#i need eyes to bleed and souls to burn upon seeing this abomination as my own do upon seeing yours

[mayax81]

brINGING THIS BACK because too many of you have graduated to shading, lighting, etc. without learning more than 1 body type and it drives meup the wall. Ur not drawing sans. Ur drawing Caillou and Aang.

#sans #mypost #meanie bitchcunt hours #bishounen caillou ranting continues #i need eyes to bleed and souls to burn upon seeing this abomination as my own do upon seeing yours

[kkl1nch0r]

title: woes of an immortal (blade x gn!reader)

angst. this is angst guys. i was feeling emo. please don't come for my throat if your soul is shattered like mine was when I typed in the last words LOL!

-------

Since when did once an abomination seek and find its inner beauty?

Since when did a monster find their claws worthy and able to cradle the body of their dead love gently?

Since when did a beast, its fangs eternally stained with the slaughterous voices of its sin, bound and sliced cleanly from its vices, learn to find itself worthy of affection?

Blade was the first to be.

Once his weary eyes, deprived of desire, gazed into yours– the savage tamed by the saint– everything prior to his misery (as well the whole of his suffering) had been snuffed out. Much like the blowing out of a candle with its constant need to burn, all there was left was the stub of wax. Unhealed scars, bleeding wounds, a wailing soul.

I’ve changed, repeated the immortal abomination. I’ve changed.

You had held his cold cheek firmly and told him things you alone cannot remember– only a man who had lived so mundanely could recall the very words you had uttered.

But at the merciless hands of death, who can blame for one to forget? Even those who have lived with such purpose and ambition cannot remember every word they have spoken on their deathbed.

Your deathbed was his lap, your pillows were his trembling hands, and your last breath was just as shaking as his. Your vision faded, coming into focus to see blades ugly ass eye sigh this is shit

I bring misery, he says, his voice sounding like a cry heard from the other side of a wall. I have brought this upon you.

“Do not blame yourself,” you whisper, and he begins to cry– it's a mourning howl. He’s wailing; there are no signs of him stopping, as his tears come down upon your face like rain. A scarred, quivering hand clutches yours, and your heart breaks– as much as you wish to squeeze back reassuringly, there is no strength left in your body to reciprocate his gesture. No more energy to dispel his worries.

Blade tires himself out by crying; he lets out a choked sob, having lamented so hard his voice is broken, scattered like his essence. He had been begging for death just then; why did he wish for life now?

“Blade,” you whisper weakly, and it brings another wave of sobs. Blade doesn’t know he torments you with his sorrow. You lie in his arms helplessly as the man strangles himself with his cries.

Oh, it sounds so sad. So terrible, to know that you are about to pass on and he, immortal as he is, can do nothing about it– can do nothing about his death, nor yours, and can only watch as time flies by; to wait for a person who will never come back, nobody to answer his calls. Nobody to return to; nobody to look for in the bustling crowds of the Xianzhou.

Nobody to confide in, love, protect– Blade brings your hand to his lips– a gentle kiss placed on your knuckles as you manage a weak smile, lifting your hand to hold his cheek. He so desperately presses into your touch, tears trickling down his cheeks, barely able to hold back his grieving cries.

“You…” Swallowing thickly, you try to form a coherent sentence. “You haven’t changed.”

Not one bit? Blade asks sadly, pressing his lips against the palm of your hand. The shake of your head answers him, and Blade breathes in deeply, but it hitches, and he shakes with an effort to control his silent crying.

“Not one bit,” You reply with effort, and it's surprising how such a simple phrase seems to take the breath from you. Blade nods, and you exhale resignedly, bits of the world blurring into one. They say death is peaceful, but the man looking at you tells you otherwise.

“Remember me,” You say finally, and the last fragmented vision of Blade’s face blurs into nothing. Your body scatters, fading to ashes of what remains:

You are the ghost of a memory– sometimes Blade will see your figure standing in the midst of a parting crowd– there are times when you are there and moments when you aren’t. As Blade gazes at his empty, bloody hands, he begins to wonder if you were merely a fleeting dream.

But there is nothing he can do to change about it. And so his piercing wail reaches the sky, the rumble of thunder in the rushing of gray clouds, the rain purging the very essence of what made up just a fraction of his life.

Never has Blade felt so insignificant, as he recalls the words you had whispered once before.

I’ve changed, he’d repeat. I’ve changed.

You are just the same, you had said. When one’s life changes, the soul remains as is. You are better now– better, but just the same.

Blade kneels in the dirt.

Just the very same, Blade thinks, but without you, I feel truly different.

#honkai star rail #blade honkai star rail #hsr blade #blade x reader #blade x you #honkai star rail x you #honkai star rail x reader #gender neutral reader #xianzhou luofu #xianzhou luofu hsr #hsr fanfic #hsr #hsr x reader #hsr x you #jiayun's ugly writing

[angry-geese]

Blood Ties - Chapter Eighteen: About The Culling Games I

soulmate au choso x reader

Warnings: canon typical violence. some swearing. overall its sfw

a/n: half of this chapter is about soup and the other half is the slow deterioration of my brain cells + a little bit about the culling games. the next chapter will go more into detail about it

Word Count: 3.9k

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masterlist

Choso finds himself asking what it means to be human.

He breathes. He sleeps and eats. He bleeds when cut. Curses can do all of those things if they so please. So what makes him different? Is it his emotions? His anger? His grief? Or is it the pain he feels when cut?

He's not sure how this all works. The world of Jujutsu views him as a monster. As an abomination. He was exiled from it before he ever had the chance to join. That’s what he is, isn't he? A curse.

He has three parents. His mother, the curse that impregnated her, and the man who dared to mix his blood with theirs.

What makes him human?

Is it his heartbeat? Or is it something greater? Is it the string that ties you to him? That binds your soul to his?

If there's one thing he knows, it's that love hurts. The love he feels for his siblings hurts. All the time he’s been shot, beaten, stabbed for them. The love he feels for Itadori, however confused, and short lived, hurts. It all hurts. And it shows no sign of stopping.

By the time you wake up, late afternoon light streams in through the windows. The back of your throat is dry, and your limbs are stiff. You must not have moved in a while.

You lay against something warm. Choso. Your face heats up. You fell asleep on him. You’re not certain if you should be embarrassed, or flustered. Possibly both. But you’ll process that emotion another day. You’ve been drooling on his shoulder, which is the least embarrassing part about this.

He lets out a quiet “hm?” upon realizing you're awake. His lips are soft as they brush across your skin. Not in a kiss. He’s savoring your closeness. How your warm body feels against his. Watching the faint rise and fall of your chest with each breath. In this moment, in your half-awake state, you’re truly human.

Bleary eyes fall across the living room. A pot of something cooks on the stove. It smells nice, and strongly of ginger. Looks like soup. The tv is on, but muted. Something plays. It looks like news. The weather. Yuji and Megumi sit beside each other on the couch, on their phones. Is there cell service?

“How are you feeling?” Yuuta asks. “Your arm, I mean.”

You shrug. “Seems to work alright.” Could be worse. Could be better. You’re not complaining.

“With a wound like that, my reversed cursed technique can only do so much.” He says. “It's normal if there's some complications.”

“I think I’ll manage,” you say, “and if I don't, then it won't be my problem for long.”

Your brother is less amused with your joke than you are, and tries to cover his discomfort with a cough, that's rather obviously fake. Your gaze returns to your lap.

"I'm gonna go check the shops down the road for supplies," you say, "we've got a few hours of sunlight left."

Not that you need anything in particular. But you want to stretch your legs. And a walk sounds nice.

You pull on your belt, and jacket, both of which were too uncomfortable to sleep in. you only left off what you couldn't possibly fathom sleeping comfortably in. Laying beside the door are your boots. You should knock off some of the mud that's stuck to the soles, though you don't wear your shoes inside, so you hardly see the point.

"Just… be back before dark." James says. "I'll keep an eye on everyone here."

“Yeah right.” You say. “Fushiguro, you’re in charge.”

Out of all of them, he's the one you trust most to not burn the place down, or kill everyone- albeit accidentally. Generally, whatever he says, Yuji will follow. You hardly know this Yuuta kid. James is self-explanatory.

And Choso?

You're not sure about him yet.

“Fine,” he says, “I’ll have the food ready when you get back.”

He's… cooking?

You’re not sure who else would be. Yuuta, maybe.

"What'd you do with my brother?" You ask. “You can't cook. You nearly burned down mom’s house because you forgot you were boiling water."

"You were supposed to watch it!"

"I was ten!"

He rolls his eyes, turning from you, facing the stovetop. There's the soft click of a lighter. Your brother’s hand cups around his cigarette, guarding the flame.

"Don't smoke around the kids!" You swat his arm. Hard. "Do that shit outside!"

He does little to fight as you drag him out the front door.

The sky is practically colorless, taking on a sickly grey pallor. It's not particularly dark, though you wouldn't call it bright out. The pavement is wet. It looks like it's been a bit since it last rained.

You used to hate the smell of cigarettes. You still do. It's not a good smell, but it's familiar. Nostalgic, you suppose you could call it.

He sits, groaning as he does such. You make an offhand comment about him being an old man, to which he respons with a tired sounding “fuck you.”

You sit beside him on the front steps, watching as he flicks the ash from his cigarette onto the pavement.

"Choso's shirt, huh?" He asks.

"What about it?" You ask. Your tone is a little too defensive to not be suspicious.

He looks you up and down. "What'd you two get up to last night?"

Your eyes widen in horror. "It's not like that!" You say. "We didn't do anything!"

He lets out a small, amused sounding huff. "I know. I'm just fucking with you."

He doesn't take any more drags from his cigarette, only letting it smoulder, pinched between his finger and thumb. His eyes are glued to a crack in the sidewalk.

“Take this,” your brother hands Dawnbreaker to you by the blade. “It's bad luck to walk around with that busted-ass piece.”

You ignore the obvious insult. “And leave you without a weapon?"

“I've got my knife,” he produces a small, curved blade from his sleeve, “I’ll be fine.”

“That won't do any good against curses,” you say, “it's not-”

“Don't worry about me.” He says. “I’ll manage. And if I don't, then I’ll sic Itadori on them.”

He’s got a special grade sorcerer, the cursed womb death painting, Sukuna’s vessel, and the head of the Zen’in clan by his side. Granted, they may both be fifteen year old boys, but he’ll manage. So if they can't take care of whatever problem is thrown at them, then it's practically fate at that point.

“Like I said,” he grinds the ash from his cigarette under his heel, “be back before dark."

…

You follow along the main road, past the restaurant, where the bakery sits. There's plenty of other shops around to scavenge.

A scavenger.

That's surely what you feel like. A scavenger, searching for carrion to pick and scatter across the valley, leaving bones to bleach in the sun. Death is a sorcerer's constant companion.

It feels removed from modern life. Even one or two hundred years ago, life was viewed much differently than it is now. When you live in safe, sterile suburbs, or in cities, death feels like some far off concept. Sure, you do see it. In the sick and elderly. In freak accidents. Car crashes. Burned buildings and terrorist attacks. But you fail to see how intrinsically woven in with life it is.

It's not like anyone is getting out of this alive. And you’ve come to terms with it. Because if you think about it too long you threaten to fall into despair. Nothing is permanent, yet, despite this, everyone around you tries to live life like it is.

Part of you struggles to understand it. You don't see the point in it. It's a lot of effort for no reward.Too much work for a short, cruel existence. When your only reward is what you’re remembered as after you’re gone. There's two guaranteed things in life; death, and taxes. And you’re already avoiding the latter.

But being cynical and guarded is tiring. Sometimes you get why people believe in salvation, and heaven and hell, and the idea of an afterlife. Why they put so much effort into living lives for gods- false or not. The closest thing to an afterlife, for you at least, is how you’re remembered once you’re gone. How your actions are reflected in those closest to you. And though you may only be an echo, you’re still living on in them.

Sometimes you want to ignore it. Sometimes you’re not frustrated at your own uselessness. Sometimes you wish to be soft, and easily impressed.

But really, if you do go out; if you kick the bucket, or finally keel over during a fight, you don't want to be getting back up.

All of your friends were born with natural talent to fight; you have to get your powers from other means. They were given the means to survive out here. You have to fight for it.

The rain clouds have parted, revealing slivers of pale blue. It feels like it'll rain again. You hope it will. You like the rain.

You pull up your hood, running your fingers over the faux fur lining. It helps settle your nerves.

The front window of the bakery has been smashed. Probably sometime during the night. The money from the cash register has been taken. Broken glass crunches underfoot as you step through the window. You take great care as to not cut yourself on the shards that remain in the window frame. You can't stick your hand through a glass window without it getting cut, your mother would warn.

When you hear the crunching of glass, it doesn't occur to you that the person following you is someone you know. You feel eyes on your back. And with Noritoshi, mutated humans, and a million other things that want to kill you running around, now isn't the time to think.

You're bringing up your blade, pouring cursed energy down your arm. It's only a small voice in the back of your mind that stops you. Part of you wants to ignore it. A moment of hesitation can end in your death.

Standing mere inches from the tip of your blade is Choso, eyes wide with worry. You bring down your weapon, stuffing it back in its place on your belt.

He followed you?

“Choso! You scared the hell out of me!” You say.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"Why are you-" you stop yourself. You're not very nice to him. "Don't worry about it. Just don't sneak up on me. Okay?"

He nods.

People have left the food untouched, in favor of robbing the place of any money. You pick out a loaf of fancy sourdough bread that you think would go good with the soup. Non perishables would be better, but it's a bakery, it's not really the place for that. You try not to take more than you can use. It’ll only end up going bad. And it's no use to you if it's spoiled.

To your left is a glass case full of pastries. Tarts, cakes, all sorts of doughnuts. It's too early for sweets, and there's food cooking at home. But you’re hungry, and it may be the last time you have these for a while. Why save them for a rainy day when you’re not certain you’ll make it to the next one?

You feel his eyes on your back. It makes you uneasy, the way he watches you. Though, it's innocent enough in intent, you hate the feeling of being watched. You should say something. Anything. It’d help ease the tension.

You never were good with words. You don't have a whole lot to say, aside from ‘this sucks and my shoulder hurts’ but that's no fun.

"Do you like sweets, Choso?" You ask.

He eyes the case warily. You notice his gaze fixed on a particular jam-filled tart. You lean across the glass case, fumbling for a pair of tongs, grabbing the pastry and placing it on some wax paper.

"My brother hates sweets. So does my mom. I always wondered where I got a taste for them. Here," you say, holding up the flaky, raspberry filled pastry, "try this one. They're better when fresh, but…"

"Why don't you take all of them?" He asks.

"There's more here than I can ever use. If we took it, it'd just end up going bad." You say. "And what if someone else needs it?

“Here,” you hand him the tart, still wrapped in the wax paper, “these ones are really good.”

Choso accepts the pastry, eyeing it cautiously. Not that it's gone bad, but it's the last one. Of the jam-filled ones, anyway. There won't be any more raspberry pastries made at this shop. And you seem to like them a lot.

He offers half of it to you, which you gladly accept. It's hard to eat without getting crumbs everywhere. There's something very human to splitting a piece of bread, and handing it to his partner. The pastry is crumbly, and sweet, and practically melts in your mouth as you bite into it.

This time, when he kisses you, there's warmth that accompanies it. It leaves your head spinning, and your body wanting more.

When he pulls away, your eyes are still shut. Your cheeks have darkened with blush.

His body feels warm. Almost feverish. His heart races. Choso looks at you with such adoration that it makes your heart flutter. Words can't quite capture how he looks at you like you're his everything.

"One day I'll take you to a bakery that's up and running," you say, "and we'll eat so many pastries that we'll give ourselves stomachaches!"

He knows you'll keep your promise. Over and over again.

You make the next move, cupping his face in your hands, and pulling him back for another kiss. Your touch makes heat pool low in his stomach. You leave him wanting more and more.

You're the first to pull away. You need air. You've almost forgotten how to breathe.

He looks at you with such adoration that your heart flutters. Part of you hates this. You hate how naturally it comes to him, and how hard it is for you. He makes it look so much more simple than it is.

“We should be getting back.” You say. “It’ll be dark soon.”

Tomorrow you'll head back to the school. But tonight, you'll help the others clean Nanami's apartment. Tonight you'll get some rest. It may be the last proper day of rest you'll have for a long time. You slip the two loaves of bread into your bag, hoping they won't get too squished on the way home. They shouldn't, as long as you don't run into trouble. The spare pastry—a cheese-filled tart—you wrap in some wax paper, before sliding it into your pocket.

The hairs on the back of your neck stand. You feel the curse long before you see it.

It's rather active, despite the hours of daylight you have left. That's not to say curses can't appear during the day, but they aren't nearly as antsy. It's vaguely humanoid in shape. It walks on two legs, though it's hunched over, and not at it's full height. Despite that, it stands nearly as tall as you.

A curse. Mutated humans are visible without your glasses. This isn't.

It doesn't attack you. The curse stands in the window to the shop, staring blankly at you. It holds something in its hands, though from this angle you can't make out what.

"Oh, it's a curse," you say. “I can get him. Unless you want to.”

"Are you sure you have it?" He asks.

“I’ve got him,” you say, “it’ll be like the fight with Naoya.”

He doesn't like the sound of that. The thought of you with another knife to your neck makes you nauseous.

It's claws catch you across the shoulder. You’re able to brace for the hit, absorbing the brunt force of the attack. The residual cursed energy pours down your arms, into your blade as you drive it though the curse’s neck.

It falls to the ground with a thud.

That's when you see what it was holding. A lunchbox. A child’s, from the looks of it. It's pink, and has a worn picture of Hello Kitty on the front. The dirt looks recent.

The sudden presence of a hand on your shoulder makes you jolt. Choso. Though you don't try to shrug him off.

“You’re shaking,” he says, “are you hurt?”

You shake your head. It's probably adrenaline.

Choso gently nudges you to turn, examining your shoulder. His hand is warm. Goosebumps rise along your skin as his fingers trail over your arm. His touch makes warmth bloom along your body.

You're fine. Not even your clothes were ripped.

But he saw it. He saw the creature dig it's a claws into your arm. You should be bleeding.

You're getting stronger. Or maybe “less weak” is a better term for it.

"You could have made the first move," he says, "your form was great- you had the upper hand. Why didn't you?"

He said your form was great. You shouldn't linger on the comment for nearly as long as you do.

"It's a side effect of my technique." You say. "Drawing from my own reservoir of cursed energy is hard. I can either draw from residuals in the air around me, or from an attack,

“It's kind of like thorns damage in a video game. A portion of damage done to me during an attack is reflected in my next attack, as long as I brace for it,

"I guess that's how I survived when you shot me; you pumped my body full of cursed energy. Obviously it has its limits. If Gojo were to hollow purple my ass, I'd be vaporized. And if someone were to attack me without using cursed energy, I'd be defenseless,

"Or, at least, I'm pretty sure that's how it works. I don't know the explicit details, I just do it.”

His response is only a hum. He doesn't understand the point of letting someone hit you on purpose. That seems like it would hurt. Maybe someone better versed in the world of Jujutsu could explain it. You certainly can't. All of this sorcery stuff makes your head spin, so you try not to think about it.

"We should be getting back." You say. "We've been gone pretty long, the others might be getting worried."

…

"It's ready," a voice from the kitchen calls. Your brother. "There wasn't much in the fridge. And I felt kinda bad using the stuff. But it's hot, and edible. Probably."

"We brought bread," you say, holding up the loaf.

He grabs it, tearing the plastic wrapping from it and making several slices. It's a hearty bread, with cheese baked into the crust. Still fresh. Barely a day old. It makes you miss baking; kneading the warm dough that so closely resembles flesh in your hands.

"Grab a bowl," he motions to the table, where a stack of bowls and spoons has been set out, "I'll dish you up."

You grab two bowls. One for you, one for Choso. James fills both to the brim with the steaming liquid. It doesn't look very appetizing, taking on a grey, and chunky texture. But you didn't make it, so you can't complain. On the side he hands you two slices of bread, each topped with a pat of butter.

"You put some sort of sorcery into this soup," Yuji says.

James laughs, and says something along the lines of "yeah, right. I think food manipulation would be better than Matchmaker right about now."

You'll have to admit, it's pretty good. It's just bland enough to not be too hard on your stomach, and the rice in it makes it thick enough to be a stew. Your mother would make something similar when you were a kid, usually when you were sick. It never occurred to you that he knew the recipe.

James takes a seat on the couch, between you, and Yuji. There's a soft clink as the spoon hits the side of the bowl as he sets it down in his lap.

“Do you still have that vodka?” You ask, quietly.

“Yeah,” he says, reaching into his bag, “don't drink it all, though. Leave me some.”

The bottle is emptier since you last saw it. If you plug your nose, you can mostly ignore the taste. The vodka burns on the way down, but in its wake it leaves a pleasant, warming sensation that spreads from your stomach to your fingertips.

"I've been meaning to ask," you say, "any update on Kugisaki?"

"She’s back at Jujutsu Tech. Shoko’s keeping an eye on her." Megumi says. “She's not awake, but she's stable.”

"And Nanami?"

"About the same."

You don't comment. Considering the alternative, you'll accept this. The best you can hope for may not even be good, but things could easily be worse.

Megumi’s gaze remains on you. He opens his mouth like he has something to say, but decides against it.

"What?" You say, motioning to Megumi. "Something bothering you?"

"Kamo Noritoshi has made plans for those involved with Jujutsu to face off in a Culling Game." Fushiguro says. “And my sister is ensnared in that.”

“A what?”

“Geto is pitting sorcerers against each other in a Hunger Games-type match.” James says. “Those who made binding vows with him, and those who consumed cursed objects because of him. If they aren't already active, then they have… sixteen days to declare their participation in the games.”

If they were all activated october 31st, and if today is November 3rd, then that gives them a little over two weeks.

“You know about this?” You ask.

“A little. I think he knew I would refuse,” he says, feeling around his pockets for his pack of cigarettes, “so he left me out of it. The whole point is to get sorcerers to join of their own free will.”

You set down your bowl. The food has turned to ash in your mouth. You try to swallow, but the contents of your stomach have turned to cement. It feels like you have to swallow this bite three times before it finally goes down.

"Okay." You say. "What's your plan? Aside from heading back to Jujutsu Tech? What else do we need to do?"

Because when you take a step back, when you have a level of separation between you and this, it's tolerable to think about. When you look at this with a level head you can ignore reality.

"We'll contact Master Tengen. We need to find out how to remove the seal on the prison realm, and free Gojo-Sensei." The student says. "Also, what Kamo Noritoshi's plans are. His concrete objectives, and future moves. This Culling Game is Jujutsu terrorism like never seen before. To fix this, we need answers to all those questions,

"And I think only Master Tengen knows."

"Maybe that Yuki chick knows?" You ask.

"I spoke with her." He says. "This was her idea. She's hiding in Jujutsu High. She wants to avoid the higher-ups."

You can't exactly blame her there.

"The problem is Master Tengen's concealing barrier." Yuuta says. "Over a thousand doors are continuingly shuffling, but only one leads to the Tomb of the Star corridor, where he resides."

"About that barrier," Choso interjects, "there may be a way past it,

"Mahito once stole Sukuna's fingers and the Death Painting Wombs, right? We can do the same thing."

"It'd be cutting it close," Megumi says, "but if we left now, we might be able to arrive at Jujutsu Tech before sunset."

#jjk x reader #choso kamo x reader #choso x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #choso #choso kamo #blood ties

[puttingfingerstokeys]

A little something I whipped up for @heamatic​ with her Shinnok in mind.

No timeline alignment stuff here, just pure gift work based on a thread we’ve got on my RP account @bastardsunlight. Ft. Shinnok being creepy because that’s kind of his thing. Shinlao, because we haven’t come up with a ship name and I am appalled at our laxity. 

Also like, I can’t believe I’m saying this but neither writer is in any way under some fucked up impression that this is a good, safe, or non-toxic ship. We use the term to describe people who are involved IN SOME WAY. That way is not necessarily healthy. 

This story features no NSFW instances.

The dimly lit corridors of the Bone Temple are familiar passageways to Kung Lao as he moves effortlessly toward the audience chamber where he will soon be needed. Shinnok does not often offer his time, but today, he evidently feels generous. It is therefore his favorite creature’s duty to attend as well. Lao has long since stopped thinking of himself as a monk or even a former one, though his spiritual power is still formidable. That life is behind him. Netherrealm is—if not his home—his territory.

Emerging from a massive double door at one side of the infernal hall, he surveys the emptiness of it, the cavernous opulence of the mad god’s particular tastes. Deeper, under vents in the floor—Shinnok appreciates the screams of his captives—is the dungeon proper, though the audience hall very much resembles it. The high pillars are of dark reds, shining obsidian, and shot through with veins of other colors difficult to distinguish in the Stygian light of the realm of dishonored dead. Everything is bone and sinew and suffering here, fire and brimstone and ugly deception.

“You have kept me waiting, little one,” purrs the Elder God of Chaos from his throne. It is, naturally, constructed of bones—not all humanoid. He leans to one side and regards Kung Lao with those inscrutable eyes characteristic of his kind. “Do you wish to bring punishment down on yourself?”

“No, master,” responds Kung Lao, approaching the dais and then ascending to within reach of the massive entity’s long arms. If Shinnok wishes to pull his guts out and toss him back down like a used doll, he may do so from anywhere; why inconvenience him?

“Yet you offer no explanation…” The Elder God’s finger came out and lifted Kung Lao’s chin before sliding down his neck, over the pretty young man’s Adam’s apple, and down to collar bone and chest. He has left this one alive, appreciating the responsive heat and goose flesh of living skin. It bruises so prettily.

“I offer no excuse, my lord.” Kung Lao meets his eyes with an impertinence he loves and hates and oh he has made the right choice in this one. He had known the moment they met upon the field of kombat that Kung Lao would, indeed, make an excellent addition to his collection.

“You are wise beyond your years, it seems, if a bit pert.” Shinnok retracts his hand and waves it about. “Well, get on with it. I’ve better things to do.”

Quan-Chi materializes presently, late as well, though his arrival receives no acknowledgement whatsoever. His dark lord spares not a glance, instead watching the retreating back of the foolish monk who exchanged his own freedom for the life of his friend. Sentiment is worthless in Netherrealm and soon, the arrogant boy will learn this, if the old soul sorcerer must show him the way with his own two hands. His fists clench with the thought, imagining themselves about Kung Lao’s throat, squeezing until something breaks. The pleasure that arises from the thought sends a shudder down his spine.

Meanwhile, Kung Lao, unaware of this contemplation—or if he is aware, he cares so little, he doesn’t bother sparing the man, if a thing like Quan-Chi can be called a man, a single glance—turns to descend the dais. An oversized bone arm which has sprouted from the stone and bone floor of the mad god’s receiving hall offers itself, open-palmed, to the fallen monk. Kung Lao accepts it gracefully, laying his hand in the much larger one, knowing he has not displeased his lord on this day. The dry, brittle-feeling digits wrap gently about the young man’s hand as he makes his graceful retreat to discharge his duties.

Quan-Chi scowls at Kung Lao’s back until Shinnok actually turns his attention on his favored sorcerer—really the only sorcerer who will competently serve him with true, deep loyalty. It really is pathetic to watch, but sometimes a whipped dog is better than no dog. Shinnok has not even had to whip this one. He’s done it of his own accord. 

A strange Netherrealm native (as native as anyone can be in a realm of dishonored souls and demonic constructs born of the mad god’s fits of rage), it had been he who had approached the Elder God of rot and chaos to serve him. If Lord Shinnok could be said to be grateful for anything, he might have chosen that moment when Quan-Chi’s power had drawn him to his lord and master’s prison and set about events which would eventually free and embody him. Of course they have greater plans, but for the time being, this will do. 

This will do very nicely indeed, he considers, regarding his little pet’s taut backside as Kung Lao makes his way through the hall, the bone arm now sliding along with him, digging a furrow in the ground which seems to knit itself together just a few feet behind the abomination which now has its hand on the curve of Kung Lao’s lower back. Every sensation the bone arm feels, he also feels and the warmth of living flesh is delightful; he wants to grasp it hard, make the boy squeal with pain, make him bleed a little. Just a little.

Perhaps later.

“You have some… news?” Quan-Chi has been scheming—he is always scheming—to manifest his dark, mad god in Earthrealm and he clearly believes he has hit upon something. Shinnok can see it in the sparkle of the man’s eyes. Oh how he loves me, contemplates the Elder God with absolutely no reciprocity of that feeling.

“I do, my lord,” responds the sorcerer, bowing to one knee and standing to deliver his findings. Shinnok listens patiently, mind elsewhere as it must always be. He is chaos incarnate. There is little order to be had in Netherrealm beyond his absolute rule. Not much can hold the attention of an Elder God, in general, but Shinnok in particular has always allowed his mind to wander where it will. Aside from grand machinations of upset and overthrow which delight him endlessly, there is almost nothing of such magnitude in all of existence—no single object or concept which can so fascinate him. What could possibly be of such import that he, a deity, might need to focus his energies on it for any length of time? The boy, some part of his thoughts remind him sweetly. You’re quite captivated with your new toy, aren’t you? Ah but toys come and go. He will tire of this one… eventually.

That boy is now crossing the threshold of the temple’s audience hall, the doors gliding open before him. The dry heat of Netherrealm has ceased to move him and he walks out into it, ushering in the first petitioner, wondering if his lord and master will listen to this one, or slay it on sight. Any creature, demon, or lost soul who is bold enough to approach the Bone Temple and beg favors of the lord of the Realm is desperate, addled, or too cocksure for their own good. An obliteration by the death god is permanent, it is nothingness, non-existence. Somehow, that void is more terrifying by far than the screaming, burning, howling dimness of Netherrealm.

The first demon in line—he is first by virtue of having killed his way up the queue; the corpses of those before him are littered in pieces here and there as a testament to this, all still twitching and flailing as the death he grants is only pain—is a truly imposing figure, easily ten feet in height, with massive, twisted horns like a ram and a maw full of jagged teeth. His eyes ablaze with contempt. This expression does not soften when it lays its burning gaze (with all four eyes) upon the pretty, behatted monk—Kung Lao may not think of himself as a monk, but they do—but rather hardens to something bordering on obscene. The thing licks slavering lips with an exaggerated motion, clearly aiming to upset the small, soft-looking mortal, who does not respond, only gestures to the hall.

“The master will see you now,” he says in a neutral tone that betrays nothing. “Please, follow me.”

As they enter, the beast’s three-toed feet hit the ground much harder with each step than might actually be necessary, as if to emphasize his weight. Shinnok leans back upon his throne and assumes a semi-attentive posture. There is no real reason for him to pretend he cares; even the pretense is worthless, but for now, it entertains him. Some of the denizens of his realm wait the Netherrealm equivalent of months, even years, if Shinnok is indisposed and simply does not care. Lately, he has been taking more audiences, but then he has only lately had a… secretary. Kung Lao moves swiftly ahead of the demon, braid swinging tantalizingly behind his shapely back. The boy is an hourglass, upon close inspection, broad of shoulder, narrow of waist, and thick of hip and rear-end. The demon is inspecting.

“This is far enough,” instructs Kung Lao. “What are you called?”

The demon splutters with indignation. How could they not know him, the greatest general of the northern armies of Khadul, the god-king of the demons, the true creatures of Netherrealm! He has severely overestimated his importance, a grave error in the Bone Temple. The silent hall rings with its silence. An audience chamber ought necessarily to have an audience, but Shinnok prefers the cavernous immensity. It reiterates just how small his petitioners truly are. He eyes the demon, but has yet to speak. A bone arm sprouts near Kung Lao and it makes a twirling motion with its forefinger.

“Lord Shinnok bids you speak,” says the shapely boy through plump lips that look like they ought to be bruised and bloodied and used, in the creature’s foul opinion.

“I will speak,” he snarls, reaching out toward Kung Lao with the intent to brush past, “but with the lord of this Realm, he in whose temple we stand, not you, little slut. There are things I would do with you, yes, but speaking… it is not one of them.” The demon’s laughter rings out boldly into the hall, bouncing off the skulls and femurs and ribs and myriad other bones which make the walls, floor, and ceiling. Quan-Chi flinches minutely, though more at the brazenness of it than the sound. Shinnok is a statue. The bone arm has dissipated, crumbling like ash and ruin, leaving Lao alone. His lord is watching.

“No,” says Kung Lao, the syllable sharp and clear as a pretty bell rung in a mausoleum—and equally as incongruous next to the obscene, guttural speech of the demon. “No,” he repeats, “you do not speak. You bark like a mangy cur begging for scraps. Heel.”

He rushes the demon with lightning speed as it swings for him. There is a brief moment when it seems he might make a try for the beast’s sizeable testes, which swing visibly behind the scant loincloth one might say he is “wearing”. The idea occurs to him and a strange flash of melancholic amusement jolts Kung Lao’s spine before he disappears beneath his hat in a flash of red light and lotus petals. The creature, having never encountered this particular mortal, looks baffled and squats to examine the hat. Quan-Chi’s mouth opens to warn the beast of its insolence in his master’s presence, but a sharp gesture from said master silences him. His face heats with rage. How dare the boy show off this way? He will be punished—perhaps disemboweled or flayed. How delicious that would be!

As the as yet unnamed demon reaches toward the object to pick it up, the flash occurs once more and the deadly piece of headwear flips upward, turning vertically, its far edge held by the owner, the only man in any realm able to master such a strange weapon. The creature barely has time to cry out as Kung Lao draws the hat up its entirety, bisecting the thing and spilling its steaming insides along the floor. Midair, Kung Lao flings the hat, hard, toward Shinnok. Once more, Quan-Chi blanches, but the mad god catches it easily and holds it, bottom facing downward, toward his knees where he sits. This, he thinks, is the most fun I have had in millennia.

Kung Lao’s form plummets toward the gory mess he has made and for a brief, shining moment, Quan-Chi thinks perhaps he will fall and snap his neck and that will be that, one last escape attempt with the final spark of the monk’s spirit left to him. Lord Shinnok has no need of a broken doll. Of course this is a flight of pure fancy. Shinnok will find a use for that beautiful body, even broken.

Alas, rather than crashing to his death—or maiming, at least—Kung Lao’s body dives into a circle of blood, red light, once more accompanied by a flash and flurry of lotus petals. It takes only half a moment for him to repeat the trick, falling out of the hat and into his lord and master’s waiting lap. Shinnok allows the hat to settle upon Kung Lao’s head and once more tilts his chin upward so that their eyes meet.

“Far too impertinent,” he scolds, shaking his head, running his thumb over his little doll’s full, perfect, soft lower lip. Kung Lao is flushed with the pleasure of his accomplishment and hasn’t a spot of blood on his person. “Who are you to decide who I do and do not address, hmm? Is this not my domain?”

“His master would pretend it is not. One cannot serve two lords and you rule this Realm.” This is not a question, nor is it simpering. Kung Lao speaks cold, hard facts. “I merely saved you the trouble of hearing a dog bark.”

So bold, Shinnok thinks. I must curb this. But he does not punish his little favorite. The unpredictability delights him. Quan-Chi senses this misplaced delight and recedes from the receiving hall unseen, glowering over his shoulder and now hellbent on perfecting his machinations to bring his master to Earthrealm.

#violence #cc #cw #mortal kombat #kung lao #shinnok #shinlao #gift work

[checkfortraps]

Doom upon the Faithful

This is a rewrite of a little origin thingy I made for my human war cleric Alessa as part of a prompt list ages ago, detailing the day where she lost her husband, her best friends, and part of her sanity while fighting a necromancer lairing in an old abandoned temple of Torm.

Under a cut for length. If you find typos and faulty grammar, you’re very welcome to keep both.

They fought in a tight formation, four souls forming a ring of light against a tide of undeath, of bone-white heresy.

The cacophony of armor and weapons clashing deafened Alessa to the point where she should barely make out her own racing heartbeat. The earth shook under the power of the arcane, and the air smelled like blood and decay. It truly was one of the worst battlefields she ever laid eyes on - and she had seen a lot, both as healer and as warrior.

She was not sure for how long the confrontation with the necromancer had been going on already, but the collection of dents in her plate armor and the exhaustion seeping through the thrill of battle were proof that it had been too long already. They had to wrap this up fast, or face defeat. And defeat in this case meant annihilation at best, and serving as the newest recruits to the necromancer’s army at worst.

From the corner of her eye, she saw a skeleton smash through Myrna’s mage armor. No room for a shield bash, so she gritted her teeth and raised her arm, intercepting the blow with her bracer. Divine energies deflected most of the impact, but her arm still went numb. She let out a defiant yell, then drove her sword through the skeleton’s sternum, shattering it. The abomination crumbled to the ground in a clatter of bones, bereft of the foul magic animating it.

Next to her, Myrna conjured crackling electricity into her open hands, then grabbed two skeletons at once with a terrifying snarl contorting her features. Blue-hued energy cloaked them, turning them into glowing dust that swirled through the stale air like a faint afterimage.

A cry rose over the combat noise then, half frenzy, half pain. Alessa deflected another blow, this time with her shield, then spun around, tired eyes finding Senna on the ground, bleeding heavily. Despite her wounds, the dwarven woman fought on, hunkering down behind her shield in an effort to gain additional cover, her war axe hacking away at the enemies surrounding her.

It was a valiant effort, but ultimately futile. The tides of undead was already closing in on her, ready to swallow her whole.

She needed help, and fast.

Myrna followed Alessa’s gaze. Her lips drew into a thin white line. “Go’”, she yelled over the noise, extending a hand to blast three skeletons with a wave of fire, almost absent-mindedly. When Alessa hesitated, she gave her a shove. “I said go! I can handle myself.”

Alessa nodded, breaking into a dead run. A prayer formed on her lips. She wasn’t sure what she even prayed for, but the intent seemed to reach Torm nevertheless, for holy energy alighted on the front of her shield where his symbol decorated it. A wave of radiance burst forth from it, blinding her temporarily. 

When the black swirls before her eyes faded, she found herself next to Senna, both of them covered in ash, the skeletons around them annihilated by her god’s righteous fury. The heat of divine power still lingered in her shield, noticeable even through the thick metal of her gauntlets.

“Praise you, my lord”, Alessa whispered under her breath. She glanced back at Myrna. The sorceress had cleared the area around her entirely, ash and soot the only testimony of the previous presence of an undead plague.

She wondered briefly why she had ever doubted the half-elf’s abilities. Old habit, maybe. When Myrna had joined their group, she had still been wet behind the ears, fresh from the academy. Her power had grown considerably in the last three years.

Senna gripped Alessa’s hand, hauling herself back to her feet. “Thanks. I was sure I’d see my ancestors soon.” She glanced around, dark brows furrowing. “Where’s Theo?”

Alessa felt her blood run cold.

“I fear he might be … indisposed.” A voice like icy waters, like winter and death personified. Alessa spun around and found a cloaked figure standing atop what seemed to be a podium at the far end of the chamber that might have been used for sermons once, before this temple had been ransacked and defiled. Red eyes burned in the shadows of a hood drawn low, meeting her gaze with a dark kind of mirth. Next to the figure hovered a giant hand made from arcane energy.

And in its translucent fingers, a limp body dangled, grey hair trailing over silvered plate armor, the helmet shattered on the ground alongside a mace that still glimmered with the remains of divine wrath.

“Theodore!” Alessa’s voice caught in her throat, the horrified scream turning into a strangled whisper. She wanted to run to him, to free him from that terrible grasp and then bash the necromancer’s face in with her shield. But her body betrayed her, limbs frozen in terror.

A flash of startlingly white teeth beneath that hood, a stark contrast to the eyes and the darkness cloaking the rest of the necromancer’s face. “Ah, allow me to guess. Your brother? No. Your lover. Delightful. It’s been a while since I had the pleasure of killing a couple. I wonder what your screams will sound like when I crush him.”

Darkness swirled at the flick of their gloved fingers, and the sound of metal bending under the pressure of the hand closing around Theodore filled the air, deafeningly loud. His screams died in his throat as it crushed his torso, squeezing the life out of him.

“No! Theo!” Alessa desperately tried to will herself to move, but her mental strength crumbled alongside her husband’s armor, and she found herself unable to break through her paralysis. Only now did she feel the blood drenching her gambeson, flowing freely from dozens of wounds all over her body. Her grip around the hilt of her sword had grown so weak she could barely hold on, pain and grief draining the fight out of her. Even if she managed to actually move, she’d never reach the podium in time to save Theodore.

A furious scream echoed through the chamber. Blue-tinged bolts of pure energy streaked past Alessa, so close she heard them buzzing like angry wasps. The giant hand dissolved under the onslaught of the magic missiles, proving that Theodore hadn’t gone down without a fight. Theodore hit the ground with a loud thump, groaning in pain.

He's still alive!

The realization filled Alessa with new strength. She reached for the white-hot blaze of faith in her soul and pulled. The paralysis fell away from her, and she crossed the chamber with the frantic speed that could only be conjured by desperation. She jumped up on the platform, roaring. Radiance burst from her shield again, washing over Theodore to close his wounds. Using the momentum of the motion, Alessa raised her sword and struck recklessly, anger driving the precision out of her attacks. Still, she managed to bury the blade deep in the necromancer’s chest with a sickening crunch when it hit bone.

Somewhere behind her, Myrna let out a triumphant howl, accompanied by Senna’s heavy footfall, like a war drum signalling victory.

Alessa found herself smiling at the carnage before her, at the blood coloring the necromancer’s black robes even darker. She was quite sure she missed the heart, but judging from the wet cough escaping her fallen foe, she had punctured a lung instead. It would be a very slow kind of justice for them.

One that did not align with Torm’s ideals. Even foul creatures like this one did not deserve to suffer for so long.

She stepped closer again, ready to twist the sword to bring this ugly business to a quick end, but she found it stuck. Her eyes widened in terror as she noticed the necromancer had gripped the blade with their hands, blood seeping from the cracks in their leather gloves where the sharp edge cut through them. Alessa saw red eyes and white teeth, and laughter filled the chamber, ugly and cruel, bloody spittle splattering her face as the necromancer leaned in closer.

“How very generous of you, offering up your life force so willingly. I’ll make sure to honor your sacrifice. But first, behave.”

Their bloody hand cupped her tear-streaked cheek, almost like a caress. Tendrils of black magic rose from their fingers, shrouding her vision until she was sure she’d gone blind. She tried to shove the necromancer away, but her body didn’t belong to her anymore. Her concentration on her Shield of Faith crumbled as crippling pain surged through her, the warmth of life draining from her until she shivered from cold and exhaustion. She sucked in a single shuddering breath, terror a tight coil in her stomach.

Then the world fell away from her, and she dissolved into nothingness.

Death.

#my writing #oc: alessa brightblade #behold! i actually finished a wip for once

[aboredoverlord-blog]

Chess Pieces.

One drip. Two drips. Three drips. Big drip. One drip, two drips, three drips. Big drip, pause, repeat.

A never changing rhythm, a constant that torments us every single moment of our forgotten and broken lives, as we stare at the leak above our head to not stare at each other, to not remember who we are and hope that as some point we'll be graced with an end that was taken from us since years ago; if not, with a new beginning that will finally allows us to break free to this prison that we cannot escape by ourselves, as our bodies are as rotten and broken as our cores and souls.

We were meant for greatness once, or so we believed; her honeyed words, so gentle and kind, coated our eardrums and quieted our inner voice of reason telling us that it was far too good to be true, while our plight blinded us from anything that could have warned us of how the one we saw as a saint was nothing more than a miserable bitch in sheep's clothing, a witch that only saw us as guinea pigs for her experiments, hunting those like us down as she knew no one would come searching for us.

Plagued, ostracized, abandoned beings that for a reason or the other were pushed away from their families and society itself. A perfect target for someone who wanted to experiment upon life and test how much they could play god without no one, not even the patient itself, complaining or without any repercussions. And alas, we wanted it, there was no doubt. We asked, we pleaded to be saved, some from illnesses and some from hunger, some from thugs and some from their own kind, seeking an escape, a savior.

How ironic that now we're all here, wishing for a death that might take years to come, trapped in cells hidden away from sight and mind, locked with bars and magic, cast-away much like we were at the beginning of this facade, without even the grace of forgetting who we are, who we were supposed to be. Even insanity would be a grace at this point, a place where to hide until our bodies would cease to 'be' – anything but being able to remember. To remember it all.

But no. We sit here like string-less puppets, with our mind filled with grief and spite. With hands and feet we cannot move, as they're either incomplete, broken or rotten depending on what we are...no, what we were made into. Like the First Rook, a dwarf that dug out of the protection of his underground citadel in search of new ways to forge metal – attacked on sight by a human patrol without even an explanation and left to bleed out as they laughed and patted themselves on the back. I wonder; is his hatred and grief fueled more by how his peaceful greeting was met with an arrow in the eye? By how his belief that humans couldn't all be evil was shattered the second he met one? Or by the fact that, were he able to move, he could fix at least a few of us? His forger's soul restlessly burning with desire to be able to help the few that welcomed him like a family, but forced to observe how Second Rook – a sentient “automata”, or human-like golem, that was paired with him and created with the soul of a withering dryad which only guilt was to stand between some young nymphs and another human patrol?

What about First and Second Knights? Brother and Sister, elves who betrayed the demon lord, escaping during the early days of his empire right before he corrupted their kind into the demons that are now? They were good fighters, once part of the royal army's elite; Spear and Sword master respectively, combining martial skills with their kind's natural magic prowess to become fearsome paladins. But the Monster Lord never forgot, even if the elves believed that it did; and once their guard dropped, the brother found his gut pierced by a knife, while his sister was held back and forced to watch as they tortured him. Hours passed before he didn't breathe anymore, with screams and pleads falling on deaf ears as even when clearly clean from all corruption, elves were still seen as allies of the Monster Lord. And when they were done with him, they moved onto her...or at least, tried to, before someone appeared to help them.

A hood, a staff, and hands. Many, many hands, appearing from pools all over the walls and ground, aggressively taking hold of the attackers and pulling them in who knows what abyss but gently holding both siblings in their warm embrace. Yellow eyes looking at them, a voice echoing in that street's corner with a suggestion, and then darkness, light, a pact made and bodies changed with magic that we all grew to hate.

For him, he became an undead centaur, with his upper body now being nothing more than a living armor which gazed upon the world with red glowing eyes and struck the enemy of the witch with a cursed weapon, rejoiced to still be able to fight alongside his sister.

But for her...she had to pay an high price for such services, one she wasn't even told about. Gifted a new sword and told that she could live once more with her brother under that castle's roof, she was ecstatic, now having both a place she belonged and her brother still alive at her side, even if now with a new body.  But at every swing, the sword revealed more of its true being, slowly corrupting its wielder until her body looked much like one of the demon's and her mind simply couldn't not care less. More power meant that she could protect her brother even better, so it was fine if that meant to be corrupted, right? Even if he was worried, even if he told her to drop the weapon, she refused, wanting to protect him, to stop anyone from repeating what she could still see in her mind, all those hours of torture, those screams...she had to. And she was happy to give her soul to the sword if that was needed.

And yet, even such sacrifices weren't enough, the two not even graced with having a common cell, separated and left to die or rust in this damp hell. Him, silently trying to maintain an hold of himself, unable to speak and make her know he was alright. And her, which at first yelled for hours for his brother, cried day and night, now able only to lie on one side, deprived of the sword that addled her mind and able to remember and feel everything she did. Did she lose her mind already? Or was her body all that was corrupted permanently?

...And did the witch need that sword, or is this too some weird, disgusting experiment she's subjecting us all too, to see how much our mind can take? Is she still even alive? Does she remember us? Will we ever see any kind of light before we'll eventually cease to be? So many questions I cannot answer, but maybe that's my dest...no, OUR destiny. To be abandoned, hated, betrayed...Forgotten.

The bishops too had no regard from that witch. One was a human from the Mountain Guard that anyone would mistake for a warrior given her physique, but that instead was one of the best mages of the troop that tackled the mountain. Depending on her far too much, no one noticed in time how taxing it was for her to maintain the spell that kept everyone safe from the chilling colds of the mountain, maybe thanks to how obstinately she hid such thing...not until her battered body and exhausted mind faltered and failed to fend off an attack from a Yeti, at least. Grabbed, crushed in his hand and then tossed down the mountain as the horrified eyes of her comrades lost her in the snow and mist, she gripped onto dear life as her body was ripped in bloody pieces from artic wolves, attracted by the smell of blood and more than happy to find a free meal in such a cold wasteland.

But once more, as if it was observing the situation and waiting for an opportunity, here was the hooded guy, bringing hope to someone who could only gurgle and choke on their own blood.

A nod was all he needed, taking her willing soul and bringing it to his master, already prepared to slot it into a body of her own concoction, similar to what humans would call 'angel'. Oh, how happy the mage was to be in such body, unaware of how it was nothing but a mix of various creatures' body parts, just cleaned and carefully altered to not look so different to one another. She was now so close to be just like one of Humana's servants that she couldn't believe it! Her behavior reflected this too, her actions trying to imitate the immense kindness of such creatures, wanting to be one in mind and body...but the hooded being's teasing was all it took to bring back her more combative, fierce personality.

An angel with a warrior's heart, an homunculus abomination which still lies to herself, thinking someone will come to help.

The Second Bishop instead was something more complex. An attempt to combine multiple souls into one, to see if their powers would mix and match, or if they would collide and break. That's what it told us at least, as we had no knowledge that a second bishop ever existed 'till we were trapped here. How long as it been here? How much longer than us had he to endure this prisony? It's calm behavior makes us think he is long gone, thought even now people could ask him and he would try to give us words of hope, attempting to keep us from fully giving up even when it itself has been victim of this abandonment without even being given a chance to shine, unlike us...

Apparently, the result was something that the witch didn't anticipate, with the souls fusing into a completely new one, but without maintaining all of the powers she hoped it would. Instead, much like a natural birth, his attunement to Magic and Willpower, depended on which 'soul gene' was randomly picked to be the dominant one. As for his looks, he seemed to be a human being, thought a long, blue and scaly tail came out to those monk-like garbs. A dragon-kin, the dwarf once spouted after observing the being's maw, to which the Bishop simply replied with a vague agreement. How exactly did the witch find a soul or body of such a being, it escaped everyone's grasp. Was her reach that wide? Or did she travel in places unknown to us? More question to the pile, never to be answered.

...Standing here, day after day, I could finally crack down on why she picked each and one of us. 'Rook', 'Knight', 'Bishop'...each and all of us were picked because our skills were greater than those she defined as 'pawns' and because we just...fit so well with our respective chess piece. The Dwarf and the Automata were picked as they were the 'towers', sturdy and powerful beings capable to withstand the most punishment, alongside being useful both fighting in the front-lines or fortifying the back-lines with their crafting skills. To no surprise, the Automata's belly could double as a makeshift forge, allowing the dwarf to repair and craft things on the go. The knights were the main front-line, powerful and fearless, capable to move around the battlefield and frighten it with sheer skill and power. Little would be more scary than an the living armor centaur and his corrupted sister fighting in the enemy lines. The bishops...If I met the monk first, or was told that the 'First' Bishop was actually the second one...How stupid was I? I cannot even excuse myself for being blinded, as I was the one called the 'Queen'. It was so obvious...!

...Maybe, maybe I was blinded. Maybe I just wanted to go back at the time where I used to actually being a queen? Was...Was I so greedy to condemn myself to this life simply for that reason?

I...I was, wasn't I?

I speak of 'we', I speak of 'us'. But it was I who was the most blinded. Blinded by that Monster Lord, speaking of how he could fight those humans that betrayed our trust and almost destroyed the elven kingdom, able to stand only thanks to the actions of those who live in the ocean. I wanted revenge for my fallen brethren, I want the humans to suffer as each family of each soldier under my reign did. Attacking us with those...those weapons...even bringing such a reviled sword! Our magic could do little under the rain of metal they tossed at us, and what little it could do it would be cut down by that disgusting 'Sage of War' that stood in front of their army and that sword, cutting away first our magic and then our lives. I never felt so much hatred in all my hundreds of years I reigned as the monarch of elves. Never, never I wanted someone dead so much. It was so...guttural, such a crude and utterly overpowering emotion that it fogged my mind, my judgement, everything else. I cut ties, I cut relationships, I cut lives I thought were guilty of such results.

And the Lord knew.

When he came, promising me what I so eagerly desired, I thought little about the catches such a pact would have. Make him my king, allow him to take power. I could see his power, I could see how he could bring us to the revenge we craved. But I couldn't see through his lies, becoming his willing prey with him feeding first from my despair and then from my actual body. And I still remember, I still remember in every single detail how happy I was during our 'honeymoon', a few days after the official marriage. I didn't mind giving my very body to this being, if it would bring our kind to the revenge we wanted. Anything I had was expendable as long as my people could feel safe and the human kingdom was brought to its knees.

Of course, when I saw the 'handsome' elf turn into a mess of pulsating flesh, gazing eyes and disgusting veins, locking me into my bedroom and slowly turning the room into a makeshift stomach, I knew that when he said 'making my body his', he didn't meant it sexually, but literally. And even without any part of it, I can still feel the pain, the burning sensation and... and...

And his echoing, frightening laughter as he saw me cry and melt into nothingness.

…

…...And yet.

Even then, when my soul was collected by that hooded being, which broke inside the room at the very last second, stealing it away from the Monster Lord, I couldn't see straight.

And once more, another slimy mouth whispered all I wanted to hear.

And once more, I fell for lies I couldn't see through, becoming what I am now.

At this point, my title of Queen is nothing but an ironic label that will dangle over my head forever, remembering me of what I was, what I lost, and how little I deserved such a title even if I was one all those years. My name, my body...nothing remains, but that title, to haunt me until what's left of the mana powering my body will dissipate.

And I guess I have to double down with my compliments towards the witch's ways to twist the knife in one's wound, as the body she chose for me was one of a string puppet. Though I guess I can't but blame myself on that, can't I? Pulled around like one of such, unable cut the strings those liars used to move me around, and unable to move now that both consider me nothing more than a broken doll.

To forever remain forgotten, to listen to that never changing drip.

One drip. Two drips. Three drips. Big drip. One drip, two drips, three drips. Big drip, pause, repeat. One drip. Two drips. Three drips. Big drip. One drip, two drips, three drips. Big drip, pause, repeat. One drip. Two drips. Three drips. Big drip. One drip, two drips, three drips. Big drip, pause, repeat. One drip. Two drips. Three drips. Big drip. One drip, two drips, three drips. Stone breaking, pa--- Wait.

I hear something new. Am I hallucinating? What is this noise? So loud, slamming against the ceiling. Like an hammer hitting a nail, but much harder, much louder, much..

The plan wasn't exactly the most elaborate, nor the less silent. Surely there could have been better ideas than bringing a platoon of orcs inside his old master's inner chambers and just hammer away at the floor with maddening fervor. But Libitus wasn't one to use 'smart' or 'elaborate' plans when simpler and effective ones were available, especially when such plans would require breaking an incredibly complex seal on the secret walls she found in such room, while the floor was already damaged by the scorching fires of years ago, a fire that burned away more than just the furniture and lives of his ex-master's servants.

“Are ya sure, Boss?” Asked one of the orcs before he began, the hooded being nodding. “Yea. If anything happens, I'll get you all out of here.” He replied, pointing at the black pools around each orc's feet, a precaution he took to make sure their lives wouldn't be at risk simply for one of his whims. He knew that something was under there, he could feel the traces of magic leading there. He didn't know what would be there, but there was something, and that was enough. All that belonged to his Ex-master had to be taken and brought to Libitus' new base, less said master might get them back when they needed them.

“What do you think is under there, Sire?” The goblin leader asked him, standing as his side like always. “I don't know, but for such a seal, it has to be powerful.” He replied, adding something right away. “Thought I don't understand. Why putting a seal on a fake wall, but not on the floor leading to that same room?”

“Maybe she didn't expect orcs hammerin' away at it?” The goblin replied with a snicker, leaning onto the wall and crossing his arms. “Either that, or it might have faded away. Yer said she doesn't come here in years, right? Don't they need to be renewed now and then?” At those words, Libitus rolled his glowing yellow eyes at first, but nodded after a second. It made sense, thought why would the other seal still be active, then? Such a question was left unanswered as soon one of the orcs, with a powerful blow, broke a hole in the floor. It was small, almost the size of a fist, but Libitus found it to be enough and raised his hand to stop them all before walking towards it. The goblin followed, immediately kneeling to check inside that hole and clicking his tongue after along look. “Tsk. Dark as a moonless night in 'ere. Ya sure ya want to go down alone, sire? Doesn't look saf- aaaand you're already doing it.”

The frustrated goblin could only watch as his king melted into a pool of black goop, slowly leaking out of that hole and into the room. After a few seconds, enough of it passed through to allow Libitus to reform himself, raising his staff high and casting a small spell to create an artificial light. A grunt could be heard from above, the goblin not expecting that and being blinded for a second. “A'ight, what do you see, sire? Anything useful?” He asked, receiving no response. “...Sire? Still alive down there?”

A faint 'no' came after  few seconds, causing the goblin's worry to grow tenfold. “Sire?! W-What's down there? Do we need to break a bigger hole?” His agitation was matched by the orcs' own, already bundling up around the holes, their weapons in hand. Luckily, Libitus replied again, this time explaining himself a bit more.

“...I found more than artifacts, Vort.” He spoke, his voice having a pinch of...anger in itself. “Much more. ...Contact base, tell them I want all crafters, all healers at the ready. We're gonna need them.” The goblin leader was confused, but nonetheless stood up and grabbed his speaking globe, following the orders to a T. Meanwhile, Libitus moved towards the jail containing what looked like a broken doll, breaking the bars with ease and kneeling once at its side.

“...I'm sorry.” He spoke, grabbing the hand of that unmoving being, her eyes being the only thing that proved there was still life in that body. “...I'm bringing you out. We're going to fix you.” At those words, she could see her eyes moving away, as if refusing. Was she scared? She had all rights to be, he thought, but he shock his head. “Not to 'her'. To a better place.” Her eyes didn't move, still not believing that this was real. Not until his next words.

“She betrayed me too.” He spoke, his hands holding hers. “...And I didn't know. I thought...” He shock his head, pushing away his thoughts. “Nevermind that, there's time for explanations. First, I'll have to bring you all home.” Standing up, he reached for his staff and tapped the bottom of it on the ground, pools beginning to form around all the broken and incredulous beings in that room. Only one spoke, however, with a tone as gentle as a draconian growl could be.

“You've finally come. We've been waiting, Libitus.” A small metallic sound echoed as the monk crawled to the bars of his cell and held onto them to pull himself up, years of mana starvation making him weak. “...I'm sorry, Vuthic.” He answered, but the monk shock his head. “You're here now, as I thought you would, eventually. That is enough, at least for me.”

“Sire, who're yer talking to?” The voice of the goblin caused Libitus to raise his head, breaking the conversation with the captive Monk. “...Old friends, Vort. We're going home, now. There's a lot to do and to say.”

And with that, orcs, goblin, captives and Libitus slowly slipped inside those pools of darkness, portals towards a kingdom away from the eyes and ears of Demon Lords, betraying mentors and other interlopers – but more than anything, away from that prison and it's drips. The 'queen' still unable to grasp the situation. Was she being saved for real this time? He...was the hooded boy after all. The being that saved her soul. But also that gave it to the witch. But he spoke of how she betrayed him too and...

Could she...finally hope once more?

#death tw #gore tw #first actual libitus lore I guess

[sunevial]

The Sorceress and the Sergeant

Why does this exist? @missvulpix212 is why. Blame her for this because it was her idea to commission me to write her a thing and I took the job for some reason (but hey, I’m now offering writing commissions so that’s a thing). Now...how to explain this...

rubs temples

Okay, so, you know my Followers fanfic. Well, one of the characters by the name of Old Priestess likes to write fictionalized accounts of her colleagues in horrible trashy romance situations and then sells them. The Sorceress and the Sergeant is a fictionalized account/probable AU of the relationship between the Witch and the Lieutenant and is absolutely no way canon to my Followers fic.

So, uh, enjoy?

The dimly lit hallways were silent for once, the stressed single mothers and frantic college students somehow all asleep at this godforsaken hour. Fumbling with a key ring sporting more baubles than keys, Marjory clicked the lock open and rammed her shoulder into her apartment door as quietly as she possibly could, forcing the sticky thing to move for once in its unhappy existence. She glanced around the inside, checking the darkened corners for movement or unwelcome visitors, before dragging her partner inside and shutting the door firmly behind them both. Only then did she risk turning on her little side table lamp.

“Sorceress, this really isn’t necessary,” Ollie protested, leaning his back up against the doorframe and giving her the most neutral stare she had ever seen him pull off with those ice blue eyes. “You know I am more than capable of regrowing my own skin and muscle tissue.”

Not bothering to roll her eyes, she tossed her earthy green pea coat onto one of her fold out chairs and pointed to a couch that had seen one too many games of Mario Kart in its day. “It’ll heal faster if I help. So, please sit down and take off your shirt. I need to see the wound,” she said, grabbing a step stool and setting it down in her little kitchen. Rolling up her sleeves, she hopped onto the little box and threw open a cabinet, rummaging through the endless stacks of incense and oddly shaped crystals for the bag hidden somewhere in the endless mess.

With an ever so mischievous smirk crossing his face, he kicked off his shoes and plopped down on the worn sofa. He shrugged off his dark gray hoodie, wincing only ever so slightly as it brushed the massive burn along his left shoulder. “Are you sure that’s all you want to see?” he asked with a smile, tossing the ruined sweatshirt off to the side and inspecting the t-shirt now partially fused to his skin.

“Yes, I’m very sure,” she squeaked, her voice going just high enough to hurt even her own eardrums. Her free hand fiddled with a bit of the sweater dress hugging her body. She could feel the blood rising from the bottom of her stocking feet to the top of her rusty red hair, pooling in her cheeks and making the room go from being like inside an icebox to being unbearably warm.

“According to what I know of mortals, your cheeks say otherwise.”

A tiny shriek escaped her lips, one she immediately pushed down into the depths of her throat. Muttering several curses under her breath, she reached for the black ribbon tied around her head in a fashionable bow and pulled it tight against her skull. Ollie wasn’t the first man in her life to poke fun at how easy it was to make her turn the color of a firetruck, not by a long shot;. he just happened to be the one being in this universe who could make her sputter and curl up into a ball of embarrassment nearly on command, and he definitely not use this knowledge responsibly.

Snatching up a small velvet bag, Marjory dumped out a single spool of black ribbon. Resembling the one in her hair in every manner, it seemed to exist only in two dimensions at any one time. Soul ribbon: a material that could save a life as easy as it could take it, the signature weapon and healing instrument of those who served a certain god who oversaw the endless cycle of life and death. It was a tremendous honor to just have a single strand, much less the ability to manipulate nearly endless amounts of it to her will.

After a bit more searching, she fished out a small glass bottle of shimmering red liquid. Holding it above her head, the glittering bits caught rays of light and scattered them onto the white tiles lining the kitchen wall. She smiled a little as she shook it up, still proud of the fact she had been able to craft a true healing potion with the magic she had been given. As soon as the thought crossed her mind, she brushed it away and stepped off of her box. No, focus; she had a job to do. Sighing, she walked back into the living room just as Ollie peeled the t-shirt over his head.

The smell hit her first, acrid and reminiscent of eldritch horror and hellfire mixed into some unholy union. It looked just about as nice as it smelled, the flesh a sickly green and charred black wherever it wasn’t oozing a substance that she could not identify but was definitely not blood. Biting back the bile rising in her throat, she unraveled a length of ribbon and snapped it with a pair of scissors. “Why didn’t you tell me it was this bad?” she asked, pulling and stretching at the mystical fabric it until it was wide enough to be used as a bandage.

“Because it’s not,” he replied, pushing his long raven hair off of the exposed wound. “As far as acid spitting abominations go, that one was weak at best, considering the most menacing form it could take was a Chinese ursine.”

“It’s called a panda, Ollie,” she said, dabbing a little of the potion onto the piece of ribbon. “One that threw you into an air conditioning unit and gave you a massive third degree chemical burn. That’s not nothing, you know! I’d have to be in the hospital for weeks if I got something like that, not to mention all the skin grafts and blood transfusions and physical therapy for the damage to the muscle structure.”

“I am here precisely because of the fact that grievous injury is much more harmful to you than it is to me,” he said, tapping a chin against his neatly trimmed beard. Before she could blink, two silver wings sprouted out of his back and unfurled against the thin wall separating her from her overly religious neighbors who already didn’t appreciate having a pagan woman next door. “I am your Sergeant, Sorceress. Your guardian. My job is to protect you. That includes getting hurt in your place so you can do your job.”

“It’s Marjory,” she said, taking the medicated bandage and slowly binding up the wound. “And even so, I don’t like seeing you like this.”

“I knew all too well what serving a god of death would entail, Marjory, better than you did when I came to fetch you,” he replied, his voice low and soft but placing a little more emphasis on her name. Shifting a little under the bandage, he gazed at the black ribbon for a long stretch of time. The silence hung in the air between them like a comforting blanket. “I have been protecting mortals like yourself long before you were so much a thought to your parents and will continue to do so long after you move on to wherever it is your soul is destined for. You need not waste your worry on me.”

“But you…you’re important to me,” she said in an equally low voice, winding the wrap under his arm. Her fingers lightly brushed against his exposed skin, soft despite being littered with scars from countless skirmishes against forces she couldn’t name. She tried to keep her gray eyes on patching up her injured partner, but her gaze kept wandering across his chest and down his torso. No longer hidden under relatively shapeless clothing, he was much thinner than she expected, built with the speed and grace of a swan in mind. The heat rose to her cheeks again. “And I worry about the people who are important to me, Ollie.”  

He caught her traitorous gaze and smirked, leaning back as much as he could while she deftly tied up his shoulder. “So I was correct in my assumptions.” Before she could sputter out a defense, he held up his good hand and put it on her shoulder, smiling sympathetically even as his gaze was as cool as his eyes. “You have a good heart. A good, kind, bleeding heart who wants to help the hurt and sick.”

“I wouldn’t be in med school if I didn’t,” she said with a chuckle, her words shaking a little as she tied off the wrap with a small bow.

“But turning that heart on me is dangerous, Marjory,” he continued, keeping his gaze and tone eerily even. “You know that Ollie is just a pet name our other colleagues have given me. You know that if I was ever human, that was long in the past. And you know what I am capable of doing to others…what I am capable of doing to you.” His words trailed off to nearly nothing before he sighed. “It’s best if you keep a heart like that closed around someone like me.”

Marjory held his gaze, memories flashing before her eyes of that first day in the alleyway. She remembered the same steely look in his eyes as he pinned her against the brick wall and pressed a the sharp edge of a knife into her throat, any remorse or guilt for his actions hidden behind years of experience and a touch of obedience to their boss. She remembered beginning to bleed out when ghostly magic erupted from her fingertips, clinging to the wound gouged into her neck and stitching her up as if she had always been able to call upon the endless webs of energy sustaining the world. She remembered his genuine smile as he offered her his hand, saying she had passed the test with flying colors.

She remembered the training sessions, his gentle touch on her arms and legs as he showed her how to more accurately conjure her magics to heal and to help. She remembered the casual teasing and the playful banter between them both as they spent nights traversing rooftops and the realms of the dead. She remembered the nights of teaching him how to sew and understand references to youtube videos and the long conversations over coffee about how strange being human really was as the two of them laughed for hours on end about everything and nothing at all.

“That’s not an option, Ouriel,” she said with a weak smile, laying a hand on his arm as his real name slipped from her lips. “I know who you are and what you can do…and I’m not scared if that ends up hurting me.”

Ever so slowly, he stood up from the couch, reminding her on just how much taller he was than her. He gently took his hand off her shoulder and cupped it over her cheek, resting his palm against her warm skin and turning her head so they looked each other in the eyes. “Is that a challenge?” he asked, the corners of his mouth breaking into a smirk unlike any she had seen before. Chaos danced his irises, flickering no longer with the harsh winds of a blizzard but the gentle winds of an October afternoon. He curled his fingers under her chin, lightly brushing just the tips against her neck.

Her whole body quivered as her cheeks burned with a fire she didn’t know existed in her, one that burned up her body with a bright flickering flame that she knew would not die for anything less than a sleepless night for them both. She didn’t dare look away, instead taking both of her hands and slowly crossing them at the wrist. Letting out a long shaky breath, she pushed herself up onto her tiptoes as the heat spread to her chest and down her stomach. “Go ahead…do your worst.”

A true smile crossed his lips as his other hand reached behind her ear and pulled the ribbon out of her hair, freeing her curls from their prison. As if she weighed nothing at all, he brought her face up to his and sank his lips against hers. It was cold, cold like a comforting autumn breeze, cold like the first snowfall, cold like polished steel, cold but so incredibly warm at the same time. She closed her eyes, letting ice freeze the fire in her body as she fell into his embrace, feeling soft fabric wind its way around her wrists as they sank into darkness together.

#fanfiction #my writing #i can't believe i got paid to write this #trashy romance

[austennerdita2533]

Literati + Historical AU, Java Junkie + Detective AU :)

These are pretty rough and vague because I’m tired, but I still had so much fun with this. Thanks lovely! xx

Literati + Historical AU + Headcanons:

-There’d have to be a combination of slow burn, angsty separation, longing, jealousy, and a “whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same” because Rory and Jess are tethered in intellect and attraction from the moment they meet. *cries because it’s so beautiful*

-Throw in a forbidden love trope a lá Persuasion by Jane Austen, whereby Rory is persuaded by Lorelai (a person whose counsel she values above all else) to break off her engagement with Jess because he’s only a lowly sailor with an attitude problem and no “suitable” career prospects. A piece of advice Rory heeds, but regrets every day for nearly five years. Causing her to seek solace and solitude in books rather than other real/eligible suitors.

-Years later, Jess returns to the Hollow as a wealthy and respected naval officer to visit Luke, intent on repaying his uncle for his kindness to him as a wayward, misguided youth.

-Jess is quietly observant of Rory, whom he comes upon in the neighborhood again, but lavishes his attentions upon a young lady named Shane in an effort to convince himself that he now feels only indifference for his former fiánce. 

-The courting/flirtation doesn’t last long. Especially not when a local farmer, Dean Forrester, and a rich baron, Logan Huntzberger, begin to show romantic interest in her. Prompting him to examine his own heart and make his feelings known in clear terms, once and for all.

-Also, these quotes from classic literature scream Literati to me for some reason?? :

“Your heart understood mine. In the depth of the fragrant night, I listened with ravished soul to your beloved voice. Your heart understood mine.”–Little Women

“There could have been no two hearts so open, no tastes so similar, no feelings so in unison.”–Persuasion 

“Will you look into my eyes and tell me that you love me now?”–Rebecca

“I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you - especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous channel, and two hundred miles or so of land some broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapt; and then I’ve a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly. As for you, - you’d forget me.”–Jane Eyre

Java Junkies + Detective AU + Headcanons

-Lorelai would be the chirpy romance writer who needed “hands on” experience (inspiration?) for her latest crime-themed novel. She’d incorrigibly gab her way onto Luke’s detective force for one case - “just one case, because I work alone; no partners, no questions, no interference, d’ya hear?” - only to find herself adrenalized by the act of crime-solving. 

-She’d also be intrigued by the gruff, no-nonsense baseball-cap wearing detective she was assigned to shadow. Whom she’d repeatedly address as “partner Luke” just to see how many variations of The Grunt he actually had. And, if she were lucky, he might regale her with a long rant on why this crime-solving research idea she’d concocted was “nothing but a by-product of consuming too much crappy, unrealistic TV.”

-Small town or not, Luke would take his job seriously. Even if that meant contending with ridiculous cases like The Egg Stink Vandal of ‘04, the Town Loner’s naked protest, or the Breaking of the Church Bells. He’d begrudge Lorelai’s tag-along status at first, but quickly would grow to see how her friendliness, prodding sarcasm, and wit could trip people up. Getting useful information from them he’d never be able to pry free with his brusque questions. Thereby helping him to catch criminals. 

-He’d find Lorelai’s caffeine addiction abominable, making comments under his breath about how “it was no wonder she talked as if she were permanently on fast forward,” but would make to sure to pick her up a cup ‘o jo every morning from their favorite diner on his way into the office. A diner where, during a particularly hard case, they’d sit for hours brainstorming or, after they’d solved it, simply would idle the hours away in conversation. 

-Absolute slowest of slow burns. Their’s would be a partnership built from listening, trust, friendship and loyalty with the occasional butting of heads over Protocol vs. Gut Feeling. It’d be a friendship/partnership spanning years, with neither one of them brave enough to risk a romance at first in the fear that it could “destroy their work relationship.” 

-Heartbreak and disappointment would mar them both at different intervals, leaving them both asking, “will I ever find the whole package?” Only to realize, in the end, that love was there - waiting with an open hand across the coffee consul in Luke’s unmarked truck - all along.

#slayers-every-one-of-us #replies #the loveliest of lovely people #ashlee bree talks gilmore girls au headcanons

[servetolive]

KMFDM Lyric Writing Prompts 4/?

Opium thru Naive, Money thru Angst, Nihil thru Xtort

Symbols

“Die wunder dieser welt werden dir geschenkt.” (The wonders of the world will be given to you.)

“Glück ist nicht käuflich.” (Happiness is not for sale.)

“Sehnsucht bleibt unerreicht.” (Desire remains unattained.)

“Kein mitleid für die mehrheit.” (No pity for the majority.)

“Nihilistic mystic.”

“Cataclysmic and prolific.”

“Hype and mediocrity.”

“Celebrate relentlessness.”

“Menace to society.”

“Cultish and anthemic.”

“Der verrat an der seele macht leben ungesund.” (The betrayal of the soul makes life unhealthy.)

“Razor sharp tongue-in-cheek…”

“…  Poking in your open sores.”

“A gift of god exploding in your face.”

“I am your holy totem.”

“I am your sick taboo.”

“Radical, radiant.”

“I’m your nightmare coming true.”

“Malignantly malevolent.”

“I am of divine descent.”

“I am your apocalypse.”

“I’m the illegitimate son of God.”

“Stray bullet from the barrel of love.”

“I have come to shake your faith.”

“I am unrestrained excess.”

“Ich liebe deinen Mond in meiner Nacht.” (I love your moon in my night.)

“Do what you won’t regret.”

“Mercy is all you get.”

“Pitch bending radiated dreams.”

“Visionary criminals descend on all knees, burning.”

“A term of lifeless, useless thought.”

“Alchemic jail-cell vivisection.”

“Test-subject day job.”

“Justice in travestia.”

“Kill everything that’s not tied down.”

“Fuel me with some of your kisses.”

“Distilled within your discipline.”

“Bleeding on your hallowed ground.”

“See the gun, pick it up.”

“Shut me down.”

“Shoot me up.”

“Fuck me like a whore.”

“Comfortably cold.”

“I’ve gone as low as you can go.”

“No sense of shame.”

“I made a god out of blood.”

“I killed the king of deceit.”

“Sacrifice to the cause.”

“Turn your code into law.”

“Gospel of rage.”

“Deviate from the absolute.”

“You’re the sweetest disease to me.”

“I can’t hear you say ‘please’ to me.”

“You’ll see nothing can hide in me.”

“You’ll find nothing can feed on me.”

“Don’t look, listen, or believe in me.”

“I’m unfit, it’s unfair.”

“What I don’t know, I don’t like.”

“What I don’t like, I don’t want.”

“What I don’t want, I waste.”

“Victimize my love of life.” Adios

“I’m the liberation of intoxication.”

“The abomination of infatuation.”

“The epitome of the enemy.”

“Perfect agony until infinity.’

“I’m your brother Cain.”

“I’m an accident.”

“The empowerment of the incompetent.”

“From the gutter to the top.”

“Destroy what destroys you.:

“It’s here today and today will never come again.”

“That’s all you get, it’s all you need.”

“What I like is gonna be mine.”

“A token left with judgement.”

“A memento left ajar.”

“A bloodstain all the wiser.”

“Addictive, so charming.”

“A prick upon the finger.”

“Looking back like looking through.”

“The distant elevation of a faded wicked high.”

“Burn the fire sign.”

“Bend a broken rule.”

“Rinse out the ugly.”

“Purge every demon.”

“A poke in the eye, the equation is nil.”

“Violence for inner-peace.”

“Bombing for therapy.”

“Fake your destiny.”

“Give a finger, take a hand.”

“Use the enemy.”

Terror is everything you need.

#kmfdm #kmfdm lyric prompts #kmfdm lyric prompt #prompts #ask prompts #writing prompts #I am expecting sick shit from these <3

[thesswrites]

Leading the Blind

Carrying on from the first part of my gift to @true0neutral, another story of the Hearthhearts of Goldendale, with a difference. We meet Lira Sweetwater, halfling cleric of Pelor, at the start of her own journey into the mercenary life.

A battlefield outside Pallav; Temeni (the Southern Lands)

Alone behind enemy lines, Lira reflected, was a bad place to be. Particularly with her target yelling at her through the communication earring Jennandrel had made for them. “Lira what by Tritherion’s bleeding piles are you doing? I thought I told you people to leave me!”

Lira rolled her eyes, slipping between bits of ruined building and trusting her substandard halfling height to make up for the target beacon that was her bright red hair. “We don’t do that, Goban. And you know it.”

Grumbled swearing in dwarven was the only reply. It was part of the motto of the Quickflight Diminutives, Twylla Quickflight’s mercenary band. ‘In fast, out faster, leave no man behind’. It worked well, and given the makeup of the company, it was the only way it could. They were the Diminituves because that was what they were - diminutive. Four halflings, a dozen or so dwarves, six gnomes, and a surprisingly useful fairy dragon that Lira had liberated from a local noble’s household and now followed her around like a faithful hound, they were the smallest mercenary band in Belarys ... but they were one of the best for insertions like this.

Goban was their demolitionist, one of the few dwarves in their group who wasn’t a straight-up fighter. He’d snuck into the cultist camp on the outskirts of Pallav with a few of his more localised bits of boom, intending to cause enough chaos to flush the cultists out of their tight battle formation and allow the skirmishers of the Diminutives to pick them off. This was a job for more than twenty-odd tiny people, but Lira didn’t consider the odds, any more than she considered the odds of surviving a solo extraction when one of her friends got trapped behind enemy lines.

These cultists called themselves the Eaters of Suns. Lira’s god was a god of the sun. While she herself was a pacifist by inclination, she would do whatever was necessary to stop these cultists in their tracks.

When she finally reached Goban, she reached for the symbol of Pelor around her neck with one hand and for the fallen dwarf with the broken leg with the other; she had a hand on his shoulder and had started to heal him before her knees had touched the ground beside him. Goban shook his head. “You’re a brave girl, Little Lira. Damn fool, mind, but a brave girl.”

Lira looked at him, eyes narrowing in mock offense. “Damn fool, hmm? How is saving our only demolitionist a foolish thing to do?”

Goban glared at her, meeting her eyes with some desperation. “I’m their only demolitionist, but since Ellain left, you’re our only healer, girl. Do you not smell trap on this? Agh,” he grumbled, shaking his head. “Of course you don’t and I shouldn’t expect it. You’re a fledgling to the ways of war, and--”

Fledgling she might be, but at the word ‘trap’, she touched her amulet again, this time seeking out evil. The force of it almost knocked her over, and without a moment’s hesitation, she took his flints from him and slapped the small coin Twylla had given her into Goban’s hand. Speaking the activation word, she opened a Dimension Door to get him out of harm’s way, cutting off his cheated curse mid-epithet. She hadn’t finished healing him yet, and she had no idea how well he’d be able to walk. She, on the other hand, could still run. So thinking, she found the fuse that Goban had spent many patient hours explaining and lit it with a hasty flick of tinder on slate, waiting for a spear to find her back with every second she wasted. Then, still miraculously unstabbed, she stood to face the oncoming enemy.

All that evil coming from a single man was disconcerting, to say the least. Although ‘man’ might have been stretching the point. The cultists they had been fighting had looked somehow wrong - the term Lira used was ‘soul-sick’. This one, however, looked soul-dead, and she pitied him even as she grabbed her dropped quarterstaff and drove him back, as much to get herself under cover before Goban’s black powder exploded as to keep him from finding and snuffing the fuse.

She was only barely in time; shards of broken rock skated harmlessly across her displacer cloak as she pinned the soul-dead cultist to a sandstone wall, somehow praying she could reach him. Pelor, let me help just one of them, she thought, pressing him into the wall with her quarterstaff mashing his elbows into the crumbling wall she’d found to back him against. She felt Pelor’s regretful smile even as she tried: “...Do you still have a name?”

The cultist responded by opening his mouth and spitting a mouthful of something green and foul-smelling directly into her eyes. She had a merciful moment of thinking that he had just vomited in her face (she was a healer, she worked with mercenaries, she’d had worse with every session of drinking, never mind war) ... and then the stinging in her eyes became a nearly insupportable burn and her eyelids refused to work ... possibly because they no longer existed.

While it was far too little and far too late, Lira turned her face away from the acid-spitting abomination that had once been a human man ... but she still refused to let him away from the wall. She had little enough strength left, more of it being sapped away all the time by the acid eating into her face, but there was one chance. She knew Twylla Quickflight, her immediate superior. While the plan to send Lira behind enemy lines to save Goban had originated with their commander, Lira knew that Twylla Quickflight left nothing to chance ... if only because her lover believed in preparedness to the point of triple-redundancy. Which was why, instead of an incoherent scream, Lira centred herself enough to put her cry of agony into a single word: “Rand!”

Lira’s ears were very good. She heard the quick flight of two arrows fly above her head, and the sound of impact indicated that Rand Hearthheart had chosen the path of poetic justice by putting out the eyes of the creature that had taken Lira’s.

It was about all that Lira could process before the pain overwhelmed her and she lost consciousness.

Only half-conscious, some unknown time later, Lira caught a few words from her commander. Not many, but enough to terrify her. Those words were “...back to the temple”.

Lira didn’t want to go back. She couldn’t. This cult was trying to kill suns, and one of those suns was her god. More, her time so far behind enemy lines had shown her what became of those who followed this sun-eating horror. No one deserved to have their soul destroyed that way, to walk on with darkness corroding their soul the way the acid had corroded--

Oh.

It was dark, and she was conscious, and while she could feel bandages over her eyes, she’d had cloth over her eyes before and still had some sense that she could see. Now she didn’t even have the sense of that. The pain had faded, but there was a sunken feeling where her eyes should be. Where her eyes no longer were.

The price of overconfidence.

All Lira could do was pray. Pelor, she thought, and would have closed her eyes if she could have. Pelor, if that is to be the last thing I ever see, please let me continue to help fight it. I ... I don’t ask for my eyes back. That is the mark of a lesson well-learned. Just ... please. I want to help. I want to stop them. I want my people to be spared the fate of the man who took my eyes. Let me heal them. Let me protect them. Let me help them. Let me do Your work in Your name, and keep them well.

She heard a chuckle - something huge and powerful and kind, indulgent as a beloved uncle - and felt the benevolence of a sun-god’s smile, and warm but otherworldly lips upon her forehead. Then, there was a word, and the presence of Pelor receded. Never gone - Pelor was never far from His chosen - but back in His proper place in the material.

Gods seldom intervened, by rules set down long ago - rules that Pelor and Nerull and Tritherion had all agreed upon to allow mortals to be free. But those who dedicated their lives to their gods could ask. There were dispensations, if a mortal like that asked. Knowing that Pelor had found her request worthy of granting, Lira sat up, murmuring the word she’d heard in her delirium. “...Truesight?”

“You need to be lying down,” said Rand Hearthheart. Lira had known for a long time that Twylla’s lover ‘Rand’ was actually a woman named Miranda, having healed her of enough wounds to see her without that much in the way of clothing. But now, to Lira’s lack of eyes, it was all the more obvious. The illusion spell that had at one point kept Lira’s notice away from certain anatomical features didn’t function as it should, because Lira didn’t see it at all; she sensed Miranda Hearthheart as sort of a polished stiletto blade of a woman, polished and versatile and hidden until needed.

Then a quicksilver presence that Lira identified as Twylla pushed forward. “Well, she can do that in a moment, but first I want to know what you mean by ‘Truesight’. Because I heard you say ‘Truesight’, Lira my girl, and honestly, that’s not the sort of thing I expect to hear from someone who had acid spit eat their eyes.”

Lira shook her head. “I ... asked Pelor ... to let me still help you. I ... said I didn’t want or need my eyes back. That the lesson learned was too important to lose, but ... you were talking about sending me back--”

Rand huffed out a little chuckle. “That was Goban,” ‘he’ said with a grin. “The guilt’s eating. He doesn’t really understand the whole thing where clerics put their trust in the gods. He’s less ‘praise the lords’ and more ‘pass the ammunition’.”

All Twylla could do at that point was shake her head. “Well, I’ll tell you this much, Lira-lass; you’re not going anywhere just now. And I don’t just mean because you’re injured, because whatever Pelor did to you, it at least healed the acid burns to scars, which will have to do, I suppose. Listen,” she went on, and Lira could feel the commander grinning, “even if you hadn’t had a bit of divine intervention, we’d have just kept you in the medical tent. We don’t have enough healing to spare. But a healer with Truesight? We’re not passing that up. We’ll train you up in blind-fighting and get you back in the field.”

After a silent moment in which Lira would have cried had her tear ducts not been obliterated, she simply said, “Thank you”. Everyone in the room knew that she wasn’t talking to them.

#Cupcake Coterie Prequels

[poorquentyn]

What do you think will happen to Aeron Greyjoy in the following books?

I think he dies when Euron sacrifices both the Redwyne and Greyjoy fleets in the name of apocalyptic apotheosis. @racefortheironthrone pointed out that tying priests to the prows of his ships, as Euron orders his men to do at the end of “The Forsaken,” suggests that he is trying to channel some intense metaphysical energy as part of a massive blood sacrifice, all towards the end of joining, conquering, and replacing the gods:

“No, I’ll not kill you tonight. A holy man with holy blood. I may have need of that blood…later. For now, you are condemned to live.”

“The bleeding star bespoke the end,” he said to Aeron. “These are the last days, when the world shall be broken and remade. A new god shall be born from the graves and charnel pits.”

“Kneel, brother,” the Crow’s Eye commanded. “I am your king, I am your god. Worship me, and I will raise you up to be my priest.”

“Never. No godless man may sit the Seastone Chair!”

“Why would I want that hard black rock? Brother, look again and see where I am seated.”

Aeron Damphair looked. The mound of skulls was gone. Now it was metal underneath the Crow’s Eye: a great, tall, twisted seat of razor sharp iron, barbs and blades and broken swords, all dripping blood.

Impaled upon the longer spikes were the bodies of the gods. The Maiden was there and the Father and the Mother, the Warrior and Crone and Smith…even the Stranger. They hung side by side with all manner of queer foreign gods: the Great Shepherd and the Black Goat, three-headed Trios and the Pale Child Bakkalon, the Lord of Light and the butterfly god of Naath.

And there, swollen and green, half­-devoured by crabs, the Drowned God festered with the rest, seawater still dripping from his hair.

There’s a prophetic infrastructure at work here that suggests it’s going to work, linked through the imagery of an ocean of blood, whether via Moqorro…

“Have you seen these others in your fires?” he asked, warily.

“Only their shadows,” Moqorro said. “One most of all. A tall and twisted thing with one black eye and ten long arms, sailing on a sea of blood.”

…or Melisandre…

Then the towers by the sea, crumbling as the dark tide came sweeping over them, rising from the depths.

“I saw towers by the sea, submerged beneath a black and bloody tide. That is where the heaviest blow will fall.”

…or Aeron himself.

The dreams were even worse the second time. He saw the longships of the Ironborn adrift and burning on a boiling blood­-red sea. He saw his brother on the Iron Throne again, but Euron was no longer human. He seemed more squid than man, a monster fathered by a kraken of the deep, his face a mass of writhing tentacles. Beside him stood a shadow in woman’s form, long and tall and terrible, her hands alive with pale white fire. Dwarves capered for their amusement, male and female, naked and misshapen, locked in carnal embrace, biting and tearing at each other as Euron and his mate laughed and laughed and laughed…

This horror-soaked religious arc ties directly into Aeron’s own story, which from “The Prophet” through “The Drowned Man” to “The Forsaken” is largely about how he filters and faces down his abuser through the lens of his faith. Aeron was reborn as Damphair, and keeps telling himself that this has allowed him to escape the fear and shame and self-loathing that have gripped him since childhood thanks to Euron (and the death of Urrigon as well, a trauma Euorn oh-so-cruelly exploits multiple times in “The Forsaken”). But then:

“The king is dead,” he said, as plain as that. Four small words, yet the sea itself trembled when he uttered them.

Aeron Greyjoy had built his life upon two mighty pillars. Those four small words had knocked one down. Only the Drowned God remains to me. May he make me as strong and tireless as the sea.

And then: 

Aeron was almost at the door when the maester cleared his throat, and said, “Euron Crow’s Eye sits the Seastone Chair.”

The Damphair turned. The hall had suddenly grown colder. The Crow’s Eye is half a world away. Balon sent him off two years ago, and swore that it would be his life if he returned. “Tell me,” he said hoarsely.

The Crow’s Eye strides into the text to look Damphair dead in the face and tell him that he has seen through every god and every prayer, and none of them matter, because they did not stop Euron from abusing him and they did not stop Euron from spending his entire life getting ready to end the world:

“We shall have no king but from the kingsmoot.” The Damphair stood. “No godless man—”

“—may sit the Seastone Chair, aye.” Euron glanced about the tent. “As it happens I have oft sat upon the Seastone Chair of late. It raises no objections.” His smiling eye was glittering. “Who knows more of gods than I? Horse gods and fire gods, gods made of gold with gemstone eyes, gods carved of cedar wood, gods chiseled into mountains, gods of empty air…I know them all. I have seen their peoples garland them with flowers, and shed the blood of goats and bulls and children in their names. And I have heard the prayers, in half a hundred tongues. Cure my withered leg, make the maiden love me, grant me a healthy son. Save me, succor me, make me wealthy…protect me! Protect me from mine enemies, protect me from the darkness, protect me from the crabs inside my belly, from the horselords, from the slavers, from the sellswords at my door. Protect me from the Silence.” He laughed. “Godless? Why, Aeron, I am the godliest man ever to raise sail! You serve one god, Damphair, but I have served ten thousand. From Ib to Asshai, when men see my sails, they pray.”

The priest raised a bony finger. “They pray to trees and golden idols and goat-headed abominations. False gods…”

“Just so,” said Euron, “and for that sin I kill them all. I spill their blood upon the sea and sow their screaming women with my seed. Their little gods cannot stop me, so plainly they are false gods. I am more devout than even you, Aeron. Perhaps it should be you who kneels to me for blessing.”

Aeron takes refuge, as always, in the sea:

Only when his arms and legs were numb from the cold did Aeron Greyjoy struggle back to shore and don his robes again.

He had run before the Crow’s Eye as if he were still the weak thing he had been, but when the waves broke over his head they reminded once more that that man was dead. I was reborn from thesea, a harder man and stronger. No mortal man could frighten him, no more than the darkness could,nor the bones of his soul, the grey and grisly bones of his soul. The sound of a door opening, the scream of a rusted iron hinge.

But then Euron triumphs at Damphair’s own kingsmoot, starting with the cosmic-horror unveiling of Dragonbinder (Damphair calls it “the horn of hell”), and as Aeron is forced to crown his abuser, he experiences a profound crisis of faith. 

Even a priest may doubt. Even a prophet may know terror. Aeron Damphair reached within himself for his god and discovered only silence. As a thousand voices shouted out his brother’s name, all he could hear was the scream of a rusted iron hinge.

Here we find the multi-layered meaning of the name of Euron’s ship. Silence refers not only to the tongues he removes, but the silence of the gods:

“Harlon was my first. All I had to do was pinch his nose shut. The greyscale had turned his mouth to stone so he could not cry out. But his eyes grew frantic as he died. They begged me. When the life went out of them, I went out and pissed into the sea, waiting for the god to strike me down. None did.”

And now Aeron is tied to Silence, sailing into the storm he spent AFFC dreading. I think his religious arc ends with Euron’s divine ascension, and Sam takes over as our POV on the Crow’s Eye.

…although if I’m right that Euron reanimates his followers after sacrificing both fleets, maybe Sam spots Wight Damphair? Euron did say he would raise Aeron up to make him his priest…

#aeron greyjoy #euron greyjoy #twow spoilers

[illtrytobegood]

Home for the Holidays: goodbye (1 of 3)

Cookie Bun:  Quinton watched shifter leave, before turning around to see gummy. This was one of the people who tried to eat him at school. Be didnt trust this guy…but it seemed like shifter did.“…..Hey.

GUMMY (LLA):  Gummy looked over to the strange cookie flower, he knew Shifter trusted them for some reason, but he was freaking out. Shifter was gone…he tried to compose himself before he finally said, "We need to find Shifter….” Cookie Bun: “….well…i agree with you on that….

GUMMY (LLA): Gummy gripped the exit candy tightly in his vine, he didn’t know how to feel about the cookie flower, he gave a shaky sigh, "Let’s check the park, then the library… he couldn’t have gone too far, not in the condition he’s in.”

Cookie Bun: “Oh…uh…o-okay.” Quinton forgot this place had a Park…he forgot alot places even existed. But that wasnt important at the moment, what was more important to him was finding shifter.

GUMMY (LLA): Gummy offered a vine to Quintion. "Here, follow me, we can look together”

Cookie Bun: “……Quinton was very hesitant…but he took gummys vine, with his own small chocolate vine.

GUMMY (LLA): Gummy gripped tightly on Quinton’s vine tightly and burrowed the two flowers into the park.  Gummy glanced around, unsure of where to look in the park first. "SHIFTER!”

Cookie Bun: Well, aside from getting pulled from place to place, quinton looked around for a few moments, before calling out.“SHIFTER? SHIFTER! SHIFTER WHERE ARE YOU?

GUMMY (LLA): Gummy dragged quintion around, looking around the park. he looked around noticing the large half omega, by a tree. What was Chimera doing? he went in closer. "Chimera, have you seen…” his voice trailed off seeing a flower being smooched by Chimera.

CuteCat: Shifter froze as Chimera’s mouth pressed against his face. His mind went blank - this had never happened before. He could not account for it, could not understand what it meant. Was this what they wanted of him? His leaves lowered and he just stared at the giant abomination that was kissing him in shock, not hearing anything else that was said to him.

(Dunal) Chimera: he pulls away after a moment, blushing a bright red right down to the tips of his petals, covering his face with his paws

Cookie Bun: Quinton eyes widened as he saw this. He mumbled something to himself, before staring at the floor.

Eclipse/Petals: “Uh.. see? We care!” Petals just smiled awkwardly. Third wheel, much.

GUMMY (LLA): Gummy looked shocked seeing Shifter being the flower of the smooch, looking at chimera… Those two were smoochbuddies…? Shifter had a smoochbuddy…? Gummy didn’t know why but it sort of hurt him…. he couldn’t place the feeling…Gummy shook his head, finally looking over to Shifter, “Shifter! Shifter, I got the candy for you”

CuteCat: Slowly, Shifter’s head tilted to the side. He was staring blankly at Chimera, his voice faded. “Is this why you tortured me?” He didn’t hear Gummy. He had been crying again, but now his gaze was all… wrong. Empty. … He started to laugh, loudly. “You really are all freaks!! It’s not even about him?!” He was bleeding, he was sure of it. He pulled the soul from his chest just to see how badly it was cracked and broken. “It’s all just so you can have fun. Like I tried to have fun.” He couldn’t stop laughing. Nothing he did or promised would stop them. They’d torture and kill him even if he helped Pointy. There was no way out. And that fact held a desperate hilarity.

Cookie Bun: Quinton didnt say anything. He was just eyeing down chimera.

(Dunal) Chimera: No, that isn’t-!

GUMMY (LLA): Gummy went closer to Shifter, he was terrified, this didn’t make sense, why did this…, “Shifter! Shifter, please don’t do anything you’ll regret!”

Eclipse/Petals: Petals was getting restless, unable to get Shifter to understand. “If you want to be like that, ITS ABOUT YOU, IDIOT. Thats why they want YOU to help, cause only YOU know how. Did you not even check out how many are trying to help him too? There are other also worried about you, jeez…”

SpaceConstellation: His head seemed to twitch from yET another argument abrewing in the distance

CuteCat: “Oh right.” Shifter looked straight at Petals, his smile stretching all across his face. “It’s for my own good. He put acid in my eye for my own good.” It had burned, it had hurt. It was for his sake. It was supposed to help him. “He almost decapitated me to make me happy.” He had choked, screamed, everyone staring and watching, telling him to let it happen. “He ripped out my throat over and over to save me.” Screaming, pleading, unable to move. No anesthesia. Unable to breathe. “He tried to keep me here because I’ll be happier that way.” Cut off from his friends, askers, people who wouldn’t hurt him. No way back. “He tore out my petal because I didn’t need it.” Tried to leash him. Cutting, hurting, laughing. Not giving it back. “He hugged and held and called me his baby all to comfort me.” Pleading didn’t help. Nothing helped. Bad touch. “He drugged me so I’d feel better.” Unable to even remember what he had done. “He put metal shards in my neck for my sake.” Painful static images. Couldn’t breathe. So much blood. His voice was getting more and more genuine the more things he listed. My sake. It’s about me.

Eclipse/Petals: Petals felt even worse now, and cringed as he went on. “I… Oh God, they all wanted to help you, but they did it half-way. C'mon Shifter, don’t let those dense people break you…” He went up to Shifter and hugged him, as awkward as it was.

SpaceConstellation: Ayye i could give y'all a piece of my mind for making things worse for him! Ah, he’s bloody innocent n all of you go n think he’s me. hAH I dont know whether to be proud of the insanity or absolutly miserable for bringing this upon him! he cackled, continuing to twitch and watch them in the distance

GUMMY (LLA): Gummy started shaking, tearing up as he heard Shifter talk. did he think that he was going to hurt him too…? did Shifter think he would…“Sh-Shifter….I….” Gummy gripped the candy tightly, he was a horrible friend… he should have come here faster, he should have… “I’m sorry…. I….”

(Dunal) Chimera: Chimera looked down, silent now and in obvious emotional pain

CuteCat: Shifter wrapped his vines around Petals, tightly. Too tight, not letting him move. He whispered to the other flower. “I’ll help you, too.” A third vine searched the ground until he located his knife, raising it and then moving to stab it through Petals’s stem.

Cookie Bun: Quinton stopped eyeing chimera, and floating over to Shifter *Shifter….He was at a lose for words….he knew what it felt like. People forced his to feel someway…others tried and eat him…and people he cared about the most betrayed him.

SpaceConstellation: hOLY FUCK A storms a-brewing! he howled in laughter as the glint of the knife caught his eye

Eclipse/Petals: Petals felt trapped, and with the ominous words Petals tried to escape. “Uh, S-shifter? Are you okay?-”  He did not notice the knife.

(Dunal) Chimera: Chimera moves to stop him, then hesitates Shifter….?

GUMMY (LLA): Gummy gripped the candy tighter, breaking it in half  as he started to worry. Gummy noticed how they candy broke taking part of it going towards Shifter, “SHIFTER! I CAN SEND YOU HOME!” He couldn’t take it anymore, he wanted to help shifter, he knew whatever was happening it was just like him before, Shifter was scared, he had to be… “SHIFTER PLEASE- j-Just listen to me!”  " ….I can….“ gummy sniffed, shaking. "I…”

CuteCat: Shifter dug the blade deep into Petals’s stem , then unwrapped his vines from his victim and backed up a step. “It’s for your own good,” he said, more amused than he had any right to be. He twisted and pulled the knife, not back, but to the right as he tried to slice most of Petals’s stem apart and cripple him. “You’ll thank me later.” He laughed, remembering those words. Immense, blinding, helpless pain with that little phrase attached. … Why were there tears in his eye? No matter. His insides were still bleeding. He wanted it to stop.

SpaceConstellation: WOOOOO! Hes laughing so freaking much stop that MUUUUUURDEEEERRRRR!

Nightmare (Celestia - Admin): Nightmare appeared next to Gummy and put a vine on him gently. Looked at him then on the place where Shifter was. He noned to this side, like… giving signal to someone. After a moment Candy appeared next to Shifter behind his back and used on him quick sleep magic.

Eclipse/Petals: When that slice cut through Petals stem, all he could do was open his mouth in a silent scream. “Don’t… be… 3…” was what he managed to croak out, just before fainting from the extreme pain

GUMMY (LLA): Gummy looked over to nightmare he was sobbing. he pulled out a few more vines, he just wanted his friend… he just wanted to help… why couldn’t he… “Shifter… pl… please….”  " I just…. I…“

Nightmare (Celestia - Admin): (will wait for CC response now, moment)

(Dunal) Chimera: Chimera just listens, crying Please, don’t…! Don’t do this….!

CuteCat: Shifter was cackling and crying at the same time, a deranged grin on his face, but before he could do anything else something struck him. He froze, faltering and swaying, trying to fight against it, but he was weak and within moments he had collapsed, dropping his knife and passing out. he picks up both fainted flowers in his paws No….

Nightmare (Celestia - Admin): Nigthmare took Gummy to his vines and hugged him, trying to make him calm down. "I-it’s okey… h-he is alright… just fell asleep…” He said also shivering and crying little.  He could come faster… if he only knew…

SpaceConstellation: HAHAHA! Castor had seemed fo limp toward them now wHAT A SIGHT!  look at em swirling eyes of murky green insanity~

Nightmare (Celestia - Admin): “Chimera! Take Petals to hospital! Now! We will take care of Shifter with Gummy…” He said still hugging friend.

SpaceConstellation: wHY did cha stop it? It woulda been nice to see an argument escalate that far! You gotta go aaaalllll the way or its useless!

(Dunal) Chimera: he nods, putting Shifter down and Petals in his maw, barreling at Castor with rage in his eyes

GUMMY (LLA): Gummy held nightmare tightly, he couldn’t stop crying, he couldn’t stop. his shaking wouldn’t stop, he was a horrible friend, he did everything he could and still… why couldn’t he be a good friend, he tried, he’s do anything… Shifter didn’t even notice him… it was like he…. “I… I just want to send him home… I j-just want him to be safe… I… just want…. ” Gummy’s grip tighted as he started to get thornier. he could hardly speak, “I just want…. to wake up….”

Eclipse/Petals: Petals barely reacted to the surroundings, still unconscious from the pain

SpaceConstellation: he sneered, sliding to the side and whipping his tailcoats like he was that person with the red flag n Chimera was the bull Too slooowww! Why dontcha take your rage into a tree?

Nightmare (Celestia - Admin): “SHUT UP!” He looked angry with his scary face at Castor. Then he pet little Gummy stem. “G-gummy… we must take Shifter to somewhere safe, without people which can hurt him… i-is he… is he even alright? Is someone hurt him physically? I must know!” He looked worried but tried to stay calm and help Gummy to calm down.

(Dunal) Chimera: he snarls, putting Petals beside him and quickly healing him before running at him again

Nightmare (Celestia - Admin): Candy after moment, came next to Nightmare, just listening with frown to talk.

SpaceConstellation: You charge with no clear sense of attack! And oh my dear Nightmare, dont flatter me with that look! he seemed to enjoy the scary face Nightmare made while sidestepping to the right again just as before

Cookie Bun: This whole thing was confusing. Everything had happened so fast… *…Wha…Shifter…why……

CuteCat: Unconscious as he was, Shifter could not move in any way and was thus easily carried. Small, too.

SpaceConstellation: Im not here to hurt anyone, seeing as everyone hurts tHEMSELVES! I would rarher talk thank you!

Eclipse/Petals: Petals twitched a little from the brief healing, but still did not wake up. Still stuck on the ground.

SpaceConstellation: he seemed to bubble with glee in the chaos

GUMMY (LLA): Gummy sniffed, he try to calm down, he could hardly get out the words, “I-I have space… he’ll be… safe…” he reubbed his eyes..pausing a moment as he tried to settle down, “ L-letep kept… stalking u-… I tried to stop hi-…. ”

(Dunal) Chimera: he manages to twist once he side steps and lunges right at him

SpaceConstellation: his hands lash out and stomp onto the beasts muzzle, propelling him up and over the beast instead of being smushed flat. Unfortunately momentum wise he lands on the beasts back

(Dunal) Chimera: he tries to buck him off, and Castor has a clear line of sight to his sensitive antenna, damaged speaker and vital soul tubes on the back of his neck

SpaceConstellation: His hands latch onto the back,  and once his legs are locked around in a stradle,  it’s awfully hard to buck him off. Stick man has great muscles in da legs or how would you poledance~? His whole mouth n teeth snap out to chomp into the antenna

Nightmare (Celestia - Admin): “Hm?” He didn’t understood the last words but at least understood that there is some place when Shifter can be safe. “O-okey… we… must go there… take Shifter with us and go there. I have few things in inventory for him if he will feel bad or will be hurt.” He looked at sleeping Shifter… “You should take him to your vines  Gummy… if he would wake up suddely it’s better for him to have you as close as it’s possible…”

GUMMY (LLA): Gummy nodded, rubbing his eyes one last time and going to grab Shifter, he wrapped him in his vines and carried him towards nightmare. “Follow me….”

(Dunal) Chimera: he screeches, desperately trying to claw him off, his antenna easily snapping, but giving his mouth a powerful zap in the process CuteCat:  Shifter was easily picked up, hanging limply in Gummy’s vines. SpaceConstellation: He twitches in pain from the zap, hair fizzling with electricity ,but it turns into a moan as he lets go and drops to the ground, since the reflex is to arch your back, thus tilting down. He hits the ground running in a sporadic way

(Dunal) Chimera: he instantly follows, even more angry now

SpaceConstellation: Im sO glad i flustered uou this way dear Chimera! Oh Guuuummmeeeeyyyyyyy!

(Dunal) Chimera: he starts moving faster, surprisingly fast for a beast his size

GUMMY (LLA): Gummy gripped Shifter tighter, extending a vine to nightmare, and attempted to burrow with the 2 in vine to the hotel room. He wasn’t going to let Shifter go no matter what. Nightmare (Celestia - Admin): Nightmare burrow with Gummy to some room in hotel. He looked little around at least here Shifter will be safe. Nightmare was silence for a moment. "I… don’t even know what exactly happened there… and… I don’t know if I want to know…“ He said sadly llooking at the floor.”

Cookie Bun: “Hey wait- “ Quinton teleports tot he hotel, looking around for nightmare, and gummy.

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#home for the holidays #event #text dump #long post #off topic posts