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imagine-darksiders · 9 months ago

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Do remember when you've written about the desires of Draven & Samael regarding y/n? If it's not too much to ask, would you mind continuing the series by adding Ulthane? I've never seen longing for someone written in a way that was so appealing.

HELLO! Thank you for this ask, I hope you don't mind, I'm going to make this into a 2 part fic because I've got 2 ideas on how to end it, but I'm having trouble deciding which one to write. So...

That said, please enjoy the fic. It's sort of meant to be a part 4 to Family Tree.

Ulthane X Reader.

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Ulthane Blackhammer’s soul is damned.

No. More than damned.

If the maker is certain of anything, it’s that his sorry soul is on a collision course straight for Oblivion itself.

He’s already come to terms with the fact that he won’t be joining the Stonefather when his time eventually runs out and he’s kicked off the proverbial coil.

For too long, he’s carried the crushing weight of his sins across his shoulders like a water yoke, and some day – perhaps not today, nor for another hundred years – but some day, he’s going to lose his footing, and all the harm he’s done will spill out for everyone to see.

“Maker’s bones,” the old giant curses into his palm as he scrubs a gargantuan hand slowly down his face, fingers tugging at thick tufts of beard as though he means to rip the whole thing from his chin in a fit of desperation.

As if his involvement in the End War wasn’t atrocious enough… Now he’s… he’s…

With a bone-shuddering groan, the maker tips his chin towards the sky and allows his skull to clunk back against the tree bark that’s digging into his spine.

The Maker tree is vast. Vast enough that it utterly dwarfs Haven’s surrounding skyscrapers both in height and girth… Vast enough to offer ample hiding places within its higher branches for even the largest of its occupants.

A century ago, if one had accused Ulthane Blackhammer of being a coward, they’d have been met with his cheery grin, the flash of tusks, and his knuckles to the underside of their jaw. But a century ago, Ulthane was a very different maker, a maker who would never have hidden away in the uppermost branches of a great tree or tucked himself into a cankerous hole gouged out of the bark.

The maker he used to be wouldn’t be threading one colossal hand into his beard whilst the other fisted itself into his cowl to keep his appendages from venturing south towards a very prominent tent bulging at the front of his leather, blacksmith’s trousers.

That maker hadn’t met you.

Ulthane’s chest heaves in and out, drawing great swathes of air into a set of enormous lungs before expelling it all again in an attempt to ease his thundering heart out of his throat and back between his ribs.

It was an accident… A mistake.

But then, how often has he tried to spin himself a similar spiel?

Agreeing to forge that accursed blade was a mistake.

Trying to help his friend was a mistake.

And look at the consequences. Look at who’s suffered – is still suffering – for his mistake.

To Ulthane, accidents are no longer a negligible offence. They’re simply unforgivable.

What had just occurred down in the hollow of the tree was less an accident at all then, and more an egregious sin worthy of punishment.

Wheezing out another groan, the maker raises a fist up to his mouth where, without hesitation, he sinks his formidable teeth into the skin on his knuckles, feeling the bone shift and creak under the pressure of his bite. His other hand tears from his cowl and thumps down onto the wood at his side, his fingers curling into claws that dig harshly into the flesh of the tree.

He has to keep both hands occupied, deliberately so.

He can’t run the risk of letting them wander down to fumble with the gleaming belt buckle on his trousers.

He had to leave. Staying down there isn’t an option at the moment. He had to take himself and his… urges somewhere far away where he wouldn’t run the risk of disturbing you further than he already has…

Only a few minutes ago, down in the hollow of the tree, the humans had all been laying asleep whilst their ‘great’ guardian stood vigil in the arched opening that serves as a doorway into and out of the little sanctuary.

The mere fact that they trusted him to watch over them while they slept spoke more about their character than it did his own. It also served to twist a poisonous blade into his guts, eating away at him from the inside.

It was as he stood there brooding over his crimes that he happened to lower his gaze to the arms folded firmly across his broad chest.

He’d grimaced at the sight of them.

That day, he’d elected to work gloveless, forgoing cumbersome leather to use his bare hands so he could fix one of the humans’ shotguns that had been firing both barrels at the same time. He couldn’t help but dig a little deeper than necessary into the manmade weapon, admiring it inside and out, from the wood on its stock to the engravings decorating its action.

Once again, human ingenuity had him entranced.

There was, however, a minor consequence to his curiosity. And that was the slippery layer of gun oil that coated his finger tips.

Glowering ineffectually down at the tinted residue, he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, sighing as they slipped and slid over one another, tractionless.

He needed to find a cloth…

At the back of the central chamber, there lay another ‘room’ of sorts, hidden behind an old, blue tarp you yourself had nailed across its entrance to grant the humans who venture inside a little privacy. And while it's been known to be a little hideaway for the purposes of washing and bathing, its predominant use is for storage, housing an assortment of supplies from ammunition to cardboard boxes full of non-perishable food stuffs to barrels filled to the brim with collected rainwater.

Knowing there’d be some form of cloth or towel inside, Ulthane had stolen across the tree towards the alcove and allowed himself a moment of bemusement at the lightness of his step. Several days prior, one of the humans had made a casual joke about feeling his footfalls reverberating through the whole tree when they were trying to sleep. At the time, Ulthane had laughed it off. It was only when night fell that he started to question if the human’s comment was truly meant in jest.

And so, at the expense of his carefully curated, intimidating presence, the maker had trodden softly towards the storage space, slid his knuckles beneath the tarp and lifted it aside to step underneath it.

He didn’t even make it all the way through before his eyes landed upon a tiny shape lit by the flickering firelight of a wall sconce.

At once, Ulthane’s legs locked up tight, stopping him mid-stride as if he’d been spontaneously and abruptly cast in stone. Not even his chest moved, all the breath stilled in his lungs and was left there to stagnate while he drank in the sight before him.

Wide, startled eyes peered back up into the maker’s face, unblinking, caught by the same trap of shock he’d found himself tangled up in.

Evidently, not all of the humans were asleep.

Ulthane wasn’t sure if a second passed, or an eternity. All he knew was that within the innocuous stretch of time, he bore witness to something he never imagined a brute like him would be privy to. It seemed a miracle to be seeing it at all, as though he could blink, and the moment would fly away from him like words to a forgotten song, and never again would he catch another fleeting glimpse of that same biological artistry, even if he spent the rest of his days trying to find it.

So, he didn’t blink.

For standing before him without a scrap of clothing on, stood the one human who could have brought such an ancient giant to a complete, breathless standstill.

You.

Time seemed to drag its heels as Ulthane watched a wet cloth slip from your fingers to land on the wood below with a sodden ‘plop.’

You were bathing, he realised belatedly, ignoring an odd yet pleasant quiver in his stomach.

Your skin glistened with moisture left behind from the cloth, looking a damn sight cleaner than you had several hours prior after he found you covered elbow to fingertip in oil from your own gun.

While the humans despise using their drinking water for nonessential purposes, if cleaning must be done, they’d either wet a rag and scrub themselves down with a single squeeze of water from a nearby barrel, or they’d use one of their ‘baby wipes.’ The ones you’d been kind enough to deplete on Ulthane yesterday when you cleaned his bloody nose….

Eyes the colour of gun smoke softened with the rarest and gentlest affection as they drifted from the delicate space hidden between your thighs, over the damp skin on your chest, all the way up to the true work of art – your face; the face he’s sworn to one day immortalise in marble so that the Universe might never forget the human who gave a maker like him the time of day, and who opened his eyes to a species he’d previously only known through scriptures and hearsay.

But as he stared numbly down at you, half-oblivious to the soft tingling sensation trickling down from his belly, Ulthane finally, finally, registered the expression on your face.

And just like that, a terrible, gut-wrenching lurch of alarm suddenly crashed into his chest like waves on jagged rocks, and the world fell out from underneath his feet.

Ulthane blinked hard as time caught up to him once again, though he knew by then, it was already far too late.

“U-Ulthane?” he remembers you uttering, and it was only then he realised you’d thrown an arm over your breasts and slipped a hand down to try and protect yourself further from his wandering eyes.

Your brows were pinched, your mouth angled down until a look of abject horror spread across your dainty features.

Horror…

Of course you were horrified.

Of course you would look at him like he’s a monster come to life right in front of you.

He’d just blundered right in on you when you were at your most vulnerable, and then, instead of immediately retreating or averting his eyes to preserve your dignity, what had he done?

He’d simply stood there, gaping at you like some depraved and lecherous beast.

Worse still - worse than stumbling in on you in the first place - was the telltale sensation of skin stretching in the space below his belt buckle, accompanied by a sudden urgency that pooled in his gut as the fly piece of his leather blacksmith’s trousers began to bulge outwards, pressing into the sensitive head of his treacherous anatomy.

He still recalls the moment your eyes had flicked down, and then widened considerably.

It took him another moment to put two and two together to realise what was happening to him. It had, after all, been so long since he’d…

… For Stone’s sake, he’s a maker. Ulthane has been around for far longer than Humanity has even been on the planet. He’s too old and too gruff, and his head is screwed on far too tightly to ever be turned by a member of the fairer sex.

He’s not a youngling anymore. Long gone are the days of his youth when he’d send cocky grins across Tri Stone at maiden warriors or fumble his way through a brief and meaningless romance with one of the forge sisters.

He hasn’t been that maker for millennia.

Until he met you.

And you, he understands without a shadow of a doubt, are not meaningless.

What you are, however, is categorically and unequivocally off limits.

You're a human - a member of the very species his actions had doomed to extinction. You know nothing of the maker who had taken you in, and much to his confusion, you trust him. Hell, you even claim to like him, something that is as equally awful as it is humbling. You should never like him. If you knew what he did, your hatred would rival the kind that demons have for humanity.

You'd want him dead if you knew the truth.

But you don't know.

All you know now, is that Ulthane - a maker you've been relying on to keep you safe and protected - has essentially laid his feelings bare for you to see. Reactions like his are harder to hide when he's several times your size.

All of a sudden, a visceral abhorrence for himself rose like a fanged serpent to coil around his windpipe, squeezing it until he thought he might retch up his own guts onto the floor in front of you.

Ulthane Blackhammer has never retreated from anything in his long, gruelling life. Every adversary, he’s faced head-on. Every battle, he’s gone in swinging. Every hardship, he’s never once given a thought to falling back.

But then again, there are a lot of exceptions to a lot of rules.

And down there in the hollow, Ulthane made such an exception to his longest standing achievement.

He took a step backwards, his shoulder colliding with the side of the tree, and then he turned on his heel and ran.

#darksiders #darksiders 2 #darksiders 3 #pining #penice >:]#Ulthane

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shadowgast-recs-weekly · 1 year ago

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Have some extra time? Want to dive into something deep, or maybe stay up until 5am reading shadowgast fanfiction? Well, this week, we've got thirteen series for you! Check them out underneath the cut, and please comment and kudos if you liked them!

Clock Hands by royalgreen (62504, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: None

Alternate take on canon where Essek and Caleb start a relationship, leading into an alternate Rumblecusp arc

Reccer says: Great pining, sweet fluffy bois, fantastic worldbuilding, and a mystery

Touching Sentiments by Chanse (SpottedEnchants) (239244, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

This slice-of-life, interconnected collection of premises explores, among many things, the concept of Essek as both touch-averse and touch-starved, and how this might affect his relationships with the Mighty Nein.

Reccer says: I love how the author handles Essek's conflicting needs, and his relationship with all of the Nein (especially Caleb). It's so soft.

Wild Magic Surges by literalfuckinggarbage (10385, General) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Character studies of each wizard turning into a child version of themself through a wild magic surge in Aeor.

Reccer says: They are so sweet and precious as children! And all of the Nein’s voices are perfect

Among the Tattered Ruins by Cardinal_Daughter (33320, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Post canon getting together in Aeor, being domestic/sexy in Caleb’s house and meeting family.

Reccer says: I liked it!

Essek Thelyss' Lingerie Collection by CircaTheKnowledgeable (19490, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Essek Thelyss is given his first set of lingerie and finds a confidence in it that he has not had in a long time. Caleb loves it too.

Reccer says: Hot!

Shadowgast Omegaverse by firefright (54283, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: Omegaverse

alpha!Caleb and omega!Essek fall into a relationship right before the peace talks. This explores that and continues on

Reccer says: It's always wonderful to find a good a/b/o series, and this fits that beautifully

Catch A Falling Star (Critical Role) by RainyDayDecaf (32921, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: Choose Not to Warn, Graphic Depictions of Violence

The Mighty Nein find more than a Beacon in the sewers of Zadash. They also find a drow wizard and prisoner of war.

Reccer says: Mostly pre-relationship, the slow build is lovely! Heart wrenching at times and amusing at others.

birds of prey by TheKnittingJedi (102785, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: Choose Not to Warn

A Scourger!Bren AU that has Bren and Essek playing cat-and-mouse in political intrigue, spy games, and increasingly complicated emotions

Reccer says: I liked it!

the tusk love cinematic universe by kaeda (168202, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

While in Aeor, Essek and Caleb are transported to what seems to be the world of Tusk Love.

Reccer says: Kaeda is able to take such a crack premise and make it deeply compelling and heartwarming

reflections and other illusions of control by atlasarcana (84220, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: Graphic Depictions of Violence

Essek and Caleb have bedroom issues and summon an echo. The Echo is from a timeline where Bren remained a Volstrucker. They make things work.

Reccer says: This fic series focuses on relationship dynamics, intimacy, repression, and vulnerability. Caleb's journey into accepting a Dom role has to do with healing from a lot of trauma, and it's wonderful watching him be taught by Bren, who inadvertently is also healing from trauma by doing so. Plus, there's cross-timeline matchmaking for Bren and his own timeline's evil Shadowhand.

Aeor is for Lovers: Prompt Fills by LessAttitudeMoreAltitude (17979, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Essek and Caleb in Aeor, their relationship developing over a series of whumpy incidents

Reccer says: For a whump based series, it's surprisingly soft and sweet

Ages Past Ages Hence Cinematic Universe by Athenavine (30355, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: Graphic Depictions of Violence

Slice of life romance fics that capture the fulness of the love blooming between two wizards in exandria

Reccer says: athenavine really captures the characters voices, and the pace the romance moves at is just delicious. the descriptions are visceral and immersive and the fic updates very reliably and regularly. the series is emotionally compelling and spicy and exciting and it takes place over a span of time that feels like i really get a peek into all the important moments between my two favorite exandrian wizards. 10/10, will scream for anybody to read it, highly reccommend

And then we have two recs for this last one!

Field On Fire (Not the Actual Events) by Defiler_Wyrm (60535, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes, Contains a couple of monsterfucking scenes, but it’s still Shadowgast

From the depths of Aeor to a peace beyond, Caleb and Essek come together and explore their relationship—and each other—thoroughly.

Reccer 1 says: I’m entirely biased, but I like the balance of fluff and smut with a bit of humor and a pinch of angst, and how no two sex scenes are truly the same. Reccer 2 says: Top quality smut, Essek being competent as hell, Caleb being super slutty, I love all of it

Aeor is for Lovers is an 18+ Shadowgast Discord server. The above fanfic recommendations were pulled from our community for this weekly event. All fics, unless otherwise specified, will primarily feature Shadowgast. Have any questions about what this is? Check out the FAQ! Next week, we’ll be back with Sports/Athletes AUs! Let's make the noodly wizards move!

#shadowgast #caleb widogast #essek thelyss #critical role #cr fic recs #fan fiction rec list #Fan Fic Series #Longfic

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frankensteins-mt-dew · 9 months ago

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my brain is back on its mighty nein baybees bullshit

imagine Fjord and Beau (post ruidius chaos)going to liberate the orphanage where Fjord grew up and make it their mission to get the kids to good homes and also make the orphanage a much better place.

They meet and care for so many kids of all different races in that time, but some have latched on to them.

Literally, in Fjord's case. From day one a half orc that can't be older than four grabs on to Fjord's pinky and follows him everywhere. He doesn't speak, but he is very smart and knows everything and everyone in the orphanage. When Fjord mentions leaving for the night the boy releases his pinky and bear hugs his leg. After a bit of gentle parenting from him and Beau, Fjord accepts his fate and goes home to Jester with a kid on his leg. Jester's exuberance scares the boy at first, but she wins him over with sweets and hamster unicorns. Soon he starts opening up to them. His name is River. He likes pancakes. He's scared of storms, even dark clouds make him panic. He hates his tusks, too. Fjord and Jester never really sit down and discuss adopting him, or even ask River. It's clear without any words or labels that they are a family.

Beau has a rough time with this project. Sure, the first few days are great. The kids are cute, and they look up to her. But there are so many of them. And they are so loud and sticky,how are they so sticky, when did that even happen? But she knows what it's like to have a shitty childhood, and works to make sure they won't have one any longer. There's one that's different than the rest. A half elf baby that Beau almost didn't know was there. She's quiet but curious, eyes always wandering, and content to just lay around. Beau makes a baby Bjorn to put her in while she herds children and does paperwork. It's strange, she never in a million years thought she'd be anything close to nurturing. She's not even doing much. But this kid seems content with her, even smiles up at her when Beau looks down from her work. When Yasha comes by she is swarmed by children. They treat her like a jungle gym and she could not be happier. She takes turns caring for this nameless baby and is in awe with her. How tiny she is, her big beautiful eyes. Yasha nicknames her Bug and tells her stories. There's no changing her mind, this is their baby, she tells her wife. There's just the question of her name, now. They make lists of names for her: flower names, names conventionally used for boys, weather names, warrior names. Nothing seems to fit her. Then one day Beau notices she has a red birthmark on her back at the base of her neck, where she herself has a tattoo to remember a fallen friend. Then it's clear what their little girl's name is. Soon after, they throw a party at their home to introduce the rest of the Nein to their daughter, Molly.

#i have so many thoughts #I miss the mighty nein so much #critical role #cr spoilers #the mighty nein #fjorester #beauyasha

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felixcloud6288 · 2 months ago

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Dungeon Meshi Miscellaneous Monster Tales 2

This felt a bit more comically purposed than the last one.

Golems

I complained about how golems were only used for combat purposes and this ended up giving a justification for why they aren't used for general purposes. And it's an explanation I felt in my soul.

It was because of programming errors.

This is like the equivalent of writing "if (x = 0)" when you were supposed to write "if (x == 0)". The first will set variable x to the value 0 and then return true because the operation succeeded. The second will check the value currently stored in variable x and return true if the value is 0 and false otherwise.

This also reminds me of a personal story trying to debug an issue I had with a spreadsheet I needed to analyze. I wanted the program to run a certain task for every line in the file but it kept having some odd error where the first line worked correctly, but every other line would act as if there was an extra field at the beginning and shift over by one.

Eventually I found that the issue was certain versions of Windows defined a new line differently from the linux OS I was using. The end of every line in the spreadsheet had a "\r\n" that I could only find by converting the spreadsheet into ASCII and then I had to remove every "\r" in the file to get it working.

Orcs

Kinda strange how orcs have upward facing teeth in their upper jaws. That seems impractical. Also, the teeth sticking out of the chief's mouth when it's closed are the upper teeth.

I wouldn't be surprised if those upper canines were rootless similar to a boar's tusks. In a hand-to-hand fight, orcs probably prefer grappling and then slashing their opponents with those teeth. It would keep them safe from getting something in their mouth they don't want.

I've seen posts of people commenting on Ryoko Kui's artbooks and I have to strongly agree that she knows how to draw women of all sorts of body types. And this section is just her indulging in the beauty of large women.

And Laios being Laios, he didn't realize where the line talking about physical attraction becomes uncomfortable and ended up angering the chief because the chief thinks Laios is leering at his wives. He also made Marcille uncomfortable because he had to bring up people's attraction to ears.

Mimics

All the info we get here is stuff from chapter 0. These things are just hermit crabs that grow to cocnut crab size and will use anything they can find. The one using a bottle cap is adorable.

They probably ambush small bugs and lizards when they're that tiny.

Treasure Insects

Nothing much to say here. Turns out the party ended up not only throwing away super valuable jewels, but they also ate super valuable specimens. Maybe the value of a treasure insect is related to how similar to an actual jewel they are.

Just as a reminder, I offered a hypothetical exchange rate of 1G = $0.05 USD when talking about the price of a book in the last Miscellaneous Monster Tales. Even at that rate, those bugs would go for fairly high prices. The diamond one would end up at $2,500, which is what an actual diamond like that could cost.

Ghosts

I'd heard of the thing Marcille mentioned about the weight of the soul and did some digging into it.

The whole thing comes from a 1907 study by physician Duncan MacDougall who wanted to see if souls have weight. He measured the weight of six patients at the moment of their deaths and found that one of them lost 21 grams when they died. The study is considered utterly bogus since he had such a small sample size and only reported on the single sample that fit his hypothesis. MacDougall himself even said that the results he got shouldn't be taken as conclusive of anything, but the newspaper that released the story did a horrible job actually reporting it as they usually do.

Calling brewing a type of necromancy is definitely a fascinating way to think about it.

Living Pictures

If Living Pictures are just illusion spells, then Laios's attempts to get food from them were doomed from the start no matter what. Even though he got to eat in that third painting, the food wasn't real which explains why he still felt hungry after and why he couldn't pull food from the second painting.

This is supposed to be silly but this one is just an existential nightmare. Laios's self-doodle seems to have all the memories of the real Laios and is just trapped in that painting forever.

Love how bad Laios's artwork is.

Kelpies

This is more informative than anything. I'd heard of kelpies before this chapter and decided to do a quick look into them because I was curious about the liver bit.

Kelpies originate in Scotland and they can shapeshift, though they usually can't transform their hooves.

It's probably just one of those things parents told children to keep them from playing in the deep rivers. "Don't play there. You'll drown" implies that the child's incompetence will kill them. But children are the most overconfident, egoists you'll ever meet. So you instead have to tell them there's a monster that will lure you in and drown you.

Now I'm curious if there were native horses or horse-like animals in Scotland that inspired Kelpies. Maybe the general origin is horse-riders would try to wade through rivers on their horses only to drown when the horse panicked and it spun into the kelpie myths.

I never found anything about them not eating livers.

back

#dungeon meshi #delicious in dungeon #dungeon meshi readthrough

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dootznbootz · 10 months ago

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Hi, what do you think about epic the musical as an Odyssey fan? Just curious

As an Epic the musical fan, I LOVE IT! Everyone's so talented and I love the music style!!! It's super fun and creative and it's amazing that Jay basically writes it all himself!

As an Odyssey fan... It's INCREDIBLY different. To the point where it's more "Odyssey inspired" than the actual Odyssey. But that's the thing. I wouldn't say Jay WANTS it to be word for word Odyssey and I DO think that'd be...kind of hard to do? Especially for Modern day.

It still has most of the "spirit" of the Odyssey though I feel like which is SUPER important. I'm saddened that very few adaptations really "balance" Odysseus' assholery and "goodness". I love "shithead Odysseus" but personally, I'm happy as long as an adaptation keeps to a "family man who wants to go home" for the most part :D (I really fucking hate the whole "Odysseus! The clever, swashbuckling hero who gets all the babes! ...He has a family?!" bullshit. That's very much not him. (He likes shiny things, yes but that's it)

More personal rambles below :D

I think it's interesting that Polites in Epic is more "peaceful" when in the Odyssey, he's called "captain of armies". And the fact he's killed right away when he was one of the last men alive.

Also Odysseus' and Eurylochus' friendship! I think it's sweet in the musical while in the Odyssey, it's quite tense. It gets more and more tense in Epic later on obviously but in the odyssey, it's been tense for a WHILE. Also!

Shout out to Armando Julian! Eurylochus' actor! I see a lot of people talk about Polites, Poseidon, Circe, and Hermes and they get a lot of fanart and love with their songs (rightfully so, ofc!!!) but Armando is really talented and people really sleep on Luck Runs Out! I'm about to become a vocal nerd for a moment. He's got a wonderful vibrato! I really love how he sings "feed" during Full Speed Ahead and "Captain, please" during Remember Them for example. His voice really fits with "speaking on behalf of the crew".

I know most people have a lot of feelings with the Circe Saga but I think that Jay did a great job considering... everything. Book 10 and 12 of the Odyssey are very complicated and I don't blame Jay for not wanting to delve into EVERYTHING with that. Odyssey Odysseus gets SA'd twice and while "I'm Not Sorry for Loving You" makes me worry, I really do think Jay will pull through with how fucked up Calypso's situation while still not having the graphic scenes in the Odyssey. It would be very hard to not only have what was basically an exchange for his men to be turned back to humans but if he interprets it happening throughout the entire year like some readers do, then that's really hard. :'D To truly portray Odysseus' fear of Circe while still having her be morally gray. As she very likely didn't mean Odysseus harm after a certain point but he was still afraid regardless.

Not only trying to not have such disturbing stuff shown in his musical but also, I think Jay was possibly trying to be considerate of Madeline Miller's Circe fans while still trying to show Odysseus discomfort and distress???? 😅 Sounds weird but like, as soon as I heard Circe talking about the nymphs being like her daughters and that she protects them, I thought that. That book is HUGE and I'm sure that many fans of it don't necessarily want to see Circe's "I do whatever I want. I don't need a reason. Woe, Oink be upon ye." as the most likely reason they were turned into pigs in the Odyssey is that ODYSSEUS is associated with them (the boar scar, the metaphors when talking about him in the Iliad, his trusted Swineherd Eumeaus, BOAR TUSK HELMET. Like, that's kind of the animal that represents Odysseus. (even when a spear pierces through a boar's hide, it'll STILL charge as they're that ferocious and determined...Just like Odysseus, a man who should be dead but isn't because of his will to go home. Homer didn't write them being turned into pigs necessarily as a "Men are pigs" thing.

I think the modern shift in how the situation seen today and other media of the Odyssey is why he wrote the songs he did. And considering it all? He did a good job navigating it. I'm very happy with the results!

I have more thoughts probably but those have been stewing in my brain for a while :D I definitely look forward to the next sagas!

#Mad rambles #ask #anon #shot by odysseus #silly thing but as I basically write Odysseus (and Penelope) as asexual. whenever I see stuff that's like 'Odysseus pushed aside his lust i #order to stay loyal' I get confused like “He didn't get lust in the first place? OHHHH yeah. My headcanon.”#He wants Penelope. Even if there was an easier “better” woman who might possibly even look similar. he doesn't want it.#like xD I mention him finding Penelope's strange naiad traits but if someone else does the same things she does? He'll still be like 😐

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puppetmaster13u · 1 year ago

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Who wants a WIP with some Batdad

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“B, catch me!” Bruce had barely landed in the cave before there was a small child barrelling towards him from the computers, trailing a blanket tied into a mimicry of a cape. Thankfully, Dick was incredibly light and his reflexes were good enough to catch the child who decided to take a leap into his arms. “B, guess what!” the child in his arms giggled, mischief dancing in blue eyes as he patted at the fake wound across his chest. He let out a questioning noise, pausing for a moment before he managed to force himself to properly speak. “What, chum?” “Alfred says I’m good enough to start trainin’ with the proper sticks!” his kid beamed, giving a gap-toothed grin. Right, he’d been learning with foam for the last few months, with the hopes of finding a proper weapon fit for him eventually. Bruce smiled at Dick, a bright feeling of lightness on his shoulders. “That’s amazing chum, I think that deserves some icecream and a movie night, what do you think?” There was a cheer, itty bitty hands raising in excitement as he laughed quietly. “Why don’t you head up and pick out a movie while I change into something more casual?” he booped their itty bitty nose, eliciting a giggle as they wiggled up on his arm and flipped off to scamper up the stairs. He smiled after the somersaulting child who disappeared into the shadows, reaching up to unhook the curved claws from where they rested below his neck. He sighed, taking a moment to breathe and finish shifting mentally from the Bat to just Bruce, even if it was getting harder to differentiate the two. His hands found their way to the cowl next, slipping it off and over the ears, which he turned off after a moment. The spike-guards that helped hold them in place came off piece by piece with silent efficiency, then the ears themselves alongside the mouthguard that made his teeth appear tusk-like. An idea that Dick had put forth after another round of nature documentaries. Amusement twitched on his lips as he carefully removed the layers around the undersuit meticulously crafted to allow for his full range of motion without taking away armor. Along with mimicking a mixture of chitin-esque scales and velvet-like fur, which was slightly new since Dick insisted that since bats had fur the Bat should too. Which honestly, a fair point. Finally he was clear to unclip each piece of the wing harness, bracing the limbs on the area they had built specifically for such an action to slip out, leaving him in the undershirt. Honestly it was better to do it with another person, but taking the wings off alone every once in a while was fine as well, as long as he tested them before taking them out the next night. Stretching, he unhooked the last bit of the wing membrane from his legs then the layer of armor on the boots that mimicked claws, even if not functional. Huh, there was an idea- for later though. He had promised Dick that they could have a movie night after all.

#what's outside au #what's out there au #cryptid batfam #batdad #batman au #bruce wayne #my writing #writing wip #wip #story wip #dick grayson #richard grayson #dcu #dc #batman #cryptid batman #mechanical wings #Bruce whenever he sees a child: They so SMOL

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sirsadly · 2 years ago

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request: orc/human - human is the orc's tailor; are they upset cuz the clothing keeps getting messed up? are the appalled by the quality of their former clothing for being so shoddy? does the orc's current ensemble simply not bring out their eyes? are they distracted during a fitting for their friend who deserves nice clothes dammit and didn't expect their ripped-ness to be such a problem because it isn't with their other customers? is this fantasy or modern? -shrugs- i apparently have more thoughts than i thought but this work training is so very boring - feel free to use none of them but the overall prompt but i crave anything that doesn't discuss "the five subcategories on this slide" pls

i hope you got through that work training okay, and you enjoy this mini fic. sorry for being beyond late ;)

Where My Hand Treads

male orc with gender neutral reader

591 words | sfw

Their thighs ate up most of the measuring tape. Their very same thigh you perfectly custom made pants for, that now stretched taut against the gulf of their muscles.

As their tailor, you were happy about their frequent patronage, but it felt like they carefully maneuvered the small shop you worked at least twice a week with an old garment at hand needing repair.

Sometimes that garment was something you made a week prior that needed mending. You wondered what their lifestyle could be like to warrant this many repairs, not that your wallet was complaining. Curiosity that is what we will call it for now, what that shapely legs do for a living.

You could excuse the ripping and loose threads, but what had you up in arms with annoyance, frustration, and maybe even anger was how his ensemble made the least amount of sense. Though he had all the pieces of a professional suit, he never seemed to put the right colours together. And when he did something of the proportions was off, or fraying at the hems hence coming to the shop.

Most importantly it hurt to see a diamond just covered in mud, his clothes never seemed to bring out his personality or the colour of his warm brown eyes. You told him as much after measuring him again for the second time this month, to make sure his clothes were not faulty on your part.

“You want to style me? But I don’t think you provide those services.” He said slowly. “Is this an exclusive offer for my frequent patronage, if so do other clients get this treatment as well.”

“You’re right we don’t. I think I’ve never offered anyone this. It’s just that you clearly need help assembling an outfit, especially if you are going to be here every day needing a garment repaired.”

His eyes wandered towards the rumbling ceiling of your small shop under the subway tracks, rubbing at the back of his head in thought. You have embarrassed him, your banter does not always read as playful as you would hope. Your ears heat in shame, in the already hot summer afternoon. Your words might not always lift a person’s confidence but you knew what you could achieve with your sewing machine and your critical eye. You knew it every time a client looked in the mirror after a fitting.

“Please allow me, I just think you are not shining to your highest capacity. Everyone has certain colours and cuts that make them look effortlessly put together. Not everyone gets to learn that, it’s something you either gotta be passionate about or learn early on.”

Your eyes looked straight ahead to his distracted ones, trying to catch the colour change of his mood. “I would like to extend that knowledge so that you may be your brightest self. I did not mean to embarrass you…” you trailed off after his lips pulled tight. He seemed to be enduring you, that expression twin to those braving the biting wind.

His tusks jutted out, a bit large for his face with his brown eyes, squat nose, and long curls.

You were already imagining the colours you would pull for him, neutral reds and browns for his green skin, toeing that line to bring out his complexion. He would be magnificent. This you could do, this where your hands have tread before.

“My body is in your capable hands, Tailor.” The comment did not go unnoticed, but you knew words could only go so far.

#sirsadly writings #monster romance #monster lover #monster boyfriend #monster fucker #monster x reader #requests are open #mini fics #exophilia #monster/reader #monster/human #orc/human #orc lover #orc x reader #orc x human #request answered

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sco07ut · 2 months ago

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ok one person asked about the reasonings behind my furry au so here’s (almost) every character in the show (sorry)

tubbs + edward: weird inbred pug adjacent dogs, i don’t even need to explain this one but the noses, the breed’s reputation for interbreeding, the viciousness untrained dogs can exhibit

val: deer, aside from the obvious visual link (mark gatiss’s lankiness and grace when playing val has undeniable deer-like qualities) deer are also surprisingly brutal at times despite being herbivores. they’ve been known to eat small birds to supplement nutrients & i feel like this ties into her matching harvey’s freak even though he usually seems to be weirder than her at first glance

harvey: toad, for obvious reasons

benjamin: frog, because despite being in the same (animal) family, he’s too different + wrong to ever be accepted by harvey. there’s this fundament divide between them that’ll never come together. (val being a deer could also be seen as her being more accepting of benjamin since she also isn’t a toad and doesn’t have those standards)

chloe + radclyffe: frog tadpoles (in that life stage where they still have a tail but have grown all four legs), doing an excellent job at pretending to be toads

geoff: pig, pig mask from apocalypse + him being the ‘fat one’. there are probably better choices but honestly idk i’m just feeling pig vibes for geoff. perchance for violence when you least expect it but also strangely endearing

mike: boar, the slightly better version of the pig, bigger and tusk-ier. also with a violent streak (asking geoff to kill his wife in the anniversary specials). they’ve got a sort of sturdy feel about them which for some reason i relate to mike

brian: mouse, pathetic and cowardly, he never stands up for himself against geoff + just endures what’s going on, though perhaps with a bit of snark (adjacent to a mouse biting you with their tiny little mouths)

pauline: fox, animal associated with a tricky & cunning nature and in fables is almost always the crow’s opposition. fated to be enemies etc. foxes in folklore are known to use deception for their own gain or to get where they need to be (the burger thing, going behind mickey’s back as part of the deal to be released from prison, pulling off the entire dementia life insurance scam)

ross: crow, animal associated with a tricky & cunning nature and in fables is almost always the crow’s opposition. basically same as pauline, they’re both tricky and manipulate the other into doing what they need to do. also, when it comes down to physical prowess, the fox is always going to win

mickey: capuchin monkey, s3e1. on a more serious note, monkeys are associated with being creative + cheeky which i feel just work with mickey’s personality. the capuchin part comes from the fact that they have adorable sweet faces and aren’t anywhere near as terrifying as your more well known species (chimpanzees, orangutans, gorillas, whatevs)

cathy: weasel, also often considered a tricky, cunning character in fables + in my mind a weasel would be like the fox’s enemy. idk if that’s a thing in real life

hilary: cow, his dvd extras bio having his fav animal be moo cow + the cow mask in apocalypse + his wife being a literal cow

maurice + his wife: llama and goat respectively. maurice being a llama is mostly just to contrast against his wife since they’re more reluctant to just eat what they’re given, compared to goats who’ll devour whatever they can get their trotters on (linking to cutting the special stuff into her own meat, making something subpar but still edible)

sam: politicians are often associated with snakes & snakes also have a reputation for eating whatever they can fit their mouths around (sam still eating the special stuff despite acknowledging that it ‘isnt right’ or whatever he said)

farmer jed tinsel: collie, hard working farm dogs but liable to going absolutely insane if left to their own devices (see, andrew)

chinnery: giraffe, linked to the giraffe from apocalypse + just as a personal aside, melman from madagascar 2 (who becomes a shoddy doctor). also visual similarities, being tall and blonde. this one is more of a stretch but you could argue that the way giraffes give birth (standing up to allow their newborn baby to fall six feet upon entering this world) could be analogous to chinnery’s veterinary practices - swift and brutal

charlie + stella: swans, someone accurately pointed out the whole ‘mated for life’ thing, which (if we ignore the specials) is what charlie n stella are pulling off. swans are also vicious little cunts which links to their personalities quite nicely. & another stretch but swans can be fiercely protective of their offspring, which in a way could parallel the way stella copes with julie’s death, she’s fiercely protective of her memories of julie

les: songbird, but like specifically one in captivity alone, doomed to sing forever but never find their calling (sorry)

babs: peacock, much to her displeasure, visibly amab but still undeniably beautiful + eye catching

iris: rabbit, we have all heard the phrase breeding like rabbits. also, does can start procreating at 4 months old which parallels iris having judee at 14 (sorry if this is how you found out about that). i think there’s also something to say regarding iris’ like neverending supply of energy to work as many jobs as she does + also (sort of) look after 11? kids vs rabbits/hares in folklore being swift + energetic

judee: pedigree cat, the very image of wealth and luxury, her entire existence came at a high cost. these cats are also very high maintenance, between properly looking after their fur + dealing with the medical issues that can stem from dodgy breeding. stereotypically quite bitchy animals too

bernice: sheepdog, i did have a brief debate with the gf over what sort of animal would best represent a religious leader. particularly in christianity, parishioners are referred to by their pastor as a flock (& it also ties into the biblical stories of shepherds travelling to see angels or the birth of jesus or whatever), so it would stand that their leader would thematically mirror an animal that could lead a flock. i did consider a ram (especially because the horns would be a fun nod to bernice’s utter demonic personality) but ultimately i settled on an english sheepdog since they also have a bit of a rough side + have cute little fringes like bernice

pop, richie + al: wolves, distinct hierarchy in their family, reflected by how wolves will generally always submit to pack members with more authority than them

ollie: chihuahua, ne’er before have i seen an individual so clearly afflicted with little man syndrome. yappy + annoying + prone to picking fights with everyone sorry i mean the wrong people

phil: cheetah, for cheating his way to the top by sleeping with that one guy. only half joking. also partially appearance based

dave: capybara, very tolerant, reflects him putting up with ollie for so long. genuinely struggled with this so that’s the only explanation i have aside from they both also have brown fair

tish: koala, also purely vibe based. she seems like she would have stds SORRY

lance: bearded dragon, a lizard species that can regrow their limbs (lol)

ernest (ableist guy): labrador, generally well-meaning but far more likely to mess something up than actually be of benefit to anyone

mick (cave guy): mole, underground vibes

sorry can you tell i don’t have many thoughts about some of the bg characters

ally + henry: hyenas, known to be violent animals + the obvious ‘laughing’ parallels to them being cunts in the cinema and also their appreciation for killingths

vinnie + reenie: two old hens, always clucking and tutting about something. slightly scratchy personalities vs chickens being known for scratching up the ground (it’s a stretch i knoww i’m running out of ideas)

pam, pamela, whatever: elk, the bugle. that or those baby seals you see on tiktok making stupid, weirdly human noises

herr lipp: donkey, ass jokes

frau lipp: bat, vampire jokes

i wish there was more to these but it’s literally what it boils down to

papa lazarou: some sort of freakish chimera, primarily a lion (ringleader of the circus and plays into the idea of there being one lion in the pride + a bunch of lionesses, him and his wives) but with other bits and bobs of other animals like a chimpanzee (evil) and a crocodile + elephant (representing the animals he stuffed wives into). my girlfriend was also like ‘what if his extra parts were bits he took from his wives’ which i thought was hilarious and am stealing

alvin: sheep(?), thematically used to represent people who follow the crowd + are quite mainstream, in this case this refers to his sexual practices. also considered to need someone else to be the decision maker, this could apply to both sunny and judith

sunny: dolphin(?), known to seek pleasure + highs by snorting sponges or whatever. sexual freaks

judith: praying mantis. pure vibes

@dangerliesbeforeyou @sleepysuburb (hope you guys don’t mind the tag, just saw u were interested in seeing more the tags :])

#genuinely sorry about how long this is #i only meant to do the main cast and then i jst kept on going for some reason #anyway not tagging everyone for obvious reasons #the league of gentlemen

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n0phis · 2 years ago

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alright boys. big post incoming.

DISCLAIMER: it is 3am upon writing this all down and i am also not a writer

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i’m gonna start with the more lore-based stuff and add the little physical details as they come! so let’s fuckin explain this, shall we

in the world of this design/my personal hc techno isn’t so much the blood god as he is his champion and/or successor of some sort! partially through birth but in a fated sort of way, where he was just inevitably going to achieve the things required of the champion within his lifetime and thus was blessed from a relatively young age without need for some monumental trial. the blood god’s mantle was granted– the cape he wears– and is of a beast that was essentially the manifested will of the blood god. now i do want to say that i’m unsure whether a lot of techno’s physical features also came from the blessing or if he was born with them; i’m leaning towards born with them to an extent, and imagine him as a similar/same species to that of schlatt and tubbo in my hc! nondescript, varying ungulate features with techno only being half blooded (and lacking the strange sclera & tusks initially, as those do fit with the blessing).

before i get into what the mantle does i’ll talk about the beast itself, because i absolutely fucking love it it’s my squinkly little mythic pig

tales of the boar describe it as a hulking, monstrous creature that could dwarf any hoglin and was covered head to toe in blood-red, serrated quills; suffice to say the mantle itself implies it was more likely to have simply been a mutated hoglin, a rare subspecies, or some sort of thick-furred, primal ancestor. the bushy mane of the mantle is very rough and sharp, but fades into a much softer coat further down the cloak– though it does have hints of red here and there, so perhaps not everything was an exaggeration.

the most pressing question is whether the entire thing is just folklore– if the mantle came from a real beast that existed at all or if it was just such a common tale told by the worshippers of the blood god that he himself heard and manifested the trophy into existence.

there really is no way to tell, unless you ask a certain old bird.

true or not, the boar’s story is that of an honourable plague. an animal that destroyed everything in its path and always, without fail, won. no matter how many of the world’s finest warriors sought it out, the beast never fell– never came close to falling. it lived a long and prosperous life, ruining others’, and the blood it spilt is said to have given the crimson forests their colour. it died old and happy as its tusks bore through and into its own skull, the crown on the mantle is representative of that– with the added flair of an article of holy clothing, that is. a crown of emerging tusks, not a trophy because of symbolism of some hero overcoming an impossible foe, but of a beast who lived life to the fullest. the unkillable imbuing its own virtue upon the wearer.

the mantle doesnt give so much as it exacerbates, though, granted only to those who, by their own merit, would inevitably live a life like the boar’s.

essentially while the blood god’s blessing doesn’t best the passage of time, it’ still kickass. and techno wasn’t given his chad nature by some god, he was just recognized for it.

the blessing– again, at a young age– also gave him his very striking eyes and tusks! the eyes are inspired by those of a bearded vulture, where their actual function is flushing blood into the sclera to intimidate other animals (which is just so incredibly perfect). it technically isn’t permanent, but is attached to such a minute increase in heartrate that unless he is incredibly bored his sclera is nearly always red. it’s a good way to tell if he’s sleeping, at least? that is if you can’t pick it up from the closed eyes, blanket, and snoring.

the tusks came in gradually as he aged, and on the topic of physical features his hair is dyed!

the voices (chat) were passed to him along with the mantle, which essentially functions as a selkie style half-pelt that fuses to him, grants him strength and heightened susceptibility to the aforementioned Chat (tm). he’s not a monster by any means when ‘fused’, but behaves slightly more like a big silly dog. or wolf, i guess, given the times he tends to use it. it’s actually the form he’s most comfortable in given how much more durable he is (hence boar guy in his reading glasses chilling up there) but over time without breaks from it the voices grate at him more and more. he kinda took a break from using it after doomsday.

he’s about 6’3 as a humanoid, but closer to 7’ fused with the mantle! it fuses from his chin, down his spine & shoulders to the tail, and finally down his legs.

his forearms, stomach (& most of his back) and neck are almost entirely unchanged minus the scale and build being a little altered! the cape/fabric part actually entirely disappears, and while the action of donning it is a very physical ‘putting it on’, taking it off is more of a mental thing— which poses a challenge when the voices have cause to be particularly loud and he just wants out but can’t focus.

the last few things i’ll touch on is the reception in canon to this, and the effects of the attempted execution.

so nobody but phil and maybe the rest of sbi truly know much about this, it’s actually generally assumed around the server that it’s just whatever strange sort of creature that techno is.

the stories– and the blood god himself– exist primarily in the nether, and techno rarely ever met with people without the mantle fully equipped and fused. it certainly contributed to his reputation, to the point of others being baffled upon seeing his ‘human form’ after assuming for so long that a bipedal, prickly hoglin was just this freakazoid’s default. he didn’t mind; the less vulnerable the better. and it allowed him to wreak havoc a hell of a lot easier, with a hell of a lot fewer voices telling him to tone it down as opposed to his beta male humanoid form. if the butcher army had known to make him take it off, things could have turned out quite differently. but they didn’t, so they can suck it.

lastly, slightly anticlimactically, and a wee bit differently to the art (which, again, was just the rough design after having these ideas marinating in my brain sauces for 7 months with no outlet), the effects of the totem! there arent veins running down him or the mantle’s face as cool as that would be, because, y’know, practicality, but all of his tusks (since he was fused at the time of near-death) have cracks in them that have been mended with gold! he also has a striking, golden lock of hair directly around the impact site on both forms, and fancy gold irises that compliment his freaky deaky sclera wonderfully.

and there’s my techno shit! i’m probably forgetting a lot, or i just havent thought about it yet and will come up with my answer to any questions immediately upon being asked and no sooner but YOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!! if u read this far ily parasocially

#technoblade fanart #tagging that bc look it may be a repost of my fanart but #technoblade #dsmp technoblade #headcanons slash analysis #tham talks #tham talks so fucking much here oh my GOD

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thepastelspace · 1 year ago

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I just saw the art of demon pickle and the way I'm kicking my legs and giggling! Could we get some information or like headcannons or ANYTHING about that au? On my hands and knees BEGGING for it please.

I am glad you like it!! I have never done anything like this, so I hope this is decent :]

In this Au, the hanma family and a few of the other fighters are demons. So count Yujiro, Baki, Jack, Doppo, Katsumi, Retsu, and Pickle. (Ofc there are more)

All of them have different physical attributes, like Pickle has 4 arms, for example.

Some demons live peacefully with humans, like Baki, Doppo, Katsumi, and Retsu... others don't.

Pickle is as ancient as the land they all walk on. He is from a time when demons were the apex predators. Humans were nothing but food or a rag doll for the demon children to play with. Since most demons kept a territory to themselves and didn't interact with other demons, he had no need to learn communications.

Pickle was a menace, such a menace that the remaining humans banded together, and at first tried to kill him. It wasn't successful. Then they decided to seal him under a mountain with ancient magic, or he would've probably killed them all.

He was sealed under the mountain for centuries... hell, even longer, really. In the meantime, Demons began living alongside humans, trying to put their history behind them. It was rather peaceful... When some fool decided to try his skills in ancient magic, he unlocked the seal. All the demons felt something appear, something new and foreign to them.

Pickle instantly went on a rampage, not only killing but devouring a whole village in the blink of an eye. It was horrific... but he was still hungry. The other towns began to fear their fate, and some decided that if they sent someone as a sacrifice, he might leave them alone...

This is a small summary of the story I had when I drew him :] Ahem, I shall also offer headcanons for this Pickle here:

This pickle is a bit more smart when it comes to humans. He has seen them before, sure only as food, but he had an idea of how they behaved. He understands their hostile and non hostile behavior.

He is unable to learn speech in any capacity. His tusks wouldn't allow him even if he tried.

However, writing, if taught with enough patience, is very doable. He will need one hell of a stick to write in the dirt.

This pickle is big... very big. If our normal pickle is almost 8 feet tall, this behemoth is 10 feet tall. He is humongous, and he can easily toss a person around like a ragdoll.

He likes to steal stuff off of the people he killed, especially shiny things. For example, the Red bead Mala necklaces he wears as bracelets, he stole them off of people he killed. They didn't fit around his head, so he wears them as barecelets.

Currently, he lives in the spruce forest. He can somewhat hide between the ancient trees. Though demon hunters know where he is, and they come pay him a visit. Unfortunately, they end up as snacks.

This is what I have in general. However, if you want something to do with Y/N 😏 hehehe feel free to ask :]

#baki the grappler #pickle baki #pickle the caveman #baki pickle #demon pickle #baki au #headcanon #baki headcanons #pickle headcanons #this is my first try ;^;

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eponymous-rose · 1 year ago

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Fic: The Second Hand Unwinds (Tav/Karlach | M | 5000 words)

(Many, many thanks to @loquaciousquark for the wonderful beta!)

The Second Hand Unwinds

Summary: Desperation is hope unraveling; the path to Avernus is paved with good intentions. Some of those paths are more literal than others.

(read on AO3)

Nessus (The Fall Isn’t What Kills You)

Short breaths, shallow, through the mouth. Can’t smell the burning that way.

There’s a callus on her palm that won’t harden properly, keeps scratching against the stiff leather of her gauntlet until the skin tears and bleeds, again and again. Someday, Amisra thinks, that tiny wound’s going to be her undoing, whether through infection or distraction. She rubs it with the thumb of the other hand, hard enough to hurt. Hurt enough to harden.

“—just got your bell rung, Sergeant,” Doc is saying from behind her, broad fingers combing through Amisra’s tight curls with no particular pretense of gentleness. “Little cut here, that’s all. You still feel like throwing up?”

She swallows bile, says, “Not really,” and shuffles off the examination bench to make room for the next minor complaint, a boy with a bloody arm in a sling. Her ears are still ringing from the blow to the head. “You said the corporal was—”

“Dead.” Doc scratches at one of his tusks with a clean, well-manicured nail and regards her with new speculation. “Told you twice now. Did you hear me?”

Yawning dread beneath her. The half-formed callus tears, again, under her thumb. “Both times, just hoping I misheard. Ears are ringing.” And it’s not ringing, so much, just the tick-tick-ticking of someone’s metallic boot heel against the paved ground, echoing again and again, keeping time as though with some anxious drumbeat.

Doc sighs, turns to his next patient. “Lying’s not your thing, Sergeant. Stick to lopping heads off. I’ve written you a release for the day to get some rest.”

The lurch back to the barracks is nightmarish, probably, but to her it only passes in heart-stopping flashes. A brown braid over a trainee’s shoulder, achingly familiar. A soft hand reaching out in passing to steady her, the same warmth from fingers smaller and stubbier than her own. A soft voice, a passing smell of smoke—

She coughs for a while, not quite retching. Breathes through her mouth, sharp and quick. Corporal’s gone, she thinks, testing the way the concept settles into her bruised mind. Beautiful and quick-witted and warm and then burning and then gone. There’s blood on her hand where the callus was. Ought to have asked Doc for a salve.

One of the errand-boys, with a name that’s a mumble and a face that’s a blur, is crouched in front of her, looking her in the eyes. “You’re pretty fucked up, huh?”

“Got the day off.” She swings her legs up onto the cot upon which she seems to have alighted. “Could use some water, though.”

“That was amazing, what you did,” he says, in a way that suggests fetching her water and leaving her alone is in fact not the first thing on his immediate to-do list. “Killed that weird spellcaster so fast. I seen it, my brother didn’t believe me, but I seen the whole thing. One second, he’s got a head, next second, no head, just like that. Lightning fast, I think.”

“Not fast enough.”

She watches him scramble visibly for some vestige of tact, appreciates the effort almost as much as she’d appreciate that water she’d asked for. “Sorry. But, um, my da always said it’s better to die with your boots on than old in bed. She had her boots on.” He nods approval of his brief encomium. “Anyway, it’s that water I’ll be fetching for you now.”

She listens to his boots clomping down the hall, ill-fitting, another rhythm rapping at her bruised mind, and then she is alone. Her breathing catches, finally, and she rests her aching hand on her aching head, sinking down and down and down into the thin pillow to bleed along with the part of her that just won’t callus against the hurt.

Cania (First Thaw)

Wyll’s not-so-terrifying tiefling menace — Karlach — is watching her from across camp. Her bright eyes glint with flames that Amisra is pretty sure aren’t just reflections of the campfire. “Hey, soldier. You ever actually play that thing or just cart it around?”

Amisra follows her gaze down to the badly scuffed lute teetering atop the disorganized pile of bedding and equipment that will, at some point, have to be sorted into slightly more organized piles before packing up for the day. “I’m not a musician. Just found it yesterday. It’s a nice instrument, under all the scratches. Seemed a shame to leave it out there.”

“Ah,” says Karlach, grinning to soften the teasing tone of voice. “You collect more strays than just the living, breathing kind?”

That startles an undignified snort out of Amisra. “Is that what all this looks like to you?”

“Shadowheart seems to think you’re planning on starting a club. Tadpoles Anonymous, support group, that kind of thing.” There’s a question in the teasing, this time.

At the thought of the tadpole, something may or may not flicker at the corner of Amisra’s eye, and she shudders reflexively. Karlach is watching her, the silence stretching too long. Gods, Amisra’s out of practice with this whole small-talk thing. “I hear you and I have something else in common.”

“Oh?” She’s unprepared for the sheer delight that crosses Karlach’s features.

“Just that, um, I also led some fighting. Little skirmishes, came to nothing, mostly. Worse than nothing, sometimes.”

“Hah! Thought I saw something of a sergeant in you.” Karlach points at her when Amisra reels back in surprise. “I knew it! Sarge, right? It’s all in the way you hold your shoulders.”

Amisra blinks. “Really?”

Karlach barks out another laugh like she’s been holding her breath on it. “Nah, I wasn’t actually paying much attention in the skirmish back there. Wyll told me you used to fight in an army of some sort. Figured you could string two sentences together so they were probably making good use of you, and you’re too much like an actual person to be an officer. Hence, Sergeant.”

“I suppose I can’t argue with that.” Amisra scratches her chin. “I was on leave when I got scooped by the illithid. Just on patrol duty before that. Nothing too interesting for the last year or two. Thankfully.”

“Yeah, thankfully.” Karlach’s mouth turns down, and this time Amisra is unprepared for the heaviness that settles in her own chest in response.

“The lute is a promise,” she blurts out. “To myself, I mean. I’m going to learn to play, someday. After all this.”

Something settles in Karlach’s eyes, a small mystery solved. “You keep collecting strays, you better get used to playing for an audience.”

“I could manage that.” Amisra picks up the lute. She’s pretty sure the strings aren’t supposed to be so loose. She’s pretty sure there are ways to make music with this thing, anyway. “After all this.”

She doesn’t look up from her aimless tinkering, but something in Karlach’s voice twists like a knife. “Yeah. After.”

Maladomini (The Enemy of Good)

“You could have warned me!” Astarion’s voice, behind and to her left, but Amisra’s pretty sure the panicky tone is more annoyance than genuine fear. “The sun and I might be on better terms now, but I don’t think that extends to godly energy directly applied to my cranium!”

“Oh, certainly,” Shadowheart, further back still, and there’s no mistaking the acid in her tone. “After all, you were so quick to give me a heads-up when throwing a dagger inches from my head.”

A lull in conversation, the clash of blades on blades a little more frantic than usual. Desperation to survive, or to get in the next pointed comment? A victorious huff of breath. “Well, it turns out slinking through the shadows becomes difficult when you have to loudly announce your presence to anyone who just simply isn’t paying attention.”

“Sounds like a skill issue.”

Amisra sighs, dispatching the goblin on her right by the simple expedient of skewering him with the spear belonging to the goblin on her left. For gods-knew-what reason, her fellow tadpole-infested travelers had started looking to her in the morning to split them into effective teams for the day, showing a trust in her judgment that seemed less a testament to their respect for her so much as to their increasing apathy and pessimism. She’s long been used to rousing soldiers out of a funk, but these are hardly soldiers, for all their fighting prowess. Perhaps best to switch back to a group of four, which would at least ensure that the bickering would be a little more spread out...

“I want to be on Karlach’s team next time,” Astarion carols over another clash of blades. “Being in the company of two certified sticks in the mud is more than anyone should ever have to bear.”

Amisra turns in time to duck under a swipe from a nastily serrated blade, but Shadowheart is already there, the swirling glow of holy energy around her shredding the goblin into ribbons. She’s not looking at Amisra, though. “What exactly do you even do here?”

A snort. “Have you considered that you might need to wear spectacles if such obvious things aren’t apparent to you?”

With no immediate threats in the vicinity, Amisra follows Shadowheart’s glowering glare, trying to make out Astarion’s form amid the shadowy shrubbery — there, she thinks, and sees him drawing back on his longbow to make a risky shot at the next wave of goblins, distant on the horizon.

Oh .

She’s running before she can fully register why, years of experience burrowed deep into muscle and sinew and bone, then runs harder . She charges at Astarion so fast that she’s nearly on him before his eyes even begin to widen in alarm, and there’s no time, there’s no room, so she drops her sword and she bowls him over, hears the wheeze of breath that has to be more habit than physiology for a vampire, and fumbles bare-handed for the knife of the goblin assassin who’d been sneaking up behind him.

She’s never liked knives. Nasty to fight with, nasty to fight against, like as not to hurt their wielder. Winning a fight with a knife is less about skill than it is about a healthy respect and fear of the blade and a still healthier volume of sheer luck, and she’s never been anything approaching lucky.

The goblin jerks back, startled, and her grasping hand closes on blade instead of hilt, slicing easily through the leather of her glove. She pushes forward again, ruthlessly, working on prising the goblin’s fingers off the hilt of the knife. Another flicker of sound in the bushes, too close, and along with the hot brand of a dagger in her shoulder comes the memory of the hard-won intel they’d gathered about the goblin assassins moving in teams of two.

Twist. No time for delicacy. Wrap the goblin’s small hand in her larger one, force the blade into its wielder. Stand, stride forward to the second goblin, the second goblin who’s got another dagger prepared, and there’s nothing for it but to trust in her armor to keep her alive long enough to close the distance—

The goblin topples, neatly hamstrung by Astarion’s own dagger, hurled with surprising accuracy from his prone position at Amisra’s feet. He watches the goblin fall, then picks himself up, dusting off his scuffed armor with lips drawn tight and thin.

Amisra lets herself sway for a moment, puts a hand to the knife still in her shoulder — a deep wound, and probably poisoned besides. “Out,” Shadowheart says, beside her, and Amisra grits her teeth and yanks it free, searing pain swiftly replaced by the unpleasantly itchy tingle of magic knitting flesh.

“Thanks,” Amisra says, when it’s done. “More coming, I think.”

The silence stretches, accompanied by a crescendo of yells and stomping feet. Astarion raises his hands in an expansive shrug. “There’s always more of them than of us. Hardly seems fair.”

A mournful sigh from Shadowheart. “I suppose that’s what we get for picking the impossible odds every time.”

Amisra’s never been accused of a quick wit, but even she can recognize a conversational opening when it’s left wide open for her. “Pity we’re not just a little bit smarter. We’d all get so much more rest.”

Smiles, larger than the weak joke deserves, and a pit of warmth in her gut stretches lazy tendrils through her body. Probably the poison, she thinks, but when they make it back to camp, Karlach beams at her and says, “You look happy,” and, absurd though it seems, maybe she is.

Malbolge (Corrupts Absolutely)

As a small child in Baldur’s Gate, Amisra had once seen a great clockwork piece of artistry, a mechanical, articulated, pint-sized horse crafted by some visiting tinkerer and displayed in the Lower City as a modern marvel. Karlach’s rage takes her back to watching one of the gears slip slightly out of alignment, leaving the rest to tick and tick and tick as though rapping against some invisible door, frustrated motion expending energy to no end at all.

Flares of heat, milder now than before, more contained, and maybe that Dammon fellow is on to something after all, but still the patchy grass at her feet flares and curls and dies around her as Karlach paces, whispering curses, Gortash’s name chief among them. Amisra meets Wyll’s worried eyes from across the camp and nods; he intercepts a curious Volo and leads him away to regale him with stories of the Blade of Frontiers, to give them a little space. “Karlach?”

No response. Amisra waits, sitting on a log and inspecting her greatsword for new pocks or scratches. Then Karlach says, “ Damn him,” with the weight of all the personal experience that entails, and finally meets her eyes. “We’re going to kill him, right?”

“We’ll get there,” Amisra says, as she’s said a dozen times before. No new revelations, then. Just the old frustration, ticking over and over and over.

Karlach nods. No tears, no apologies, just energy with nowhere to go. She visibly forces herself to take a breath and stares down at her hands, still glowing. “Gods, it feels good to do that sometimes. Don’t know how most people hold it all in, infernal engine or no infernal engine.”

Amisra smiles, applying blade oil to the still-pristine surface of the greatsword. She’s genuinely unsure whether a weapon with this much magic in it is even capable of rusting, but old habits and all that. “Most people bottle it up and take it out on their loved ones at inappropriate moments. Your way seems healthier, all things considered.”

“Yeah,” says Karlach, and plops down on the ground with a sigh, drawing her knees up to her chest and hugging them as though — improbably — against a sudden chill. “This feels like dying. I mean, really feels like it, more than the—” She cuts herself off, pauses with one hand midway to rapping on her own chest. “Just the same terrible thing happening again and again and again. That was one of Zariel’s favorite tricks, you know. Work out a pact that would give you just enough hope to go on every time things got bad.”

Weapon as polished as it’s going to get, Amisra levers herself down in the dirt beside Karlach, wincing at a new click in her knee, souvenir of the fight with Thorm. “Wouldn’t have thought devils would go in for hope all that much.”

A humorless snort. Karlach rests her chin on her knees and stares at the campfire, flames reflected in her glowing eyes. “You kidding? That’s how they do what they do. Someone hopeless is apathetic. They’re not gonna make a deal, and if they do, who cares? Not exactly the prime infantry needed for the Blood War.” She raises one finger. “Now, desperation, that’s the good stuff. Someone hanging onto that last shred of hope is desperate for any chance to survive. They’ll do anything to live. Anything. Desperation is hope unraveling, and that’s precisely when a devil most wants to show up at your door.”

Karlach’s jaw is set, her shoulders squared, and for the first time in weeks Amisra wonders what it would have been like to face her in the Hells. She inches closer, staring into the fire alongside Karlach, and leans into her shoulder. Hot, nearly to the edge of pain. Comforting. In spite of that, or because of it? “Didn’t happen like that with you, though.”

She feels Karlach’s whole body tense at the contact, then release as she stretches her legs out in front of her, tilts her jaw to the side to rest her cheek against the top of Amisra’s head. “I was a kid who wanted to do a good job. I was a kid, and they stole my life from me, put it back together wrong. Put me back together wrong. I think that’s what stings the most. They didn’t even care enough to make me run right. If it’s all over, if it’s really all done, at the very least I want this — all of this — to mean something, and it didn’t to them. Couldn’t even give me that.”

“Yeah,” Amisra says, and thinks, for no reason at all, of the corporal with the long brown braid, who’d died in a pointless skirmish so far from home.

There’s a holler in the distance, someone yelling to someone else, the outskirts of the city calling them nearer. She feels Karlach’s smile. “Tell you what, though, it’s going to be fun while it lasts.”

Amisra pulls back, looks her in the eyes. Joy, solid and defiant. Hope.

Desperation.

“Damn right,” says Amisra, and kisses her.

Stygia (Nor Any Drop)

Her lips are chapped and bleeding in the heat, the plate of her armor chafing uncomfortably against sweat-slicked leather with every step, and the damnable callus on her hand is bleeding again, filling her gauntlet with more sluggish, body-warmed heat. The others are similarly drooping, Gale’s hair sweat-plastered to his forehead, Lae’zel’s breathing heavy and open-mouthed with effort.

Only Karlach is physically comfortable, here, chin up, eyes alert, focused and resolved and frightened and furious. “Avernus,” she says, like a curse, like a plea. Amisra touches her shoulder, but Karlach shrugs it off. “Let’s get through this. I need to be out of here.”

The fight, when it comes, is long, horrific, nightmarish. Amisra’s head pounds in time with her heart, her reflexes too slow, her battle-senses dulled by discomfort and exhaustion. She hears Lae’zel cry out in surprise and rage, catches glimpses of her between her own clumsy parries and clumsier ripostes, watches a cambion pull its bloodied trident free from her shoulder and move away, circling cautiously as Gale scrambles to get close enough to throw her a potion, slipping on the bloodied floor. Then Karlach draws her attention, rage incarnate, screaming as she bursts through the final remaining soul pillar. Raphael turns to her, irritated, raises a hand as though to swat her like a particularly irksome insect.

Amisra’s sword drives into his thigh, hilt slamming into the palms of her hands with the sheer force of her charge, and her weight pins it there as he howls and tears at her with claws that aren’t that different, really, from the ones she’s seen on simple mindless beasts. “It’s over,” she snarls. “It’s over .” And then, quite abruptly, she can’t speak, feels all the air leave her at once, and watches his claw pull back, slick with blood, from where it had pierced under her armor into her chest. It doesn’t hurt, but her sword drops anyway from numb, clumsy fingers, pins and needles in her hands and feet, a creeping chill running along her arms and legs.

Raphael squints at her for a moment, as though looking for something, then scoffs and turns away. The ground comes up fast, and pain is the slam of her cheek into the filigreed floor, and pain is the increasing pace of the throbbing in her head, and pain is, finally, the spasms of her struggling lungs.

She’s fallen facing the last of the fight, at least. She can’t tell if Karlach is uncharacteristically quiet or if she just can’t hear her over the roaring in her ears, but Amisra watches her lips move, watches her fight with the critical eye of a sergeant. Reckless style, but she makes it work for her, leaving opening after opening with a taunting lack of consideration for her own safety, then capitalizing on every riposte. She’s fast, clever, almost joyful in this violent virtuosity. This is the fire in Karlach that Zariel had seen, had known, had wanted so badly that the ownership was worth its destruction.

It comes as no surprise that, moments later, Karlach is tearing Raphael’s wings from his body. In lieu of applause, Amisra lets her weary eyes close at last.

“—bad shape,” Gale is saying, so close by that the warm hand on her throat must be his.

“You should not have wasted our final potion on me when our commander was so near death,” Lae’zel’s voice, this time, and a curiously gentle touch of her hand on her cheek. “We need to leave this plane.”

“Hey, soldier.” Karlach, a grin, a wildness to her eyes. “We got him. Like, got got him. And we got you.”

“In the supportive, healing way,” Gale says, quickly. “Not in the murderous, ripping-wings-off way.”

“I can do this,” says Hope, hands glowing with familiar, healing light, a sweet, cool salve, and lives up to her name.

Phlegethos (Burning Bright)

Fingers, strong and warm, strong and warmer , pressing deeper. Breathing together, hot exhales warming sweat-slick skin. The other hand encircles, squeezes, pinches, and a too-loud moan slips past her lips. A joyful laugh. Then, more serious, determined, a redoubled pressure and pace. She loses track, a little, of what she’s meant to be doing, of the exchange she’s meant to be making. Heat and rhythm, then heat and less rhythm, and then just heat all through the core of her, burning and soft, and eyes of flame and loneliness and hunger and love watching her come apart.

Minauros (Oil and Water)

Karlach’s head on her shoulder, the small hitch in her breathing that says she’s dreaming, the steady clanking of her heart like some great chain unspooling endlessly, link after link of heavy steel clattering to the floor.

But there’s nothing, is there?

Amisra touches her cheek, the sharp tips of her ears, pauses to feel the heat of her warm, living breath against her hand.

I killed the bastard that ruined my life, and my prize is that I get to crawl into a corner and die.

Amisra’s seen death, felt death, known death in a way few people ever truly could, and she knows the warmth against her bears no resemblance to chill flesh, to stiffened limbs, to bloated agony. Every now and then, a frightened recruit would find her, would stare at their own hands and see nothing but the pallor of death. She’d tell them, every time, that they could be dead all they liked during war, but at peace, they’d bloody well better get back to living.

Avernus was never my home. It was my prison.

Karlach sighs in her sleep, presses closer. Warm. Alive.

The decision, when it comes, feels like a betrayal.

Dis (Paved With Good Intentions)

The first horror is the new silence in her mind.

She’s never been much good with being alone. Easy to get caught up in your thoughts, that way, and without the tadpoles, without the Nether Brain, hers echo now into a void that makes her feel curiously unreal, incorporeal.

The second horror is the blade.

Orpheus dies by her hand — an adventurer who, unlike Balduran, was willing to cede his ill-gotten power and influence — and she doesn’t have the foggiest idea what anyone else thinks about it, and Lae’zel is flying with dragons, a quick look goodbye, and Astarion is sprinting away under the pitiless sun, and the third horror is

the third horror is

Karlach collapses, struggling to get her goodbyes out through relentless, uncaring agony. Trying to be brave. Angry and sad and so, so scared in spite of it.

Amisra says something, says several things, none of which she can hear over the thrumming of her own perfectly ordinary heart, none of which she can parse without the echoes of her friends’ reactions and emotions surging through her mind. That Karlach should be equally alone in this. Unthinkable.

the third horror is

Wyll takes her by the arm, and she grabs Karlach, feels the flesh of her hands sizzle even inside her gauntlets, the old stubborn callus cauterized at last, and the three of them run.

A nightmarish passage through the streets of Baldur’s Gate, the suffering and supplication and jubilation a hollow, tinny thing that rings in her ears like a distant bell. Distraction. She thinks of everyone left standing by the docks, of Jaheira and Shadowheart and Halsin and Gale, and she knows, she knows they’ll find each other again. Where? How? She knows. She wants to know.

the third horror is

She hates herself for wasting time doing anything but looking Karlach in the eyes, dreads that her last moments might be spent in fear and terror, in this wild flight, and alone alone alone.

“Hey, soldier,” Karlach says, and Amisra says something back, and Karlach says, “It’s a beautiful day, yeah?”

The third horror doesn’t come.

Avernus (If Not Over, Then Through)

Short breaths, shallow, through the mouth. Can’t smell the burning that way.

Karlach laughs, bold and loud and delighted, as Wyll’s magic slams a cambion out of her face and right off a nearby cliff. “Beauty!”

A maul comes down inches from Amisra’s head, and she rolls, kicking back to her feet, finds her breath again, winded but standing. One quick slash from her greatsword cuts that particular problem away at the knees.

“That was sixteen,” Wyll calls, and she turns to watch him flourish his rapier at another, rather more cautious cambion approaching him.

Karlach snorts, lining up a shot, hurling her trident, neatly picking another cambion out of the shadows. “Cliffhangers like that? More like twelve, and you know it.” The slap of the magical trident returning to her hand echoes around the canyon, and she spins to face the rest.

The Hells were never really something Amisra had given much thought, before all this, before a week of learning to survive amid waves of Zariel’s devils, amid enclaves of invading demons. When the true extent of her ignorance had become apparent one night at camp, once it was clear that they weren’t all three of them going to die in the next few hours, both Wyll and Karlach had burst into surprised laughter.

“Well, there’s nine of them, for a start,” Wyll had said, and Karlach had given him a good-natured smack on the arm.

Then she’d counted them off, across her fingers, “Avernus, Dis, Minauros, Phlegethos, Stygia, Malboge, Maladomini, Cania, Nessus.”

Amisra had flopped back on the hot stone beneath her, unable to shake the feeling that she was sunning herself like some sort of desert lizard. “And we’re in the final layer.”

That had earned her a chuckle from Wyll and an indignant, “Come on ,” from Karlach. “Avernus! First layer! Not that complicated.”

“Nah,” Amisra had said, sleepily. “Avernus is the final layer. Pretty sure I’m right about that.”

That had brought another round of good-natured teasing, and the laughter is still ringing pleasantly in her ears as she turns to face another cambion. A warning growl, and she shifts with effortless ease out of the path of a ray of flame, reaching to grab a wrist, pull him nearer, to where her blade awaits.

After the fight, they dig through armor for possessions, for bartering tools, for information. They make a small pile of it and Wyll sketches plans into the red dust that look etched in blood. Karlach stares across at her, still breathing fast from the sheer joy of the battle, and blurts out, “Sorry you didn’t get to play that lute. I know you were saving it for after the next war.”

It had been smashed to bits in the first moments after arriving in Avernus — all that time shepherding the damn thing across half the Sword Coast and a handful of different planes of existence, and the fall through the portal had finally done it in.

She shrugs. “There will be other lutes.”

Karlach’s face falls, and her voice drops nearly to a whisper. “There will be other wars.”

Amisra reaches across the makeshift map in the dust to pull her in for a kiss, then rests their foreheads together. “And there will be other lutes. Always.”

She feels Karlach’s chuckle as a vibration against her forehead, the nearest thing they’ve got to the tadpole-connection these days. “You hide it well, but I think you might just be even more of an incurable optimist than I am.”

Amisra’s turn to laugh. “This place brings it out in me.”

Wyll rolls his eyes, and Karlach laughs again, and Amisra feels the warmth of the plans taking shape around her in the same way that she feels the reassuring solidity of her sword in her hand, the burns on her palm already healing and fading, leaving soft, unbroken skin beneath.

Avernus isn’t the first step into the Hells, it’s the last: the last stretch in the escape, the last link of the unspooling chain, the last wavering moment of fear before determination sets its hooks. Inevitable like one breath following the next, inexorable like the driving rhythm of boots and weapons and hearts.

Maybe they’ve all been put together wrong, one way or another. Maybe it doesn’t matter because they’ve been put together .

Hope is a promise, a melody they’ll play someday, all the sweeter for the waiting.

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #karlach cliffgate #bg3 spoilers #eponymous fic tag #tav/karlach

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