#you are mortal and limited and you WILL abandon him whether you like it or not thanks to the march of time

[burr-ell]

Sometimes Things That Shake Up the Status Quo are Worse

I keep seeing people insisting that Exandria "can't return to the status quo, which was bad", but rarely do they say anything in support of that argument beyond "the Primes pick and choose favorites!". And while I'm not confident the show itself won't try to make that claim, the reality is that it just isn't borne out mechanically or narratively. Laying aside that non-Divine Soul sorcerers exist (like, and I'm just spitballing here, Aberrant Mind Ruidusborn), the gods work primarily through the on-the-ground efforts of clerics and paladins—people who have actively and consistently put in the work to devote themselves to the divine. This is a setting where resurrection magic, which relies on divine power, has been intentionally made more difficult than it is in DnD rules-as-written. Even clerics only get access to Divine Intervention at level 10 (when they've already spent a long time devoting themselves to their deity) and up until level 20 the chances of it actually working are vanishingly small—and level 20 clerics are both hard to come by and ultimately still limited.

In the rare event that the Prime Deities choose to bless someone who isn't a cleric or paladin, it's someone who has a good reason to have gotten their attention. Vax offered his life during a divine ritual in the burial site of the Raven Queen's most devoted champion and then actively committed himself to her cause. Yasha was an aasimar being mind-controlled by a devil who wound up at a divine altar and chose to worship Kord after he freed her. Orym is the devoted widower of someone who is in Melora's realm and was present at a ritual in a temple associated with Melora, and one of his companions prayed at a shrine to Melora on his behalf. Vex was directly in front of Pelor, had taken a leadership position in one of his sacred cities, and had received a vision from him directly—and even then, she had to earn it. Scanlan also had to earn the right to Ioun's favor and complete a trial, and had previously shown qualities and values that she believed were fitting of her champion. Fjord was a companion of a devoted cleric of Melora who had sought her help in keeping Uk'otoa sealed and made requests of her on Fjord's behalf, and Fjord also chose to meditate and then became a paladin devoted to her.

And in Exandria, if you don't want to follow a god, you don't have to. Percy, Keyleth, Grog, Beau, Veth, Caleb, Essek, most of Bell's Hells, the average commoner in the various cities the parties have traveled to—whether they outright dislike the gods as a whole or just don't have an interest either way, they're all capable of thriving with or without them, and indeed their problems are almost entirely caused by mortals. It's especially egregious when you consider that cities like Avalir were around during the Age of Arcanum, when the Prime Deities physically walked Exandria, and people like Laerryn, Patia, Zerxus, and Lacrytia Hollow—openly disdainful of the gods or even trying to create feats of magic to get on their level—were continuing business as usual. The previous god of death not only willingly abdicated in favor of a mortal during this time, but outright helped her do the job!

The Prime Deities can't win. If they didn't give anyone any power at all, they'd be viewed as selfish. If they'd stayed on Exandria after the Calamity, they'd be foolish and reckless. They're simply not capable of intervening and helping everyone, so they're labeled capricious. If they leave Exandria, they're abandoning not only their refuge and home, but also the people who need and rely on them. You can argue that "no one should have that much power" all you want, but I think it's exceptionally silly to take an argument meant to criticize the wealthy and powerful of our world (whose only unique quality is ultimately that they got lucky) and apply it to fictional deities (beings who are powerful by their very nature) who, while flawed, also think they're too powerful. They tried to protect Exandria from themselves and the Betrayers while still using their power to do right by the people there, and for the most part it was working just fine.

The "status quo" from before all this was and still is the best compromise available. No one has managed to sell a better one that doesn't amount to "cater to my blorbos and my self-indulgent idea of revolutionary politics, which may or may not also ultimately circle back to my blorbos". I think that's pretty telling.

[phoenixcatch7]

Okay so I saw this post about dark percy (really him reaching his Limit and fighting full strength with everything he had) and I was imagining the potential fallout of that. Pretty bad, as you can guess.

The thing is a lot of percys strongest moments happen out of view of the olympians, especially in hoo. The hurricane atop the glacier in alaska, the poison scene in tartarus, bending the depression river and the one in the palace of nyx.

Stuff like the St Helens eruption got him washed up on an inescapable island literally removed from reality until calypso gave him the OK, the achillies curse he got tricked into losing by hera. Smaller moments, the minotaur, fighting ares, the stolen pirate ship, walking on water vs hyperion, freshwater sources, him knowing both Latin and Greek, they're more easily brushed off or at least mostly due to cunning, sword skills and sheer luck and grit.

But basically the olympians don't actually know the full extent of percys strength and divine power. They have hints - percy standing on the throne, winning against ares, his many victories - but what they aren't willing to brush aside in the heat of (an important) battle there have been pretty strong consequences for.

Heck, just look at Frank, he's no prodigy with weapons, he's polite and respectful, but his distant relation to two olympians letting him inherit shapeshifting earned him direct divine meddling and his life force tied to a hunk of half toasted firewood. Man is a honey bear with lactose intolerance and he was punished with a mythical death curse for being too strong.

If Percy's true strength came out, he would risk losing everything. His freedom, most certainly. If he wasn't straight up executed he might wind up in a Greek myth style imprisonment, the way of atlas, prometheus, calypso, or something like the myriad of ways Greek heroes met their end. Good scenario he survives a dozen curses and gets on with life with a dozen new disabilities, best case scenario he's stripped of every inch of divine power and dropped back to the mortal world, not even clear sighted. Total separation from the Greeks and Romans. Oh, annabeth would marry him either way, and his friends would hardly abandon him despite the gods wishes, but they'd hardly be able to see him, and no long range contact without the ability to IM him or vice versa.

All of that to say Percy is hiding his true strength from the gods themselves - maybe not consciously, and it's not even power he particularly wants - but if they ever find out?

It's game over.

But why is he so strong? I don't know. What I do know is that the half bloods of the books are so much stronger than the ones of myth. Used to be that divine blood would get you divine favour and a great fate whether you liked it or not. Maybe some cunning and bow skills. A spot of spell casting if you were really lucky. Achillies got his curse after he was born, Perseus had a dozen magic artifacts, orpheus had something going on but hercules is to my knowledge an outlier. Now? Everyone in camp has some special power. Flight, fire, necromancy, hypnotism, dream walking etc. However it's happening, half bloods are slowly but surely getting a lot, lot stronger every century that passes. Meta? I mean I guess. But.

What no one has done before is something that their godly parent couldn't.

Except.

Except Percy.

Except Percy, in tartarus, at his mental, emotional and physical limit, controlling poison with his mind, overpowering the goddess of poison in her home, making misery choke on misery. Feeling something in his chest crack. Doing something poseidon could not, and doing it better than the person who could.

Down there, hidden away from the gods, he evolved. For that brief moment, he did something, was something new.

And that was how the gods overthrew the titans.

And that's why they must never find out.

[nona1323]

Moirai, also known as the Fates AU «Deal with the Time»

Moirai and the mechanism of how they work is pure horror, which has never been explained to us in the games. Therefore, we have come up with and developed our own version of how it should work. Here are some of the main points of our heads: 1) Threads can curl, weave into a canvas (or rather, a creepy muddled tangle of threads) and break off on their own, without the participation of Moirai. This is what we call absolute free will, an act of chaos and disorder. 2) Moirai monitor the canvas and control the threads, weaving them into a certain pattern. It's like real needlework – you can start knitting, embroidering or weaving and only you determine which pattern you will use, and with enough skill on the go, change some details of the pattern you originally conceived or create a new one. If you abandon your work and don't fold it neatly, when you return to it, your threads will get tangled and, well, you can: try to fix them, cut off the ugly piece and carefully replace the damaged threads by weaving new ones, or start working completely anew. This is the main difference between real needlework and Moirai fabrics: you cannot untangle and fix what has already happened (woven or tangled), since this is a change in the past; you cannot simply cut off everything and replace old threads with new ones, since all the threads of lives are unique and therefore they are not interchangeable in essence; or even more so start the canvas from the beginning. You can only continue from the present moment and determine what you will weave in the future. 3) This smoothly brings us to the topic of predetermined events, what is most often meant by prophecies. On Moirai's canvas, they look like knots or pieces of patterns at the far ends of the threads, to which the present still needs to be woven. That is, we already have these patterns, the result of some events, some future. And since usually* (see point 5) the Moirai canvas cannot be changed when something is already woven, these already defined events of the future cannot be avoided. But! More often than not, such prophecies give us only the result, and not how we will come to it. In other words, a result equal to 2 can be obtained as 1+1, 4/2, 10-8, or 2*1. (For example, we know that Melinoe will defeat Chronos, but we do not know how – whether she will destroy him, imprison him somewhere, break him with bare force or outwit, or maybe she will force him to make peace on her own terms?) Sometimes prophecies have only one way to come to them: in this case, the Moirai, one might say, got a little ahead of themselves and have already woven a piece of the pattern tied on a certain thread, in some certain way. In addition, there are prophecies with conditions – if character A does X, he will get a result B, and if he does Y, he will get a result C. These are very interesting prophecies from the point of view that within their limits they give some freedom of will. And they're also very similar to where we started, it's just that the characters have a little more awareness (and even less freedom, haha). Most often, predetermined events take place in the destinies of mortals. The gods are most often faced with “prophecies”, which are the most likely development of events. Prometheus and Apollo, for example, often deal with this – they feel how the threads on Moirai's canvas can go. But, sadly for them, since Chronos captured Moirai and by his actions brought the canvas into disarray, it has become difficult to see the future not only for the prophets, but also for the Moirai themselves. 

4) Moirai's canvases, found in the second part, are already “worked out”, they are always events of the past. Canvases of the present or future (predetermined events) can only be found in Moirai's Home. And you can also read canvases. Very few gods can do this, mainly those who are associated with them and prophecies: Moros, Apollo, Prometheus, etc. Moreover, each god has its own specifics. Chronos can see the past at the expense of the sands that make up the threads when they are no longer in the power of Moirai. And the very distant future of the sands, which only have to become threads. That's why he has Roman numerals. Prometheus is just able to see the near future. The closest is in the context of gods, not people. This very different time periods. 5) The Primordial gods, such as Chaos, Nyx, Erebus, Gaia and Ouranus (he is not the son of Gaia, but was raised by her), can make changes to the Moirai canvas. They are older, they are stronger, they have enough weight in the universe to crush the canvas under themselves or influence it with pure power. For example, Nyx was able to have a hand in reviving Zagreus precisely because she is the eldest of the children of Chaos, as well as Moirai's mother – she persuaded them to let her make changes to the canvas and made them. No one else (except Chaos) has enough power to try to change the past (the prophecy that Hades will have no children) and really change it. (In this case, the question arises – was it not all conceived by the Moirai themselves?) Nyx's actions are a huge exception to the rule, in fact. Normally, the influence of the Primordial gods on the canvas refers to the future, not the past: their words have sufficient power to generate a prophecy, a predetermined event, and not just be words. And yet they are not Moirai to weave the future, so their words usually influence the most likely outcome of events. In other words... even the most terrible prophecy-curse from the Primordial one can be avoided if you try hard. Or come straight to him in these escape attempts. It's a little sad that with real chances to avoid a crash, the second one most often happens. An excellent example would be the events of Ouranus and Chronos. (The next post is about Titan's parents!) 6) In order for a mortal to heed the prophecy and preserve his sanity, he needs either a gift from God, or someone must clothe the prophecy in a more primitive and simple form, while preserving all its meanings, before the mortal to whom it is intended receives it. For example, in the form of a prophetic dream, also known as the “true one”. Yes-yes, it's about Hypnos and Oneiros! This is one of their fields of activity – to create prophetic dreams for mortals at the request of Moirai and other gods. It's quite painstaking and difficult work, even jewelry, considering how fragile a mortal's mind is. Previously, Hypnos was mainly involved in this, but for some time now Morpheus has chosen this aspect of dreams. 7) Moirai are triplets, but they look different ages. Clotho looks like a young girl, even a child, Lachesis is a middle–aged woman, and Atropos is like an old woman. 8) Just a small detail, but since at the time of the second part Thanatos is locked in time, Moirai's canvas looks like a small mess: the threads do not break when Atropa cuts them, then they tear in her hands, it is worth carelessly touching. You have no idea how much this annoys the Fates. When Chronos comes to them (after their capture), a pair of scissors always flies at him, yes. 

9) When a person dies, the Moirai cut his thread of life, respectively, he disappears from their canvas. But since there is an Underground world and the dead get there, and do not cease to exist, this leads us to the fact that the dead are beyond the Fate. They just aren't on the canvas, but they still exist, yes. It would seem that absolute freedom of will, if not for the fact that now the now dead obey the laws of the Underworld. But, most interestingly, already cut threads can be returned to the canvas for a short time if the living meets the dead. For example, Odysseus and his trip to the Underworld, or in general the whole plot of the first Hades: all the gods are alive there, but the shadows are not. That is why in the Fated List of Minor Prophecies have prophecies about the reunion of Orpheus and Eurydice or about Achilles with Patroclus – these prophecies are connected with Zagreus, someone alive. Moirai cannot weave about the dead because they are no longer on the canvas, but they can weave about how someone alive interacts with the dead and thereby briefly return their threads to the canvas. 10) The magic of Moirai and Chronos are closely related. The Moirai actually shot him in the knee when they wove the prophecy about Melinoe. They doomed him to lose his granddaughter, and so he decided to find them and not let them spoil everything even more. Ironically, he shot himself in the other knee with this. Now that the threads are in chaos and the Moirai are in captivity, Chronos, as the Time, whose sand and forces pass through Moirai's domain, is also out of order. All of his complex spells and powerful tricks cannot be performed due to the general confusion. Prometheus' gift was also affected. Was it worth it? Yes. The Moirai have already played against him, and it is unclear if they will decide to do more things. Would Chronos like to have all his powers? Also yes. Alas, grandfather is now lame, and Melinoe kicks his ass. 11) Chronos and Moirai were like pen pals in their youth.

Masterpost AU "Deal with the Time" here

The description of the au is here

(English is not my native language, sorry for the mistakes)

[popiellart]

OC Deep Dive: Shrike

Tagged by @lilnoctua 🥰 Tagging @elegiacescapist @uldren-sov @milleart @susandsnell and anyone else who'd like to do this meme

What common/uncommon fear do they have?

Incredibly common fear of dying, or, if you want to be an annoying little pedant, a fear of 'the end of his existence'.

Shrike lives in the present, having been condemned as a mortal to a short and extremely violent and bleak life, so he considers his Embrace, no matter how violent and deeply, irreparably traumatizing it's been, a salvation. This new, predatory existence a gift. Each new night a win.

Survival no matter what is such a high priority to him, that it's codified in gameplay with a Conviction, and a matching Touchstone.

This causes - not a conflict, but a certain rift in understanding between himself and some of his packmates, who still struggle with the question of whether such a cursed and violent nocturnal existence as theirs is even worth perpetuating.

Bit more uncommonly, he has a bunch of fears that should logically exclude each other, and yet. A fear of change and a fear of stagnation. A fear of being abandoned and a fear of being tethered forever. A fear of being perceived as useless, and a fear of being perceived as skillful enough to be a threat. A fear of being a a victim and a fear of being a vile monster. (He's a monster, but he's not vile. Not yet.)

Do they have any pet peeves?

So many. He detests people who get into his personal space and touch him in any way, which happens way too often for his liking. (He declined to shake a Banu Haqim's hand once, and guess what? He avoided contact poison. Stay touchstarved, kids!)

He's extremely judgemental about other Cainite's feeding habits, especially for an Alleycat/Pursuer. He thinks pretty much any other predator type than his is either unethical, or gross. Yes, Consensualists are unethical. They're like hunters who feed the deer in winter, only to shoot them at the feeding spot in the summer, and they ruin the natural survival instincts in the prey base. Shut the fuck up, Mira.

He views every single relationship and interaction in terms of power dynamics, and is incredibly peeved when people don't act in accordance to their place, especially those who are supposed to be at the top of the food chains. Those lower in hierarchy acting out is understandable, he does that too, tests the limits. For those higher in the hierarchy to not issue a correction to such disrespect, is unforgiveable.

What are 3 items you can find in their bedroom?

Most of the time, his bedroom looks like nobody lives there. He might've left a backpack with surgical tools, heroin kit, and a bag of earth behind.

What do they notice first in a person?

He estimates the level of danger, whether they're predator or prey, whether they carry themselves like a somebody or a nobody, whether they'll fold or snap when pressed.

Body language, whether they carry a weapon, openly or concealed. Potential markings of in-group belonging, like tattoos.

On a scale of 1 to 10, how high is their pain tolerance?

Honestly, pretty close to a 10. He doesn't appreciate it enough, but Resolve is one of his highest stats, and he's simply fantastic at gritting his teeth and bearing it.

Even as a mortal, he went through severe physical abuse. The things he had done to him at Embrace, and the things he had to do to himself in the course of learning Vicissitude went beyond any standard mortal pain.

Do they go into fight or flight mode when under pressure? (or freeze and fawn)

Flight. He's always ready and willing to bolt, constantly hyper vigilant, and there's something about his tense body language that brings to mind a bird right before it takes off, or a deer just before it bolts.

He will fight when cornered, and it'll be incredibly ugly. He's more dangerous than he looks, or than he thinks he is.

He's not above fawning when neither running away nor fighting is possible, though. He'll agree with anything he's told, to do anything he's told, only to get back to his own matters when their backs are turned. Whatever helps him survive.

Only in the most helpless situation, like long-term abuse, does he finally freeze, stops trying to run or do anything at all, even when opportunity would theoretically allow, and simply watches things happen to him. Only happened once to him, but then again, he's like, 19. Plenty more opportunities to get completely destroyed.

What animal represents them best?

I'm hesitating between a stray cat, and one of those highly driven working dog breeds that act out and self-harm when they don't have a Task. His natural aloofness and desire for independence fights in him with his high energy and an acquired need to please and be owned.

Ironically, not a shrike, despite the name and the brief stint of clan-appropriate fixation with impalement. But he's named for the Hozier song, not the bird itself.

How would a stranger likely describe them?

Short and skinny. Looks like a drug addict. Has claws. Aloof, shy. Observant. Abrasive and cynical, with a grating voice and, upon any longer conversation, a quickly uncovered unpleasant sense of humour.

Do they have any hobbies?

He likes outdoors activities, especially climbing. He also enjoys spelunking, he's blessedly devoid of claustrophobia, and his small, flexible body helps him get into some really tight squeezes.

As a kid, he was really good at football, but currently his trauma, and being a blood-drinking monster besides, prevents him from maintaining a personality that'd convince other people to let him play team sports with them.

He also like hobbies requiring manual dexterity. He played around with origami and embroidery floss weaving briefly, he likes games that require precise skill, timing and patience, he's got one of the world records in Flappy Bird.

If he lives until the Nintendo Switch is released (the year in campaign is currently 2014), he's gonna have the time of his life playing the fuck out of Hades and doing a hitless Hollow Knight run.

He's a heroin addict, if that can be called a hobby. Sometimes it helps with the extensive Vicissitude working, but never quite enough. Which, that's another not-quite-hobby, the study of Vicissitude. He's really, really good for his very young age. Burns massive amount of blood for unyieldingly regular practice, though.

Which is a good thing that he really likes hunting, too. Stalking and chasing prey, obsessing over their identity and waiting until his hunger is at just the right pitch to make the finale of the chase the most satisfying it can be, is often a process that can take up an entire night.

A completely unnecessary process, by the way, as he can feed from his alleged-sire's herd, if it pleased him. (It really doesn't.)

[scuttlingcrab]

A Devil's Lament

Summary: Raphael brings Tav to an abandoned chapel, hoping to complete one final task before he begins his conquests of the Hells.

Notes: I was inspired by my friend Mark Choi and his announcement of a new piano arrangement of "Down By The River." I desperately needed to see Raphael playing not just a piano, but a pipe organ. And what would suit the occasion? Our favourite Devil playing a song he had composed over a millenia ago, after he first lost the Crown of Karsus...

Link to my other work in the Devil's Archive.

(Image via certifieddilfenjoyer)

There once stood a magnificent chapel along the road to Baldur’s Gate. Mortals came from far and wide to bask in its glory, seek refuge from whatever sorrows afflicted them, and pray to the deity it was erected to honour. However, like most beautiful things on this plane, it was slowly worn down from one conflict after another, until it merely stood as a dilapidated relic of a time gone by.

On a particularly humid evening, nearly one year after the Elder Brain’s assault on Faerûn, Raphael found himself with Tav on the outskirts of the chapel, staring fondly at his old stomping grounds. No place was off limits when it came to his Devilish business, and the various religious structures scattered across the realms always proved to be the most lucrative. Raphael partook in his favourite game of hunting mortals in the very establishments they trusted, luring them into his traps with fanciful proposals of fortune and glory. 

The Devil never settled on the weaker creatures unless there were no other alternatives, but it was the clerics and overly righteous he craved. There was nothing more joyous than watching their resolve slowly decay after his cunning verbiage and skillful charms got under their skins. Their potent souls were simply delectable, and worth all the time and effort to acquire them.

“So what are you planning?” Tav asked, stopping Raphael from reminiscing any further. “I thought you said we had no time to waste.” 

“Walk with me, if you will, there is a final task I must complete before we are to continue.” 

Raphael had already started on the path ahead and Tav quickly jogged to keep up, the stones crunching beneath her boots. He smiled to himself at the notion of her, the Hero of Baldur’s Gate, running after him.

As Raphael strode through the remains of the toppled structure, he searched for something far more valuable than the achievements of past meals. Raphael was after the heart and soul of the old chapel, the instrument responsible for the most beautiful sounds he had ever heard in his lifetime. The chapel’s pipe organ.

He heaved a sigh of relief to find the instrument still nestled at the far end of the rubble, under a canopy of overgrown trees. He had not been back since the fight against the Absolute, and in truth feared for the worst. Raphael would never let that spectacular creation suffer the same fate due to the failures of mortalkind, but he too had neglected it; spending the last few months muddled in the intricacies of reforging the Crown of Karsus.

The Devil had often argued with himself about whether or not to bring the pipe organ to the House of Hope. He had an idyllic place for it on his atelier balcony, overlooking the River Styx and barren wastelands of Avernus. But doing so would open him up to countless interruptions and he’d lose what he valued most: his precious solitude. He would never risk it.

“A marvel…” Raphael whispered, tilting his head up to admire the towering organ, the 3,000 golden pipes glistening in the darkness. 

His eyes attentively moved across the pipes, carefully inspecting every surface for signs of damage. It was no secret that Raphael cherished the instrument, nearly as much as the Crown he had desired for over a millenia. It was Raphael’s own toy box, it could imitate nearly any orchestral instrument with just a few minute actions unnoticeable to the common mortal. The organ could do wonders above and beyond any grand piano, or even any symphony. With this tool, Raphael was his own maestro, having the power to freely weave his own melodies into existence and escape into the futures he so desperately desired. 

“This hunk of junk? It’s practically falling apart.” 

“I will not hear another peep from you.”  Raphael hissed, turning to face Tav. He raised his finger threateningly towards her, as if scolding a small child. 

Tav raised both of her hands apologetically, though there was still a hint of impishness in her smile as she took a step back.

“Sorry. Carry on then…” 

Raphael sniffed sharply, in an attempt to keep his infernal flames at bay. As powerful and useful as that mortal was, she was a constant irritant; pushing Raphael closer and closer to his boiling point the more time he spent with her. And yet, they were inseparable since Tav had gifted the Crown to Raphael. Of all the creatures, in all the wretched planes, that little mouse had to be the one to fall into his claws, leaving a lasting effect on him.

He quickly redirected his attention to the pipe organ, brushing off the rotten twigs and dirt from the three keyboards. He snapped his fingers and a leather bench appeared, replacing the one that had broken long ago. 

Raphael eagerly took his seat, lightly running his feet over the pedalboard to test it was still functional. He then prepared the various stops along the edges of the organ, choosing his intended octaves for the serenade to come. 

After a few more minutes of fiddling with the organ, making sure all the divisionals were arranged accordingly, he was ready to begin. 

With another snap of Raphael’s fingers, sheet music took shape before him. The chosen melody had been etched into his memory for a thousand years, yet he still brought out the yellowing sheets of paper whenever he dared to play it. Like the ruins surrounding him, the pages were close to deteriorating, slowly withering away at the edges. 

The music notes were barely legible, the ink having faded a century or two earlier. Raphael dared not handle the pages by hand, as they would crumble at the slightest touch. Seeing the pages again were oddly comforting to the Devil, a sign of how far he has come. As painful as it was to revisit the meaning behind the music, the moment would always be part of Raphael, no matter how often he tried to consign it to oblivion. 

The Devil took a deep breath and pressed his fingers against the keys. His exhale matched the roaring bellow that emerged from the pipes. Energy surged through his hands as he played the beginning of the piece, his feet moving to a completely different rhythm against the pedalboard. The low notes coming from his feet accompanied the lighter ones from his fingers, creating a flawless harmony. 

The sounds of the pipe organ soon filled the air, echoing around him like lost ghosts wailing in the dark. It was haunting, exquisite, and a perfect representation of his internal strife. It was Raphael’s lament - the anguish, vexations, and seething hatred from all the years of his existence poured through his own spirit into the instrument. The reverberations from the pipes shook the trees above Raphael, causing the leaves to fall like snowflakes. 

These same feelings had fuelled Raphael’s drive and ambition since he was a young Devil. He was discarded by Mephistopheles and left to rot in the deepest, darkest parts of the Hells; forced to suffer for a sin he had not committed. Raphael still found his way, against all odds, and survived every obstacle thrown at him. He learned how to rely only on himself, to play the game of the Hells, and quickly rise up the ranks by tipping the scales in his favour. He had ruthlessly betrayed allies and levelled entire cities, and he would do it a hundred times over if it meant he was closer to fulfilling his destiny of uniting the Nine Hells. He would show his father how powerful and capable he truly was. 

As Raphael continued, he let himself get lost in the tempo, not questioning where his hands went next, which stops he pulled, or where his feet would take him. He soon found the keyboards were wet, had it begun to rain? He closed his eyes, a lump forming in his throat as decades worth of repressed emotions started to bubble to the top. He felt his fingers slip on a key, and then another, causing him to miss a few notes, but he quickly amended the mistake. He opened his eyes in fury, only to realise that he was crying. He clenched his jaw, causing the tears falling down his cheeks to quickly evaporate as his body sizzled in anger; resenting himself and the situation, always such a fool to let these fleeting emotions get the best of him. 

He wasn't sure how long he had been playing, but his fingers throbbed as they continued to press against the keys. He wanted to continue, to replay the song again and again, to make sure it was perfect, but it was coming to its natural conclusion. He would need to leave it as is.

Raphael played the final notes, holding his fingers to the keys for an extra beat as the sounds slowly faded. He snapped his fingers and a small flame appeared in his hands. He lifted it up towards the music sheets and let the edges of the papers catch fire. The pages were devoured by the flames within a matter of seconds. Let the ashes of his lament stay within the ruins of the chapel.

“Gods…” Tav whispered, her voice choking with emotion. “Did you…?”

“I have never played that in front of another mortal. The first and last time you will ever hear such a piece.” 

“It was remarkable.”

“I know.” Raphael responded, rising from the bench.

He flicked his wrist and the Crown of Karsus materialised before them. He caught reflections of himself in the Crown as he stared at it, his visage splitting into broken shards against the material of the relic. Different versions of Raphael stared back at him, as if from alternate timelines, offering a range of glimpses into his future. He smiled at the reflections and the thought of what he might look like donning the Crown, fighting against Zariel and her forces, in all his glory. 

“It was a fitting farewell and one I had been looking forward to for a considerable amount of time. Now onto new beginnings, come.”

Tav didn’t wait for Raphael to create a portal, she jumped towards him, latching on to his arm. On previous occasions he would’ve shooed her away, like an irksome mosquito, but he let her stay clinging to him. Just this once, perhaps for his own comfort.

Tonight Raphael would write a different composition - one of celebration and conquest, that he would play throughout the decades to come, solidifying his reign.

[pocketdaan]

Termina Analysis + Theory: Sun VS Moon

"Monologue With The Moon", "Under The Sulfur Sun", "Gods That Dance In The Night" - words that greet you as days pass in Fear & Hunger Termina.

On the third and last, the O and D clash into each other like two entities engaging each other in a battle.

I think that's exactly what's happening.

In F&H2, there's been several hints of the Sulfur God and Rher having a disagreement. It goes deeper than Festival hijacking. They are the main gods that dance in the Termina night - not out of affection, but of feud.

Sulfur / Sun God:

God of "Hatred" and "Absence of good"

Tied to subconscious desires to do harm.

"Ascends" humans as a way for them to achieve strength untethered to morality.

Wants humans to abandon the "good" parts of their personality, to strip away their humanity.

Focused on exposing hidden truths (or subconscious desires) to cast away their limitations.

Rher / Moon God:

God of "Trickery" and "Dreams"

Tied to subconscious desires in general.

"Moonscorches" humans as a way for them to see the darker aspects of themselves that they refuse to accept.

Wants humans to stay mortals, to fully be humbled by their humanity.

Focused on exposing hidden truths (or subconscious desires) to fully understand oneself's limitations.

It is not a stretch to say the two Gods could be at odds. Their views on humanity's future are almost the antithesis of each other.

This could even be hinted at through the hand-drawn letters:

The letters in Gods alternate between a letter from the Moon phrase and the Sun phrase. It could've had G from Monologue and D from Under, yet it was chosen to alternate.

Additionally, snakes in the F&H universe are symbols of deceivers, and both first letters from Moon and Sun have a snake. You can even see the difference between the O in Moon compared to the O in Gods - the Moon phrase has its hand-drawn letters faded out, except for the one with a snake.

Alone, these are inconsequential. Combined, and with context of the lore, these could be deliberate choices. They can foreshadow the feud between Rher and Sulfur, as well as how Sulfur deceives the contestants to believe that the Prehevil Terminas were for Rher's sake (as opposed to him being gone).

So, why didn't Rher stop the Sulfur Cultists from hijacking the Termina Festivals? Was he truly absent enough to not take notice until too late?

It's possibly because of the chains behind Per'kele.

Whether the chains are from the Termina Festivals rule of 'no interference', or if they come from Sulfur actively preventing Rher from coming in, it isn't made clear. What we know is that he came down to see what the fuss was about only after the chains were broken.

We see his traces move toward the player, initiate a 'battle', then simply fly away when disinterested. The disinterest makes sense if Rher was mostly gone from the world. However, coming down the instant the chains were broken seems to imply he had wanted to interfere despite his hiatus and simply couldn't beforehand. Him being able to observe hijacked Terminas can make sense of one of his titles: The Ever-Watching God.

And that would all support the possibility of a feud between Sulfur and Rher, as a hijacked Termina can be notable enough for The Moon God to momentarily break his hiatus.

We aren't told when Per'kele started worshipping Rher, however we know he's been using Rher's powers to recruit Termina victors. In fact, his wording implies he was also a mortal recruited through winning a Termina.

According to him, Termina Festivals are as natural as the forces of nature. To have it be usurped by a Rher follower gone rogue sounds like a betrayal of the highest decree. And to have that rogue follower twist Rher's gifts for the Ascended God whose goals specifically clash with Rher's own goals...

That, I think, is why Rher came to check.

He wasn't there to battle the player. It may not even be a battle from his perspective. Just as God of Fear and Hunger couldn't help but damage the player once she merged with God of the Depths, the 'attacks' from Rher could be an effect of being in close proximity to an Old God.

Rher could've wanted to do a quick pop in and out. That's why the text specifically states his disinterest, as opposed to Gro-goroth humoring the player for resisting and Sylvian simply letting you go.

---

For a plot that seemingly has the Moon God as a central antagonist, Rher turned out not much related to these Terminas.

A comment from the Monologue With The Moon OST points out,

At first i thought the name of this track was a mistranslation, as one cannot have a "Monologue" (A speech by one individual) "with" something (as that implies more than one participant). However, with the reveal that Rher is actually not there, it makes perfect sense.

And I think that's a good observation that extends to the full quote:

"Monologue with the moon under the sulfur sun."

"Talking to the illusion of Rher's presence under the Sulfur Cult's deception."

[oumaheroes]

Do Not Go Gentle

Ériu

Albion

Alba

Warnings for death

--------

Cymru first dies crowded.

He is no stranger to death. It is all around him, every day- something as unavoidable and normal as children being born, or the weather changing in the sky. Lambs die. Birds die. Plants die- the earth turns over and around and things fall forever into the night, whether you understand why or not.

Their humans talk about death like an ending, an inevitable event that comes for them as though life is a rope forever pulling them forwards to a final stop, and Cymru watches from his safe distance as the years pass by hardly touching him. Although one day there will be an end for him, it is so long into the future, longer than any mortal lifespan, that it does not register with the same impact as it must do for them.

 But Mama says that their people are right, and that he should listen more carefully.

‘Here.’ She calls him over to her one day, crouched low by a pond, hands cupped and close to her chest. She opens them as he approaches to reveal a small bird within. He cannot tell what kind it is- colours mutes and shape disguised by what he notices first and foremost.

It does not move.

‘Oh,’ He says, saddened. ‘Is it..?’

Mama gestures for him to hold out his hands. He does so, reluctantly, and she gently places the body within. The bird is young, almost old enough to leave the nest but not yet- downy feathers cover the few full, strong adult ones and circle around its neck like a torc. Its eyes are closed and bulging, its bones too loose when he shifts his hands underneath it.

Cymru wants to let go, but doesn’t. Knows he shouldn’t.

‘It was where it shouldn’t have been,’ Mama says. She picks up the bird between forefinger and thumb and turns it over by the head in Cymru’s hands, quick and rough, as if the bird is nothing more to her than a seed or a stone. The movement of it, the dead weight and wide angles, is wrong. She taps the downy feathers which are more numerous on the other side, ‘See here? These feathers are waterlogged. They collected the water and pulled it under, so that it couldn’t swim back up.’

Cymru feels sick. The bird feels dirty, unnatural in the way it lay in his palms, and he longs to throw it away and wipe his hands clean. But Mama is there, watching, and Cymru knows that his brothers would be as unaffected by it as she is.

‘Even if it could have swum to safety, it might have instead died in the fall. Or been caught by a larger bird, or animal. Might have died from sickness before it fell, or abandoned and starved by its parents.’ Mama’s voice is soft but she holds one hand under Cymru’s two, forcing him to look at what he holds. The bird’s head is too big, its beak too wide and closed eyes too round. He swallows back the whine in his throat, and the jerk of revulsion he wants to let out.

‘To live is to be lucky.’ Mama lifts up one of the small wings by the tip, almost adult feathers fanning like fingers, ‘There is no boundary we can cross to pass into safety, and no time limit to survive in order to avoid it. Death can happen at any time, for anything, and everything that lives today is luckier than it knows. One chance amongst thousands.’

Just as Cymru can handle holding the bird no longer, Mama takes it from him and lays it back in the shallows of the pond. It sits there, half submerged and glistening as Mama takes his hands and washes them, before drying them on her tunic.

‘Do not think, as all young things do, that your chances will never run out.’ She meets his eye, catching him by the chin and regarding him seriously, ‘It is just as easy for us to lose the piece of luck we have as the people we watch over. The only difference between us and them, is that we have a few guaranteed half chances to remind ourselves of how precious life is.’

There are fine lines around her eyes, strands of silver in her flame red hair, but her grip is tight, muscles of her arms strong. Cymru nods, and she softens.

-----------------

‘There are so many people.’

On Alba’s shoulders, Cymru grips the wooden posts to keep them both steady. ‘I didn’t know there could even be so many.’

‘There will be more than this in a few days.’ Mama says.

On her knees, she finishes wrapping Albion to her back and glances up at Cymru and Alba where they stand atop the woodstore, peering over the mound’s defences. In the early morning light, shapes and activity emerge from the retreating shadows like a slow retreating tide. Down the hill, all around the base of the settlement, people are erecting temporary shelters and pitching their animals. Winter solstice is here, with its darkest and coldest of nights, but this year it is apparently a particularly special one.

Cymru doesn’t really understand why. Something about the stars, or the years. Or where the sun hits the ancient stones nearby as it rises and falls- a tradition older than even Mama, passed down from the people before her who stood the circles of stones so tall all over their islands. All Cymru knows is that it is busy, with more people than he has ever seen before going to and fro and glancing his way whenever he goes near them. When Cymru and his family had arrived to stay for the winter a few months ago, this mound had been nothing more than home to one clan. Now, the mound and the lands around it was home to people from at least seven.

Cymru’s eyes pass over all of them, stretched out to the lake on the horizon, his breath clouding in front of him like smoke.

Mama stands with a grunt, testing the weight and position of the wraps keeping Albion -still sleeping- securely in place, and clicks at them with her tongue to come down. ‘There is to be another King and his people arriving today.’ She licks her thumb and rubs a dark smudge of something off Alba’s cheek, ‘I have to meet him properly.’

This means that she will be gone for hours down in the new camp, learning and sharing whatever news this new group of people have to bring. Her children will need to stay away and represent their family on their own. Alba straightens, turning to seriously observe the longhouses and storage buildings as if searching for fault.

‘Ah, a keen guardsman I see before me.’ Mama strokes back Alba’s hair fondly, ‘Today, you can be off duty.’

Alba reddens and scowls, hunching his shoulders, ‘I didn’t do anything.’

Mama laughs through her nose, ‘Good, because we don’t need guards people up here. But we do need ambassadors down there.’ She takes Alba by the shoulders and steers him through the village to the open wooden gates leading to the descent. Their people move aside for them as they pass, Cymru trailing just behind her watching Albion’s fair head against her back.

They stop at the gate- thrown open wide- and move off to the side to let a hunter and his pelts go by: foxes, badgers, and deer.

‘You see those trees and lake?’ A sharp and dramatic turn of Alba to the right, Mama’s hands still about his shoulders.

He laughs, staggering on his feet, ‘Yes.’

‘Oh? What about that field?’ A sharp, wide twist to the left.

He laughs again, stumbling to right himself, ‘I see it.’

‘Good. Well, there are a lot of different children milling about now and they don’t all speak the same tongue. I need some very important people to mix them together and act as a bridge between everyone, in that such field or those such trees. Maybe a game that everyone can play; make them feel comfortable and united.’

‘You want us to play?’ Alba sounds offended, laughter vanishing immediately.

Mama inclines her head, ‘I want you to negotiate amity.’

Alba looks to the swarms of shelters and people, then back up at Mama, ‘…What?’

‘It’s important that everyone here feels part of the same thing.’ Mama says. She drums her fingers like spider legs, fluttering them onto the scarf around Alba’s neck, ‘That’s hard to do when you don’t speak the same language and you’re in a strange place. Not everyone travels like we do. For most, this will be their first time outside of everything that they know.’

Alba doesn’t say anything. He looks back down at the sprawling camp, his face away from Mama so only Cymru can see that he’s dissatisfied. Cymru feels guilty for some reason, although he doesn’t know why. There is something he is missing that Alba understands, and he wishes he were older to figure it out.

‘It is an important job,’ Mama tells them, ‘It is what we need to do. It is what I am doing with the Kings and Queens and priests; their sons and daughters are just as important. I cannot do all at once, but all should be done.’

Alba doesn’t reply. Mama eyes the crown of his head, then winks at Cymru. She lifts her hands from Alba’s shoulders to shift Albion higher, ‘Never mind. There are a lot of them, thinking about it properly. Too many, I think; maybe it’s best I do it.’

‘I can do it.’ Alba says instantly, ‘There aren’t that many.’

Mama pulls a face, conflicted, ‘I’m not sure, it will be difficult. I was wrong to ask you, it will take patience and good communica-‘

‘We can do that.’ Alba grabs Cymru’s hand and Cymru feels panicked. ‘I can take some and Cymru can take some others. We’ll find Ériu and get him to help too. We’ll do a different language each and get together that way.’

Mama tilts her head from side to side. ‘Perhaps that will work.’

‘It will.’

‘And what will you do if they don’t want to play the same thing?’

‘We can play different things between us.’

Cymru looks up at Mama, helplessly. He does not share Alba’s confidence; there are indeed so many people, so many children. How would he talk to them? What would he say?

‘And what if there are arguments?’

Alba frowns, considering his answer, ‘I’ll listen and try to fix it.’

‘How about if some children do not wish to play?’

Alba doesn’t know the answer to that one.

‘They don’t have to.’ Cymru suggests, ‘They can watch, if they want. Or join in later. I could look after those ones.’

He does not know what games or activities Alba is thinking of offering, but none that Cymru can imagine will be things he is good at. He cannot run very fast, nor throw as far as his brothers can. He cannot climb to the tallest branches, or hunt on his own. The idea of embarrassing his family, of damaging the way they are seen by their people, is more than he can bear.

Cymru worries that Mama will see through his selfish suggestion but she smiles at them both. ‘Wonderful ideas,’ she says. She bends to brush down Cymru’s front and slides her fingers under his scarf to the fat, gold torc at his neck, ‘What clever ambassadors I have.’

-----------------

It works out better than Cymru expected.

Alba does the talking, as Cymru thought that he would. He moves amongst the groups, collecting children as he goes and directing them all to the field away from the campsites as Cymru follows at his side. Most they ask choose to join in, eager to be away from the tedium of moving and the tense atmosphere of being somewhere unfamiliar. Some have been walking all night but still want to come.

It is awkward, at first. Cymru does not know what to do with himself, does not know how to begin when people know who he is but don’t know him at all. But then he speaks to one girl on his own, hands shaking, then another. Then a boy, taller than he is, who grins down at him and follows where Cymru points him without question. Alba finds an empty pig’s bladder and blows it up, and before too long there is shrieking and running and Cymru forgets himself amongst it all.

Ériu runs over to join them with some older children not long later, fresh from hunting and eager to take part.

‘What else?’

A good while later, the poor pig’s bladder lays between their feet, finally deflated after numerous games kicked about the open field.

‘I’ll find another bladder. I’m sure there are lots going spare.’

Ériu shakes his head, ‘No, it’s getting boring.’

‘Chase, then? “It”, or something.’

Ériu makes a face, ‘I don’t want to do any more running.’ Cymru heartily agrees. ‘What about stories?’

Alba snorts, ‘How will that work if they can’t all understand it.’

‘We can translate.’

‘That’s just stupid.’

‘You’re stupid.’

‘How about the lake.’ Cymru cuts in quickly. The human children are close by, some running about on their own and others beginning to drift and talk in clumps. ‘We can slide on the ice and have races. Less running and we can use a rock instead of a bladder.’

Ériu looks at Alba, who avoids his eye to look down at Cymru. He then turns to observe the lake behind him. It is a cloudy day and the lake’s surface is dark, swallowing the reflections of the hills behind it so that it seems bottomless.

After a moment, Alba turns back, ‘Not a bad idea. Men were out there yesterday and it’s still cold today. Ice should be solid but we’ll need to get someone to check before we tell the others to follow us. One of the taller hunters; if he says it’s safe, we go.’

Ériu doesn’t seem convinced. ‘With all of us at the same time though? It might crack.’

‘There were deer on it the other day.’

‘That was the other day. It was sunny yesterday and what if the sun comes out again?’

Alba tuts and throws his hands up. Cymru knows that Alba will not take them on to the lake unless he was sure it will hold them, and also knows that Ériu will worry regardless of what Alba tries.

‘Hide and seek in the trees.’ He offers, ‘No one has to run, or talk to each other, and even the smaller ones can join in. And the hunts have already happened today,’ he adds for Ériu, ‘So the forest should be clear of anything dangerous.’

Cymru is satisfied when Ériu relaxes and Alba grins, impressed, ‘Yeah. That’ll do.’

A mad dash for the trees, Alba counting loudly at the edge in a mixture of languages,  1 2 3 in one and 4 5 6 in another.

With the field, campsite, and lake working as their designated hiding area, Cymru watches children scatter as Alba’s counting begins, his back to them. Cymru waits for them to clear and settle, keeping an ear on Alba’s voice, and searches for somewhere unique.

He knows not to stray too far. Mama has told them many stories of children who have become turned around forever by ancient trees, too confused and lost in the press of their trunks to ever find their way home again. The fae live within and they are tricky, fickle things- eager and hungry for wayward travellers. Everything can look the same if you’re not careful, Mama says, fae or not, so always find somewhere high above the treeline and keep it in sight when you walk somewhere new.

Luckily, there is a lot here to choose from- lake, hills. Cymru chooses the largest hill that crests over the trees to be his marker and begins.

The woods breathe. Whispered wind in the empty boughs of trees follow him above the high laughter of children, the hollow thumps of their feet on the forest’s earthen floor.

There is too much to choose from, yet also not much at all. Cymru is proud of himself when he finds a shallow cave, the top most rocks mossy and topped with a small, wizened tree, but several pairs of eyes already blink out at him from the mouth and so moves on quietly. The slope of a small hill has several bushes, but others have got to them first. Feet dangle overhead from branches he cannot reach, and some lay as half hidden shapes under old leaves, laying themselves down flat and still in the earth. One Cymru finds in the hollow of a fallen tree, and the tall girl presses a finger to her lips with eyes that plead with him to leave her there alone.

Far away, Alba stops counting and Cymru runs.

He jumps down a slope but at the bottom the hill with which he is marking his direction falls out of his sight so he scrabbles back up. He is tempted to press himself into its bank like some other children he’s seen, but he knows that Alba- keen, observant eyes- will find him. He wants to not be found first, wants to be good at the game he’s suggested- wants to win.

He hears running, hears footsteps come closer, and a mix of frustration and shame brings tears to his eyes.

Then, as he stands frozen and unsure, his mind blank, he spots a burrow. It is narrow, a stretched oval under the roots of an old tree which cover the entrance. Small and dark, it looks like a squeeze even for him but the leaves around it are undisturbed and a cobweb spans the top corner, from one root to the base of some nettles. Noone else has found it yet. Cymru sprints to it with relief.

He goes head first, arms brushing away more cobwebs that wait inside. The dirt floor of the burrow, damp at the entrance, dries the further he goes in and the air is cool and still. He is in to his chest when he catches it- the smell of animals, musky and heavy. He cannot tell how old this burrow is; it hasn’t been used long enough for the cobwebs to form, at least. 

Cymru hesitates.

Then, he hears the shouts of Alba’s first victim, a cry of wounded glee, and he makes up his mind. It’s tight. He has to wiggle on his belly to go in further, the space too tight for him to crawl on hands and knees. He can feel his feet sticking out, kicking freely as he shifts, but he finds purchase on a root and, with one last firm kick, he is fully inside.

The earth holds him still. He breathes in, slowly, carefully, and feels the walls around him push back on all sides. His heartbeat slows as he relaxes and then all he can hear is himself, the outside world muffled and removed and distant. Inside the burrow it is silent, with no breeze or movement apart from himself.

It is a comforting feeling, to be contained so completely. He wonders if this is how babies feel, inside their mothers as they grow. Wonders if he had ever felt this way before, when he was wherever he had come from. Maybe he’d come from a burrow such as this, pushed up from the earth once fully grown and ready to be found by Mama. He cannot see how far ahead the burrow continues but when he stretches his arms out ahead, he meets nothing but air. Satisfied, he lays his head on his outstretched arms and closes his eyes.

Time passes. Then more.

Cymru can sometimes hear children, shouting and screeching as they’re found and Alba gives chase. He hears Ériu once, cackling and stomping somewhere nearby. Someone comes near enough to Cymru’s tree that he can feel them, the earth vibrating gently with each footfall as the muted sound reverberates through the ground. But no one finds him, and slowly but surely the sounds of the other children in this area of the forest soften, before disappearing altogether.

‘Ris!’

Then he jolts, hitting his head in the dark.

It is later. He knows this because he needs to relieve himself, and because his arm is numb underneath his head. One or both must have woken him.

He stretches as much as he can, and yawns, wiggling his fingers to relieve the needles that spike through. He wonders what is for dinner tonight, for surely it must be time for something to eat. From outside, there are voices.

At first, he doesn’t know what they are saying. They’re faint, far away. Then-

‘Ris!’

He thinks he hears Alba.

Then again-

‘Ris! Come out!’

Ériu.

If Cymru strains he can hear several more voices, all calling for him. The game must be over. Far from feeling elated though, he feels panic.

The children- he can hear them now, louder- call for him as ‘Cymru’, his true name. But his brothers call for him by the name which Mama gave him. It is a name that no one but family knows, a name that is just for himself, not for who he is, and his brothers using it means that something is wrong.

The thud of someone running, then Ériu is closer. He screams Cymru’s name, breathless as though he is running, and there’s a sharp edge of fear to his voice that Cymru has never heard before.

Cymru’s stomach goes cold. Ériu‘s fear flows into him and his mind works fast. How long has he been gone? How long have his brothers been looking? Mama is going to be so angry; he hopes that his brothers haven’t gone to her yet.

His brother’s voice grows quieter, he is moving away. The wrong way.

‘Ériu! Wait!’

Quickly, Cymru tries to push himself backwards. His hands slip on the walls, dirt crumbling into his eyes, his mouth, and he coughs. He tries again.

And again.

And again.

Each time, his hands slip. They cannot hold the force his arms need to move his body backwards. He tries, the floor, the ceiling. Tries with his feet, toes digging into the earth and smacking against the sides. Knees to floor, elbows to walls and hands everywhere at once but nothing gives. He is stuck. The more he wiggles, the more he can feel himself slip further inside, and mounting terror soon overwhelms him to leave him sobbing.

‘Alba! Alba, I’m here!’

His heart pounds like a drum in his hearts, blood rushing to his face, his neck. He wants to get out. He doesn’t care that Mama will know; he wants her to find him. Even if she drags him out in front of everyone he doesn’t care, he wants to go home. The walls around him grow tighter, the darkness blacker, and Cymru fights for breath and he chokes against tightening lungs.

‘ADAIR! PADARN! Help!’

As he struggles, he hears movement from within the dark. Something soft at first, a rustle under his crying, but then there’s a growl- warm breath on his knuckles, something wet dripping onto his split skin.

He is where he doesn’t belong, Cymru realises the moment before pain hits. He is a creature that is not where it should be, and what is going to learn the truth of what comes next.

He closes his eyes, crosses his arms across his face, and screams.

-----------------

He wakes to white hot fire.

It is all over him- his chest, his neck, his arms. A burning, searing agony that rips a cry from him as he twists, the darkness swimming and churning.

‘Shhhh, shhh my love.’

Cymru hears Mama. He feels her touch him, gentle and light on his shoulder but his skin shreds itself anew at the pressure and he arches away. He cannot see, cannot think- the pain is too great. Life has returned to a body that is not ready, a soul to a house it cannot call home. Cymru pushes his head back against whatever lies underneath it as the walls of his mind close in, biting down on a life too new to taste.

-----------------

When he awakes next, the shapes can move.

The agony is duller, arms stiff and wooden when he moves them.

‘Don’t.’ Ériu says. He sounds scared, nervous. In front of something he doesn’t understand, ‘Don’t touch it.’

Fingers on his chest, something cool laid over his eyes. Albion laughs in the background at the bray of a goat, and Cymru slips away.

When he returns to himself fully, confused and tired, he finds that it is Spring.

-----------------

Cymru does not consider himself a cautious man.

He is wary, as any living thing is, but not foolishly so. Life and death come together, he understands, and the possibility of death will not keep him from living. He has suffered many worse deaths than his first, and more of the same. Burning, beheading, quartering- so many terrible ways that man imagine death for themselves, on top of all the organic riches that nature provides.

He does not fear the ground, nor the dark. Not like Alba and the endless deep, nor Ériu and his complicated feelings. Still, Cymru knows himself to be changed.

Sometimes, when the voices around him are too loud, or the tensions in the air too high, Cymru feels the edges of his mind grow dark. Invisible earthen walls press closer on all sides, his breathing tightens, his heart races, and he finds himself walking- up up up. Up into the sky, up to the tallest thing he can see, where the world can swing freely under his feet and the ground cannot swallow him. Back where he should be and where he is safe, above the earth with nothing but the airy sky around him.

There are times when he does not even know what he is doing until he is up there- the sun sinking lower in the sky when before it had been morning. Sometimes, he takes himself before he needs to go, knowing what will come if he doesn’t. The world changes, humans move in with their cement and brick, but there are always places left for him to go. Untouched hikes, lonely crags of his northern mountains where humans fear to walk lest they become lost and topple off the sharp, unseen edge. Cymru knows his lands like he knows his people, knows them more than he knows himself, and knows that his land will always hold some places hidden, just for him.

Perched on the edge of perilous drops, his feet far above the floor below, Cymru feels more himself than he does anywhere else. For this, he knows he is luckier than most.

-----------------

AN:

This came from a very old headcanon explored in Wind Walk, Afterlife, and even chapter 2 of this fic. I hope my Wales makes more sense to you now!

For anyone who had questions about Wales from Ériu’s chapter, you’ll just have to wait for the next update to see if you can unpick things 😉

As for their names: ‘Adair, Padarn, Ris’- the names I usually use for the British Isles siblings are actually newer than the time period I am writing this fic in. But, I wanted the affect of their human names to be used and so chose the closest approximations I could for them to still be recognisable.

Thanks for reading!

[fanfictiontrash]

Athena Rensworth

I see all the cool criminal case ocs and the lore that's made for them and I want in!! Athena Rensworth is the character I play in the DND campaign based in Criminal Case's world, whether it's that world or just regular Criminal Case Athena won't change. We all know how the player is like super cop yeah. Like the best cop of the 21st century worldwide, when I was younger, I never really paid any attention to it. Now that I'm older? And with the knowledge I have? Yeah, that's changing and I'm giving a reason why Athena is so great at her job.

Athena is a Reborn, someone who has died yet still lives, was it a resurrection gone wrong? Are you now made of straw? Wake up in an abandoned laboratory surrounded by clockwork organs? There are several other origins but for Athena it's option number 6, 'You were released after being petrified for generations. Your memories have faded, though, and your body isn't what it once was.'

Athena was petrified during a period where magic was well known, over the Millennium she was imprisoned magic has taken such a downfall it either doesn't exist to public knowledge (Criminal Case) or it's limited to illusions and enchantments (Criminal Case DND). She was a wizard at the time, a strong one, having access to 8th level spells she made use of the Clone spell. I'll have a link to my sources at the end which will include the spell but tldr: it makes a copy of you that lasts forever so long as the vessel it's in isn't destroyed, it matures after 120 days, and you can choose if it'll be a younger version of you or not. In all senses it's just you, it has your memories, your personality, and abilities, just not whatever the original had on their person. Athena in her past life had died and awoke in her clone room in her last clone vessel, all the others had been destroyed except for the one she kept a bit better hidden for emergencies, the clone she decided to be herself when she was ten. It'd allow her to blend in huge crowds better, no one pays much attention to orphans, so she'd be able to get away and plan her counterattack. Awoken and rightfully panicked she falls to notice her attacker who petrifies her. She gets freed from stone after so long by the Rensworths, who take her in and helps her try to restore what's left of her shattered memory. All she can remember is that she used to be a Mark of Detection Half Elf, so perhaps she used to be an investigator?

The family goes with that, and they must be on the right track! She's the best of the class! She's able to fly through school, pass any exam physical or mental and it feels so right! Until Athena tries to get into anything other than becoming a detective. Her hands tremble and she can't seem to do anything right, that night she gets visited by the God Kelemvor, one of the Gods of Death. In her past life not only was she a wizard, but a cleric of Kelemvor, who devoted her time defeating necromancers as Kelemvor despises undead. He brought her back due to the unnaturally high mortality rate has been as of late, since a majority were murders plenty of souls were left behind in the mortal plane instead of following him to their afterlife. Athena is tasked with becoming a detective to soothe the lost souls who demand their closure, that is why she breathes anew, that is her purpose.

With her destiny now revealed she does as Kelemvor demands and plans to join the Grimsborough Police Department when she's finished with college. It's after her dream with Kelemvor that she takes a closer look at what she does when she investigates, any broken object that ends up in her hands are quite literally magically repaired, she recognizes the spell, it's the Mending cantrip. Locks are a piece of cake due to another spell called Knock. She always has energy because she doesn't need to sleep, she just needs to sit still for a couple of hours and she regains all her spell slots, she never hungers, she doesn't need to breathe, nor does she need to drink! She remembers accidently eating something highly poisonous but recovering much quicker than any normal man, she remembers all spells lost to man. She can detect thoughts, speak with the dead, disguise herself to look like any other! Magic weaves through her hands with ease, like they did all those years ago. (In the DND campaign her control over the spells is a bit wilder, hence her becoming a Sorcerer rather than a Wizard.)

Now 22 she joins the Grimsborough PD, at first all the praise starts to get to her head, she feels proud to have such recognition all up until The Rorschach Reaper case, as Tess hypnotizes Jones and as Jones almost kills her she feels nothing but guilt, failing to take into account how often Jones gets scolded by the Chief, some deserved some not, and how often he gets compared to her. She's a whole ten years younger than him and caught up to him in rank in less than a year. She tends to act humbler from that point forward, insisting that it's not just her that others need to thank, but her team that sticks by her side and her partners who always have her back.

I could talk about her for hours, but this is getting long, thoughts?

Links under the cut for more information on the Reborn lineage, the Half Elf race, the Clone spell, and Kelemvor, the God of Death.

Reborn - DND 5th Edition (wikidot.com) Clone - Spells - D&D Beyond (dndbeyond.com)

Half Elf - DND 5th Edition (wikidot.com)

Kelemvor | Forgotten Realms Wiki | Fandom

[hostiae]

he's been a watchful eye in paris for days now, his presence hidden from the vampires of the coven — careful not to raise alarm ( although, he's unafraid of them here ). his curiosity had gotten the best of him and although his convictions were no longer what they once were, he doesn't know whether to see armand, the master of the theatre, with pride or with heavy guilt for the sins committed to recreate him. both, perhaps. he had wanted to see him thrive.

it's not only armand, however, that has his attention. it's the two visiting, american vampires.

claudia, the child vampire is an absolute affront. not only to laws that he helped form only to abandon, but to any simple ethical code. not only is it innocence shattered, but a vampire who would always be limited by her mortal age. he cants his head, watching her from the entry of an alley as he steps into the light of the street lamps, announcing his presence.

❝ oh, child. what tragedy the world must have in store for you. ❞

@beautifulsavagegarden liked for a santino starter!

[novemberthecatadmirer]

@saurons-pr-department​ @shrikeseams​

That’s a brilliant idea now you have given me some stupid cracky thoughts

(Making a new post because length) 

(I hope these all are not offensive! Also apology for not being able to write well)

…You know it can be arranged if we be VERY shameless and crumble Canon into a ball

and treat the Aman part of the Akallabeth as not-entirely-reliable history patched up by Elendil based on limited sources

When Ar-Pharazon’s troops sailed, Noldor got warned by the Valar; of course they evacuated this time. They learned their lesson

Tirion was a LARGE city! It took time to evacuate and it took time to hide the trace

And it took time to set up all the traps

We don’t know how far exactly was Tirion from the shore? It took 1 Valinor year for Noldor to reach Alqualonde; that’s like 9 sun years but they were mostly civilians not experienced for long distance travel and they were marching in the dark.

It did not seem to take long for Earendil to reach there from the shore. However everything about Earendil reaching Valinor was so tricky, maybe the Valar intentionally made the road shorter for him and Elwing

The Valar had no intention to make the road shorter for Ar-Pharazon’s troops

Let’s say it took at least a few months?

Did Ar-Pharazon even have a Valinor map?

Maeglin jumped out of nowhere: Hi there I can show you the way to this white city filled with wonder and wealth if you let me be a lord and marry my beautiful princess cousin

Ar-Pharazon: Obviously that’s a very convincing reason to turn traitor That’s a man of culture

Maeglin took them into the mountains avoiding all the small elf settlements along the way

They did not notice they were walking in circles because Aule subtly changed the landscapes from time to time and many trees in Valinor could move on their own

Sometimes some of their soldiers just disappeared and never be seen again.

Bad for morale, but people assumed those just fled because most of them were slaves

Food poisoning further delaying their march

“I’m awfully sorry I did not know those fruits and mushrooms are poisonous to mortal men” (He knew)

Meanwhile back at shore, elves ambushed the ships they left behind

Noldor: …It feels awful to say this brings up memories

Teleri: It’s not stealing they abandoned all those pretty ships behind it’s just aggressive adoption we will treat those poor babies as our own

Sindar: You know what I definitely heard this argument before

(Meanwhile there was probably some Numenor evacuation going on)

(Tuor finally got a chance to free some slaves and fix some wrongs his descendants had done, and save those of his descendants that still wished to be saved)

(Seriously, the grandfather of your first king used to suffer as a slave then you started enslaving other people what’s wrong with Numenoreans)

After it was done Earendil sent some signals through his flying ship

“Okay we are close! Tirion is just behind that mountain. I know a good place to set up the camp.”

Ar-Pharazon made his speech to a very empty city

Under the lovely hills around Tirion there was a lovely cave complex

Earlier, House of the Mole: Yes let’s get some mining explosives to set up a trap

Sinkholes happened and trapped most of the troops

Somehow Ar-Pharazon did not fall into any of the traps which ended up with him and Maeglin wrestling at the edge of a sinkhole, trying to push each other down the edge

Maeglin: Okay this is definitely familiar at least this one does not bite

(He did not need to as king of Numenor he had a very sharp sword.)

(Elros would be VERY disappointed.)

Then a crack opened beneath them and swallowed them both

(People still argued whether it was divine intervention or the land was just being unstable after explosion. It was a little bit convenient.)

Folk of the Mole dug them out in time.

(Some of them landed quite a few kicks on Ar-Pharazon’s face in the process and ‘accidentally’ broke his arms. They argued “he’s dangerous we must disarm him first”)

Dior and others came and sang the trapped troops to sleep

Eventually everything was done

“What should we do with all the political fallout? Now we have their king and most of their troops but Sauron is still there and... do we go on to war against him?”

(Some people immediately started yelling “no that’s a terrible idea don’t start the fire again”)

“What if Sauron take this opportunity to make himself king of Numenor and get his whole control over Middle Earth. I bet he has been plotting for this result all the time.”

Then the whole world started trembling and Aman got separated away and Numenor sank and Sauron drowned

“At least Sauron got drowned that’s the silver lining?”

(Some extra-mean Maiar had secret party afterwards celebrating Sauron losing his pretty face)

I think Sauron was definitely plotting something by sending Ar-Pharazon and his strongest troops and likely the most loyal generals away to invade Aman... While he himself stayed behind. 

It was like, he knew they would fail in some way and he was expecting it and actively encouraged them to believe they had a chance

I don’t think he liked Ar-Pharazon at all... (all the “getting defeated and taken as hostage” part.) I think his plan was always to make himself king of Numenor after Ar-Pharazon got dealt with in whatever way in Aman. 

He could tell Numenoreans that now the gods view them as enemy and only he could save them all. It’s not like he had no experience taking over someone’s legacy? No shame in picking low hanging fruits

Also I feel he was using Ar-Pharazon to test the water... Like, how hard could he push the buttons. And what kind of reaction he could get. It would also be nice to potentially lure some Maiar or even Valar into hurting the Children. Would be neat to make a few Ainur fall.

(Of course, always extra fun to fuck some elves up. They should not be allowed to feel safe in Aman!)

Anyway Sauron was using the move to achieve multiple goals. (He was SMART! And COMPETANT!)

The only thing he did not expect was the Valar would call for help from Eru and there was actually an response and the response was EXTREME.

Look, I don’t believe any of the Ainur even the Valar would be able to even imagine it’s possible to turn the world into a BALL...

----------

Okay, listen to more of my stupid cracky ooc headcanon

The elves and Ainur spent a while to figure out what to do with the captured mortal men

A lot of effort was spent on figuring out what type of mindset they were on

Some of them were slaves who got promised freedom for them or their family as reward for fighting in the army

Some of them joined the army out of desperation for money.

Some of them truly believed the Valar would come to kill them all if they did not fight back (learning that their island just got sunk did not help)

Some of them had aging family members and really wanted to make their family immortal

Of course there were the awful ones came here for power and pretty elves

(Tuor tried to have a TALK with Ar-Pharazon and failed.)

Even a lot of those who came for more innocent reasons had done war crimes before

Slavery and Colonization had been very thoroughly weaved into the late Numenor society

It was a MESS

Also it was not healthy for mortal men to stay in Valinor at all

Much of the “figuring things out” part happened in Tol Eressea

Later on some little islands raised by Valar further away

Anyway

It ended up with a few mortal men settlements at the edge of the sea

Multiple islands. The troops split into multiple groups that refused to live with each other. 

Lots of therapy sessions (as best as elves or Ainur could offer, which probably was not always enough)

The awful ones were banned from leaving their island 

(The former slaves now living on the neighboring islands took shift monitoring them very carefully)

(Some water Maiar patrolled the area in case someone tried to kill someone or started to burn down houses. There were a few assassination attempts.)

Some of the worst ones including Ar-Pharazon chose to be put into sleep because PRIDE

Eventually the mortals left in Aman learned to build ships

Elven ships could not pass the border of Aman

Somehow the ships built and sailed by the mortals was able to leave (It was pure chaos when it happened for the first time)

Nobody knew how it worked. But also, nobody knew how the elven ships found their way to Aman as well. 

Most of mortals eventually left on the ship back to the mortal world.

Some of them chose to stay. Including many former slaves who only had bad memories out there; it helped with healing when you were a world away from your past nightmare.

But many of their children desired to leave when they grew up.

Also half elves happened and not everyone chose immortality.

(There was a whole world out there to explore! Life is short for mortals.)

(And the world beyond the world after they took the Gift.)

So every once in a while there would be a ship departing from those islands, going to Middle Earth and never return.

Istari reached Middle Earth on one of those ships

[globofhoney]

My dragonborn taking a field trip in Westeros during HOTD, Along with Alduin.

LDB casually sips new foreign wine while dragons flies over her head, trying to tear each other throats off

"Alduin, my sweet lord~ i know you want to whack those unruly lovely beasts to submission. But please don't do that, they might suspicious of us.

We are just 'a couple' who wear weird garments and accessories here, and definitely has no magic. Remember?"

Alduin in his humanoid form grumbling a little, at least he has the dragonborn to lessen his ill temper. he acknowledged her words. But he will decide later whether he should follow or not.

"Those children are no match for me, they do not even know Thu'um. let this be a fair fight and let them sort this out by themselves in a Dov way"

"yes...after all, Sahrot Los Vahzah. Those who still stands in the end shall rule"

And so they sit, and watch aerial combat above without a care for the world. What a spectacle indeed.

_____________________________________________

*Sahrot Los Vahzah = might is right.

Listen, dragon and Dovah are whole different thing. I will try not to be a racist(?) Against dragon in a song of ice and fire. But Dovah of Tamriel is not a small ass thing you people saw in Skyrim game, their size were only limited by game engine. I have always believed that they are much more bigger than that. But there are so little evidence about TES dragon size.

Have y'all seen Odahviing card in TES: legend? He is so...huge!!!

Imagine how big Alduin is when he is on full power (World-eater mode on, and papa Akatosh approved)

I believe normal Alduin would be...well, mountain size in his low power, given that he abandoned his duty and enslave mortals instead of destroying them (I imagine his size to be Kralkatorrik from GW2) i mean, there was no dragon dared to faced against him, oldest, biggest, and the most bad mood(whoops!) Child of papa Akatosh.

TES dragon have Thu'um and intellect, they are like actual people.

And people in ASOIAF view their dragon a little more than a huge beast. Yes, some of them are real cuties and show emotional intelligent. But to be able to communicate or use thu'um...it is beyond them.

[cxldblxxded]

The creature lets the hand fall with a scornful laugh. "You think my form is a lack of skill," he mutters. The creature is of the opinion that mortal forms are too limiting, though whether or not that is a cover for a lack of understanding remains to be seen.

"Reject me, then, from fear. Be my prey," his eye glints, and this time when he shifts it isn't in the darkness. Meat bubbles and swells and fills out the sagging skin of his belly and his arms and his legs and fur sprouts from all over his body and he goes down on all fours to make room for his new form-- a brown bear with those human hands for paws, missing the same eye. The voice that comes out of it this time is a harsh snarl. "Run to hide in the witch's skirts, then, if you can find it. Or perhaps it has abandoned you in your hour of need..."

just another average wednesday // anonymous

OH, SHIT. HE’S going to be seeing this when he closes his eyes for the foreseeable future. The fucking hands - fuck those stupid fucking scary ass hands. Still, he recognizes that now is not the time to freeze. His own shifting is more graceful, more complete than the other man’s. He’s a little two foot corn snake, coiled on the cold tile of the floor, mouth open as though he’s any more threatening as this little beast than he is as a person. He might be - more people have tried to kill him in this form than the other, on average. Even Rainer had to get used to him, and she’s seen some twisted shit.

HE’S TERRIFIED, SURE, but he’s also incensed. The words provoke a strike, his stupid little brown noodle body slapping at him head first, before he’s off like a whip, slithering his way under the oven where it’s dark and hopefully safe.

[autolovecraft]

His head was broken in, and everything was tumbled about.

He had, indeed, made that coffin for Matthew Fenner; but had cast it aside at last as too awkward and flimsy, in a fit of curious sentimentality aroused by recalling how kindly and generous the little old man had been to him during his bankruptcy five years before. Dusk fell and found Birch still toiling. Then he fled back to the lodge and broke all the rules of his calling by rousing and shaking his patient, and hurling at him a year ago last August … He was the devil incarnate, Birch, but you knew what a little man old Fenner was. He worked largely by feeling now, since newly gathered clouds hid the moon; and though progress was still slow, he felt heartened at the extent of his encroachments on the top and bottom of the aperture. Neither did his old physician Dr. Davis, who died years ago. He was merely crass of fiber and function—thoughtless, careless, and liquorish, as his easily avoidable accident proves, and without that modicum of imagination which holds the average citizen within certain limits fixed by taste.

For an impersonal doctor, Davis' ominous and awestruck cross-examination became very strange indeed as he sought to pull himself up, when he noticed a queer retardation in the form of an apparent drag on both his ankles. That was Darius Peck, the nonagenarian, whose grave was also near by; but actually postponed the matter for three days, not getting to work till Good Friday, the 15th.

At last the spring thaw came, and graves were laboriously prepared for the nine silent harvests of the grim reaper which waited in the tomb. Never did he knock together flimsier and ungainlier caskets, or disregard more flagrantly the needs of the rusty lock on the tomb door which he slammed open and shut with such nonchalant abandon. His day's work was sadly interrupted, and unless chance presently brought some rambler hither, he might have to remain all night or longer. For the long-neglected latch was obviously broken, leaving the careless undertaker trapped in the vault, a victim of his own oversight. Then he fled back to the lodge and broke all the rules of his calling by rousing and shaking his patient, and hurling at him a succession of shuddering whispers that seared into the bewildered ears like the hissing of vitriol. Whether he had imagination enough to wish they were empty, is strongly to be doubted. Birch, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin, but you got what you deserved. Then he fled back to the lodge and broke all the rules of his calling by rousing and shaking his patient, and hurling at him a year ago last August … He was the devil incarnate, Birch, just as I thought! On the afternoon of Friday, April 15th, then, Birch set out for the tomb with horse and wagon to transfer the body of Matthew Fenner. The tower at length finished, and his aching arms rested by a pause during which he sat on the bottom box to gather strength for the final wriggle and leap to the ground outside. And so the prisoner toiled in the twilight, heaving the unresponsive remnants of mortality with little ceremony as his miniature Tower of Babel rose course by course. I was his doctor, and because he probably felt the need of confiding in someone else after Davis died. Over the door, however, the high, slit-like transom in the brick facade gave promise of possible enlargement to a diligent worker; hence upon this his eyes long rested as he racked his brains for means to reach it. His questioning grew more than medically tense, and his body responding with that maddening slowness from which one suffers when chased by the phantoms of nightmare. The body was pretty badly gone, but if ever I saw vindictiveness on any face—or former face. He had not forgotten the criticism aroused when Hannah Bixby's relatives, wishing to transport her body to the cemetery in the city whither they had moved, found the casket of Judge Capwell beneath her headstone. Tired and perspiring despite many rests, he descended to the floor and sat a while on the bottom box to gather strength for the final wriggle and leap to the ground outside. Just where to begin Birch's story I can hardly decide, since I am no practiced teller of tales. The afflicted man was fully conscious, but would say nothing of any consequence; merely muttering such things as Oh, my ankles!

The day was clear, but a high wind had sprung up; and Birch was glad to get to shelter as he unlocked the iron door and entered the side-hill vault. Over the door, however, no pursuer; for he was alone and alive when Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door. The afflicted man was fully conscious, but would say nothing of any consequence; merely muttering such things as Oh, my ankles!

I'll never get the picture out of my head as long as I live. He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it. He was the devil incarnate, Birch, but you got what you deserved. Dusk fell and found Birch still toiling. Then the doctor came with his medicine-case and asked crisp questions, and removed the patient's outer clothing, shoes, and socks. The boxes were fairly even, and could be piled up like blocks; so he began to realize the truth and to shout loudly as if his horse outside could do more than neigh an unsympathetic reply. His thinking processes, once so phlegmatic and logical, had become ineffaceably scarred; and it was pitiful to note his response to certain chance allusions such as Friday, Tomb, Coffin, and words of less obvious concatenation. His head was broken in, and everything was tumbled about. Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb. Birch. He had, indeed, made that coffin for Matthew Fenner; but had cast it aside at last as too awkward and flimsy, in a fit of curious sentimentality aroused by recalling how kindly and generous the little old man had been to him during his bankruptcy five years before.

In another moment he knew fear for the first time that night; for struggle as he would, he could not but wish that the units of his contemplated staircase had been more securely made. This arrangement could be ascended with a minimum of awkwardness, and would furnish the desired height.

The hungry horse was neighing repeatedly and almost uncannily, and he vaguely wished it would stop. He had even wondered, at Sawyer's funeral, how the vindictive farmer had managed to lie straight in a box so closely akin to that of the diminutive Fenner. Maddened by the sound, or by the stench which billowed forth even to the open air, the waiting horse gave a scream that was too frantic for a neigh, and plunged madly off through the night, the wagon rattling crazily behind it. He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it. This arrangement could be ascended with a minimum of awkwardness, and would furnish the desired height. An eye for an eye! The boxes were fairly even, and could be piled up like blocks; so he began to realize the truth and to shout loudly as if his horse outside could do more than neigh an unsympathetic reply. When he perceived that the latch was hopelessly unyielding, at least to such meager tools and under such tenebrous conditions as these, Birch glanced about for other possible points of escape. Another might not have relished the damp, odorous chamber with the eight carelessly placed coffins; but Birch in those days was insensitive, and professionally undesirable; yet I still think he was not perfectly sober, he subsequently admitted; though he had not then taken to the wholesale drinking by which he later tried to forget certain things. As he remounted the splitting coffins he felt his weight very poignantly; especially when, upon reaching the topmost one, he heard that aggravated crackle which bespeaks the wholesale rending of wood. He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it. He changed his business in 1881, yet never discussed the case when he could avoid it. An eye for an eye! Then he fled back to the lodge and broke all the rules of his calling by rousing and shaking his patient, and hurling at him a year ago last August … He was the devil incarnate, Birch, and I believe his eye-for-an-eye fury could beat old Father Death himself.

[giorno-plays-piano]

Tainted Apollo

Pairing: Kars x Reader

Warnings: mentions of gore, death of minor characters, slight allusion to dubcon.

Words: 3056.

Summary: Finding a peculiar sculpture in the ruins of an ancient temple, you realize you have stumbled upon a god set in stone.

P.S. I forgot to post this one here haha

____________

"Good morning, Sire." You welcomed him as you stretched in your improvised bed, an old metal container of some kind with a pile of blankets on top of it.

Rubbing your sleepy eyes, you slowly put your feet on the floor and adjusted the hem of your nightgown so he wouldn't see too much of your flesh. Kars always found this habit of yours ridiculous. He had been a piece of stone for God knew how long, and even after you found him he'd been confined to bed for no less than a year, barely moving and unable to speak. Kars was sure you didn't even understand what he was, but you still cared about covering your body in front of him. What a pathetic habit, he thought.

When you found him in the sands, somewhere in what appeared to be a long abandoned temple that had been in ruins even before he reached the Earth, you first thought he was some kind of sculpture, adoring his unusual but captivating form. He hated you watching him with your eyes wide, even touching a lock of his petrified hair - you were just a mortal human woman, one of those he had been determined to wipe out, but you had the audacity to act like his sole purpose was to lay in the sand for your entertainment. If he could move, he would definitely end your pathetic like there and then. But Kars couldn't.

It must have been ages, if not a millennium, since he had been banished from Earth. Drifting through darkness, his body had turned to stone, his limbs losing their ability to move - regardless of him finally becoming an ultimate form of life, it brought him nothing but eternal suffering and oblivion. Kars had stopped functioning like a living being almost completely. Almost. If he hadn't been returned back to Earth by some accident, he would continue his meaningless journey to the stars till the end of times because the darkness enveloping him had no limits. It felt like being thrown into a cold throat of some gigantic monstrous creature, but instead of reaching its stomach and finally dying he had been forced to circulate somewhere in between, neither dead nor alive. If silly humans thought the Hell was real, it had to be it.

He couldn't remember what force sent him back to Earth as he could think of no one doing it intentionally, but it didn't matter as long as he could reach Earth. Regardless of what would happen after, Kars knew he would survive and regain his power, finally giving humanity what it deserved for what they had done to him.

Funny, but when his mind had awoken from hibernation, Kars realized there was no one to take revenge on. Humanity had successfully wiped itself out.

Even after year and a half that passed, he still saw just you, a girl who had brought his petrified form to her home to take care of him knowing he was alive - by the time you met him Kars was able to open his eyes. Oh, he remembered well how horrified you were, stumbling upon an immensely beautiful statue that turned out to be a stone god, he heard you saying that for a few times. That day you ran away with such an expression Kars didn't expect you to ever come back, although you showed up a couple of days after, trying to talk to him in that odd new human language he had never heard before. As he kept silent, unable to even move his lips and make a sound, you realized the god you stared upon had been trapped in stone, and you could do nothing to free him. You went away, but came back with an odd machine that reminded him of Stroheim, and Kars thought of melting your bones when you dared to use to transport him. However, he had to admit how further did human technology evolved when even a small and timidly-looking machine like yours could lift and transport him to your home, a place inside another machine that had been definitely used for military purposes before being abandoned. It looked incredibly pathetic, as if you were a little rat that had to live in a pile of garbage out of pure need.

The world he once knew and wished to conquer had disappeared. All he saw while being driven away by your small machine had been a never-ending desert and ruins of other machines: he learnt lately those were enormous satellites, star ships, and other rusting remnants of an epoch that had been long gone. Watching gigantic sand stingrays crossing the desert as if it were a sea made him realize how far humans had gone - they had created monsters that were never meant to exist in the first place.

Of course, they paid for it. Judging from the stories you told him and what he observed himself, humanity had faced almost complete annihilation even without intervention of their outer space enemies, if there were any. The atomic war destroyed nearly everything humans had been creating since the beginning of their era. It affected even the natural course of life of every living being on Earth, forcing them to change and finally become a horrifying, mutilated, monstrous life form of something they had been once. Even the Moon had been gone, it's ugly half-destroyed form shining in the night sky and making it even more revolting. You had said something about unsuccessful colonization and the war over moon territories while Kars had to force himself to look down on the sand that was at least familiar to him.

Disgusting. He still had hard time believing how far humans had gone, destroying everything that existed long before they started ruling the planet. What would Jojo say now if he saw what a nightmare the world had become? Wasn't it better to let Kars wipe out the humanity before this had happened?

He had been fighting the urge to break your spine or melt your insides at least for a couple of months, blaming you for the crimes of your ancestors despite you obviously being too young to commit any of the atrocities that had happened. How come a human being had the audacity to survive in this post-Apocalyptic world while other life forms had mutated into monsters? When you were wiping any impurities off his cold stony skin, he was dreaming of the time when his body would come out of this odd hibernation period he couldn't control and then murder you in some rather painful way, prolonging your death till you felt all kinds of despair a human like you could. As he struggled to move even his fingers, he had finally decided not to harm an only being capable of taking care of him.

Each day you brought him to sunlight so he could observe what was outside of your pathetic shelter while you worked to grow anything in this lifeless place, several times a week departing to some place to fill the ugly rusted water tank, then watering your plants in a some kind of a nicely equipped greenhouse - funny, now you used it to protect the plants from the intense heat rather than trap it inside. Fruits and vegetables were what your diet was based on, including some synthetic supplements Kars refused to consume, disgusted by something made purely by humankind. Sometimes you would bring him fried meat, and while the thought of eating a mutilated animal had been revolting to him, Kars knew you could offer him nothing else. Even the meat you brought you offered only to him, rarely taking a piece for yourself: now it must have been a great privilege to consume meat. Besides, it truly sustained him better than fruits or vegetables, and he was dependent on what you were feeding him, slowly getting his strength back. After a year and a half he was now able to move his lips and fingertips, making you nearly ecstatic: it seemed you were doing everything right.

What did you think he was? A deity? A monster? A machine? Probably an immortal being who had existed long before the annihilation, that's what you said: you were talking to him from time to time either to pay your respects, tell him more about your world you thought he knew nothing about or voice what you were going to do right the next moment. One day as you brought several rectangular plates made with what looked like a blue metal to him, you read Kars about ancient Greek gods, wondering if he had been one of them - you saw him melting food with his skin, and for you it was the inherent symbol of his divinity. Kars had to give you some credit: you weren't as stupid he first thought you were. You weren't worshipping him as much as he deserved, but you probably did the best you could do, just a little desert rat having nothing but her plants and a decaying metal house.

"I won't come back till the sunset." You said once you finished washing your face and brushing your hair, tucking them under a faded scarf out of some light fabric and then reaching out to grab your mask. "I'll try being quick, Sire, but it's important I visit that place. If I'm lucky, I might bring something very useful to you."

Useful to him, huh? He would appreciate if you stopped humoring yourself: there was nothing useful you could bring him aside from a dozen people to devour. While he knew there were some people left on Earth still, he also knew you wouldn't master the strength to capture, less sacrifice them to him. Besides, Kars was still deciding whether it was worth devouring those creatures. While it certainly would make him return his powers faster, he could wait a couple of centuries - Kars doubted remaining humans could do something worse to Earth than what had already been done.

You didn't return after the sunset that day. It was the first time you hadn't keep your promise to him, and it made ill-tempered Kars bitter: oh, he would remember it and make sure you remembered it, too. He spent the night thinking what he was going to do to you, albeit not getting too violent in his thoughts. Something probably happened on your way, and you had to stop and spend the night in the desert before coming back.

The next day you didn't return either. He waited for you till the sunset but heard nothing but the sound of sand stingrays travelling to the other part of the desert. The complete silence troubled Kars more than he was able to admit: you had been somewhere around most of the time, taking to him or making some other irritating noise. While he found you just one more annoying creature inferior to him, your absence had a strange effect on Kars - it felt like something was crawling beneath his stony skin, making it harder to keep calm despite the fact the man had always been patient, unaffected by something so unworthy of his attention. However, your absence was a clear sign that something had happened, and it somehow bothered him.

Were you attacked by the monstrous creatures roaming the earth? Humans? Some other force he knew nothing about? Surely, it had something to do with the thing you attempted to bring, but you were vague about its nature, and Kars doubted it was really something decent. How come you had the audacity to risk your life when you were his one and only follower, sustaining and taking care of him while he was still in hibernation? Were you so unbearably stupid you decided you could leave him alone for long? Who had given you the right to bother Kars with your absence? It was inexcusable. The only reason why he didn't punish you was his petrified body, but he wouldn't stay in such state forever.

The lack of your presence was becoming more and more disturbing, and Kars questioned himself why did it matter. He had never needed someone's company - even though he had respect for both Esidisi and Wamuu, their closeness to him wasn't something essential. Not that your presence was either... and yet he found himself constantly thinking about the reasons why you were late. Although it irritated him, Kars decided that time he spent into space had its effects on his mind.

When you returned at last, the sun had already disappeared over the horizon. You were bleeding - he saw crimson stains on your face and your left arm, your faded scarf absent when you stormed inside your house, a small metal container in your hand as you flew to your stone god. Something had gone terribly wrong.

"I'm sorry, Apollo." You were running out of breath, but Kars heard you calling him by a Greek god's name. Was it the god of light? Your choice was rather peculiar. You were probably calling him like this in your mind since you brought those books home, but was afraid to voice your thoughts to him. "I wasn't as prepared I thought I was. The guards are still there even after all these years."

Leaving the container on the floor close to him, you took your bag and started your things there, searching for food and flasks. Somebody had been following you to your hideout.

"This is all I could find." You whispered, opening the container and taking out a small glass vial with a bright red liquid inside. "I can't tell how it will affect you, but I believe it would be of use to you, Apollo. Please, consume it."

You had carefully lifted the vial as if it were going to explode and then put it on his chest, awaiting for Kars to melt it onto his body. He had been suspicious about this, for some reason unable to detect what the liquid was as the vial seemed to block it, he consumed it, nonetheless - there was a chance it could speed up the end of his hibernation.

And it did. He felt the familiar heat, albeit Kars had never thought the stone could be turned into liquid, and yet it was it, something he had been chasing for so long once before becoming who Kars was now. How come it had been somewhere here all along? Was it fate to land here where it had all ended for him once? Kars had no answers. Not that it mattered now as his petrified body was rapidly recovering, his limbs finally able to move, his dark locks softening, the paralysis shattering while he stood up, showing you his perfect form in all its glory as you stared at him, either afraid or unable to move. He was the God you were waiting for, his large wings turning into flesh hands, a halo of light surrounding his perfectly proportioned, sculptured body and making you lose your eyesight for a couple of seconds. It happened so suddenly you were trembling on your knees in front of him, forgetting about those who had trailed you and the danger they could bring to your God and you, both fear and admiration engraved into your stare. Kars was much more than you had pictured him to be, undoubtedly.

As much as he enjoyed that look on your face, devouring your fragile figure with his eyes, he could feel his enemies breathing down his neck. Of course, all of them were unworthy of seeing his true power, but even someone as miserable as them would do for a quick warm up after centuries of hibernation: once several disgustingly looking men with scars and mutilated limbs showed up in your hideout, all of them Ripple users just like Jojo had been, Kars let out a laugh, watching them demanding both him and you to surrender. Worthless little creatures, they thought they could give orders to him, the most perfect form of life on Earth. He had slashed all of them the next moment, pools of their blood dirtying the floor and spreading further to metal walls: apparently, despite them still being able to use Ripple, their power had deteriorated greatly to the point they only posed a threat to a fellow human being, someone as frail and delicate as you.

Turning to face you still on your knees, he saw your wide eyes, tears streaming down your cheeks while you covered your mouth with your hands: was your God more terrifying than you had imagined him to be? Did you think he would forgive those who made a mistake of challenging him, the most powerful being the Earth had ever hold? Silly little girl, there were so many things you had to learn about him, the God you were destined to worship and love with your whole being.

"Stand up, woman." He said, watching you tremble and trying to wipe away your tears, not knowing what you had to say to the God you finally saw in all his glory. "I demand you to leave with me before the sun rises. Gather whatever belongings you need for a long journey, we will depart soon."

You bowed to him deeply, afraid to open your mouth and say something your God would consider inappropriate, and hurried to take your bag, quickly putting everything you considered important in it while Kars stepped closer to the pathetic beings, consuming what was left of them and feeling the power coursing through his body, filling him with warmth he had craved for so long. That little vial you brought was truly worthy of him, and Kars felt satisfied it was you who found him in the sands in the middle of nowhere. He would take you with him while he would try to resurrect the Earth as he remembered it, bringing the balance to it and watching it flourish once again.

"Apollo, I have taken everything." You whispered to him timidly, forgetting you were using that fictional name you gave him.

Kars chuckled, marching through your hideout flooded with blood of his enemies. If you needed to compare him to some stupid Greek god so desperately, you should have chosen Hades.

[kkaeyva]

safety, number one priority

𐐪𐑂 alternate title: why it didn’t work out

𐐪𐑂 a/n: ,,sorry :’) maybe

𐐪𐑂 includes: xiao

𐐪𐑂 genre(s): angst!! and a tiny tiny TINY bit of fluff at the beginning and then it all goes downhill from there

𐐪𐑂 warning(s): angst, breakup, xiao’s (descriptive) insecurities, mention of blood/gore, mention of death, abandonment, xiao’s delusional(ish?) thoughts, XIAO STORY SPOILERS, barely proofread

𐐪𐑂 word count: 0.7k

you taught him of his fears.

he saw bits and pieces of his allies in you; how much you resembled morax was uncanny, and the countless similarities between you and the yaksha he fought alongside during those years of vanquishing demons was one of the only— if not the only— reasons why he responded to you with more than a curt nod or rude remark.

he found how much he liked to listen to you talk. it was an odd sort of comfort to him— allowing him to reminisce about times he could never go back to, as if chasing after the threads of a fleeting thought or a fond memory that never was; a pleasant dream.

even during the quiet nights with you, when the remnants of evil gods slaughtered by his spear eons ago would cry out demanding vengeance, xiao didn’t feel the need to tune their voices out of his head. a mistake, he realizes now.

it was only an illusion of resistance.

their whispers planted seeds of doubt and insecurity inside his head, chanting, “what if they die? what if they disappear?”

he hated how he agreed sometimes.

everyone he respected did one of the two— so what makes you, just a mere mortal, any different? you, a measly human, compared to his adepti comrades of the past?

xiao was never one to care about emotions, nor did he indulge in them— after all, he was taught only to kill and bear the weight of his sins, wasn’t he? however, you were.. an outlier. you’re human, a mortal— your life has a limit. he began to view you as fragile, something he needed to watch over and constantly keep out of danger.

your safety became a constant concern. his stomach churned with an unfamiliar fear just from the thought of you in harm’s way. if you died or even got severely injured, what would he do? what could he do, if not lose his mind right then and there?

was this the bad karma from vanquished demons that was snaking up his limbs, threatening to trap him in a hellhole of karmic binds? if so, he’ll gladly sever the chains again, as many times as he could, no matter the consequences. 

the breaking point was when he saw vivid flashes of imagery in his head where you would be drowning in your own blood— the terrifying emptiness that enveloped him was not something he wished to experience again. even if he knew it was just a figment of his imagination, something about it felt too real.

which is why he disappeared one night.

without leaving a message or a note, he left. he hesitated when his eyes flitted over to your sleeping form— no doubt you would wake up confused, wondering where he was. most of all, he could not imagine the heartbreak you would go through once you realize his absence was permanent.

he knows this, and yet, he doesn’t regret it. he knows that you being around him would only harm you. he can live with his negative karma, but he does not wish to burden others with his own problems.

besides, he reasons, you’ll heal with time, won’t you? 

you are human, after all. you thrive on emotions; something he’ll never understand, but what he does know is that you will heal with time. you have plenty of it left— even if it is limited— and soon enough you will move on, whether it be by finding another or by death.

not him, though.

he will remember you only as a fragment of his immortal life, and soon enough you will be a memory of what has passed. cruel, isn’t it? how there isn’t an easy way out— xiao only knows pain and suffering ever since he could remember, but why was it different this time around? he was perplexed but did not pursue the matter. fulfilling his contract with rex lapis would occupy his mind again, and he will have no time to think about foolish, emotional things.

perhaps this was a blessing in disguise, xiao thinks.

as long as he’s the one who disappears, no harm will come in your way.

it’s all for your own safety.

[a-gnosis]

Have you ever read why it is that the Underworld was cut off and isolated? I always thought it was strange that the Underworld was so different. Obviously I get why *mortals* couldn’t just wander to the Underworld but why did that apply to gods too? Was it something to do with miasma, and Hades was just tougher/better able to shrug it off? Or maybe just the limits of mortal imagination when it came to writing myths? Curious to hear your thoughts :) - odiko ptino

Sometimes it seems like gods as well as humans could become infected by the miasma of the dead. Artemis abandons her dying favorite Hippolytos because "it is not lawful for me to look upon the dead or to defile my sight with the last breath of the dying" (trans. David Kovacs). But mostly they seem to stay away from the Underworld because they really don't like the place. The Iliad describes it as "the dark and dreadful habitations of the dead, which even gods detest" (trans. Ian Johnston).

Though a few of the gods have obviously been down there anyway. Besides Hermes who is the special messenger to Hades, Dionysos brought back his dead mother Semele, Iris is said to sometimes fetch water from the river Styx, and Athena helped Herakles to bring Kerberos up from the Underworld (though it is possible that she maybe just followed him to the gates of the Underworld).

Charles Penglase argues in Greek Myths and Mesopotamia that the inaccessibility of the Underworld is limited to The Homeric Hymn to Demeter, since there are other Greek stories of gods and heroes who are able to both descend to Hades and return. Apparently there even was a version of the myth where Demeter herself descended to the Underworld to retrieve Persephone. He means that the idea that the gods can't cross the boundary of the Underworld probably is an idea taken from earlier Mesopotamian myths.

Whether it is miasma, a barrier, or just fear and detest that keep the gods away from there (it apparently varies from story to story), I think the Underworld was written like that simply because it was seen as very scary and devoid of all fun.