#i mean it was a necromancer he skinned but still

[tadpolesonalgae]

The Other Woman

Azriel x Necromancer!reader

Synopsis: Coming from a long line of necromancers, you’re bound by an oath of submission to the High Lord. Dark power that many fear concentrates in your veins, a rare and precious gift. A perfect match for the Shadowsinger whose darkness comes to rival your own. Until one day, he seems to have no need for you anymore. Perhaps he never did.

Warnings: adolescent turbulence, beauty, angst, self-hate, violence (self-inflicted and other), general depression all around.

a/n: I think I went a little insane, writing this

Word Count: 15,042

“Did you see her makeup?” You laugh tipsily over your drink, blessed warmth sweeping away the day’s troubles. In truth you’re far from drunk, but a little playfulness never hurt.

Azriel rolls his eyes, wings tucked in carefully to avoid bumping into things despite being in a large private booth, overlooking the restaurant. “Maybe you should ease up on the alcohol,” he suggests, taking a sip from his own drink. “And waste your coin?” You muse, tilting your head to the side. “Never.”

The edges of his mouth quirk, gaze casting out over the busy scene below, waiters weaving in and out of the packed tables with trays practically piled to the ceiling—how anyone can eat that much food and not be ashamed is something you’ll never understand.

“Besides,” you say idly, glancing at the male. “I thought it looked nice.” But Azriel shakes his head, smiling faintly, your own reflecting their movement. “I’m sure you did,” he replies, still watching the tables far below. Hazel eyes following the waitress that had brought your drinks with slight interest. You subtly cast your attention after her—hair tied back, long legs, slim build but sturdy. Your nose wrinkles, lip twitching in disgust. “She could learn to lose that muscle,” you muse lightly, leaning forward to splay your forearms on the cool wooden surface of the table.

“She’s working a manual job,” he replies, still watching her. “Of course she’s going to have a bit of muscle from carrying those drinks around.” You take a sip of your own, watching as the waitress disappears through a door. “She serves as the pretty face of the restaurant,” you comment, “leave the heavy lifting to the others.”

“What are you going to order?” He asks, switching subjects. “Probably a salad,” you sigh, “I doubt I could manage any more. What about you?”

Azriel hums, the deep vibration warming your skin, and you resist the urge to shift in your seat, cunt aching to have him between your thighs.

“Probably a portion of mind-your-business with a side of roast potatoes,” he drawls, peering at you from over his menu. “Hold the judgement.” Hazel eyes glimmer with amusement, locking with your own, a slight smile softening the edges of your mouth. You raise your hands innocently, back curving to subtly showcase the generous neckline—deep but tasteful. “Just my opinion,” you reply, conceding on this topic.

He hums again, and you both settle back into peering through the menu. Much of the contents you can guess will be cooked in oil, making it greasy and fatty, something that would have made your mother’s lip twitch in disgust.

“Salad it is,” you mutter, pushing the menu away and sighing. “I know you like this place, Az, but this really is the last time we’re coming here. The air is practically dripping with sweat.”

“You know you say that every time,” he muses, hazel eyes flicking leisurely over the various meals and side dishes. “I mean it,” you counter, turning your head to once again peer at the crowd below, nose wrinkling ever so slightly before you suppress the inclination.

“There’s nothing wrong with letting loose every once in a while,” he replies casually, seemingly taking him time with deciding. “That’s rich coming from you,” you drawl, pointedly glancing at him. “You’re practically married to your paperwork. We had to set up a schedule for these dinners,” you emphasise, rolling your eyes. “Mother forbid you don’t get what you want exactly when you want it,” he replies, still choosing.

“What can I say? I deserve to be spoiled.” His shoulders shift, a low laugh huffing quietly from his mouth, the sound dripping between your legs. “Isn’t that right,” he drawls, deep hazel eyes settling leisurely on yours, shadows swishing idly over the plush seating.

You arch a neatly groomed brow, lips curving in a feline lilt. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think there was something you wanted to say?” You angle your head, keeping his gaze. But he shakes his head, that faint smile still on his mouth.

The waitress decided to return at that moment, and you resist the urge to berate her for so clearly interrupting the conversation. Instead you offer a polite smile, requesting a salad, pointedly asking how big it would be. “How big?” She repeats, playing dumb. You nod, keeping the smile perched on your lips, refusing to let her win. “I’m really not that hungry tonight,” you explain sweetly, “I was wondering since I saw you carrying some pretty large trays earlier—how do you even manage to carry that weight?” You ask, laughing slightly as you eye the thickness of her arms.

Beneath the table, a shadow zips up your leg, and you flinch, before shooting him a glare across the table. Azriel watches neutrally, but his gaze seems amused. With curved lips you return your attention to the waitress—so much wasted potential there. “I’m afraid all the salads come in the same size, but if you find it to be too much, nothing will go to waste,” she says smugly, “scraps get sent off to the farms, either for food or compost, so you needn’t worry about not finishing anything.” You smile blandly, not appreciating her bringing up farms and animals in a dining space.

She sucks in a breath, smile tightening as she at last turns away from you. “And for you, sir?” She asks, and you could vomit from her tone. Sprinkled with extra sugar. “This, please,” he replies pointing to something on the menu—tilted away from you. Curiosity simmers in the back of your mind, but you refuse to ask in front of the waitress. He’s probably doing it just to get to you.

She smiles and nods, jotting it down on her notepad before finally leaving, trotting away down the stairs.

“You better not be thinking about taking her home, Az,” you muse, leaning back in the seat as you fold your arms, subtly plumping your breasts. Mischief gleams on his hazel eyes as he casually examines his hands, “I don’t see a ring.” Despite the irritation gnawing at the back of your brain, the edges of your mouth lift at the comment, sighing heavily. “I should be the only female on your mind right now,” you say slowly, pulling out your nails to examine them in the warm light. “Don’t you know it’s rude to ignore a dinner partner?”

“Forgive me,” he counters, lips quirked, “you’d seemed more interested in the waitress. Trying something different tonight?”

Your lip twitches in disgust. “Are you trying to put me off my meal entirely?”

“I don’t think I said anything particularly foul,” he replies, amusement fading. “Well we both know your mouth isn’t the cleanest,” you muse lightly, surveying the decorations upon the table: a small vase of flora that’s been pushed to the side, some candles, a half-empty bottle of wine and some playing cards. “I’ll use my mouth how I want to,” he drawls, watching you steadily. “As will you.”

Traitorous heat liquefies in the pit of your stomach, bubbling and simmering away at the low timbre of his voice. You hum noncommittally, returning to his gaze. “So long as you aren’t using it on another male,” you say, shrugging. “Then live and let live.”

Azriel’s brow narrows, the edges of his mouth lifting. “You know that’s a contradiction,” he deliberates, relaxing in his seat. “You aren’t supposed to pick and choose who you’ll let live.” Habitually your lip twitches in disgust, but you tamp it down. “So long as it’s not being shoved in my face, then they can go on with their lives and I’ll go on with mine.”

“And Mor?” He questions casually, and despite his gaze having drifted idly to the candles you can feel the weight of his attention. “What about her?” You reply, keeping your features neautral.

Hazel eyes flick over the table, locking with your own. “Where does she fall among your morals?”

“Mor is Mor,” you reply blandly, resting your cheek on your palm, nails prickling skin. “She can do as she likes.” Azriel’s features remain in an unreadable set, but tension lessens as he reaches once again for his glass, sipping lightly.

You watch silently, how the warmth of the candles smooth his naturally flawless skin, shadows flickering in the hollow beneath strong brows, darkness dancing down the column of his throat. His lips remain in a bland line, tongue flicking out to bring in the alcohol, before returning the glass to the tabletop.

Casually, you slide your attention to the three candles that have been pushed to the side. “Want to learn a new trick?” You ask, feigning boredom. “I didn’t think you were one for party tricks,” he muses, an edge of mirth underlying his tone.

Ultimately you ignore him, allowing no more than a roll of your eyes before a single candle is being dragged over. Eyes latched with his, you brush the pad of your thumb and middle finger over your tongue, before clamping them over the flame, putting in out in one swift movement. Digits pull away, revealing the extinguished candle, a glint of victory in your eyes.

“Very impressive,” Azriel replies dryly, just as you had anticipated.

Watching silently, you slide a candle across to him. “Want to give it a go?”

There’s nothing subtle about the way tension ripples across his features, muscle tightening from the talons of his wings to the tips of his fingers. Hazel eyes the candle warily, a faint grimace on his lips.

A laugh spills from your chest at the expression, edging the flame away and instead reaching for the deck of cards. “How lucky do you feel tonight?”

Some of the torsion within his muscles relaxes, but he remains stiff. “Under normal circumstances, very,” he replies, glancing down as you deftly flip the box open, cards dancing between your fingers. “How about a bet?” You muse, eyes locked, shadows flickering at his back, spilling onto the table. “But if I win, you give that trick a go.”

Silence stretches between you, charged and taut.

Hazel drops to the cards being shuffled effortlessly, how they blur beneath your ministrations.

“Okay,” he says after a long moment, “I accept.”

Darkness flares around the booth, your teeth gleaming in a flash of white as a brief grin splits your lips. “Spine?” You ask, to which he nods, accepting the game—not even a sly quip about a necromancer suggesting Spine as the amusement of choice.

The seven cards are dealt out, the top one flipped over. “Ace is the skull. Good luck,” you smile, picking up your hand. “I do remember how to play,” he counters, features shifting to neutral as the game commences.

The rounds tick by, with him winning time and time again, all the while you’re sat opposite, with that bland, lifeless smile on your lips not even getting a single set down on the table. Still, when you reach the final round, your total amounts to no more than thirteen, having been forced to go out on a two during the first round, since the ace was worth twenty five, being the skull.

For the last time, you deal the seven cards, darting like shadows across the table as fingers flick deftly, setting the deck down softly, and flipping over the top card. Putting it face up on the surface.

With vague interest you watch his expression as he takes in his hand. If you didn’t know it was doomed, you wouldn’t be able to tell, his mask set firmly in place, no hint of disappointment or frustration to be found. Not even a curve of his lips with the fulfilment of your mutual knowledge—you’ve never lost to him. To anyone.

(With one exception.)

As expected, all seven of your cards end neatly catalogued into flushes, discarding the skull on the pile—the king of spades.

Azriel sighs, knowing the victory was coming, revealing his score of seventeen. A small smile plays on your lips as you sweep the cards back into their pack, pushing the candle toward him. “Better luck next time,” you say, his turn to fulfil the bet.

He eyes the flame warily, hazel glowing softly as the light warms his usually neutral features. You drink the sight in quietly, memorising the lines of his silky hair, a single strand brushing just below his right brow. How nice it would feel to skate your fingertips across his skin, pushing the inky lock away.

“Is it too late to back out?” He asks grimly, and you prop your chin on your knuckles, peering at him with a faint smile. “You agreed to this the moment you accepted the bet,” you reply softly, attention on him not the flame. Even to a stranger, his hesitance would be blatant.

“I’ll do it with you,” you say dryly, pulling the third candle over. Lick your middle and forefinger, watching as he reluctantly copies. “And…out.”

The flame winks out, extinguished in a heartbeat, casting your table mostly in darkness.

Blown-out hazel locks with you, still smiling faintly.

The grin fades, fingers dropping to the base of the candle to push it away. “Impressive,” you murmur sincerely, “once you wouldn’t have even considered playing.”

“Maybe a few decades ago,” he mutters, quick to push the candle away, hands sliding beneath the table. You hum noncommittally, straightening in your seat, sensing his aversion to the topic.

Your brow furrows, nails drumming on the table. Lip twitching with annoyance. “How long does it take to prepare a damn salad,” you mutter, pretending not to notice the ripple of ease across his shoulders. “Really, we’re never eating here again. The wait time is obscene, not to mention that server had an attitude on her. Doesn’t she know she’s supposed to be doing her job? All I needed was a simple answer, not a deep dive into their personal ethics.”

“You’d complain to an orphan if you got the chance,” he says, a hint of mirth returning to his eyes. “And you’d sooner destroy your own mind than let someone else have a look at it,” you return idly, reaching once again for your steadily draining glass, spotting the waitress making the journey up the stairs.

“Took her long enough,” you mutter under your breath, before pasting on a bland smile to soothe the male before you, a look of wariness on his features. All irritation is assuaged however, when you spot a smudge of lipstick on her straight, white teeth. Your mouth settles into a deliberate, straight line, glancing at Azriel to see if he’s noticed.

The waitress flashes a pretty smile your way as she sets the plates down, and you bite down on the urge to laugh, keeping your features politely neutral. When she turns to Azriel however, you feel an icy bite at your ankle, startling as one of his shadows nips at the exposed skin and you watch as he makes eye contact with the waitress. He thanks her, subtly gesturing to his teeth to let her know about her little embarrassment. She flushes wildly, a twinge of humiliation in her eyes as she hastily covers her mouth, apologising.

You offer her a sweet smile as she swiftly leaves, making her exit as quickly as possible to the stairs.

As soon as she’s gone, you turn back to Azriel, laughing. “Why’d you tell her?” You ask, sighing with mirth, pulling your plate closer. “Why didn’t you?” He counters, amusement void from his expression. You roll your eyes at his comment. “I didn’t want to embarrass the poor girl,” you reply, picking up the cool cutlery, feeling its weight in your palms. “Did you see how humiliated she looked at the end there? That was awful of you.”

He hisses your name lowly, and you raise mirth-filled eyes to his, spearing a slice of tomato on your fork. “What?” You grin, twirling the small weapon in your fingers. But he pins you with a hard look, shaking his head. “You can be a real piece of work, you know?”

“I had no idea,” you drawl, biting down on the crisp, red skin, delighting in the slight saltiness. A selfish indulgence on your part.

“At least now she’ll switch to a different lip tint,” you muse, watching as his expression turns cold. “Learn through experience, right?”

————

The hall fills with the sound of rustling clothing, voices chatting with pitched cheerfulness, heat pleasantly flooding the great room.

Night settled hours ago, faelights glowing proudly as the scent of warmly spiced mulled wine weaves through the air, sprinkled with sugar. Wreaths hang from the walls, decorating the large glass chandeliers, dripping diamonds.

The dark red liquid swirls in your glass, caught in a group conversation consisting of Mor, Elain, and a quaint looking bunch the latter seems familiar with, along with a couple of other familiar faces from your own circles. Andriette, with the hat wreathed in sparky feathers, laced through with purple and gold thread, accents of silvery aqua running through the deep indigo coloured gown she’s selected for the night. Changria with the vibrant oranges, rubies adorning her fingertips, wrists and neckline, looking like bloody teardrops from her earlobes. Small sequins have been scattered through the deep black of her hair, silky and lustrous.

Then there’s Cordia, the newest addition to your preferred group, still in the initial phase of integrating herself into your world. With rich brown hair and eyes to match, she’s chosen muted colours for the evening, complimenting her skin tone that’s lacking in the ripeness of life. As one of the many Fae of the night Court who organise their lives around the sparkling starlight, you find her a little bland on the eye, lacking the visual charm to fully convince you she has enough to offer.

Elain seems to be content leading the flow of conversation, though you can sense your ladies are getting restless and bored from the discussion, uninterested in the best soil to sow orchids in. A few of Elain’s own friends nod enthusiastically, offering their own tidbits and unnecessary opinions, eyes hurriedly darting across the circle you make up in search of a flicker of approval. Occasionally Mor will nod or laugh, offering one of her own comments, but even she is flagging in the conversation topic.

Changria shifts on her feet, and you take a mild sip from your drink to hide the eager quirk of your lips.

“Speaking of flowers,” she muses lightly, rubies glittering as light refracts through their pure colour. “I haven’t seen you frequenting the Peacock Inn recently, Mor. Spending your free nights at Rita’s these days?”

The vivacious blonde doesn’t seem the least bit ruffled by the slight sneer in your friend’s voice, instead allowing her full lips to curve into a rosey smile. “I find the conversation to be much more stimulating that side of the city,” she replies silkily, swirling her glittering champagne between pearl-tipped fingers, forgoing her signature red for the night in favour of a glittering ball gown that sweeps across the floor like golden starlight. “I’m surprised your sister hasn’t yet managed to pull you over. With how much time she spends there I find it strange you haven’t latched onto the spot.”

Elain’s friends shift uncomfortably on their feet, anxious to return to familiar ground.

“I think you must be mistaken,” Changria replies with her viper’s smile, as clean cut as glass. “My sister has no interest in fraternising with…same-minded folk. We were raised to be aware what counts as polite company to surround oneself with.” She pauses, dark eyes flicking to Mor’s from beneath thick lashes. “Not that there’s anything wrong with your group, of course,” she says with fake sincerity.

The edges of your mouth quirk, attention shifting to the bubbly blonde to see what she’ll do.

Irritation flares up when your fun is cut short, her pretty caramel eyes cutting to yours with enough ice that you have to step up. “And you?” She asks, “do you think this is polite company?”

You take a leisurely sip from your drink, having her wait just a few seconds before deigning her with a response. Both Andriette and Changria hide their mirth well, but you recognise that glimmer in their eyes. “I’m sure it’s all in good fun,” you smile, meeting her gaze, inclining your chin subtly. “Isn’t that right, Ri?” The black-haired female laughs, waving her bejewelled hand dismissively, “of course. My sincerest apologies if you felt otherwise, Mor.”

You smile at the superficial expression on her features, meeting each of Elain’s friends eyes, hurried and nervous smiles quickly pasted onto their lips before you turn to Mor. “It’s been a long night, after all,” you excuse smoothly, “she means nothing by it.”

The blonde hums, clearly choosing to ignore the snide remarks cleverly shot her way. Really though, what did she expect?

She can handle herself anyway—she didn’t need you to put a stop to Changria’s remarks, simply that it was the smartest thing to do.

In your peripherals, you watch as Cordia shifts, spurred on by the sly remarks, tempted to come out of her shell to find her own target.

“Maybe you’ve had a little too much to drink,” Elain suggests easily, eyes weaving through the crowd effortlessly. “There’s a server coming by—maybe have a couple of the snacks to soak up a bit of that alcohol. They really are lovely, those ones.”

“Am I right in understanding you advised what foods should be served, Elain?” You ask, watching as her cheeks flush a little with colour, dipping her head in a nod. The gesture is so imbued with feminine dignity you can’t help but warm to her, as if able to see a fragment of your younger self contained within her frame.

“That’s right,” Elain responds, a small smile on her lips. “Nuala and Cerridwen kindly assisted in preparation, as well as a good handful of others.” She nods kindly toward the gaggle of females she’d brought to the circle, and her friends faces soften into smiles. “You all remembered to wash your hands between gardening and preparing our food, right?” Cordia chimes in, eyeing the tray as it’s brought in.

They’re all perfectly bite-sized, different toppings upon small crackers with an assortment of herbs and spices sprinkled in varying heaviness. You glance tersely at Cordia from the side of your vision, before selecting one of the small biscuits from the outskirts, raising it to your lips to taste. Andriette and Changria follow suit, Cordia following soon after, eager to learn and copy. Elain’s group takes a few of the finger-pieces, nodding and congratulating one another on the different flavours.

You hum, pleasantly greeted by the slight citrine flavour of your tiny mouthful, finishing it off in another bite, aware more than a few sets of ears will be interested in how you judge the food. Moments pass, and you take your time examining the flavours—surprisingly enjoyable considering their size.

“Very nice,” you hum mildly, feeling the piercing weight of Mor’s attention on your lips. “Who’s idea was that one?” You ask, and Elain practically beams. Ushering forward one of the females in a pale blue gown, chestnut hair rich beneath the warm faelight. “This is Idris,” she introduces, and you incline your chin to look down upon the tall female. “It came from a home recipe,” Idris blurts out, and Cordia grins into her glass—at least she knows to hide her mirth. “My father used to make it for me and my siblings when we were younger, and I thought it would be perfect to share.”

“Your father did the cooking?” Cordia remarks snidely, and you send her another sharp glance, growing impatient with how she’s speaking out of turn. “What sort of circumstances led to that situation?” Idris shifts uncomfortably on her feet—shoes worn without heels, likely in attempts to muffle her unusual height. With a nervous glance your way, she elaborates. “My mother passed away when we were young, so my father had to learn how to care for us. Those snacks were the first things he mastered, so I’m proud knowing they’ve been served to such a vast number of people tonight.”

“He couldn’t afford servants?” Cordia questions humorously.

“Cordia,” you call sharply, pleased when she stiffens, twisting to face you—head slightly lowered. “Remember our earlier conversation about polite company?” You ask mildly, sipping from your emptying drink. The female nods, and you don’t doubt she memorised every word. You swirl your glass idly, before glancing at her sidelong. “Make sure to keep to that category. There are very few exceptions I make when it comes to the people I associate with, and you will not be one of them.”

The female flushes deeply, nodding hastily before mumbling a half-hearted apology to the tall but meek Idris, who accepts, likely out of sheer awkwardness.

You turn your attention to the pale-robed baker, meeting her eyes that flit about the room anxiously. With dark, tea-coloured skin, the dusty shade of red looks almost soft on her round and full lips, and you wonder why she’s decided on a pale blue robe when one that was wine-coloured would be far more suitable. With a dusting of gold over her eyelids, she could sweep a fair portion of the night’s attendees off their feet—both metaphorically and practically.

“Idris, correct?” You muse, nails glittering beneath the light. The female nods, fingers stuttering over the stitches in the bodice of her dress.

The very edges of your mouth raise, elegantly shifting your weight to one hip, running an appraising glance over her figure.

“Would you be interested in catering for another event like this?”

————

Footsteps tap softly along the floor of the open balcony, heels clicking as she finds you beneath the moonlight.

The glass has been refilled, and you gaze down at the revelry below, coloured lights dripping like diamonds, bobbing like fireflies between the shadows as fae sing and dance.

She comes to a stop at your side, waiting for you to address her, and you take another sip, just to make her squirm.

“How kind of you to join me.”

Cordia keeps still, attention keyed to your movements—smart thing. “You wanted to speak with me?” She asks, tone carefully neutral, but unable to mask the twinge of hope in her rich brown eyes. Her skin that must have once been livened from the sun in the Dawn court now lacks its vivaciousness, the colour of dried autumn leaves that crinkle and crunch daintily beneath booted feet.

“Allow me to be blunt as you are not someone I’m willing to soften my words for,” you say lightly, swirling your glass, glancing at her sidelong—watching as she stiffens further, and a twinge of fear creeps into her spiced scent. “You have not done yourself many favours tonight,” you muse, returning your attention to the sky, the clouds that have shadowed the moon. “It would serve you well to understand how things work for someone in your position.”

Her round figure is already fully facing you when you turn to her, fingers gripping her drink too casually.

“First of all, if you are going to target someone, do it with grace. Kicking a child does not prove strength, but weakness.” Cordia nods hurriedly, a sharp dip of her chin, eager to learn. “Secondly, do not go for someone contained within a group who will obviously side with them. Targeting that female when she was surrounded by others she was close with was foolish, and brash. A stupid error on your part, and embarrassing on mine.” She flushes wildly, lips parted, but nods again, mumbling out an apology. “And third,” you say voice icing over, “do not lash out with half-developed quips.” Deathly power condenses at your fingertips, like dew sliding along the taut string of a spider web. “There is a time and a place for mild jabs, but if you are unable to go for the throat, then you have no place in my circle.”

The sour tinge deepens, and your magic stirs in response, like a cat stretching out its spine, claws glittering.

“Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” she responds, a little hoarse.

“Prove it.”

“Prove it?” She echoes, and a small smile sharpens the cut of your lips, death haloing your figure as you stare her down. “Prove you can strike where it hurts.”

A blink reveals her hesitance, and you turn back to survey the city, sipping idly at your drink, as if you aren’t about to make or break the female at your side. The seconds tick by and you can hear how her lips fumble, silently scrambling for something sharp and bladed to gift.

Your eyes slide shut momentarily, mouth set in a sour line. “You can see yourself from the party.”

Cordia practically stumbles, but you don’t deign her with attention. “Reconsider,” she requests, gathering her pieces together, holding firm. “My answer is final,” you repeat idly, watching as a small circle appears below, people leaping and dancing as the round the small fire.

“Please,” she repeats, and through your peripherals you can make out as she discards her drink on the balcony, hands clutching the muted tones of her dress as she dips into a deep curtsey, holding the position flawlessly. The edges of your lips raise, before finally giving her your attention.

“I suppose it would be a shame to waste your dancing abilities,” you muse lightly, glittering black earrings tinkling as an icy breeze washes in. Cordia doesn’t dare look up, keeping her gaze trained on the round velvet of pitch dark heels. “Put on a show that will impress me,” you say at last, “and I will reconsider.”

“Thank you, my lady,” she breathes, relief soothing her muscles as she raises to a stand. “It will be the finest—”

“Down there,” you smile, gesturing with your chin to the bonfire far below, where the lower classes thrive and mingle, robes lacking the lustre and vibrancy of rich saturation, a sharp divide between the two spaces.

Cordia’s smile drops faster than a millstone through water, skin leeching further of colour, turning ashen. But she dips her head, understanding the ultimatum.

And so she leaves to dance, even if it will mean setting herself ablaze in the process.

No sooner than she’s out of sight, a familiar figure prowls silently out onto the balcony, stepping out of shadow and into the moonlight, bathed in silver.

“Azriel,” you greet, smiling faintly as he glides from the darkness, all calm quiet and reassuring grace. In a world that’s ever-shifting, he’s a constant, keeping the same cold attitude and unreadable mask wherever he goes. But then there are those moments where something warmer glimmers in his eyes, and your axis shifts a little, centre of gravity swaying as you enter his orbit. Rare moments where flame licks between paragraphs of conversation, small embers being allowed to warm before they’re once again fearfully stomped out.

“You could have chimed in when your friend was practically spitting in Mor’s face,” he says lowly, bypassing you entirely to lean calmly against the balcony railing and you blink, pulled back into your own realm. Features shift into a mask of soothing ease, moving silently to stand at his side. “She can handle herself,” you reply. “Besides, I won’t tell them what to think.” Through your peripherals you mark the slight frown between his brows, the displeasure in his mouth as he looks out across the midnight city, rendered in dark, inky blues and sparking pale starlight. You keep your back to the view, attention keyed to the male at your side, all thoughts of Cordia vanishing along with the task you gave her to complete.

“But you stepped in when it was Elain?” He asks, still not looking at you.

“Would you have preferred I said nothing?” You return dryly, sipping on your drink, casting your gaze back to the ballroom.

Azriel shifts, pushing up from his rest on the balcony, turning to look at you. “What would Rhys think?” He asks, and there’s something in his tone that has your full attention openly moving to him. “He’s like a brother, why would it matter what he thinks? We’ve all done bad things,” you reply grimly, memories pulling across your skin. “He’s your High Lord,” Azriel reminds quietly. “Your master, too.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes, “that bond hasn’t been called upon in generations. And besides, he’s too soft-hearted to ever use something as outdated as that.” A note of affection has entered you voice, despite the slander you’re spewing. You peer up at Azriel, smiling faintly, “he refuses to so much as peek into someone’s mind without them knowing, he could never manage the bond. Much less given our relationship.”

Likely dozens of centuries ago, the both of your families had been powerful. Yours powerful enough that the dominant lineage grew wary of the necromancy that passed from blood to blood, never losing its potency no matter who it was bred with. Eventually a bond of submission was forged, rumoured that a hand had been forced, and ever since then, your blood has been bound to the ruling one’s. An oath of obedience sworn with each new ascension.

Admittedly, when Rhys’ father had been killed, and your own mother passing as collateral, you had hoped to escape it. Having grown up together, arranged to be married, lived in the same city for centuries, you’d thought perhaps something would change with you. Instead something had changed in him, after the loss of his family. A proposal had never been offered, and hopes of absolute freedom had been abandoned. You’d taken the oath the day he returned from Spring, blood still dripping fresh from his leathers, violet eyes so abnormally cold and cruel you’d done what you could to return their warmth. Shown you’d chosen to stay by his side, needless of a prompt.

“Still,” Azriel says, pulling you from recollection. “The fact remains. Stepping too far out of line will only force an unpleasant decision upon him. One that will likely be unpleasant to receive, too.”

“You don’t understand what you’re talking about,” you say softly, darkness gathering down your spine, festering and writhing. Fifty years worth of memories he has yet to understand. He watches you quietly for a moment more than usual, before his attention is stolen by a figure entering your shared privacy of the balcony.

Azriel visibly relaxes, standing straighter as Elain walks up to him, greeting the both of you with a warm smile that noticeably reduces the strain in the air. She comes to a stop at his side, and you frown as they exchange a quiet look, feeling too close to the outside of his neat circle for once, having been unaware of the constraints tightening. She leans into him, and you feel a frown emerging on your brow at her forwardness. Maybe she should take her own advice and find something to soak up the alcohol.

“Elain,” you greet, inclining your chin slightly, plastering on a pleasant expression as she turns to you. “Thank you for offering Idris another opportunity,” she says sincerely, voice soft as cotton. Azriel stiffens at the small revelation—nothing Elain would notice, but something you have no trouble spotting, almost perfectly attuned to him. “She loves cooking, though she doesn’t let it show that often,” she continues, oblivious to the Shadowsinger’s tension. “So even if she’s already said it, I wanted to thank you, too. I think it’ll help her in ways none of us can—getting to finally do something she loves, and getting to do it well.” Deep, swirling cocoa rises to meet you, tender and soft with emotion, so easy to target should someone want.

“It’s no concern at all,” you smile pleasantly, the corners a little too sharp to be entirely sincere, an edge in your stomach at her proximity to Azriel. “Though I appreciate you upholding the pretence that it’s anything but a self-serving action—very gracious of you, I must admit.” Her brows furrow a little, tilting her head, but then she shakes it, smiling faintly, “you like your mask, don’t you?”

Before you can ask—or even react to—what she means, she’s turning to Azriel, pushing up onto her toes to press a light kiss to his cheek, before smiling again kindly, and taking her leave. You watch her go, silently, until she’s disappeared between sweeping bodies, turning to Azriel. Raise your glass to your mouth, “well that was interesting.”

The rigidity is beginning to make sense now.

“How long are you going to let it drag on?” You ask, averting your attention to the fire below, fuelled by twigs as fae and faeries dance about. He’s quiet, and you fight against the muscle in your jaw, the urge to grind your teeth at his silence. Jealousy isn’t a pretty colour.

“We’re together,” he says at last, and you scoff.

“And I asked for how long,” you reply, not looking at him.

He’s silent again, and your lip twitches in disgust, pushing up from the balcony, turning to face him. “And when were you going to tell me you were fucking Elain?” You ask bemusedly. “I can understand keeping your other lovers private, but Elain Archeron?” You marvel, voice dripping with fake incredulity. “What does Rhys think?”

“It’s serious,” he replies quietly, and you scoff again.

“Uh-huh. And the Mother’s going to kiss my hands when I go to heaven,” you reply sardonically. “Seriously Azriel, what the hell are you thinking?”

“I’ve already heard this talk from Rhys and Feyre. I don’t need it from you,” he says coldly, and you pin him with a hard look.

A heavy breath blows from your chest, and you return to the balcony, surveying starlit Velaris. “Whatever. Even I can’t stop you from making this mistake.” Your name hisses lowly from his mouth, but you ignore him. Instead you focus on a small, female figure appearing below, emerging from the shadows as she meekly approaches the bonfire. A smile sharpens your mouth, and you lean forward. “Evening entertainment is starting,” you hum to him, shifting the subject.

There’s a pause on his end, and you know he’s considering dropping it, picking up on your cue to change the topic. Move away from the unpleasant conversations in favour of lighter topics. The air shifts, but he glances over the railing to where you’re looking. “Let’s see what the little chestnut has, shall we?”

“What did you do this time?” He sighs, a note of familiar exasperation in his tone, a faint smile softening your mouth. “Why do you always think I’m behind it? Can’t she enjoy a night on her own?” You ask, shifting to face him, jaw resting on your palm.

A muscle flickers grimly in his jaw, darkness simmering in his gaze. “She’s taking her top off.” You blink, turning to peer over the balcony. A sharp, surprised laugh cuts from your throat, more a harsh bark than mirth, because there she is, undoing the corset portion of her bodice, revealing the translucent white fabric beneath, swaying as she joins the revellers. “She’s certainly putting on a show,” you muse, pleasure shimmering across your skin as you wonder at the humiliation she might feel. What you hope she does feel, and what will go unrewarded. You would never have allowed someone like her to join your circles to begin with.

Beside you, Azriel shakes his head. “You’re going too far,” he mutters, “stop it.”

“Stop it?” You echo, “but she’s just beginning to enjoy herself,” you croon softly, watching as a male figure joins her on the ground below, hands greedily skating up her waist. Your name is again pulled from his chest in a warning, dragged out deep and gravelly. “What am I to do?” You muse, returning your gaze to his, now cold and hard, lethal beauty painted in pale moonlight. “I can hardly order her about from up here. Besides, I know what I’m doing, and this is a small price to pay for what she tried to bring my way.”

His lip twitches in disgust, and your heart skips a sudden beat, heat swarming your chest. The familiarity of that gesture—it’s one he’s learned from you. Like how behaviours can rub off on other people, you’ve left your own mark on him, and here it is, presenting itself to you. Nerves squirm around your throat, warmth fluttering through your lower stomach at the thought. Biting back a small, helpless smile, averting your gaze.

“You’re a nasty piece of work sometimes,” he mutters lowly, and this time you allow a fraction of the genuine smile to show, warmth gathering beneath your skin as you accept his invitation, falling back into the cruel dance of life, sparring with sharpened blades. “And you just perfectly captured Elain’s future thoughts when she finds out the things you do, Spymaster,” you reply, amusement lining your features. “She might not see that blood, but I do, and it’s not something you yet know how to fix.”

His features harden to ice, hazel eyes glittering with frozen cold as your words crash against his scar-toughened skin.

Down below, more clothes are being stripped away, and you grin, wondering how far she’s prepared to take this dance. How far she’ll go to preserve her precious face.

“How do you feel about trying a new restaurant this weekend?” You ask, distracting from the show. “After the embarrassment of that last time, I think it’s fair we go to a place I like for once.” You turn to face him, smiling faintly, but you’re met with emptiness.

At some point within the last minute, it seems he’d simply walked away.

Leaving you quiet on the balcony.

————

The ball had quickly lost it’s appeal after the small shock—what on the Mother’s head is he thinking? Elain of all people.

Fingers rub across your chest, just below your collar bones, massaging the area to relieve pressure. Him and Elain. Why hadn’t he told you? From how casually she’d stepped into his side, it has to be something that’s been going on for a while. The others must have known about it…why were you left out? Brows twitch but you pull back on the frown, anxious to avoid any suggestion of lines.

The conversation reworks itself in your mind, repeating until you practically have it memorised.

She might not see the the blood…

With each replay you can see as he walls himself off. Can spot those self-defence mechanisms kicking in, as thoroughly ingrained in him as the scars on his hands. That’s not what’s supposed to happen when he’s with you. He’s supposed to open up, not close himself off. Maybe it was the wrong thing to say… You’d thought it clearly a game, but maybe he’d been taking you more seriously than you’d anticipated.

…but I do, and it’s not something you yet know how to fix.

And he’d left after that. You don’t even know if he’d heard your rather bold dinner invitation, or if he’d winnowed elsewhere. To be at Elain’s side. To enjoy her as he would a ripe fruit. Maybe she is something to be wary of… If their relationship is so out in the open… You can’t remember a time Azriel had ever been okay with any of you meeting a partner, preferring to keep them to himself, hidden away until he got bored or it fell apart. Whichever happened first. It’s unnerving to find your constant shifting, and not in a favourable direction.

The tightness builds in your throat.

While it wouldn’t be long, you’d rather not have to sit through their relationship for the few years or so, even if you know it’s bound to end in misery, just as it always seems to be when it comes to him. Like a little black raincloud.

Your heart stutters in your chest, pulse increasing and you have to even your breaths.

Yeah…you should say something to him. Even if he likely won’t accept your apology due to cripplingly low self-esteem and issues with vulnerability, you hope the effort will be worth it. You don’t want him to wall himself off around you. You want him to bleed and gush, guts spilling, allowing you to see the mess you know lurks beneath his skin. A mess you could easily find in yourself, too. If only you could open up enough to show him your similarities. The connection would be obvious, and maybe…maybe you’d get to have someone who understood you, too.

Maybe he wouldn’t hate his own darkness as much if he was able to see how deeply rooted it is in your own, soulless body.

————

The dinner happens as usual, and you try to resist sinking into the off feeling.

It’s nothing obvious, but it’s lacking the usual cohesiveness, the fluid conversation feels dwindling and forced, and you realise he isn’t pushing back as much as he normally does. The snide remarks you make are left untouched, no disciplinary glances or displeasured frowns when you pass a quick judgement. Even when the comments become unfair to your own ears, he ignores them, instead choosing to pay attention to the food.

Once again, despite all your protests, you’re here at the same place you always go. He claims it’s his favourite, but you can’t bring yourself to believe he could possibly enjoy a place where the air is so thick and heavy, to the point of being stifling. You can practically smell the sweat and grease with each breath, and your skin crawls with disgust at having to frequent the restaurant so often.

Eventually the meal reaches its end, and the two of you leave, Azriel having paid once again. You think it’s only fair, since it’s his spot. There’s no way you’re paying for such a mediocre meal and such poor service.

The skies are heavy and grey, verging on thunderous, the air dense even once you’ve breeched the wards that keep the restaurant alive with heat. Cobbles are slightly crooked in places, and you take care walking, wary of the thin pencil-wide stilts that serve for your heels. All around, folk are enjoying their suppers, sat beneath water-proof gazebos as day at last utterly yields to night, faelights warming the streets dimly through the bizarre heaviness of the darkness.

“Azriel,” you call from his side, voice coming out confident despite being so unsure how to go about touching on yesterday’s subject. He makes no sound to acknowledge he’s heard you, simply continuing on with the leisurely stroll, and yet you know he’s listening. Just as he always is. Ever attentive.

“Yesterday, when we spoke,” you begin slowly, intentionally shifting your gaze to brush disinterestedly over shop fronts and seating areas. Nerves crawl uncomfortably around your throat, tightening but you keep your spine straight, shoulders pulled back as had been drilled into you. “You seemed closed off,” you say, unable to look at him. Not with the stutter of your heart.

When he makes no effort to speak back or elaborate, you push forward, anxious to keep your feelings tightly concealed. “You understand I was joking with you, don’t you?” You ask, counting each step, marking the cracks between the grey cobbles. He hums, not really and answer. Your throat rolls, gaze sliding to eye him sidelong, the clean cut of his profile against the dark blues of the night, skin keeping its soft warmth despite the swiftly plummeting temperature.

“You took your time to tell me about Elain,” you remark, switching topics hastily. Quickly dancing away from the apology that was sat so readily on your tongue—just unsure how to come out. What words to join together to express your grief over his own reactions while not feeling an ounce of regret for what was said. You won’t take it back, but you wish he wasn’t…however he is, with you.

“About that,” he says, and your attention keys to him entirely, as it always does whenever he seems prone to revealing a little more of himself to you. “Things are going to change,” he elaborates, “Elain and I will be going out to dinners together, and because of our lives, this is going to have to find time somewhere else.”

You blink, steps faltering, heels stuttering over the cobbles as you stare at him but he keeps up the idle pace, forcing you to push your body into fluid movement, flowing after him. “What… Az, what are you talking about?” You ask, tone confused, lacking its usual sharp edge as apprehension tightens around your throat. “These suppers,” he repeats, attention remaining ahead, “they’re going to stop.”

“Why?”

“Because Elain and I are together, and we—”

“Shut up about Elain,” you say sharply, voice lowered, coming to a stop on the cobbles. Azriel pauses, features superficially neutral as he takes in your stance. Waiting patiently, as he’s always prepared to do.

“These are our dinners, Az,” you hiss, keeping your voice low, wary of eavesdroppers. “They’ve been our time for almost three centuries. And now you’re trying to replace them because you got laid?” Disbelief drips from your hushed voice, staring at him incredulously, shaking your head. “We’ll talk about this again when the blood’s returned to your head,” you hiss sharply, but his brow dips in displeasure, and you’re kept from walking away.

“Don’t talk like that. About me, or her,” he says bluntly, irritation itching across your skin. “Az, you’re thinking with your cock,” you hiss again, stepping closer to reduce the chances of being overheard. “These dinners are the only times we get to be together. You are not cancelling them just because you want to get between her legs, is that clear?”

Azriel makes a sound close to a sigh, and emotion—raw and unfiltered—sears across your chest, licking like flames as you stare at him. “Don’t bother getting frustrated. I’m not asking, I’m telling you what’s going to happen. Besides, the family dinners are still open.” Even if you haven’t attended one in almost two-hundred and fifty years.

Your heart pounds in your chest, long-suppressed rage rearing her head with such force there’s nothing you can do to muffle her. “Don’t pull that, Az,” you warn lowly. “You know that’s not a solution. You can find time elsewhere, these days are the only ones that work for us.”

“She’s my partner. She comes first.”

“And what about me?” You hiss. “You’ve known her for—what? Two years? Have been in a relationship for less than that, and I’m the replaceable one? Pull your shit together.”

His brows narrow, gaze hardening as he takes you in. Hazel eyes cool, freezing over as his patience is relieved of its duty. “I want to eat with her. I want to spend my time with her,” he says coldly, “you are tiring and draining to be around.”

“Tiring and— What has gotten into you?”

“This isn’t anything new,” he replies, “she and I have been together for a while now, and this is how things happen.”

“How long is a while?” You hiss, feeling as if the cobbles are falling away beneath your feet. “Long enough,” he replies monotonously.

“This is how you treat your century-old friends?” You ask, power writhing in your stomach. “Pushing them aside when something new and shiny comes along?” You hiss, emotion whipping at your heart until blood leaks out. “Fine. Fuck the tightness out of her for all I care. See if you’re still interested once you’ve gotten what you want.”

“Do not—”

“I have everything, Azriel. I’m the most sought-after female in this city,” you hiss, pressure building behind your eyes but you shove it away—you can’t have the kohl running. “Males have crawled on their knees to gain an ounce of attention. My life is perfect, I don’t need anybody but decided you might be worth my time.” Anger heats your skin, features twisted in an ugly carving of rage.

“If your life is so perfect, why do I pity you?” He replies harshly, rain beginning to drip from the heavy skies.

“Pity me?” You echo, faintly. “You pity me, shadowsinger?” You grit out, lip curling back with disgust. “I don’t want your pity. My life is perfect. People would die to be in my position. To be as coveted I am, and I gave you a chance at that.” You spit, seething, keeping an eye on the rain—looking like it’ll become heavier. It’ll ruin the curls you kept pressed in if you don’t get inside soon. “You can’t replace me,” you scoff, staring at him beneath lightly dipped brows—careful of wrinkles. “You’ll never find someone as good as me.”

A vindictive smile stretches across your dark-painted lips, triumph searing across your skin, heart pulsing in a way you’ve been craving for decades—centuries. “I’m everything you could ever want: beautiful, intelligent, rich. Not to mention excellent in bed, anyone would be blessed by the gods to call me their own,” you point out, baring your teeth with victorious rage. “You can’t deny we’re perfectly suited for one another. Everyone and their mother knows we’re a strong pair, practically untouchable. We spend all of our time together—there’d be no difference between how things are now and how they would be if you would just open your damn eyes and realise how much you need me.”

“I’m the one you confess your sins to, I’m the one who absolves you, I’m where you go to seek comfort,” you hiss, wary as a strand of neatly curled hair falls out of place. “And you think Elain is anything in the face of that?”

Breath puffs from your chest, air curling in thick tendrils as the crispness of the breeze deepens in its chill. Fingers tremble at your side, skin immune to the swiftly plummeting temperature, spurred on by self-righteous anger. The need to right a wrong becoming satiated now he understands what an awful choice he’s making.

Azriel’s expression doesn’t shift, hardly shows a grain of emotion, the rain beginning to drip into the soft, inky locks of his hair, weighing the strands down to curl over his brow.

“I spent my time with you because I thought I could fix you,” he says blandly, making you falter. “You’re so self-obsessed, convinced the whole world would pause everything for you—I can’t even begin to understand how insecure you must be to have reached such a severe state of delusion.”

“Delusion?” You snarl, freshly manicured nails piercing the soft flesh of your palms, hours of pampering ruined by a single outburst. “The only one who’s deluded is you, for even considering picking the flower-baring whore over me.” Hazel eyes gutter, taking on a glittering icy hue as his jaw tenses.

“You’re the court torturer, and I’m the necromancer—there’s never been a better pairing cast together, and there never will,” you seethe, death and rot simmering at your fingertips that his eyes trace warily. “You’re really so selfish you’d latch onto Elain and bring her down with you?” You ask, watching as the blade finds its mark, hazel flinching. “I’ve seen your darkness, and you’ve seen mine. The mother couldn’t have made our match more obvious.”

“You know I’m right, Azriel,” you crow, taking a step forward, needing to wrap this up quickly—people are murmuring, rain growing heavier. You can already feel it beginning to take the silky sheen from your hair. “I’m the better choice. Now and forever. I will always be the better choice.”

His expression shifts to something you can’t place—almost like sorrow—thick brows narrowing over dark hazel eyes. He takes a silent step forward, the edges of your mouth kicking up with a spark of success. Vicious pride blazing in your gaze—warping into tunnel vision.

“I will tell you only once,” he bites out, glittering fury lighting the deep hazel of his gaze. “Never speak of Elain that way.”

“Or what?” You bark, staring up at him, arms folding indignantly to plump up your chest. “You choose that bitch over me, and it’s over between us,” you declare, victory within your grasp. “You forget I know where her father’s buried,” you hiss viciously, keeping your voice low enough for only him to hear.

A blind person could spot his kindness from a mile away, as useless as it is. He would never put himself first, especially not before you. You’ve had centuries to observe his behaviour, you know this is his weakness, the cripplingly low thought of himself, somehow unable to appreciate the divine beauty of his own features, looking as if he’d been hewn from the heavens themselves then unleashed upon earth to wreak destruction.

He’s equipped with the weapons to be a heart-breaker, to have whoever he wants, yet has somehow managed to overlook his own beauty. A rare gem for you to take for yourself, to treasure and polish to perfection, to stare at and admire in the guarded privacy of your own heart. He’s the first, and only one who’s ever managed to get past those impenetrable walls of ice, having thawed you out over likely thousands of dinners, and nights out, and not-so-casual brunches.

But Azriel shakes his head slightly, sighing in the freezing air, breath curling in a smooth twirl, whisked away by the chill breeze. “You’re doing this to yourself,” he says quietly, hazel piercing into you beneath a narrowed brow, gaze filled with ice. “I’m not going to choose you.”

“So you’d throw away three centuries of simmering pleasantries?” You spit out, an icy drop of rain slipping down your generous cleavage, goosebumps raising. “Don’t be so arrogant; it’s unbecoming.”

He takes a step forward, casting you in his darkness, his warmth remaining just out of reach, pulling you into his orbit. “You think anyone will love you like I will?” You ask, but your voice shakes as the words slip out. Throat rolls, nails slicing into already ruined palms. “I know you, Azriel,” you grit out, “what you are. What you do.” You shift on your feet, spine straightening, shoulders flattening. “Do you really think anyone else will stick around for that?”

Shadows flick over the peaks of those great wings, wreathing them like dark halos as hazel shutters. “Walk away,” he murmurs, darkness swirling idly about, like early morning mist. “Walk away, and you can keep your fragile sense of self intact.”

“Is it the number of people I’ve slept with?” You grit out, glaring up at him. “We can pretend that never happened, if you want me to be more like her. I can learn botany—it wouldn’t be an effort. I have gardeners that could arrange bouquets, and lace my hair with wild flowers. I’m sure someone’s found a spray to keep bugs away, so—”

“I’m not picking you,” he says harshly, eyes pinning you to the cold, icy cobbles.

“Why not?” You hiss, but he shakes his head, exhaling a short sigh.

“Just go back home,” he replies, a little softer. “Save yourself the embarrassment. I’d hate to be the one to shatter your carefully cultivated image,” he mutters, turning on his heel.

Panic surges, blindly reaching out, heart clenching in your chest as both of you stare at your hand gripping his wrist. The murmurs hurry in intensity, but fall away as hazel meets your gaze, narrowed and wary. You know he must be able to feel the tremble of your fingers, but you can’t let go now, that would be admitting defeat. So you step closer, his warmth washing over you, night-kissed scent wrapping with your own.

“I can change,” you manage, voice hoarse in the freezing rain, weighing and ruining your curls. Tiring and draining, he’d said. “Tell me what to do, and it’ll be done. I can fix this.”

“There’s nothing to fix,” he replies shortly, “I spent a long time thinking I saw glimpses of myself in you—when you used to quieten in the evenings instead of plastering on one of your catty smiles. When you used to enjoy the silence instead of trying to fill it with numbing activities.”

You stiffen in the cold, grip tightening on his wrist, gaze locked with hazel.

“At some point you might have been salvageable, but not anymore,” he continues, small pieces of yourself trembling with each word, raw and tender. “And what about yourself?” You reply, heart tight in your chest. “You think that you have the right to pass judgement on me? With the things you’ve done?” You stare up at him, pulse beating to a nauseous rhythm. “You’ve lied, murdered, and tortured your way to where you are. I’m an angel compared to you.”

“You’re rotten to your core,” he hisses, wings flaring wider, towering over you. “Rotten, spoiled, and utterly unloveable.”

Something faintly familiar stings through your stomach, wrapping in knots and dragging outward, twisting.

“No one would pick you—has anyone even thought of doing so?” He asks, sharp hazel eyes piercing like blades through the thawed out ice of your heart.

“You did,” you whisper, lungs filling with choked-down aches. “You chose me, Azriel. So I’m choosing you back.”

“That’s not how it works,” he hisses, pulling his arm from your grip like your muscles are made from rain-soaked paper. “I gave you a chance to change. You could have been better if you’d tried.”

You shake your head, staring at him, fingers cold as icy water drips over their outstretched tips. “That’s not fair,” you whisper, “I didn’t know I was being tested.” But he pays you no mind, turning on his heel, making to leave you out in the rain.

You’re moving without thinking, darting into his path, blocking his way.

“Fine,” you breathe harshly, fingers trembling as they clench at your sides. “I’ll say it.” Alarm flares in those beautiful swirls of colour, his lip twitching but you ignore the familiar expression, gone with a flash of pain.

Your throat rolls thickly, staring up at him, aware of the whispers from beneath cafe shelters, hardly bothering to keep their volume low. “I don’t—…” you fumble, shocking humiliation twisting across your stomach. Are you really doing this? Is he worth your pride? Worth losing those cultivated defences? They’ve been up for so long, you’re unsure if you’ll be able to swallow the emotion that’ll inevitably swamp you.

Hazel waits silently, all quiet grace and reassuring shadow.

“I don’t have anyone else.”

The words burn across your skin, the admission having nausea roiling in your stomach, pulse pounding wildly. Stripped bare, emotion flayed to a raw, bloody pink.

“She has other people,” you whisper painfully, lip curling in disgust. “She doesn’t want you like— She doesn’t need you like…like I do.” Despite the way your confession sears through your blood, hurting like a scar picked open, he already seems to be done with the conversation. Ready to move on and leave you behind.

“You don’t need me, or want me,” he replies blandly. “You’ve been so emotionally numb for the past dozen decades you’re addicted to the first drop of feeling you’ve gotten. You like the idea of being with someone after such a long period of loneliness, and you’ve misunderstood whatever you’re experiencing as love when it isn’t.”

“You don’t know that,” you whisper, heart fluttering in your throat so high you think you might be about to regurgitate it at his feet. “I’ve kept to myself because no one else has been worth it. No one else has made me even consider talking with you like I sometimes do.” A cold wind blows through your skeleton, a shiver shuddering in your stomach, hands clutching your exposed arms.

“I’m far more beautiful than she is anyway—”

“No,” he cuts in, “you aren’t.”

And suddenly you’re reduced to your adolescent self, secretly sneaking into her mother’s purse, snatching at all the makeup you can find and scurrying away to the bathroom to paint yourself beautiful. How heavily the bright lipstick had weighed on your lips, slippery and over-lined. How your eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot once you’d finished with the thick stick of kohl. The pins that had curled your hair into a matted mess, tangled into a unsolvable nest.

How proud you’d been of your work, parading out into your mother’s chambers, eager to show off your likeness.

She’d taken one look, and screamed, landing a hard smack across your cheek. Staining the carefully applied lip tint, pushing it onto gleaming white teeth that bit into your tongue with the force of the impact. She’d dragged you by the hair back into the bathroom, tub filling to the brim with freezing water where she’d shoved you in, clothes and all. Grabbed a towel and started scrubbing at your face, the water clogging your airways as her nails scraped and poked until your skin was raw. She’d wasted no time unpicking the curls from your hair, simply ripping them out, or in some cases, sheering the locks jaggedly from your scalp.

The following weeks had been the worst of your life, keeping your head hugged in a kitchen cloth, not having any of your mother’s precious silk caps to prevent friction and fraying. You’d hardly taken your eyes off the ground, keeping your gaze trained to the pretty bows on your shoes, clutching the straps of your bag tightly.

There had been other instances like that, but none quite as debilitating—the time a month later your’d put together a small breakfast, teetering up the stairs one at a time in your freshly pressed dress, starched and aired, before pushing her door open. She’d screamed worse than last time, and your feet had frozen to the floor. It was only when the glass vase had smashed against your temple that they’d unstuck, hands shuddering as you tottered backward, stumbling until the door had slammed in you face.

Whether it was that specific instance, or the litany of other formative moments of your childhood that had be warped and distorted into something cold and cruel that had led you to this moment, stood opposite him in a freezing cold street, gossiping whispers passing like a sickness between onlookers as the rain drips down cream-smooth skin, you’ll never know. Too many actions uncorrected for too long for you to ever understand when you truly became her spitting image. At what point you went from a young girl trying to fit into her mother’s skin, to fully embodying her rotten perfection.

Plump, rosey lips hiding a mouthful of foul, fetid teeth.

“So you’re—… You’re really…” something warm and wet drips down your cheeks, and you realise with mortifying humiliation you’re crying.

Azriel sighs harshly, the impatient sound slicing across your breast bone. “That’s not going to work,” he says coldly. “Cry all you want, it’s not going to change anything.”

Your heart flutters wildly in your throat, as if trying to break free, stomach twisting and turning in vicious knots. You don’t understand why he’s walking away. “She won’t… She’s not going to treat you better,” you manage, voice cracking along with your heart, shattering with such painful slowness you can practically feel it fracturing. Ice splintering off into shards.

His jaw works, and you resist the urge to turn and run beneath his gaze. He shouldn’t be seeing you like this. It’s gutting your chances.

“I trust her,” he mutters lowly, rain hissing on the cobbles. “I trust her not to take advantage of my weaknesses. To see them and accept them.” He steps closer, and your legs tremble. “Not to turn them into ridiculous little games designed to make herself look better.”

“That wasn’t—… I was helping you.”

“You enjoy succeeding where others fail,” he hisses, his warmth at last brushing over your skin, close enough for his scent to wrap around you fully. “You get a kick out of proving you’re better, no matter how good your life is.”

Your jaw trembles, nails biting into the soft flesh of your palms. “I have worked for my supposedly good life,” you say sharply, tone wobbling.

“Your predecessors worked,” he hisses, “you were born with a power that made you precious. Without it, you’re nothing.”

“Power is everything.”

“And that’s exactly why no one’s ever loved you.”

You flinch.

Stumble a step back.

“That’s not true,” you whisper. “Rhys loves me. So does Cassian, and Mor. You do, too.”

“You wouldn’t know love if it knocked you to the floor,” he snaps, and a long-forgotten memory flashes across your skin.

“I love…I like myself.”

He rolls his eyes, brows narrowing in disbelief. “You hate yourself more than I do.”

Shoulders bunch together, curving inward. “Doesn’t that make us perfect?”

He blinks, caught off guard by the tone, bathed in broken curiosity. He’s known for a while there’d been something wrong taught to you, but you’ve never really allowed him close enough to find out what.

Then he shakes his head, turning away. “Mutual hatred doesn’t equate to love,” he mutters, pausing. Looks at you from over his shoulder. “We spent three centuries together, and you couldn’t even figure that out?”

You remain silent, lips parted as you search for an answer.

He huffs in disbelief. “No wonder you’re always on your own.”

————

You’re hardly able to stumble your way back home, looming before you in a great mass of shadow.

You’re at the threshold of the tall gates, when a voice calls your name, and you turn to find a female with rich brown hair with deep eyes to match, skin just a little to wan for your tastes. Cordia.

“Leave,” you order coldly, the tall iron gates swinging open upon your command, power thrumming beneath your veins as you make your way up the road, thick forestry lining the edges. Breath drags raggedly from your lips, lungs spasming as emotion rages in your chest, ripping itself open upon the now jagged shards of ice that he’s splintered, damaged and bruised.

“You’re in a sorry state,” she calls mildly, following behind you as you march up the steep road with little difficulty, body shaking and trembling as raw feeling strikes at your core repeatedly. Teeth grit together, nails digging into your upper arms as you huddle against the cold, choosing to continue along the rain-soaked path in favour of winnowing.

“That was quite the performance you put on there,” she hums, and you freeze in your steps. “Oh? That got your attention,” she smiles, stepping into your path. “Yes, I saw your breakdown. So did Andriette, so did Sangria. Anybody who is anyone will have heard about your little-girl tantrum within the hour.” Terror thuds in your throat, stomach lurching as your meal is upended into the shrubbery nearby. You hear Cordia make a sound of disgust while tears prickle at your eyes, nostrils burning as your stomach spasms, retching over and over until you’re struggling for breath.

“And to think after all that effort too,” she gloats. “All that beauty and power, and you still couldn’t have the male you wanted. Serves you right for being so picky,” she hisses gleefully, watching as you remain hunched over, knees sunken into the dirt after your legs gave out. “I guess you’d call that karma. You destroyed me, now you’ll hit the bottom of the barrel too. How’s it feel to be in the shit-gutter with me, huh?”

The tremors become violent, and she laughs, stepping away. Breath shudders in and out, hyperventilating as you spiral away, discipline and control turned weak and mushy from flayed emotion, humiliation and terror mixing in a deadly combination. “Does rejection feel good to you?” She asks, arms folded across her chest, and you barely gather the strength to stand.

And that’s exactly why no one’s ever loved you.

You wouldn’t know love if it knocked you to the floor.

No wonder you’re always on your own.

Fresh tears sting at your eyes, stomach lurching again, retching and a palm presses to vomit coated lips, the taste bad enough to make you try to throw up all over again. Cordia makes a sound between disgust and pleasure, relishing the moments she’s being gifted. “Everything you have,” she marvels, “land, money, beauty, power. At least you’re an ugly crier. Who’d ever want to kiss piggy lips like yours.”

Rage burns you alive, hands wrapping around her throat, ripping her life away in seconds, reduced to dust, mixing with mud that you take minutes trampling deeper into the wet road. You wipe your mouth, staring grimly at the mess on your shoes, stomach turning but you feel a little better now that things are fairer.

When you reach your home, you make no effort to dampen your power, allowing it to roll in thick waves from your soaked body, rat-tailed hair slicked away from your features. Let the message convey itself, for every maid and servant to leave immediately, or face the consequences. Livid emotion rocks and shatters across your chest, swirling with unstoppable intensity and you kick off your shoes, heading up the stairs, treading rain into the clean white rugs.

A maid rounds the corner too quickly, slamming into you, and your urge to kill finds its target, power piercing into the quaking female. You grit your teeth, yanking at its leash, guiding it elsewhere to keep from murdering an innocent. Instead your hand pulls back, taut like a bow string before lashing across her cheek, the sharp jewels on your fingers biting and tearing at her skin as she’s shoved backward. “Get out,” you hiss, voice distorted and raw, power recoiling and refocusing, licking its lips as it finds the maid again, but she’s already scrambling away.

Breaths rage in your lungs, and you manage to make it to your bedroom, eyes skittishly darting to and fro in search of something, something you need—

Tears spill heavily, a sigh of relief and wonder releasing from your body as the razor drags across your forearm, short and sharp breath stuttering as that pressure builds and builds, the steel flying across your skin until you could peel the flesh apart like the crusty pages of an old book.

You pant heavily, arms trembling unsteadily with adrenaline you haven’t felt in years, suddenly crushed by the weight. Groans drag from your chest, sobbing wretchedly as you settle on the floor, ripping the clothes from your legs, slicing and slicing and slicing as you cry and smile and scream and die— Like it’s all condensed into fluttering feelings, passing through, forcing their way so intrusively through your mind it’s shards of glass nicking at your head, wrapping your brain in a bag of needles then tossing it down a flight of stairs.

Blood paints your floor, dripping heavily and exhaustion sticks to your skin like sweat, the compulsion to purge the poison dulling with your heartbeat, thudding weakly in your chest and life bleeds thickly and fluidly from your body, gashes torn through your skin already beginning to stitch themselves back together. Exhaustion fills you, taking adrenaline’s place, and the last thing you can manage it a flick of your wrist, transporting the blood-stained rugs to the large kitchen sink a few floors below, filled with water to keep it from setting.

You’re slumping to the floor, bones digging jaggedly into flesh as it’s ground into the hardwood floor, body relieved of consciousness, shuddering strain seeping away, washing like a cool breeze in the peak of summer up your spine. The world fades away, taking with it the heaviness of emotion, the searing ache across your breast bone, lungs stuttering with deep-seated pain.

At last escaping it.

————

Heavy thuds pull you ungraciously from sleep, coming from your front door.

The first thing you feel is a deep ache across your body—back and shoulders stiff from lying on the floor. Your lids feel thicker…heavier than usual, tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth as you peel it away.

Memories hit you like a sack of bricks, passing in a flash before delightful numbness banishes it to some dark and lonely corner of your body. To sit until you’re ready to face it, or until it rots away to something harmless and unbothered. Whichever comes first.

The thuds repeat, and you close your eyes, sinking into your floor, skin thick with imagined grease, hair tangled at the base of your neck, skin hurting with stinging pain when you attempt movement. While the cuts have faded, the echoes burn beneath your flesh, small needles embedded beside bone, prickling and spiking with every motion. Whoever’s at the door can dissolve into the wind for all you care, you’re in no state to deal with anyone.

Magic clicks through the house, and you startle, as if zapped by a whip of static. Your heart pounds as the door unlocks, disobeying its enchantments and allowing entrance to the stranger. Except it’s no stranger, the only soul who has access to your house is the High Lord himself, a condition of the bond that stretches between you, malnourished and untouched.

Quiet steps to the staircase reveal him stood in the hallway, hands placed with deceptive disinterest in his pockets, clothing fine and tailored perfectly. Just as it always is.

Cold, violet eyes flick to you, stood atop the case, but even he’s unable to entirely conceal that razor’s edge in his gaze, glint cutting through purple-blue. Sharper than steel, colder than ice.

“What do you want?” You ask, not bothering with pleasantries. He clearly isn’t here for tea and biscuits.

He’s silent for a pause, gathering his patience, or…you don’t know what. But he takes his time, as if to set you on edge. “Come down here,” he says at last. There’s not a single note of inflection in his voice, lethally soft, whispering effortlessly across the marble of the front entrance.

Your features remain set in their hard, bland line, gazing down at him with mild hatred. Whether it’s a side effect of the bond, or his natural terror as High Lord, something inherent warns you not to disobey, reluctantly descending the stairs, glittering black dress still clinging to your body, hair a ragged mess at your shoulders, lips likely stained and eyes smudged from the kohl.

“What do you want?” You repeat lowly, bare feet settling on the floor, level with him. Darkness seems to whisper at his back, thrumming throughout the halls, muffling all those usual noises, becoming abruptly silent. Vibrations dying in his wake.

Cold, violet eyes run over you appraisingly, though he makes no comment over your dishevelment, and it’s somehow worse than if he had struck the mark. As if he knows he doesn’t need to sink that low to hit where it hurts, biding his time to deliver the fatal wound.

“Can you guess why I’m here?” He asks softly, wrath underlying his poisoned tone, hairs prickling at the nape of your neck. Your pulse spikes as his attention skims the lavish halls, entirely empty, before turning for the door that will lead him to the sitting room. “I’m too tired for your games, Rhys,” you mutter bitterly, following after him warily. “There’s nothing playful about the decision that’s about to be made,” he replies icily, nodding to one of the sofas as you pass by. “Sit down.”

“I think I’ll remain on my feet,” you say with forced calm.

A muscle feathers in his jaw, features remaining cold and disinterested. Warning chimes drill up your spine, alarming you to the off-ness about him. The tautness to his usually elegant movements, fluid and lethal. Now cut to something harsher, hewn to something more brutal.

“Tell me,” he orders quietly, “why you think I’m here.”

You stare at him silently. Sullenly. Stinging all over your body.

“You wanted to say hello?” You say at last, lacking any humour to the response, too drained to muster up even a spark of emotion.

The edges of his mouth quirk, no mirth to be found in his face. A grin a he would have given Under the Mountain. A grin you’ve come to despise, and one you thought would never be shown again. Sharp, glittering talons prickle at your mental shields, hardened to steel on their outer walls, utterly impenetrable without permission.

Or so you had thought.

In one clean slice, the razors have cut through your adamant as if it were fatty flesh. Not a single brittle bone impeding the clean incision. Shock paralyses you, breath stolen as that faint grin ices over, threat now rolling visibly from his shoulders, darkness condensing into something almost solid, gaining density as it slinks closer to the ground.

The sound of skin smacking against skin cuts through your mind, a sharp inhale stolen after, shuddering gasps rasping through the silence, followed by panicked footsteps as she flees. Your cheek burns, feeling the metal bite of jewelled knuckles upon rubbed-raw skin.

Fingers rise, trembling as you check absently for a mark, brushing lightly across the afflicted area self-consciously.

“Why do you think I’m here?” He repeats, the whisper as quiet as a last breath on dying lips, cold and utterly lifeless.

For the first time in three hundred years, terror filters through your veins. Cloying, and dominating, pinning down and twisting your senses. “It was for good reason,” you breathe, becoming acutely aware of the lethal brush of darkness. A single touch that could reduce you to a red mist.

“Stop,” he says, quiet and sharp, like scissors snicking through hair. “You’ve been toeing the line for a while now, and that was the last step you’ll take in my city.”

My city. Velaris.

Your mouth opens to speak, nausea rising, stomach twisting as emotions begin to seep back into your body, satiating your mind with painful vibrancy. But the words are stuck in your throat. You stare at him, eyes round and wide, at once blank and contorted with raw feeling. Rushing and spilling as guts twine together, restitching themselves after being sliced across the floor.

“You’re an infection,” he hisses lowly, talons tightening at your neck, and you remain helpless. Powerless. “I don’t care for whatever excuse you’ll try to spin. I’m done with you. We all are.”

The talons retract, and air burns at your lungs, nostrils and eyes prickling as you gasp, hunched over, stomach spasming enough you think you might vomit again, and you’re thankful you didn’t put anything in it. The thought of reaching for your own magic hadn’t even occurred to you.

“Whatever remarks you want to make, I will tolerate. You are, and have always been your own person,” he says lowly, prowling forward on predator’s feet. “But the second you lay a hand on one of my people, it’s over. You will not return from it.”

“I hardly even touched her,” you choke out, lip curled back from your teeth, emotion thrashing and raging against your ribs, volatile in your blood as you stare up at him. At once having given you everything, and left you with nothing.

“I saw the memory,” he hisses, “she told me what happened. How you treat—” His nostrils flare, freezing in his tracks. Pupils dilate then contract to slits, and you stare as he turns on his feet, making for the closed kitchen door. Where the blood soaked rugs and sheets remain.

“Rhys…” you rasp, stumbling forward. “Rhysand.”

The smell of iron is sharp, bursting throughout the room with a potent tang, saturating the air with its distinctive metallic scent. The water is a deep red, concentrated with cold blood, almost opaque with its thickness.

The High Lord is utterly still in the doorway, taking in the devastation of the kitchen, some of the sheets laying strewn wetly across the floor, and it occurs to you he will not know that it is your blood dripping across the white tiled floors. That’s it’s your blood staining the pristine surfaces.

Undiluted terror crushes into you a second before his own darkness does, breaking across your skin as you’re flung across the room, smacking against the ground as the air is knocked from your chest. Your ears ring with the impact, lips parted, back arched in pain, hands trembling as memories flash across your skin.

You wouldn’t know love if it knocked you to the floor, he had said.

You stare up at cold, merciless violet.

Both of you know what he’s just done, but only one of you cares.

Words fail you, unable to admit to your own stupidly self-inflicted disciplines. Shame ruptures across your skin, unable to move from the shock of being floored in a heartbeat, after having had centuries to put between the last memory of pain this deep. It always scars more when it’s from someone close by.

“I don’t know when you lost yourself,” he breathes heavily, staring down at you, twisted and warped from the force of his magic. “I don’t know when, or how, or why. And I don’t care.” The words break on your skin like whips, cracking and splitting still-healing flesh to put the pain deeper. “You hurt one of my people,” he hisses lowly, watching as you struggle to your feet, limbs moving disjointedly from pain he’s unable to see.

He takes a step forward, and you have to force your legs not to stumble back, to hold strong as he prowls closer, night rippling through the room. “Many people are hurt in your city,” you grit out, “many people are hurt in your court. And yet you’re finding fault with me?” You shake your head sharply, glaring at him from beneath your brow. “You went too far,” he hisses, the sound like hail and ice slicing skin. “Every day you pushed a little harder, and I let it slide because I thought you needed the freedom, that you needed to at last understand you were free of her.”

“Fucking shut your mouth,” you spit, death leaking across the floor, rising to meet his own.

Both of you know who would win this battle, but you don’t seem to care any more.

“I kept my mouth shut for too long,” he counters, striding closer and magic sparks and crackles, tendrils colliding then recoiling as it’s mixed in the confined space, pressure building in your fingertips. “I let you get away with too much. Leeching off Az until even his patience ran out. Putting Mor down because you couldn’t stand to see someone from your own position escape, and live. We offered you help and you chose to walk away.”

Fury lacerates through your heart, burning at your mind as you meet his step, moving forward as you bare your teeth, the house quaking as more power is funnelled into it’s contained space. “You dragged me beneath that godsforsaken mountain, Rhysand,” you hiss lowly, “I stayed with you for fifty godsdamn years, while they got to stay here, because I was the one who was common knowledge.” You shove at his chest, but he hardly budges. “I was there for you, whenever you fucking needed me. So don’t you dare try and spin betrayal on me.”

“It is your duty to stay by my side,” he snarls, hand gripping your jaw in a vice-like hold, muscle spasming beneath his touch. “Everyone suffered in those years. Everyone sacrificed something. Everyone had something taken from them.”

“You chose them over me!” You spit, nails tearing at the rough skin of his knuckles as heat burns at your eyes. “You protected them. You suffered, and gave up pieces of yourself for them. None of it was for me.”

He stares at you, unreadable emotion raging behind writhing violet, lips parted as darkness rumbles through the house. “Why would it be for you?” He whispers, still staring at you. “You’re so wrapped up in your own life you forget anyone else exists.”

“You’re lying,” you mutter, “that’s a fucking lie, and you know it.”

“You threatened to bring their father back from the dead,” Rhys snarls, the damper on his power coming clean off, air growing thin as pressure crushes down on your bones, too much to possibly be contained.

“I don’t care if you’re bound to me until the day that I die,” he hisses, and you can feel that fatal strike being prepared to wound. “I don’t care if you have no way to disobey me should I give you an order. I don’t care if I could command you to never abuse your magic like that again.”

“Rhys…” you breathe, staring at him, fear bubbling away. You’d told Azriel he would never touch the bond, that he would never do that to you, and yet… “Rhys, don’t…”

“I can’t,” he hisses, defeat lining his features.

Relief washes over you like a wave of cool water, shoulders slumping from their tension, magic beginning to dissipate.

He shakes his head, a lock of neat, blue-black hair falling out of place. “But if you aren’t out of Velaris by the time the sun rises tomorrow…”

He’s in front of you in a flash, but your power doesn’t respond. Not as he appears before you, or as his hand slides around your throat. Not even as he forces a bargain upon your flesh, ink burning as it’s stamped in plain sight.

“You will not only lose your powers over death, but your life, too.”

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy

az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @assassinsblade @marvelouslovely-barnes @v3lv3tf0x @kalulakunundrum @vellichor01 @throneofsmut

#azriel x reader #azriel angst #azriel x you #azriel shadowsinger #heart dividers by cafekitsune

[spacebarbarianweird]

Death, Worthy of a Barbarian

Synopsis: Tiriel and Astarion had a good life together, and now it's time for her to go.

TW: Tav's death

Thanks @tragedybunny for beta-reading!

Tags: main character's death, Astarion mourns his wife.

Read on AO3

Masterlist

Headcanons

Tiriel raises up her face to the skies. Her  legs are numb after a long walk in the mountain, and her  throat burns with panting.

She feels a strong hand on her back - in case she falls down, Astarion will catch her. 

"So, my sweet, what are we doing now?”

Tiriel smiles at her husband.

It's been 150 years since they met. 130 since they became parents to a wonderful dhampir woman they named Alethaine. Thirty - since they decided to become adventurers once again.

Astarion hasn’t changed a bit. Frozen in time, he looks the same as he did decades ago. Short silver curls, his roguish smile, pale skin, crimson eyes, still the most beautiful man she’s ever seen. And all hers.

Tiriel stopped aging at twenty-five. Her elven blood didn’t let her wither , but a year ago the human ancestry finally took a toll on her. Within a year the red hair got pale. Wrinkles covered the face. Tiriel was still strong enough to wield her ax and travel through the wilderness.But -

"Let me relax a bit." Tiriel sits on the ground. Astarion immediately kneels beside her the same way he did for all these one hundred and fifty years. "Don't look at me like that! I am not an old wreck."

He plants a kiss on her cheek. The winds howl like hungry wolves, and a group of warriors who joined them look scared.

All young humans, not older than forty. For them, Astarion and Tiriel are the relics of older times. People who remember Baldur's Gate before the ocean washed half of the city into the dark waters and who can tell about the Cult of Bhaal and many, many other things they witnessed.

"If you are a wreck, you are the most fierce and beautiful wreck this world has seen."

Tiriel touches Astarion's curls and he closes his eyes like a content cat. She wants to tell him a lot of things - that she is sorry they haven't found him a way to walk in the sun, that they haven't found his family... How much she loves him, her very own elven prince she saved from monsters.

Gods know she doesn't have much time left.

They've discussed it many times. Tiriel is mortal and though half-elves often live up to two centuries it's still not much in comparison with Astarion's immortality.

And he knows Tiriel doesn't want to die in bed, old and helpless. She is a warrior, with rage in her blood - she must die in a battle, fighting and killing the most ravenous monster Faerun has seen.

She is Tirirel the Barbarian of the Sunset Mountains, after all.But she is sometimes so weak, she can't lift her ax up for days.

"What do you think she's doing now?" Astarion suddenly says.

Tiriel doesn't need to ask who he talks about.Alethaine, their daughter.

Silver curls, dark eyes, a pair of fangs. She used to be a monster hunter - but sixty years ago she was invited to the court of the Grand Duchy of Shantal. "They prefer to have a dark witch of their own", Alethaine said, changing her light travel armor to a black dress of a noblewoman. She always had mannerisms of royalty and the life at the castle suited her more than sleeping in the dirt while hunting yet another monster.

"It's night, Astarion, she probably walks around the woods."

"Or reading"

"Maybe both at the same time"

Astarion laughs. "When we deal with that dragon, let's visit her. I understand we live so long that years mean little to us. But it's been a decade since we last saw our little princess."

"Our little princess is one hundred and thirty years old"

"Which makes her a young elven maiden. Though, of course, she would have been considered an adult among Tel’Quessira but still."

Tiriel touches Astarion's cheek. "Agreed. Once we get a reward, let's sail to the Border Kingdoms. I suppose the High Necromancer can offer her parents both a shelter and a job."

Astarion grabs Tiriel’s hand and kisses the knuckles.

"Beware! The beast is here!", a warrior yells, and a loud rumbling sound pierces the air.

Astarion prepares his bow and arrows - he will hide in shadows, somewhere he can distract the beast with annoying shots and small fireballs.

Meanwhile, Tiriel will rush ahead right into the beast's maw. To slaughter it like countless monsters she's killed in her life.

Starting with a wild bear she butchered at the age of fifteen.

Tiriel’s family never loved her. They even didn't bother to give her a name rather than calling the girl “a fairy bastard” and “a pixie”. As if it was her fault, a married woman who dared to call herself "mother", couldn't keep her legs shut.

Her siblings, all of whom are long dead, just pushed Tiriel down the cliff, hoping she would never come back. Tiriel still remembers pain, embarrassment, anger, and sorrow. Why? Why me? Why do they hate me?

And the sorrow transformed into rage. Her blood boiled and Tiriel cried out like an animal, like a wild beast attacking the bear with a small knife she had.

Rage.A skill of primal warriors, fury nothing can compare to. It gave Tiriel strength, faith, and bravery.

And ever since then, her blood boils the same way before the battle. When suddenly the two-handed ax gets as light as a wooden stick and the monster in front of Tiriel becomes just a pathetic animal

"I will go first!" Tiriel says to the warriors, lifting the ax.And suddenly it feels too heavy.

Pain pierces her  body, from spine to legs, and Tiriel almost collapses to the ground.

Human ancestry dictates its rules.

You are old, Tiriel. You don't belong to the battlefield. You belong to a safe bed in a cozy home which will be your grave soon enough.

Pale hands grab Tiriel’s waist and help the woman to stand up. Astarion looks at Tiriel, with no smirk or tease in his eyes.

"IT'S HERE!"

The massive body of the beast lands, ready to burn down everything to the crisp. A dragon. A Death, worthy of a warrior.

Tiriel isn't scared. She smiles at Astarion and presses her wrinkled forehead to his."Astarion, tell the bards to make a song about me."

Whatever he answers drowns in the dragon's roar.Tiriel walks right to the beast. Then she runs.The blood boils with rage. The lungs burn. The adamantium ax feels as light as if it was  made of hollow bones.

Tiriel has no complaints and no regrets.

She had everything she could ever wish for. A life full of heroic deeds. Friends to drink ale with. A family. A daughter to be proud of.A man to hold in arms.

She will be remembered. She will be loved.That's her own immortality.

Tiriel the Barbarian runs faster and faster, holding her weapon above her head.

"RAGE!!!"

***

It all ended in a blink of an eye. The dragon which spent its last minutes trying to get a shadow figure who dared to cast "ig-nis' ' now lies dead among the burning trees.It won't attack the city, and the people will spend the next days honoring the heroes who killed the dragon, not hiding from it.

Astarion jumps down on the ground."Tiriel! TIRIEL!!!"

No, she couldn't die. Not now. He needs her. He will always need her. And they agreed to visit Alethaine together, she must be alive!

Astarion waits. Waits to hear her voice, to see her. "It's just a scratch" she will tell him, visibly bleeding and he will carry her in his arms to a safe place.

Tell the bards to make a song about me.

What did he answer? What was his response?I love you.

Yes, that's what he told her. That is what he has been telling her for decades. Every day, these words never lost their meaning.

"Tiriel!" Astarion grabs a warrior's hand. "Damn, where is she?!"

"She... died."

Astarion pushes the man away and runs to the dragon's corpse. It's so hot it’s impossible to be there but blessed by his immortality Astarion barely feels the heat.

"Tiriel! Tiriel!"He keeps calling, hoping to hear the answer. She must have been wounded. Of course, fights aren’t easy for her anymore. She is getting older. But she still... She has time to spend with him.

Then he stumbles over something.

Astarion makes a step back and sees the plate of her armor, melted in the dragon fire.Red hot.

"I am sorry", one of the warriors says. "She just jumped into it like a fucking dragon slayer. She cracked the beast's skull in two and disappeared in the flames. We will remember her. She saved us."

Astarion drops to his knees still holding the piece of armor in his pale hands. He feels numb. Is he supposed to yell? To scream? To curse? What do people do when they lose their hearts?

He sits like that staring in the distance. He will never see Tiriel. He will never hold her warm hands. He will never talk to her. He won't spend hours motionless while Tiriel, sound asleep, clings to his cold body.

She will never kiss him. Or caress his elven ears.

He will never taste her blood, so divine and sweet.

He will never read to her, will never say how much he loves her just to see a smile on her face.

Tiriel made him feel redeemed, innocent, and alive. She brushed away his terrible past with a tender touch of her fingers. Now when he thinks about his scars, they don't hurt because he remembers Tiriel's kisses along his skin.

But it's over now.

Her mortal life came to an end. She died as she desired. In a fight. The bards will make a song about her. People will remember her.

"You need to go, it's almost sunrise", a young woman tries to make him stand but his legs don't obey.

"I-I... Need to tell... my daughter..." Astarion mutters.

Alethaine... She was attached to her mother. Ever since she was born. Always clinging to her like a kitten. Astarion remembers Alethaine crying - when she was six Tiriel was severely wounded and though she was all right the  little Dhampir realized what mortality was for the first time.

Of course, that six-year-old girl is long gone. The woman he will have to talk to has a century's worth of life experience. But a mother is a mother. And Astarion will have to be strong when he meets the High Necromancer, Alethaine Ancunin.

Gods know, he doesn't want to deliver this news to her. But who will? 

Astarion looks around trying to memorize the place which became a grave for his beloved.

He will grieve. He will mourn. Once his mind makes peace with what happened. He just doesn't know how to live without Tiriel. He started living at his grave 150 years ago, with her by his side. Her smile, her warmth, her kindness.

Which are all gone.

Astarion gives out a cry, pressing the melted plate to his chest.

--

Tag list

@tugoslovenka @marcynomercy @wintersire @vixstarria @not-so-lost-after-all @ashiro20 @theearthsfinalconfession @herstxrgirl @starlight-ipomoea@micropoe10 @astarion-imagine-archive @veillsar @elora-the-slutty-songstress @fayeriess @lumienyx@astarion-beloved @tallymonster @caitlincat-95 @tragedybunny @valeprati @lynnlovesthestars @marina-and-the-memes

#astarion #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion romance #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #astarion hurt #astarion fics #astarion fic #astarion fanfic #spacebarbarian fics #astarion angst #tiriel of the sunset mountains #tiriel the barbarian #astarion x tiriel #oc tav: tiriel

[tadfools]

bee hello!! <3 <3 do you have any hcs for astarion's birth family? supposedly if they're elves they could still be alive...

This is longer than I meant it to be but you said my name so I love you anon and have unlocked an info dump that I've been sitting on for 2.5 years. This got away from me but the tldr is his mama's are named Aneirin and Juliana

I actually have a fic cooking right now about after the game's epilogue with his parents in it. Not to get too sidetracked, but my Tav is a necromancer, their son is dead and yet apparently saved all of the gate so... they come a knocking under the pretence that necromancer brought their dead son back as a thrall, pain comedy ensues (it'll be great i promise)

Astarion's only about 240 years old if we're taking the time he's been dead into account (high elves reach full maturity around 100 if you go by 5e rules and can live up to an average of 750)

I think his birth mother is on the soft side of 500 and with him being a magistrate, the Ancunín's come from money. Despite him having a grave in Baldur's Gate, I think his family resides in Evereska (its a big elven city) I've seen a few people ruminate over the possibility of him being a moon elf but... I don't know, there's something about him being ripped from the sun in every possible way that means so much to me. There's a part with the dark urge where he talks about not giving up freedom for all the gems in Evereska (i'm paraphrasing from memory here) I used that as an excuse to have him be from that city

Aneirin is the name I'm using for her in the fic and I think before he was taken from the sun and put under so much stress that his hair greyed, that he looked just like her.

Beautiful brown eyes that shine like copper under the sun but meld into a rich earth in the night. Her suntan skin is covered in freckles head to toe, her long curly hair is always kept within a neat braid which is coiled into a bun at the base of her neck. There’s a streak of grey woven through the curls

She has always been a kind woman, born into the higher echelons of society, she married an older elven man quite young named Tiberius at her parent’s behest to secure a business merger. Aneirin refused to take his last name. While they were always cordial to one another, there was no love shared between her and Tiberius but the son they had, Astarion, was the light of her life. There was no greater joy than hearing that of her son’s laughter. He loved her dearly and had promised to answer the sending spells she would toss his way after leaving Evereska – until he abruptly stopped

I think the Ancunín’s are skilled wizards, though Astarion falls into the arcane trickster category for me. If during the game his last name was ever mentioned, I fully think Gale would have had a wash of dread flow through him. The family keep to themselves yes, but that name is known through higher arcane circles

Tiberius died when Astarion was just a boy, there were never any memories to solidify him as Astarion’s father. But there was a wood elf woman named Juliana who always had a mischievous smile that kept close to the side of his mother. She was the one who taught Astarion on how to pick a lock, to balance on the heel of his foot as to not be noticed. She was the one who showed him how to wield a bow – much to his mother’s chagrin

Juliana has wine dark hair and is hardly ever seen without a ring on each finger. Tall and lithe, she glides through the room as if she were a shadow. Mischief incarnate, little Astarion took to her like a duck in water

Juliana and Aneirin met in their twenties at a ball - or a banquet (the two can never remember) Juliana’s family ran a renowned winery, Aneirin always fancied wine. And while Aneirin’s title forced her to marry Tiberius, the two women were never far from each other. After his death, she became a patron of the winery

I have a story beat where at the Last Light Astarion picks up an old bottle of red wine absentmindly and in gilded font it reads ‘Aneirin Red: dagger sheathed bow no longer notched; may the sunlight guide you home’ It *failed skilled check* strikes no chord in his mind

#asks for bee #baldur’s gate 3 #bg3 #astarion #astarion ancunin #bg3 hcs #i don't think this is what you wanted but bone apple teeth

[rebelspykatie]

that green light, i want it

Part 4

“We don’t have time for this,” Steve sighs, wiping the sweat from his brow and shoving more clothing into his bag. “Nancy is my ex. Barb was her best friend. We were the last people to see her alive before she disappeared into the woods. Cops thought it was me for a while, but there’s obviously no evidence. They let the case go cold. Couldn’t find a body.” 

He gets down on the floor to pull some things out and pack them away. 

“Nancy wouldn’t let it go. She retraced Barb’s steps and ended up in the woods alone. The coven found her and taught her magic.”

“Just like that?”

“No, it wasn’t that simple. I think they wanted to harness her power. It was raw and wild because she was so angry. Nance thought it was for her benefit, but now I think they were covering up their own tracks. Maybe they even purposefully led her away from the truth, but the power was killing her. It feeds on emotions and she was grieving, so when I found her, she was barely alive.”

He gets off the floor and keeps fluttering around the room, not even looking at Eddie as he continues. 

“I made her take me to them. I promised to protect her and took her place. We kept searching for answers. The power came more naturally to me than it did Nancy. Guilt is a better conduit than grief.”

“Why do you think you’re guilty? I mean, besides digging up dead bodies, but it sounds like that was for a good reason.” 

Steve feels a weird flutter in his stomach at that, that someone would believe he wasn’t an awful person. Eddie has no reason to trust him, especially after Steve attacked him, but here he is, offering up words that mean more than he could possibly realize. 

“I was the last person to see her alive. Both of us were. If we hadn’t…well if we hadn’t made a dumb decision to go sleep together, Barb might still be alive.” 

“You didn’t push her into the woods, right?” 

Steve freezes, holding a shirt in one hand and looking up at Eddie, “No, of course not.” 

“Then it’s not your fault,” and he says it so simply, like it’s a fact. “You were a kid when that happened, if I remember what Wayne said,” Steve nods, “She made a bad choice. The only person at fault is the person that killed her.” 

Silence follows that, the only sound in the room is their breathing and the soft scratchy friction as he picks up another pair of socks and crams them into his bag. 

“We lied to them about what we were doing,” he finally adds, picking up the old book and holding it up. “I took this. It’s an account from a necromancer. I didn’t realize how helpful it would be.” 

“You’re telling me these hags in the woods have a library?” Eddie takes the book and flips through it. 

Steve snorts, “It’s not that impressive. Just a bunch of old shit that nobody really pays attention to, books and journals from their ancestors.” 

“Is magic genetic?” Eddie looks up at him, curiosity radiating off of him.

“Not exactly.” He’s being entirely unhelpful to Eddie’s plight, if the deadpan look he shoots him is anything to go by, but they really don’t have time for this. “Look, do you remember the caretaker that was there before you?” 

“Old man Herman? Of course I remember him. He’s the only reason I have this job in the first place. His son used to work with Wayne, so he did me a solid and gave me this job.”

“What if I said he didn’t die of a heart attack?” Steve waits, confusion washing over Eddie’s face. “The coven poisoned him. Made it look like a heart attack.”

It takes a minute. Steve can practically see the gears turning in Eddie’s head, how he looks like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin as he paces around the room. There’s something about Eddie that feels too big to contain in any room, like his energy is going to ricochet off the walls and knock Steve over. 

“He saw something,” Eddie mutters, more of a statement than a question. 

“When Nancy started all of this, she was just looking for clues. The coven promised they could help her, taught her tracing spells and they must’ve known it wouldn’t lead anywhere, it kept pointing us back to the woods. We tried everything, looking for witnesses, combing through every inch out there. Nance even tried a time travel spell, but it didn’t work.”

“Time tra-” Eddie’s eyes look like they’re about to pop out of his head.

Steve ignores him, presses on. “Nancy heard one of the others talking about necromancy. It was like an old wives tale they passed around, a warning to new witches about the dangers of using dark magic.” He shakes his head, laughing a completely unamused laugh. “It gave her an idea. Before, we were operating as if she was still alive, but what if she was dead? What if we could find Barb’s body and communicate with her?” 

He sits on the edge of the bed, scrubbing a hand down his face. “We had to practice. Well, I had to practice. I wouldn’t let Nance go anywhere near that kind of magic, she was already burnt out. So I worked my way through the graveyard. It took months to get right. Working only when the coven wouldn’t catch wind of our plans.”

Eddie sits down on the bed beside him, closer than Steve was expecting, thighs touching and his hand settling on Steve’s knee. It’s comforting, even if Steve hadn’t realized how unsettled he’d become. 

“Tonight was just supposed to be a practice run for if we ever figured out where Barb was. The first time I really got to speak to the body. It was Herman. I remembered that he used to work there from when my grandpa died, so I asked if he’d seen anything. Thought it was a long shot, but-well, then he started talking.”

“And now you know who killed her?” Eddie tilts his head to catch Steve’s eye, but he lets his gaze fall to the floor in front of them. Eddie doesn’t really need an answer, but he nods anyway. 

He wishes he didn’t know. He wishes he had never followed Nancy into the woods, or up the stairs to his bedroom that night. He wishes he could close his eyes and make everything melt away into oblivion and bring Barb back. His whole life just feels like a series of bad decisions. 

Maybe then he wouldn’t feel this gnawing ache in his gut every day. The guilt wouldn’t be clawing at his throat. Nancy would be happy and whole again. He wouldn’t have to live with letting everyone in his life down.  But that’s not reality. He has to do something. They’re sitting ducks here.

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven | Part Eight | Part Nine | Epilogue | AO3

#stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #katie writes

[facelessxchurch]

Headcanons: The Red Right Hand

• Serpine is one of only a handful of people who ever gained the red right hand and not only bc it's a forbidden technique even among necromancers. Powerful magic like this takes a price not everyone is willing or able to pay. If you want to cause pain, you'll need to endure pain as well.

-> For one, the process of creating the red right hand is excruciating and requires a high pain tolerance and self-discipline.

-> Second, even if the ritual is a success the red hand might not work for its user. For it to function you must have the sincere will to kill and to cause pain. Any second thoughts, hesitations or any other form of reluctance and the technique will fail (think the three unforgivable curses from HP). This is a technique only someone sure of their own sadism would ever attempt to learn.

• That also means that the red hand is safe to touch as long as Nef has no interest in killing you and prevents him from killing anyone on accident.

• Despite that everyone (apart from Mevolent) still gets nervous when he takes the glove off.

• (That's why his coup failed. He tried to kill Mev with his red hand, but when he hesitated it stopped working.)

• Nef always wears a pair of black leather gloves bc wearing one glove would look odd and make him stand out, which could get in the way of him manipulating and charming his way to his goal.

• Even after the ritual is completed the hand will never stop hurting though the pain did dull with time. Nef got used to it eventually.

• But the more he uses the hand the more it hurts (nerfs the hand so he can't just one shot kill everyone). The worse the pain gets the longer it will take him to recover from it. Being masochistic as well as sadistic Nef revels in the pain he has to endure as much as the pain he causes but once it surpasses a certain level he'll require pain-numbing leaves which he always carries for cases like this. If he is desperate enough to use his hand until he himself ends up screaming on the floor, curled around his red hand he is long past the point where pain leaves will help.

• The Red Hand is the ultimate "I will shatter myself to cut you with the shards" which fits Nef and his spiteful, self-destructive tendencies so well.

• While the shadows necromancers use are magic fuelled by death, the red hand is pure death magic.

The Ritual/Learning the Technique

The ritual involved him having to flay his own hand. He needed to do everything himself or it won't work

There is no need to use the right hand for the technique to work. It just happens that Nef is left-handed. For one it would be foolish to do something like this to your dominant hand. But also, flaying yourself is hard enough with your dominant hand, let alone your other. Imagine the strength of will it took for him to calm himself and try to suppress the shaking of his hands as he kept cutting.

During the ritual, the use of anything that would dull the pain is strictly prohibited.

As if being flayed isn't bad enough, he had to coat his hand in a mix of oils and herbs which burned like hell. They prevent the exposed flesh from getting infected or bleeding out and offer the protection that normally the skin would have provided. It also prevents it from healing.

All through the ritual he has to repeat the incantations Tenebrae dictated to him in a magic language he only half understands due to its age and lack of access to the resources he would need to fully understand it despite his best efforts to obtain them.

Unbeknownst to Nef the temples have the missing texts needed to fully learn the language which is how Tenebrae was able to to change the incantations so the red hand would temporarily kill any necromancer it was used on before resurrecting them. This would ensure Skul's survival as well as protect the temples (including himself) from Nef should he decide they outlived their usefulness.

The ritual to learn the technique is written down in the Grimoire of a dark mage and former leader of the Irish Necromancer Temple which is why they still have it long after his passing and can use it without triggering the protection curse placed upon it. The curse is the only reason Nef didn't force them to hand the Grimoire over. He can either deal with breaking a curse or stay friendly with the necromancers. The latter seemed less suicidal.

The Grimoire is presumably still hidden in the abandoned Irish temple somewhere.

#Nefarian Serpine #skulduggery pleasant #red right hand #headcanon #Nefarian Serpine Headcanon #magic

[sirenjose]

Season 5 Essence 1 Analysis

This is an essence based on Harry Potter. There is a school of magic (and a city?), a forbidden forest, and a war between good (white) and bad (dark) wizards. There are also skins based on various Harry Potter characters. White Beard is Dumbledore, Shaman is Lupin, Potion Master is Snape, Forbidden Forest Guard is Hagrid, Glory is an Auror, Siren is likely based on Bellatrix, Scylla is likely based on Narcissa Malfoy, and Light Guardian being a thing that looks like a giant spider is similar to Aragog (though personally I think it’s possible her role is maybe similar to how Nagini was for Voldemort).

Regarding Shaman Apprentice, I’m less certain who she is. The officials did make a post with 2 pictures that seemed to be them showing what/who the sides were in this story/essence.

One side was Shaman Apprentice, Siren, and Potion Master, and they were obviously being shown as the “bad” side (not to mention the colors for those skins, being dark, black, and green mostly, look like Slytherin colors). The “good” side was Glory, Forbidden Forest Guard, and Shaman, who were implied to be fighting the dark wizards (thus that means the other side we saw is implied to be bad, for proof). Due to this and on who some of the other skins seem to be, I think Shaman Apprentice (Helena) is likely based on Draco Malfoy. From how much the essence feels like the final book of the Harry Potter series, or at least near the end of the series, having someone for the role of Draco Malfoy, who plays a rather important role near the end of the series especially, makes sense. Also, Shaman Apprentice’s “noble birth” could refer to Draco being part of the Malfoy family (who definitely would see their family as great, high, and noble, due to being purebloods).

If we have a Harry Potter based essence, then wouldn’t it also make sense to have skins for the roles of the 2 most important characters of the series: Voldemort and Harry Potter? Regarding the parallel for Voldemort, Siren did hint at him, what with mentioning wanting to return to her “old master”, and if Siren represents Bellatrix, that “old master” would be referring to Voldemort. Scylla obviously serves this same person, as her description mentions her wanting to save Siren, who is imprisoned in the Forbidden Forest by the white wizards. Now, the person who represents Voldemort, based on hints in the skin’s appearance as well as hints from skin names, is likely Hastur’s Necromancer skin.

The biggest hint comes from the thing on Hastur’s back.

Its shape matches with a certain symbol we can see on Helena’s, Vera’s, and Fiona’s skins.

This symbol on all of them looks like a version of the symbol for the Deathly Hallows from Harry Potter. It’s not the exact same, but it is similar enough where anyone who’s read or seen Harry Potter should still get the idea of what it is. We can see a large triangle, with several circles and a line inside it, as well as what looks like a crescent moon on its back through the top of the triangle.

I think this symbol and the fact all these skins have it is further connection that the sides are the way I mentioned earlier (with Helena’s, Vera’s, and Fiona’s skins being the “bad side”), and Necromancer is the “old master” Siren was referring to.

Last thing about Necromancer is how the symbol on his hand is the same as the one on Soul Catcher’s green magnet. The symbol on Necromancer’s back may be meant to relate to the purple magnet.

That just leaves Harry Potter. Based on various factors, I think it’s likely that Norton in this essence/story is Harry (or at least the role of the opposing force to Necromancer). First, he’s the S tier skin for this essence, and S tiers normally play the most important roles in each essence’s story. Second, Norton shares parallels with Harry regarding their backgrounds and stories. Third, Soul Catcher’s magnets are likely this essence’s version of the resurrection stone, one of the Deathly Hallows. That’s because of how this essence’s version of the Deathly Hallows symbols looks, which has 2 circles (in the bottom half of the triangle) in the place of the 1 the original symbol had to represent the stone. Another reason is because of the job Soul Catcher does, as in guiding souls of the dead to where they should be going (afterlife), which is something similar to what the resurrection stone does and is related to (as well as having all the hollows makes the person the “master of death”, and harry potter did have all 3 at one point)

We’ll talk about him more later, but let’s discuss the others first.

White Beard is simple enough. Like Dumbledore, he is the one protecting the inhabitants of the “city” as well as the kids in the school (which he likely runs as headmaster). He probably helps keep the dark wizards and Necromancer at bay. Shaman and Potion Master/Pharmacist are teachers at his school, and Shaman Apprentice/Sorcery Apprentice is a student. Then, there’s White Beard and/or Glory (a graduate of the school) who were probably the ones that captured and imprisoned Siren in the Forbidden Forest. Siren is Bellatrix because Bellatrix in Harry Potter was imprisoned for a time in Azkaban before managing to escape, and Siren is also imprisoned somewhere before also eventually escaping. And this detail seems to be something that might draw the 2 sides into a conflict. Scylla we know is coming to rescue her, and Siren seems to be making her own plans to escape, or at least is preparing for when someone (Scylla) will come to rescue her. Scylla mentions wanting to regain her “past glory”. This is like Narcissa and the Malfoy family in general wanting to redeem themselves to Voldemort after various failures. Not to mention Narcissa is the sister to Bellatrix, and Scylla mentions wanting to rescue her sister, which refers to Siren.

It’s also possible from the wording that she may be preparing with someone’s help or is working with someone, possibly someone in the city or school. Since Potion Master and Shaman Apprentice are shown to be on her side, it could be one or both of them. We know Snape was someone who did secretly work for the dark wizards (though he ends up revealing he was also undercover for Dumbledore and had betrayed Voldemort), as did Draco Malfoy, who was ordered to kill Dumbledore and help the dark wizards (due to his parents, especially his father, being supporters of Voldemort).

Potion Master’s description, to echo Snape and his role in the story (as a person with the bad guys, but one who is also actually secretly with Dumbledore), does bring up the question of their loyalty and who it belongs to. Shaman Apprentice’s description is mentioned to essentially be faking their personality “to achieve her goals”, which hints at their not quite straight alignment with the good guys. This is like Draco Malfoy who also has to hide his true intentions of killing Dumbledore. Also, this fake friendly image mentioned in Shaman Apprentice’s skin could be referring to the image she has as Sorcery Apprentice (aka, Sorcery Apprentice is the “fake” image/personality possibly).

Before we continue, I want to quickly address the fact a number of characters in this essence have 2 different skins, such as Helena’s Shaman Apprentice and Sorcery Apprentice, Joker’s Forbidden Forest Guard and Forbidden Area Guard, Vera’s Potion Master and Pharmacist, and so on. I believe most of these skins are the same person, except for Siren and Scylla based on their names, which refer to 2 different Greek monsters, and how Scylla is mentioned to be going to save Siren. So I will be looking at the story based on this belief.

Now, Siren is imprisoned in the Forbidden Forest. This place seems to have a fair amount of significance in this essence’s story. We have Siren who’s trapped in the forest, Scylla who’s going to be going to the forest to rescue Siren, Forbidden Forest Guard aka Hagrid who’s guarding the forest (and by extension Siren), Forbidden Area Guard with the “area” likely also referring to the forest and who also hints that he’s trying to keep people from stealing from the place (which could refer to a couple things, but especially Siren), and Light Guardian with her similarities to Aragog who actually lived in the forest, not to mention the “(sacred) land” she strayed into is most likely the Forbidden Forest or at least the area where the city and school are.

To add to all this, Voldemort did spend time in the forest in the last book during the battle at Hogwarts, and most notably was there when Harry came to him to (willingly) let Voldemort kill him. So I think it’s possible Necromancer could be there at some point at least during this essence’s story. And from how I think Light Guardian might have a role similar to what Nagini was to Voldemort, I think it makes sense that, first, Voldemort would then be there too (as in he’s wherever Nagini is, who he stayed very close to especially after Harry destroyed many of his other horcruxes), but secondly, from Light Guardian’s description I think it’s also implying that she might be protecting him. Necromancer’s description does basically say that light doesn’t necessarily equate to good.

(This post (it’s in Japanese) https://twitter.com/identityvjp/status/1202512989141819392 implies the light could be either hope or death. Thus, Light Guardian might actually be “weaving death”, rather than some good kind of light.)

As Light Guardian is mentioned to “weave light”, as well as from her name, I think it’s hinting that Light Guardian is actually with the bad guys, either from the start or was recruited. The latter idea comes from her animation in the showroom with how she seems to almost die but then come back, which could connect to Necromancer, who’s name hints at him being able to raise and/or use the dead. If anything, Voldemort technically did have more than just humans on his side that fought against the good guys.

I have no idea if that means Light Guardian, like Nagini from Harry Potter, is a horcrux. There isn’t enough information to tell. There aren’t really any obvious hints in this essence that allude to the existence of horcruxes like there were in Harry Potter. So for now we can probably think whichever way we like.

With most of the others out of the way, that mainly just leaves Norton, and he also has 2 for this essence: Soul Catcher and Magic Item Keeper.

Following the pattern (from other essences) of other S-tiers and the shop B-tier that gets released soon after, Magic Item Keeper and Soul Catcher are the same person, with Magic Item Keeper either being a past version (as in is from earlier in the story’s timeline than Soul Catcher is) or at least some version of Soul Catcher. Another hint comes from how the designs on Soul Catcher’s and Magic Item Keeper’s clothes are quite similar (they both have vine and leaf designs). Soul Catcher’s is brighter, more colorful, and has much more of the design covering the shirt, but they’re still pretty similar designs either way.

There are other hints to them being similar, one of which being the symbol on Magic Item Keeper’s glove, but we’ll dive into that more deeply in a bit.

It’s been mentioned that there’s a war going on between the two sides (the white and dark wizards). Soul Catcher may essentially be using Magic Item Keeper as a disguise and turned into him near the start or at some other earlier point in the war, with the purpose being to fight against Necromancer. Magic Item Keeper is possibly a student, teacher, or some other staff member at the magic school. The Harry Potter series is a story that drives towards the central point of the battle between Harry and Voldemort. Soul Catcher, like Harry to Voldemort, is Necromancer’s opposite and/or is the only one who can defeat Necromancer, likely in part due to his power with spirits/the dead, the magnets he uses, and so on.

One way you can see the relation between Soul Catcher and Necromancer is via their names and descriptions. Soul Catcher is about guiding souls (to the afterlife), while a “necromancer” is someone who manipulates and/or raises the dead. Necromancer’s description (and several other posts by officials) obviously ties him closely to death, and his accessory “Nosferatu” is mentioned to bring disaster the day it reappears. Maybe Necromancer is trying to raise and/or use the dead, while Soul Catcher is trying to prevent him from doing that and/or return the souls back to where they belong.

If Soul Catcher is Harry (and Soul Catcher is also Magic Item Keeper) it’s possible that, like Harry, he’s going about trying to destroy horcruxes and/or collect the Deathly Hallows. Magic Item Keeper is mentioned to be managing and watching over some magical inventory. This inventory could refer to the horcruxes, as Voldemort had all his horcruxes being important magical items, or to the Deathly Hallows, with all 3 being very powerful objects, and the Elder Wand being a big part of the plot of the series (especially in the later books). Harry already had the invisibility cloak from the beginning, the resurrection stone he gets much later on, but as it was hidden in the snitch, he doesn’t learn how to open it until near the very end of the last book, and finally the elder wand, which he apparently won from Draco after he disarmed him, and as the true owner of the wand, Voldemort is unable to use it to kill Harry.

The Deathly Hallows in this essence aren’t exactly the same as they were in Harry Potter, which is obvious from the difference in the symbols. We know the magnets are likely the equivalent of the resurrection stone. The stone summons images of deceased loved ones, and the magnets we see in Soul Catcher’s animation in the costume gallery cause a spirit to appear. The question is what the other hallows are. The Elder Wand could be the wand we see White Beard holding, which has a similar shape as the one in this essence’s Deathly Hallows symbol. This would match with White Beard being Dumbledore, who owned the Elder Wand before his death (which involved Draco and Snape).

The Invisibility Cloak is the hardest of the 3 to figure out. It could be Nosferatu, which we know is an important item in this essence due to it alluding to bringing disaster. The problem with this is that there isn’t a whole lot of evidence other than a vaguely similar shape and it being one of the only other important items in this essence we are aware of to connect it with the invisibility cloak. One last idea I had has to do with Harry already having the invisibility cloak. The Invisibility Cloak, as its name hints at, hides the wearer from everyone. It’s possible Magic Item Keeper may be the equivalent of Harry when he’s wearing the cloak, as Magic Item Keeper is the disguised version of Soul Catcher. Maybe Soul Catcher “uses” the cloak, which causes him to become “hidden”, resulting in him being disguised as Magic Item Keeper. In the story of the 3 brothers, the brother with the cloak uses it to hide from Death. Soul Catcher hiding from Necromancer (as well as everyone else, including the white wizards and everyone at the school) would be just like that.

If Norton wound up getting all 3 of the Deathly Hallows, that would match what happens in the story with Harry. So it’s possible Necromancer, like Voldemort, may either be after the “Elder Wand” or whatever White Beard has, or if he doesn’t already have it he may want Nosferatu, which Magic Item Keeper is likely to be keeping (away from Necromancer). If he wants whatever wand White Beard has (it doesn’t really matter too much, it may happen either way), it’s possible White Beard might end up sharing a fate similar to Dumbledore and get himself killed. It’s possible Snape aka Potion Master and Draco aka Shaman Apprentice would be involved in his death too. Then, eventually, the wand will end up being owned by Norton, and thus events can play out similar to how they did for Harry in the battle with Voldemort in the last book. Also, if Norton had all 3 hallows, that would make him Master of Death like Harry was. This is something that would fit considering the kind of entity Soul Catcher is, or even just Soul Catcher considering the whole theme of his skin and such.

So, let’s go over the story again. You have White Beard who protects a city and runs a school of magic, with teachers like Potion Master/Pharmacist who’s secretly with the dark wizards but even more secretly actually undercover for White Beard, Shaman, and possibly Magic Item Keeper, who’s secretly Soul Catcher in disguise. Shaman Apprentice/Sorcery Apprentice is a student at the school who’s also with the dark wizards, possibly to kill White Beard and/or help Siren and maybe Scylla too. Siren is imprisoned in the Forbidden Forest, which is being guarded by Forbidden Forest Guardian/Forbidden Area Guardian, and Scylla is coming to save her. Glory is a graduate of the magic school and is on the front lines fighting against the dark wizards.  Siren and Scylla work for Necromancer, who’s attempting to either get Nosferatu to cause disaster, get White Beard’s wand which is one of the Deathly Hallows and will help him be unbeatable in battle, or just generally defeat the white wizards/good guys. Light Guardian might potentially be in the Forbidden Forest as well and may also be working for Necromancer.

Necromancer may also be raising and controlling the dead, and possibly using them in his fight against the good guys. Soul Catcher, as well as Necromancer, might be non-human entities, with Soul Catcher possibly being a god of death (due to his role of guiding souls to the afterlife, his Day of the Dead skin theme, and other hints) or at least someone associated with the underworld and death. One random idea is that Soul Catcher might also be someone (or a spirit or other being) Necromancer tried to summon and use/control, or Soul Catcher just is one of the types of entities Necromancer is able to attempt to manipulate, but Soul Catcher either way refuses and/or resists.

Soul Catcher, disguised as Magic Item Keeper, may be working to destroy (Necromancer’s) horcruxes, prevent Necromancer from obtaining Nosferatu, and eventually he may end up with all 3 Deathly Hallows. It’s also likely Magic Item Keeper has other magical items in his inventory. These can include things that he wants or needs, items that can help the good guys, or items that Necromancer wants that Magic Item Keeper is protecting. At some point, Magic Item Keeper might confront Shaman Apprentice possibly, which might help him get ownership of the Elder Wand, and maybe again another time at which point he’ll save Shaman Apprentice’s life, which will put him on Scylla’s good side later. Potion Master might eventually reveal their allegiance to White Beard, at least to Magic Item Keeper, probably at the same time sharing some important information about the bad guys.

Further in the story, Magic Item Keeper may come to a point where he has to “die”, but doesn’t, either due to having all 3 hallows or simply because he’s secretly Soul Catcher. He may still fake it, with Scylla’s help who is grateful to him for saving the life of Shaman Apprentice (who may be Scylla’s child), before eventually revealing he is still alive and the fact he’s actually Soul Catcher. The story will finish with a battle between Soul Catcher and Necromancer, with Soul Catcher finally defeating Necromancer and concluding the war.

Now that I’ve discussed the story, next I’m going to analyze several other elements and details of this essence.

First, let me talk about the term “Shaman” (which is used for both Emily’s and 1 of Helena’s skins in this essence). These are people typically thought to:

Have the ability to heal the sick (which makes sense for Emily since she’s a doctor),

Deal with and communicate with the spirit world (this also makes sense with people like Necromancer, who possibly raises the dead and controls spirits/souls of the dead, and Soul Catcher, who is also likely a spirit and guides souls of the dead to the afterlife),

Shamans that communicate with benevolent deities and spirits are “white” shamans, while shamans that call on wicked deities and spirits are “black” shamans

Possess magical abilities (can explain how these people are in a version of Harry Potter and at a magic school)

Typically born to their role (like how you have to be born with magical abilities to be a wizard in Harry Potter. You can’t just acquire it some other way)

Next we have the term “Necromancer”. Necromancy is something typically associated with black magic and sorcery. “Necromancy” is communication with the dead, either by summoning spirits or raising bodies, usually to obtain knowledge of the future, accomplish an otherwise impossible task, bring someone back, or to manipulate the dead, possibly to use them as a weapon. We see this sort of thing several times in Greek mythology, such as with Odysseus who visits the underworld to gain insight about his journey by raising the spirits of the dead through spells Circe taught him, which includes offering sacrifices and various necromantic rituals. Early necromancy was related to, and likely evolved from, shamanism, as they also call upon spirits.

Speaking of shamanism again, some shamans actually had an item called a “Soul Catcher”. This was something usually made from hollowed bear leg-bones and carved at each end to resemble an open-mouthed creature. If a soul became lost while separated from the body during a dream, or it was driven out by witchcraft, shamans could be called to find and capture the soul in a soul catcher and restore it (back to its body). This prevented illness from invading the “empty” body. The smaller ones could be worn around the neck as medicinal charms, while larger ones were placed in houses to prevent souls from leaving prematurely.

Moving on to several other random details, I’ll talk about rubies now. Light Guardian has a large one on her back (as well as has them for eyes), White Beard has several on him, including one in the wand he uses, and even Soul Catcher seems to have one around his neck. Rubies are said by some to be one of the most precious of gems. They:

Are associated with power (and thus favored by those in power), the sun (which relates to them supposedly having an “inner glow”), and life (which relates to rubies being the color of blood)

Gave the wearer courage and a positive state of mind (supposedly allowing a person to walk through life without fear of evil or misfortune)

Protected the wearer and his estates/home (from harm)

Helped control evil thoughts, as well as provide a calming influence, which helped dispel anger, resolve disputes, and helped their owners live in peace with their enemies

Blessed the wearer with physical and mental health (rubies were also said to have healing benefits), wealth, wisdom, and success

Thought to be a stone of prophecy. This relates to tales of rubies inner glow which “shined like a torch”. Rubies were said to foretell danger, calamities, and disasters if their color changed or their light grew dull

The part about power fits considering the roles of and how powerful Light Guardian, White Beard, and Soul Catcher seem to be. Sun fits considering Light Guardian being about light as well as Soul Catcher and his association with the Day of the Dead (and its Aztec festival origins). White Beard could also make sense since he is essentially the leader of the school (and likely city as well) and probably one of (if not the) most powerful wizard. With how bright and “powerful” if you will the sun is compared to many other things, White Beard is like the sun compared to everyone else. Life and blood relates to the theme of this essence, what with all the death, necromancy, spirits, and war involved. The part about warning of danger and disaster fits considering Nosferatu’s description and what Necromancer is out to do. Wealth and success make sense for Norton due to that being what he wants in his background, and wisdom relates to Norton and his willingness/interest in learning (and wisdom also relates to Servais as he wants inspiration for new magic tricks). The part about physical and mental health, as well as helping control evil thoughts, relates to Norton considering his background. The physical part relates to the mine accident as well as how being a miner in general was dangerous work back then. The mental part relates to how the meteorite is affecting Norton as well as Norton’s mental state suffering/deteriorating over time the more he suffers as a mine and the more disappointments he finds while trying to escape poverty. Finally, the part about being a calming influence, dispelling anger, resolve disputes, and helped the wearer live in peace with their enemies relates to the whole war going on, not to mention the symbol on Magic Item Keeper’s glove shares a similar meaning we’ll get to later.

Now I’ll discuss 2 things about Necromancer.

First is Necromancer’s accessory Nosferatu. It’s a word that has become synonymous with vampire (and with the undead). The word derives from old Slavonic (nesufer-atu) and in part from the Greek nosophoros meaning “plague carrier”. Vampires were associated in the popular mind with the spread of disease (such as tuberculosis, whose cause was otherwise unknown back then), and by extension with the idea of spreading the infection of vampirism through their bite. It was originally a technical term in the old Slavonic that filtered into common speech. It has erroneously been reported to mean “undead,” a concept developed by Bram Stoker for Dracula (which is a major reason why today nosferatu has become connected to vampires), and elsewhere as a reference to the devil.

Second, I want to bring up the thing on Necromancer’s back.

I’ve already mentioned the symbol in the middle is the same one on people like Siren, Scylla, Potion Master, Pharmacist, Shaman Apprentice, and Sorcery Apprentice. What I want to bring up right now is the outside part, the bit that looks kind of like a clock, though it isn’t as the numbers don’t match. The numbers that we do see are: 5, 3, 6, 7, 4, 10, and 13. I’m not quite sure what this is, or what the numbers mean, but the only possibility I’ve been able to find is that the numbers could be the kind of numbers you’d find on tarot cards.

5 is “The Hierophant”. It symbolizes traditions (as in traditional values of society), conformity (group identification), and education. Upright, this card means group consciousness and a person’s religion or belief system, or be a reminder to continually seek knowledge and find your special place in the world. If this card is reversed, it means hypocrisy, rebellion against traditional, long held ideals and spiritual beliefs, as well as could mean originality, creativity, or problems with authority.

3 is “The Empress”. It symbolizes fertility, fruition, material success, abundance, harmony, and the natural world of the 5 senses (and Mother Nature). It represents a time when your ideas and desires manifest in the physical world, or when your hard work begins to yield fruit. Upright, this card means family, abundance, fertility, love for home or family, and emphasize action through attraction (as in now is the time to attract the things you want or need in your life). It also represents birth and creation (thus now is the time to start a new project, a new romance or friendship, etc…). If this card is reversed, it means limited resources, dependence on others, neglect or lack of attention on something that should be attended, creative block, or out of touch with (your) self. It also refers to nature’s power to correct humanity (volcanoes, tsunamis, hurricanes, and the like symbolizes emptions triggered by ignorant or foolish humans).

6 is “The Lovers”. It symbolizes partnership and choices, as well as personal beliefs and values. It represents a crossroads, the need to make a (important) decision (between right and wrong), and it may require (for you to make) a sacrifice. Upright, this card means a balance of forces (a pair that works well together), or overcoming trials. If this card is reversed, it means breakup, discord, imbalance, and bad choices.

7 is “The Chariot”. It symbolizes success, fulfillment (of your dreams/goals), will power, and natural drive and determination. It signifies recognition, material reward, and personal validation, as well as internal harmony. Upright, this card means will power, determination and success/victory through assertiveness/willpower, as well as action and change. If this card is reversed, it means defeat, cowardice, and giving up.

4 is “The Emperor”. It symbolizes authority, power, order, structure, regulation, and discipline. It is also symbolic of (forces in your own mind, including) self-discipline, focus, organization, and practicality. It represents an organized, stable, honest, and just system. Upright, this card means a (good) ruler or leader, creating order from chaos, and self-control and discipline. If this card is reversed, it means tyranny, power or control issues, mindless obedience, immaturity, or that people aren’t respecting you or your authority.

10 is “The Wheel of Fortune”. It symbolizes transition (the beginning or end of a cycle), fate, and karma. Basically: surrender to forces outside of our control (no one is immune to sudden good or bad luck) and that nothing is permanent. It represents life’s cyclical nature. Sometimes things are good, and other times bad, but balance will be restored in the end. Upright, this card means good luck, destiny (a turning point), and movement. If this card is reversed, it means bad luck. One interpretation is that you have fallen from some height and have been sent back to the beginning, either to start over or reframe your plan, and that you shouldn’t trust in luck right now as getting the things you want right now may cause you more trouble or misfortune.

13 is “Death”. It symbolizes change, new beginnings, as well as fear of change (the unknown) and loss (death). It represents the forces of decay, disintegration, and transformation that everything is subject to, as well as how new life isn’t possible without death. It also is referring to the need to let go of the old to make room for the new. Also, it symbolizes the death of more than just people, such as a plan or a relationship. Upright, this card means transformation, endings and new beginnings, and rebirth. If this card is reversed, it means stagnation, or that something’s persisting in an undesirable manner when it should’ve come to an end. It can also refer to destroyed hope or even cheating death.

To relate them to the story:

The Hierophant’s tradition versus rebellion against it could relate to the whole war and Necromancer going up against the white wizards like White Beard.

The Empress with its abundance, family, creation, and emphasis on time to act vs. limited resources, negligence, dependence, and disharmony could maybe indicate Necromancer’s plans going wrong, and disharmony could refer to the relationship between him and Soul Catcher (both of whom seem to be similar death related entities).

The Lovers with its representation of a crossroads, as well as balance and overcoming trials vs. imbalance, breakup, and bad choices could again refer to Necromancer’s plans going wrong and Soul Catcher choosing to go against Necromancer.

The Chariot’s success vs. defeat could refer to Necromancer being defeated by Soul Catcher.

The Emperor’s good ruler, discipline, and order vs. tyranny, power or control issues, mindless obedience, or people not respecting (your) authority could refer to how Necromancer treats other people (kind of like how Voldemort treated Mudbloods, aka people without any wizard parents), the mindless obedience could refer to those following Necromancer (or maybe they only follow or people not fighting against him because of fear), and trouble with people not respecting their authority could possibly refer to Potion Master, Shaman Apprentice, and Scylla betraying him in various ways (or just not totally following him), due to possible parallels between them and the characters they’re based on (Snape, Draco, and Narcissa).

The Wheel of Fortune representing fate and karma, as well as good luck vs. bad luck could refer to Necromancer’s inevitable fate, or the luck part could refer to Soul Catcher/Magic Item Keeper, as Norton is a person with some amount of luck, with Necromancer being the one who’s unlucky.

Death’s transformations and rebirth vs. stagnation, destroyed hope, and cheating death could refer to Soul Catcher/Magic Item Keeper not “dying” when Necromancer thought he was, as a parallel to Harry seemingly dying but actually coming back after Voldemort thought Harry was finally dead. Destroyed hope could indicate how the good guys feel against Necromancer before Soul Catcher/Magic Item Keeper helps and/or could refer again to Necromancer’s plans being ruined.

With the tarot cards out of the way, before I get to Soul Catcher and Magic Item Keeper, I want to bring up Siren, Scylla, and Necromancer.

Siren and Scylla are the names of some monster from Greek mythology.

A “siren” is a creature who is half-bird, half-woman and lured sailors to their deaths by their sweet singing. Odysseus and his men had to sail past some in Homer’s Odyssey. All of his men had to plug their ears with wax so they wouldn’t be able to hear the Siren’s singing (and thus steer the ship off course), though Odysseus wanted to hear the song, so he tied himself to the ship’s mast (and instructed his crew not to untie him). The Argonauts also had to sail by some. Jason was warned by Chiron and Orpheus about them, and when they heard the sirens’ voices, Orpheus pulled out his lyre and started playing music and singing to drown out their voices, and his music was apparently much more beautiful than the sirens’ singing.

“Scylla” was a creature with 6 heads on long necks, sharp teeth, 12 feet, and had a voice like the yelping of dogs (at least according to Homer. Her appearance seems to vary a bit between people). When ships passed by Scylla’s rock to avoid Charybdis, she would seize and devour their sailors. Jason and Odysseus both had to pass by Scylla and Charybdis while they were on their journeys. The idiom “between Scylla and Charybdis” was something that meant “to choose the lesser of 2 evils”, sort of like “between a rock and a hard place”, or simply to be caught between 2 equally unpleasant alternatives.

Both sirens and Scylla are sea related creatures, which is an interesting point considering who Hastur is (and how he actually had 1 or 2 skins based on Poseidon). Based on this, Siren and Scylla having Necromancer be their “master” would make some sense.

Now, I’ve already said Necromancer is Voldemort, but it’s also possible he may also be based on a Greek sea related monster. Specifically, I’m referring to the Hydra.

The Hydra from Greek myth was a large serpentine water monster with 9 heads, 8 of which were mortal, but 1 that was immortal and couldn’t be harmed by any weapon. It guarded an entrance to the Underworld at a swamp near Lake Lerna, which resulted in it also being called the Lernean Hydra, and it frequently terrorized the place (both people and their livestock). Cutting off 1 head caused 2 more to emerge from the wound. Heracles killed it as one of his labors. The trick he used is he had his nephew Iolaus cauterize the fresh wounds (aka, burned it with fire) after Heracles severed each mortal head. When only the immortal head was left, Heracles cut it off and buried the (still living) head underneath a heavy rock. One added note is how the term “hydra” or “hydra-headed” (in English) can be defined as “a persistent or many-sided problem that presents new obstacles as soon as one aspect is solved”.

To compare Necromancer to the Hydra, Necromancer has snakes incorporated in many, various ways with his skin. He has one on his back, his hands turn into a bunch of snakes, and he has what is likely (shedded) snake skin on his costume (not to mention, with nosferatu, his carry animation changes to where the survivor is carried with snakes instead of balloons). Also, Necromancer has a number of candles on his shoulders and back. This could also relate to the Hydra and how Heracles had to cauterize/burn the wounds to keep any more heads from growing (thus only leaving the 1 immortal head, which is what we see Necromancer with). Also, the Hydra having an immortal head and if Necromancer was the Hydra, Necromancer related to immortality could parallel Voldemort, who attempted to make himself immortal by creating horcruxes, and both Voldemort and the Hydra were defeated, which could connect with Necromancer being defeated by Soul Catcher.

So, if all 3 of these characters were based on sea monster and all 3 are related to each other (Siren and Scylla working for Necromancer), that makes it an interesting connection.

The last topic I have to go over is Norton and his Soul Catcher and Magic Item Keeper skins. I’ll start with Soul Catcher (as he gave me less trouble than Magic Item Keeper did).

The most obvious point about him is his Day of the Dead theme.

The Day of the Dead is a festival that goes back to rituals honoring the dead in pre-Columbian Mesoamerica. Death was seen as a part of life. They believed one should not grieve the loss of a beloved ancestor who passed. Instead, they celebrated their lives and welcomed the return of their spirits to the land of the living once a year. Mourning was not allowed because it was believed the tears would make the spirit's path treacherous and slippery.

The Aztec holiday Huey Miccailhuitontli, or great feast of the dead, celebrated the recently deceased and helped them as they traveled to Mictlan (the land of the dead). This festival was dedicated to the goddess Mictecacihuatl, known as the “Lady of the Dead” since it is believed that she was born then sacrificed as an infant. She was the wife of Mictlantecuhtli, the Aztec god of the dead and ruler (alongside his wife) of the underworld, similar to Hades from Greek mythology. He was a very important god in the Aztec pantheon. Commonly, he’s depicted as a skeletal figure/skeleton or a person with a (toothy) skull for a head. Despite being a skull, his eye sockets did contain eyeballs, and sometimes he was described as having stars for eyes. This description can relate to Soul Catcher’s magnets, which has a skull with flashing eyes on one of the magnets.

Also, Norton’s magnets are visually similar to some of Mictlantecuhtli’s images if you compare them (if you put Norton’s 2 magnets together, it definitely looks similar to the image below).

He tried to maintain order in his domain, which was a desire that sometimes clashed with the more creationary desires of the other Aztec gods (such as Quetzalcoatl and the myth where he steals bones to create mankind). The souls of those whose manner of death failed to earn them entry to various paradises (i.e., for those dead by war, sacrifice, childbirth, drowning, lightning, and certain diseases) made a four-year journey, fraught with trials, through the nine hells of Mictlan. In the last, where Mictlantecuhtli lived, they disappeared, continued to suffer, or found rest. The Aztecs did not believe in a special paradise reserved only for the righteous but, rather, that all people shared the same destiny after death, regardless of the kind of life they had led.

Following someone’s death, the Aztecs would cremate the departed person’s remains. From there, the deceased soul would embark on a four-year journey through the various levels of the underworld and have to overcome a series of trials along the way. Eventually, those who had successfully completed the journey would find themselves in the deepest level of the underworld: Mictlan. Huey Miccailhuitontli was celebrated not only to aid those embarking on this journey, but also to allow the dead an annual opportunity to return and visit the land of the living. Rituals honoring the dead included family members providing food, water, and tools to aid the deceased person’s difficult journey. This inspired the Day of the Dead’s practice of leaving food and other offerings on the altars and graves of loved ones.

On the Day of the Dead, the border between the spirit world and real world was believed to dissolve. During this brief period, souls of the dead awakened and returned to the living world to eat, drink, dance, and have fun with their loved ones.

Regarding the meaning of various items involved with the Day of the Dead:

Altars to loved ones could be decorated with candles, marigolds, food, and so on.

Candles (fire) were meant to help guide the dead to the altar and light the way to their (former) homes. The light produced by the candles represents hope and faith. Some communities have each candle representing a deceased (and thus the number of souls they want to “receive” for the Day of the Dead).

Marigolds are flowers that symbolize death (especially since they die quickly once cut). The scent and bright colors of these flowers by an altar or grave helped guide/lead souls to the family and keep the deceased from getting lost. In flower language, marigolds mean “heart”. Marigolds also have strong ties to the sun and its power to resurrect. In Victorian era (and Mexico), marigolds symbolized despair and grief, and were usually taken to graves and cemeteries. Marigolds can also be a symbol of desire for wealth/aspirations towards being rich. They were also used as medicine by Aztecs. Regarding the different colors of marigolds: yellow represented positive feelings, happiness and joy, and health; orange represented positive energy and strong emotions, as well as possibly prophecy; and red is the color of love and symbolized affection towards someone.

Skeletons and skulls are a major symbol of Day of the Dead. They come from La Calavera Catrina, which was designed by printer and cartoonist José Guadalupe Posada and his re-envisioned Mictecacíhuatl, the Aztec goddess of the underworld. Skulls represent the people who have passed on and are receiving offerings at the altar.  During the festivities, people wear skull masks or paint their faces like one, as well as eat sugar candy molded into the shape of skulls (sugar skulls). The idea of painting faces to resemble skulls is a reminder to not be afraid of death and to overcome the fear of death and internalize the idea of mortality.

Marigolds are something we see Soul Catcher use in his animation in the costume gallery. Their purpose of helping guide the dead matches with Soul Catcher’s job of also guiding souls to the afterlife (possibly this is what he does or wants to do with any and all souls Necromancer summons). Marigolds, since Soul Catcher has them (including in his hat), meaning despair and grief could possibly imply that is something Norton is feeling as well as guilt over the deaths of the miners in the mine accident. Him being guilty and trying to at least ensure the souls of the dead miners reach the afterlife and to some place better could be the reason why Norton has a skin with a Day of the Dead theme. It’s a way for him to honor them and sort of make up for what happened. That could be part of the symbolism of the marigolds in his hat, which are yellow, orange, and red, and represent all the positive feelings that the Day of the Dead is supposed to be about.

(It could semi fit at least since Fool’s Gold’s last deduction is titled “Numb”.)

About the meaning of various colors during the Day of the Dead:

Purple: suffering, pain, loss, and grief

Yellow/Orange: the brilliance of the sun and a new day

White: purity, promise, and hope

Red: the blood of life which sustains not only the body but the soul and a symbol of sacrifice

Pink: celebration and joy

Even outside of the Day of the Dead, other colors like blue can symbolize mourning in Mexico, and green can symbolize death, which matches with how the color of the killing curse Avada Kadavra is also green.

Soul Catcher has a lot of purple in his outfit, which could go along with the idea he’s guilty over the deaths of the miners and suffering as a result. It could also refer to the loss of his father, who died due to black lung, and all the suffering and pain he’s had to endure due to living in poverty, working as a miner, and abuse/mistreatment by his coworkers and employers.

Regarding the color green, we see that Soul Catcher has various little green fires around him. With green relating to death, along with all of Necromancer’s text talking about light symbolizing death, it’s possible these things could be souls, which could go along with Soul Catcher’s name (catching souls) and his job of guiding souls to the afterlife.

These green fires around Soul Catcher could also specifically be Will-o’-the-Wisps. These were believed to be spirits/souls in “limbo” that were unable to enter heaven or hell, can be found in swamps, marches, and cemeteries. Some said they supposedly lured travelers off their path. They were also seen as omens of death.

Looking at the beliefs of other cultures:

Danes, Finns, Swedes, Estonians, Latvians, Lithuanians and Irish people and amongst some other groups believed that a will-o'-the-wisp also marked the location of a treasure deep in ground or water, which could be taken only when the fire was there. Sometimes magical tricks, and even a dead man's hand, were required as well to uncover the treasure.

In ancient Asian texts, the “aleya” and “chir batti” were seen hovering at places where people died. Regarding “aleya”, some believed these marsh-lights are in fact Ghost-lights representing the ghosts of fisherman who died fishing. Sometimes they confuse the fishermen, and sometimes they help them avoid future dangers.

Similar phenomena are described in Japanese folklore, including Hitodama (literally "Human Soul" as a ball of energy), Hi no Tama (Ball of Flame), Aburagae, Koemonbi, Ushionibi, etc. All these phenomena are described as balls of flame or light, at times associated with graveyards, but occurring across Japan as a whole in a wide variety of situations and locations.

In Mexico, they had 2 equivalents. In one they are called brujas (witches), folklore explains will-o-the-wisp to be witches who transformed into these lights. The reason for this, however, varies according to the region. Another explanation refers to the lights as indicators to places where gold or hidden treasures are buried which can be found only with the help of children, in this one they are called luces del dinero (money lights) or luces del tesoro (treasure lights).

Whether these lights were good or bad could match with the 2 possible answers to a question posed in one of the official posts (https://twitter.com/identityvjp/status/1202512989141819392) regarding Necromancer that basically said “A green light shone in the dark. Is it a hope, or does it mean death?” Either way, this sort of thing would relate to Soul Catcher and his role, as well as Norton and his background. The part about money matches with Norton and his desire to find gold, as well as death hanging around him could relate to the deaths of the other miners caused by the mine incident.

Going back to Soul Catcher’s magnets, if you look at them closely, you can see runes on them (the official IDV site calls them as such). The rune we can see appears to be the rune “Ur”/”Uruz”, which referred to “Aurochs” (the now extinct European giant ox).

The main meaning of this rune was strength (physical and mental) as well as health.

Other characteristics of it includes: endings and new beginnings (aka, opportunities), courage, endurance (including survival/survival skills), overcoming obstacles, formation of the self, and freedom.

This rune can mean “that which one can achieve”, meaning having the strength to achieve your dreams, goals, and desire, but this strength comes with responsibility (stay on your path, don’t be put off balance by others, master the ego). It can also indicate a loss may be an opportunity in disguise. It can refer to a lifestyle you’ve outgrown. It can mean positive growth and change may involve a descent into darkness, but the perpetual cycle of renewal means you will eventually emerge into the light. It could mean events occurring are prompting you to undergo a study of who you are and to change for the better.

It is also a “roadmap of life” – we are born, we live, we die. We have the physical ability to control what happens in the material world around us as we live, but we have no control over birth or death. Uruz represents an awareness of death and of our own mortality. Within the ‘rites of passage’, the boy who has killed the auroch has entered manhood and has therefore been initiated into the first level of the mysteries - the awareness that the source of all life, is death. This relates to the “endings and new beginnings” bit I mentioned before.

A key phrase for this rune is: “To find your true strengths, you must first face your weaknesses”.

This rune can be used to strengthen one’s will, promote healing, health, and well-being, increase inner knowledge and wisdom, and protect one’s territory, property, children, or themselves.

If this rune is reversed, it can refer to: weakness (physically and mentally) or fatigue, ill-health, obsession, misdirected force, domination and/or manipulation of others, sickness, inconsistency, ignorance, greed, rashness, and callousness.

Reversed is a message that you must acknowledge and accept your weakness. Once you recognize those areas of weakness, you can work on them and turn them into strengths. It can seem like your strengths are being used against you. You may be missing opportunities or failing to take notice of positive things happening to you. This rune also tells of one who is influenced by others, leading to lost opportunities and bad decision-making. It is also a reminder of the cycle of death and rebirth, how every end is a new beginning.

The gemstone associated with Uruz is carbuncle (which were thought to give off their own light, as well as protect against disease and wounding), and the associated color is dark green (which matches with the whole green meaning death thing and how death is the theme for both Soul Catcher and Necromancer).

So, a lot of this stuff can relate to Soul Catcher and Norton. The whole bit about endings and new beginnings, or losses that are actually opportunities in disguise, can refer to several things in Norton’s background, but namely the mine incident and after. Descending into darkness but eventually emerging into the light can be a hopeful sign about Norton and his story after the mine incident, or it could refer to how he eventually did make it out of the darkness of the mine. The whole bit about death and the cycle of life can relate to Soul Catcher, his Day of the Dead theme, and his job. Having to face your weakness may be something Norton has to do if he truly wants to be successful (and happy). The reversed rune referring to physical or mental weakness or fatigue can refer to Norton’s damaged state after the mine incident (injured and scarred) as well as a result of all the mining he does (which really hurts his health). Promoting health would be something that could help him in that regard. Obsession (and greed) is what Norton has with his desire to acquire wealth to escape poverty and the influence from the meteorite on Norton could also tie in to the bit about being “dominated and/or manipulated” by others. Rashness is how he acted with the dynamite and thus caused the mine incident. Callous would also be a description fitting for Norton (even more so after the incident). The part about providing protection would be something Soul Catcher likely wants/needs in regards to Necromancer (and for when Soul Catcher eventually faces off against him). Finally, the part about overcoming obstacles, formation of self, freedom, and being able to achieve one’s goals and desires could refer to the hope that Norton will eventually either succeeding in acquiring what he wants, or eventually becoming free from his obsession.

Moving on to a different detail about Soul Catcher, the thing in his pocket looks kind of like a voodoo doll.

The word Voodoo itself means spirits, and it is a religious practice aimed at connecting spirits and mortals, an interaction only possibly through a magical process using a gris-gris, which can either be the magical act or the object used for magic, or even both. A voodoo doll is usually a small, soft doll representing a person (though the exact physical detail may vary). The concept is that the doll is the material incarnation of a person, and it has items belong to the intended target, such as hair, fingernail clippings, the name written on the doll, etc… By doing something to the doll, such as sticking it with pins, something will also happen to the target as well. The person doesn’t necessarily instantly feel pain. The pin is “charged” with an intention and then stuck into a part of the doll. The effect can take months to manifest onto the target.

I’m not quite sure if this thing is exactly a voodoo doll, but it’s the best idea I’ve been able to come up with that could have some meaning (not that I quite know exactly what very well). Him having a voodoo doll, which is something related to spirits, ties in with Soul Catcher (being non-human) and involved with leading souls or spirits to the afterlife. It again being a voodoo doll could also mean he’s trying to do something to someone else. It’s possible this could represent Necromancer, who he wants to defeat, but it’s also possible the doll could symbolize Norton himself. If we look closely at the doll, other than it being wrapped up like a mummy, it has 2 things which are likely eyes, something going through the head, and some sort of bulge on top of the head.

If this doll has button eyes, that could help imply target is a survivor rather than a hunter (as hunters don’t have button eyes). It being wrapped up like a mummy could relate to the Day of the Dead, which already has a lot of relation to skeletons and the dead in general, and mummies refer to the dead. Finally, the thing going through its head could be the pin that people stick into dolls that is intended to hurt the target and/or afflict the target with whatever the intention is. The pin being in the head could basically refer to some affliction to the target’s head and/or head pain. But it’s also possible the pin could be similar/relate to the rod in Norton’s nose, and the pin being in the head to afflict the target’s head with something or cause head pain could relate to Norton and how we see him with head pain during Hunter Norton’s backstory trailer. The fact Soul Catcher might have a voodoo doll of himself could mean Norton is trying to hurt himself, which lines up with various self-destructive behaviors of his including the fact he smiles when he’s downed in game, as well as how we see the inner conflict between survivor Norton and hunter Norton in Norton’s 2nd letter as well as in hunter Norton’s backstory trailer (and in Infernal Sin’s/Orphan of Goetia’s backstory trailer and showroom). Him trying to hurt himself, and being self-destructive, can go back to his guilt over the other miners’ deaths (we do see him holding his head in pain and the division between survivor and hunter Norton before Norton lights the fuse), and how traumatized he is over the mine incident (and just various other things in general).

If all of this is true (and it really is a voodoo doll of Norton himself), it’s possible the skull on Norton’s hat could mean something similar. The skull on his hat has 5 things that might be nails (or rods) in it. Maybe the skull is like the voodoo doll, and is implying him trying to hurt himself. Maybe the 5 nails/rods could align with the number of miners that died in the mine accident, and maybe symbolize how those deaths will also be torturing him, meaning it’s a sign of Norton’s despair and grief (if anything just over all the trauma he suffered as a result of the mine incident and how long he was trapped). It could also symbolize how, what with the nails/rods in his brain, Norton is being affected by the meteorite. Another way of looking at it, there’s how skulls represent death. Nails could refer to the ability to bind one thing to another, for good or bad. Nails in a skull could represent all the negative things that come with us until the end. The last idea is how stabbing a skull with something can represent overcoming fear of death.

Either way, this could be a way to show how Norton has survivor’s guilt from the incident.

Now that I’ve analyzed most of the details I could about Soul Catcher, I’m going to go into more detail about how Soul Catcher and Norton are similar to Harry Potter.

Norton’s magnets are this essence’s version of the resurrection stone, which was revealed to be hidden in the snitch.

The snitch was given to Harry by Dumbledore, who placed a spell on it so only Harry could open it, “I open at the close”. This meant Harry would only be able to open the snitch until he realized he had to (willingly) die, which was the only way for Voldemort to die since Harry had a piece of Voldemort’s soul in him. Once Harry accepts this fact, it opens at the “flesh memory”, which was when Harry put his lips to it. After dying, Harry goes to a world (limbo) between this world and the next. Here, Dumbledore tells Harry he already possessed all the Deathly Hallows, the keys to conquer (and become master of) death, without realizing it. This, plus the fact Voldemort still had some of Harry’s blood which still carried his mother’s protection, prevented Harry from dying. Only the piece of Voldemort’s soul in Harry died.

Harry having a piece of Voldemort’s soul could be similar to how Norton is being affected by the meteorite.

Soul Catcher’s magnet has a circle in a triangle on it. This is similar to the Deathly Hallows symbol.

The lack of a line (|) in it, which would represent the wand, relates to how Voldemort had it but was unable to fully handle it, and Harry having the true ownership of it in the final battle allowed him to survive his battle with Voldemort. It can also relate to how Harry returned the wand after defeating Voldemort (in the book). Basically, Soul Catcher will obtain ownership of the “wand” (instead of Necromancer) and/or obtain it from White Beard (and/or Necromancer), and maybe refer to him returning it after defeating Necromancer. Without the wand, Harry had only the resurrection stone and invisibility cloak, which would correspond to the circle and triangle pattern we do see Soul Catcher with.

With Soul Catcher’s animation in his costume gallery, we see 2 different colliding lights. This is similar to the scenes from Harry Potter where Voldemort’s and Harry’s wands connect (in the 4th and 7th/last book). The fact we see Soul Catcher fall down, coming from the purple side and into the green, before rolling to purple and standing in the middle could maybe signify that Soul Catcher/Magic Item Keeper possibly died but came back (like Harry did).

Also, what looks like a spirit appears in the other animation for Soul Catcher. This mirrors the first Voldemort vs. Harry scene (in the 4th book), where Harry’s mother, father, and friend appear beside Harry (after Voldemort’s and Harry’s wands connect).

Another idea is, if horcruxes are real in this essence, and horcruxes are when a wizard splits their soul and traps it in an object to gain immortality, it’s possible Soul Catcher’s animation where a spirit appears and he sends it away could be a way of showing him destroying a horcrux and getting rid of the soul trapped in it. This could be something similar to what happened with Harry when he tried to destroy the locket (horcrux), as when he and Ron tried to destroy it, apparitions came out of the locket (showing images as a way to mentally torture them), before eventually managing to destroy the locket.

Regarding other similarities between Harry and Norton and Soul Catcher:

Harry was the boy who lived and was the only who could face Voldemort. Norton is the only survivor of the mine incident. Like Harry, he was supposed to have died, but he managed to make it out alive. Soul Catcher is likely the only one with the power to defeat Necromancer.

Harry has untidy black hair and bright green eyes, with a small and thin face, is small and skinny for his age, taller than average compared to others his age, wears round eyeglasses for his near sightedness, and has a lightning-bolt shaped scar on his forehead that almost everyone always sees when they first meet him. People that knew his parents say he is a mirror image of his father, except for his green eyes which are his mother’s. Norton has dark (messy) hair, thin, fairly tall (taller than most), and has a burn scar over one eye which everyone can and does see as soon as they see/meet him. 1 of Norton’s models for Ashes of Memory even shows him with green eyes.

Harry, after his parents are killed by Voldemort, is taken in by his relatives who are cold to him and treat him terribly, and he spends all his time lonely (and unhappy) until he learns of Hogwarts existence and confronts Voldemort. Norton is also an extremely lonely person (no parents), who isn’t treated well by other people (which we see hinted at from the Famitsu article and in hunter Norton’s backstory trailer), and Benny is likely not the best (he is also obsessed with finding gold, which likely isn’t the best influence for Norton), which altogether is similar to how the Dursley’s were horrible to Harry.

Voldemort killed Harry’s parents when he was a baby after hearing someone would be born that would have the power to defeat him. Norton’s father died when he was young, and his mother likely left (or died) before then too. There’s also how Ronald and Sparrow in Atropos’ Ropes and Teahouse Tales have parents that die after being betrayed, similar to Harry’s parents being betrayed by Peter Pettigrew.

Harry and Voldemort are connected due to the piece of Voldemort’s soul in Harry. Norton is connected to the meteorite via the magnets he uses being made from the meteorite. Soul Catcher and Necromancer likely also share a connection (if anything, because they are both death related, non-human entities, or maybe if Soul Catcher was summoned by Necromancer or if Necromancer was capable of controlling Soul Catcher if Soul Catcher was technically a spirit).

Harry is vulnerable to Voldemort’s thought control, and his only weakness is that he isn’t good at occlumency. In the 2nd part of the story, Harry has difficulty maintaining his sanity. This is similar to how Norton is vulnerable to the meteorite. Norton’s personality, like Harry when he was affected by Voldemort in the 5th book, is often set to suddenly become irritable (sudden anger) and unstable (instability). Also, Norton has dual personalities (Identity V’s Japanese twitter and Norton’s responses are an example that references this), which relates back to this (as well as the connection Harry and Voldemort had, and how Harry was vulnerable to Voldemort’s control, especially in the 5th book).

Voldemort tried to kill Harry with Avada Kadavra. Soul Catcher has green fires around him, which could symbolize the killing curse, or refer to how Necromancer maybe tried to kill Magic Item Keeper and/or Soul Catcher.

Harry and Draco didn’t get along for much of the series. Harry occasionally puts his friends and his own life in danger because of his hatred for Draco, but before the final battle with Voldemort, Harry saves Draco’s life. As a result of this action, Draco’s mother Narcissa saves his life (by not telling Voldemort that Harry was actually alive after Voldemort tried to kill him). This action allows Harry to live and win the final battle in the end. With Draco being Shaman/Sorcery Apprentice, and Narcissa being Scylla, it’s possible something similar may happen between them and Magic Item Keeper (and/or Soul Catcher). Shaman Apprentice is hinted at being not as nice as they seem, and it’s likely Necromancer may try to kill Magic Item Keeper/Soul Catcher, and Scylla might help Norton when he somehow helps/spares Helena/Draco. It is also possible this could in some way relate to Norton with Orpheus in the main story. It could also relate to whatever may happen regarding Norton being asked to kill some female, such as if he chose not to go through with killing her (as we do see Norton’s other side trying to convince the good Norton to do it).

Also, if Norton is Harry in this essence, that could be a way of showing that Norton is/has been a good person from the beginning and/or is a good man at his core. Harry saving Draco despite everything that happened before that moment was a really big way of showing Harry being a good person, as this action saves Harry due to Narcissa being grateful over Draco being alive. Maybe this could be even more of a parallel if Norton does indeed decide not to go through with killing the 1 female he was ordered to kill if that someone helps him later on (or keeps him from dying).

Finally, we move on to Magic Item Keeper. It’s hard to get anything out of this skin, besides the fact Magic Item Keeper has a collection and/or collects magical items, which could relate to Norton being a Prospector and the kinds of things he finds. This skin could be a way of showing Norton’s diligence and him being a hard worker, especially from the beginning of his deductions (such as the recommendation letters), where he’s working tirelessly (before going to the 13 mines) to try to change his fate (escape poverty) and social status.

Other than that, the only 2 things I’d like to discuss that I haven’t already brought up are the symbols on his gloves and shoulders.

These were incredibly hard for me to figure out. The symbol on his glove may be based on Hermes’ caduceus staff, which has 2 snakes on it that could connect to the design on the glove, not to mention his staff has been called a wand before as well as has several connections to Norton and Soul Catcher/Magic Item Keeper

To begin discussing the caduceus staff, it comes from the Greek word meaning “herald’s wand, or staff”, and it did become a badge for heralds and ambassadors signifying their inviolability (aka, condition of being safe from violence, assault, trespass, violation, and infringement; unassailable). Messengers and officials carried it to identify and protect themselves during a journey. Originally, caduceus was a rod or olive branch ending in 2 shoots and decorated with garlands or ribbons. Later, the garlands were interpreted as 2 snakes entwined in opposite directions with their heads facing each other. A pair of wings, for Hermes’ speed, was attached to the staff above the snakes later on. Hermes, who carried the caduceus staff, was the herald (messenger) of the gods and patron of commerce, as well as transitions and boundaries, and protector of travelers, trade, herdsman, and various other things

The caduceus staff represented diligence and prudence, which are 2 characteristics very necessary in trading activities. It also came to represent Hermes, and by extension the staff came to be a symbol of commerce and negotiation (2 realms where balanced exchange and reciprocity are recognized as ideals). It also provided the basis for the astrological symbol representing the planet Mercury. Through its use in astrology, alchemy, and astronomy, it has come to denote the planet and elemental metal of the same name. The caduceus staff is also a symbol of magic, as it represented the magic wand of Hermes/Mercury. Some of its powers included waking people up or putting people to sleep, giving the dying a gentle death, or returning the dead to life.

It is often incorrectly used as a symbol for healthcare organizations and medical practices due to its similarities to the Rod of Asclepius (which has 1 snake, and is the actual item that’s related to health).

Hermes got the caduceus staff from Apollo (as a gesture of friendship) when Apollo liked the music from Hermes’ lyre. After this, one myth suggests Hermes (or Mercury) saw 2 serpents entwined in mortal combat. He separated them with his wand, causing the 2 to stop biting each other and become entangled with it. This resulted in bringing about peace between them, and as a result the wand with 2 serpents came to be seen as a sign of peace. Peace is also a necessity for trade to flourish.

So the biggest thing we learn from is this is a symbol for heralds, messengers, and ambassadors (as a way to keep them safe from harm), as well as the fact the caduceus is basically something that symbolizes peace. If Magic Item Keeper has a symbol for peace, and Magic Item Keeper is Soul Catcher, that could help show Soul Catcher is a good guy (like Harry) and is working to end the war. It also being related to commerce is similar to how Magic Item Keeper is taking care of a magical inventory, as well as how Norton wants to acquire wealth. Caduceus being a symbol for magic relates to this essence being an essence based on Harry Potter.

To expand this a little further, let’s discuss Hermes.

Hermes was the son of Zeus and Maia. As said before, he is the herald/messenger of the gods, and he delivered news, advice, and commands that maintained order and sustained their (the gods’) tumultuous relationships. Hermes is also known as the protector of heralds and orators, the god of commerce and luck, patron of travelers, thieves, and merchants, and champion of athletes and athletic competitions, as well as is the god of roads and doorways (boundaries, transitions). The part about orators relates to the myth where he gifted Pandora the gift of lies, seductive words, and a dubious character, as well as Hermes being connected to eloquent speech. He is also (other than the lyre) credited with inventing fire, the alphabet, and dice (actually knucklebones, which caused him to be worshiped by gamblers as god of luck and wealth).

One of his titles is “The Divine Trickster”. He was capable of moving quickly and freely between the mortal and divine worlds (with the help of his winged sandals). One of his roles was that of “psychopomp” or “soul guide” – a conductor of souls into the afterlife. This relates to how Hermes is associated with the underworld and is a god of boundaries (not to mention relates to him being a messenger). Another role of his was as a mediator, in part because of his caduceus, which was one of his main symbols.

In Roman mythology, he is known as Mercury, which is derived from the Latin “merx” meaning “merchandise” and origin of the words “merchant” and “commerce”. It is also derived from “medio currens” in reference to Hermes’ role as a mediator and messenger who moves between worlds.

Odin was another god identified with Mercury/Hermes: both carried a staff and wore wide-brimmed hats (based on their art), both are travelers or wanderers, both are gods connected to the dead (with Mercury/Hermes as a psychopomp, and Odin as lord of the dead in Valhalla), both are connected to eloquent speech, and both are associated with secret knowledge.

Regarding some of his exploits:

He stole Apollo’s sacred herd of 50 cattle as a baby but was eventually found out. Zeus ordered him to return the herd, though Hermes instead offered Apollo his lyre (who eagerly accepted it). This instance associated him with herds and protector of cattle and sheep (and shepherds). Hermes has also been known to steal other things, but he’s also performed plenty of heroic deeds as well, all with his wit and wile, never brute strength. For example, he rescued Zeus’ lover Io from the vengeful designs of Hera, who employed the many-eyed giant Argus to watch over/search for her. Zeus employed Hermes, who put the giant to sleep before slaying him and saving Io.

Some other famous myths about him come from Homer’s epics. In the Iliad, he technically supported the Greeks against the Trojans, but his role in the conflict was largely unremarkable, save for when he guided King Priam of Troy to the body of his son, Hector, and allowed him to retrieve it. In the Odyssey, he helps deliver Odysseus (his great grandson) back to his wife and son. One time, he helped Odysseus when he was detained by Circe, who had turned his crew into pigs. Hermes told Odysseus of this and gave him a herb to protect him from Circe’s charms, which allowed him to force Circe to restore his men to human form. Another time, he helped free Odysseus when he was detained by Calypso on her island. Hermes delivered to them the news from Zeus who ordered Calpyso to release Odysseus so he could continue his journey home. This forced Calypso to relent and release Odysseus and his crew (as she had no choice). Finally, when Odysseus returned home, he slew the suitors seeking his wife’s hand in marriage to usurp Odysseus as patriarch of the family. After this happened, Hermes conveys their unworthy souls to the underworld.

For his origins, one possible prototype for Hermes was a Mesopotamian snake-god, similar or identical to Ningishzida, a god who served as mediator between humans and the divine. Another accepted idea is that he originated as a form of the god Pan (which relates to Hermes being a protector of shepherds and such). Finally, he’s been a deity with shamanic attributes linked to divination, reconciliation, magic, sacrifices, initiation and contact with other planes of existence, and has a role of mediator between the worlds (visible and invisible). Even from the beginning, he was a god with strong associations to the underworld.

In depictions of Hermes, he has winged sandals (which is why Hermes is known to be so fast), a purse or bag in his hands, a sword of gold (which was used to kill the giant from the Io myth, as well as was lent to Perseus so he could kill Medusa), and wore a robe or cloak that gave him the power to confer invisibility.

Just so I can make a comparison, Asclepius is the god of healing and son of Apollo (the god of healing, truth, and prophecy). He was taught by the centaur Chiron, and eventually became so skilled he succeeded in bringing one of his patients back from the dead. This caused Zeus to feel like the gods’ immortality was threatened, and thus he struck Asclepius down with a thunderbolt. At Apollo’s request, he was placed among the stars as Ophiuchus, the serpent-bearer. It was believed Asclepius could cure people of their sickness in their dreams. His rod has a serpent coiled around it, and it is the only real symbol of medicine. Serpents, due to how they shed their skin, symbolize rebirth and fertility.

Regarding new connections (rather than re-stating the bits about being a herald and messenger symbolism again, or about Hermes being a mediator relates to Soul Catcher’s/Magic Item Keeper’s likely role in this essence’s story), the very first I want to mention is the fact Hermes has an Invisibility Cloak. This could be proof that Soul Catcher/Magic Item Keeper has it, and also maybe proof that Magic Item Keeper is using it (to disguise the fact that he’s Soul Catcher). Either way, I think it at least shows Soul Catcher/Magic Item Keeper has at least 2 of the Deathly Hallows.

Hermes relation to thieves connects back to Norton and him stealing the dynamite. Hermes being a god of boundaries and transitions relates to Soul Catcher and his job of leading souls to the afterlife. His association with eloquent speech and being a trickster can refer to Norton is a good actor and his skill/ability to pretend when around others, especially his employers as we see in Fool’s Gold’s deduction 3. Hermes being related to luck parallels Norton’s luck and not dying in the mine. One obvious connection between Soul Catcher and Hermes is how Hermes is a soul guide, which is exactly what Soul Catcher is/does. Hermes’ association with secret knowledge is likely something Soul Catcher/Magic Item Keeper also have (Soul Catcher/Magic Item Keeper likely know a lot of secrets that other characters in this essence don’t, not to mention Norton likely has knowledge of secrets from his encounter with the meteorite and/or Gla’aki). One interesting connection is Hermes being a god/protector of shepherds, since Hastur (who is Necromancer) is also related to shepherds. It’s possible this could be a way of showing a relation between Norton and Hastur (in the canon story/deductions). Hermes' connection to commerce and merchants ties to Norton's focus on money and escaping poverty, and finally the connection to "secret knowledge" could also connect to Norton seeming to be working for Orpheus and his knowledge of secrets like Orpheus' drugs and the basement they were hidden in as well as whatever else Orpheus' true plans are.

Lastly, there’s the symbol on Magic Item Keeper’s shoulder. This may actually be based on “scales”.

Going back to the caduceus, there are images of it with/attached to scales, so I think this helps back up the idea.

There are several people in Greek myth that use/are related to scales.

There’s Themis, the personification of justice, goddess of wisdom and good counsel, and interpreter of the gods’ will, whose symbol are the Scales of Justice. There’s also Dike, daughter of Themis and Zeus, the divine personification of justice (her name is the Greek word for Justice) and is also shown holding a set of balanced scales, and symbolized impartial justice, as in no exceptions for anyone regardless of status or importance in society (and a person’s low standing couldn’t be held against them).

Then there’s Zeus himself, as one of his symbols is a set of scales, and he can be considered a “peacemaker” (embodying the Greeks dedication to law and order), along with how he presides over the gods and the whole of nature (so is also the ruler of men). He was even said to weigh the destinies of people using his scales (at their time of death), and dispensed justice with these 2 jars he had, which were the jars of Fate: one was full of good, and the other was full of bad. He is even mentioned to use these scales twice in Homer’s Iliad (once regarding the battle between the Greeks and Trojans, he weighs their fates and finds the Greeks side of the scales heavier (Trojans were likely to win), at which point he steps into the battle and turns the tide in the Trojans’ favor. The other time was for the fight between Achilles and Hector, with the scales indicating Hector’s doom).

The last option, and the one I believe in, is that the scales relate to Hermes, who is sometimes the one holding the scales (in art). This would connect with the image of the caduceus attached to scales.

Regarding the meaning of the scales, it could still have to do with weighing the fates of 2 things, rather than weighing worth or righteousness. The worth or value of the people being weighed was irrelevant. This could relate to the whole war between the white and dark wizards, and maybe Magic Item Keeper/Soul Catcher found that fate/destiny indicated the white wizards would win. That, or maybe Magic Item Keeper/Soul Catcher are the things tipping the scales in the good guys favor (against Necromancer). Another meaning could have to deal with order and justice, regardless of status or importance in society. Necromancer might be breaking the natural order of things (especially if he’s raising the dead and messing with souls, which is Soul Catcher’s responsibility, as in to guide them to the afterlife and Necromancer is screwing with that). Then the whole point about justice could be what is needed against Necromancer, after everything he’s likely done and/or all the chaos and disaster he wants and/or will cause.

Last thing, if S-Tier skins are supposed to represent that person’s wishes, Soul Catcher likely represents Norton’s desire to atone for what he’s done and the miners he killed.

That’s everything I have on Season 5. I was missing a lot of clues and info with this essence, but I did what I could with what I could find. (Also this is a theory I originally wrote several years ago, that I tried to somewhat update before reposting, so apologies for any errors).

#idv #identity v #norton campbell #prospector #idv norton #identity v norton #idv prospector #identity v prospector #fool's gold #hunter norton #idv fool's gold #identity v fool's gold #idv fools gold #identity v fools gold #fools gold #idv hunter norton #identity v hunter norton #Soul Catcher #Magic Item Keeper #Season 5 Essence 1 #Necromancer #hastur #idv hastur #identity v hastur #sirenjose analyses and theories

[earako]

Eh screw it, dolls is back in my head again

Get ready for a quick angst snippet

-/-

He found him.

He was in the forests near the outskirts of the city holed up in an old tower that was overgrown with vegetation. Vines scaled the walls, bushes peeked through cracks in the stone, and tall grass nearly hid the door that lead to the inside.

Where he was.

Where his love was.

His love lay, armour off, curled up on the couch as a scarlet trail steadily dripped from the stump where his arm used to be-where his arm should have been.

Where it would still be if Ambrosius...if he hadn't...

"Oh...Bal...." The Golden night fell to his knees, his armour scraping loudly against the floor.

He expected Ballister to jump up in surprise, to bolt off the couch and stare at Ambrosius, to yell, scream, something.

There was so much blood on the couch...

Ballisters eyes opened, a shallow breath escsaped his chest.

"....'Rosius?"

"Bal...Bal I-"

"Innocent...not...me-"

"Ballister-"

"Don't....hate...me..." Ballister sagged backwards, body tilting, eyes glazed over.

Ambrosius could only watch. He was frozen, ice in his skin, lead in his throat. His mind screamed at him to leap forward, to put his damned training to use and at least get a torniquet on Ballister-

Ballister was falling off of the couch.

Ambrosius' mind and body decided to finally sync up. He leapt forward and cradled Ballister to his chest, wincing as he hit his head on the table.

"Bal? Ballister?" His breathing was slow.

Too slow. Ambrosius desperstely ripped off his gauntlets and pressed his fingers against Ballister's neck searching for a pulse.

"Please....please please please-"

It was faint. Barely there.

No...nononononono-

Ballister....Ambrosius mind filled with static, eyes watering, his own lungs failing to draw in a breath-

Ballister. Ballister, Ballister, Ballister, Ballister.

Ballister smiling at him, Ballister singing to him, Ballister remembering to ask for nachos without olives because Ambrosius always forgot to-

The pulse fluttered for a few moments, then stopped. Fluttered then stopped.

Ambrosius pressed Ballister against his chest, eyes frantically scanning the tower for something anything-

He couldn't live in a world without Ballister. He refused to live in a world without Ballister.

On a quiet evening on the outskirts of town something inside of Ambrosius Goldenloin snapped. His thoughts were nothing but BallisterBallisterBallisterBallister-

He screamed. He screamed, cried, raged, begged and pleaded.

And then?

And then he vowed he would rip the very heavens apart if it meant having Ballister by his side again, Queen killing be damned.

Ambrosius laid Ballister gently back on the couch, butterfly pulse still beating weakly against the fingers lovingy placed on a cold neck.

Ambrosius would fix this. He took another glance around the tower.

There looked like what seemed to be an old lab

Perfect.

First, find a way to stabalize Ballister.

Second?

Bring him back.

Through any means possible

Gone was the institutes golden boy.

In his place?

A budding, but perhaps not entirely stable, necromancer.

#nimona #nimona au #technically I'm just writing Ambrosius as Anabelle McAllister from the Dolls of New Albion- #we'll see where this goes #necromancer Ambrosius au- #angst #nimona angst

[oldestenemy]

Digging through tombs never stops feeling completely wrong.

It felt wrong on Krokotopia and Avalon, felt horrible in Dragonspyre and Azteca.

It still feels just as bad in Mirage.

They are used to undead and ghosts and old bones.

But not usually ones this…

Enthusiastic?

“Yes! You! With the skin and robes and whatnot. Do you have a minute?”

They suppose, in the grand scheme of things, they should not be surprised. One oddity after another. But a talking skull—a talking skull with no body and no will to move and no…no monster? attached? Is a tiny bit out of the wizard’s realm of ordinary. So they agree to acquire the crystal for him, even if they doubt he’s really the key to defeating Xerxes.

They even oblige him and shove the damn thing with a horrid crack! into his empty eye socket.

And Ozzy the skull shoots out of his sarcophagus so fast that it makes them bolt backwards, one hand on their spell cards and the other reaching for a sword.

“Woah! You are jumpy aren’t you—have you done this before? Am I not the first magic flying skull you’ve ever helped break out of a tomb? Because honestly, that would be impressive.” When they show no sign of backing down he sort of drops a foot or so, hovering around eye level with them. “Do you really think I’m going to attack you? After you just did me a humongous favor? No! Lets go kick Overlord Xerxes back into the sand!”

Unsurprisingly, the bodyless brainless bonehead is a bit of a coward.

The wizard doesn’t mind, he’s an entertaining coward at least.

His narration of everything he knows—or used to know—about Mirage is a welcome distraction, even if it’s clear he’s not telling the whole story most of the time. That’s alright. Let Ozzy have his secrets. He’s very clearly harmless.

Not as much can be said for most of Mirage’s inhabitants, where everything from the flora to the very sand they walk upon seems to want them dead.

~*~

“Are you going to tell me what happened yet?” Suzie asks as she stares down the vision that is becoming somewhat commonplace—Duncan, looking more and more haggard as time passes, refusing to sleep, barely eating, sending papers scattering across the house that is technically Suzie and Artur’s but may as well just be his at this point.

“No.”

“I’ll tell them you’re here.”

Duncan groans, dropping his head to the table. “Suzie—I am trusting you not to get me killed—”

“—and I am asking for you to give me the bare minimum amount of information to trust you right back, used to be you wouldn’t shut up about what you were doing but—”

“—so I grew up and learned to shut my damn mouth—shouldn’t you be happy about that.”

“Maybe if you didn’t keep saying this is a matter of life or death!” she snaps back “For all everyone else knows you’ve been missing the better part of a year, not just all of us in Dragonspyre but the wizard has had the whole of Ravenwood and the city guard looking for you since you vanished—”

“—right, which is why I’m hiding out in your house like a fugitive, because everyone and their firecat is on the lookout for me.”

Duncan had shown up two weeks ago, angry and withdrawn and demanding—well, more like begging—Suzie let him hide out in her family home on Triton Avenue. There wasn’t any danger of discovery there, she and Artur had been the only Gryphonbanes left in Wizard City since childhood, and Artur was currently (and possibly eternally) too enamored with caring for the battledrakes to cause any potential problems. Which was a relief, as Artur might be more quick to tell people—he and Duncan has always been on…more delicate terms.

Which Suzie couldn’t blame him for.

Duncan was abrasive at best, downright condescending and mean at worst.

Suzie was just better at meeting him on the same level.

Speaking of which.

“If you don’t start talking I’m going to at least go get Marla.” Suzie tells him, though it's an empty threat.  “All the Necromancers have been especially worried about you—I’m guessing because of what happened while you were all in Darkmoor—” Duncan lifts his head enough to glare at her. “—yeah yeah, pretend you hate me, I’m still the only one you trusted enough to keep you hidden.”

She finally sits down across from him at the table, mirroring his crossed arms and resting her chin on them. “Is this what Penny and Malorn feel like when they try to get the Wizard to talk to them?”

The look that gets her is so intense she thinks there ought to be some sort of energy discharge accompanying it. It’s not even fully angry. There’s a bitterness in it, a jealousy she wouldn’t recognize if she didn’t know him so well.

“That’s what this is, isn’t it?” She continues, “You got wrapped up in something like they do—”

“—I’m nothing like the wizard.”

“I didn’t say you were.” He is though, Suzie thinks. Whether he wants to believe it or not.

Silence falls again, longer now. Just the pair staring at one another.

Eventually she has to leave. She’s been fully leaning into the whole duelmaster thing at the academy and they’ve started hosting little tournaments among the Ravenwood graduates—there’s supposed to be one this afternoon. Part of her wants to call it off, or hand the reigns to Regina for today, she wants to sit here and pry until Duncan finally admits to whatever he’s done.

But there isn’t any point.

Not yet.

He isn’t ready.

She’ll come back tomorrow.

It’s as she’s just started to draw the recall sigil that he speaks again.

“You can tell them I’m safe,” It’s hesitant, and frustrated, like he’s trying not to say exactly what he’s saying. “just not where I am.”

It’s a little progress.

It’s enough.

She’ll sit on it for a bit, try to work out how to tell the others without inviting a flood of questions she cannot answer. The necromancers first, they deserve it most of all. She’s seen all three of them dipping in and out of the Myth classroom when their returns to Wizard City overlap, asking if Cyrus Drake has any news—normally she would think he’d hate that kind of interruption, but Duncan isn’t the only one who came back from Darkmoor different.

~*~

When Suzie comes back the following day, she finally finds Duncan asleep.

Read the whole series here <3

#wizard101 #wizard101 fic #wizzy fandom #wizard101 fanfiction #w101 #wizard101 fandom #wiz101 #duncan grimwater #suzie gryphonbane #lark is still playing funky wizard game from their childhood #wizard101 fanfic

[hmshermitcraft]

rubbing my hands and dropping a new au of the scarpulse variety fantasy au. scar is an elven necromancer who the village is afraid of (something something "he's the reaper". he's your resident last life coded urban legend that is very nonthreatening) and impulse is the village's demon hybrid blacksmith!! magic is generally disliked since people who are able to harness it is a rarity, and people are scared of it. impulse also has magic thanks to hybridity but he hides it <3 scar has his disabled thanks to rune embroidered gloves they are very sweet once they get together <3 scars design to me is a mix of his elven skin and last life. long white hair with brown streaks, black and gold cloak, like three layers of clothing, the whole thing. (something something the less layers he's wearing the more confident he is) anyway yeah they live in my head rent free. impulse went into the forest bc he was bored and didn't come back for three months because he was fucking the resident elf OKJIUYRF the village thought he was dead -tn (hey im still alive, crazy. also feel free to make this angsty. i mean. scar is last life coded its going to be angsty no matter what)

Impulse has never felt like he belongs. Having to hide such an intrinsic part of himself his entire life isn't easy. But it means he's learned to have an open mind about things. He's sure people would think differently of him if they knew the truth. But he knows he's not a bloodthirsty creature out for souls - why should he believe other stereotypes?

He doesn't realise who Scar is when he follows him into the forest. Only that a customer had left something behind at his blacksmith, so he hurries after him as the sun sets and the workday comes to a close. The customer is one of his favourites, actually. Impulse always enjoys having a natter, and whilst the guy pushes it with his bartering, it's impossible to be mad. He's got charisma to him, and no fear of using it. Impulse is jealous.

He didn't expect the crooked tower where Scar lives. Nor the undead flowers lining the walls, or the skeleton of a cat that greets him at the door. Literally, it meows at him and brushes his leg.

The elf comes rushing down shortly after, feet clicking beneath a call of, "Jellie! Come back here."

Impulse watches as the cat crosses the threshold of the tower and transforms. Though translucent, it's like a new skin has formed. Soft fur and grumpy looking eyes turn to meow at her apparent owner. Said owner who is looking at Impulse with his mouth hanging open in shock.

Impulse gives an awkward wave, mumbling a, "Hi, I just wanted to return this to you. You left it at the shop, and I know you usually have it on you so I thought you might miss it and I didn't want you to worry-"

Scar interrupts him by threatening his life and everybody he's ever loved if Impulse tells a soul. Impulse stares at Scar as if he's grown a second head that can't tell Impulse is a head or two taller than him, far more muscular, and that's whilst looking human.

Hey, a secret for a secret, right? It's been a long time since Impulse met another magical folk. This will be the start of a blossoming relationship, he's sure of it!

#hermitshipping #trafficshipping #ask #scar tag #impulse tag #scarpulse #tn anon #mod 🎀 #death tw

[bramble-scramble]

oh man that vampire fic was SO juicy (lol)... how did tom react when woodrow passed out? Or what abt taking care of him afterwards? Any ideas?

THANK YOU, I'm really glad people liked it-!! I have to throw it onto the pile of stuff to think about from time to time along with the High Seas AU and the werewolf AU and the sparks of despair AU and the necromancer AU, how did this happen to me aslkjf;lksjd

But yeah I got to thinking about it and I was just going to list out what I think would have happened, but then... at that point, why not just narrate it? And so, the scene from Tom's perspective...

The ghost withdrew his fangs slightly, letting the blood flow faster. Every sip, every gulp was ecstasy. No prey had ever been like him. The eating was always decadent on Palette Prime, it was true, but- combine that with the rich blood of a poet, and a special spice all his own, the seasoning born of curses and misfortune. He could never know, never comprehend, what a treasure he was.

Woodrow groaned and turned his head, and Tom turned it back with his paw, stilling him. Silly man... he needed to not move this much, or his punctures might tear. There was quite a difference between a neat clean bite and a ragged wound, and he didn't want his darling getting hurt more than need be. Although, his performative struggle was irresistibly adorable...

And suddenly, something was amiss. The struggle had ceased completely. There was an unnatural stillness.

As difficult as it was to do so, Tom withdrew from his beloved's neck and looked at his face. His eyes were closed, his mouth slightly open, the skin in his ears and around his eyes as blanched as a watery dawn; and no visible breath stirred him. The vampire's eyes widened as the warm blood he had just drank turned cold as ice within him. He hadn't- no! No, he had been trying so hard not to go too far-

He shot a paw out to his prey's wrist, and held it. It was there... faint, but there. A pulse.

A shudder of relief passed through the vampire. Then his eyes darted, looking around for something to halt the continued bleeding. There- on the side of the bed, Woodrow's ribbon. It belonged around his neck anyway- he grabbed it and tied it around his darling's tender neck, a few loops, just tight enough. The makeshift bandage worked; a stain of deep red appeared within the pink, then stopped growing.

The Phantom allowed himself a sigh of relief now. He gently lifted the poet, took off his coat, and set it to the side; then lifted the thick blankets and slid the unconscious body underneath, settling his head anew on the pillow. "There, there, my darling, my sweet," he said in a sing-song, his voice still carrying a slight tremble of nerves. He was singing as much to comfort himself as the one who could not even hear him.

He pulled down the blankets slightly, exposing the chest, and laid a hand over the heart. The faint beat traveled through his arm, vibrating the dead stillness of his own core. Tenderly, but firmly, he began to massage his beloved's chest, and his arms, from wrist to shoulder- trying to improve the circulation of the little blood he had left.

As he did so, once again humming and singing half to himself, he began to feel a little foolish for his former terror. So what if Woodrow had died? There were means to bring him back, of course, before it was too late. He would join his Lord, truly- spread his wings, both figuratively and literally, a fellow creature of darkness. He need not lose the poet in spirit. He need not say goodbye.

...But Tom did not want that. And he knew Woodrow did not want that. He did not want to die, and the vampire did not want him to die. He was gloriously alive; not only a source of fresh blood, but a source of everything else that Tom lacked. There was something about the writer that made Tom yearn for a time long lost to him... sunlight and warmth, the orange and gold of a forest in the afternoon.

As the ghost gazed upon his prey, he could not help but see him as a diagram, his eyes tracing every vein and artery in his strangely-shaped body. Each of those was so precious; they connected his brain and his beating heart, they bound together his living body, they carried all good things.

No; he would never understand how precious he was, indeed.

He settled down next to the poet and caressed his head. He began to stir, and the Phantom knew he would soon awaken. He must keep his composure, when so; he could not let Woodrow know how close he had come to death. Worry was the last thing the poet needed; Tom must must play it cool, and suave, and firm- and as difficult as it was for them both, he had to promise to take a hiatus while the poet's body restored itself.

And in the meantime, he would provide for him, like a young bird- the strange, wonderful little crow that he was. Whatever he wanted, Tom would find and bring back to their nest, if he had to fight tooth and bat-claw to get it. He would be warm and safe while he produced more of the precious nectar that fueled his body, wonderfully and irreplaceably alive.

"Darling," he said again, softly, rubbing the poet's cheek with the back of his hand. "Do not leave me. Do not join me in the cold of death. I love you. I love you as you are."

#mario plus rabbids #mario + rabbids #alter answers #phandrow #soh vampire au

[blorbologist]

i wanna know about kyssandra kith........also more mew 🥺🥺

okokokokok

so

I used to be clinically neutral on all Cassandra ships. Cass and Kaylie, Cass and Desmond, Cass and Kynan, Cass too aroace for this shit.

And then I started writing Two for joy, and Kynan. Would not. Stop. Swooning. He has such a huge fucking crush on her it makes him stupid and gods forbid Percy notices (please notice it'll be funny as shit).

And then I remembered that, per Tal'Dorei reborn, Cass never has a spouse mentioned, and in Campaign 3 a spouse is never mentioned then either, and Kynan is still around.

And I decided Cass fucking deserves nice things, right?

Enter, this complete dork.

Both of them have been through absolute hell, and of similar sorts. Kynan's family and most people he knew are likely dead. Emon burned. I mean, his dad was a shitfuck, but he must have lost friends, too, other relatives, so much. He's trusted by both Percy and Vax, to the degree that he's made the head of the Riflemen. What this kid means, as far as Percy ending the cycle of vengeance ("I forgive you, but I cannot let you leave", Kynan allied with Ripley, Kynan played a part in killing Percy, and he's forgiven, too.) and Vax's legacy (Vax specifically requests he guard Cassandra... and then Vax dies) just... holds him up v gently.

Despite all he's been through, Kynan still fumbles, and can't handle his drink (makes sense with an alcoholic father), and just wants to try his best. He's young.

Cass shed her youth like a skin, wears maturity like armor. She lost almost everyone, too.

I think, with Kynan, they could catch up on those lost years. Be blushing, awkward teenagers. Walk around all moon-eyed. Try to sneak around without Percy noticing (Vex would spot them in an INSTANT tho). Kynan wasn't here for the Briarwoods. He doesn't know the Cassandra that she hates, he just knows a strong leader who gags at her brother's antics.

They're also both Rogue/Fighter multiclasses. Think of the POTENTIAL: sneaking around the castle together! Kynan explaining to her how Percy's guns work because gods forbid he talk about it. Cass showing him how to wield a rapier, that stance is revolting, keep your back straight.

It's bodyguard/royal romance!!! With rediscovery of childhood wonder!!! And overlapping trauma!!

Clears throat

anyways.

The premise of the fic itself is that Cassandra keeps slipping her guard to go hide. Partially out of habit - she knows the secret passages well, it's how she initially survived the attack and got Percy out, and she could slip away when the Briarwoods became too much. Partially because she's just fucking overwhelmed, and rankled Vax thinks she needs a bodyguard, and after years around undead and a vampire and a necromancer and their few living lackeys, this much noise and life is too much. She needs alone time.

Kynan is also a rogue. He can find her, pretty easily, most of the time.

It eventually leads to them talking and being honest once Cass blows up at him for finding her somewhere she was sure he couldn't follow... and eventually it becomes a bit of a game of cat and mouse. And Kynan makes himself a little map to keep track. Maybe they start leaving little notes and gifts for eachother.

And then Cass is gone.

Kynan checks every secret spot, every stash, every nook, every cranny.

Vecna took her.

Vecna took her, and Vex'ahlia, her sister in law, shot her down with arrows (arrows in the snow, Percy running) and she died.

He's not her friend. He's not - no. He's her bodyguard. It was his job to protect her. Keep her safe.

He failed.

This is his fault.

(And Vax'ildan is dead, and Percival and Vex are expecting a whole ass kid, and Cass is in a depressive spiral, and what the fuck can he do about it?)

#kyssandra #cassandra de rolo #kynan leore #critical role #percival de rolo #campaign 1

[west-tokyo-incidents]

It's quiet here.

How many times will he come back to stare at the Black Lake? Rathma isn't here any more. His body lay where it has for however long it's been since Inarius came back and spread the prophecy as gospel.

No amount of speed or lack of distraction would have let him meet Rathma personally.

The wanderer huffed under his breath and leaned on his hand. He's perched above, just inside Kasama, looking down at the barely-submerged platform where Vhenard died twice over.

"The first necromancer... Wow, I bet this is a big deal for you, huh?"

"Hm? ...I suppose so."

Neyrelle's question to him, when they'd first come across evidence of where they were.

"Well, isn't it? Aren't necromancers priests of Rathma?"

He remembers his thoughts from back then. Should he pretend to be in awe? Excited? Something other than skin-crawling anxiety about meeting the nephalem his people worshipped?

"I guess I'm just... Nervous."

The wanderer considers going back down there. Hell, he even walks through the City of the Ancients to the entrance of the Cradle... Only to stop and stare at the mural on the floor in front of it.

He must've not seen it before. Rathma's face, scrolls falling from his hands, a skeletal mage at his side.

Nope.

The wanderer turns back around and goes back to his spot overlooking the lake. Back to the little food he'd packed himself. Even if he went, he couldn't cross the lake. And even if he could, Rathma would still be dead and his spirit gone from this place.

And even if he wasn't...

Best not think about that. He stuck a piece of bread in his mouth.

"Well, Neyrelle told me I'd probably find you here."

Only to nearly choke on it in shock.

"Donan...!"

The wanderer, coughing, turned to look at the man.

The man is grinning at him, "Hey, now, don't die on me, you're the only necromancer we've got!" The man walks over as the wanderer manages to get a drink and clear his throat, "Mind if I join you?"

"No, of course not. Why were you looking for me?"

With a heave, Donan sits beside him, "You'd been gone for a while got concerned. I guess you couldn't resist coming back here while we're in the area, hm? Neyrelle told me all about how you two met."

A soft grunt of acknowledgement.

"...I can't imagine it." Donan sighs, his voice becoming soft, "I guess, in a way, it's like if Inarius had just. Suddenly died one day. No glory, no songs... I can't imagine how the church would react."

"Hah, yeah, except it's as if that arse died locked away in the Alabaster Monastery and the world forgot about him. Hidden away with a key you can never get again. And why would you even want it?" A dry laugh, "Just to see a dead body?" The wanderer stares down at his food. He can feel the heat of anger beginning to boil in his stomach.

Donan goes quiet, "I'm sorry... For what it's worth, he isn't forgotten--"

"His prophecy isn't forgotten, you mean." He spits, "There are no crusaders for him. No knights to guard his tomb. His temple is sunken beneath the rancid sea and his tomb is rotting. I've heard so many people talk about him ...But no one but me and Lilith seem to grieve."

"...I thought you said you weren't religious. Yet you sound as devout as Prava. Don't go falling into Lilith's arms just because she--"

"It's nothing like Prava. And I'm not falling into that bitch's arms." He snarls suddenly. Wolven teeth snap behind his own. He can feel Hatred in his words, and Donan does, too. "She grieves him... But what she does... It's too much like... Like where I came from. Except Rathma never actually demanded the things my people did to me." His hair bristles on the back of his neck. Donan clenches his hands into fists in his lap.

"...Wanderer... What happened to you?" Donan reaches and gently places his hand on the necromancer's shoulder. He flinches, but doesn't pull away. He glares at Donan, but the man meets his eyes evenly back.

Donan seems to be considering his next move. Almost like a young boy eagerly expecting to find a small hind on his hunt and running into a great hart who has no intention of being shot.

But this hart trusts that will not be shot, and he will not run, either. The wanderer rolled his shoulder, shrugging off the hand.

"We were terrible people. Isolated from the world on an island south of Hawezar. I thought I loved what We were. We took trips to the mainland to get corpses for Our craft. They weren't dead when We got there." His hands ball into fists in his lap.

"...you were an instrument in the Death Song..." Donan's voice is barely a whisper.

The wanderer tilted his head, "Is that what your name is for who We were?"

Donan scowls softly, "Well, it's what we heard from travellers who came from the south. What do you mean, were?"

"How long ago was the last time you heard a story about Us? I imagine We'll become nothing but a fairy tale to children before too long."

Donan frowns, "So... They're gone?"

"Yes. We're gone. For the most part."

Silence. The wanderer just stares at Donan, waiting for the next word.

"...What did you do?" A look of concern and caution crosses the man's face.

"I think you've already guessed the answer. Why do you think I travelled so far north? Why do you think Mephisto haunts me?"

"Answer the question, wanderer."

"I killed them." Tension hangs like a heavy stone in the air, "Say what you want about it. Yell, storm out, threaten me." The wanderer looks back at the lake.

A slow sigh, "No, I don't think I will." Donan's hand reaches to take one of his hands, and the necromancer realizes he's bleeding from his own nails, "I know you, wanderer. Whatever they did to you to push you to such a point. You still consider yourself one of them, even after killing them."

His shoulders fall. He pulls his eyes away from Donan carefully wiping the wound off with a cloth. And he decides to speak again, "I'd been a bad omen since birth. White hair. Pale eyes. And they treated me like it, only barely a part of the Whole, no matter how hard I worked, how many I killed. They only gave me a name when I was bathed in the blood of someone I loved." There is more to it. But he can barely conjure the words to speak it, "My mentor cursed me and stripped me of my name with her dying breaths. Probably the best thing she ever did for me."

Quiet, again. He glances to Donan and sees the man deep in thought as he wraps his palm. It stretches out for a while. The wanderer simmering slowly in his own head as the water below gently splashes onto the shore and stones.

"So why do you feel so strongly about Rathma? Why are you still a necromancer?"

"My craft is Mine, not Ours." He snaps, yanking his hand back and his lips peeling back from a snarl, "Made for One, not the Whole. I am a necromancer because that is who I am. My people may have shown me the path, but that's the only part they play."

A hum. He suspects Donan is confused, by what he doesn't know. It's clear to him, but Donan doesn't press on whatever it is.

"And what about Rathma?" He motions to the lake. The Necropolis beyond, "Your people told you everything was his command, didn't they?"

"Yes. And for a while, I hated him as much as I hated the Whole." The wanderer leaned against rubble nearby, looking down at his hand and finishing the wrapping himself. "And then I sought to learn more of my craft, beginning to struggle on my own. I read his teachings in the wider world, and I began to question what I had been taught."

The binding tight, he let his hands fall back down.

"First to learn he was a flesh and blood being? And not a serpent at all, but that he looks as human as you or I. And then to read his teachings and find that the Balance I had been taught was twisted." He shakes his head. He reaches into his pouch and pulls out a beaten up book; his journal. It's scarred and stained with who knows what all.

"I don't see him as a god, I don't worship him. He was a person. A teacher."

His fingers flip open the pages and his eyes flick between each one. And then he stops. The page he'd written after returning from the city of dead. There, delicately sketched, is Rathma's face.

"Almost every word I was told about him as a child was wrong. Coming here, suddenly being thrust with the realization that I could possibly even meet him. Only to find him dead. Killed by Inarius with his own weapon." A shaky breath.

"In a way, I guess I am devoted to him. But as one is devoted to a loved one, not an angel nor a demon."

Donan has been quiet for a while now. The wanderer snaps his journal shut.

"I hope you're satisfied now."

Donan still doesn't answer. After a second, the wanderer looks over his shoulder, almost wondering if the man had snuck out at some point. But no, he's still there.

"You've been through a lot, haven't you, wanderer?" Donan hums softly, "I can see why you aren't eager to let Neyrelle try and think of a new name for you."

"I am happy being a simple wanderer."

"Perhaps I'll have a word with her in private, ask her to stop."

"You don't have to--"

"No, I think it's only right." He stands up, then pauses. He wants to say something... But it escapes him, "We have to make for Hawezar soon, though. I don't want to rush your meal, but we're ready to leave when you are."

The wanderer stares at the Black Lake, but nods and begins to pack up, "I was nearly done anyway. Go on ahead, I'll meet you there."

#ress writes #ress games #diablo 4 #neglected space(fanfic) #rathma #donan

[disco-elysium-via-polls]

As Kim suggested, we can take a closer look at the bullet.

(EVIDENCE) FRACTURED BULLET

The bullet mushroomed out on impact. It now looks more like a fanciful jacket button than something that could pierce skin, flesh, and bone.

>INTERACT

FRACTURED BULLET - The bullet is safely sealed away in a plastic bag bearing the RCM stamp. Kim has filled out the label on the bag with the item number, case number, and date and location the bullet was found.

INLAND EMPIRE [Easy: Success] - Beside his orderly handwriting, the bullet looks especially sad. Like a tiny, shrivelled head of cauliflower.

"What do I do with you, bullet?"

Feel the bullet through the bag.

The bullet has nothing more to say. [Put it away.]

KIM KITSURAGI - "What?" The lieutenant steps closer.

"I said: What do I do with you, bullet?"

KIM KITSURAGI - "Well, if I was the bullet -- which I'm not -- I would say: find the weapon that shot me."

"Good idea."

"I don't know..."

KIM KITSURAGI - "If we find who owns it, we will have likely found who *used* it -- possibly to kill our victim."

New task: Find the murder weapon

"In conclusion: the more we know about this bullet of yours, the better."

2. Feel the bullet through the bag.

FRACTURED BULLET - The squashed bullet has some sharp edges where the jacket has split open. It feels cold, even through the bag.

3. Inspect the bullet closer.

FRACTURED BULLET - The jacket of the bullet is made of yellowish metal. It has blossomed out to reveal a dark grey core. The base of the bullet is close to 5 mm in diameter.

Look at the jacket.

And the core?

FRACTURED BULLET - You can just about make out a few striations near the base of the bullet. Little hairlines, linear. It feels standard.

2. And the core?

FRACTURED BULLET - It's quite destroyed. Some of the fragments are still lodged in the wound.

KIM KITSURAGI - "What can you say about the bullet so far?"

"It's a jacketed bullet, close to 5 mm in diameter."

Wow, I actually *know* this...

FRACTURED BULLET - Yes. It's as if you've seen bullets before, officer.

"It's a jacketed bullet, close to 5 mm in diameter."

KIM KITSURAGI - "A jacketed bullet. Okay... It would have been shot from a military-grade breech-loading rifle, not from a muzzleloader like those typically found on the streets of Martinaise."

"Even the RCM uses ordinary unjacketed conical bullets. This is... strange. Very strange. I like this, officer. Strange means unique. Unique means incriminating. We need to find the gun that shot it."

+5 XP

Level up!

INLAND EMPIRE [Easy: Success] - Something tells you that won't be any time soon. This'll have to be one of those epic tasks that's open for a while...

4. [Hand/Eye Coordination - Legendary 14] Try to determine what type of weapon shot this.

-1 Morale

HAND/EYE COORDINATION [Legendary: Failure] - You can't remember what happened last week -- what makes you think you're going to remember arcane firearm models?

5. The bullet has nothing more to say. [Put it away.]

Let's see if Cuno has anything to say about our discovery.

CUNO - "Necromancer pig," he says, eyes full of admiration. "That shit was dark... going in there like that... brutal shit. Tell me:"

"Cuno dies, you're gonna pick one out of his brain like that too? Cuno's gonna go out in a hail of bullets. Gonna look like a fucking porcupine."

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Easy: Success] - Porta Rosa, a side alley of the Boogie Street spearhead. A young man in his early twenties approaches Patrol Officer Émile Mollins and asks for a cigarette. As Officer Mollins reaches in his coat pocket for the pack of 'Astra' he just purchased this morning...

The man shoots him point blank in his chest. Breathless, the patrol officer collapses in the gutter. His right hand is grabbing the armour on his chest. The bullet didn't pierce it, but he can't breathe. On the pavement, the patter of the perpetrator's feet growing distant.

"Bleed, pig!" someone opens a window and says, but Émile can't see who. His sight grows dim with pain…

#disco elysium #kim kitsuragi #cuno

[asmutwriter]

You Saved Me (Part 10)

DESCRIPTION: (Season 9) The Winchesters get a call from one of their dads old hunter friends about a necromancer. Happening in your home town.

WORD COUNT: 3207

From Beginning / Previous / Next / Master List  

WARNINGS: Swearing, smut, dom leaning switch reader, sub leaning switch Dean, fingering, biting, unprotected sex, cream pie, slight daddy issues, talking of the death of a character

DISCLAIMERS 

- This is fiction. Please always talk to your partner before doing anything and make sure they are ok with what you are doing beforehand

You gasp awake. Clutching at your chest. You look around you. You were home. Safe. You shut your eyes. A hand shakily wiping your forehead. You get off of the sofa. Being quiet as to not wake anyone as you make your way into the kitchen for a glass of cold water. “Bad dream?” you jump, clutching at your chest

“Jesus fuck you scared the shit out of me”. Turning and seeing Dean sitting at the table. He chuckles as you down the glass of water before turning to look at the green eyed man. “Why are you awake still?”

“Your dad has just gone to bed but I thought I’d treat myself with a couple more drinks” you nod, motioning at the kettle

“Coffee?” he nods. You grab out two mugs, making you both a drink. Going and standing next to him and handing him his cup. He looks as he goes to take it, noticing your hands still shaking. He takes the mug from you. Placing it on the table before he takes your hands in his. Turning in his chair to face you fully. Eyes looking up at you from where he sits.

“It’s ok. It was just a bad dream” you nod. Lips pressed together as you meet his eyes. Soft eyes staring up at you. You grip his hands. Letting the safety of him wrap around you. Then you remember it. The screams from your dream. You drop his hands.

“I don’t deserve your kindness Dean... I’ve done some awful things. Truly terrible things”. His eyes drop from yours. A soft smile forming on his lips.

“Haven’t we all?” they go back up and meet yours again. You chuckle slightly.

“You probably get what I mean the most of everyone. Hunter to hunter that is” the same soft smile on his lips as he nods in agreement

“It’s a shitty thing some of the stuff we do. But we have to do it” you nod. A silence filling the room. He slowly puts his hands on the back of your bare thighs. His hands cold against your warm skin. His eyes scanning you as he pulls you closer. You rest your hands on his shoulders. Gently stroking them as you feel him kissing your stomach through your baggy shirt. One hand moves from your thigh. Gently pushing your shirt up as he kisses and bites at your stomach. One of your hands goes to his hair, gripping it as he moves the hand on your thigh up. His fingers cupping your leg just underneath you ass. His thumb going a little bit underneath your pyjama shorts. You let out a soft sigh. Focusing on him. Letting your pain and worries melt away with his touch. You feel like he’s doing the same thing. Focusing on you and only you. He moves his hands to your hips. Letting the touch of each other wash away the memories of the past and letting you both focus on the present. Your eyes opening as you feel him standing up. Him now looking down at you. Practically chest to chest.

He turns you gently. Lifting you up so you perch on the edge of the table. You place a hand on either side of his face. His stubble scratching your hands slightly as you lean forward. Kissing him. Your arms wrapping around his neck as you kiss each other. Feeling your sorrow of the day being washed away with him. Your hands go to his shirt. Pushing the flannel off. The tight shirt left on him leaving very little to the imagination. You run your hands over the fabric. Feeling every muscle. You go to the bottom of his shirt. Gently pushing it up as you lightly scratch your nails over his stomach. Smiling as he shuts his eyes and holds back a soft moan. His hands go to your shorts. You rest backwards on your palms. Lifting your hips up as he removes you of them. Shutting your legs as you feel cold air hitting your core.

He gently pushes your thighs apart, slots himself between your legs again. You grip the fabric of his shirt as his fingers find your cunt. Rubbing gentle circles around your needy hole. Causing you to let out small hitched breaths. You kiss his neck as you grind your hips against his finger. An arm going around his shoulders as your free hand comes up to rest on his cheek. Feeling him push two fingers into your slick, causing you to let out a whiny moan. Running your thumb over his bottom lip as you make eye contact. “S-so good to m-me... getting me off... wi-without me even asking yo-you” you kiss him. His fingers still working. Curling inside of you. Hitting that magic spot. You meet his movements with your hips. Hiding your head in his shoulder. Biting down on it as you feel your high approaching. You hear him let out a soft grunt of pleasure as you bite harder. His free hand coming up and gripping the back of your neck. Muffling your moans as your orgasm hits you. Hips and legs shaking as you ride it out.

You stop biting his shoulder. Gently kissing the marks you left as you run your fingers over him. All of him. Bringing your face close to his as you run your thumb along his cheek. “Do you want me to cum around your cock?” he nods. Kissing you again. He goes close to you as you hold onto his shoulders. He pushes the empty bottle, glasses and notes from the evening up the table. Giving you room to lie down on the cold surface. He stands in front of you again, hands gently playing with the bottom of your shirt. Noses gently touching as you brush your lips over each other’s. Your hands going to the side of his face, feeling his five o’clock shadow hitting the palm of your hand. His hair gently tickling your fingertips as you feel him bending downwards. Kissing your neck, causing your eyes to flutter shut. His hands going underneath your baggy shirt, ghosting over your sides with his fingers. “Dean?” he looks at you. Lust filling his eyes. Feeling his hard on rubbing against your core. “I’m on the pill... and I’m clean...” he nods. His eyes get a new glint to them as he realises what you’re saying

“Are you sure you want that?” he almost whispers. You nod, kissing his jaw by his ear as you whisper.

“I want to feel your cum inside me...” you bite your lip and smile as you lean back. Lying on the table and pushing your legs apart slightly. His eyes going straight to your wetness. He groans out. Pushing your oversized shirt up, leaving kisses all over your stomach. Your hands rake through his hair as you hear him undo his belt. You hold a hand out towards him. Feeling him take it as he stands up fully. The other hand guiding himself to your hole. He keeps your legs open as he pushes into you. Both of you suppressing the moans you want to let out. You take in a few deep breaths. Feeling him stretching you out. His hand holding your thigh open goes to your waist. Holding it as he begins thrusting into you. You shut your eyes. Your mind not able to focus on anything else other than him. His hand holding yours lets go. Resting on your pubic bone as his thumb rubs your clit. The hand on your waist keeping you as still as he can as he begins going at an ungodly speed into your aching cunt. One of your hands goes to the hand on your clit. Gripping the fingers that rest on your lower stomach. You shut your eyes tightly, bringing your free hand up to your mouth. Hiding the sinful moans that fall from your lips.

“F-fuck” he mutters. Quickening his pace. You grip his hand tighter. Feeling your second orgasm building up. You try grinding your hips against him. But his hold on your waist making you unable to move very well. He notices this and goes faster. Causing you to let out a high pitch whine as you reach your second high. You push your legs together as the orgasm hits you. Trapping his hand between your thighs as they shake slightly. Feeling him continuing his thrusts into you.

“Holy fuck” he says as you clench around him. His grip on your waist gets tighter as he pulls you towards him more. Feeling him push himself into you fully. Seconds later feeling hot cum filling you up. Heavy panting coming from him as he stills. You open your eyes. His head slightly titled as his eyes remain shut. Lips apart. A tiny bit of a shine as he sweats. He looks almost godly. His eyes open. Probably as he feels you watching him. You smile at him, his smiling meeting yours. You sit up, resting on your elbows as he leans forward. Capturing your lips with his. One of your hands goes to his neck. Slow kisses being exchanged. A complete contrast to the scene that happened mere moments ago. His hands remain on your hips. Thumbs rubbing soft circles onto your upper thighs. You move away slightly. His hand coming up to rest on your back, resting between your shoulder blades as you grip his arms. He kisses your neck. Fluttering your eyes shut again. Tilting your head back as he kisses your throat. You bite your lip slightly. Grinding your hips against him. He pulls away a few inches, causing you to tilt your head down and look at his green lust filled eyes.

“Someone’s still needy” you playfully hit his shoulder. Causing him to smirk at you as you sit up properly, running your hand up his arm “I get it. No judgement from me”

“Shut up cocky” your eyes darting to his lips slightly before looking back at his eyes. He smiles, going back to your neck. Kissing and biting onto it. A hand goes to his hair. Trying so hard not to grind against him as you feel that pit start to build in your stomach again. In turn, you trying not to grind against him means you grip his hair tighter. He moves away. Lips barely touching yours as your eyes meet. Hand still firmly gripping his hair. That stupid grin adorning his face as he watches you melt under his touch “Dean...” you whisper to him. Grinding your hips against him, causing him to chuckle lowly. You lean forward, kissing him gently. A hand still gripped in his hair you tilt his head, kissing his neck. He lets out a low grunt. Nails digging into the flesh of your sides. You smile titling his head to look at you. “Not so cocky now are we?” you grin as he chuckles. 

“You really want to play that game huh?” he teases. You smile and bite your bottom lip, kissing him as you pull him close to you. Pulling away and smiling as you look into his eyes. He tilts his head down, his eyes looking at you through his lashes as he runs a hand down the side of your thigh. You smirk at him

“Such a good boy” he raises an eyebrow as his tongue flicks out over his bottom lip. Feeling him grind his hips against you. Making him hit all those delicious spots inside you again. Your breath hitches, grabbing his shoulders as it’s his turn to smirk. 

“That’s what I thought” he kisses you again. Soft lips against yours.

“Such a dick” you smile, kissing him quickly again. Placing your hands around the back of his neck and gently stroking them through his hair. “What do you say to me making us a fresh drink and some bacon? Because I’ve defiantly worked up an appetite” he chuckles

“That sounds good. Really good in fact” you look at the clock 

“Nothing like a 3am snack” he laughs. Pulling out of you. He grabs your shorts from the floor and hands them to you. You both make yourselves decent before you go and start making some food.

Afterwards you both head into the living room. Plate of bacon on the coffee table as you sit cross legged on the floor. He joins you as you both drink your coffees and eat the food. He looks at you “what was your dream about?”

“About my mum... How she died...” he nods slightly, resting a hand on your leg in cofort as you run a finger over the rim of your mug “I killed her Dean” you look at him, your eyes sad as they meet his. He paused for a moment before sftly asking

“How did you kill her?”

“My mum always wanted a child. But she couldn’t fall pregnant. But then after 14 years of trying she suddenly was. It was a miracle” you take a bite of bacon “But then the hellhounds came for her soul. Turns out she had made a deal” you face the man “If she had never made that deal. If I had never been born then she’d still be here today”

“Kat...”

“She used to call me her little rose. Which is where I chose the name Rose from”

“You can’t blame yourself for that. That wasn’t your fault. It was just a demon taking advantage of a vulnerable woman. That’s on the demon. Not you. Not your mum” you nod

“My dad blames me. Hell, I blame me. My dad started hunting things hoping to find a way to bring her back. I started hunting things because of my dad. I figure if my mum sacrificed her soul for my life then I should try and help those around me as much as I can. Make it worth it as much as I can. But I realise that putting my life in danger. Risking my own familys safety. I enjoy helping people but... my mum wouldnt want me to be risking the life I’ve built” you shrug, downing the rest of your drink. He nods 

“I had a good life with her though. I have fond memories of us three. Happy memories” he nods as you finish your food. “That’s enough of my trauma for one day though, don’t you think. I reckon time to sleep” you smile as you lean your head on his shoulder, shutting your eyes. “I’ll see you in the morning Dean” you feel him gently hold you as he reaches behind him. Grabbing a blanket and placing it over your body. Feeling one of his arms go around your waist. You bury your face into his shoulder, hands coming up and gripping his arm as you fall asleep.

Your phone alarm wakes you up. Feeling Dean next to you as you turn the alarm off. His head resting lightly onto yours. You rub your eyes as you lift your head from his shoulder. Moving out from under the blanket and being careful not to wake him. His eyes flutter open as he looks at you now standing up “Sorry I didn’t mean to wake you” he shakes his head, rubbing his eyes as he takes in his surroundings. “I have to get the girls up for school. You keep sleeping though” he looks at you and sleepily smiles, eyes going over your bare legs as you smile at him. Heading into the hallway. You wake up both the girls. Getting them breakfast. Sanitising the table first though. Making them both lunch as Dean walks in. He half smiles at you

“You ok if I borrow your shower?”

"Yes you can but these two need to do their teeth first. Maybe wait until I’ve dropped them off at school?” he nods.

“I can do that” he smiles at you

“You want food?” he nods. You smile as you make him pancakes (as well as yourself and the girls). Placing the plate down in front of him

“You don’t happen to have whipped cream do you?” he looks at you, curiosity adorning his pretty face. You go to the fridge. Grabbing out a can and handing it to him

“Why does he get junk food for breakfast?” Anna asks as she steps into the kitchen, a slightly jealous tone to her voice as she sits at the tble. Shortly followed by her little sister

“Because he’s an adult who can make his own choices” you turn as you grab your coffee and your own breakfast from the side. Tuning back you see he’s grabbed the girl’s forks and is placing the whipped cream onto them. The younger girl smiles and places it into her mouth before you can say anything. You glare at the older man but smile as Lydia giggles. Anna rolls her eyes but happily eats it off the fork. He smiles at you

“What can I say? I’m a good influence”

“A bad influence more like” he keeps smiling at you as you sit at the table

You drop the girls off at school. Driving back home you hear the shower running. Going and tiding the kitchen. You go into the room your dad was staying in. A note written and left on the bed.

‘I’m glad I saw you again. Hope life treats you and your family well. - Dad’

You scoff as you read it. The shower stops as you go to throw the note away. Dean comes out. Trousers and shirt on him but his hair is wet. “I’ve not seen Harry around. I was going to drop him back off at his place” you hand him the note as you walk out of the bedroom. Going and sitting at the kitchen table. He reads it as he follows you. Placing the paper on the side as he looks at you “I’m sorry Rose”

“I didn’t expect him to stay. I wanted him to but I never expected him to” you shrug “Oh well. It doesn’t matter. He’s a waste of space and I don’t need him in my life. I lasted this many years without him. The rest of my life won’t hurt” he nods. Watching as you wipe your eyes. Feeling tears form in them. “I have work today. In a few hours. You’re welcome to stay and chill here but I can’t join you” he nods.

“I was probably going to head off anyway. But it was really good to see you again” you nod and smile “I’ll text you though. More often then my usual 2 month intervals” you chuckle slightly

“I have no expectations from you Dean. I’m glad whenever I see you but I don’t expect anything from you” you smile at him as he nods “and I always look forward to those two month check ups” he smiles. 

“I should go but I’ll message you” you follow him to the front door. Watching as he grabs his jacket and keys. His eyes scanning your features before he smiles again at you. Waving goodbye as he walks to his car.

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TAGS

@sojuxxi

#dean winchester #dean winchester smut #smut #supernatural #supernatural smut #fluff #angst #dean winchester supernatural #dean winchester angst #dean winchester fluff #supernatural fluff #supernatural angst #jensen ackles #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester fan fic #dean x reader #dean smut #dean angst #dean fluff #jensen ackles dean #jensen ackles dean winchester #spn #spn dean #spn dean winchester #spn dean winchester smut #spn dean winchesterr angst #spn dean winchester fluff #spn dean smut #spn dean fluff #spn dean angst

[piffany666]

Nor death nor love discriminates between the sinners and the saints: chapter 2, final

A fan fiction made by me and @darlin-collins about what we thought was going to happen in one magic of the heart episodes (more specifically the 'lovers quarrel' episode

" I was simply implying that you both remind me so much of me and magrios"

After these words left the guardian's mouth a look of horror and fury was simultaneously plastered on both makkaro and his partner's face. "How dare you" the figure's voice was quiet and when the guardian did not react to this response, they repeated themselves but raised their voice to an extent where in the corner of the guardian's eyes they could see Frank backing away with a look that said 'oh sh*t'.

As the enraged figure began to rant, with their necromancer husband looking on at them, the guardian could swear they went death right then and there. Not out of disrespect for the offended couple but out of pure exhaustion, they just simply hadn't the energy to argue with then because to put it simply, if someone had said something like that to them when they were with magrios, they would have done the same....which did not help...

However at one point the enraged figure said something that snapped the guardian out of it. They could barely even make out what exactly was said they just knew it was about magrios and that it was out of line.

"You don't know anything about us!" The guardian tried to sound furious but in there current state it just came off as desperate, desperate for them to stop talking to them as if they weren't ignorant to there whole situation....as I they weren't a child in their eyes...

After the guardian had said this the figure stopped then smirked "I know you killed your husband for being evil and yet here I am, with MY husband and inspite of him being evil, I still love him enough not to kill him".

They finished this sentence with a smug smile that made the guardian realise that they haven't been this angry in 300 years. "You think I didn't know until sh*t hit the fan? You think I was in a blissful heaven until I woke up one day and found out and just decided to kill him on the spot? I'll have you know that it was YEARS and YEARS of suffering and tears, years of tries and fails, to save him from the monster that lived within him despite knowing it was a means to an end. Until HE gave up on trying, until HE was consumed as a whole, just like you two! So don't you dare try that with me because while you silently judge YOUR husband for torturing people, I held mine when he cried after killing them"

The room was drowned in silence, the figure, too stunned to talk back, left the room and after a few muffled sounds, they were definitely crying, mak turned around with a look that would turn anyone else's skin cold but not there's

"you shouldn't have done that"

"It's either this or the history will repeat itself, you, dead, them, suffering for years because they had to kill you after you lose yourself to your own darker side" they said this with tears falling down there face. It almost frightened them, the feeling of cold tears on their face, they weren't exactly used to just....feeling......again.

Mak hesitated but then continued "that will never happen! We are nothing like you and magrios! We are better...now I'm going to leave this room and go to comfort my darling and when I get back I will make you wish magrios finished you that night"

The guardian gave a half smile "you two are exactly like me and magrios, go comfort them, just make sure you love them enough not to give up, lover boy. And about magrios, I already wish I had died on that mountain, with him in my arms"

Half way between that sentence, the guardian looked down, unsure if they were even talking to makkaro anymore. There was a brief moment of silence between the two then makkaro addressed the previously established aloof henchmen, Frank.

"Frank! Keep an eye on the guardian while I'm gone" he began to leave "right away boss! Nehehehe" mak leaves and through the door the guardian could hear them, together, blissfully ignorant to the destiny layed out before them.....and yet the guardian felt.....jealous.... and they hated that feeling more than anything "if only they knew" they mumbled.

"It's sad really" the voice they adored commented from beside them.

"Yeah..." They said "I ment it you know"

"What?"

"About that I wish I died that day, with you..."

"......so do i"

"Urrrr mak I think the guardian is ummm...hallucinating" the guardian was then reminded that they weren't alone.

"Oh! Your still here"

"Yep! Sure am!

This one seems to know mak quite well, maybe he could answer a few questions foe them?

"Tell me, do you know what they see in him?" This question cane from a place of genuine curiosity.

"Hehe I do but do you really wanna know?"

"On second thought no, I don't think I do" they were still curious but scared of the implications of what he ment by that.

"Hehe yeah but I not like you have much room to talk tho right?"

"Yeah... right. just hope neither go feral, you know?"

"I do! Maks my friend and I don't want him to gey hurt"

"Right...well I you don't mind I'd like to....hallucinate in peace, I don't think you need to worry about me escaping I'm kind of immobilised"

"Urrr I mean mak told me to guard you till he gets back soooo"

"No he didn't

"He didn't?"

"No" the guardian saw this as an opportunity to take advantage of this skeletons small minded-ness.

"Oh OK then! Bye!"

"Goodbye strange skeleton"

He then left and the guardian's soft smile dropped, they looked up at magrios.

"Sometimes I wish you could actually touch me..."

Magrios smiled "why? You want me to hold you baby?"

Their smile reignited for a second then faded once more "No, I want you to kill me, and actually hold me in the afterlife"

His smile then faded too "me too...."

"Part of me wants to let him drain me, kill me, f*k this planet if he wants to, I don't care" their voice tried so hard to sound angry, to sound like their words had any semblance of emotion behind them but....

"Babye....you know I'm not actually here right?"

"Of course...."

"Then why did you just lie to me? You know I'm just YOU so why?"

The guardian of course knew that the voice they swore was his was just their own and yet this took them a back...so they tried to play dumb

"But...it isn't a lie, I want to feel the sensation of you holding me again" this wasn't what magrios ment and they knew this

"Oh no I belive that, but the part about you not caring about what happens to the planet once you die"

The guardian finally let a sob escape them

"I'm just so tired"

"I know"

"I don't want them to suffer!"

"I know"

".......I want to have what they have too" another sob

"....."

Then silence

Nothing but

Silence

(I'm so sorry this took so long I thought I already uploaded this....I'm really sorry ':))

#good boy audios #goodboyaudiosmagicoftheheart #goodboyaudios #goodboyaudiosfanfic #gba darling #gba makkaro #gba guardian #gba frank #gbamagrios

[aikoiya]

LoZ - Possible Good Ganondorf

I actually think it's possible to have a good Ganondorf. Or at the very least, morally grey. Like, yes, he's cursed & would likely always have a little bit of that tendency towards a desire for power, but I also think that part of the reason he ended up so bad is the nature VS nurture thing. I feel like he could be taught not to follow those impulses if it's caught soon enough.

Thing is, 2 of the Ganondorfs that we know of were in some way associated with Kōme (fire witch & the older twin) & Kotake (ice witch & the younger twin). Them being the first Ganondorf's adopted mothers. Their second appearance (OoA/OoS) likely being the same incarnations as in OoT & their 3rd appearance in TotK at least being his captains of the guard or even his personal advisors. (Personally, I still think that they acted as his adopted mothers in TotK as their names are engraved upon the Gloom Set. And you don't just do that if someone's only your advisors or guard captains. You do that if someone is of great, personal significance to you.)

As such, I actually think that Four Swords Adventure Ganondorf & Hyrule Warriors Ganondorf were both also raised by Kōme & Kotake, though as to whether they are the same pair as in OoT or are new iterations of them is up in the air.

Add to that the fact they are specifically stated to be his adopted mothers rather than one being his actual mother while the other is his aunt, as well as specifically being evil witches who specifically practice black magic who just so happened to have raised a psychopathic, power-hungry tyrant, makes them a wee bit suspicious to me. It's also impossible for TotK Ganondorf to be either of their son, because they both have pointed ears like all the other Gerudo in TotK, but Ganon specifically does not.

Either way, I am further convinced of their ill-intent by the fact that they brainwashed any Gerudo who opposed their son's rule as well as them specifically being noted to be 400 years old & that the means by which they maintain their long life is stated to be via powerful black magic. (Note that witches in many old stories & the like are said to do this by sacrificing children to beings that they made dark pacts with in exchange for power. As to whether or not that's the case here, is unknown.)

There's also the fact that he's stated to be trained in black magic as well. Adding to that, the theories that Ganondorf's name translates to Necromancer with Ganon meaning black magic & dorf meaning sorcerer as well as the theory suggesting that practicing black magic results in a visible alteration in one's appearance, a "staining" if you will. One example being Astor from AoC, who is depicted with unhealthy, ghostly pale skin not unlike that of a corpse. If true, then it would explain why Kōme & Kotake are depicted as having the same greenish complexion as Ganondorf. It's simply visual evidence that a Gerudo is practicing black magic. Like how working with iron without proper protection can turn your skin blue.

This would make it a sort of warning to others in a similar way to how bright colors on a frog is a warning of them being poisonous or like how Voldimort's face got all ugly, rather than being a racist indication of being evil as, this way, it would have a logical reason rather than a purely metaphysical, morally extremist one.

As for why the Kōme & Kotake of MM still have that complexion, it's possible that they once practiced black magic like their Hyrule counterparts, but have since stopped. If so, then that would indicate that the performance of such is a permanent stain. Though, that's just my personal attempt at making logical sense of it.

Like, there has to be a logical explanation besides racism because if it were racism, then all the Gerudo would look like that. The fact that only these 3 Gerudo exhibit this quality means that there is something about them that makes them different from other Gerudo in one way or another. Whether that difference is the use of black magic or something else entirely, like a skin disorder or a disease or something else is to be determined, but it's highly likely to be black magic just based on the evidence.

It's also possible that Kōme & Kotake might be worshippers of Demise, or some other evil entity, who know about the curse & actively go out to find Ganondorf whenever he's born, specifically to raise him into a proper vessel of Demise's hatred just to loose him on Hyrule.

As to why we never hear anything about Ganon's birth parents, maybe he was left in the desert like how Hagar intended to do to Ishmael? Or, Ganon was kidnapped. Hell, Kōme & Kotake could've even killed them in order to get Ganondorf.

If true, then it's possible that Ganondorf is a victim of child abuse, grooming, & even a subject of trauma bonding, which would definitely mess a person up.

If nothing else, then Kōme & Kotake are at the very least effing racist, because where else would he learn to specifically hate Hyrule & want to conquer it? I get it, cursed, but still!

At the time of OoT, Faron was likely mostly uninhabited beyond the possibly ancestors of the Lurelinites & the descendants of the Kikwi, & probably wasn't even considered part of Hyrule yet, not to mention the area is lush with vegetation. Why not settle there & claim it for themselves if he was really so concerned about his how harsh the desert was on his people?

Which, BTW, humans have managed to not just survive, but thrive, in the desert for 5,000+ years IRL, you're telling me that these people obviously perfectly adapted to the desert. Who are physically larger & stronger than Hylians (who themselves are very human adjacent), have not managed to figure out how to live relatively comfortably there on their own?

Not to mention, but from what I can tell, there are plenty of crops that can grow just fine in the desert. Date palms, tomatoes, corn, eggplants, sweet potatoes, cucumbers, onions, pumpkins, beans, carrots, lettuce, cabbages, radishes, wheat, squash, figs, spinach, sweet peppers, grapes, & watermelons, according to Google, can all grow in the desert! So long as they have some sort of access to these crops & a stable source of water, they should be good on food so long as famine doesn't hit.

Anyway, the solution could be as simple as killing Kōme & Kotake before they take Ganondorf, possibly saving his parents (provided they intended to kill them), or even possibly after they've done so. Afterwards, provided that at least one of his parents were still alive or they had other living relatives & they happen to not be bad influences, deliver baby Ganon to them to raise.

Either way, in such an instance, he likely wouldn't even be named Ganondorf as why would any Gerudo other than one's who actively want to go to war with Hyrule, give the one male a century the same name as the men who's been behind a majority of the Gerudo's hardships?

That's basically asking to repeat history.

Sure, tradition, but at the end of the day, traditions that only hurt need to be cut out.

---

Honestly, I've heard a lot of fans say that Demise is basically "Hyrule's Satan" which would make Ganondorf what some might call "Hyrule's Anti-Christ," but honestly, Demise ain't no more Hyrule's Satan than Loki is Norse Satan or Hades is Greece's Satan. To fit every culture's religion into the same cookie-cutter shape of Christianity is really disrespectful of the cultures themselves. Which, I understand that Hyrule ain't real, but still.

Sure, Hyrule's religion bares a surface-level resemblance to Christianity & it was originally planned that Christianity be Hyrule's official religion, but when you really examine the actual facts though, it's very much only skin deep.

However, because Hyrule's religion isn't actually Christianity, this gives fans a degree of leeway in regards to certain things.

For one, Ganondorf being forever evil. If Demise actually, legit were Hyrule's Satan & Ganondorf the Anti-Christ, then Ganondorf would be forever doomed to always be evil & never have a chance to... Change! Like, at all! Forget being good, he couldn't even be neutral!

Now, I don't think Demise can be redeemed ever. For one, he's supposed to be already gone based on Fi's words about his soul being trapped inside the sword & dissolving. If this is true, then there ain't no coming back from that.

However, Ganondorf still has a chance & Imma run with that!

Edit: The more I learn about the Japanese translation, the more I think that I might be on the right track here.

Demise himself mentioned the curse as being samsara, which means that one will continue to suffer in subsequent lives & the only way to end it is to be rid of one's Mōshū. Which prevents one from reaching enlightenment.

And... I think it's Ganondorf's Mōshū that's keeping the 3 of them from... moving on...

LoZ Cultural Masterlist

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