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thiswasinevitableid · 7 months

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Fall Fun (Indruck)

The runner up of the spooky creatures poll was "person indebted to a pumpkin demon."

Thanks to @bellafarallones2 for playing in this space on discord. This ended up being SFW, but if you need your horny pumpkin demon fix, I got you covered. And you can find even more plant demons here

Indrid Cold sits on the bedroom floor of his tiny studio apartment. The one that’s not up to code and he’s paying for under the table. The one he has just drawn green chalk markings all across the floor of.

In retrospect, it was always going to come to this.

Last year, the instant he turned 18, he moved out of his father’s huge, historic house and as far as his limited funds would carry him. Which turned out to be the other side of town. For awhile the combination from his pay at the Dollar General and commissions for his art were enough to keep him afloat. But now someone, he’s almost positive it’s his father, has bought the building he’s living in and jacking up the rent.

Indrid doesn’t have as many tools at his disposal as he’d like. But he’s got a strange book he found at a thrift store and a willingness to get weird, and that will have to do for now.

He finishes drawing the circles and lights the candles–orange–and reads the incantation. As the last word leaves his lips, the markings turn to vines, sprouting across the floorboards until he’s sitting in the middle of a pumpkin patch. A massive, orange pumpkin rises from the ground, nearly hits the ceiling before opening with a wet crack.

A figure steps from within, and for a moment Indrid thinks he’s in a Washington Irving story; the man’s body is topped with a green pumpkin head, its eyes flickering with fire, and he’s clad in a green cape and riding clothes.

The demon stares down at Indrid, then looks at his own feet.

“Aw fuck, thought this spell’d been wiped from the books.”

“...excuse me?”

The demon picks pumpkin guts from his sleeves, “This entrance is messy as all get out. Wrote a new one where I just kinda poof into place. Guess you must’ve found a real old book. Whelp, no point in dwellin’ on it; what can I do for you?”

Indrid cannot decide if the friendly demeanor or the southern accent is more wrong-footing, but he clears his throat and says, “I wish to make a pact, great and terrible one.”

“Okay, shoot.” The demon sets his gloved hands on his hips.

“I…I want you to make it so that no one owns this building, but that no one makes me own it and, I don’t know, pay taxes on it or something. I just want to live here and be left alone.”

The demon looks around, then makes his way to the door and flips the light switch, leaving Indrid squinting under the bare bulbs.

“Hate to say it, slim, but it kinda looks like no one owns it now.”

“Yes, it does give that impression. But right now it costs me $800 a month with the promise of climbing more.”

The demon whistles, an odd, low tone, “Damn. Yeah, I can do that. But you gotta…uh, one sec” He pulls a faded, green book from his pocket and quickly scans the pages, “lemme see…looks like the best I can do is that favor in exchange for a year's worth of service to me. Bit steep, but we got brackets for this stuff that we gotta follow.”

“Done.” It’ll take him that long to save up for a move anyway.

The demon holds out a hand, and when Indrid shakes it he feels vines and wood beneath, not skin. As carved eyes flash green flame, he’s glad he didn’t ask for more.

“Deal’s in place. I’ll be around in a day or two. Gotta figure out how to put you to work.” He winks, then sinks into the floor with a “see you around, slim.”

—-------------------------------------------------------------------

“You gonna come hang out tonight?” Barclay slips an extra cookie into Indrids’ bag as he picks up his order.

“No, I don’t think so. Thank you for offering but I will be busy.”

His friend looks worried enough that Indrid almost feels bad for the fact that what he’ll be busy doing is staring at the wall and wondering what the point of it all is.

“Well if you change your mind, you know where to find me. Aubrey helped Ned clear out some Saturday Night Dead videos, so who knows what she’ll bring to watch.”

Indrid promises to think about it, then trudges home in the chilly air to a chillier apartment. Then it feels as if he’s in a late summer garden, and when he turns the demon is watching him.

“Got a job for you.”

“Alright.” Indrid tries not to flinch as the creature raises his hand. A snap like breaking branches produces nothing but a cluster of new groceries on his counter.

“You want me to bake for you?” Indrid picks up the box of pumpkin spice cake mix.

“Not quite. See, what’s gonna happen is you’re gonna make those, put ‘em all in this” a pumpkin shaped cake carrier appears “and go to your buddy’s house. You’re also gonna stop by your neighbor on the way, the nice guy with the funky metal goat statue in his yard.”

Indrid turns, can of cream cheese frosting in hand, “Apologies, dark one, but I’m not sure I see the point of this.”

The demon crosses his arms, “These last few days have been normal, right? How your days usually go?”

“Yes…”

“Yeah, see, you keep up like this, you’re just gonna shrivel up like a sapling in the sun.” The green coat rustles as he steps forward, “you’re lonely, slim. Don’t take demon powers to see that. Or that there are folks who don’t want you to feel that way. So” the demon tosses him an apron with a Death's Head Moth printed on the front, “get that oven on. And quit callin’ me ‘dark one’ and shit like that. You can just call me Duck; it’s a nickname.”

Indrid has a multitude of questions, but decides it’s better not to pester an entity that can turn his veins to vines.

For some reason, Duck hangs around while he bakes, creaking and gliding from one end of the studio to the other, not speaking but not making Indrid feel as if he has to fill the silence. When he notices that he’s running out of time before movie night, the demon returns and perchings on the kitchen table as vines emerge to help Indrid frost the cupcakes.

The demon dissipates as soon as he touches the front door. Indrid leaves a smaller container of cupcakes for his neighbor across the way, and the small burn he got from the oven is worth it a hundred times over when Barclay practically rips the door off its hinges letting him in.

It’s only when he returns home, tired and happy, that he notices the stained, white paint of the bathroom is now a light, homey orange. Like candlelight in a window.

It makes him smile.

—---------------------------------------------------------

“Duck, can I ask you something?”

“Sure” The green Jack’O Lantern by his chair replies, soft enough that only he can hear.

“Why have me do this?” He gestures to the library's fall fair, where he’s currently under a pop-up tent next to a table of face-painting supplies. The children's librarian had been very excited when he’d volunteered his services; apparently none of the other volunteers felt confident in their artistic talents.

“Are you not havin’ fun?”

“No. Nono, it’s actually rather nice. I was worried it would be overwhelming but it being outside has kept me from feeling trapped. And it’s fun to make the kids happy. I just don’t see how this benefits you.”

“It don’t. Not directly anyway. I was the god of harvest festivals once upon a time. Never cared much for the worship and such; I just liked watching people get all these little moments of joy outta things like pumpkins or turnips. Hell, even leaves. So I try’n do things to encourage that these days, too. Other demons might get all high on the fact they got power, but that’s never been my style. I’m a simple being.”

Indrid smirks, “That grazing board you made me spend three hours assembling yesterday begs to differ. I never should have let you know about Pinterest.”

“Was it or was it not the right thing to eat while watchin’ every single Halloween movie?”

“Oh it definitely was.” He raises one of his brushes, “but maybe I should paint you as a bunny or something, just to keep you humble.”

A vine sneaks through the back of the chair and playfully pinches him, “Careful, slim, hate to have to get handsy in front of all these people.”

Indrid stifles a laugh, “Alright, alright, fair enough.”

“....If you wanted to paint flames on me that’d be sick as hell.”

He dips his brush in the yellow paint, “Your wish is my command.”

—------------------------------------------------------------

Duck’s never been accidentally summoned before. Usually he always has time to at least toss on the robe and make himself look like he wasn’t just in the garden or petting his cat when they called. But tonight, he’s just come in from checking on his fall beds, still in his t-shirt and tattered jeans, when he’s yanked upward and around into the human world.

He can by smell alone that he’s in Indrid’s place, and as he wobbles he spots the bags of Halloween candy the man bought the night before (“it’s still a few days from now, but I like to make sure I have the good stuff to give away”). What he doesn’t see is his human.

“‘Drid? You home?”

A ragged gasp comes from the mattress in the far corner of the room, and a face peeks out from what he assumed was just a pile of blankets.

“Duck? What” Indrid sniffs and wipes his eyes, “what are you doing here?”

“No fuckin’ clue.” He kneels by the bed, “but I got a hunch that it’s got to do with you hiding away like a bulb waiting for spring.”

Worryingly, Indrid whimpers at that and retreats most of the way back into the blanket. Duck rests a hand on his forehead, petting his silver hair. Without his gloves, it’s obvious how much of his form is plant matter masquerading as a man. But Indrid doesn’t flinch, and so Duck uses the ends of his fingers to gently scritch his scalp.

“What happened?”

“I, my, my father turned up at the Lodge where Barclay works. A-aubrey and some of my other friends were there too and he yelled at all of them for helping me. He even threatened Barclay to his face, he, I think he was trying to goad him into a fight so he could call the cops on him. Mama threw him out but I, when Barclay called me I could tell how upset and scared he was and it, it’s all my fault.” His face scrunches up and he burrows, without hesitation, against Duck, trying not to cry.

Duck knows he’s never known a human who he thought looked cute even when he was crying, but now is not the time to bring that up. Instead he wraps his arms around him and adds some vines for extra security.

“Hey, hey slim it’s okay. It ain’t your fault.”

“But it is. He wouldn’t have done that if it weren’t for me”

“For all we know he would have because he’s a huge fuckin asshole.”

“I just…I’m bad luck. I’m always causing my friends trouble, they’d be, be better off not knowing me.” He’s clinging to Duck’s shirt, and there’s now dirt on his cheek from where it’s been pressed to him.

“That ain’t true. Know I’m better having you in my life, and I bet they feel the same.”

A final, shuddery sob leaves the human. Then he says, flatly, “I would like to go to bed now.”

“Okay” Duck releases him, “you want me to tuck you in. These are great for that.” The vines wiggle but Indrid just blinks at them.

“No. Thank you. I will see you soon.”

Duck cups his cheek and wishes him goodnight. Then he stays in the shadows, imperceptible, until he’s certain his human is sound asleep.

—--------------------------------------------------------------

Indrid is drunk on pumpkin spice BuzzBalls and practically passed out on a tombstone.

Still not the worst birthday he’s had.

Barclay had suggested he come over once trick or treating was done and join everyone for a Halloween/birthday party. He declined. It’s safer for them if he celebrates out here alone.

He’s drunk enough that it feels like the ground is floating away. And like the world smells like the singed innards of a Jack’O Lantern.

Wait

“Duck?”

“Yep. Came by to bring you some special glow in the dark pumpkins and got kinda worried when I couldn’t find you.” The demon’s voice is blossom-soft as he lowers Indrid into his bed. He didn’t know Duck could teleport him as well.

“M’fine, I promise.”

“‘Drid, it’s not even 7 pm and you’re falling down.” There’s a wooden buzz, then Duck says, “wait, it’s your birthday?”

Indrid sits up, finds the demon looking at the phone he left on the table.

“Yes. It has never been much fun to celebrate.”

There’s a flurry of vines and leaves, a burst of life, then Indrid’s apartment is full of lit pumpkins and halloween lights, making the walls orange and purple. Duck holds out a small, brown box. Indrid opens it. Inside are gauges for his ears; they’re burnished and beautifully organic looking, as if Duck made them of petrified pumpkin shell.

“Figure I can do my part to change that.”

Indrid holds the box, looking up at Duck’s strange face. If someone like Duck cares about him, wants him to be happy, even when he’s seen him so pathetic…

“I…I want to go see my friends. I don’t want to celebrate alone.”

“I can help with that.” Duck kneels, rests the cool surface of his forehead against Indrid’s own. After a moment, he feels far more sober. And much braver.

“I don’t suppose there’s a way you could come with me? I like you so much and I want the others to get to know you too…”

“Gimme one sec. Uh, this might be kinda weird.” Duck sets his fingers into his eyes and mouth and pulls. There’s a hollow crunch and crack, and then the pumpkin splits and falls away. In its place is a round, human face with dark hair, a crooked smile, and beautiful, green eyes.

“Oh” Indrid gasps.

Duck smiles, “Don’t get too used to it, slim. Takes a lot of power to do this, so I can only pull it off now and then.” He looks down at his hands and the overalls he appeared in, “guess we’ll just tell ‘em my costume was a scarecrow or something. But, uh, how do we explain how we know each other?”

Indrid cautiously leans forward and kisses him. There’s a faint taste of smoke when the demon smiles into the kiss and slips his fingers into Indrid’s hair.

“Perhaps we could introduce you as my boyfriend?”

Vines hug him close as Duck kisses him again and whispers, “Yeah, slim, let’s do that.”

#indruck #promptober #taz amnesty #indrid cold/duck newton #monster boyfriend #demon boyfriend #human/monster romance #terato

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orevet · 8 months

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new pinned post? new pinned post

hey, everyone, I'm Indrid/Rook/Ore, you friendly local cryptid. welcome to whatever the hell this is

I like 80's goth music, non-American horror movies, and arguing about the finer points off Jewish law — like if unicorns are kosher. feel free to drop me a line if you see me reblog something you're interested in, I love to yell about random bullshit

I also make glitch art and beaded jewelry! pm me if you'd like to comission me

besides making art, I also do visible mending-style pottery and glass repair (photos pending), edit writing for gammar and punctuation (plus stylistic feedback if wanted) and can be a sensitivity reader for people writing Jewish characters or people with PTSD

e-begging below the cut:

back in 2016 I was kicked out by my then-longterm partner and had to uproot my life to move back in with my parents. I can't hold a steady job due to physical and mental health issues — no official diagnosis yet but it's some kind of sleep disorder and possibly chronic fatigue or fibro, plus frequent migraines and unmedicated ADHD

I have basically no local support network bc I'm frequently too sick to go out and socialize. my father is disabled and my relationship with my mom is...strained, so they're both limited in how willing or able they are to help me

my main living costs right now are transportation to doctors' appointments and paying down my credit card debt, plus occasionally food, medicine, and art supplies to make stuff to sell

k*fi: IndridRook

p*ypal: indridrook

v*nmo: Indrid_Rook

#glitch art #jewelry #commissions open #mutual aid

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grimm-rider · 5 months

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Entry 28

From the center of the room, Jadrenka and Ratibor glowed with an awakened power. Jadrenka sent our battle away from Artrosa, to the snowy fields outside. She, Ratibor, and Wuso stood between us and the legion of centaurs, svathurims, and giants that had poured out of the hole into the Abyss that had been ripped open by the Crone Queen’s ritual.

Kostchtchie yelled something at Wuso, wanting to know ‘why she had his blood’.

He didn’t make the first move, however—that went to Roscoe, who swooped forward and shot the nearest enemy combatant, an anti-paladin.

Chaos spilled forward as the shot rang out, with centaurs and giants charging forward, the statues of Artrosa merging and moving as one to join the battle under Jadrenka’s power, and Kostchtchie throwing up his symbol into the sky, in an attempt to stop said giant stone statue.

I didn’t see the caster of the spell when Jadrenka and Ratibor were suddenly pulled from the battle—trapped below the earth by incredibly powerful magic.

Talsune, however, did.

Keisuke was at Kostchtchie’s side, and the Demon Lord had given him an order to fulfill his end of a deal. Keisuke subsequently breathed in some sort of yellow smoke and cast that spell—his eyes glowing an unnatural yellow and yellow mist flowing from his mouth as he chanted out the Imprisonment spell.

Afterwards he told Kostchtchie that he’d done as he’d promised, in a rather perturbed manner. Remembering our previous conversation, and having noted his behavior a bit since meeting him, even if I was seeing it second hand through Talsune I had the feeling Keisuke was planning to do something.

I decided to let him do whatever he was going to do, trusting that he was going to assist us as he’d promised—and in the meantime I was going to render as much of this battlefield helpless as I could to even our odds even further.

I stepped forward and ordered the hoard of centaurs and svathurims before me to bow—and as Overwhelming Presence took hold of their minds, they did as I commanded. Kostchtchie was no longer their god. I was. And what a wrathful god I would be.

Illivor was returned to her human form, and as a true Winter Witch she began raining death upon our enemies with her impressive magic—much to Edeya’s dismay, as her aunt clearly leans more towards my view of the usage of magic than her more gentle view on how it should be used.

The giant warped statue above us had stopped moving without Jadrenka’s power to puppeteer it, and now the ground began to tremble as three clerics in the back with Keisuke began casting Earthquake in a desperate bid to destroy Artrosa before we could attempt to do anything to return the fledgling dual gods to their seat of power.

I considered using Miracle to try to free them, but quickly banished the thought, realizing that I could only glean their location with a Miracle spell. I would need a Freedom spell to actually break the seal on their Imprisonment—and of our group the only one with any chance of holding that sort of magic was Xernabeth. And she was back at the Clocktower, and unlikely to have it prepared today regardless, so a lot of good that would do for us.

Roscoe darted over to me, his body mangled, just barely avoiding a blow that would have destroyed him with Nestian’s assistance. He thanked the centaur that tried to stab him with a bullet wound in return—not even half his bones being broken would stop him from carrying out my orders.

Have a mentioned lately how happy I am to have Roscoe back? Fuck that demi-lich, forget any other undead pet I could gather up, Roscoe is the only one of them I can rely on. The rest (sans demi-lich) are being relegated to guard duty for Grimm Labyrinthus. Walter is staying in the Bag of Holding where he belongs until I decide if I’m going to destroy him or find somewhere even more isolated to stuff him.

Roscoe’s wasn’t the only gunfire I heard. Our other companion, one Indrid Cold, was firing off his guns as fast as he could into the opening into the Abyss, holding back a horde of Frost Giants that were crawling their way through. Whenever one would actually make it past the gunfire and out the other end, it would be obliterated by Kostchtchie’s power, unraveled until there was nothing but blood, which would enter one of the corpses of Kostchtchie’s faithful, and they would rise again.

Kostchtchie himself was lumbering forward, throwing boulders haphazardly about the battlefield as he went, but his eyes were locked on Wuso. He kept saying he was going to ‘take his blood back’ from her.

I—or well Talsune really—heard a bit of a commotion beyond the battlefield, back where the enemy clerics and Keisuke were. The clerics were taunting Keisuke, telling him to stay and fight, calling him a coward, and a woman, for having no desire to stay and fight for longer than he’d agreed upon.

And then Keisuke made the gestures I knew to be the somatic components to Time Stop, and suddenly he was gone.

And a bunch of explosions went off at the clerics feet where he’d left them a nasty surprise.

And I felt something in my pocket—the same one I kept the pocket watch in—that hadn’t been there before. I reached into my robes and found two rolled up papers—spell scrolls.

Scrolls of Freedom.

That clever fox.

As the battle raged around us I worked on the scrolls, reading off the first one and releasing Jadrenka from where she was sealed, deep beneath the dirt and rock and snow. She reappeared atop the status of Artrosa, and it once again because shifting and moving with her newly awakened power.

And it started shooting beams of the Eon Pit’s energy, which could age things into oblivion.

Yeah, remember how the Eon Pit took 5 years of my life? Like that but infinitely worse. I am so glad she was on our side this time.

Unfortunately, with the statue moving again, the clerics in the back lines of Kostchtchie’s forces redoubled their efforts in throwing Earthquakes at it. It was starting to show some wear and probably wouldn’t be able to survive them chipping away at it for much longer.

Thankfully, Aenland and Nevra decided to put a stop to that. Nevra cast Dimension Door, and suddenly the two of them were behind enemy lines, and Aenland had put enough arrows into one of the clerics to sent him falling to his death before he could even blink.

The bad news was that this got the attention of Kostchtchie’s herald, that nasty mutilated white dragon The Wings of Malice. It flew straight at them and attacked. From where I was I couldn’t see what happened from there, with the big dragon’s body in the way, but a moment later Nevra swooped away from the dragon, twisting and dodging around his claws. She stabbed and tossed a second cleric off the cliff on the way as she and Aenland swooped back across the battlefield, a silhouette against Kostchtchie’s symbol in the sky.

Kostchtchie himself finally reached Wuso, but he only taunted her, saying he was leaving her for last, before he made the same familiar hand gestures I’d seen Keisuke make, and he vanished—having instead appeared next to Edeya.

Edeya quickly backed away, and pulled one of the charms from her Bracelet of Friends, immediately teleporting Nestian to her side. He put himself between her and Kostchtchie.

Cesseer teleported beside me with her Battleflower skills, looking a bit battered from going toe-to-toe with one of those big Rune Giants. We joked a bit about the sorts of situations I kept getting her into not quite being what she’d expected going to another planet. As we did, I prepared the second scroll.

A moment later, Ratibor reappeared next to Wuso, ready to take the Demon Lord head-on if he was going to go after her.

Ratibor told us he’d do what he could to help, but that protecting his family was his priority.

Things clicked into place. That’s why Kostchtchie kept saying Wuso had his blood. Because she was the descendant of Jadrenka and Ratibor that we’d been looking for. She really had been right under our nose the entire time.

To be fair my theory that it was Joseph was only off by one degree.

As if to highlight the point, Ratibor turned one of the svathurims to dust when it broke free from my Overwhelming Presence and regained his mind for just long enough to lunge at Wuso, who he’d wrongly assumed would be the easiest target.

At about that same time, Aenland let loose an arrow into the sky. Or at least I assume he did, because when I looked I saw him aiming his bow—but what was flying towards the Symbol of Misogyny was not an arrow. It was a swarm of wasps.

It would seem our final meeting with Calistria came and went, and she gave Aenland a little boon for his trouble. Or maybe just to piss Kostchtchie off. Hard to say with gods.

I didn’t have time to think about it, because at about that moment The Wings of Malice targeted Talsune and I, nearly knocking me from my partner’s back with a swipe of his claws. Talsune retaliated with the vicious efficiency that is fueled by his battle rage.

I heard Illivor’s voice ring out from behind me as she ordered one of our enemies to die—and his heart stopped dead. Edeya was moderately horrified at her aunt using lethal magical methods, but I was feeling quite giddy at the show of overwhelming magical force.

I liked that idea, and attempted to do the same to the bloodied dragon before me—unfortunately I underestimated his defenses, and the magic fell on deaf ears.

I didn’t have to worry about the dragon for long, however, as Jadrenka shot an Eon Beam at the Wings of Malice, and it withered until it was nothing but dust. I turned my attention to Kostchtchie just in time to see Nestian laying into him and Aenland and Nevra swoop down to join in on the assault. Both looked somewhat horrified at something they could see, but I was too far away to make it out myself.

Kostchtchie laughed, asking if they liked it. He claimed what they saw was the power of a true Demon Lord. What had been stripped from him, when he’d gone to bring knowledge to two more powerful Demon Lords, only to find his mind had lost the knowledge he’d once meant to give. The more powerful Demons Lords had cursed him and cast him out for wasting their time. He was stripped of much of his power as a result of this failure. A former Demon Lord.

And that’s why he wanted the blood of one of Ratibor’s descendants—something like that might help him to regain what had been stripped from him.

Obviously we weren’t going to let that happen.

Once Aenland had plunged the rapier into Kastchtchie, I ordered Roscoe to shoot the former Demon Lord with everything he had. Then Nestian lunged forward and finished it, nearly cutting his head clean off.

Only it wasn’t over. His body fell to the ground, a dead lump of Abyssal flesh, but it was still very quickly stitching itself back together, even the most grievous of injuries slowly beginning to close on their own. Unlike a troll who I could just bathe in acid or fire to cauterize the regenerating wounds, the only thing that could stop the regeneration of this was something Mythic—maybe even only something Deific. I hoped that Jadrenka or Ratibor would have something up their sleeves, because we certainly didn’t.

In the meantime, Indrid Cold continued clearing out the swarms of frost giants still trying to push their way through the tear in space—now preventing their lifeforce from rejuvenating Kostchtchie’s rather than some minion.

I had Roscoe focus on continuing to shoot the dead former Demon Lord to try to stay ahead of his regeneration, while Talsune and I went to cull the last few centaurs and svathurim who were still worshipping me.

As we swooped in, the final svathurim—the spitting image of the one we’d killed in the Eon Pit the first time—broke free of my spell. He lunged forward with his lance, spearing me. I told him that was a big mistake—I could have made this quick and painless while he was still bowing before me, but now I was going to make this hurt.

I cast Slay Living through the pocket watch, making it overcharge by nine times if he resisted the spell. Which of course he did, just as I assumed he would. So inky black flames devoured his flesh and his bones, decaying and burning everything they touched all at once, until there was nothing left of him but an echo of his screams.

As I pulled my hand away, Talsune lunged forward at the centaur who has been paired with that same svathurim. I vaguely recognized him from our battle in the Eon Pit 4000 years ago as well, but unlike last time he didn’t put up any sort of a fight. Still enraptured by my spell, Talsune cut him down where he stood in a single swift swing of his blade.

Aenland put arrows through the final centaur, who had been taking shots at me with a bow but hadn’t been able to get close to the fight virtually the entire battle. Aenland showed him what a real archer could do.

Things began to grow quiet, except for the roaring of the tear in space leading into the depths of the Abyss.

In in final act of desperation, Kostchtchie managed to rally his power and pull his body back together despite his fatally severe wounds—and he charged right for Wuso. He threw Ratibor aside with his first blow, and then went to bring his hammer down on Wuso.

And in that moment, Wuso refused to back down, even without her powers, even before a former Demon Lord, she stood strong, possibly staring death right in the eye. She grabbed her whip, and in a flash of light it reignited with divine power.

Not Calistria’s power. Jadrenka and Ratibor’s power.

Calistria hadn’t stripped Wuso of her power for anything she had done. She had done it to prepare her to step up as the first followers of two new gods—her own ancestors. Calistria knew this was going to happen.

As Kostchtchie lunged for Wuso, she swung her whip around his neck. And with a harsh tug, the divine energy cut through his already damaged neck. And Kostchtchie fell.

For good this time.

Jadrenka’s apologized for keeping her plan close to her chest and lying to us, but she couldn’t risk it getting out. I can’t speak for the others, but far be it for me to resent someone keeping a secret—especially one as dire as that. She had every reason to keep her plan to herself. She didn’t even tell Ratibor, even though he was going to ascend alongside her.

Which, probably smart on her part. He doesn’t strike me as much of a secret keeper. Although he’s certainly better at it than my dear, lovely, wonderful companions, who upon introducing Wuso and Ratibor earlier just immediately with no hesitation told her about him being the human incarnation of Kostchtchie without even considering that maybe he wouldn’t want that spread around. All’s well that ends well, but damn, it’s no wonder Jadrenka didn’t trust us with her plan if she wanted to keep it on the down low. I am the only one of these fuckers who knows how to keep a secret.

Well, there’s Edeya. I’ll give Edeya credit that she can keep a secret when she wants to. It’s mostly Aenland and Nestian who act like they will curl up and wither away if they have to omit details from allies outside our inner circle.

I’m standing by this one, I’m not wrong that it’s perfectly ok and healthy to keep some secrets. Not everyone needs to know every little minute detail about everyone else.

Anyways.

Jadrenka said we could feel free to enter the Eon Pit if ever we had need, and she’d give us an easy trial to pass. She also said there was a special chamber within Artrosa that we could feel free to access as needed. It’s called the Möbius Chamber, and apparently a week in there is only a few hours out here. So it could be a good place to go for Jadrenka crafting items or me scribing some scrolls. Or for resting if something time sensitive is coming up but we’re on our last legs.

Nestian and Aenland both wanted to enter the Eon Pit. Aenland had found that the journal he’d gotten from the Winter Wolf prince’s palace was no longer indecipherable—but it also no longer alluded to some secret final card the queens of Irrisen had to keep themselves alive. So he wanted to see if he could get a look at a different timeline’s version of the journal using the Eon Pit.

Nestian didn’t say what he wanted to enter the Eon Pit for, but after answering that damned riddle again (it was less annoying and more bemusing coming from Jadrenka though), he and Aenland entered the Eon Pit together.

While they were busy doing that, I was going to see about fixing the Nonagon for Keisuke. There wasn’t anything in the Eon Pit I wanted. It could slow my aging, of course. But my ultimate goal is immortality, not to merely slow my aging. So using the Eon Pit would be more of a last resort if I absolutely can’t find an alternative in a decent amount of time. Which, given that I’ll have Mythic Power when all’s said and done, I doubt will ever be necessary.

Jadrenka, Edeya, and Indrid Cold came with me to examine the door. Indrid had made it clear he was not fond of Keisuke, but he also wanted to stop the damage that was being done by the Nonagon’s current state and the time dragons being dropped on top of Whitethrone. So our objectives conveniently continued to align.

Edeya was just afraid of the Eon Pit still, and preferred to help me with fixing Keisuke’s problem than waiting for Nestian alone at its entrance. And obviously Jadrenka wanted the thing feeding on the Eon Pit to be stabilized and to quit interfering with the fabric of time and space.

So the four of us examined the nine-sided door, bouncing observations and ideas off each other as we looked over the glyphs around the edges. I told them what I could about the interior, and how it matched up with what we were seeing out here.

Finally we spotted it. I grabbed a rune that was out of place, twisting it back into the right position so that everything was properly aligned again. The wild arcane magic that had been swirling around the door calmed, and was sucked into the Nonagon as if through an unseen keyhole.

One more problem solved.

We got back just in time to see Aenland and Nestian returning. Both looked about the same—certainly neither had their time stolen by the Pit like I had. If anything, the fur around Nestian’s muzzle looked darker, although I wasn’t sure if I was just imagining things until he shifted into his human form we so rarely see. He looked good. Like, really good. He’d clearly shed a good couple of decades. We’re probably about the same age now. Ironically seeing as I gained a few years and he lost some, so apparently we met in the middle. We poked fun at him for being baby faced because he mostly lost his beard. But honestly? Good for Edeya. I mean, good for Nestian, but let’s be real, good for Edeya. He’s a catch.

And before anyone starts on me specifically having an eye for our shapeshifting companions, between Greta and Nestian, that’s not true. Cesseer and Edeya are also incredibly attractive individuals. Aenland’s more of an acquired taste, but seeing as he’s made it clear he’s more likely to eat a human than sleep with a human, I leave it at that.

Anyways, I suppose technically what Aenland came back with was the more pressing matter. The Eon Pit had given him a vision. Initially, the person writing in the journal seemed to be aware of his presence, but when she told him to come closer to see what she was writing, something blocked his path. He recognized the magic that was blocking him—it wasn’t the book that was warded, the magic was Baba Yaga’s, and there was something about this woman that she didn’t want known. However Aenland still got the other answers he was looking for, because she woman’s visage changed into Queen Elvanna. Queenie wasn’t aware of Aenland, until the author of the journal, and she actually walked right through him like a specter. She was reading the journal, and came to what we needed. The final defense of the queens of Irrisen: if even one person in the country believes that they cannot be killed by anyone but Baba Yaga, then they cannot be killed.

Those cheating…

So what are we supposed to do? In an entire country, how to we convince every single person that Elvanna can be defeated? How do we make sure that every single impressionable child, loyal fanatic, and hopeless doomsayer quits believing that Elvanna is unstoppable? If we miss even a single person, that’s it, we’ve lost before we’ve even begun.

I can work a crowd, I could convince some people that Queenie isn’t invincible with ease. But an entire country fed on the witch queens’ propaganda for centuries? That’s a tall order even for me.

Anyways, right after we teleported back to the Belltower, I got a Sending from Keisuke. He told me that the Nonagon was fixed, and thanked me—as a friend. He also told me not to ‘try the yellow stuff’ because it made him feel like shit. I could have told him that before he went and did it. Messing with outer gods it one of those things I’m never going to touch, what you get from it is never worth the price.

I just laughed it off and told him I didn’t intend to.

We’re taking a short break, and I’m getting as much written as I can while we do. We’re probably heading back out soon. Cesseer is probably going to crash for a bit after the rough brawl she had with the Rune Giant followed by tangling with The Wings of Malice, and so Greta is joining us instead when we head out to clear the Crone Queen from the Water Palace.

I certainly would not be complaining either way, but of course Greta is always my first choice. Even when we’re not going into a place where we’ll probably all find ourselves without clothes for at least a portion of the time.

#pathfinder #reign of winter #journal entry

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jester-creates · 2 years

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Because my cringe knows no bounds and I have multiple brain rotting fixations, here we go with another crossover au. I have no self control on these aus.

Persona 5 but the cast is made up of funky podcast people.

This crossover au also gives the added bonus of being a high school au.

The people I currently have for the thieves are:

Rita [REDACTED] from Penumbra Podcast

Jonathan Sims from The Magnus archives

Juno Steel from Penumbra podcast

Cecil from Welcome to Night Vale

Lup from the Adventure Zone

the Admiral from Magnus Archives

OW from Death by Dying

Daughter Dooley from Old Gods of Appalachia

And

Arthur Lester from Malevolent

Other characters that will show up are:

Pastor Jeff from Death by Dying

Elias Bouchard and Gertrude Robinson from Magnus Archives.

Indrid Cold from The Adventure Zone.

Plus more as the final cast isn't done yet.

I am still debating how much of their stuff from their podcasts I can include in this au and how much I can explain away as Persona stuff or just the setting being weird.

The setting will most likely be New York City as it checks off the requirements of big, strange enough that a weird cast would fit right in and has a subway system.

@screamingmadvoid and I made this au in @deathbydyingpod 's own discord server just to make it better.

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forsakenpumpkin · 1 year

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forsakenpumpkin asked:

‘ what’s the deal with you? ’

@voxfanta answered:

Pete’s first reaction to this question is to get defensive and flustered, which is ridiculous, ‘cuz the puppet thing in front of him might not even be real. Sure, after talking to Glasses Guy (Indrid, he tried to remind himself) he knew that there were plenty of nonhuman beings here, too, but this is just a step too far into surreality and it makes him a little uncomfortable.

“What’s the deal with me?” He blurts out. “What’s the deal with you? You look like a Muppet.”

Oh shit, wait. Is this–is this the Vox Phantasma stuff coming back again? His stomach drops a little bit. “Wait, hold on, do you know the grey baby? Are they okay?”

He’ll process what this means vis a vis his powers later; right now, he needs to know if he can reach that baby.

“What’s a muppet,” Besty says blankly. This guy’s so weird! And he didn’t even answer the question.

“I don’t know any babies,” he says, frowning. “And I don’t...” Know any grey babies, that’s for sure, but a thought gives him pause. He does sort of know someone grey...? Not that he’s been a baby at literally any point in his life.

“D’you mean Mutemaster? But you’re not even a Dreamsider.” So they probably came here from whole different places, but this guy seems to be sure he knows something about Thebestmaster.

#voxfanta #voxfanta 1 #c'mon say a cool line {{ IC }}#alright lads time 2 be CONFUSED

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voxfanta · 1 year

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‘ what’s the deal with you? ’

Pete's first reaction to this question is to get defensive and flustered, which is ridiculous, 'cuz the puppet thing in front of him might not even be real. Sure, after talking to Glasses Guy (Indrid, he tried to remind himself) he knew that there were plenty of nonhuman beings here, too, but this is just a step too far into surreality and it makes him a little uncomfortable.

"What's the deal with me?" He blurts out. "What's the deal with you? You look like a Muppet."

Oh shit, wait. Is this--is this the Vox Phantasma stuff coming back again? His stomach drops a little bit. "Wait, hold on, do you know the grey baby? Are they okay?"

He'll process what this means vis a vis his powers later; right now, he needs to know if he can reach that baby.

#forsakenpumpkin #((pete: LMAO whats the deal w ME???? ur the one whos probably a HALLUCINATION. rude))#((ty for sending these in peri :))#meme friday

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thebathtubkeeper · 8 months

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Okie just like an introduction first I guess!

I’m Bat or Bath or Indrid or The keeper or GM or whatever, I’m 19, I’ve never played a TTRPG before but I liked the sound of Monster of the Week, so I’m using that one. All my players are also new to the game, I’ve been making lots of stuff and I can’t show most of it to my players because it’s spoilers for the mystery! So I’m gonna put that here, feel free to give me tips and stuff!

#ttrpg #ttrpg community #ttrpg stuff #monster of the week #motw campaign #motw ttrpg #I’m a Babie keeper #art and stuff to follow!#if any of you are my players look away or a swear I will harm Kerbble myself

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pine-guards-chosen-one · 1 year

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[ 😍 ] - What are some of your muse’s favorite textures?

[🌙 ] - How does being neurodivergent affect your muse in their career or schooling?

[ 🍝 ] - What are some of your muse’s comfort foods?

Asks for Neurodiverse Muses || Accepting!

[ 😍 ] - What are some of your muse’s favorite textures?

Duck likes rough textures like bark and foliage but also soft textures like cat fur and plush blankets.

Aubrey is fond of smoother textures like leather, polished metal, tumbled stones, river rocks.

Jake takes to cold textures like snow and ice. He likes chewing on ice too because he likes the feeling on his teeth. Keith would playfully tease him for breaking off fresh icicles to chew on.

Indrid likes delicate textures like silk and soft textures like feathers and fluffy pillows. He's also fond of feet in the wet sand on the beach texture, not so much the more rocky parts.

[🌙 ] - How does being neurodivergent affect your muse in their career or schooling?

For Duck it can make things a little easier since he likes being out in nature and isn't bothered by the sounds and smells and textures it brings. Being a forest ranger lets him be in an environment that he actually likes so there aren't too many negatives unless he has to be cooped up in the ranger station.

Aubrey has ADHD so it made it hard for her to pay attention in school. She did alright grade wise but it was hard for her to remember to do homework or to bring it with her to school.

Jake doesn't really have trouble since he doesn't work or go to school. He's good at making friends. Though he tends to hyper focus on his interests which usually include extreme winter sports but he also loves swimming and skateboarding.

Indrid also doesn't work at the moment. But he had some pretty bad anxiety that makes it hard at times to communicate, especially when he first came to Earth. He's gotten better at handling it since then, but he still has moments of terrible anxiety.

[ 🍝 ] - What are some of your muse’s comfort foods?

Duck's is french onion soup. Some soups he can't do because of the texture but f.o. is a safe one.

Aubrey likes grilled cheese, mac and cheese, chicken tenders, and the like. She likes softer food textures but enjoys crunchy ones when she's expecting it to be crunchy.

Jake enjoys most fish but especially salmon. Sometimes he will eat smaller fish whole, but Barclay insists on properly cooking them after Jake got sick from swallowing a bad fish. He'll still eat the bones without issues.

Indrid tends to eat more processed stuff that are microwavable, like hot pockets. If he has a bad mishap with some food he will shy away from it and lose his appetite. He can't really do meat on the bone because it kind of freaks him out if he bites the bone.

#i do that || ic #the chosen || duck newton #the spell slinger || aubrey little #the snow expert || jake coolice #the mothman || indrid cold #thacker's notes || headcanons #asked and answered || asks #some of these are actually based on me and my neurodivergence

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praiseyourpuppy · 8 months

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Please, pet the puppy and enjoy your stay!

Hey there! I'm Indrid (ftnb, sub-leaning switch, bottom), and this is my nsfw blog! I'm aroace, so my posting will be pretty erratic, but I figured I might as well have a place to dump all the horny thoughts when they come around!

A lot of my horny thoughts involve fictional characters, so I'll most likely talk about them on here. I'm autistic, so I use characters from hyperfixations as an outlet. Most of my posts'll be reblogs, but for original stuff, you can find it under "#indrid barks!"

KINKS: petplay, collaring, praise, breeding (claiming, no pregnancy), masks, monsterfucking, size difference, light dumbification, bondage/shibari, omegaverse, primal/prey, body worship, cockwarming, pre-consenual somnophilia, gloves

POSSIBLE KINKS: body writing (praise/positive things only), royalty, blasphemy

If a kink is not on my list, do not enter my ask box with it unless I make it explicitly clear that I'm willing to read it! I will try and keep it as updated as possible!

HARD NO kinks under the cut

Please don't leave comments/tags on my posts, or come into my inbox, with these kinks:

detransition, ageplay/inc*st, non-con, piss/scat

This list will grow in the future, as I find more what I'm into and what I'm not into.

This hard line I'm drawing is purely for my comfort, please respect that. I'm trigger-happy with the block button. 💙

#pinned post #indrid barks!#nsft #transmasc nsft #nsft trans

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bythebonefire · 1 year

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Indrid takes Ferno's hand in his and freezes, his blood running cold. Ironic, since he was in contact with a fire elemental. What he saw made him dizzy. Several paths criss-crossed this way and that, overlapping one another but never intersecting. There were an impossible number of futures; ones where he lived, ones where he died, most where he did himself in. Indrid found it hard to focus solely on this Ferno's future, but managed it in the end.

Eyes blinked behind red tinted glasses as he reeled slightly, pulling his hand away. Indrid was shaking slightly, trying to comprehend what he'd just seen.

"Be careful who you trust in your fight against this so called king of yours. Someone is aiming to tear apart your operation from the inside and many of those you care for immensely will die from it." ((@pine-guards-chosen-one ))

The palm reading had been a whim, after a bit of drunken egging on from his closest comrades over one too many drinks. Ferno, stone sober himself, had just been grateful for a few minutes away from the carousing--and from the temptation therein. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Maybe something about a long life line, a dark stranger in his future, the typical kind of stuff. He’d make a dumb joke about hoping the dark stranger had a nice pair of tits, and he’d laugh, pay the guy, and go on with his night.

He hadn’t really been expecting the way the guy flinched the second he took his hand. It didn’t seem to be part of a bit. Ferno blinked, head tilting as he watched him. ‘You, uh... okay there, buddy?’

His answer was the sudden release of his hand, and the reading of a fortune that nearly made Ferno himself freeze. For a moment, his expression shifted to one of suspicion. Not one to believe in fortune tellers, he wondered if this was someone’s way of relaying information to him. He could’ve written it off. Probably should have. And yet...

Ferno glanced back over his shoulder, in the direction of where his best officers were still drinking the night away, chatting up ladies, trading stories.

‘... Eh, guess that’s not too surprising,’ he said, somewhat distractedly, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘Probably never been an uprising that didn’t hafta deal with that. An’ it fits the old goat’s MO, I’d say.’ He smirked. ‘If he does have an informant, suppose it’s a sign he sees us as a threat. Heh.’

But that did raise the most important question though, didn’t it?

Assuming it was true. Assuming there were people in his ranks he couldn’t trust. Assuming lives depended on him handling that decisively.

What would Ferno, as the head of this resistance, do about it?

His expression was... pensive. Not necessarily conflicted, but thoughtful, as he weighed over the dilemma carefully.

‘Welp,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘I’ll just have to figure out who it is then. And then...’ he laughed, ‘we’ll all beat the snot out of ‘em. And once that’s done--I’ll make ‘em listen to reason.’ There was humor behind the words, but there was an understanding behind those eyes--that it would never be that simple. That nothing in this world was ever that simple. If what the fortune teller told him was true, Ferno would have to make the call. And he would make it, if he had to.

But until then, he had to have hope. He had to believe--with absolute certainty--in his way of doing things, in the decisions he made, in the future he wanted to build up for their people.

Kill or be killed was not going to govern their world anymore. He would tear Asgore down from his throne, and show through example that it could be done. And if he would do that, it would have to start now.

‘Thanks for the advice, stranger,’ he said, getting up from the seat. ‘C’mon--why don’tcha come have a drink with me an’ the boys, eh?’

#m: ferno #rp #v: resistance au #pineguardschosenone

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mr-indrid-cold · 2 years

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The Window (pt 1)

“When I came back in in 2015, I was in a bad asshole mood,” the young man sitting across from me admits. It’s intimidating to think about what an ‘asshole mood’ looks like on him. At nearly 6’ tall, broad-shouldered, with big hands and the beginnings of a scraggly beard, this is a man that regularly picks me up without breaking a sweat. He describes lifting 200-pound electrical equipment when he helps with his father’s business. And I remember standing in this exact kitchen that day in 2015. While he was sitting in booking at Marietta Regional Youth Detention Center (better known as Juvie), talking to an intake officer, I stood in the remains of a war zone.

All knives and scissors in his house had to be locked up in a big metal tool chest, just inside the kitchen door. His mom held the key (and, more often than not, a glass of sweet red wine—the smell of it lingering in our kitchen from spills on the counter, trailing from her lips). Their pets had mastered the art of tucking themselves in little hidden places to hide from the screaming—aside from his mother’s yellow lab-pitbull mix, who stood at eye level with her knees and intimidated anyone that yelled at her.

Dysfunction had twisted this family into shells of their former selves. Therapists described it as “chaotic”, and the chaos ebbed and flowed in waves that spiked when they least expected it. The police had visited that house with the white picket fence many times before, when the chaos had reached the point of no return, and in 2015 they took a member of my family—called ‘Indrid Cold’ for this essay—to juvie. It was the second time he had been there.

“She was asking me like, what’s other names you go by, slang terms like that. So I was making up names no one’s ever called me—‘Faith’, ‘Young Dagger Dick’, stuff like that. And after the fourth one, she’s like, ‘Indrid, no one’s called you that, have they?’ And I was like, ‘No…’”

Back in 2022, I had to laugh at that. He’s never been called any of those things. In fact, ‘Indrid Cold’ is another nickname he’s told me to call him for this interview. He agreed to be the subject of this profile essay but asked to stay anonymous. He wanted to tell the story of his times in juvie, and I wanted to try and capture a bit of who he is in an essay. We’re family—and there’s no one I’d rather interview for this essay. I’ve known him since we were both so little we could each be picked up with one hand, but I find there’s still so much I still don’t know about him. I looked into the news, academic articles, old government documents, and our own personal photos to really fill out the picture of who Indrid is.

As an adult, Indrid is big, sure—but somehow his size doesn’t seem threatening anymore. His voice is low, full of slang, with his words sometimes seeming to come out of his brain faster than his mouth can keep up with. He’s still got an impressive amount of strength, but his features are soft. The nails on his broad hands are bitten down (a habit he inherited from his mother). The table between us holds a tray of tomatoes (grown right outside) and a stray cat toy. There’s a lazy black cat laying like a log by our feet. And to our left, casting golden afternoon light on the whole scene, is a huge window looking out on a white picket fence and a lawn Indrid mows every week.

We’re so far removed from the chaos of a decade ago, but I have to ask about it anyway. Even if it isn’t an easy story to tell, it’s a big part of what Indrid went through. I watch him draw into himself a little bit—he clasps his hands in front of him, pulls his shoulders in, and tells me about his earliest memories.

“There was a phase before and after I figured out my mom was having an affair,” he starts. His voice is weak on the word ‘affair’, like he almost couldn’t get the word out. “I learned it in therapy, so go figure, that was a great experience. But yeah, I think it’s always divided before and after that event. Everything altered in my life. I was thrown into more serious situations for adults, even when I was still a kid.”

The therapy he mentioned started very early. According to a government assessment, Indrid’s first therapy started in March of 2009—when Indrid was only 9 years old (Downs, 15). From then on, he’d receive therapy sometimes twice a week, and be institutionalized again and again in four different mental health facilities (Downs, 16). The sheer number of different doctors and institutions points to the fact that Indrid wasn’t well.

“I had good memories in the beginning…Looking back now on it, a lot of the situations feel weird, that I didn’t understand then what was really going on. Just looking back on experiences with my mom, about her lying to me…” Indrid clarifies. Then he tells a story about his mother saying the air at the karate studio they both attended was poisonous for him. In reality, she’d seen her affair’s wife at the studio. It’s a story I’d never heard before.

I was also fuzzy on the details of when he went into juvie (or the Marietta Regional Youth Detention Center) for the first time. That was the next thing I asked.

“The first time was…and I wasn’t even supposed to go to Juvie, at that point. It was just to scare me. My parents—I think that incident was when, Dad—I’m always a big person like, if I’m not in a good mood, please don’t touch me or get close to me. It’s something deeper, in my mind. But Dad kept touching me—not like in a bad way!”

It’s unprofessional, but I have to laugh. He has a sharp sense of humor—even when he’s talking about the darkest times in his life.

“He was trying to like, push me, and stuff. And I just swung on him, and I hit him in the face, and now he has a scar where his glasses hit into his face. I knew I was going to go somewhere. Even though when I got there, they told me, ‘You weren’t actually going to go to Juvie. It’s just that you flicked off people when you got out of your court case.’ They were like, ‘all right, now you’re going to go there for three days.’ It was…It was interesting. It was very…I was terrified. I was put on C-hall, where they put the little kids, the ones that were like 11-12, maybe. I was put on there for 3 days. All I did was sleep. I didn’t eat at all, I didn’t use the bathroom at all…I was terrified, as a kid. And it worked in scaring me, for a while.”

Booking in places like Marietta’s Youth Detention Center must have been intimidating for anyone (it was a jail for minors, after all) but Indrid was only 12 years old. An article by Edward F. McGarrell, ““Focused Deterrence Violence Prevention at Community and Individual Levels,” analyzes methods of keeping people out of trouble. Indrid described that their rehabilitation was to watch episodes of the show “Scared Straight”. This seems like a lazy version of the ‘focused deterrence’ techniques McGarrell wrote about. These techniques involve reaching out to the people most at-risk to be involved in crime, and empathetically explaining that if they continue with their behavior, they’ll end up in jail or in a morgue. “That is, communities, whether neighborhoods, police precincts or divisions, or cities, have often experienced significant declines in violent crime following the implementation of the focused deterrence strategy. The evidence for impact at the individual level is both more limited in volume and mixed in findings,” (McGarrell, 976-977). Put simply: focused deterrence works for big groups of people. For an individual? Results vary. Three years after his first stint in juvie, Indrid would go back—this time for much, much longer.

“Terroristic threats” was what he was charged with. The people living with him at home had been through much worse, but that was the straw that broke the camel’s back and sent him to R.Y.D.C. on the 2nd of February, 2015. At some point, he was strip-searched for contraband, setting up the power dynamic between him and the guards (Judd, qting. Jessica Feierman). He sat in the same booking office and gave those fake street names to some familiar faces.

He described waiting for a while to get any sort of paperwork or help. The facility ran on the employee’s time, he explained, and they could take as much time as they wanted. The Atlanta Journal Constitution’s article, “Violence Permeates Youth Prisons,” states that “For officers at the state’s seven youth prisons and 19 regional jails for juveniles, the work is neither easy nor financially rewarding,” (Judd). Their assessment of the situation got more bleak from there: “Chronic staffing shortages make keeping order even more difficult. The turnover rate among entry-level officers reached 130% for the 12 months ending June 30. As recently as Sept. 30, more than half of all corrections officers’ positions in the seven youth prisons were vacant,” (Judd). The article says this contributes to the violence inside the prisons—coming from inmates, and from the guards themselves.

He described meeting the same black woman in booking both times he was in there—a woman who had worked there for about 30 years, “and was tired of everyone’s bullshit”. He explained, “The main thing that bothered them was where kids would get discharged, get sent to the free world in the morning, and come back in the evening. That would crush her spirit. I guarantee at the beginning, she really wanted the best for kids, but after seeing them not care about their lives…It’s rough. It hurts your soul, that you see someone you’re trying to help, and they just keep making the same mistakes over and over again…There’s a lot of people in that facility that really cared about the kids…it just killed them…”

It killed the other kids that were in prison for life, too. Indrid describes knowing them and knowing their cases. “They would cry at night,” he said. They had many reasons to cry. The bulk of the A.J.C. article is about the horrific treatment these kids receive in R.Y.D.C.s across Georgia—much of it carried out by the guards. Indrid describes hearing stories from a guard that used to work for Paulding R.Y.D.C., who said guards would pay bigger kids to assault smaller kids. That guard transferred to Marietta because they “couldn’t watch what was really happening”.

It sounds too horrible to be true. I didn’t want it to be true. However, the A.J.C. article confirmed that it was, and the rabbit hole it led me down was something out of a nightmare. It included stills of guards in a group lifting and slamming a minor down onto a concrete floor until they were unconscious (Judd). It described sexual assault, endless strip-searches, guards on back-to-back 14-hour shifts, food being restricted as punishment, and worst of all, absolutely no punishments for most of the guards who commit this violence (Judd). Indrid describes watching kids at his facility that were so terrified of the violence around them that they wouldn’t leave their cells. “It was mainly kids on C-hall,” he said. “The environment inside the juvenile prisons, which hold children as young as 13, almost seems designed to be dehumanizing,” (Judd).

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