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aquadestinyswriting · 1 year

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Aitheachas Màthair

Summary: Meredith finds her way down to the Contemplation Chamber after waking up in the Fangthane Infirmary to process what has just happened to her youngest son. A flash fiction entry under the prompt "Didn't Mean it".

Words: 565

Tags: @druidx @homesteadchronicles @flashfictionfridayofficial @asher-orion-writes,@warriorbookworm, @odysseywritings, @ashirisu, @blind-the-winds, @writeblrcafe

Warnings: I am 'Dead Dove-ing' these warnings because this is heavy. Grief, Trauma, loss of a child, mention of ritual sacrifice, fantasy cults, implied emotional neglect, character death

Notes: this one is set about 690 years post campaign and is backstory for the current campaign. This is the end point of what started in 'You're Not Alone' (there is a whole bunch that happens in the ten years between these two stories, but they're basically bookends).

I stare into the bubbling metal of the scrying pool of the Contemplation Chamber. Every last medic in the mount is still insisting that I return to the Infirmary, but I can't. I need stillness and quiet to soothe my now utterly shattered heart and soul.

Unbidden, my mind flashes back to the last words Llachlan and I had exchanged with one another. My heart breaks all over again at the memory of the determined snarl on his face as he told me that the Cult he had fallen into treated him better than his own kin and that he Denounced Moradin and all He stood for. That he was leaving to help them destroy everything I held dear and worked so hard to acheive. I start to tremble as the words I had uttered to him rattled in my head,

"Fine! If you want to go an' get yersel' killed tryin' to uphold the beliefs o' that monster, then walk oot that door an' never darken the mount with yer presence again!"

I choke out a sob at the memory of my youngest child, my wee bairn, turning and doing just that. I'd expected him to be gone for a few months, at most, before crawling back and begging forgiveness for making a stupid mistake, as all beardlings asserting their independence do. Once my temper had cooled, I immediately regretted my words. I sent out search party after search party for over three years after that, to no avail. My wee lost lamb was gone, and it was all my fault.

When I finally saw him again, I was certain I was dreaming. But the moment he saw me and called out for me… I should have known it was a trap. Should have realised that the only reason those damned deluded bastards had recruited him was to use him to free that har'ak. And I'd been the one to push him straight into their arms. But... my baby boy had needed me, and I was so desperate to make things right that I was blind to what should have been obvious.

I don't remember what happened after the cultists slit Llachlan's throat. All I know is that, somehow, Ionah hasn't entirely broken free of her shackles and is still bound in the depths of the Pit. At least for now. Little comfort when the only reason she had the potential to escape was because of a petty argument between a mother and her son. I'm pretty sure she's howling with laughter at the irony. All I’ve been told, for now, is that a five mile wide radius around where the cultists had made their lair is now a burnt and scarred wasteland. I dare not ask for further details. For now, I just want to hide away from the world and hope that this is all some horrible dream and I’l wake up to news that my uan beag has come home. Gods, I wish Elowyn was still here.

I force myself back to the present as I feel the comforting embrace of both my Gods surround me. My body heaves as I finally give into my grief. No amount of regret is going to bring my son back, and no amount of 'I didn't mean it' is going to undo what I said to drive him away.

I'm sorry, Llachlan, for everything.

#aquadestinys writing #writeblrcafe #titan fighting fantasy #Ouroboros of Destiny #llachlan bloodvein #meredith gruksdottir #tw: grief #tw: trauma #tw: ritual sacrifice #tw: loss of a child #tw: fantasy cults #tw: emotional neglect (implied)#tw: character death #flash fiction friday

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one-time-i-dreamt · 5 months

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Someone was trying to ritually sacrifice me and I had to keep finding ways to escape and get out of it. I succeeded when I baked some of the best tasting bread in the world and ate it with the person trying to kill me. It distracted them long enough for me to wake up and I wish I could’ve taken the bread with me.

#dream #ritual sacrifice #horror #nightmare #baking #food #bread #eating #violence tw #murder tw #death tw

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nortess · 1 year

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CHOOSE YOUR ◼️◼️◼️◼️◼️◼️

#babygirl of your choice:#killed 13 men (this morning)#is a known collector of human organs #ritually sacrifices people #they are all so very normal #have fun!!#tw blood #pathologic #daniil dankovsky #the bachelor #artemy burakh #the haruspex #clara saburova #the changeling #мор утопия #art #my art #sorry for the reupload…..i starve without attenshon

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pixhor · 2 months

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angrelysimpping · 7 months

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Sacrifice: Collab'oween Day 17

GN!Reader x GN!Tentacle Entity

Warnings: tentacles!; abduction; drugging; ritual sacrifice

Words: 2473

In the grand scheme of things, your town was only as important as a speck of flea shit. A proof of existence, but not much else. Not even the creature itself, but the waste of it. The waste of a blood sucking parasite. Yeah, that was your town.

Oh sure, you had lived there your whole life but, really, that wasn’t your fault. If you could, you’d have left ages ago. But you couldn’t. You’d been stuck, frustratingly and completely. For as long as you could remember, you’d been working towards a way out, scratching out an existence that was tolerable enough to justify staying alive.

Tiny little place, you’re not even sure how it survives. And you don’t care. Soon, you’ll finally escape this backwater town. There’s no reason to stay, the only thing keeping you back is a lack of funds.

Not even family kept you tied here.

Who knows where your parents had fucked off too, if they were even still alive. They’d gone out one night and just…never came back. That had been lovely to deal with at the tender age of 6. Shuffled from person to person, dealing with the name calling on the school yard. They called you “lucky” for getting to stay in your hometown, with your “community.” Yeah, no. You hated it, hated everything about it.

The “small town” branding that got pushed so goddamn hard. The old biddies that clucked their tongues and asked how you were holding up, words soft and caring yet judgment shining in their eyes as they raked over your body looking for anything they deemed “strange.” The way everyone expected you to still morn over your parent’s sudden leaving, as if they didn’t fucking abandon you, as if you even remembered them. God, you hated it all.

That didn’t matter anymore, though. Soon, soon, you’ll leave. By the time the new year rolls around, you’ll be out of this festering shit hole of a town. You’ll be free.

It’s Halloween now. A few more months of planning, that’s all that’s left. A few more months before everything is in place and you can leave.

Or, that’s how things should have gone.

The knock at the door makes you jump, popcorn spilling onto the floor. Laughing lightly at your own nerves, you pause the old horror movie you’d been watching. Well, more like staring the vague direction of as you thought of how nice your new life will be away from here. Shaking your head, you exchange your metal bowl of popcorn for another bowl. Garish orange plastic bowl with black bats dotted around the body and full to the brim with candy. Best bowl you owned, in your opinion. Yeah, you hated this place, but you weren’t some grinch that would forsake some kids their deserved Halloween treats just because they were as unlucky as you to be born here.

In your haste, you don’t notice the time: well past when any normal trick or treaters would visit.

Brisk October air rushes in as you open the door, swirling around your feet, a few stray leaves managing to sneak inside. Your wide smile freezes into place, the practiced “Happy Halloween” dying on your tongue.

No children dawned your doorstep. No happy trick or treaters with bright eyes. No harried parents. No, none of that. A group of stone faced men look back at you. Dimly, you recognize some of them. A man from the convenience store you liked to stop by after work for a snack, a guy who goes to the coffee shop at the same time as you. But, most of them you’ve never seen before in your life.

You don’t have time to dwell on how odd it is to see unfamiliar faces in this tiny town as the group rushes forward, pushing past you and into your home.

“Hey-!”

Your shout cuts off as you’re forced down to the floor, bowl of candy knocked out of your hands and sending the treats flying. Thrashing, you yell again, a wordless scream of fear and rage. It doesn’t matter. Firm hands latch onto your arms and shoulders, keeping you down. Wrenching up, you don’t get far before you’re slammed back down, pain blooming in your skull as your head bounces off the carpet.

Funny, you’d always liked the carpet here. Soft, easy enough to clean. Once upon a time, you’d thought of it as cozy. That was before your dead end job and the dying town embittered you to even the smallest of joys. That’s what you think of as your consciousness falters, drifts off. This tiny home you’d made for yourself, your first step towards getting yourself out of town and to better things, now maybe witness to your first steps out of this life.

A low groan leaves you as your consciousness slowly starts to filter back. Your cheek presses against something rough, body curled in on itself, arms throbbing with discomfort bordering on pain. Muffled voices surround you, hair on the back of your neck prickling as you catch the murmured sound of your name.

You recognize that voice, but you can’t place how. It takes you a moment, brain sluggish. Vague scraps of it in your memory, on the tv, on the radio, before it clicks. No wonder you struggled, you’d never spoken to the owner. What reason would you have to speak to the mayor, after all?

Eyes fluttering open, you find yourself lying on the floor of an unfamiliar room. Coarse rug scraping your face, you attempt to move only to find your arms bound behind your back, legs tied at your ankles and knees.

“Finally, you’re awake.”

The mayor himself kneels next to you, a warm smile on his face that he’d always wear in his television interviews you instinctively flipped past. Funny, you’re not sure you even remember his name. Q…something? Maybe? You’re not sure. You haven't paid attention to the town’s politics in ages. You didn’t need to if you were leaving, right?

“About time. Was starting to think that maybe they’d been too rough in…collecting you.”

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. The longer you look at him, the less natural it seems. But maybe that had something to do with the strange clothes he was wearing, something out of a b-horror movie. Dark red robs, a golden sash around his waist, ornate silver mask on his head, ready to be pulled down. All of it juxtaposed harshly with how the robe was open enough for you to see he was wearing normal clothes underneath. Dress shirt and slacks that wouldn’t be out of place in an office setting, really.

There are others in the room, standing around you and the Mayor, dressed similarly. For a moment, you think it’s some elaborate prank. Why else would this be happening? Why else would these people be dressed like that? Some god awful prank or surreal dream. One of the two.

The dull ache in your body tells you otherwise, head throbbing from where it had connected with the floor during your abduction.

“You know,” the mayor says, snapping you out of your thoughts and bringing your attention back to him, “people don’t wanna stay in small places like this.” There’s an unspoken element, a snide “people like you” left unsaid as he stares you down with that same creepy smile. “They leave, the money goes, the town crumbles to dust.” He makes a small motion with his hand, mimicking an explosion, the town turning to dust you assume, and someone laughs lightly behind you. “Well, we can’t have that, can we? Would…” he falters for a moment, smile dimming a fraction before growing wide again, “would make something mighty upset.” Another small laugh, this time from someone closer to your feet. “This ensures that everyone is nice and happy.”

He pulls his mask down, covering his face, and steps back into the circle of people around you. For a moment, you try to speak. The mayor’s words weren’t lost on you, the something catching your attention and making your skin prickle. But your tongue is too thick in your mouth, and nothing comes out besides a wheezing whine.

That’s when the chanting begins. The language is strange, unfamiliar to you. Every time you try to concentrate on their words, try to see if you can even vaguely recognize it, a blaring pain shoots through your head, making your very gums ache. Worse still, your body locks into place as they chant. Words slide off your brain, not a single thing sticking long enough for you to even hope to remember and look up later.

If there was a later.

Every town had their rumors. In your experience, small towns had more than most. Every year you’d hear the same one. School yard tales that would keep you up at night in your youth, jumping at every sound. Whispers at your fist shitty part-time retail job, checking out customers at the local grocery store, little old ladies giving each other knowing looks over the apples in produce.

But they were just that, rumors. Tales. Nothing real.

Or, so you’d thought.

Whispers in the dark of people disappearing every couple of years, never to be seen again, followed by a sudden burst in tourist traffic. Gawkers fascinated with the “simple life.” Folk fawning over handmade candies and the bright turning of the leaves. A revitalization of the community that you found annoying to deal with, but not something bought on by morbid rumors.

You’d thought nothing more of it. Maybe you should have. If you had, maybe you’d notice some truth to it all. The disappearances that were never talked about, loners with no family, no connections. People who wanted to leave, who left no impact when they did slip away in the night.

People like you.

It’s only a brief flash of understanding, that this was what fueled the rumors, before a loud scraping of metal against metal scatters your thoughts and splits the rhythmic chanting of the group. Purple tinged light fills the room that you have to squint against, refusing to fully close your eyes in such a fucked up situation. Nose scrunching, you’re assaulted with the scent of sulfur, a strange undercurrent of jasmine coiling through the room.

As the chanting stops, you’re able to move, and you take full advantage of that. Or, as much as you could. You writhe, only proving to tighten your bonds, but you do manage to flip onto your back. Above you a pulsating slit stretches out and widens. A rip in the very fabric of reality splitting open, called forth by the group around you.

“Shame,” the mayor says as a long, thick tentacle unfurls from the portal. Glancing away from the horror before you, you see a hard outline pressing against his trousers. “Would have quite liked it if it came through this time.”

You don’t get time to question his words before the tentacle wraps around your midsection, lifting you up effortlessly and bringing you back through the rip in the universe.

Being pulled through the portal feels like jumping into a pool, a cool pressure all over your body. Unlike being submerged in water, you can still breathe, though the air is just as chilly and you’re sure you’d be able to see your breath if you exhaled. If you could see at all, that was. Everything is dark, a pure true blackness that leaves your eyes straining to catch any scrap of light.

Nothing. Nothing at all. The chill fades and all you’re left is the feeling of the tentacle secured around your middle.

Squirming in its grip doesn’t help. It might even be the reason more tentacles join the first. They curl around you, slipping under your clothes. Skin smooth and cool, it’s almost a pleasant sensation. That doesn’t stop you from thrashing, trying to jerk away from every touch as the limb around your middle tightens.

One tentacle curls around your throat, and your movements become more frantic, whine building in the back of your throat. Yet, the appendage doesn’t squeeze around your neck like you assumed it would, instead a tapered tip pressing against your skin. It’s an almost imperceivable prick, barely anything at all. Less intrusive than any shot you’d ever received, yet you recognize it all the same. You’ve been injected with something.

The panic in you swells, only to quell almost instantly. The thought of being injected with some mystery substance…doesn't bother you, actually. Warmth seeps through your body as you relax, muscles loosen, the need to fight fading away as the tentacles squirm excitedly over you.

They find your bindings and the ropes snap with ease. With your limbs freed, you stretch, languid motion that allows the tentacles better access to your body. You hardly notice your clothes as they’re ripped away, mind hazy as you let out a delirious giggle.

The tentacles explore freely, seeking out every inch of skin to touch and taste. One of them prods at your entrance, and you attempt to spread your legs to help accommodate it, movements blunt and clumsy. Laughter sounds around you, thrums through your body as a lazy smile graces your lips. You let out another little giggle as the tip squirms against your hole.

Electricity tingles up your spine as you're slowly pressed into, back arching in the loving grasp of the tentacle that stays wrapped around your middle. It curls inside you, pressing deliciously against your nerves and a moan escapes you, a loud, lewd noise that hardly feels like it belongs to you at all. Moving deeper inside you, searching for every hidden spot, you couldn't keep quiet if you even tried as you’re fucked open.

A tentacle squirms up over your body, sliding across your chest and over your nipples, and twists around your jaw. It’s thinner than the one thrusting between your legs, but you still gag slightly when it slides into your mouth.

As it curls against your tongue, you groan, reveling in the way it quivers against you. There’s a certain delight in its action, a sense of approval in the air as you relax your throat for the tentacle in your mouth.

It’s not a sound, though that’s the best way your brain understands it. A deep, thrumming that reverberates in your bones, in your soul. Something from the being holding you, fucking you. The owner of the tentacle, of this space, of the deal with the leaders of the town you don’t even remember anymore. A wordless voice telling you not to worry as your guts get rearranged, fitted to its needs and whims.

Nothing to worry about, nothing to think about. Nothing to do but surrender to pleasure.

#collaboween #tw tentacles #cw tentacles #tw abduction #cw abduction #tw drugging #cw drugging #tw ritual sacrifice #cw ritual sacrifice #gn reader

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lokiravenwood · 2 months

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It's dusk in late spring. The wind is still cool, but has lost its bite, blowing soft on my face as I walk. Perhaps dusk is not the right word, I don't know when dusk truly begins and ends. It's Blue Hour, when the world looks as if there is a colored filter over it. I'm still walking.

I'm walking towards the forest, towards the towering pines, mighty Oaks, and haunting Birch, with their many eyes watching my every move.

I'm walking and I come across a wall of evergreen cedar hedges. I know them, I planted them years ago, and nurtured them with my own hands.

I'm walking along the hedge wall now, and I come to an opening, a hole, a door, a gate, and entrance. I walk though and enter the Grove.

My grove, the one I made, the one for the old gods in these dark woods.

I walk around, and look at the trees I've filled this grove with. Oak, Ash, and Hawthorne. Cedar and Fir trees. And in the center, surounded by a short wall or stone, a large Birch tree.

This birch tree is special, it's trunk and limbs are large and wide around, it's strong and enduring. And near its base is a face I carved in it years ago. The bark are since healed over, but the face remains like a scar. A face I can turn to, speak to, and address my woes and worries, my success and triumphs. A face that listens without reproach or judgment. A face of an Old God in these dark woods.

The Blue Hour is nearly over, so I reach into the pack I'd brought with me, and I remove the rabbit that has taken comfort in its darkness. I hold it softly, I pet it, scratch it ears, and whisper quite thanks to this dear rabbit.

I remove my knives from its sheath at my hip, and with a practiced hand i draw its blade across the rabbits throat. It's quick, and bleeds out over the base of my dear tree. I cannot say there is no pain, but I can say that it is quick, and no uneeded suffering. I am not cruel.

I thank the rabbit, I thank the old gods, and I set about skinning and dressing the rabbit. I am not wasteful. I will eat the meat, I will turn the bones to a broth, I will add its fur pelt to the quilt that will keep my children warm at night. And I will leave its internal organs out for the other creatures of the forest, for the foxes and crows that make this grove their home.

I am not cruel, I am not wastful, I am greatful, I am thankful.

I dedicate the sacrifice to the old gods in the dark wood. I dedicate my life to them. And I will return to the Grove again in a months time, and I will repet this blue hour.

I walk again, my hands tacky and red, and I walk out of the Grove, through the woods, and out back towards the town. Towards the city and the lights and the people and in the back of my mind I hear a voice, a whisper, a thought, reminding me that the Dark woods will always be there, when it become to much.

I smile.

And I walk.

#loki #pagan #lokean #old gods #forest rituals #tw blood #tw g0re #tw animal death #tw sacrifice #blood sacrifice #animal sacrifice #pagan rituals #old gods and the dark woods #dark woods

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rivers-for-me · 4 months

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i miss the girl i was (i offered to kill myself if they die so they won't be alone)

#i was onto something but it shouldn've been a book instead of life long trauma #i was meant to be a ritual sacrifice frfr #suicide mention #death mention tw #oakleycore #personal #devotion

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chirpsythismorning · 1 year

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Watching bullshit media propaganda, aka that episode of 60 minutes on Dungeons and Dragons and…

#byler #stranger things #d&d #there should have been a tw for suicide #they talk about it a lot #and how dnd contributed to it #reminds me of Eddie reading that snippet from Newsweek #‘saying it promotes satanic worship/ritual sacrifices/sodomy/suicide/and even murder #wait but does that Newsweek magazine exist?#i haven’t seen any analysis on that

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serickswrites · 1 year

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It’s a Wonderful Life

Warnings: restraints, fire, threat of death, ritual sacrifice

Whumpee strained against the ropes that kept them to the post. They had to get out of here and fast.

The cult members had finished piling bundles and bundles of sticks and kindling at Whumpee’s feet. They had stepped off the platform and turned to their leader, eyes filled with delight and awe.

Whumper stepped forward, torch in hand. “Now, my children, behold, the ancient ritual of burning the logs for Yule.”

Whumpee continued their struggles, but decided perhaps now was the time to try and sway someone, anyone, to stop this madness. “The druids didn’t sacrifice people for Yule.”

Whumper stopped advancing. “What was that?”

Whumpee swallowed as they continued to try to free their hands. “The druids. That’s who you’re emulating. They didn’t sacrifice people for Yule. It was a celebration. It would be an affront to the ancient peoples if you did this.”

Whumpee could see a few cult members frown at their words. They had a chance. “If anything, we should be feasting, celebrating. You don’t want to burn me alive for the wrong thing.” If they could get someone to free them. Or distract Whumper long enough, Caretaker and the others would be here. And then they would be safe.

Whumper frowned. “Yes, we are celebrating the joyous holiday. And nothing better than to keep the eternal flame going that you, Whumpee.” And Whumper dropped the torch onto the pile of kindling.

#serickswrites #whump #whumpblr #whump writing #whump community #tw restraints #tw fire #tw threat of death #tw ritual sacrifice #amow winter whumperland 2022 #day 4 #prompt: burning the yule log #queue

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aquadestinyswriting · 2 months

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You Never Cared

Summary: Llachlan and Pal-El enter one of the many chambers of the Hall of Heroes, having been told to go to this one in particular by the Hall's guardian. A one-sided argument ensues when the spirt they've been sent to see shows up.

Words: 1,003, a little over, but I can't make it much shorter.

Tags: @druidx, @sparrow-orion-writes,@flashfictionfridayofficial, @ashirisu, @blind-the-winds, @philosophika, @the-down-upside-finch

Warnings: Implied neglect, implied character death, implied ritual sacrifice, all of the angst

Notes: This is set during the current campaign! I have Pal-El's player's permission to use the character here. Based loosely on an actual session, mostly because I don't remember what exactly was said at the time and I'm not allowed to record sessions for this campaign.

Pal-El looked around the chamber he had been directed to by Aurianna. It was beautifully decorated, he thought, recognising the runic text of Moradhir scripture carved into the pillars on either side of him. The ceiling was vaulted and a large statue of Moradin stood at the far end of the chamber, the gaze of the Dwarf Father overlooking a simple shrine at His feet. A large barrel sat to one side of it and the shrine itself was adorned with offerings of various gemstones, various smithing tools and tankards that had once, presumably, been filled with ale and beer.

The warforged paladin turned his attention to the black-haired dwarf that walked alongside him. Llachlan was sullen and shifting uncomfortably, glaring at the statue of the god his people so revered. Pal-El sighed, he understood why the young dwarf was reluctant to be here. Hells, he was nervous, and he’d had a very good relationship with Archlector Bloodvein, all things considered.

Both paladin and forsaken warlock froze as the air in the chamber… shifted. The lights flickered briefly as a slight breeze wound between the two beings. Pal-El looked around as the breeze died down, standing ready just in case anything popped out of the shadows that were cast by the lights. His sensors didn’t pick up any intruders, or much of anything if he was honest with himself. Lachlan frowned as he too looked around the chamber, seeing nothing that seemed untoward. But that didn’t mean that they were alone, he knew all too well that there were ways for his enemies to cloak themselves even from his eldritch sight.

“Hello son.”

Both Llachlan and Pal-El jumped at the sound of the voice coming from behind them, both whirling around to come face to face with the semi-translucent form of a much younger dwarven woman than either of them remembered. The short, stout figure wore the vestments of an Inquisitor of Moradin over a set of heavy plate armour, which was heavily inscribed with scripture. Her beard was a bright auburn with no sign of white in it and only barely reached her stomach. A simple mace hung from her hip on one side while a mythril-bound book of Moradin hung from the other.

Pal-El immediately bowed his head, his mechanisms clunking and his armour clanking as he immediately fell to one knee, a hand pressed flat across his chest where his Core sat,

“Your Eminence! Truly I am glad to see you face to face once more. You look… well.” he intoned, stumbling over his greeting as he tried to think of the correct words to say in this moment.

Llachlan, as Pal-El kneeled, glowered at the figure standing in front of him, crossing his arms over his chest. He snorted,

“Bit late for the whole ‘son’ thing, don’t you think?” he spat.

The spirit’s hopeful expression immediately fell at the words. She closed her eyes and slowly shook her head,

“For all that she tried to convince you otherwise, you never stopped being ma wee baby boy, Llachlan.” she sighed, “I know there aren’t any words I can say that –'' She was cut off by Llachlan’s angry snarl,

“Then don’t!” he snapped, “Just – Get on with what you’re here to do, then get lost!”

Pal-El cautiously raised his head, frowning as he took in the hurt and lost expression that crossed his mistress’ face at the words. She said nothing more, nodded and turned her attention to the warforged that was still kneeling at her feet. The spirit smiled sadly at him,

“Pal-El… what’re ye doin’ still kneeling like that? Come on, get up.” she said, obviously trying not to let her voice quaver too much, and failing badly. Pal-El did as he was told and stood once more, towering over the short woman. He looked over to Llachlan,

“I know we’re here more for my sake, but maybe it would be a good idea to hear her out?” he suggested. Llachlan turned his glower to the warforged,

“Why should I?” he asked, “I don’t need, nor want, to hear whatever damned excuses she has!” he snapped.

“I make no excuses for what I did and said.” The spirit interjected, her voice quiet, despondent, “As much as I cared, still care –”

Llachlan’s twisted into an ugly scowl, his face burning a deep red as he clenched his hands into fists at his side,

“You cared? You. Cared?! Bollocks you did!” he thundered, throwing a hand out to one side, “All you fucking cared about was your own damn self! If you actually cared, then why not tell me about my own damn heritage and where the powers I ended up with came from?! If you cared as much as you say you did, then why the hells was I made to feel like the monster you clearly thought I was?!” Lachlan didn’t bother trying to stop his tears from falling into his beard as he continued his rant, “If you cared as much as you say you did, then why did you let them take me just to kill me?!” he sobbed.

Meredith Gruksdottir shook her head, tears streaking into her own beard,

“Because I was too blind to see what was happening right under my nose.” she replied, her voice tight, “Hate me all you want, Llachlan, but I will not deny the fact that I still love you.”

Lachlan’s scowl lifted into surprised shock as his mother’s words finally reached him. His heart ached. How could he have allowed himself to be manipulated into believing that the one person who loved him so unconditionally despised his existence? And yet, there was still a part of him that couldn’t bring himself to forgive her. Not yet. Instead, Lachlan settled for a grumble and nodded to Pal-El,

“Well, since ye’re here, ye might as well fix this idiot.” he grumbled. Meredith simply smiled sadly at him, then turned her attention to the warforged that was patiently waiting for her attention.

#aquadestinyswriting #titan fighting fantasy #the ouroboros of destiny #flash fiction friday #pal-el #llachlan bloodvein #meredith gruksdottir #character death mention tw #implied ritual sacrifice tw #implied neglect tw

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