  A formal sitting if not how she’d usually sit upon  the floor.  

   ‘ But I do. I.. know a lot. S’not the       best I can do..but I know a lot more       than’I should.. ’

 So quietly, she exhaled.  Slowly now, she took away her glasses,  a piece of her she’d had for many a year.  Placing them to the  side, not discarding, but so neatly.  The heel of palms came to  rub at the daring blur  -  hopes in all giving her a better vision  and finally looking toward the clearly, delfecting man before her.

 A poor choice.  But one she can’t be ungrateful for.  He hid so much,  and yet she knew too much.

  ‘ It’s always been easy, you make       more choices than anyone I’ve ever       known in all my years.. s’like you don’t       stop for anyone, unles is’yerself..  ’

 Words slurred, another fact from the intoxication running freely,  unlike the want and urge to console him, to wrap arms around him  delicately  &&  embrace his hurt, let him feel what he needs to  -  with the lack of his own self judgement.  A tight swallow, and a  tilted gaze now.  It is her place to encourage choice.  It’s her  fate, destiny  -  all she was ever made for.  

 Daring, she scoots close, yet no contact is made.  That was for  his.  Yet the offering of such was implemented with the enclosure  between them, while her hands allowed fingers to lace.

  ‘ I.. think I might be drunk, but I’m..I’m       still smart enough to tell you that, no       matter what you tell yourself negatively,       every choice you have made up until       now, whether good or bad  -  has been       your own..and…and that’s good enough,       to feel good about oneself.  You’re so..       different  -  Sometimes I forget that I am       nothing more than what is expected of me. ’

 A hiccup, though tears may threaten, a shrug is given.

   ‘ You are so special to me. And that counts,        even if you don’t like it.  ’

 A reminder of herself  -  he were what made humans, human.  The very essence of confliction made into choice  -  every  motive  &&  strength, weakness and solitary, each misery to  counter good will.  He itself stood fair to what humanity would  look to, the very being that she could reach accomplish being  or could ever become.  No, there were so strokes of jealousy,  no hatred or envy.  But a pride and.. was it love?  Maybe so,  but it grew with each giving moment.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

qrow’s head remains low, but pale red eyes peer with slanted curiosity as Glynda goes off. her words sound a little unlike herself, and akin to riddles which he hasn’t the capacity to unravel unsober.

worst of it, from what he can tell of what she says, she’s right. and he has no way of writing it off, no way of rationalizing. she doesn’t try to butter him up with sentiments of being a good person or promises that things get better. she all but accuses him of putting others first, and praises only his effort, his choice to face the odds every day, hour, minute, without invalidating his own experience of the outcome. and he doesn’t like it. only because it hurts to know what he can’t have. not for long, anyway.

he relaxes, deflates from a bundle of fired up nerves with the release of a long breath he’d been holding the whole time - each kind word only hit him like lashings he had to brace against, but he bears it, allowing that burn within him to become a comfortable warmth that bring the barest lift of a smile to his face. though still downcast, it allows him to catch the movement of Glynda’s hands in his gaze.

he shouldn’t, and all those same old fears grip him from the inside out in the same way they always do in these situations. for all the trouble he knows it brings, he wants her and the goodness and comfort she offers, knowing of who she offers it to, and the alcohol helps drown out any inhibitions in the way of taking them. as much as it can.

his fingers slide only into the spaces between her own, so close and so far that no flesh quite touches, but the metal of his rings does. contact enough not to refuse her, contact enough to show he wishes to return consolation for whatever anguish of expectation she let slip, and yet less than what might start a path he no longer trusts himself to stop.

“Glyn, i… you…” just as he finds some precious second of peace, and his edges soften while searching for proper words to fish out from a swimming brain, …a snap, clatter, and crack nearby shatters the mood. Glynda’s glasses. after suddenly and unfortunately breaking clear through at the nosepiece, sending each half into a tiny but hard drop which left the lenses fractured.

qrow bites down the impulse to shrivel away again, but the energy comes out instead as an angrier follow up snarl and stamp of his foot. all the drunken belligerent flow of emotions he prefers to take out on arrogant enemies of Oz, turns toward the only arrogant asshole in the room, himself.

he is not allowed special moments. not without a cost. that is - for his entire life - the risk he takes, the choice he makes.

words fail him and his tongue freezes. he cannot say what he wants to say, how different and special she is too, in ways he doesn’t even fully understand;  like she said. he stops only himself.

it hurts to hold it in, but threatens too dangerous to speak aloud. like his heart wants to just explode and would take everything and everyone else around with it.

but he takes her hand. qrow takes Glynda’s hand fully and he squeezes with the strength of everything unspoken, until sedation and fatigue set so far in that his head feels heavy; he slumps lower and lower; his shoulder joins the rest of him on the floor and his forehead rests on Glynda’s wrist.

she deserves a better response, but he cannot do this. he is broken, and selfish for wanting to stay. he should have gone. and he shouldn’t have drank too much in too much of a hurry. gods, he hates himself right now.

[iimpious-archive-blog]

&& A BEAST & HIS BODY tw; bo/dy horr/or

         Amanojaku is a Yōkai his name means “Heavenly Evil” so basically he is a wicked spirit. He is very powerful as he was born from a goddess and cast from the Heavens much like his monster brother Tengu. Cast to the Earth Amanojaku grew very jealous of the living, he craved attention to the point this craving turned to a bottomless hunger. 

        He began preying on people, his favorite targets being children and brides as they receive the most attention. The self-proclaimed demon would steal the living human's identities by either ripping off their face and using it as a mask enjoying the rest of their body as a snack or he would possess them and control their body like a flesh puppet. He also likes to damn souls by tempting them into sinful corruption, but that’s only if he doesn’t want their body as his puppet.

        He was sealed inside the body he has now by the daughter of a priestess, the cat is still alive inside him and constantly tries to REJECT his spiritual presence as all living creatures do after some time. However, because the soul has been bound to the body it just makes a horrifying display. The body starts to reject and twitch sometimes cracking and mending. His head will at times fall limp as his eyes gloss over and his tongue falls out, as his neck contorts in unnatural ways. This is all the rejection of a living soul if they resist too much he normally kills them. 

        However, the cat’s body is special. It has been bound to him and the bond can’t be broken. He curses the body and constantly fights his inner cat urges as the souls have become very intertwined. He walks the weird line between living and dead, once again never fitting into the heavens or realm below. 

[verosmoonshine-blog]

For a Fistful of Azerite...

(Takes place approximately 2 months ago, prior to his promotion in the Agents of Suramar) TW: Blood & Violence

Prelude | Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV (coming soon!)

As someone who once dedicated their life to the art of arcane, intensely researching the magical properties of their world, Veros knew that he would have to get a hold of Azerite somehow. The blood of their world was crystallizing at the surface, both a horrible outcome of the immense blade in Silithus, and a wonderful gift to the denizens of Azeroth. The mineral could transform life as they knew it.

Oh, if only people weren't so distracted by power and warfare.

In any case, Veros knew he would have to act. How to get his hands on such a precious mineral, he did not know, aside from showing up, upfront to the goblin miners in Silithus and plucking the gems from their fingers. It wouldn't be easy. It probably wouldn't even be worth risking his life over.

But when the rest of the world has just barely been exposed to a man who so dearly missed it for ten thousand years, any risk he had to take to learn more was justified.

Such a way of thinking brought the nightborne to Silithus, where the elf perched a distance off from the site of the wound. How long he had been standing there, gazing in horror at the incomprehensibly massive blade lodged into the earth, he did not know. The smell of metal, smoke and blood filled his lungs despite being far away from the digsite. He knew what he was going to see when he came out here. He read enough and heard enough, he thought, about the blade’s size and massive veins of Azerite sprouting out. But to see it all in person, to see it to scale and feel its raw power rock his entire body -- nothing could have prepared him for that.

He couldn't afford to be distracted though. He needed to to find a way to steal some of the mineral for himself. Watching the goblins hack away at it, knowing that they’d likely haul it off to use it for warfare purposes sickened him. He could do so much more with it without ever having to claim a life. He has to act now.

Veros stands to his full height, pulling his black mask over his nose and mouth. His mission is simple, an easy in and out stealth op. His time with the Agents certainly boosted his confidence and gave him the skills he needed; getting a hold of Azerite should serve as a means of thanking them, once he manages to study it. He scans the digsite again, taking in the view he had from the cliffside for a moment longer. He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath with his arms crossed on his chest, and falls forward freely.

Arcane swells and surrounds him, propelling the nightborne faster in his descent. With a shimmer of power, Veros allows the magic to envelop him fully, rooted deep in his runes and changing his body into pure energy. Just the very presence of the Azerite nearby heightened the former ley-walker’s spell, and he rides it, blinking forward several yards in rapid succession. He moves like a speeding bullet, becoming one with the arcane to navigate through the land until he finally hovers just above the destroyed land.

His body rematerializes as he slows, the arcane still clinging tight to him to keep him invisible. His feet hit the ground running, adrenaline pumping through his veins as he rides out his momentum, sprinting to the side of the massive blade. Goblins peppered the entire site, hacking away at the magnificent pillars of citrus and azure stone that sprouted from the earth. The closer he stood to one of those veins, the more he could hear its raw power sing to him, calling to him. He slows to a stop, standing between two blissfully unaware goblin miners, and gazes up at the Azerite. Oh, how rich it is in energy, he could sense it so! No amount of ley-walking or tapping could even compare to even the barest aura of power the mineral held.

Taking this entire vein was highly unlikely to happen, Veros knows. And now that he stands before it, he realizes he likely doesn't need as much as he anticipated. If it held this much raw, unfiltered power, then he needs only a sample, just to study.

Veros turns away, sprinting off to find smaller veins of Azerite. His runes hummed, absorbing the magic in the air to keep his invisibility spell fueled. His mind ran wild with the potential uses for Azerite. An endless power source, Azerite powered machines, enchanted armor, empowered ley-walking -- good Stars he practically salivated at the very idea of it all.

This should be the gift that saves the world, not ends it.

Filled with a burst of excitement, Veros picks up the pace, finally finding a nice spot with enough space away from the busy miners. Smaller ores of Azerite sprouted from the ground, highlighted by the sunlight refracting on the rock’s facets. A beautiful sight, Veros muses, and he wastes not a moment longer in retrieving his satchel. He held the enchanted bag in one hand, pulling a mace out and crystallizing arcane around it. Purple gems coalesce together against the mace, forming a jagged point to serve as a pickaxe. With a grin, he readies himself, raising the pick and striking it into the ore.

Only… it doesn’t hit the ore.

Upon bringing the pick down, the jagged gem catches onto something unseen midair, the tip of the pickaxe quickly painted with blood. Veros gasps, staggering backwards, his invisibility spell fading away with the distraction. The hidden figure before him becomes more clear, Veros’ pickaxe lodged neatly through the muscle of a forearm, blood dripping from the accidental wound. Veros backs away slowly as the stocky human man emerged from his stealth, clutching his arm and baring his flat teeth at the elf.

“Oh… Oh dear, were you invisible too?” Veros laughs nervously, frantically trying to find a way out of this. “Oh, s-silly me, silly me!”

The human lets out a shout, presumably in Common, and charges at the nightborne, drawing a blade faster than Veros’ eyes could track. The human slashes towards him, Veros just barely swinging his head back in time to avoid the fatal blow.

“Pray, do forgive me!” Veros shouts, blinking backwards to put distance between them. “Neither of us saw each other! Though I probably would have confused you for Azerite anyways, considering the blue and gold armor.”

The rogue leaps through the air, thrusting a hand forth to rain a dozen tiny daggers down on the elf. Veros yelps in fear, throwing his hands up and detonating arcane in the air, destroying the daggers and blasting back the human.

“You Alliance folks really don't like jokes, do you…” Veros grumbles, building a pillar of ice before him to prevent the man from coming closer. “A joke! Because I'm old, you know, I can't tell the difference any--”

A burst of smoke fills the air, and suddenly, the human is behind him, tearing the pickaxe from his arm and swinging it at Veros. Veros whirls around, just in time to watch the man impale the pick into Veros’ bicep. He lets out a cry, clamping a hand around the wound, only to feel the human’s boot come crashing against his jaw. Veros falls back, landing atop some of the pointed tips of tiny Azerite clusters, feeding into the nightborne’s pain. The rogue pounces, another set of blades drawn as he descends down on the elf. Panicked, Veros yanks his sword from his side, still in its sheath, and sloppily parries the attack. The human lands, and Veros pulls from the power of the Azerite around him, filling his runes with a golden glow. As the human steadies himself to strike again, Veros releases a powerful burst of magic from his body, his tattoos crackling with arcane lightning. The rogue is blasted back once more, landing swiftly on his feet and sliding backwards against the gravel with the momentum.

Veros rolls to his side, making the poorly thought out decision to rip the pickaxe out of his arm. He screams in pain as he does so, clamping a hand down against the wound, channeling fire to seal the destroyed flesh. It burned horribly, but with the attacker still pursuing him, he would have to deal with it later. A shell of arcane forms around Veros, catching the knife hurled at him just in time. When the rogue charges for him once more, Veros is on his feet, ducking from the rogue’s knives and closing the distance between them by inches. Veros grabs the human’s face roughly, shoving him until he fell onto his back. The nightborne stomped a foot onto the human’s chest, creating frost on impact and freezing the man to the ground.

“You’re a mean one, human,” Veros sneers, staggering away from the rogue. “Count yourself lucky I'm not a killer.”

He hefts his pickaxe, rushing to the vein he had his eye on, and with his good arm, he swings, messily cracking and ultimately crumbling the precious mineral into pieces with his untrained swing. It did not matter to him, though. So long as he got what he came for, it was a success. His heart pounds against his chest, a quick, heavy tempo that clashed with the swings of his pickaxe and the cracking of ice behind him. The trap he placed on the human would not last long, Veros knows, and he makes haste, scooping as many shards of Azerite as he could into his bag.

He hears the ice shatter behind him, and he leaps to his feet, stumbling as he tries to sprint away. The anxiety rocks him as he runs, the hum of the massive sword beside him only worsening the dear. The footsteps behind catch up quick, and Veros desperately holds back the need to scream before he finally whirls around, magic swelling in his hands, ready to strike the rogue.

All too late.

He did not register the blade, nor the human’s face as he came close. The rogue had unsheathed an unexpected sword, and as it pierces through Veros’ abdomen, painted crimson all the way to the tip of the blade that poked out of his back, Veros saw only yellow and white in his vision. His breath stops short in his throat, and vaguely, through his muddled sight, does he see the outline of the human’s snarl. With a horrid slick sound, the human yanks the blade out, leaving Veros scrambling for his breath, hopelessly reaching out and grasping at anything as he crumbles gracelessly to the floor. The runes etched into his skin glow erratically, pulsing with different colors of citrus orange and violet, matching his heartbeat and his feeble attempts to summon magic -- any magic at all -- to come to his aid. His hands twitch, sparking with power, and he rolls sluggishly, watching as the human begins to rummage through his belongings, looting the Azerite.

A novice mistake, Veros had made. He told no one that he was coming here, he came wholly unprepared for the mission, and ultimately, he dies here alone. No one would ever know why.

Veros coughs, blood garbled in his throat and spilling from his lips. The human had what he needed, and as life slowly slips away from Veros, anger and rage take the place of his fear. He had come all this way seeking knowledge, seeking to learn of their world and ultimately how to heal it, and this is how he loses? A nameless human would rob the man that desperately wished to see the sky again, rob him of his opportunity to rebuild his life into something worth it? He would let this human walk away with the very key he needs to advance his research?

He grit his bloody teeth, his fingernails scraping and digging into the hardened soil, grasping desperately until his fingers were inches in the ground. He did not come here to die. His purpose was not yet complete. One way or another, Veros is leaving with that damn Azerite.

As the human reenters his stealth, Veros roots himself, using all of his energy to grasp and siphon the rich arcane seeped into the ground. He feels himself connect to the ley lines, feels every crevice and vein of the arcane surround him, even to the base of the sword in the earth. He became an extension of those lines, and as he did, the overwhelming power coalesced in the earth rushes into Veros’ body, his runes glowing vividly as arcane overtakes him. The runes on his abdomen, however, had been severed with the human’s sword, and could not hold onto the magic as it needed to. The magic instead poured out, searing and tearing further through Veros’ wound. He screams, feeling the arcane crystallize in his wound, but he did not relent. Powered by pure magic and rage, the nightborne forces himself to stand, lightning lurching from his body and forming a storm around him, the ley lines continuing to pour energy into him. The human does not get the chance to remain stealthed, and he turns to see the nightborne thrust his hands forward, unleashing the power from the ley lines outwards.

Lightning explodes from his fingertips, blues and violets of incredible brightness filling the view of both men, releasing a shockwave of power forward that travels across, cracking the ground beneath their feet and igniting the arcane smoke left behind into brilliant flames. The human is caught on the onslaught, his armor destroyed by the magnificent display, his body tossed like a ragdoll several yards away. The explosion continues to crackle and echo throughout Silithus, a snowy, sparkly substance beginning to lightly rain down to the floor in the area. No doubt such a powerful spell would attract attention, but Veros hardly had the mind to think of those consequences.

Running on the power of arcane within him as well as adrenaline, Veros darts forth to the human, roughly snatching his stolen belongings off the man’s belt. The weakened human tries to fend him off, and as the man pulls a knife, Veros snags a broken shard of Azerite beside them, hefting the rock and crushing the human’s skull with it, feeling blood spatter onto his face with the blow. With that, the human fell still, lifeless and limp. Veros came down from the energy, slowly, realizing just what he had done. His blood as well as the human’s stained his hands all the way to his arms, and Veros fell back, landing roughly and with a squeak. His clothes had turned to a deep shade of crimson, soaked heavily with his own blood. As his power depletes, so does his energy, and he desperately holds onto consciousness. The world around him fades in and out of darkness, his limbs heavy and breath slowing. Oddly enough, he is comfortable lying on the destroyed terrain, despite the blood, despite the death and despite the fire. So easy it would be to shut his eyes and sleep here.

The Azerite continues to hum in his bag. Veros’ bleary eyes fixate on the chunk he used to slaughter the human, feeling his wound worsen as it fully dawns on him. He killed a man for a rock. He, who was not cut out for fighting, not meant for killing, had taken a life for this mineral. To die here would not make it worth it. The death would be for nothing but murder, and the stolen Azerite would go to waste. He has to get up, he has to take this home and make the risk and the life he recklessly ended worth it.

He wheezes, taking the chunk of Azerite used for murder and shoving it into his satchel. Ironic that he wanted to prevent such a mineral from being used to claim lives, only for he to literally use the rock as a tool for death. He could barely hold his arms up enough, but he forces himself, raising his satchel and watching it glow softly until finally, he casted his teleportation spell, sending the bag into its safehouse destination. The power is not enough to teleport himself, he realizes. There was a touch of sorrow, and he wondered idly: is it selfish to mourn your own death?

The question goes unanswered. He reaches for his hearthstone weakly, his vision finally giving out, the last of his strength spent on grasping the stone. He lay on the ground, bathed in a pool of his own blood, and after a long moment of stillness, he dematerializes, safe at last within the confines of Suramar.

Fifi would not be happy to find her friend porting into her room on death’s edge.