#wounds fester and disease spreads

[memesandthingsilike]

.-.

[iliketangerines]

Would you be able to write something with mk11 Liu Kang and female reader? Where reader was almost killed in a fight but Liu Kang manages to save them in time? And as he's treating her wounds he confesses his feelings for her and they have sweet and emotional sex?

Thank you in advance! It's amazing how many requests you post a day on top of uni. Keep up the good work! I get so excited when I see that you posted something new :)

a new love

a/n: i need them BOTH NEOWWW

pairing: liu kang x afab!reader x kitana

warnings: nsfw (MDNI), face sitting, chest play, grinding

you can hear cheering all about you, muffled behind the ringing in your ears as you clutch at your side, blood seeping into your armor and leaking onto the ground

the pain burns you, spreading through your body slowly like a poison, and you can feel your heartbeat pounding against your chest much too quickly to be normal

the world is hot and sweaty, too much and too little at the same time as the ringing in your ears fades in and out with the sound of ragged breaths

a hand places itself on your shoulder, and you flinch at the contact and draw your weapon as you blink at the person, trying to find the energy to continue fighting

you hear the familiar voice of Kitana, warbly and dull, and the silhouette of Liu Kang joins the fuzzy figure of Kitana’s as you fall down to the ground on one knee

looking down at the blood pouring from your side, you try and put your hand over the wound to stop the bleeding

and yet, your own hand is too heavy to lift as your eyes begin to close, and you can feel someone touching you, lifting you, cradling your head

it feels so familiar and safe, warm and comforting to be in the hands of whoever is holding you, and you let your weapon fall to the floor as your eyes close and let darkness take your consciousness

when you wake up, it’s the high rise ceilings of medical ward in the Outworld palace, and you groan as your head pounds with pain

you attempt to sit up and hiss through your teeth at the pain that shoots through you as you do so, and you struggle to breathe for a second as you sit up and pull your shirt up to assess the damage

a sizable bandage covers yours torso, and you probably just broke something considering the blood that had started to seep through the bandages

there’s a creak as the doors to the medical wing open, and you spot Kitana and Liu Kang conversing with each other and holding some food

although Liu Kang looks rather strange with glowing white hair and eyes and tattoos, but you could recognize his face anywhere

both of them stop as they realize you’re sitting up, and then in an instant, they’re both next to you, pushing you down and checking on your bandages

Kitana scolds you, telling you to be more careful, and Liu Kang frowns and asks if you feel okay, if anything felt out of place, if the bed was comfortable enough

you wave the both of them, saying that you were fine, that you’re a warrior and you would survive a simple stab wound

Kitana growls at that, saying that it wasn’t just a simple stab wound and that it was no laughing matter

Liu Kang crosses his arms and nods his head as Kitana goes on and on about how you should be more careful with your wounds and your defensive positions

eventually, she runs out of breath and criticisms and pinches the bridge of her nose and looks at you, saying in a soft voice that she was very worried about you

the champion chimes in, saying that the both of them had been very worried about your state of health and that you had been out for almost two weeks

he continues, saying that your wound wasn’t even healing properly for at least a week, festering with diseases and what not, and that it had only started to heal properly only a few days ago

you look between the two of them, and you mumble out that you’ll be more careful next time Shao Kahn comes around

Liu Kang glances at Kitana before looking back to you saying that Shao Kahn was no more, Kitana was Kahn now

your head whips to her, and she smiles and nods at you as your mouth drops open into a smile and you laugh and squeeze her hand

she laughs with you and can’t help it as she dips her head in close and plants a kiss on your lips, and you lean into it, melting into the touch

her hand comes up to cup the back of your head to bring you in a little closer, and you sigh into the kiss and bring your own hand up to cup her face

she’s warm and soft, familiar and comforting, and you want to pull her into your arms to get even closer, to press yourself against her and feel her completely

but then she pulls back, eyes filled with wonder as she looks at you, and she whispers quietly that she’s missed you

Liu Kang pouts at you and asks where’s his kiss, and you laugh and say that he can get one any time he wants to

immediately, he leans down and presses a kiss to your lips as well, eyelashes tickling your cheek as his eyes flutter close at the feeling of you against him

he pulls away after a few moments, and he mutters that although he and Kitana would love to hold you closer, you needed to heal for a few more weeks

you frown at the two of them, opening your mouth to protest, but the both of them shoot you a glare and you settle back down in the cot without a single word

Kitana then adds on that Liu Kang was a god now, and you nearly shoot out of bed at the comment

the next few weeks are torturous as you heal, the two of them barely touch you, treating you as if you were glass, and you were frankly had gotten over the doting after the first few days

you were an Edenian warrior, powerful and great and experienced with fighting and war, you could handle yourself just fine

the nurse looks up at you and clears you for fighting again, and they leave the room as Liu Kang and Kitana help you up from the bed

smacking their hands away, you grab your belongings and storm out of the room back to your bedroom, frustrated that they were treating you like a child

you throw your items back into their places angrily and dress yourself in your training outfit, determined to blow off some steam and prove that you weren’t helpless

as you pull on the last part of your training robes, Kitana and Liu Kang walk into the room and glance at each other and then at your furrowed brows and how your fists clench angrily

Liu Kang asks what’s wrong, and you hiss at him and tell the both of them to leave you alone and that you’re going to train

Kitana grabs onto your arm and pulls you back, asking why the hell you’re acting like a brat, and you scowl right back at her and say that you’re a fully grown adult warrior, you do not need to be doted on like a child

the champion sighs and asks what they’ve done wrong, they want to fix whatever mistake that they’ve made, and you turn to them with an expression of disbelief

you step closer to them, pointing an accusatory finger in their direction, and you list every single thing that they’ve done to baby you, barely touching you, treating you like a fragile little thing, like you can’t protect yourself

you’re frustrated, you just wanted to be with them and be close to them and have them close to you, and yet they kept on avoiding every time you reached out for them, only ever touching you to change your bandages

it had left pent-up energy in your body, sexual frustration and anger at the both of them, and you were tired of them acting like you couldn’t handle yourself

breathing heavily, you sigh and unclench your fists and press the back of your hand into your forehead, and you take a second to just stare up at the ceiling and gather your thoughts

you look back at them, and Liu Kang looks sad, lips turned downward in a frown and brows furrowed

Kitana, on the other hand, looks hard and all edges, none of the softness of Liu Kang, lips pursed and eyes glinting in the light like a predator’s

she steps toward you, Liu Kang following behind her, and she tilts your chin up with her finger, asking if you were done

Liu Kang comes up behind you and rests his chin on your shoulder, arms coming up to circle around your waist and kiss apologies into your neck

she says that her and Liu Kang had been careful with you because you had been on the brink of death, you had died

you blink at her and let out a small what in disbelief, and Kitana sighs and puts her hands on her hips, looking down and grimacing before finally looking back up at you

your heartbeat had stopped for a minute, you had technically died in front of Liu Kang and Kitana as they carried you to the medical wing, there was blood splattered all over the ground, a trail that had taken a whole day to clean up because of how much there was

they thought that you didn’t survive in the fight that they had caused, and for weeks they had thought you were never going to wake up

neither of them want to risk accidentally hurting you again because they’re scared of hurting you, and Kitana looks away as she finishes, huffing as she holds back tears

none of you speak for a moment as you take in the seriousness of what had happened to you, and you bring your hands to hold Liu Kang’s shaking ones

you can feel his tears on your shoulder, and you look at Kitana, mumbling that you didn’t know

she takes in a shaky breath, saying that you were right though, you are a very capable fighter, one of the best in Sun Do and that she and Liu Kang shouldn’t have diminished your ability to fight because of their own fears

stepping closer to you, she raises one of her hands up to cradle your face and asks you to let them make it up to you, and you breathe out an okay

Kitana nearly throws herself into you as she smashes her lips into yours, one hand continuing to cradle your face and the other on your shoulder, nails digging into the soft skin

Liu Kang behind you resumes his kisses to your skin, hands moving so that they rested on your waist, and he squeezes it, sighing into your skin that he missed you, that he loved you

you can barely hear him over the sound of your own noises as Kitana kisses you breathless, only pulling away to give herself air

she pulls your forehead to rest on hers, panting and letting your breaths mingle as Liu Kang whines for attention as well

you turn your head to the side, and he meets you with his lips, pulling you into a soft kiss and moaning into your mouth

Kitana’s hands slides along your body, squeezing at your chest and making your knees buckle as she slides her hands up and under your shirt to pinch at your nipples

Liu Kang hums and pulls away, staring at you with those soft eyes, and he whispers that they should move to the bed

you nod in agreement, head already spinning from being surrounded on both sides, and Liu Kang picks you up, hooking one of his thick arms underneath the bend of your knees and the other underneath your back

holding onto him for balance, he deposits you on the bed so that you’re flat on your back before going back to kissing you, his weight pressing into you

your hand reaches out blindly, and you can feel the familiar weight of Kitana’s hand in yours and squeeze it as Liu Kang desperately kisses you

it’s messy and wet, teeth clacking against each other and breathless pants before moving in for more, but neither of you can find yourselves caring at the lack of air

he rips at your clothes, the fabric burning in his hands as he stares at your chest and moves to dip his head low and press his tongue to your nipple

his hand ghosts over the scar on your side, and you shiver, making him whine into your skin and look up at you in worry

you whisper that it’s okay, just feels sensitive, and he nods, holding onto your side gently as he starts to suck hickeys into your chest

Kitana tilts your head to look at her, and you squirm underneath Liu Kang’s weight, wanting to please her as well

she laughs at your impatience and tells you to be still, giving your hand a squeeze before letting go of it and pulling back

the complaint dies in your throat as you watch her undress, revealing her lean body to you, muscle hidden in its thinness, and she crawls up onto the bed and asks if you wanna please her

you nod at her, whimpering out a please, and she laughs and says that she thought so before coming over and straddling your face while facing Liu Kang

she slowly lowers herself onto your face, and you bring your arms up to hook around your thighs to bring her even closer

your tongue comes out to fuck into her pussy, and you moan at her taste, having missed her, the weight, the taste, the pleasure

Liu Kang wraps his lips around your nipple, swirling his tongue around it before lightly nipping at the sensitive bud with his teeth, and it makes you jolt and lose concentration for just a moment

Kitana hums as your tongue stops moving briefly, and she lets you regain your concentration, riding your face as Liu Kang teases your chest

you can barely concentrate with Liu Kang biting and kissing at your chest, moving to the other nipple and giving it attention while Kitana rides your face

the lack of air only makes everything more intense

it’s like you’re breathing in pleasure as you feel Kitana grind her hips further into you, and you happily let her use you for her own pleasure as you use your tongue to fuck her

the feeling settles into your lungs, spreading down your veins slowly into your stomach, pooling and building, and your thighs squeeze uselessly around Liu Kang’s waist to try and get some friction on your needy clit

he moans into your skin as you squeeze his waist with your legs, and he bites into the skin of your chest harshly as Kitana moans loudly, cumming on your face

it’s all you need to cum in your own pants, lapping at Kitana’s taste and squeeze her thighs with your arms, and you try to ride out your high on Liu Kang

however, he doesn’t seem to notice your own desperation, too lost in his own task on littering your skin with his marks, and your orgasm sputters out, making you whine and sob and twitch underneath his grasp

Kitana lifts herself up off your face, and you whine again at the loss of her warmth

she comes around to smile at you, telling you did so well for her before going to Liu Kang and grabbing his hair to pull his head up

he whines at the feeling, looking to Kitana, and she says that they were making it up to you, not to pleasure just themselves, so why did he ignore you to chase his own selfish needs

the words take a second to settle into his brain, and he looks to you with a downcast look and mumbles out an apology

Kitana tells him to get on the bed, on his back, and he follows the order quickly

she helps you get up onto your shaky legs and tells you to remove his pants, and you do so with clumsy fingers, letting his cock spring free and slap against his stomach

slowly, Kitana straddles his waist and orders you to grind against his cock, and you do so, biting your lip at the feeling of the head of his cock pressing into your clit

your slick covers his cock as you start to grind against him involuntarily, and she coos at you, telling you that you’re doing amazing and to take what you need

you grab onto her shoulders for balance as you whine and chase your own pleasure, and Kitana chuckles, grinding against Liu Kang’s abs

she groans at the feeling, slapping away Liu Kang’s hands and telling him that he’s not allowed to touch her and you and that he’s not to cum until she tells him to

he whines but obliges, panting and gripping onto the sheets as you grind against his cock, the tip bumping against your clit and making you keen

you grind your hips down further, too lost in your own pleasure, and Kitana grabs the back of your neck and pulls you in for a kiss

moaning into her mouth, you cum on Liu Kang’s cock quickly, still sensitive from the precious one, letting your cum cover his cock and drip down onto the sheets and his waist

it only makes it easier to grind against him as you ride out your high, and Liu Kang keens underneath you to, begging Kitana to cum

she ignores him, continuing to ride his abs as she kisses you, and she whispers praises to you as you slow down and pant for air

Kitana bites her lip as she cums again on Liu Kang’s abs, sighing at the feeling and grinding her hips faster against him

he begs again, please, and she lets her orgasm die down first, getting up off of him and helping you off of him and to lie next to him

she grins at the champion, telling him to stretch you out for his cock, show you how sorry he is for neglecting you earlier, and he eagerly shuffles until your thighs are resting on his shoulders and his tongue assaults your sensitive clit

as his fingers thrust into you and you whine, Kitana leaves the bed and rummages around in the drawer before pulling out her strap

you eye her as she attaches it to herself, and she crawls back up to you, saying that they were going to make it up to you tonight

none of you are seen for the rest of the day

[bonefall]

Soo there's a possibility my brain just made this up,(been a while since I read dotc anyways) but, I feel like I remember a whole thing with Clearsky where one of his cats, I don't remember the name, ends up with an awful festering wound and Clearsky pointedly does nothing about it and even like exiles that guy? Just in case you needed more fuel for the very deserved Clearsky hate pile. If I did completely mind fabricate it sorry-- I remember it really standing out as just cruel and awful as a younger person reading the book

Yeah that's Frost, this is in Book 2: Thunder Rising. Clear Sky also shoves his son's face in that reeking, festering wound and tells him to lick it if he cares so much.

But it's actually worse than just that lmao.

Frost is notably loyal in Thunder Rising, even shouting out how amazing Clear Sky is when he weeps his crocodile tears in front of a crowd early on. Everything that follows is his reward for that support.

Clear Sky beats Bumble to death and one part of his incredibly obvious lie is that he left her a second time, after she had been mauled by a fox AFTER he lightly tapped her and she passed out, to go get "help." But Frost has gone completely untreated for weeks because proto-SkyClan doesn't have a medic. So there's no way he could have gone to get help.

The Infected Wound Face Shoving Scene is actually part of Clear Sky playing an abuse game with his son because he's pissed off that Thunder questioned him.

He's in an especially bad mood because he'd just beaten Bumble to death and only Gray Wing believed his bafflingly stupid lie, and this is 3 days after he slaughtered Misty for her land and tried to kill her children too. Thunder set him off by saying "dad can we kill less natives maybe?"

Frost is also publicly humiliated before the exile, Clear Sky commands him to flash his weeping wound at a crowd as he bellows out a speech about filth, weakness, and spreading disease.

He DIRECTLY commands Thunder to be the one to "LEAVE HIM WHERE THE MAGGOTS WILL FIND HIM" (verbatim quote) because. Again. It's an abusive game. He wants to feel like he's in control of his son.

Frost's life was just a piece in a game for Clear Sky. A pawn, discarded when no longer useful.

And then Frost dies in that big battle Clear Sky causes and started, and is buried in a mass grave along with all the other victims. Probably because if more of Clear Sky's victims survived, they would have to lobotomize MORE characters for his exoneration arc. Absolutely fucking miserable story.

[evolutionsvoid]

The Four Humors, and the Ichor they are born from, are essential to all life. This is what the Church of Divine Wealth proclaims, and this is what many in the world believe. They run through our veins and homes, fueling both life and civilization alike. The humors tend our wounds, grant us knowledge, drive us forward and even cook our food. Though there be some who do not follow the Church or believe its teachings, these folk would not deny that the fluids of this world are vital. However, not all believe this to be true...

While the Four Humors within our bodies are believed to be the source of our energy and health, sickness can infiltrate the flesh. When disease of the body or mind plague us, the Church is quick to blame it on imbalance and defilement of the humors within. Look to the bezoars, formed when sin and corruption is left to stagnate and fester. Humors hardening into painful and insidious stones within the body, driving souls further towards vile deeds and deteriorating health. Then see what the Church says about the Lemersis, horrid beings from some evil place that infest these stones and steal the body for their own twisted use. While they are reviled and the Church is quick to cleanse both, folk whisper of something far more horrifying that drives the Church to such action. Indeed, the expulsion and blessing of bezoars is to free a follower of sin and gain a trophy of religious victory, but it also serves as a defense against what can be born from this stagnation. If a soul is so steeped in sin and anger, so consumed by wickedness and hate, then their humors grow stale and hard, and something is beckoned to take root. A Lemersis is one possibility, but honestly it is the preferred option versus the other evil. Because if these stones are not extracted and cleansed, then this may be the birth of a Virilith.

The Virilith are abominations, there is no other way to describe them. They are symbols of sin and corruption, born from cruel souls and those who lose themselves to sin. When one is infected with a growing bezoar, and they allow it to feed off their wickedness, there is a chance that the stone itself may spread its sickness to more than just humor. A disease of petrification slithers through the veins and seeps into the flesh, slowly turning the whole body to brittle stone. The skin goes gray, the joints become slow and grinding, and the mind itself is slowly dragged to a primal, depraved state. Once the disease takes hold and starts to spread, a cure is impossible. The only mercy that can be granted is to destroy the transforming body and remove the guilty stone to be cleansed and shattered. While bezoars can be held as symbols of salvation and victory, these sin stones are far too virulent and disgusting to be kept intact. They are the symbol of sin, and perhaps something far worse...

When a person is transformed into a Virilith, they are more than just mindless drones. The stones that fester in their bodies spread their evil to the very mind and force it to share their own twisted view. Viriliths not only destroy and corrupt all around them, but they purposefully seek to defile both the Church and the very humors themselves. These horrid men of stone despise the fluids and those who worship them, and devote their lives to tearing everything down. They will corrupt or slaughter followers, attack holy sites, destroy sources of humor and even preach the word of blasphemy and hate. Their disgust for it all knows no bounds, and they seek to spread their hate to all they can reach. Viriliths are thus sworn enemies of the Church, and the followers of Ichor do everything in their power to destroy them whenever they emerge. However, this plague cannot always be stopped, as Virilith outbreaks do occur, when naive or broken souls are wooed by this corrupting force. It preys not only upon those who have sinned, but those too broken to fight back or those who doubt the Church and its ways. Unfortunately, it seems these outbreaks are on the rise in recent years, growing as the war rages on and the land falls to chaos. Seeing the failings of the Church and its brutal war has left many without faith or hope, and thus are easy prey to these wretched sinners.

While Viriliths are born from stagnation of humors and sin in general, in certain instances, a particular breed of Virilith can be created. Often, their creation ties to a specific sin that the victim has taken part in, and if they imbibe in this evil enough, it shapes the stone in their bodies, which then shapes their own flesh. Here are some of the horrid abominations born from those who give into corruption and stagnation:

Stone of Lies - A sickly rotting stone that is formed in the tonsils of liars and slanderers, those of wicked tongue and words. It is congealed from many fluids, and erupts in putrid jagged spires. When one transforms, their mouth peels open into a twisted maw of foul "teeth" and sickening saliva. Even their stony skin crumbles in patches, revealing more disgusting stones embedded in their flesh. Their reek is unbearable, and their breath even worse. Their words and presence are revolting to all living things, and yet they preach. These Virilith are the speakers of these stones, proclaiming the virtues of sin and hate. They denounce the Church and its "false" humors, and try to drive others to sin with their sermons. Abandon these terrible fluids that have ruined your world, and instead embrace the word of those below. They speak of things deep in the depths of the planet, beings ancient and petrified. Seek them and their wisdom, for they know the true path. Words foul, yet sickly sweet, slowly leeching into the mind. Do not believe their lies.

Stone of Fury - A searing stone born in those who give themselves into anger and wrath. If one cannot control their temper and let rage steer their fate, then their Yellow Bile may harden into this particular stone. Those transformed into this specimen will find their bodies rotten with burning hot stones, covering their stony flesh and piling up in their guts. The sheer heat and vapors coming off these stones drives their victim to fury, causing them to hate all things. They roar and howl with rage, punishing everything in their sight. They will rip these hateful stones from their ruptured bodies and throw them at others. Those burned by their heat or exposed to their steaming aura will be filled with anger and mindless violence. They will give into cruel hatred, until they are separated from these horrible stones, which is not easy when this Virilith throws them about like candy. Those exposed for too long become vulnerable to corruption, and one of these stones may take residence within them as well.

Stone of Taboo - The fate of those who seek blasphemous records and profane knowledge, their own Black Bile becoming corrupted and petrified. Their body turns quickly to stone and the their defiled humor erupts from their flesh in shattering spikes and spires. The victim is broken into chunks, impaled upon their own twisted Black Bile, now shaped into a heretical form. It is believed that their appearance is that of profane runes and forbidden symbols, forcing all who witness them to be exposed to their sin. These Virilith cannot move, and thus remain rooted to the spot of their birth. Instead, their broken bodies serve as consumers and spreaders of forbidden knowledge, leaking it from their wounds in black clouds. Soon the area around them will be tainted by heretical thoughts and blasphemy, driving those exposed to doubt the Church and seek the forbidden. Though they cannot move, other Viriliths have been seen carrying them about, wielding them like staffs and bringing them to new groups of potential "inductees."

Stone of Lethargy - When one allows sloth and depression to consume the body and mind, the Blood becomes slow and sluggish. In time, it will congeal into this stone, turning the whole body into lifeless, purposeless rock. Those transformed into this Virilith will become a mindless husk, a stony pit that drains all energy and hope. Though they will remain rooted and motionless, their depressed aura can leech into others nearby, slowly sapping their energy. Those too close to this Virilith will grow tired and uncaring, seeing no need to continue on. Given enough exposure, they will simply drop where they are standing and let exhaustion and apathy claim them. These souls are not lost yet, and can be saved if pulled out of its sphere of influence. However, its sluggish tendrils will slither towards those infected, and will assimilate them into another stony husk if they can grab hold. Entire areas have been lost to an outbreak of these Virilith, and it seems their presence is what gives the others land to roam free. Other Viriliths remain unaffected, and use this diseased aura to their advantage.

Stone of Madness - A mind tormented by worry, doubt and paranoia, soon devolving into insanity and thickening Phlegm. The humor hardens and swells with each tortured thought and horrid fear, til the mind is lost and the skull bursts. These Virilth are stumbling miserable creations, endlessly plagued by madness and unseen terrors. Their swollen head stones throb and pulse, creating a feeling of paranoia and unease in those nearby. The mind races and churns with each wave of its insanity, driving victims mad. It has been seen grabbing others and bashing its head into their skulls, transferring shards of its diseased stone and warped thoughts into their own brains. Their moans and mumblings betray their presence, and if they are in high enough numbers, it is believed the mere sound of their insanity can induce madness as well.

Stone of Agony - This is what befalls those of cruelty, who thrive on inflicting pain upon others. It starts in their kidneys, but then fluids of their entire body come together and transform into painful piercing spikes, which tear through the stony flesh with violent ease. What they become is an agonized screeching pile of pain, feeling each tortured barb and sliver that shreds their flesh. Moving is painful, but mere existence is pain to them, so move they still do. They crawl and shamble in agonized lurches, seeking victims to spread their agony to. It seems like their tortured minds believe that breaking off these razor shards and stabbing them into others can slightly ease their suffering, before more erupt in their place. These Virilths become obsessed with inflicting suffering to all, so that they may feel the same agony. Those who get a chunk stabbed into their flesh will be left in crippling pain, the spike sending out excruciating energy in horrid pulses through the nerves. The stone will seek to burrow deep and spread this pain and corruption. Removing it is vital, but extremely uncomfortable and difficult, as it splinters and fights every attempt at extraction. Other Virilith types have been seen ripping off shards and limbs from these tortured stones and using them as crude weapons. The horribly spiky thing screams and howls when this happens, but it always does this regardless...

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"The Virilith"

Another faction and another horror! What could be the enemy of a world run by fluid? Of course! Blasphemous solids! The embodiment of the pain and misery of getting a stone in your body! Yowch!

[bohemian-nights]

Arlī(Anew) Chapter 9

Word Count: ~10,044

Rating: 18+

Warnings⚠️: Uncle/niece incest; violence; blood

Description: Envy is a disease that festers. Rotting the mind like a wound that was never tended to. Becoming gangrenous as it spreads throughout the body. Infecting each limb and tissue along the way until the body is overwhelmed. Succumbing to the sickness at long last.

AN: This story takes place from episode 5 onward. I’ve changed things up a bit but I’ve kept the timeline intact

The finale.

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8

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131 AC- Kings Landing

War is inevitable. Peace does not last forever. It can not. The nature of man will not allow it. The very nature that brings about men’s volatility and propensity for violence. Conflicts always arise. Old grudges are hard to forget. The sins of past wrongs bubbling to the surface. Our emotions can not be so easily pushed to the side. They can only be repressed for so long before we must give in. The cost being too high to not do so.

Nothing in life is without its costs. We are in a constant battle of give and take. When we do not get what we want we become hungry. Greedy for what we feel is ours. Seeking glory and redemption no matter the cost or the burden. Seeking to protect what is rightfully ours. Though the matter of what is yours or mine is a subjective one. Entirely fueled by our boundless wants.

Envy is a disease that festers. Rotting the mind like a wound that was never tended to. Becoming gangrenous as it spreads throughout the body. Infecting each limb and tissue along the way until the body is overwhelmed. Succumbing to the sickness at long last.

Such is the case with war. Those who yearn for power claim it through less-than-honorable means. Harvesting the seeds of discontent that were planted eons ago. The starving man can not help but feast upon its ripe flesh. Curing its weary soul and broken body. What is honor compared to desire? For he is hungry and has long since been denied. Envy makes bastards of us all.

Were envy and greed the reason why it had all come to this? Peacetime at long last ending across the Seven Kingdoms in the wake of Viserys death. Petty grievances and blood feuds perhaps killed it. It had been a slow painful death as was the late kings, but he had found relief in his departure from this mortal plane. That would not be the case for the Kingdom he had left behind.

For the first time since the dreaded bloody reign of Maegor the Cruel war was on the horizon. There was no stopping the not-so-distant sound of swords being drawn, shields clashing upon the battle, of dragons roaring above them, firing down upon them. There was no stopping it all. Not unless something drastic were to happen, but the balance was rapidly tipping in favor of the Warrior. One could only accept their fate and pray to the Gods that they would be spared. War was what was coming for them all.

“We hold twelve full-grown dragons to Rhaenyra’s five.” Daemon's voice reigned around the small council chambers that were already beginning to take on the image of that of a war room.

While the lords and ladies of court celebrated Aegon II's crowning, the prodigal son succeeding his father upon the Iron Throne, his chief supporters were called to the small council's chambers. There was too much to be done to leave it for the morrow. Drinking and feasting would be postponed. Their guests could enjoy the merriment for now. There was too much at stake. Too much that could go wrong. Too much that had already done so.

The king himself had chosen to sit in on the council meeting. His presence at his council was a shock though not necessarily an unwelcome sight. Some measure of duty must have snapped into him from his crowning. The adoration of the people was more sobering than any tonic that Grand Maester Orwyle could concoct and give to Aegon. He was king now. For the first time in Naerys nephew's life, he had a true purpose.

All eyes were upon Daemon as he lectured the council. Even Ser Otto who listened to the Targaryen man with a clenched jaw, but otherwise he too let the Rogue Prince lead on. A certain stilted truce had been erected between the two men. A common goal did wonders for their ability to tolerate the other’s presence though both took to glaring at the other in scorn when his head was turned. It was hard to forget the history that stood between them. Naerys strongly suspected that if given the chance they would strangle each other.

Nonetheless, the Hand of the King had offered Daemon a position upon the small council. His pick between his old position of Master of coin or Master of ships. He could be by the king's side, but it was the wrong king.

He declined both. For accepting any post would mean leaving Dragonstone in the care of Daenys and Aemond for the foreseeable future. Their daughter was more than capable of ruling in his stead. She had been groomed as heir since she was four name days old and by all accounts had the makings of a thoughtful and firm steward.

However, baseless as it may be, Daemon did not fully trust their new good-son with the sole care of their daughter nor did he see him as deserving of the position. The boy had been corrupted by his grandsire. He was not to be trusted. Who knows what he might do if he was not there to watch over her. It was a matter that Naerys would put aside to deal with later. They had more pressing concerns to deal with.

Aegon’s crowning, though successful, had almost been overshadowed by Rhaenys and her dragon. Uninvited guests. Crashing through the Dragonpit with no care for the small folk or its other occupants. It was not them who she spared. No, it was the king himself this time. A warning. He would not be so lucky the next.

“My niece will want to claim Dragonstone for her own.” Naerys recalled how Daemon and Otto spoke with hushed voices earlier that day. The older man walked beside them as they made their way out of the now-ruined Dragonpit back to their wheelhouse. Her husband’s grip on her loosened somewhat, but he had not let her go.

Rhaenys' stunt had shocked him enough not to. He kept her arm and hand resting in his, rubbing circles into the back of her hand with the pad of his thumb. She had to confess, it had been a comfort.

The Rogue Prince had tried to grab ahold of Daenys as well, but the girl remained glued at her new husband's side. It was a battle he folded to Aemond with a clenched jaw. There was not much he could do on that front anymore. Their daughter was undoubtedly not just theirs anymore.

Daemon cast his violet gaze down at Naerys. Giving his niece-wife a small smirk as she had shifted where she stood. He knew exactly who would put it into Rhaenyra’s head to make way for Dragonstone. Sixteen years of marriage would tell him if nothing else. Ser Otto no doubt had his suspicions as did the rest of those present. It was more than obvious.

Naerys was the most likely person to aid in her aunt's ill-timed escape. She herself would not correct their assumption. The princess had intended on smuggling Rhaenys out of the Red Keep. Albeit under a different set of circumstances, but she was in part to blame for her flight. They all might have paid the consequences for her sentiments had not the elder princess exercised caution or her husband acted with haste.

Dragonstone had no dragonriders to speak of upon its shores then. They had an urgent need to remedy their seats' present circumstances. It would not do to let such an asset fall into the hands of Rhaenyra and her ilk. The small island presented too much of a temptation, a goldmine for her to turn a blind eye to.

“It is what I would do.” Rhaenyra would grieve for her father that could be sure. Her greatest supporter. The man who put her before all others was lost to his sick bed, but she could not grieve long. With Rhaenys flying for Hide Tide, they could be sure that the older princess would inform her that Dragonstone’s Lord and Lady were presently absent from their keep. “Naturally, she’ll try to install Jaecerys as Prince of Dragonstone.”

Driftmark was only a half-hour flight from Dragonstone. It did not take a military strategist to see that the Black Queen had a chance. A small window of opportunity that she would not be able to miss. Could not miss it. The island after all possessed an edge Rhaenyra desperately needed if she were to turn the odds in her favor.

Four unclaimed dragons called Dragonstone their home. Sheepstealer, Grey Ghost, Cannibal, and Vermithor. The first three were wild, having never been claimed by man, but the last, though not wild, had not been claimed for near on thirty years. For his last rider had been no other than Naerys' great grandsire, the Old King Jaehaerys.

Silverwing would often wander off to coil herself around Vermithor in his cavern beneath Dragonmont where he had taken up residence, but he was a fearsome thing. It would be a difficult endeavor to tame all the dragons wild and old alike though not impossible.

Riders would of course have to be procured. Dragonseeds were not so hard to find. One need only look for their silver heads, or their many shades of violet eyes, or both, upon the shores of Driftmark, Dragonstone, and the alleys of Kings Landing. The Targaryen’s had always been more than generous with their favors and amorous attention upon the small folk of the realm. It was a gift to bear the fruit of a God. Or as close to it as mortally possible.

The capture of Dragonstone could easily turn the tide of the war in Rhaenyra’s favor if she moved quickly. If she had enough sense and foresight to employ its treasures to their fullest extent. The Greens had precious little time before the Realms Delight would gather her strength and strike. They could not lose their advantage to the hands of the would-be queen and her allies.

The castle had been left in the care of Maester Orlys. The kindly old man was as loyal as they came. As were the rest of their household and islands’ occupants, including a small garrison numbering less than five hundred. Daemon had always inspired a certain level of loyalty in his men, from his time as lord commander of the city watch to now. Always rallying their spirits.

Their soldiers would defend the ancient Targaryen seat in their prince and princesses name, but what was their loyalty to the might of a dragon? Or better yet two full-grown dragons? The Blacks would take the island under threat of their queen's house words' reigning true.

Daenys volunteered to journey back to father's seat. She was to be Lady of Dragonstone after him. The island was her home. The young princess would not see it fall into her cousin turned half-good-sister's clutches. She had been born on its smoky shores and she would rule over them when the time came. Why should she not insure its safety?

Her father was needed in the capital and he would not want her mother out of his sight. The two rarely parted from each other. He would not wish for her to defend, but they did not have much choice. Aemond had his mission at Storm's End. As much as she loathed to be parted from her husband so soon after their nuptials, Daenys was well-equipped to handle the issue on her own.

Helaena, who had looked and sounded more than elated at the prospect, extended her own services. “Two dragons are better than one and Dreamfyre is swift as is Moondream.” Neither her good sister's parents nor her brother would allow Daenys to go by herself. The little queen would more than makeup for her brother’s temporary absence.

At any rate, the she-dragons, apart from Daeron's Tesserion, with rider and dragon alike gathering support in Oldtown, were the fastest dragons in their possession. Both were lithe nimble things that would take the new queen and her good-sister to Dragonstone before Rhaenys or Rhaenyra could rally their own dragons and ships to make way for the fortress.

Truth be told, Naerys thought that the young queen was a great deal overwhelmed with her newest occupation. Helaena had always been a girl who preferred the close intimacy and company of those she loved best. Not unlike her good-aunt.

Her ladies, her family, and her non-human companions shined brighter in her violet gaze than all the dazzle of court. She had never taken to the spotlight as her sister or even her now good sister had. The now queen would have made an excellent lord's wife. Somewhere in the Reach or the Westerlands mayhaps.

She would have done well to marry into her mother’s house. In the comfort and safety of Hightowers towering stonewalls. There was much entertainment and less idle tattling to be found outside the barrier erected by her crown. Alas fate had other plans for Helaena.

Although it was done with care, Aemond shot down his sister's assistance. “You are needed here sister. Kings Landing can not be left without its own protection.” In her own words, just as Dragonstone would be better off with two dragons instead of one so would the capital. “I shall journey with my wife.” The pale girl’s eyes lost some of their brilliance, but she conceded with a small nod of her silver head.

The one eyed prince would give Rhaenyra more of a pause than either Daenys or Helaena. She would hesitate to strike Dragonstone with her half brother and his dragon upon its shores. Slow and old Vhagar might be, but she had seen war. She was the largest dragon in the world and though her rider was untested in battle, he was a force to be reckoned upon dragonback with or without a sword in his hand.

Of course his business at Storms’ End could not be delayed. With Daeron away in Oldtown gathering the support of the Reach lords alongside their cousin Lord Ormund it fell down to him to insure an alliance with the Storm Lords. He was to propose a betrothal between one of Lord Borros’ daughters and his younger brother on his behalf.

Time could not be wasted on the onset of war. Aemond could only stay long enough to cement his wife’s position on Dragonstone before taking to the skies for the Baratheon seat. He would only be gone for a few hours, but that would be more than enough time for Rhaenyra to try something if she was alerted of his absence from his Daenys’ side. His wife would have her fathers guards, but Aemond, as men often want to mark their territory, wanted a man of his own with her.

The prince asked his grandsire for leave of Ser Criston. He was a valued friend and mentor. It was clear to all that he trusted the Dornish knight with his own life. He would be up to the task of guarding his little wife while both himself and her parents were away from Dragonstone. Should the need arise he would be able to whisk her away to safety.

A resounding no was the answer to his request. From his goodsire and grandsire and surprisingly Naerys. The first and viewed the knight with the utmost distrust. His wife was prone to agree with him. While she did not think she did not believe him to be a malevolent man as her husband would describe, she did not believe that he would do all in his power to defend her daughter if it came to it.

Thankfully, Ser Otto had need of him. As the new Lord Commander of Aegon’s Kingsguard Ser Criston could not leave the capital. Not while their new king's reign remained tested and the exact whereabouts and plots of their enemies were yet unknown. Aemond was given his uncle Ser Gwayne Hightower instead.

Though he was no Ser Criston he was a worthy and honorable knight. Unlike in the case of the Dornish knight, his regard for his nephew extended to Daenys. He viewed her as her mother’s daughter rather than her fathers. The issue was settled when no objection was given. While it pained him to admit to it, viewing him to be over familiar when it came to her, Naerys knew that her husband trusted him enough to see to their daughters welfare. For a short while at least, Ser Gwayne was safe from Daemon’s suspicion as long as he kept to his person and minded his post.

“Helaena mentioned a beast underneath the floorboards.” Daenys had leaned in to not so subtly whisper to her mother on the walk up the hill where Vhagar and Moondream rested. Apart from Naerys and her husband, who were to see the newlywed’s and the Hightower knight's departure, the rest of their party had gone back to the Red Keep.

The now queen in question had always been a unique child. Insects called to her more than people, even animals. Dragon dreams. A gift to some or rather a curse for others. She was a sweet girl, but it was clear that the Dreams had taken a toll on her.

Giving the appearance of a half-scattered mind. Daenys the Dreamer had been half made they say. Prone to getting lost within the rich fancifulness of her imagination rather than the solid reality that stood in front of her. Her imagination was what ultimately led to House Targaryen’s continued survival. Past the doom and beyond.

“Nyke gaomagon daor pendagon bona ao istan se cause hen skorion massitas? Muñnykeā. Nyke pāsagon ziry istan va moriot meant naejot massigon.” I do not think that you were the cause of what happened mother. I believe it was always meant to happen.

Naerys felt her face heat up as Aemond and Daemon guffawed at Daenys remark. Ser Gwanye could neither speak nor understand Valyrian, but he seemed to infer what had been said when he added his own chortles to the fray. Whatever doubt they had at her part to play in the incident vanquished. If both Daenys and Helaena could see what she had inadvertently caused, there could be no uncertainty.

“Do stop fussing kepa. You look so grim.” Daenys laughed lightly when her father placed a kiss into her curls after she had saddled her dragon. “My husband will see that I am comfortable before he leaves and he won’t be gone very long.” It went without saying that Ser Gwayne would deal with both Daemon and Aemond’s ire should anything happen to the young princess.

Daenys then went to place a kiss upon her mother's cheek as Naerys pulled her in for a hug. Letting out another round of laughter at her mother's tight grip. “Don’t fuse either. I shall see you both soon enough.” The newlyweds and Ser Gwayne, who climbed upon Vhagar’s back with some hesitation after his nephew, were off to Dragonstone.

With both Aemond and Daenys away securing Dragonstone and Storm’s End the present agenda rested on their strengths and allies in relation to Rhaenyra’s. The chief among them being their dragons.

The loss of Meleys was a greater inconvenience than her rider. There was always a danger that came with the opposition gaining an additional dragon, but they held both more dragons and dragonriders than Rhaenyra. They were at the advantage in the skies as Daemon had reminded the council, but he, and Aemond, would hesitate to send either herself or Daenys ride into war. In all likelihood they would not need to.

The Blacks' five dragonriders comprised mainly of the would-be queen's children. They all knew that Rhaenyra, like her uncle and second brother, would be reluctant to send any of her boys into battle unless need demanded it. Jacaerys and Lucerys, who while were more than adequate riders, were learning the commands and capabilities of their beasts as well as themselves. Joffrey's dragon was too small to be ridden into war. Rhaenys would no doubt hesitate to send her granddaughter the Lady Baela into battle as well.

Lady Rhaena had no dragon to speak of. Only three dragon eggs, given to her from one of Syraxes clutches that had all yet to hatch. Though the sweet young lady did pray to the Gods every night that she would be made a dragonrider as her mother the late Lady Laena had been. To join the fold beside her grandmother and elder twin. Naerys had heard that the youngest Lady Strong could seldom be parted with her eggs.

Dragons of course were not the only way to win a war. They were an advantage sure enough, but they were to be the last option on both sides. They brought more danger than they were worth many times over. For when dragons dance, the destruction can be endless.

It could not go without saying that the Rhaenys' escape had left them with little time to execute the Greens' more diplomatic plans. Plans which depended a great deal upon the older princess’s temporary captivity within her guest quarters. It was a setback, but not one that they would not be able to recover from.

Ser Otto had sent a raven to Driftmark for its maester. A man, who in addition to studying as a novice alongside Grand Maester Orwyle many ages past, was a great friend of Naerys' late uncle Ser Vaemond. So much so that he often sought his counsel ahead of that of his own brother. Of course, this tendency to seek guidance in the form of Hide Tide’s maester was helped by him being a blood relation to the Velaryon knight's now widowed lady wife.

When an acolyte takes his vows and forges his chain to become a maester, a degree of impartiality is expected to follow. One’s previous allegiances to their house, their name, and the lands from which they come from must fall to the wayside, but the call of blood is a hard bond to break. He had been shown to hold his lord's brother’s opinions and interests on matters relating to the Driftwood throne. The maester kept council and advised his sons in the wake of their father's untimely end.

Driftmarks maester would have alerted Ser Vaemond’s sons of recent events in the capital upon receiving the hands' letter. A king had been crowned. A king who was sympathetic to their woes. Knowing all too well of the plight of the rightful heir against that of their enemies.

Offering the hand of friendship if needs be. The need only to embrace said friendship and a hand would be lent to place one of Naerys' cousins upon their rightful throne. However, with Rhaenys traveling back to Driftmark they could no longer be so sure that their friends would be able to act on their good faith.

With good weather, the Queen Who Never Was could be back on Driftmarks shores by the day's end. Meleys was older now, but she rose to the task when needed. There could be no doubt that Rhaenys would alert Rhaenyra of the Greens' treachery and treason. Of the danger that would soon be upon her and her sons. Bringing her a worthy ally and a much-needed dragonrider. However, the situation at present was temperamental.

Naerys could not doubt that if she were to transport herself within High Tides' white stone walls she would find a den of discontent. Unease brewing from an unwelcome guest upon its shores. An interloper. Filling up every chamber within the castle. Waiting. Building up dread until the cup would overflow.

What was supposed to be a time of triumph had become a time of mourning for too many reasons to name. They had been made a fool. The sons of House Velaryon. The blood of the seahorse and old Valyria. The rightful heirs of their uncle’s throne. First Ser Vaemond and now they too were being pushed aside. Their pain was being paraded over by a feckless woman and her bastards.

If nothing else, the disquietude should unsettle the Black queen. She was an island surrounded by enemies. It did not occur to her that she had made a mistake coming to Driftmark. She had thought herself safe even with her sole advocate, the formidable Sea Snake lying in his sick bed. She had another that would scare off the monsters for her a thousand leagues away within the Red Keep, but he was dead now. Gone to the seven hells. If Rhaenys did not make it back to her husband's shores in time, Rhaenyra could find herself fighting her own battle within her chosen place of refuge.

A series of what-ifs had overtaken fate. Naerys cousins’ would not speak a word against Rhaenyra and her sons for fear of the king's might and reach, but their silence would only last for so long. They would not forget who made them so low. Never mind if it happened a day ago or ten years.

If Ser Otto’s letter was received before Rhaenys arrival it would only take to gag and bound the would-be queen and her sons. Delivering them to the Red Keep. To Aegon to do with as he pleased. All would be right with the world then. Driftmark returned to its proper heirs. If not, a fight would commence for another day.

“Our support lies heaviest in the south.” Ravens had been sent to houses small and great alike throughout the Seven Kingdoms but had yet to receive replies in mass. It was the early days yet. The lords of Westeros waited to see where the deck would land.

The Riverlands were divided at best. It had always been that way. The support of the Reach and the Westerlands were all but guaranteed. Aemond was dealing with the Stormlands. The North was unlikely to join their cause, but they were unlikely to be of much help to Rhaenyra either.

Winterfell and the lords of the North were a long way away from Driftmark much less Kings Landing and as the Starks' house words do so dutifully remind both friends and foes, winter is coming. With the heavy snows of winter, the journey south would be a long one. The fighting might be down before Lord Cregan Stark ever reached the neck. The Vale was without a doubt lost.

“Perhaps we might send the princess to parlay with Lady Arryn?” The new Master of Coin Ser Tyland suggested, but he backed into himself once Daemon began to glower at him from the opposite side of the small council table. “Or mayhaps a messenger or a raven might be better suited to offer terms of friendship.”

“Jeyne Arryn would sooner see the Prince of Dorne as king than Aegon.” Jeyne Arryn’s blood was Rhaenyra’s. Enmity remained well within the lady’s mind. Her opinion of Daemon remained sour. He was reason enough to side against the Greens. The Rogue Prince had twice done her kin over. Leaving Rhaenyra to fend for herself. Turning his back to her when she needed him most. The business of him marrying his daughter to the son of a traitor would further leave a foul taste in her mouth.

Lady Arryn neither trusted Ser Otto nor Alicent to keep her interests at heart. They had crowned an unworthy man, a usurper, all because he had the luck to be born with the right appendage betwixt his legs. She herself had to contend with countless attempts to unseat her as Lady of the Vale from her own less-than-worthy male relations. If they were to send an envoy it would be a wasted effort.

“We should send an envoy to Hide Tide.” Daemon turned to Ser Otto. “Before we do anything. We might be able to settle things peacefully.” Ser Otto held his tongue though he did narrow his eyes at the Targaryen man's suggestion. “She’s at a disadvantage.” War was a last resort or rather it should be, but for the Hand, Naerys had found that he believed war to be their only option. They were dealing with an unreasonable foe blinded by her emotions and entitlement.

“She has the support of House Velaryon and House Arryn at the least.” More houses were soon to follow. “She is not so weak.” Ser Otto said as his light eyes flitted to the map spread out in front of them. “The princess will not give in so easily.”

Rhaenyra was a proud woman. If she believed herself wrong or denied what was hers she would not give up. From where she stood, damn the laws of men and Gods alike. Her father had seen to such. The Iron Throne was hers. She would not turn her back upon it now. Or ever if she had the means to. She would fight. For as long as she could, but no one fights a war which they could not win.

“We still might reason with my aunt.” Rhaenyra had the support of House Velaryon, but without them, even with her four dragons, she would surely lose. No allies would come to her rescue if the Velaryon’s left her out to dry. Taking away her support would stop the chaos before it began. If they were to take away the Velaryon’s and their fleet, this war could be over by the end of the day.

Rhaenys did not want war herself. Not truly. Not a woman who had sacrificed her own crown near thirty years past to prevent one, but what could they offer her? She sided with Rhaenyra for her granddaughters. For their just due. Naerys did not doubt her aunt's words. Everything she did was for them. They could not offer her eldest granddaughter the crown, but perhaps they might offer Lady Baela Driftmark to rule over in her own right. By all the natural laws in the land, it should be hers.

“Rhaenys has made her decision.” The dowager queen kindly reminded her. Painfully so. The Dragonpit would take weeks to repair from her choice of action. Alicent gave her a soft smile and pulled her brown hand in her pale one before turning to face the rest of the council. “My good daughter has not. We might still reason with Rhaenyra. We offer her fair terms. Jaecerys will be the lord of Driftmark after Lord Corlys if he so wishes.”

It would anger Naerys' cousins, true enough. Though it was a necessary sacrifice for the time being. Surely a future betrothal could smooth things over when the time came to. War was too much of a burden to give into her cousin's demands as honorable as they may be.

“Lucerys a Lordship of his own. Joffrey may become Aegon’s cupbearer or Aemond’s squire at Dragonstone or your own Daemon.” Her husband snorted, throwing his violet gaze at the king's mother. However, he did not say anything against the proposal. Ser Otto looked as if he too wanted to object, but he once again stayed his tongue. The Hand of the King was increasingly becoming outnumbered.

“They all will be welcomed at court.” She gave a pointed look to her father who stiffened in his chair, “and they may keep their titles. On the condition that Rhaenyra journeys to Kings Landing, bends the knee, and swears loyalty to our king.” Alicent turned her eyes toward her son in acknowledgment. Aegon’s violet eyes seemed to liven at the image that his mother painted. “She is Viserys' eldest daughter. Not his son. It is time she recognizes that.” If Naerys' cousin were to give in she would stand as no threat. The once crown princess had bastards for heirs. She was a woman. She was not a threat.

Ser Otto conceded as did the rest of the council. The right course of action dictated it. Diplomacy demanded it. If there was any way to solve this matter civilly then by all means. The dragons may not dance yet. They must first exhaust all of their options before declaring war upon Rhaenyra and her allies. Only then if she rejected their offer of a truce. Their offer of kinship, would they have no choice, but to pursue less than peaceful measures.

It had been ten odd years since Naerys had last stepped foot onto Driftmarks shores. The castle remained unchanged. She wondered if it was even a possibility that it ever could. Some things were stuck within the ages. Remaining a static fixture in our memory. Hide Tide stood as a reminder of youth. An echo of a distant past. Of the joy and naivety she had in it.

The people, however, were a different story. Hide Tides' occupants were more changed than the castle in which they resided. Very much so. Seasons came and went and they were weathered by the passing storms of time. Weary from the days that stained and left their mark upon their skin and in their eyes. The hauntings of past lives and lost chances.

Rhaenys and to Naerys' shock her uncle Lord Corlys were waiting for them. Her mother's eldest brother's umber complexion looked dull in the dusk from his sickness. His neck had been wrapped in gauze. He should be resting, but the man had become especially obstinate in old age. No warm words of welcome were exchanged between the two factions upon the beach where they had landed Caraxes and Silverwing. The only greeting they received were weary looks. Her aunt would not fully meet her eye as she looked on ahead past them.

“Where is Princess Rhaenyra?” Ser Otto was the first to speak. His raspy voice sounded out over the crashing waves. Naerys and her uncle-husband were well suited to offer terms of alliance to Rhaenyra, but the older man had insisted upon journeying with them. His trust in Daemon was fickle at best and Naerys relationship with her cousin was less than idyllic. If they were to choose diplomacy, the occasion called for a steady hand to guide them which is what the Hightower man believed himself to be.

Lord Corlys lips parted in reply, but then there was no need to supply an answer. A roaring could be heard above them. Syrax’s. On top of the golden she-dragon sat Rhaenyra wearing her fathers crown.

Rhaenys was not the only one to have made a half-mad escape from the Red Keep during Aegon’s coronation. Ser Errk had turned his white cloak. At least in service of the new king. The last anyone had seen of him was brother seeing him off Blackwater Bay aboard a ship to Driftmark no doubt. To his queen. He had taken Viserys crown with him that now rested on top of the Black queen's white head. If Rhaenyra could not have the crown of the conqueror, her fathers would have to do.

“I wish to speak to my uncle.” Rhaenyra kept her eyes trained upon Daemon as she climbed off her dragon to face them. Only briefly strained her lilac gaze down at Naerys. She looked the part of queen. Had made her entrance as such, but she was ever herself. Queendom would only make her more so. “Alone.”

Daemon made to answer her. Something crude judging by the smirk upon his pale brow, but Naerys beat him to it. “Go with her kepus.” She met her cousin's narrowed stare with one of her own. A crown upon Rhaenyra’s head would not change her. Her father’s death would not bring her humility, but their was something upon her pallid visage that did show a chink in her queenly armor. She would not deny her closure. Let this be the last of it.

Daemon did not listen to his niece-wife. “My wife can wait in the hall dear niece.” He sneered at the realms delight as he grabbed Naerys small hand. Her husband pulled her along towards the castle without sparing the Black Queen a second glance. Rhaenyra fummed, but she held her head high when she saw her cousins’ dark amethyst eyes turning back to glimpse at her.

The rest of their party attempted to follow them, but guards blocked a positively vexed Ser Otto and his men from doing so. The Lord and Lady of Driftmark scampered off when they were back behind the safety of their stone walls.

They came to a standstill at the heavy oak doors leading to her uncle’s Great Hall. Her husband placed a kiss on her brown forehead smoothing back her silver coils before pushing her towards a bench outside of the hall. Her cousin took care to slam the door shut after Daemon went through.

Naerys did not know how long she remained sitting on that bench. Time seemed to become immaterial.There was nothing to mark it by. She did not worry herself with her thoughts. There wasn’t much Rhaenyra could do or say that would move her husband. There was no harm in leaving the two alone. Good may in fact come from it.

Her cousin cherished their uncle’s opinion above all. She was obsessed with it. If anyone could make her see sense it would be he. She heard no noises coming from behind those shut doors. Not until she heard a loud bang. Dread made her pull open the door. The scene she walked into was a half-surprise.

Daemon and Rhaenyra stood on opposite sides of the long table which occupied the center of the room. Much like a map of the Seven Kingdoms was spread out on top of it. Naerys' husband was leaning over a chair. Seemingly trying to control his breathing. Her cousin stood pacing around her side of the room. Her eyes were red-rimmed. Whatever queenly veneer she had slipped out from her.

“Leave us.” Rhaenyra turned her head to hiss at her. For a brief moment, Naerys was transported back sixteen years. Back to Dragonstones shores. A distant memory of her happening upon them when she went to fetch a book she left in the painted table’s chamber. She had told her the same then.

Naerys was frozen. Trapped in time. Mayhaps people change less than the chambers and halls in which they take up, but she wasn’t a girl anymore. She herself needed reminding of that. Her husband's voice snapped her back to the present.

“Do not listen to her little one.” Daemon breathed harder than he would have had he been sparing with his men around their training yard. He held out a white hand for her to take. His face had lost what little color it had. still leaning over the chair as he motioned her to him “Come here my sweet girl.” He kissed her forehead again before burying his face into the top of her coils when she had reached him. Drinking her in. He seemed to calm somewhat. “That’s a good girl.”

“Kepus.” Naerys tried to begin, but he only buried his head into her neck. The princess sighed as she brought a hand to run through his silver strands. Grazing the scars that ran down his neck. She would let herself bring him comfort once more. Questions on what had upset him could wait for when they were behind the safety of their own walls back at Dragonstone.

“Sweet kind Naerys, you’ve done everything that’s been expected of you.” Her face had turned sour. As if she had bitten into a lemon cake made without sugar. She spoke through clenched teeth. It was a wonder how they did not break from the strain. Her lips screwed up into a frown. “Everything apart from giving our uncle sons. I guess your womb is where it all comes to rot. You were never worthy of that.”

“You are a placeholder.” Rhaenyra continued on. Hurling half-truths in rapid succession. Her mask was put back into place. The appearance of ease. Of self-surety, but her eyes, the eyes always tell. Frustration. Neither darkness nor truth, but her displeasure was unrestrained. “That’s all you really are Naerys. My replacement. He couldn’t have me.” She would never let her forget that. My father wouldn’t allow it, so he took you.”

Why was she still here then? There was no need to have her still. If she had overstayed her welcome there was nothing tying him to her. Apart from what her dear cousin did not want to name. Daemon loved her. He was not an easy man, but she pleased him. She was sorry for it. Naerys pleased him beyond measure and that was what haunted the would-be queen. She made him happy as he did her. It was unexpected, but she would not feel ashamed for it.

“Rhaenyra, dear niece I couldn’t have your father.” Daemon let out a snigger that resounded around the room. No longer leaning upon Naerys to stand. while placing a hand to stroke down her arm. “We could have been each other’s everything had circumstances been different.”

Rhaenyra blanched at their uncle's words. Her thin mouth opened and closed like a gaping fish. “I even pictured Viserys in your place on occasion when we fucked. Naerys was the first time I hadn’t the need to.” Rhaenyra collapsed into a nearby chair. Naerys herself felt as if she too might collapse at her husband's admission had he not held her up rubbing circles into her back to calm her.

“You’ve bewitched him!” Naerys could not help but laugh at the utter ridiculousness of it. She had no tricks up her sleeve. No wiles which to capture him by. She had been a girl ten and five when she had married Daemon. Whatever she had done to make her husband care for her she had done unknowingly. One could not take what was freely given.

The anger came then in Rhaenyra’s pale glower. A frown dropped across her brow as her eyes darkened. A spark. Lit by scorn. By rejection. “Do not take it as a compliment dear cousin.” She spat the next words at her. Leaning over her chair to do so.

“I chose her.” He removed himself from his wife’s side to stride over to where Rhaenyra sat. “She does not know her power over me. She does not know she wields such a thing.” Rhaenyra sank further into her chair at her uncle's approaching form. She recalled the last time she had stoked his temper. Her dress's neckline covered the evidence of it. “Naerys did not climb into my bed in the middle of the night to seduce me away from you.” It had never been about her. “Have you actually ever loved anyone Rhaenyra?”

He came to a stop to bend down to meet her cousin's eye, but the woman avoided him. Taking to staring at Naerys instead, before Daemon yanked her head to face him. His eyes were grim. “I have already told you that if you had her you would understand. She’s given me more than I deserve.”

He reached out to take her wrist in his hold. Her cousin struggled against his strength, but he only tightened his grip. “She would have given me a son, but what good is a son without her?” Rhaenyra wasted no time in snatching away her hand when Daemon released his grasp. “I admit I am a selfish man, but I would do everything for her.”

“Nyke sorry ziry gaomagon ao.” I am sorry he used you. Naerys spoke out. Having to take a breath to steady herself. Both sets of pale violet eyes turned to face her. “Nyke sorry syt bona.” I am sorry for that. Her cousin was a victim in her own way. That could not be denied. Her husband had greatly misused Rhaenyra. He had used and discarded her when he had seen fit. More than either suspected. She knew her uncle. He would never apologize for it.

“Yn nyke emagon dōrī ōdrikagon ao.” But I have never hurt you. She had not made him do the things he had. Daemon was his own person and he had chosen to bend to her. He chose her own on his own violation. He had strung her cousin along, but Naerys was not the cause of it. The Rogue Prince had started his games long before her husband had set his gaze upon her.

“Nyke emagon dōrī jeldan ao ōdrikagon.” I have never wished you harm. Despite everything she had done to her to the ones she loved, Naerys could only feel pity for her rather than true contempt. Tried as she might to rid herself of the sentiment she could not hate her. To do that would mean she resented her. Rhaenyra had nothing of value that she wanted except for her surrender.

“Ziry does daor emagon naejot mōris bisa ñuhoso.” It does not have to end this way. Honey words. The call to kinship. The Lady of Dragonstone could not forget why they were here in the first place. Peace. It was for peace. It was up to the would-be-queen. They could avoid the destruction of their house. If she bent the knee to Aegon and gave up her claim to the Seven Kingdoms. She could live a life here among House Velaryon. Make her court there or wherever she wished. “Ao kostagon sagon dāez Rhaenyra.” You may be free Rhaenyra.

For all her posturing, Rhaenyra was not a warrior queen. She rode a dragon, but she was no Visenya. She was not even Queen Rhaena. She was a princess of leisure. Preferring the comforts of court and its admirer’s than the endless toil of battle. She was not a political woman either. She was no more suited for war than she was to sit upon the Iron Throne after she waged it and paid the price in blood she did not have.

Rhaenyra glared at her. A shadow blotted her face. She sensed her pity and she did not want it. Pride. It would keep her cousin from doing what was right. Her conceit would not fall today. It would be her undoing.

“You are considerate to try little one, but Rhaenyra is just as mad as her father.” Daemon removed himself from looming over the Black Queen, sauntering over back to Naerys. “Believing in dreams.” Letting out a chortle at her cousin's sullen expression. “Even if that prophecy my brother obsessed over is true, we are all the conqueror’s blood. It could mean any one of us. In case you have forgotten, my wife has given me a child. My blood, my grandson shall sit upon the Iron Throne.”

He grabbed her hand before Naerys could process the meaning of her uncle's words. So much had been said she felt as if she was being thrown from one revelation to the next. Barely keeping a hold onto her head. “If all you wish is to talk of is riddles, then there is nothing left to discuss.”

Daemon gestured to the Dark Sister at his side.“I could end it all here. I’d be doing the realm a favor but for the love I bore your father. I spare you this kindness. Let it be my last.” He left the chamber doors wide open as they made their exit. Storming out the castle at double the rate which they had entered into the halls of High Tide.

“You shall do as you please Lord Hand.” Daemon snarled as they passed Ser Otto. He had been proven right. The Hightower man’s eyes gleamed beneath his solemn face as he gave the signal to his men to move out. Naerys' husband helped her onto Silverwing before mounting Caraxes who was just as tempestuous as he rider. They took flight for their smoky shores without another word exchanged.

Dragonstone was quiet when they arrived back. Their welcoming party consisted of Maester Orlys and a couple of servants. The genial old maester informed them that Aemond had not yet returned back from Storms End. Daenys had retired to their new apartments in the Sea Dragon Tower far enough away from her parents in the Stone Drum.

That did not stop Daemon from ordering a servant to fetch Aemond as soon as he arrived so that he may enlighten him of the outcome of his mission. “It can wait kepus.” Naerys uncle’s mood remained foul, but that did not mean that he needed to bother the boy. It would be well past a decent hour whenever he and Vhagar landed. Whatever business he had with their good son could wait until the morrow.

Both he and their daughter deserved the night to themselves. He did not argue with her, but being reminded of their daughter's recent nuptials seemed to set him off further. Leading him to march up to their chambers while whispering curses under his breath.

Naerys could recollect that Daemon had kept her in their bed for a week after they had wed. He had not even loved her then. Of course love had very little to do with attraction. “I believe I have broken you.” He had laughed then when she frowned in confusion as she pulled slightly off his chest after their lovemaking.

She had been mostly frightened of him and the emotions he invoked in her. Emotions he likely shared. “Issa iā sȳz run dōna riña.” It is a good thing, sweet girl. He pulled her back down to lay her on top of him, lining her heat up again with his hardening member. Bringing the back of his rough hand up to caress her face. “Pāsan emā pryjatan nyke tolī.” I believe you have broken me too.

Naerys called for a bath to be brought for their chambers. It had been a long day. The first of many to come. They could worry about what would happen in the coming weeks tomorrow. For now, they needed to rest. They would be no good in the agitated state they were in.

The steaming water calmed their nerves. They sat in quiet contemplation. Daemon had taken to pulling her onto his lap after they had finished bathing the grime of the day off of each other. Resting his chin on top of her head. Stroking a warm hand up and down her bare arm while the other took her hand in his to play with her fingers. Naerys closed her eyes daydreaming of a not-so-distant future.

“It shall be nice to have children running around here again.” Daemon hummed in reply kissing her forehead. Naerys recalled that even in the darkest days when she was laid up in bed the little patter of Daenys feet and her laughter bouncing off their walls had been the most blessed sounds she heard. It had kept her sane in spite of her failures. “Future kings I suppose.” She would not pressure him for an explanation, it would come naturally.

“Aegon is not worthy to sit upon the throne.” Her husband looked at her as if it was obvious as she turned her gaze up to him. He was right about Aegon himself, but their nephew's line did not end with himself.

“Aegon has sons.” Jaehaerys and Maelor. Sweet little cherubs. They held their mothers' temperament rather than the impudence of their father. With the proper training, Jaehaerys could be an honorable heir. “Our nephew is healthy.” Their king was a lustful drunkard, but he otherwise was in perfect health.

“Men die every day as do children, especially in war.” Daemon breathed into the shell of his niece-wife’s ear. “In any case, they would need a regency.” It would never come to that. They both knew it. The lords of Westeros would rather seat a grown man upon the throne than boys even in peacetime. It was why during the Great Council Ser Laenor was passed over in favor of Viserys claim. “We would need a strong king to lead us.”

Aemond. He was next in line and conveniently married to their daughter. An overstep that Ser Otto and Alicent had missed in their haste to secure Dragonstone for themselves. An advantageous position for an ambitious man. For a second son.

“As well as a strong Hand to lead our king.” Her husband let out a chortle at her musings. Aemond no more liked his new good father than Daemon liked his good-son, but he was not too fond of his grandsire either.

Daenys would no doubt convince her husband who was besotted with his little wife that her father would make an excellent hand should it come to it. Naerys did not wish for her daughter to find herself in the precarious position of queendom, but our fate is rarely within our control. The Gods have the final say.

“Viserys was a weak man little one.” He sighed into her hair. “I will not let my affection for him blind me to his faults.” More than brotherly love by his own admittance. Or rather more than brotherly worship. It had been an obsession. “He is the reason why we find ourselves in this mess. My brother was never meant to sit upon that damned throne. He let vipers rule his court for him.” Daemon would not allow the same mistake to happen twice.

“From my blood come the prince that was promised, and his will be the song of ice and fire.” The riddle. The one that had caused her husband to spiral before she arrived. Daemon let out a snort. “The conqueror’s blood. My brother thought it referred to his line as does Rhaenyra.” Presumptuous given that neither he nor Rhaenyra were the only ones with the blood of the man who united the Seven Kingdoms running through his veins. The folly of their house. A lack of hubris. “It could just as easily be ours.” Their blood upon the Iron Throne. A call to right the past wrongs. The idea was too great to ignore.

“Ziry dōrī ivestretan issa.” He never told me. Daemon took to gazing at the flames from their chamber’s fire. Its light cast shadows across his pale face. He squeezed her hand. Bringing it to his lips to place a kiss upon the back of it absentmindedly. Giving her a half smile. “Hae baseless hae ziry istan ziry dōrī ivestretan issa se nyke istan zȳhon dārilaros.” As baseless as it was. He never told me and I was his heir. Dreams were not always so baseless. Naerys wondered if her uncle truly believed his own words. Surely he could not. His face was too troubled for him to believe it was pure conjecture.

A knock sounded at the door. Daemon barked at the poor soul on the other side of their door to bother them in the morrow, but the interruption came with urgency. Aemond had arrived back worse for wear. Rambling. His Hightower uncle Ser Gwayne had been the one to greet him. Whatever condition the young Targaryen Prince returned in had stoked his uncles’ distaste. The two quickly found themselves in a shouting match within the Painted Tables Chamber.

Daenys was called for and she had tried her best to diffuse the situation, but she could not make sense of it and had descended into her own mutterings. They did not need to be told twice when their daughter was in great distress. Daemon Hastily jumped from the bath helping his wife dress before grabbing Dark Sister. The two bound for their map rooms chambers across the Stone Drum that remained eerily muted.

The reason for Ser Gwayne's repulsion and their daughter's distress was apparent to the naked eye when they entered the chamber. “What have you done boy?” Aemond was soaked to the bone. Half drowned was more like it. Drenched by rain from the Stormlands and something darker. Crimson specks scattered across his face and into his long silver strands. He paced the room running his hands down his face while his young wife was comforted by her lady’s maid. Ser Gwayne stood.

“I was owed an eye.” His expression, red with irritation and rage, was as wild as the rest of him. Turning to face his good-fathers assessment. Rancor had clouded his judgment. The fury of a vengeful God. Or rather a young man who thought himself such. “The debt has been paid nuncle.” At the cost of their lives.

“Lucerys was there.” Ser Gwayne supplied with his hand still furiously rubbing his temples. Bringing up the other to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Delivering a message from his mother. He had left. The boy had left, but he chased him down.”

“I was owed an eye!” Aemond repeated. Daenys tried to go to him, but her mother held her back. Pulling her daughter's head to her side. Petting her silver strands like she did to soothe her as a girl. The young princess had worked herself into a frenzy. “I had every right—”

“Were you owed his life as well?” Naerys' husband met the younger man’s wroth with his own cold fury. The boy backed down some. Glancing at Dark Sister strapped to his good-fathers person. Aemond played the part of a God Daemon was every bit a malevolent Valyrian God of old.

“Aemond did what he thought was necessary kepa.” Only Daenys came to her husband’s aid. Breaking free of her mother's hold. The young girl put her hand in his. Her honey face was pale and her violet eyes were red-rimmed. The first blush of a new bride was gone.

Aemond had the veracious nature of a man of his house. Feed by the fire of youth. He did not know how to control his temper. Rash anger rather than reason Daenys had gotten her first taste of the violent passions that a man such as her husband possessed. A Targaryen man in his prime. Naerys herself had married one. He had mellowed over the years, but sleeping dragons do not lie dormant forever.

“He was her son.” Aemond went rigid at Naerys' chiding. Not expecting his good-mother's reprimand. It was as if his mother was in the room with him and not in her chambers in the Hands Tower oblivious to what he had done. “Rhaenyra would gladly die for any of her children.” Her cousin was many things, but she was a mother above all else. Naerys knew what a mother's love could do.

“As would I! As would your mother!” He was a boy beyond his depth. He was not a mother. He did not understand the depth of that bond. To carry and give birth to a child only to have him snatched away from you. He could not know. His half-sister would repay them in kind ten times over.

“A son for a son. That is what she will want. Do you have any idea of what you have done you half-blind fool?” It was Naerys who had to rest her hand upon her husband to calm him. To stop him from throttling their good-son. “Aōha mandia jāhor emagon aōha bartos valonqar!” Your sister will have your head boy! The Lady of Dragonstone thanked the Gods Daemon had the good sense not to reach for Dark Sister.

Understanding that her new husband provoked her father's ire and that nothing good could come from staying in his company, Daenys dragged Aemond to their apartments. Putting some distance between the two Targaryen men was for the best. Ser Gwayne rushed from the chamber to the rookery to inform his father and sister of the events that had unfolded tonight.

Rhaenyra would not stop until she had her fill. Her feast upon their innards. Until they felt as she did. They would know her pain. A mother's broken heart. The sound of Valyrian steel slicing through bone and flesh alike played in Naerys head. Dragons flames. Burning everything in their path. Colliding with each other in a crimson blaze beneath ash and ruin. Only blood would pay for what was spilled today. The price of vengeance.

Ao3 Link:

Tags: @misssilencewritewell @parizparis @thanyatargaryen @i-love-morally-gray-characters @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 @bubblebuttwade @beggarsnotchoosey @m-indkiller @pearlstiare @green-lxght @lazypinkpig @mvrylee @janelei

[moonglow-nightjar]

Decided to repurpose some of the stuff in my piglet application for a new dragon because I liked it and I need to feed my desire for slightly messed up blood-obsessed dragons so meet Howl

"This is the pain that feeds the rot inside

A poison and a creed, my parasite

I am changed but free

And it strengthens me still to survive"

Once a proud and powerful warrior of the Scarred Wasteland, in a twist of fate her entire world came falling down in an instant, one surprise attack and betrayal leaving her severely injured, a magical contagion used against her now festering in her wounds, losing her charge, her home and purpose.

Now blighted and rotting from the inside out, infection spreading through her body, corrupting flesh and blood, left roaming the wastes aimlessly until she was doomed to get overtaken by the disease and succumb, if not for the help of Victim. Howl and young wildclaw had a chance encounter in the wasteland, in which she saved him from a group of raiders with what remained of her strength, and Victim, seeing the condition his apparent savior was in, paid in kind. Performing a blood transfusion using an experimental serum, his own blood infused with a considerable amount of magic, the ministration was a success: Victim managed to halt the spread of the disease inside her, yet not completely get rid of it. The two stuck together since, Howl feeling indebted to Victim for her survival, and Victim being overjoyed at his experimental transfusion working, now determined to find a way to fully cure her, convinced he can find a way to do so. A companionship born out of necessity first, the two end up having a genuine bond, traveling through and eventually out of the Scarred Wasteland in their chase for more test subjects and... Donors

In time, Howl started discovering additional benefits of her new condition, magic coursing through her veins lending her further susceptibility to blood healing and learning some blood magic from Victim: regenerating her wounds using the blood she spills throughout combat, enabling her to stay in the fray seemingly forever, the wounds she sustained stitching themselves back together as she harvests her enemies' blood. A vicious and fearless fighter, she became a bloody symbol of hope to those downtrodden and afraid, a monster hunter and an avenger, inspired by her encounter with Victim, finding her purpose in the wake of losing her charge by helping out those who seem to have nothing left, slaying beasts and dragons alike who threaten the lives of others, and there's plenty of those who had bloody justice long coming to them to fuel Howl's need for blood.

Indeed, she still requires regular transfusions with Victim's help to keep her disease from spreading and upkeep her regenerative magic, ever-fighting the rot inside her as Victim works tirelessly in his attempts to find a cure.

Some extra details include:

Her swords are also "infected", covered by her own rotten blood, the disease seems to have taken over even the steel and bone of her weapons, ever-spreading and alive, one thing to be sure is whatever the rot living inside Howl is, it's not your regular disease common in the plaguelands

The bloody markings on her face are also the result of that infection, scales having rotted and peeled over, resulting in gnarly scars that seem to have remained blood-red even as the wounds healed, in fact her entire body is covered in those, scales gone to expose vulnerable flesh, taken over by contagion.

[exchangehq]

DOMINA CAELI. 32. F. ⸺ HEAD OF TRADING OPERATIONS. BACKSTORY

Your existence is tethered to the frigid, bone-gnawing edge of the world, where warmth is treason and affection a disease that rots the soul from the inside out. Childhood for you was not a refuge, but a crumbling sanctuary of shadows, where your familial estate seemed to forget how to be anything but a monument to decay. Here, even your name—DOMINA—rang out not as a title, but as a hollow reverberation of power that no living creature could lay claim to. Your parents, ghosts that whispered through empty halls, discarded you like an afterthought, each step you took through their forsaken corridors an exercise in rehearsing a life you never asked for. Raised not in isolation, but in something far worse—a silence, stitched together by the cold of ambition—your only inheritance was a razor-sharp intellect, honed to pierce the veils of the world. The hunger for control gnawed at the marrow of your bones, spreading like slow-burning poison, a thing alive beneath your skin.

Your humanity was not lost—it was dismantled, bit by bit, until you became a presence that moved through worlds, both alive and dead. You learned to vanish in plain sight, to cloak yourself in a stillness so profound that you were nothing more than a whisper in the wind, a presence without form. Every word you spoke, every move you made, was a test—a challenge to see how little it would take to unravel the brittle illusions of those around you. In the finance world, you were no more than a mirage, a vision of grace never quite within reach, yet so suffocating that everyone recoiled at the mere idea of touching you. The firm, bathed in gold but rotting from within, is the perfect stage for your performance, one you’ve scripted down to the smallest inflection. Power, to you, is not something to possess—it is a substance to be savored, to be chewed slowly until its essence clings to your every thought, every breath. You glide through the glittering halls, leaving behind no trace except for the suffocating scent of inevitability. And yet, despite all this, you remain untouched, untouchable—until, perhaps, the moment you turn that hunger inward, and devour whatever it is of yourself that still dares to be called human.

CONNECTIONS

OCCULTUS.

They’re a thing too far gone to recognize, a half-memory, a ghost that whispers only when it’s certain you can’t hear. OCCULTUS' presence doesn’t feel human—not in the way you are, but more like a shadow that forgot its original shape. You both understand that control is a mirage, but you don’t just toy with it—you drain it dry until it’s nothing but dust. They're a distant, unsettling rhythm beneath your skin, a pulse you didn’t realize you were waiting for. The air between you is thick with unspoken words, heavy with a promise of everything falling apart, yet it never does. Instead, the silence expands, feeding on itself, thickening until you almost choke on it.

VOTUM.

They move in a whirlwind, pulling everything around them into their chaos, and yet you can’t help but lean into it, like pressing your ear to a door just to hear the scream on the other side. They’re an open wound wrapped in flame, and you wonder if there’s anything left of them that isn’t broken. But the strange thing about them is that they aren’t quite as careless as they let on. There’s something in them—a deep, desperate hunger—that gnaws at you in ways you can’t explain. You can feel it, like a ripple on water, waiting for them to drown in their own mess. But for now, you watch. You’re not sure if you want to see them burn or if you want to be the one to light the match.

REVENANT.

His death, or the illusion of it, was a betrayal that cracked something open inside you, and now it festers like a wound that only he has the cure for. The game you play isn’t about revenge or closure; it’s about the strange pleasure in chasing something that may never return, and when he does—when you see the flicker of him in the corner of your eye—it feels like a whispered confession. You don’t want him back, not really, but you crave the chaos he brings, the way he owns you without ever needing to touch you. It’s not a love, it’s a struggle for a knife in the mud, one where the lines between domination and submission are forever blurred.

[codexmaledictus]

Ah, Mortarion, the Death Lord, Lord of the Death Guard, and herald of Nurgle’s pestilential blessings. This image captures his grotesque majesty and the desolation he brings in his wake—a true icon of decay and despair. Let me weave you a tale, steeped in the grim darkness of his tragic fall and the unholy ascension that brought him to this unrecognizable form.

Mortarion: The Tragic Ascension of Nurgle’s Death Lord

Born on the toxic world of Barbarus, Mortarion’s first breath was a struggle for survival. Barbarus was a death-shrouded planet of unending mists and choking fumes, where its human inhabitants cowered in the shadow of monstrous overlords—xenos necromancers who ruled from mountaintop fortresses. These creatures thrived where the air was most toxic, a deadly poison to all but the strongest. It was in this hellscape that Mortarion was cast as an infant, rescued—if it could be called that—by one such necromantic tyrant, who raised him as a weapon against Barbarus's human population.

But Mortarion, even as a child, harbored a fierce hatred for the xenos oppressors. He grew strong, beyond even the alien's expectations, and eventually descended from their mountaintop strongholds to unite the oppressed people below. With his towering frame, unbreakable will, and mastery of war, he led a rebellion, purging the tyrants one by one—until only his adoptive "father" remained. Mortarion ascended the highest peak, where the air was death itself, to confront his maker. Yet, even Mortarion's prodigious resilience failed him in that final battle, his lungs burning as the poison overwhelmed him.

It was then that the Emperor arrived, like a radiant sun piercing the mists of Barbarus. The Master of Mankind, seeking his lost son, defeated Mortarion’s tormentor in mere moments, something Mortarion himself could not achieve. Though Mortarion swore loyalty to the Emperor, bitterness festered in his heart. He despised that his greatest victory had been stolen, that his moment of vengeance had been taken from him.

Mortarion would become the Primarch of the Death Guard, a Legion renowned for their resilience and stoicism. They were unyielding in battle, enduring conditions and wounds that would fell lesser warriors. Yet Mortarion’s bitterness remained, deepened by the Emperor’s apparent favoritism toward his other sons, particularly the gleaming golden figure of Roboute Guilliman. Mortarion’s hatred for authority, borne of his upbringing, turned into a loathing of the Emperor’s tyranny—or so he believed.

When the whispers of Horus Lupercal, the Warmaster, reached him during the Heresy, Mortarion saw an opportunity to cast off the Emperor's yoke. But treachery does not come without cost. The Death Guard, lured into the warp by false promises, found themselves adrift amidst a sea of horrors. Plague and disease began to consume them, their once-pristine gene-crafted bodies rotting away as their warships became pestilent tombs. Desperation and agony led Mortarion to cry out for salvation—and Nurgle, the Plague God, answered.

The Death Guard were reborn as the Plague Marines, their decayed bodies now eternal vessels of disease and corruption. Mortarion himself was elevated to daemonhood, his form twisted into the horrific specter you see before you. His power was immeasurable, but his soul forever bound to the service of Nurgle. Once a warrior of liberation, he had become a god of despair, spreading the Plague God's foul blessings across the galaxy.

Now, Mortarion often strides across the war-torn worlds of the Imperium, his presence a harbinger of unending misery. His scythe, Silence, reaps lives with every swing, while his censer lantern, filled with unholy contagions, spreads miasmas that choke the life from entire armies. Around him march his corrupted Death Guard, bloated with pestilence, unkillable, and relentless. Above, flies of unnatural size buzz in symphony with his rancid aura, and the very ground he treads becomes a festering swamp of filth.

The once-proud Primarch, who sought freedom for his people, is now an avatar of decay, a cruel irony wrought by his own choices. He embodies the antithesis of life itself, serving a god who revels in entropy and ruin. Mortarion’s story is one of tragic irony, for in seeking to escape tyranny, he became enslaved to a power far more insidious and vile.

Thus, Mortarion brings death to the living and a false, pestilential “life” to the dead, forever fulfilling the will of Grandfather Nurgle. For those who face him, there is no salvation—only rot, despair, and the eternal embrace of decay.

[sheisjustoutofreach]

Ink

I sit at my desk, the nib of my pen leaking ink like blood from a wound, my hand twitching, spasming as I press it to the page, my nails scraping deep into my skin, peeling it back like rotten fruit. The words drip out at first, an effortless hemorrhage of thought, dark liquid seeping into the whiteness of the paper. But soon, the ink curdles—thick, viscous, like congealed tar, glistening in the sickly glow of my lamp. It swells, festering beyond the lines, rupturing the margins, a slick stain oozing into the cracks of my skin, the blonde of my nails torn and bleeding, mingling with the ink.

I swipe at it, desperate, but it’s not just on my hands—it’s in my throat. A rancid, metallic tang fills my mouth, choking me, thick like bile. I retch, but what escapes my lips is not air, not vomit, but a sludgy torrent of ink, slick and pulsating. The ink spreads, creeping like a disease, pooling on the floor, slithering up my arms, wrapping itself around me, wet and alive, like some parasitic thing.

I wrench back, but my hand is welded to the pen, skin stretched taut, veins pulsing beneath the surface. My fingers are claws, twisted and rigid, forced to scratch out words, but they are not mine. The letters are sharp, jagged things, writhing and twisting, black tendrils coiling from the page, filling the air with a stench like decay. My wrist jerks uncontrollably, scrawling madness across the paper, words that throb and pulse like wounds. It’s not me—it’s something else, something foul and ancient, rising from the ink.

The ink claws into my lungs, thickening with every breath, choking me from within. I gag, swallowing it down, unable to stop, craving its vile touch. It’s inside me now, crawling through my veins, burrowing into my bones, tendrils of blackness sinking deep, twisting around my marrow. I can feel it feeding on me, a writhing, slithering thing, but I don’t fight. I welcome it.

I drown in the ink, suffocating on its putrid stench, my breaths wet and ragged. I no longer care. My body convulses, the ink surging through me, bloating me from the inside out. My skin splits, bleeding ink, my eyes blacken, dripping with thick, oily tears. I am dissolving, melting into the ink, my flesh sloughing away, replaced by the liquid void.

There is no more writing—only the ink. It seeps into my soul, filling every crevice, every hollow, until there is nothing left of me but darkness. I am consumed, devoured by the ink, my body rotting into its embrace. And still, I crave more. I crave the darkness that has always lurked in the corners of my mind, the ink that has waited patiently to claim me.

It does.

And I welcome it. The ink is everything now. It slithers through me, a tide of black despair, drowning all thought, all light. I am lost, swallowed by the ink, forever rotting in its cold, silent depths.

[velvetwarfare]

It wasn’t entirely out of character for Betty to be performing after being shot straight down into Hell. She had always been a sucker for entertainment, being someone who was meant to be a bard.

But the residue of WAR AND GENOCIDE UPON HUMANITY was still fresh in mind like a FESTERING WOUND. Her heart and soul BURNED WITH THE FORCE OF A THOUSAND SCREAMING SUNS, desiring nothing more than to continue her relentless brigade of SLAUGHTER, VIOLENCE, AND DECIMATION TO A RACE THAT HAD TORTURED HER AND HER KIND FOR YEARS. A WAR MACHINE WHOSE BIRTHRIGHT WAS TO SPREAD AGONY AND SUFFERING THROUGH AN IMMORTAL VESSEL THAT MORTALITY WRONGFULLY DIMINISHED AND ATTEMPTED TO BURY.

But those days were long gone. Upon her fateful TENTH DEMISE on the surface, the Gods finally released the CURSE OF IMMORTALITY they had DISEASED her with, allowing her to be Hell’s tribulation now. But she thrived in Hell rather than took it as a PUNISHMENT — she adored the lack of laws, freedom to do whatever she pleased, the chaos — the FREEDOM ITSELF. But she also knew she must CONCEAL HER RAGING BLOODLUST LEST SHE WANT THIS NEW AREA TO JUDGE AND FEAR HER AS WELL — thus she played nice and practiced patience, taking up a shift as a singer in public clubs.

Dressed in gothic vintage, the red head would often sing sultry songs and entice her audience, drinking in the praise and whistles. She had always adored the attention and spotlight. Most of the sinners were locals or frequent payers, so it wasn’t hard to spot a newcomer — especially one with such a bizarre appearance.

The tv head seemed to be here on a mission — to get as shit faced as possible with strong alcohol. The vampire couldn’t blame him. The vast majority of sinners were SUFFERING in Hell. He intrigued her — and everyone has a story to tell. So the undead finished her performance before grabbing a drink herself, perching on the stool next to him,

“ You are new, nyet? I have not seen your face around this club yet.

Just how fucked are you, darling? On a scale from coherent to I am about to collapse and break my handsome leetle screen-face in the next millisecond. “

@voxxisms

[autisticsupervillain]

It's Fictional Throwdown Friday!

This Week's Fighters...

John Amherst vs The Thing!

Conditions:

No Restrictions

Scenario:

Amherst wants to experiment with creating diseases that can survive extreme conditions, so he heads to the Antarctic in order to plague the locals. Literally. Unfortunately, he happens to choose a research station that has already been completely overtaken by The Thing as his starting point.

Analysis: Amherst

What is it that you fear most? Are you afraid of fire? Of the smoke and heat of Desolation burning away all that you hold most dear? Or are you afraid of being watched? Terrified that some all seeing Eye might reveal all of your failings to the world? Then perhaps you might like to share your story with The Magnus Institute. They can tell you what Fear is hunting you... and what Fear has already claimed you.

It's dangerous to have a biggest Fear in the world of the Magnus Archives. That would only give it cause to hunt you down. Hound you, torment you, feed off of you... until you become an extension of what terrifies you most. An Avatar of your greatest Fear. Forced to feed your tormentor or starve to death trying.

Out of all the Fears, there are few more viscerally disgusting than that of the Corruption. It is the Fear of everything that rots and slimes. It is the Fear of disease, rot, and infestation. And of all the Corruption's Avatars, there are none more sickly and sadistic than John Amherst.

No one knows where Mr. Amherst came from. By all accounts, he simply stepped out of thin air one day. An unassuming man in an oversized brown coat who was constantly wracked with horrific diseases and plagues. Some speculate that he may a relative of Jeffrey Amherst, an infamous bigot who used infested smallpox blankets to wipe out large swathes of indigenous people during the French-Indian War. Others speculate that he is just a nobody who was inspired by this act of biological war crime to commit his own atrocities and that his real name has been lost to time. One thing is certain, however. John Amherst has a love of spreading disease and death everywhere he goes.

The Corruption granted Amherst two unique gifts that make him completely unlike any other Avatar in the series. First is his ability to always be sick with ever festering and ever evolving diseases, so that he may always feel how the Corruption "loves" him and spread it wherever he goes. Second is his ability to constantly come back from the dead. Constantly claimed and revived by his own sickness.

Amherst would use his immortality as an opportunity to spread his diseases wherever he could, feeding off the Fear of plague to keep himself... "alive" and constantly reviving. Always resurrecting two months after his demise, Amherst was lethal to the touch, instantly killing the men tasked with burying his body upon each death. Even the things he touched remained lethally infested, with his bed killing any man who was put in it within the day. During the Second Boer War, Amherst delighted himself with infecting the wounded in the medical ward, continually fracturing his own shattered ankle to that end. When he revived, his now thoroughly mangled leg returned to perfect condition. An immortal like him had no stake in the war. Only in the cesspit for disease it provided. When captured by the enemy, Amherst would delight himself again with causing the brutal plague outbreaks the concentration camps were known for.

The longer Amherst lived, the more advanced his plagues would become as would his control over them. By August 2011, he'd learned to spread his plague through the ants and flies that followed his every move. His mere presence became lethal and the air around him became rancid, rotting the walls around him and filling the people he interacted with with flies that muffled their screams from the inside out. Flying out of every hole in their face. During this time, ge forged the paper work necessary to take control of Ivy Meadows Care Home and turn it into his own personal plague paradise. The elderly had never smelled worse. Julia Montauk and Trevor Herbert had to burn the whole building down to stop the spread. But even that did not keep Amherst dead.

In was in 2013 in the small German town of Klanxbüll where Amherst would unleash his most horrific plague. His mere presence causes the skin and muscles of everyone in the town to melt straight off, allowing him to command each of their still living bodies to twist together into a wretched throne in the middle of town, from which he observes the agony.

This display caught the attention of paranormal investigator Adelard Decker who confronted Amherst atop his throne. Suited up in a contamination suit, Decker was able to overpower Amherst. While John is strong enough to dig himself out of his own grace, Decker was still the stronger man. Devising a way to kill Amherst permanently, Decker buried him in concrete, allowing the stone to bury his plagues. Unable to feed off the fear of disease, Amherst starved and died in his tomb, ending the pandemic of death he had unleashed upon the world.

Though it would be Amherst who got the last laugh on Decker. One of his swings had managed to cut open Decker's suit, infecting him. Decker writes his account of Amherst's demise and sends it as a statement to Gertrude Robinson, reassuring the Archivist with his final breath that the most horrible Avatar the Corruption had ever claimed walked the Earth no more.

Analysis: The Thing

A stranger approaches you in the snow. "Who Goes There?" You call out. But no one answers. No one is there. Somebody used to be there. It even looks like somebody is there. But there is no humanity beneath the stranger's skin. Only a Thing that has found, in this Antarctic hellscape, that man is the warmest place to hide.

Deep in the icey desert of the Antarctic, an American research team finds that their Norwegian neighbors have seemingly gone mad. Their base has been completely destroyed. The blood from their slit wrists froze before it could even hit the ground. And the one survivor seemed desperate to kill an innocent dog, chasing it down with an attack helicopter. After killing the madman, the crew looked the dog away in the kennel, completely oblivious to what they had let into their base.

The dog wasn't any kind of animal at all, in truth. It was a... Thing. That's really the best word for it. With no true form, no home world, no species name, this Thing simply assimilates and copies every animal it touches on a cellular level. It has no known predators. No naturally occuring weaknesses. If it ever escaped from the freezing cold of the Antarctic, it would doubtlessly overtake the Earth.

Every single cell in the Thing's body is technically its own organism. Once separated from the main body, it prioritizes its own survival over all else. One the one hand, this means that touching even a single cell of the creature will allow it to overtake you, assimilate you down to the cellular level, copy your DNA, and replace you. One the other hand, this means that there is an easy way to see through the Thing's disguises. Take a sample of its blood, expose it to fire, and see if the blood reacts. If it does, it's a Thing.

But that's only if you can narrow down the suspect. It copies every cell in your body. Your memories, your mannerisms, everything that makes you who you are. It can imitate a victim perfectly and manipulate every part of its body to its will. It can turn its ribcage into a gaping maw, turn its veins into tendrils to drag you in, spray acid from its body, and survive anything short of killing every single cell in its entire body, from gun fire to being completely frozen. And the more biomass it absorbs, the bigger and stronger its bodies can get. It's human bodies can smash through solid walls, while it's largest seen bodies are big enough to dwarf entire buildings.

But, that does play into one of the Thing's biggest weaknesses: fire. As none of the cells in its catalog can survive such extreme heat, fire is a good way of putting a Thing down permanently, as would be powerful acids, due to destroying on the molecular level. And while the Thing would assuredly wipe out every animal on Earth, it's assimilation is limited to the animal kingdom. It cannot breach the cell walls of plant cells, it cannot assimilate inorganic matter, and it requires direct skin contact to assimilate and infect its prey.

The Thing is effectively a virus on macroscale and the Earth is it's massive Petri Dish. You can't blame it for its alien behavior. In the Antarctic Winter, man is the warmest place to hide.

Throwdown Theme:

Throwdown Breakdown:

This entire debate comes down to two questions. Amherst is almost certainly going to get assimilated immediately. Unless he can breathe fire and just never told us, he had no way of holding the Thing off directly. So the question remains.

1. Can Amherst's resurrection save him from the Thing's assimilation?

2. Can Amherst's diseases kill the Thing?

The first question is something I'm pretty confident in saying no to. Not only has Amherst's resurrection never brought him back from something like that, even if it did, he'd just get assimilated again. He'd respawn right back inside the Thing again, where he'd get re-absorbed immediately. He'd then eventually starve to death from being unable to spreaf fear and die permanently.

For the second question, we need to ask microbiology. I don't find it very likely that the thing can copy Amherst's viruses and diseases, as they're smaller than our cells, which are the smallest things its been shown to copy. Nor can it just expell the viruses from its body, as it's just never spat out something that small. Furthermore, the Thing's cells would have to have DNA in them, as copying DNA is a part of its assimilation process, so the viruses can infect the Thing's cells, but can't be assimilated back.

While normally, the Thing's ability to copy a human’s immune system would be enough, Amherst's diseases are supernatural deadly. While Amherst's ability to control his diseases means that the amount of time it takes to kill a victim varies, no victim has lived longer than a day, with the autopsies of his victims showing his infections to be months more advanced than they should. Amherst being dead just makes this even worse, because people have been seen to die instantly just from touching his corpse.

While the Thing's unique physiology means it would survive the infection longer than most, as it would take a significant amount of time to kill every cell in the body as opposed to just the vital organs of humans, it still doesn't have any means to treat the disease. Separating into different organisms wouldn't help because the very air around Amherst is shown to be toxic, so separating wouldn't stop them from getting reinfected by the very air around them.

As such, Amherst gets assimilated and dies. Then the Thing gets sick and dies. Tie.

This Throwdown is a draw!

[nayialovecat]

Narinder as we already know you work as a cleaner, care about cleanliness throughout the village. In this regard, what was the worst thing you had to clean? One after which you actually picked up vomit or even you vomited.

Crap, you really must not like me… Why don't we clawing at my wounds with questions about my lovely siblings and sprinkle salt asking about the emotions I have in connection with being defeated by a child?

But as for the main part of the question… Honey, I'm a former God of Life and Death. I've seen such things in my life - festering wounds, gallons of blood, guts torn apart and spread across the floor, persons eaten alive, beings digested by various diseases, decaying corpses amid vomit and piss, living dead and dead livings - that really nothing in Lamb's village can make me vomit.

…Apart from my own hairs, of course.

[all-the-gory-details]

Whumptober Day 7

Alleyway / Radio Silence / "Can you hear me?"

TW: Burns, torture, restraints, dehumanization, referring to people as 'toys', captivity

Georgia stumbled into Alexei’s arms when he released her chains. He lowered her slowly to the floor, where she quickly curled up and away from him. Everything was muffled, ringing with the sound of screams.

Her screams.

She didn’t dare look at her arms. She knew she would find burnt flesh, mottled and angry red. She didn’t think the damage could be too bad, though. Her wounds hurt too much for her nerves to be fried.

The cool stone floor felt like ice against her fever-warm skin, and she leaned into the wall, letting everything slip away, just for a second.

She whimpered when Alexei picked her up, jostling her wounds, but she didn’t have the strength to protest. She hardly even noticed when he laid her on the floor again and shut the door as he left. There was cotton in her skull, and it was so much nicer to pretend she couldn’t feel anything at all.

“Hey, can you hear me?” Reluctantly, she opened her eyes, and a stranger was looming over her, concern in his eyes. She drew in a shuddering breath before giving a small nod.

“Ok, good. I’m Casey, what’s your name?”

“Georgia,” she whispered. Her voice was hoarse and raspy, raw from screaming. She tried not to think about it.

“Ok, Georgia, I’ve got some bandages I’m going to wrap around your arms. It’ll help them not get infected. Is that ok?”

She wanted to say no. The thought of anything touching her burns make her want to puke. 

Finally, though, she nodded again. She didn’t know what would happen if her wounds got infected. Would Alexei even treat them, or just let the disease fester and spread until it rotted her from the inside out?

“Ok, I’m going to have you stay laying down for now. Felix, think you could help me with this part?” Casey looked to a person Georgia hadn’t noticed, standing on her other side. A closer look confirmed that they were the person who had watched Alexei… who had watched. Felix nodded and walked over to kneel next to Casey. 

“Go ahead and close your eyes,” Casey said to her with a half-smile. “Try to stay still.” He brought a roll of bandages out from a small cloth first aid kit. “Hold her hand and upper arm,” he instructed Felix. “Try to hold her steady, but don’t touch the burns.”

The process of wrapping the wounds was unpleasant, but it wasn’t like she had another choice. The second arm was easier, and it was over in a matter of minutes. She was… exhausted. But at the same time, she needed some answers.

“Ok,” Casey said, packing up the bag. “Felix, do you mind helping her sit up against the wall?” Felix shook their head and offered their hand, supporting her until she was semi-comfortable, propped once more against the cool stone.

Felix sat next to her, a few feet away to give her space, and Georgia took her first real look at the new room. 

It was a good deal bigger than the one she had been in previously, and a bit less empty as well. Two thin mattresses were pushed against two of the corners, each with a blanket and pillow. There was a toilet, too, one with a sink built in on top. Casey had put the small first aid kit on the room’s only shelf, next to two books and a cup with two toothbrushes and a tube of toothpaste.

“We get a bigger space than the others,” Felix explained, apparently seeing the curiosity in her eyes. “He needs to keep us for longer, so he tends to care a bit more about our health and sanity, hence the beds and books. He said he’d get another mattress for you, but you can take mine tonight, if you want.”

Georgia nodded, absentmindedly. “I just… I still don’t really know what’s going on. Why is he doing this?”

“It’s… It’s a lot to take in,” Felix said, reluctance in their voice. She had already had a painful day, and they didn’t want to make it worse if they didn’t have to.

“Please,” Georgia whispered, meeting their eyes. “Please, I need to know.”

Felix sighed. “Ok. Alexei… well, he makes money off of us. And others. Calls us ‘playthings’ or ‘toys’. Mostly, he kidnaps and tortures people into submission before selling them to rich sadists who want their own personal punching bag. But some people can’t keep a prisoner themselves, so he also has a few people that he’ll keep and rent out. He lets clients have an hour or two in private, to do whatever they please to a helpless person. That’s… that’s us.”

“And… what do people do… with us?”

Felix shrugged. “Depends on the person. Alexei doesn’t allow anything sexual, and nothing that’ll kill. Other than that, it’s mostly free reign. It… always hurts, though.”

Georgia closed her eyes. This couldn’t be happening, it couldn’t.

“I’m… I’m so sorry, Georgia,” Felix whispered. “Today was my fault, I messed up and you paid for it, and I can’t say it enough. I’m sorry.”

“It’s ok,” She whispered. “He was the one hurting me. I’m not mad at you.”

Casey came and sat on the other side of her. “I’m sorry too. Sorry you have to go through this.”

She wanted to say that she had hardly been through anything, that, if Felix was telling the truth, so many more horrible things awaited her in the future. But thinking about that hurt almost as much as her burnt arm.

So she said nothing at all.

[demo-wise]

I Remain

Patches of cloud line the livid hue of the sky

Coating the expanse like a drawn curtain

Rolling in, festering and spreading in the open wound like a disease

Winds wailing in agony, unanswered, unheard

Bits of cold, hard hail stones hit my face

They sting into my cheeks, they scream that I don’t belong here

But where am I meant to go?

Nothing would compare to the warmth you show me when you pass by

Fleeting moments that I cling to when you depart

Years spent thinking about one moment, reliving and reliving and reliving to revitalize me

Just enough that my heart continues to beat

Directionless, I stand here, feet cemented to the cold, dead ground with a thick sheet of ice

Blades of grass, withering away bit by bit like ash, drifting past me

But here I remain, the cold ice piercing me like shards of glass, punching holes in my skin

Crimson seeping into the snow, staining the ground with the color of my heartache

Still I remain, for breaking away requires a strength I do not possess

Snow collects in my hair, fallen angels laid to rest

Their delicate wings clipped and their songs silenced

They nestle into the strands and die, never to grace the heavens with their melodies again

Oh how I wish I could lay with them, find solace and melt away

Seep into a puddle of nothingness, where no fear lies, and no pain can be felt

But here I remain, my tears flowing hotly down my face

Only to be kissed away by your generous lips, your sweet words lulling me

Lulling me into a trance so you can slip away once again

Leaving me here, frostbitten and gangrened, the veil of death just out of reach

Because even death would be too kind

There is nothing left for me here

It is a wasteland, barren and lifeless

Yet here I remain, serving my eternal sentence among the fallen snow

Here I remain, tethered to you, until the end of time

[comforttobeunknown]

Father Wound

Once when I was a little girl My father told me so, That he thought I was horrible And the wound, it had to grow It grew inside my heart, And festered in my soul The pain grew deeper each day Until it had nowhere to go It was pouring out my eyes And like a stream, it flowed I didnt think the pain would hurt this bad As my heart, it had turned to coal And there i was, a little girl Whose father told her so, That i was worthless And i would end up all alone The pain spread like a disease As it had outlived my heart The tears grew wild and out of control The pain ended up on my arms It stretched from here to there The pain covered every inch, it had no where else to go The little girl grew very tired As the pain settled in her soul

[itsyourchoicedevotionals]

A Foothold

“O Lord,” I prayed, “have mercy on me. Heal me, for I have sinned against you.” Psalm 41:4NLT

As I read this scripture and meditated on it, I received a download from Holy Spirit of the likes I’ve never had before. We’re going to take this text scripture apart and chew on it for the next few devotionals. Should you be like me, this will kick you in the booty. It’s going to take a total retraining of my mind, which I’ve started praying for help with already. Help us all, Lord.

Verse4 will rock the theologians’ learning and ourselves as well. Look at Psalm 38:5NLT “My wounds fester and stink because of my foolish sins.” Sickness coming from sin? Not bacteria? Viruses? Generational diseases? Even accidents which happen? Is that possible? Does sin open the door for the devil? I’m not saying sin is the only possible reason. Sometimes there’s testings and trials too.

Check list— The whole armor in place? Ephesians 6:10-18. Living in the secret place? Psalm 91. God’s Word is our shield and fortress of protection. We’re impregnable. How then is it even remotely possible sickness is allowed?

“When a period of feasting had run its course, Job would make arrangements for them to be purified. Early in the morning he would sacrifice a burnt offering for each of them, thinking, “Perhaps my children have sinned and cursed God in their hearts.” This was Job’s regular custom” Job 1:5NIV. Job is about one man with a test of faith no human ever wants to endure. Allowed by God — Administered by satan. (Satan is where ALL consequences comes from for every fear and sin.)

What grieved God enough to allow Job’s test? Fear? “There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear. For fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not been perfected in love.” 1John 4:18ESV. Living in fear of something is not being “perfected in love,” hence it’s sin.

Are we perfected ‘in love?’ We’re being perfected by Holy Spirit, (an ongoing process), throughout every area of our lives. Everyone born into this world satan teaches how to fear, then uses fear as puppet strings to control us. Not true? Why did so many Believers get the COVID vaccine? Media blitz ‘fear campaign’ pulled the string— conquering death— ‘stay alive’ —Believers and unbelievers also lined up to ‘help mankind’ ‘not spread the disease.’ (Which we now know was a blatant lie.)

Lou and I’s son was born premature with 85% retardation per the EEG; a partially formed epiglottis; an enlarged heart, and a pneumothorax condition. While I carried him, I was in an auto accident, which put me in the hospital to keep from miscarrying him. Afterwards, I frequently ‘feared’ about birth defects. Praise God for healing him and overcoming my fears.

Whenever satan causes us to fear, he’s got a foothold to put some form of illness on us or release the curse of generations’ past.

Why is fear a sin? Actually fear is faith. It’s having more faith in satan to bring bad things than in God to give us good things. Since writing this tri-devotional, I became deathly ill. I’ve found out much of this theory is accurate. But I’ve written about that part of the story for you to read already.

Perhaps, as a reader, you want to dismiss what I say as being nonsense. Search it out for yourself. Never take what anyone says at face value. Minimally, pray and ask Holy Spirit about it. It’s your choice. You choose.

LET’S PRAY: Almighty God forgive us for allowing fear to dominate us, leading us into sin. Help us to hear what we say before we say something, in the name of Jesus Christ I pray.

by Debbie Veilleux Copyright 2022 You have my permission to reblog this devotional for others. Please keep my name with this devotional, as author. Thank you.