#(stag station bell)

[electric-blue24]

being the size of a bug means the bugs are now the size of you! so yeah im mixing the stag beetles and joltiks together

in hollow knight ringing station bell calls the stag beetle to you so the twins of course always carry one around them,

but unfortunately they can break so when you loose all memory of why you have a bell in the first place you wont worry too much about trying to fix the thing that will call you an express train right back to your brother.

#submas #bugmas #ingo #emmet #joltik #pokemon #hollow knight #warden ingo #subway boss ingo #subway boss emmet #stag beetle #blues art

[fly-sky-high-bug-games]

The old stag was god knows where before Ghost rang the bell of the station

And his memories got foggy in mean time, such a long time

But he is so certain of them when he sees the places he used to visit so often

That's no old age huh

Did he almost succumbed to the infection but the strong familiarity of the bell ring, a single sound, snapped him back?

#sky rambles

[ashyronfire]

Consequences || Chapter 02: Tilling My Own Grave

Title: 02 - Tilling My Own Grave Rating: M Characters: Grimm, The Pale King Warnings: Disturbing Content, Horror, Gore, Unreliable Narrator, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Read On Ao3: Beginning || Current Chapter

Summary:

To refuse was to admit weakness. To ask for help was completely out of the question.

Author’s Notes: This will not normally update this fast on Tumblr but I kinda delayed posting chapter 1 and Ao3 has been ahead for a while. So here. Have Cons 2 right before Cons 3 comes out. Surely that'll be fine.

CHAPTER 02: TILLING MY OWN GRAVE

The cavern walls were covered with sickly orange arteries pumping infectious matter through to pustule growths that quivered in anticipation. Though they had no sentience of their own, the feeling that they were turning, watching, reacting, was near impossible to ignore. The weight in the Pale King’s extremities was a heavy one, as though his corpse had been filled with lead and the nausea had him dragging himself along the ground with anguished steps.

There was a stag station, he knew, and it was far closer. Though years had passed – he knew not how long, not really; time was an approximation in the sea of void that had been his eternal sentence – he held little doubt that one of them still navigated their ancient pathways, still answered the bell’s call. But it was not the station that the butterfly led him to, nor was it even the same direction, and the wyrm knew that choice was deliberate.

Like the death omen that he was, Grimm intended to show him the ruins of his making. He was not obtuse. He knew what he was being subjected to and it welled in his stomach, a pit of dread that fell downward through black, weightless, endlessly plummeting – just like before, just like at its mercy.

Screaming, “Father?...” and then pain.

So very much pain.

Heartbeats thumped rhythmically, in time with each pulse of the infection blooms, and it took him a moment to realize that it was his own that he was hearing; it had synced up perfectly with the throbbing.

This is not my doing, he would have told Grimm, had he words. This is your counterpart’s. These trailing webs of sickness eating away the stone like acid are not my fault.

Did he believe that?

He’d tried his best.

His companion lifted one hand, long fingers spindly and tipped in vicious, sharp claws. Grimm danced the tips of those razors along the edges of one pocket as they passed, touching it with an almost reverent fondness, and disgust rose in the Pale King’s stomach.

This is your counterpart’s doing, and you are relishing it, he wanted to snarl. People have died horribly. Suffered horribly. Does any part of you care? Does your heart not beat in that forsaken scarlet realm of yours?

The thought was interrupted when something warm, sticky, and sweet poured over him and he realized that the pus bubble burst.

The accursed butterfly had split it to make it rain down on top of him.

He froze, claws curling up toward his face, and he hissed. The shrill sound earned him a chuckle in response, and Grimm turned back to face him. He knew what he must have looked like, half-rotted corpse that he was, covered in infectious matter, and the butterfly’s laughter grew louder at his expense.

“Worry not, worm,” Grimm offered, entirely too pleasant for someone who had made it clear that they were not at all friends – not that he’d been delusional enough to think otherwise. “You will not become infected. Not even in your… state. For no part of us wants you.”

What cold comfort that was amidst the rising smell of decay mingling with old, aged honey that had begun to crystallize sugar over time. He could feel it oozing down his carapace, peeling back tattered fragments of shell, and he hated every second of it. Yet, he knew not what was worse: that the combination of smells was so repugnant, or the fear that perhaps it improved his countenance, considering the state that he was in.

Nothing about her could improve anything. All that she was wrought destruction.

All that her counterpart before him was wrought smug defiance and delight in his pain. In the pain of his kingdom, too, he thought bitterly.

The Hollow Knight had failed.

He’d known that it would. He’d known that it was a fool’s errand, the task he’d set it upon. He’d known that its destiny was to die and he’d played it, a gambit, to buy himself time – time that he’d inevitably failed to utilize, for in every vision, every sight, that he saw, he lost. There was no outcome where Hallownest survived and, bereft of hope, he’d succumbed to the melancholia of regret and pain. Perhaps if he’d chosen differently, he would have had time to make his last years alive count. Perhaps if he’d accepted his own defeat sooner, he might have been able to buy a kinder fate for his kingdom, for its people, for his progeny.

Or perhaps he’d simply have brought about the inevitable even faster. She was not reasonable. There were no terms on which they could barter for understanding. She would not be happy unless her victory was absolute. Did he not understand, did he not see? Surely he knew, as her counterpart, how impossible she’d become? Why, then, did Grimm regard him as if he were the monster, as if he were no better than she?

Why did he look upon him with thinly veiled contempt?

With hatred?

As if he could hear thoughts (and perhaps he could; the Pale King was not at all familiar with the scope of Grimm’s powers), the Nightmare King interjected, “There is always a choice, and the one that we make defines us. You chose death and in doing so, you invited me in. Death is here. Do you enjoy what you have sown?”

Defiance rose within the wyrm, and he growled. Grimm did not look back at him. They both knew that he could not make words with which to respond. The question was rhetorical, no doubt meant to make him assess, and assess he did.

He found himself fraying. The sensation of the larvae beneath his shell, wiggling about, feasting on his decaying flesh, was enough to make him spiral further. Though Grimm was undeniably some kind of caricature of butterfly, there were many instances where he wondered if his fellow god was not also a beacon to the spiders of Deepnest, for his words, his flippant air, and his casual cruelty in remarks that were no more barbed than any political opponents had thrown at the wyrm over the year, were sticky webs that tangled the Pale King within, wrapped him tight, kept him fastened safely for consumption later on.

And he felt like a meal. He felt like he was being devoured bit by meticulous bit, savored, and he hated it.

The elevator was broken. It lay in a crumpled ruin at the base of the shaft, where dust began to collect on it, debris crushing its formidable metal cage. He regarded it as Grimm circled toward the center of the shaft, and only at a snap was his gaze drawn away.

Grimm raised one finger and pointed up.

“We will go to the relic of what was once your capital,” the butterfly explained. “And to do that, as you have doubtlessly observed… you must climb.”

‘You.’ Emphasis on him specifically, the Pale King noticed. Grimm lifted off the ground, weightless, floating unnaturally not by use of his wings but by the twisting of essence that pooled around him like marionette strings. He pulled his legs up to his chest, those scarlet strings floating intangibly behind him, his eyes on the wyrm’s form, and the Pale King tentatively moved his wings.

The pain was immediate. It ripped through him, doubled him over in agony, and he felt the membranes shear from that one motion. He felt diaphanous tissue give, tearing, fragile as a newly unfurled leaf, and then, one by one, his wings wilted away to land in tattered pieces at his sides. Rot rose up them, colored them necrotic black instead of their nearly blue, shimmering silver hue, and bile settled within him.

“Are you going to vomit again?” Grimm mused with a clinically detached interest. “That will slow us down, but by all means, if you must excise all fluid from within your guts, do not let me stop you.”

The Pale King’s stomach writhed, churned, and he surrendered to another violent upheaval with regret that he could not aim it more precisely, that he shower that blight above him with the product of his disgust.

One clawed hand rose. It slid down his face, smearing dead tissue with infection, and he flicked away the combination of fluids as best he could. Orange and black dripped down the elongated fingers, from the ends of his clawtips, and he coughed several times.

For a mercy, the least that Grimm could have done would be to remove the travelers from within his body before putting him back in it. Need he be so cruel? Must he derive pleasure from the suffering that he caused?

He was the god of fear.

And, bitterly, the Pale King had to admit that he was frightened. The itching was a constant thing. He longed to scratch his shell until it all came off, until the tissue was exposed, and then cauterize the flesh beneath to rid himself of the burrowing little pests –

Laughter jolted him from his thoughts. Grimm descended enough to float directly in front of him. The butterfly turned his head to the side, unnaturally far, before whispering, “Is it terrible? To imagine being eaten alive?”

He needn’t imagine it. It was happening to him.

Or so he thought, but the way that Grimm turned to look at his discarded wings, at the blood-and-muck that he’d loosed from his stomach, gave him pause. The Pale King turned very slowly to regard the fallen wings.

And there was nothing but blood. Nothing but stomach acid. Nothing but broken bits of tissue. No little twisting masses, no sprinkling of white maggots within, and his lungs burned with shame.

Had there ever been? Had he imagined them from the onset? Were the feelings phantoms?

Distantly, he heard screaming.

‘Father?...’

It grew louder and his vision blurred unpleasantly. He clenched his claws to ground himself.

It was dead. He did not know how he knew that for fact, but he did know it: the Hollow Knight had died in the Temple of the Black Egg and one of its siblings had succeeded it as the new host for the Old Light.

“Really, wyrm, what do you take me for?” Grimm mused. “I am hardly so uncivilized.”

He knew what the Pale King had seen, surely.

There were parasites the first time. There must have been. It could not have been all in his head. It could not have been. He’d felt them, squirming, crawling, biting – he’d felt them eating him – he’d felt, he knew what he’d felt, and he was resolute in that belief.

Grimm knew, and Grimm was playing at innocence in a mocking game. Did it delight him so, to break a god whose power dwelled over mind?

Was he even a god anymore?

The butterfly ascended again, higher, higher still, and the wyrm watched him rise through the shaft before delicately landing on the end of a broken wood fragment that jutted out sharply and was tipped in barbed spikes. Try as he might, the Pale King could not recall an occasion where such things had been added; they must have been placed there after his disappearance, but he knew not by who.

He… was not an adept climber.

Wyrms were subterranean by nature. It was no coincidence that Hallownest had been built underground. He’d carved the paths with his maw before he’d shed his older form for the smaller, more appropriate one. He’d tunneled and made each pathway by hand with meticulous care, and eventually his people had added to it one-by-one, until the labyrinthine corridors were more maze than not. And it ran deep, deep, deep.

Scaling walls was not what his body was built for, and he did not know if his claws would even find purchase on the aged stone.

Battered as his body was (and that, he knew, was no hallucination – doubtful that he found the idea that the maggots had been), he did not know if he could make the climb. The expectant, scarlet-eyed stare that lingered on him said much of his companion’s expectation, and he found himself crushed under the mantle of the demand.

To refuse was to admit weakness.

To ask for help was completely out of the question.

And yet he did not know if he could do the thing that was asked of him. He did not know if his body was solid enough to manage it. If he slipped, if he tumbled, he would fall endlessly and be crushed on the ground.

Fall.

And be crushed.

The sound of masks breaking on the floor of the abyss and hundreds of white eyes glowing in the dark, staring at him from below with the unasked question, ‘Why?’

He exhaled and put one claw forward. Those eyes never left him. He did not dare turn around to face them but he knew – beyond all shadow of doubt – that the stare Grimm was giving him was critical.

The Pale King curled one claw over an exposed surface of the rock and then used it to haul himself upward –

– a flash of light. Brilliant blue wings, so like his own, and asymmetrical horns turned expectantly as it climbed –

– until he was forced to use his extra limbs. He had six arms, though only two were functional as arms while the lower ones acted more as claws for when he needed to crawl quickly. Primitive, that movement; he rejected it on grounds of being far less barbaric in this form and yet there he was, using them to drag himself up the uneven surface, keratin splintering painfully with each uneven movement.

He exhaled. Muscles pulled tight and scorched from the force of his weight. His tail thumped underneath him, stronger than much the rest of his limbs, and he used it to pull himself higher, until he reached a ledge that he could at last rest on.

He stopped, breathless, head askance so that he was not forced to stare at the dreadful psychopomp’s gaze.

That smug cursed messenger who could have been kind, but offered only claws, only teeth.

Distantly, he knew that was because he did not deserve any better. Grimm and he were not friends, not even uneasy allies, before the fall of Hallownest. That they were not enemies was more testament to the butterfly’s patience than his own; he’d offered grave insult, and he was paying for it in spades.

If this was justice, the Pale King loathed the flavor.

He coughed and unhinged his jaw in a wide yawn, a desperate bid to get more oxygen to his ailing lungs. His internal organs were coming apart in pieces and he was not dead. When he could next speak, he would demand an explanation. Others would be granted the mercy of peace in such a state. Death would sweep them away, so why did it not him?

…he did not want to die.

He’d never wanted to die. He’d feared death most of all.

There were no infectious pustules around him, he realized. The tangled veins that connected through the basin were absent, replaced instead by an absence of light that felt oppressive.

He gave off none.

There was symmetry there, in the absence of his light and him chasing the only source of it nearby: the flickering scarlet flame of nightmare that rested behind Grimm’s mask. How many of his progeny had fallen chasing his? How many had been crushed beneath the magnitude of their failure to reach it?

A vessel small enough that he could hold it within his hands, with horns that tapered into three prongs and wide eyes full of nothing, for had it had anything within, he would never have gone through with so catastrophically selfish a plan –

Lying to himself –

Filmy tissue spreading over a fathomless black vortex and then inflating with sickly rot, little different from that which ate at his tissue, save for the smell. It was not putrid; it was sweet.

It was always sweet.

It’d eaten away its arm.

It’d eaten away a portion of its carapace to expose the inky black void within and that drew thinner, thinner, until there was little left. She took his not-at-all hollow child, and she hollowed it out to make room for herself, carving away bits and pieces until what was left was more like a shambling carcass reanimated by parasites –

Parasites like the ones he felt burrowing into his flesh –

His vision spun and he shambled backwards, collapsing against the wall of the canyon. He heard movement, the shuffling of wings, and then feet alighting on the stone beneath him. He expected laughter, braced for the humiliation, and it did not come.

Grimm crouched in front of him instead. There was an unusual quality to the way that he tilted his head, his collar flaring around his throat like the petals of a flower, shifting unnaturally as though alive on their own.

He smiled, all teeth.

This was not the comfortable companionship of a friend, the Pale King knew, but when Grimm held his hand out in invitation, he took it just the same. He took it because he could not make the journey.

He could not do what he’d demanded of the newly hatched. He could not do what he’d expected from thousands of his progeny, what some of them had even succeeded at, and the knowledge that he’d failed pulled his scales backwards sharply, jabbed into him in pain.

The Nightmare King need not make any comment on the subject. His mind would do the chastising for Grimm.

Croakily, the Pale King gripped onto long arms, tangled into wings that spread out into a cape, and he looked up in desperation. He opened his mouth, expecting nothing to come out, certainly no words, but sound escaped him.

He screamed and it was identical to that of the Radiance’s cries as she’d been sealed.

He screamed and from his maw escaped a flood of tiny mimic-moths, smaller than her people had ever been, than that fallen kingdom could ever have offered, dusty and diminutive.

He screamed and the empty shaft screamed back for him, while Grimm looked on with the same bored expression.

Fear was, perhaps, far harder to impress than he.  

#ashe writes #consequences fic #hk fanfic #hollow knight fanfic #hollow knight #hk the pale king #hk grimm

[fungal-wasted]

Resting Grounds

Disclaimer: I am not an expert on architecture I am simply pointing out what I can see for the purpose of speculating or art references. Also, some talks about graveyards and methods of burial, so read with caution if the topic is sensitive at the moment. I send my best wishes.

Let's continue with a small yet important area: The Resting Grounds. This area is known for being the place of rest for deceased bugs of Hallownest, and home of the moths. Here we will see what elements stand out to this area and what we can infer from them.

First of all I wanted to show images of the entrance from the tram, the City of Tears and the Stag Station, which are some of the more... traditional ways to reach this areas for those who don't want to find out if they have fall damage.

Here we can see the average elements we expect we associate with Hallownest's architecture, followed by a big gate under a curved arc with a spike on top. The gate was left semi open.

The stag station shares a lot on common with others, except for two elements: those hanging pieces that seem to end on a bell, and the walls with masks carved. Those two elements are present all throughout this area and are unique to it.

This is the sign shown from the bottom entrance, connected to the City of Tears. The sign shows.... those "A" shaped icons (*sigh*), below the essence symbol. Surrounding the area are a few short pillars with a spiral segmentation.

Here we can get a glimpse into the vertical room that serves as a hub. The locked door at the top shows a round shape, reminiscent of the essence particles (which are in turn based on dreamcatchers, an object made by the Ojibwe culture). One can see this imagery present on the room where you pick up Dreamshield, whispering roots and the sign shown above.

(Ironically, dreamcatchers are associated with arthropods, except not moths, but spiders. I fully recommend reading more on their origin from Ojibwe or other Native American sources though, to be mindful of how we use symbols.)

Moving back: The other elements that stand out from this image are that the fences here are not shaped after the Pale King, but the Radiance. The biggest giveaways are the three pointed "crown" at the top, the curves that could represent her wings and the bottom vertical lines, resembling her lower body. Besides this, ledges are not decorated with Hallownest's usual symbols, but with masks.

I'm inclined to believe this is the main cavern designated for tombs, where most bugs would expect to leave their remains. If you look closer, you can see I've pointed to 5 different designs for tombstones. Most of them are quite simple, likely just displaying the name of the bug/family buried in a place. Maybe some could afford some other kind of sculpture above their graves, or it is given to members of a guild (which is the case in real life, actually). Below Xero's arena we can see what could be niches. They are a method of above-ground entombment which as far as I know, tend to be used for less time than underground burials.

This screenshot is very interesting because it shows the monument to the Dreamers, but behind it we see a pair of... horn-like structure, which we see when we enter the Dream Realm in the context of destroying the Dreamers or fighting the Radiance. This room also has bigger structure seen in the far background, but I would not be able to discern whether they are meant to be homes for any inhabitants nearby, or mausoleums.

This is a photo of the crypts, which remain overall neglected, housing belflies, some sources of geo and priced objects. Entombed husks also roam the area, which prove two things: a) bugs' bodies were wrapped to be preserved, and b) yes the infection can make long dead bugs active again. Now, I would... speculate a few possible reasons for the crypts being what they are. First one is that it is simply an older part of the Resting Grounds and is reflective of past traditions, and the second is that this is a common burial zone, which would be where the remains of long dead bugs would end up on. As far as I know... this is a practice some places have to be able to clear space for other families, often done close to a century after death. Any possibility is fine.

I also discussed with a mutual about the possibility of preserving the bodies being related to their tie to dreams because of their spirits, which could be supported by Markoth or Galien emerging from their bodies, but that's as much as we could say.

Finally: this is an area hidden in the Spirit's Glade, showing the only monuments that directly portray moths in the entire map. This area is hidden behind a calm waterfall that provides water for the Resting Grounds. As you can see, each statue differs in size but have the same shape overall. The item collected here is a King's Idol.

I hope this was helpful! If you have anything else to add feel free to do so

Other posts that you may be interested in:

Forgotten Cossroads

The Snail Shaman's Mounds

#hollow knight #analysis #game ref #no id #sorry this is hard to do well #resting grounds #the radiance #moth tribe #long post #not me infodumping about cemeteries

[quirrelfan]

Part 3 of Quirrel Locations

Queen's Station, once bustling with life, bugs going about their day to day lives, now just mere echoes of their existance can be heard.

"Can you imagine this place in its time? Hordes of bugs travelling about the Kingdom; stag bells ringing; the station bustling with activity and life."

Quirrel is found resting at this massive station when one enters for the first time, after one's descent down fog canyon. A safe area after avoiding the inconveniently placed Uoma, and the Ooma who home in like a missile upon attack.

"Seems the dangerous creatures about haven't yet made their way in here. It's the perfect place for a quick rest."

He makes note of the eternal ringing of the bells, long after usage. The sound ingrained in the confines of Queen's Station forever.

"Is it that, just faintly, you can still hear the echo of the bells?"

His rest at this station is only brief, not to be seen upon exit and return into the room he was in.

#quirrel #hollow knight #queen's station #fog canyon #quirrel hollow knight #hk quirrel #stag station

[weafurry]

For the character ask, Quirrel :3

Favorite thing about him: AESTHETIC. I also just love all his dialogue. Heeee <3 idk if that makes sense. I haven't thought too hard about him Inna while

Least favorite thing about him: TJAY HE'S FUCKGN DEAD /HJ

Favorite line: OOO! I gotta go with when you're talking to him in queens station.

"Can you imagine this place in its time? Hordes of bugs travelling about the Kingdom; stag bells ringing; the station bustling with activity and life.

Now only our like even know it exists.

That's a special thing I suppose, to cherish these sights, even in their decay."

"Is it that, just faintly, you can still hear the echo of the bells?"

And then that's combined with the fact that if you just stand there for a little bit you really can hear it <3. I love it so much

BROTP: OOO him and Cloth. @malwarechips has gotten me hooked on thinking of him, Cloth, and Tiso as an extremely chaotic group of friends.

OTP: him and Lemm. Them <3. Him and Tiso is also really good, I just have more of an attachment to Lemmquirrel.

NOTP: Him and Monomon. For the reason that I hc that Monomon literally adopted him.

Random headcanon: I'm gonna go with sexuality and gender headcanon because it's the first thing that came to my mind,

Biromantic Demisexual transmasc he/they Quirrel my beloved <3

I don't think I really have any unpopular opinions about him tbh.

I don't actually think I have any songs I associate with him either? (Trust me I'm shocked too)

For favorite picture of him, any of these panels from the Quirrel comic

[randomperson339]

Insects Gods and Mortals: A Hollow Knigh/Alien fanfiction

(hello. I am here w/ xernaliapsoting at this hour of the night. Please check out my AO3 account since that has like. 6X the chapters than are on here. Also here's the mastpost to read this in order

Thomas breathed in the humid air of the stagway. His primitive cloak-clothes did little to protect him from the damp wetness of this place, clinging to his skin like a newborn. It was peaceful, still even. Thomas silently stood on the lift, the clanging gears chasing away the quiet.

Downstairs echoed with a thousand plae reflections of Thomas’s thudding shoes. Seeing the bell stand, Thomas poked it with a finger, causing the bell to ring out.

Dingaling Thomas’s little bell yelled out. 

Ding, ding, ding. The caves echoed back.

The jolt back, as Thomas was knocked to his behind. Deep rumbling reverberated throughout the small room he was in, reverberating into his very skeleton.

In a cloud of dust, the stag was there and the room was still. 

Standing up and brushing himself off, Thomas looked up to the beast before him. 

It was a big, bubble-like creature suspended from the ground with three pairs of legs. It had a harness of sorts on top of it, topped with two chairs. 

“Bad! Bad! Very, very bad!” The Queen warned. 

“And you should know the stagways are perfectly safe, and unless you want me falling down many, many, cliffs, you’ll let me ride the stagway.” Thomas shot back. 

Now, the decision of where to go. Thomas would like to go straight to the hidden station, but it was called the hidden station. He wasn’t going to find it easily… 

“Where may I find a map of the stagways? And while I’m there, could you stay in the stag station?” Thomas asked. 

“Hmm…?” The stag was… confused. At what Thomas wondered? Was it his unusual appearance? Or his height? Maybe something else…?

“Are you a traveler?” The stag asked, looking up at Thomas with cute beady black eyes. 

“Yes.” Thomas replied, trying to figure out what he did wrong. Was it his accent? His posture? Was he just being too direct or…? 

“Ah. So you’re not from Hollownest, then” The stag figured out. 

“Again, yes.” Thomas hesitated for the stag to explain. He didn’t get any, so he asked “What did I do wrong?” 

“Oh! You don’t talk to the stags.” His ride replied. 

“Well, I guess I’ll have to take this matter to the Pale King himself.” Thomas replied. “Mental note: have the Pale King change the law about not talking to stags.” 

“Why note?” The Queen asked, as the stag replied: “Ok, but there’s a long line before you can meet the Pale King.” 

“Nevermind that. I just need to find a particular station.” Thomas replied to the stag, and thought “To remind myself later.”

“Which station then?” The stag asked. 

“The Hidden station, if you know it. If not, a map of the Stagways.” Thomas explained. 

“Neither of those exist.” The Stag confusedly stared at Thomas. 

“Then what about the tunnels below the King’s station?” Thomas asked.

“To find this… ‘hidden station’?” The stag asked back. 

“Yes.” Thomas replied, stepping forward to get on the stag.

“I’m not sure that there is a ‘hidden station’.” The Stag doubted. 

“I’m sure there is.” Thomas almost echoed back.

“I’ve lived my life in the tunnels. I know all the stations.” The stag retorted.

Thinking for a moment, Thomas impatient replied “And in a few years a stag, not unlike yourself, won’t recognise the hidden station when he finds it. So please, just get me to the particular tunnels I asked for.”

Processing for a moment, the stag simply replied “get on.”

Settling into the front chair, Thomas braced himself.

And at the sound of an invisible starting gun, the stag ran. Not a human run, oh no. It was a run that trembled the EArth beneath it’s hives, a run that was thunder repeated, a run so fast and wild that nobody, nobody could stop them.

And in a few moments, the stag slowed down, almost skidding against the ground, and stopped, arriving at the tunnel Thomas asked for. “We’re here.” The stag announced, 

Breathed in the cold musky air, Thomas realised he couldn’t see. At all.

“Bad. No light/no sight. Note: add night vision to host.” The Queen reported. 

“W-what? Why did you take that-?” Thomas muttered under his breath, stumbling against an unseen rock. 

“Protect host. Host live birth, but host weak. Me make host strong.” She smugly replied. 

Taking a deep breath, Thomas tried to lean against a wall, which his hand kinda went through. 

Pulling it back out of the wall, Thomas’s hand was covered in some viscous, glowing soup that ozed around his hand. It felt like a stone-cold slime that constricted against Thomas’s hand. 

Flexing his hand, the white slime was pliable, moving with his hand giving no resistance. 

“What material?” The Queen asked Thomas.

“Hmm… I think it’s soul.” Thomas filled her in. 

“But soul bad?” the Queen observed the sample, through Thomas’s eyes.

“Not necessarily. You see, soul can also be used as mana, aka magic stuff.” Thomas tried to explain, squishing some soul between his fingers.

“Again.” The Queen asked, enraptured by the glob of soul Thomas was holding. 

This time, Thomas balled his hand into a fist, causing the soul to squirt out between his fingers, to a much enraptured “ooohh” from the Queen.

To some strange force equalised the soul, letting Tomas squeeze it between his fingers again, letting the little Queen be enraptured by the thrilling performance. 

As Thomas did squeeze the soul between his fingers once again, he felt the Queen almost purring against his mind, filling up with a content sensation. 

“Sorry that I’m not able to continue this stellar show,” Thomas half-jokingly thought, “but we probably need to get through that wall of soul.”

“Continue later then.” The Queen reported. So, Thomas stepped into the illusion.

The warm, cold soul surrounded Thomas, he was trapped. The soul pushed against him, resisting his every move, every body part. It pushed against his throat, crushing his windpipe, making him gasp for air. But the soul pushed against his lips too, nearly entering his mouth. It crushed his arms and legs, making it nearly impossible to move.

Soldiering on, Thomas pressed forward, and the soul made his cloaks taught against his skin. Feeling like he was walking through a concrete wall, he lifted his foot off the ground. Only to put it back down a fraction ahead of where it was before. 

But now- now the soul was trying to violently rip away his leg, pushing it off with sheer force. 

Thinking quickly, Thomas pulled his other foot, and indeed the rest of his body forward too, causing himself to go flying through the rest of the illusion, hurdling him to the edge. 

Which buckled and burst under the pressure. 

Soul poured out, gushing and gaping with endless determination, completely drenching Thomas with icky, white soul. 

“Host hurt?!?” The Queen panicked. “Help how?! Help how!?” She repeated.

“J-just give me a moment.” Thomas said, as he heaved oxygen back into his lungs. In and out, in and out, Thomas steadied himself.

And looking up, he just saw two gaping eyes staring right back. Behind said eyes was an intelligence, not a hostile intelligence, but an pissed off one. A very pissed off one, Thomas noted. 

The body housing this intelligence was a stag. An old one at that, with scars and chinks littering its shell, a beard neatly kept and groomed. 

“Who are you?” The voice boomed, wind whipping against Thomas’s face. 

“I’m Thomas.” He replied. “And I must speak to the Pale King.” 

At that, the stag roared back and laughed. “You can’t meet with the Pale King on such short notice! You have to book an audience!”

Thomas knew that would be quite an issue, however he could just talk to the Pale King and bring up his rival that recently got resurrected, his affair with Hera, and his hundreds of dead kids. You know, normal conversation starters. 

But, he would need to get past the stag for that. So, if he could just get past it… but how to do that. 

Wait… this was the only stag in the Hidden station. The hidden station. If this station was hidden from any other resident, except those that the Pale King deem necessary, then merely by finding it, Thomas could claim that he had only been able to find it because he was hand-picked by the King. 

However, there would probably be a certain procedure to follow, which Thomas didn’t know. So, instead of being hand-picked by the King, he would be an apprentice to a bug of greater significance. 

“I don’t need an audience. I need to talk to the Pale King, because if I don’t, a lot of - nay- the entirety of Hollownest will die. I have traveled to this station in the hopes that I could go directly to him.” He said, giving his voice a lacing of fear, stressing ‘entirety’, and talking fast enough that the stag wouldn’t be able to fully process it (hopefully).

At the end of Thomas’s words, the stag look like someone just threw a paper ball at it. Then it squinted, and seemed to look at Thomas’s very heart, before pulling back. Which, Showed Thomas the exit. 

“Thank you.” Thomas said, before climbing up out of the divot he was in, and clamoring up to see the White Palace before him.

#hk fanfic #fanfiction #xenomorph oc #fanfic #xenomorph x human #hollow knight #xenomorph queen #xenomorph #xenomorph alien #insects gods and mortals #xernaliaposting

[sololost]

the only time I use nail arts is to ring the stag station bells lmaoo

#hollow knight

[8dpromo]

Station Point - Alcyone EP (Harmonious Discord

8DPromo · Station Point - Alcyone EP (Harmonious Discord)

SF Bay Area multi-modal artist Station Point (Chakharta, JDN) is known for creating rugged but precise dub-laden melodies. A maestro of complex rhythmic pattern builds, Station Point returns to Harmonious Discord to deliver a well-rounded two-tracker with hints of psychedelic flare and urban tones. Joining the project are HD label boss PointBender and prolific pad inventor Patchen with two unique variations on the supremely delightful originals. The EP begins with "Babombicz", a syncopated joyride saddled by pitchy arps and cacophonous drum fills. The track evolves, diving deeper into melodic interplays driven by bells that culminate into a trance-like state. Patchen reimagines the colorful playground of "Babombicz" with his signature swung drum components, briefly interrupted by glitchy sound design moments. The remix quickly moves into a forward-leaning acid melody that delivers increased movement and ramps up the energy. "Alcyone Chorus" shifts the listener into a more laid-back reprise, with expertly-crafted reversed swells and tension-building pad construction. The beautiful melodic moments are tempered perfectly with the emerging acid lead and live drum accents. A late-arriving sub bass ensures that one will truly feel this on the dancefloor. PointBender reengineers "Alcyone Chorus" as a messy but lush electro remix with homages to early Random Factor/Carl Finlow releases. The syncopation of the electro patterns with the layered pad abstractions adds an element of euphoria, a great remix to get lost inside. With more on the roadmap from Station Point, Harmonious Discord is excited to introduce you to the maneuvering styles of this conscious creator.

Jon Fugler (Fluke) – “All strong tracks - both originals showing some real quality in the programming - and the electro strings of the PointBender mix is a joy.” Richard Hardcastle (Solid State) – “Great EP. I love Patchen’s glitchy version in particular.” Sandro Bianchi (Ibiza Sonica) – “This is amazing!” DJ Firefly (Couch Dancing) – “Love the subtle hypnotic details. Great stuff.” Jon Lemmon (Different Channels on KBFG) – “Love the lush vibes on Alcyone Chorus. I’ll get this some airplay!” Simon Kirk (Stag Beetle Radio Show) – “Wonderful stuff here. PointBenders remix is beautiful. Loving Patchen’s twisting acid trip too.”

Available Now From: Beatport, Bandcamp, Apple Music, And Spotify.

#Organic House #Melodic House #Tech House #electro #Station Point #PointBender #Patchen #Harmonious Discord

[confusedhost-archive]

for the ask game thing !! white, blue (bc you're taller than me despite being younger, stop that immediately/lh/j), and pink/p :]

Bluuuuueeeeee heheheh im at a party right now and im taller than all of my aunts and my uncle

#asks #gggaaaayyyy #(stag station bell)

[soft-quirrel]

ooo !! favorite characters, uhh uhmm, ghost!! also mnn white lady bc she's pretty and I'm gay :3

Consider: both of them in one

#(stag station bell) #hhhhrnmnk i forgot to tag aj’s as an ask #ask #hollow knight #hk #white lady #ghost

[dramionedaydream]

Even More for Jilytober

@jilytoberfest

Everyone wished her goodnight but no one offered to walk Lily through the Potter's manor to her room, not even James. At the door of the drawing room, she took hold of the handle, paused and looked back into the quiet, firelit room. James’s face was hidden behind a massive old book.

Too quietly for anyone to hear, she sighed and took one last look at the plain leather cover of the book screening her from James. As she did, the book tipped slightly. One lens of James’s glasses flashed into view.

She was caught. He had seen her, watching him, waiting for him.

James was on his feet, setting the book aside and moving so quickly she almost expected him to transform back into a stag, as he'd showed her earlier that morning, only right there on his parents’ hearth.

“Mum, I’m going to make sure Lily has a good fire in her room for the night. It’s supposed to be bitter cold,” he said.

“Oh, isn't that nice, dear,” Effie Potter beamed. “Go on then. It shouldn’t take you more than ten minutes. Here, I’ll time you.”

Lily followed James through the house, moving quickly against his mother’s clock, up the stairs and down the hall to the pretty room, decorated in lace, the one James had chosen for her the night before when Petunia had failed to pick her up at the train station. He was in her room, kneeling at the fireplace grate, poking at the coals as if she might be helpless if they went out.

She crouched beside him, hugging her knees. “Thank you for showing me Prongs today,” she said. “Definitely a secret worth knowing.”

He nodded at the flames. “It was fun. I think we’ve always wanted to tell someone,” he said. “Frankly, we’ve wanted to tell everyone. But for Remus’s sake we…”

James was the one who was speechless now, his voice trailing away as Lily eased her fingertip along the contour of his eyebrow. His throat bobbed as he watched her.

“It does,” she said. “Your eyebrow does feel like Prongs’s antler. That same fuzzy texture. Like velvet.”

He breathed a laugh, raising his own hand to touch his eyebrow. “Really? I don’t know what Prongs’s antlers feel like, actually. I never have them and fingers to feel them with at the same time.”

She smoothed his second eyebrow. “Well, now you know.”

He took her hand, pulling it away from his forehead and holding it between them. “Today was nice,” he said.

She let him keep hold of her hand. “It was,” she agreed.

He dragged his thumb across the silky soft skin of the top of her hand. His chest was rising and falling quickly as he found the breath to say, “It was so nice, I'd -- “

All the clocks in the room began to chime, even the ones without bells, the noise growing louder every moment. James dropped Lily’s hand and waved goodbye. His ten minutes were up.

Excerpt from "Soulmate Prophecy"

Read the rest on Ao3 or FFN or wattpad

#james x lily #jily #harry potter fan fiction #fanfic rec #diamonddaydream #jilytober #you felt your own eyebrow didn't you

[whatsmyisyours]

To Kingdom's Edge And Back

Oh how the little vessel hated this climb. Back up the main column of Kingdom’s Edge to the Colosseum of Fools. It had died many times up this way just to be let back into the City of Tears at the end all because he was a few geo short to enter the first trial. The vessel took the bench in the pit though. Talking to Tiso was lovely after that ascent. The Knight hoped Tiso’s trial was going well. Only a few more steps then. Tiso. Oh Wyrm. Tiso! He lay, back in the snow, thrown from the Colosseum at the top of Hallownest. Was he dead? The Knight made a mad dash over to where his fallen friend lay latching on to the ledge and pulling itself up. Its hand was small enough to fit under the armor Tiso wore. The vessel’s cold void connected to the throat of the fighter. It was faint, but there was a beat. Tiso was hanging on to life. The vessel rejoyed. Then it started to plan. First, they needed safety. The nearest stag station was King’s Station. From where Tiso lies it would be a fall, but he had cleared out the Tower of Love awhile ago, along with that it was warm and padded. He pulled Tiso’s unconscious body onto its back, securing him with the strap ment for the vessel’s nail. It was a long way down, but for Tiso it would take that plunge.

A few more seconds. Then they would hit the snow. He raised Tiso just above its head so Tiso’s body would make no contact with the ground in case this failed. The vessel’s eyes locked to the door, and it told its body to dash. Thus, they had made it in. They were in the higher part of the Tower. How comforting the once sickening padding of the room was. The Knight jumped the small gap and brought the warrior fully into the Tower of Love. It worked quickly. Unstrapping Tiso’s from its back, opening up the fighter’s armor to assess the wounds. In the vessel’s many deaths it had grown a knowledge of area’s that could kill in seconds if left to bleed. Tiso’s armor had done him well but his arms were covered in bleeding bites, cuts, and acid. His legs were just as bad. The Knight focused the soul it had into its hands. The vessel had learned many things in the water-stained city, one of which was a very useful spell to heal those injured with the caster’s soul. The Knight rubbed Tiso’s arms as soul moved from his voided form to Tiso’s body, breathing life into it. The Knight was no healer though it could only do so much with half soul. It went to clean the route to the stag station. As it did this it pondered its options. There were a few. The first, Quirrel, last seen at the Blue Lake, with years under Monomon and in the wilds he would know a fair amount of medicine if not for others then for himself. The second, the Snail Shaman, he had given the vessel its first spell, surely the vessel could teach it what he had learned and the Shaman could apply it tenfold. The last contender was Confessor Jiji, though she dapples in the void more than the physical if it came down to her it was worth the shot. Though the Knight wanted to visit one place before he went to see any bug. The Bath House in the City was worth a gamble.

Jumping past the large guards is much harder when you have an armored bug on your back. But there was no going back now. The Spring was in view. The Knight rushes in as the guard approaches it. Striking the lever in the elevator listening from afar to the singer’s ghost that still haunts the stage, her voice always brought peace to the vessel. Finally the elevator stops and the two bugs leave it to start the small climb to the spring. Once again unstrapping Tiso from it’s back and removing his armor. The vessel grabs Tiso’s head. Holding too much respect for the fighter to remove his head scarf. Tiso will just have to deal with it if he wakes up. NO. No. When he wakes up. Tiso will wake up. The vessel shakes its head. Back to the task hand, the Knight drags Tiso into the Hot Spring, taking care to make sure Tiso’s body doesn’t sink. After minutes it had to drag Tiso back out. The vessel felt better already, but clearly the Springs did not have the same effect on the fighter. Tiso was still unconscious. Putting his armor back on, the vessel strapped Tiso back on and made his way to the elevator. To the stag then the Resting Grounds.

The chime of a bell echoed. Then the quake of legs running to the station. “Hello little one! Where are we goin-... Your friend does not look well.” The vessel nods. With no voice he could not tell the Stag of the Colosseum or of Tiso’s state. “I suggest putting him in my luggage saddle. For it seems he would not be able to sit up by himself.” The Knight shook his head. That was no place for a warrior. Neither was his plan, but it was more respectable than the luggage saddle. The Knight patted his lap. The Stag was confused “You plan to… have him ride in your lap?” The Knight nods. The Stag sighs “I cannot stop you if that is what you wish, but hold onto him tight. I don’t want to see him falling off. Now where are we off to little one?” Vessel tapped his map on the Resting Grounds. This was going to be a ride.

The Blue Lake was a far march. As the vessel sat on the bench, map in hand, it planned a path of least resistance. It would pass the statue to the Dreamers and Xero’s grave to get to the Lake. No infected bugs would be on this path. Perfect. Putting the map back, the Knight looks to Tiso. The vessel hopes the trip will end here. With Tiso reattached it waves to the Stag as he walks out of the room. Taking care to fall one platform at a time. Passing the Dreamer’s statue the vessel looks up. All of their masks were gone. Broken. The Knight still had work to do before it faced its sibling though. A friend to heal, a King Soul to bathe in void, and a Pathon to fight. It broke the seal on the Egg in case it got tired of fighting the Pathon of Hallownest and just wanted to face its sibling head on. The vessel look up from its thoughts to see Quirrel sitting by the Blue Lake. Quirrel looks to the Knight. “Ah! Hello again small friend! My… who is that you carry?” The vessel undid the straps on his back letting Tiso fall to the sandy shore. Taking Quirrel’s hand the focusing its soul so if it were hurt it would heal. “You believe I can heal your friend?” The vessel nods and pulls Quirrel toward Tiso. “I will have a look at your friend, for, a friend of a friend, is a friend of mine.” The Knight waits as Quirrel looks over Tiso. The silence was killing the vessel slowly. “Well, I’m sorry to say but it seems your friend has taken internal damage, and I am no doctor. What I could do has been done.” The vessel quivers. Its first option was down. Two to go. Hold on there TIso. I will find help for you yet. The vessel bowed to Quirrel, as a thanks. Back to the Stag then, the Infected Crossroads.

Clearing the path to the Snail Shaman came easily to the Knight. It had gone to talk with the Shaman after defeating the Broken Vessel in the Ancient Basin to ask where to get more spells from. The last runner had exploded. Time to go get Tiso and bring him through.This was becoming quite an effort. Bone rattled under the vessel’s feet as it ascended the mound, the flames flickered as it passed. Skulls or masks watch the march. The rattle of bones and the sound of something hopping into a bench startled the Shaman. He walked over to see if another infected had made way into his home. More and more these days they were finding ways in. Soon he would have to lock his door. To his surprise it was his friend, another bug strapped to its back. What possessed it to make a trip here? “Ohohoh! You gave me quite the startle friend! I thought you were another infected bug. Say who do you have here? They don’t look well at all.” The vessel looked up from where it was sitting, got up and grabbed the Snail Shaman. “Ohohoh! A little rough today, are we? Do you need me to do something?” The Knight nodded. It dragged the Shaman over to Tiso who now lay on the bench. Starting the healing spell to its hands, it looks back and forth from the Shaman to Tiso to its hands, waving them from time to time. The Shaman finally caught on, “You want me to cast the spell you are to heal your friend here? Hmm…” The Shaman looked almost guilty. No. Please. “Shadow I will be blunt with you. I craft spells. And the craft takes time. I have a very difficult time learning spells from others who can speak, let alone a Shadow that cannot. I will work on making a spell that I can use to heal your friend, but it will be days. I suggest you try someone, or something else in the meantime.” The spell dissipates from the Knights hands. Void starts to well in its sockets, as its body shakes, it looks to Tiso and nods. The Knight made sure the spell didn’t waste as the Shaman talked, which means he had more time, but at what point would it be pointless to continue Tiso’s suffering? At what point would it give up? It knew half an answer. Not now. The vessel wiped the void leaking from its sockets, cleared the way, thanked the Shaman for his time, strapped Tiso back on once again, and headed for the Station. Two down, one to go. Confessor Jiji was the vessel's last hope.

The vessel needed more rancid eggs. Worst of all there were very few left in the world, around three, and the Knight wanted ten before it went to see Jiji. It would have to visit Tuk. The vessel despised the Fluke and all that they are. Not only were they creepy, even compared to the beast of deepnest, they were frankly a pain in the ass to kill. Luckily the Knight didn’t have to carry Tiso with it even though this would take awhile, it had a plan. It had left Tiso strapped to the Stag, so if the need arose, the Stag could take off without worry that Tiso would go flying. The vessel entered Tuks' little hole with three eggs already in hand. It paid for seven more. Hopefully this would be enough for Confessor Jiji. For a moment the Knight thought of buying ten more. But it quickly turned down the notion. If Jiji wanted more the vessel would gladly pay after Jiji did whatever she needed to do. Time to go. The bench felt nice after the smell and dampness of the Waterways. “Ah! Welcome back little one, are we off to Dirtmouth?” The Last Stag question. The Knight unstraps Tiso and nods. Its last hope. Please, let this work. This must work. For Tiso. For me. Void drips from the vessel's empty eyes. A rumble shakes the ground as the Stag charges off to the Knight’s last stop.

As the Knight emerged from the Stag Station Sly’s and Elderbug’s conversation came to quick. They saw who the vessel had strapped to itself. The brave man in seek of the Colosseum of Fool. The warrior looking for a challenge The light in his eyes was gone. This left only darkness in its wake. The Knight passed Bretta and Zote. This only allowed Zote to slander the vessel further. “I bet that beast killed the warrior. No doubt in fact. I only wish I was there to save that wonderful bug.” Zote toted. Zote can shove it. “Another dead to bury? Hand him over, ittle nuisance.” The Knight slapped the ghosts hand away. You will pull this bug off my corpse. I dare you. The vessel steps into the Confessor’s cave. Tired from carrying Tiso for so long. “Ah, hello again. Have you- Oh. I see you brought your regrets strapped to your back today.” The Knight pulls out all the eggs it carried. Void threatens to drop onto the Confessor’s floors. The Confessor reaches out a claw to the small vessel, “Hush now. You have travelled to many places to help your friend. But found no one capable. Your travels end here, though.” Does Jiji mean… No. Jiji, please help him. Please. I can’t. I can’t- “Did you know before I became a Confessor I wanted to be a doctor. I even went to school in the capital!” Huh? The vessel looked up. Was Confessor Jiji truly going to help it? Or was she just spinning a tale to calm the Knight. “Can I see the patient please?” The Knight pushes the eggs first, “No need for payment for this work. I will always mend the physical for free.” The Knight turns around to allow Jiji access to the strap on its back. Once Tiso’s weight had left it, the vessel turned to follow after Jiji. “Do you want to help?” The Knight nods, firing up the healing spell again. “Okay then, you may help me. Just try not to get in the way of my tools. This work will be more delicate than just summoning a shade.”

The procedure felt like a lifetime. The soul from the Knight moved slowly to last. For the vessel doesn’t know what would happen to its friend if it was not there, feeding the body, keeping Tiso breathing. Watching Jiji work inside Tiso hurt as though the vessel was Tiso. The Knight was used to blood, guts, and gore, the infection did cruel work on the bugs it wormed inside. But this was its friend. The Little Fool would suffer after this. The vessel looked over its friend. The whole Colosseum will be purged of every bug, beast, and insect. I promise those fools will know the rage of wyrm, root, and void, Tiso. The Confessor started to sew up Tiso, as the vessel started to shake. “Are you okay?” The vessel nodded as the soul in its hands started to fade. “You look tired. You should stop that spell,” Jiji looked from her work, “It will take everything from you and give it away, if you are not careful with its use. You need to stop.” The Knight shook its head. Not until you're done. Not until Tiso is closed and in a be- The white pouring from the vessel’s hands stopped as its body fell to the floor. It felt so tired. But there was still work to be done. The vessel tried to pull itself to Tiso. Please. I’m tired. But I need to help. I need help. I can’t. Not yet. Not don- And with a thud, as the last stitch was placed into Tiso, the vessel’s heavy skull hit the floor. Passing out. The void consuming it as if birthed again.

The Knight awoke in a strange room. On instinct it took out its nail and looked around. There in a bed next to the vessel lies Tiso snoring. On the other side, Confessor Jiji was also asleep. No infected bugs. Nothing to do but wait. Well. The others did need to eat. The vessel walked up to Jiji holding out a rancid egg, the smell awaking Jiji. “I see you have woken. I warned you of that spell.” The Confessor looked to the Knight. “Again I do not need payment for this work.” The vessel shook its head. Holding up the egg to Jiji. To eat. Not for work. “Ah, thank you for the food though. I will be delighted with this meal.” Next to stir was Tiso. “Pale... thing? Where are we? I… must get back to the Colosseum. Ack!” The stitch sent a shock up Tiso's body as he tried to move out of the bed. “Ahh good morning to you too. Your friend here brought you in. You have been badly injured, but I was able to mend most, if not all damage. Since you will be with me for a while may I ask your name? Mine is Confessor Jiji by the way.” At this point Tiso noticed the lack of his armor. He frantically felt around his head to check if his veil was still there. He felt more at ease with the knowledge that the hood was still there. “My name is Tiso. How long must I stay here?” The Knight watched the back and forth between Tiso and Jiji, happy that they got along. Happy Tiso was alive. “Ah! Pale thing. You’re crying, is something the matter?” The Knight shakes its head and using its hands draws a smile across its face. I’m happy you're alive. “By the way. Thank you. Really. If not for you I would have died. If you need me you know where to find me, Pale Thing.” The Knight nods as it leaves the cave. It walked into town and rested on the bench. It had much to do. But first. Revenge will be sweet. The Knight heads to the Stag asking for the City’s store room. The Colosseum shall pay with soul. It walked up to the Little Fool handing over the geo for the first trial after resting and tweaking its charms. It placed its mark on the challenge. The pit door, closing, the gathering of great bugs roars. Today a new Fool will be crowned, debts shall be paid, and the Colosseum will know what the rage of wyrm, root, and void looks like. Hail to the voided vessel, Fools of Hallownest, and recognize the King.

#Tiso #Hollow Knight #little ghost #Quirrel #Snail Shaman #Confessor Jiji #colosseum of fools #Sly #Elderbug #Zote #Bretta #Kingdom's Edge #Dirtmouth #Hallownest #Infected Crossroads #City of Tears #fix it fic #Tiso's death

[stagbells]

Written Work

From: @northstarring

To: @otagamerkorin

Written work under readmore!

For the incredible amalgamations of Void and God as they are, they can certainly be frustrating. Thankfully, Quirrel is left with her siblings. Good, she huffs to herself, he can have a taste of the unruly conditions he’s left us in.

“Stag,” she calls out to the tunnel. “Are you there?” 

All that answers back is the howling of the wind through the tunnels. A draft rushes straight into her face, making her wrap her shroud around her tighter. “Stag!” she calls out again to no avail. Certainly, he can't be--but then she stops. She has seen many bugs on her travels. It would be no surprise if the Stag refused to answer to anything but the bell. She rolls her eyes, draws her nail and irritably flicks the station bell with her needle. 

Immediately, thunderous footsteps roar from the lengthy tunnels. The Last Stag skids to a stop in front of the platform, looking at her curiously. “Oh? Not so keen to thread your way to where you need to go this time?” His voice is gruff and teasing.

“Hush.” Hornet’s eyes narrow and she attempts to seem bigger in defense. “I have…a favor to ask of you.”

“You do not strike me as one to ask for things expecting to be denied the answer,” the Last Stag comments, tilting his head. “Go on, what is it then?”

Hornet balks. She didn’t think she would have gotten this far. “You have a route to the surface, yes?”

“The surface?” he repeats. “Of course. I have routes to anywhere and everywhere. What interests you up there?”

“Quirrel mentioned something I would like to investigate and possibly bring back,” she explains warily. She looks from her shuffling feet back to the bigger bug in front of her.

He blinks at her blankly. “Go on,” he urges.

“Ghost and Hollow have only ever seen water in its liquid form. Quirrel states that there’s a frozen, more solid form of it on the surface.”

“Snow?” The Stag bellows. “You wish to see snow for the first time? Of course! Perfectly arrangeable! I--”

“Keep it down,” she hisses, motioning to him to be quieter. “I myself have seen snow before. I was…not impressed.” She answers flatly. Hornet remembers it clearly: the cold wind blasting her roughly; the flakes plapping onto her gown and leaving horrible wet spots; the drifting--oh, the drifting of the foul stuff!

“Hm,” the Stag hums. “In all truths, you seem to be one that wouldn’t be wavered by such beauty,” he grumbles. “Though I’m sure you have seen many wonders of your own on your travels.”

“Yes, yes,” she waves his snarky answer off irritably. “The situation is that I would like to introduce my siblings to it. However, I don’t quite trust bringing them to the surface so soon after…” She cuts off.

The beetle next to her blinks in realization as he catches on to what she is implying. “That is understandable,” he assures. “How exactly were you planning on doing this fetching?”

“That’s where I thought you would come in,” she explains. Bringing them to the surface is not an option.”

The Stag’s eyes light up. “Bringing snow to them is not out of the question,” he comments delightedly. “Given the right tools, a fair amount could be brought below-ground. The soil is mostly frozen in areas like Hollownest, meaning it would last for, at least, enough time to explore it.”

“You think so?” Hornet asks tepidly. 

“Of course!” The Stag stomps a foot excitedly. “In some places, it is a rare, valuable resource. However, in others, it is merely an annoyance. I’m sure they would be willing to discard it for a good cause.”

“Then it is settled.” Hornet huffs, relieved. “Do be sure to keep in contact with me throughout your… feat.”

-----

Hornet is not sure what she was expecting of her siblings’ reactions. Curiosity? Fear? An amalgamation of both? Any of those reactions would be better than…this.

Hollow holds Ghost in their one arm protectively, both of them bristling and narrowing their eyes at the stuff. The Last Stag stands by, respecting their distance, but still eager to see how things play out.

“They’re just standing there,” she whispers to the tunnel-traveler. “They’re not doing anything.”

“Patience,” the Stag rumbles to her. “It is unwise to rush new things.”

She waits. And waits. And waits.

“You’re not going to investigate it?” she asks disappointedly to her siblings.

They look at her as if she has spoken in a foriegn tongue. They blink owlishly.

“It’s safe,” she assures. “Do you think I would be one to put you two in danger after everything you’ve been through?”

“Indeed!” The Stag bellows. Hollow’s gaze swivels to meet his own. “I fetched the stuff myself. True and honest work, and completely safe.” He side-eyes Hornet. “Why don’t you show them that it’s safe?”

Hornet balks. She is a creature of warmth and comfort. Snow…is neither of those. Snow is cold and leaves her discontent. It makes her want to hunker down somewhere and never go back out. Asking her to voluntarily do such a thing is a massive favor.

She huffs, closing her eyes and steeling herself. Before she can think about hesitating, she plants her feet in the mound of snow. Immediately, shivers travel throughout her body, though she is careful to keep them hidden and muted. “S-see?” she chitters.

Immediately, Ghost begins to squirm in Hollow’s arms. Hornet watches as they try their best to escape their older sibling’s grip. After a pause, Hollow holds Ghost out at arm’s length.

“Don’t you dare!” Hornet seethes, but it’s too late.

Ghost plops into the snow mound with a muted noise as Hollow drops them. The stuff is deep enough that only their horns stick out, the rest of their body temporarily buried.

“Hollow!” Hornet seethes. “Are you serious?!”

Hollow meets her gaze. Yes, they are serious.

Furiously, Hornet begins digging Ghost out of the pit they’d fallen into. The cold makes her claws freeze up and stiffen, but she is more worried about her sibling being smothered in the damn substance than being cold. Quickly, Ghost’s mask and head are revealed-- eyes wide in either wonder or horror as they wriggle in place. “Calm down,” Hornet assures them. “You’ll be alright.”

Excavating Ghost proves to be a quick process. Again, Ghost is held out at arm’s length, this time by Hornet, as she dusts clumps off their cloak. She firmly plants Ghost back on their feet on her side of the pile, far away from anything else Hollow may have planned. “Take it easy,” she urges. “You don’t know it--”

Ghost is already scrabbling back to the pile. Their arms flail in the slowly-melting snow excitedly, scattering stray tufts of it. Some of it plaps near Hollow, who steps away disdainfully.

“I’d say someone enjoys it,” she comments to the Stag, who is watching eagerly. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, yes! What a joy it must be to discover such a thing for the first time. The other vessel, though…”

“Hollow?”

“Yes,” the Stag hums. “They’re feigning something. Indifference. Boredom. Pretending to not be interested.”

Hornet turns to Hollow again. “Surely this has to be better than the faux flakes in Kingdom’s Edge, no? Go on.” She waves her hand. 

Ultimately, Hollow ignores her ushering. Their lanky legs tap at the snow hesitantly, testing the waters. Ghost is still so focused on scattering the stuff that they heed Hollow no mind. Abruptly, Hollow steps into the center of the pile before seating themself neatly. Their cloak is wrapped tight around their thorax and over their knees, giving the image of a nesting bug.

Hornet huffs. “Foolish. Both of you.”

Hollow stares at her and narrows their eyes challengingly. You love us still, don’t you?

#stagbells2021 #hollow knight #hornet #hollow #ghost #quirrel #stag #writing

[idesofrevolution]

Welp as you can guess, Biker TF won the poll. So here we go kids.

It’d been weeks since I had... become who I am today. I’m still learning how to wield the power that Miss Marie had given me- and there were a few mistakes made along the way. But at the end of the day, I’d grown into a much more competent practitioner, so I decided one drunken evening to treat myself. After a delicious evening with a hunky biker bear, I’d convinced him to let me have his spare set of wheels. Riding came naturally to me- the open road and the wind rushing against me gives such a sense of freedom. It’s hard to explain. We still ride down the backroads outside of town just about once a week, although I’m sure the cruising spot in the bayou clearing does certainly help instigate such rides.

It was one summer afternoon after one such ride and rendezvous, wafting with the stench of sweat and sex, that I came across a young hitchhiker. He was young, maybe 21 or so with gorgeous ebony skin and a lean slender frame. I pulled over, and he quickly ran over to me.

“Hey, are you going as far as town?” His voice was frail and weak. A timbre of defeat echoed from the back of his throat, he’d clearly been through a lot. 

“Sure am. Here, hop on and take the spare helmet.” I smiled at him, and he coyly avoided my glance. He awkwardly mounted the bike, nearly tipping us over. “Never ridden before? Aight, put your arms here, and keep your feet up.” I gently guided his wrists around my waist and he tightly held on, nearly knocking the wind out of me. As we took off, he clutched me even tighter. Riding down the road, I could sense he was a broken kid. The air of sadness permeated his energy, and shaded every ounce of his body language. I don’t think he ever realized just how beautiful a soul he had.

About ten minutes of riding, I noticed we were nearly running on fumes. Luckily, an exit sign harked a little good fortune with a Shell station off the road. We pulled over at the nearest gas pump, and dismounted. 

“I’m gonna fill up, take this and get yourself something to eat man, you’re skin and bones!” I handed him a $20, and he looked at me as if I had three horns and purple skin. He blushed and walked toward the convenience store, but turned back to ask if I needed anything.

I looked at him, standing there against the cinderblock building and decided that he would get the help he deserved. If from nobody else, he would get it from me. I shook my head no, and he entered the store. Filling the tank took all of five minutes before it had topped off. I slid my card in, paid my dues and started to put my gloves back on before I noticed he had not come back out. To my left was another bike, sitting vacant and alone. Alarm bells went off and I rushed into the convenience store. 

I opened the door and could immediately hear the shouting. Behind the counter some teenage dumbass was fuckin around on his phone, not thinking a thing of the brazen diatribe that was filling the room. There, behind the wall of Doritos, Pretzels, and Slim Jims was the young kid, and a big hulking stag of a man shouting with his chest all puffed up like a blowfish. The foul, revolting shit that spewed from that mans mouth was beyond anything that I’d care to repeat in any way here, but when I say it was in reference to his ancestry I’m sure you can fill in the blanks. Grabbing his shoulder like a vice grip, I was about to teach this man what’s what.

“I think it’s time for you pipe the fuck down.” The man turned to me, covered in grease and stinking from days of riding in the summer heat. You know the type, ripped up and stained wife beater with tight, patched jeans; topped off with big beat up harness boots that were clearly two sizes too big. He sneered, sizing me up to see where his chances were in this fight. 

“Ahh, so you’re gonna be this little fuck’s hero, huh? You’re gonna be his WHITE knight, huh? See, I’m just letting him know that in these parts, it’d be best if he just fucked right off.” I’ll be the first to acknowledge that I have a bit of a temper issue which can get the best of me.. In the particular instance, however, I’d say I’m proud as all hell that I held that white trash by the throat about a sold foot above the ground. Tossing him aside, he landed against the aisle shelves like a ragdoll. I smirked, and figured out just how I would help this young man.

“Come on over, kid.” I waved him over, and he sheepishly plodded over to us. The racist tried in vain to pull himself up off the ground, but my size 13 Vans against his big burly chest had him pinned like a mouse in a trap. “I think this man needs a bit of an education, don’t you?” The kid smiled, looking down. I gently held his chin up. “And you need a confidence boost.” 

“Ah, your fuckin’ queers too! I shoulda gue...” I shoved my foot into his stupid maw, silencing him for the last time. I turned to my soon to be apprentice and smiled. I pushed a bit harder, watching my shoe sink further and further into that piece of shit’s mouth, before my entire foot was engulfed by his stretched head. The kid looked in awe as our prey squirmed and fought, and I think it was at this point that the situation clicked in his mind.

“Yeah, hows my foot taste, bitch? They sure stink to high hell, they’re my favorite pair. Kinda jealous of you to be honest.” I wriggled my foot inside his head, watching the outline of my high tops slide around under his skin. I’d played around with him long enough. I turned to the kid, who I’d noticed was tenting ever so slightly and winked. “Might wanna get rid of your threads, bud, you’re not gonna need ‘em.” With a quick jerk of my knee, my foot slipped out of his mouth, his head returning to normal. 

“You stupid fucks, I’m gonna fuckin kill you!” He would never get the chance. In fact, he was about to learn first hand what it’s like to have a healthy amount of melanin. With his clothes chucked aside, and his manhood at full mast, the kid walked toward the writing man. He gingerly put a single toe into his mouth, and pushed. His foot slipped effortlessly into the man’s throat, and quickly tugging at the corners of his mouth, he slipped foot number two in. The man was wriggling like a worm, I’m sure desperately trying to spew empty threats to ward us off. The sight of the kid’s lowering ass onto his stretched face caused a little bit of a muffled shriek to escape his cords. Now, musky, sweaty hitchhiker ass would be a treat to me on even the worst of days, but evidently some just can’t appreciate it’s mouthwatering flavor and scent. With his crack nuzzled right down on the good old boy’s nose, he began to pull on the man’s legs.

I watched proudly as his feet slipped downward, distorting his muscles under the tight confines of his jeans, before a sharp pop landed them inside the destroyed boots. They fit perfectly now, and I could just begin to smell the strong funk of greasy, funky socks and feet. The kid kept sliding into his body, his midsection growing and seemingly inflating with strong muscles. The old tank began to tear and rip, before it was shredded by the sheer mass of the inked, mocha colored abs and pecs that prominently burst forward. 

The kid’s face was in full elation, as he squeezed his arms down the throat, pulling the skin above his shoulders with a loud snap. His arms slipped into place; thick biceps and forearms bubbling outward from the man’s already impressive musculature. His tatted hands flexed, the new sensation of calloused fingertips and meaty palms seemingly fascinated him as he began to rub his new body.

I removed my foot from my new friend’s chest, and helped him up. This man was a beast! Towering to a massive 6′5, he was bigger, broader, and stronger than me- and I’ll admit... it was hot seeing this hulking, musky hunk standing before me with the youthful, boyish face of an early twenty-something. I eagerly awaited the final stretch as he pawed the whimpering final mask of the former racist’s face. Grabbing it by the nose, he pulled ever so slowly, savoring every second the slimy flesh slipped over his head until it snapped loudly into place. He adjusted his new face as the dark complexion flowed up his neck and across his scalp and jaw. He opened his dark brown eyes and smiled a million dollar smile at me.

“Now this is what I’m talkin’ about man!” The only word that came to my mind was stunning. His exterior finally matched his interior: sexy, proud, and strong. “Oh shit...” He looked downward, and within seconds I knew exactly what the issue was. Speaking from experience, not all the adjustments are as easy, so I decided my assistance was required. Getting down onto my knees, I unzipped his jeans, pulling them down. It revealed the yellowed, reeking jockstrap beneath which nearly concealed the problem area. 

Glued down behind his skin was the outline of his cock and balls. Just as I thought. Pulling down the jockstrap, I grabbed the hollow shaft and sac, tugging it up and down. Little by little his cock slid toward the chasm before it fully slipped in with a loud schlorp! When I tell you that cock grew into a footlong dong in seconds... with two sweat-dripping golf balls hanging low to garnish... I couldn’t restrain myself. I took it in my mouth, licking up every droplet of salty sweet sweat, pumping the precum out of it like a faucet. He grabbed the back of my head, thrusting his horse cock down my throat, fucking it like a fleshlight. His smelly balls slapped against my chin, and I could feel them engorging, getting ready to blow. 

And blow they did. Rope after rope. Straight down my throat. Every cup of it was whatever sadness, whatever insecurities, whatever weights held him down; now completely purged. He pulled out and I pulled my apprentice into deep kiss. This is who he truly was, and it was a fitting circumstance for it to happen. We turned to the slackjawed cashier, who evidently witnessed everything. I tossed him a $100, and we left. Hopping on our bikes, we headed back to town. The things I was going to teach dear Antoine here were going to blow his mind, and potentially his load too.

Okay kids. So there you have it. This was a long motherfucker and I’m sure it’s the longest I’ve ever written. If you haven’t guessed by now, each installment of Sebastian’s stories will be focused on punishing hate. This is what’s brought me out of retirement, and this is what I love writing now. I’ll of course listen to the feedback that y’all have provided me- I will do one-offs still. In fact, I’ll probably do a one-off next. Let me know what y’all think in my askbox. Thank you guys so much for all the support you’ve shown me.

#male possession #male bodysuit #racial transformation #racial change #male transformation #male takeover #biker #jockification #biker tf #male tf #body possession #revenge #original #musk #musky #scentplay

[yoggybloggy]

i usually don't stay in queen's station for very long nor listen very closely to the background so i just did that for the first time and damn that quirrel was right... that stag station can, just faintly, still hear the echo of the bells

#it really is haunting #god the environment of hk is something else #hk posting