#over anything that spews from the void under the forced influence

[the-nysh]

Ahh, that pause.... Now whatever semblance of ‘Garou’ still exists within that swirling, faceless vortex of corrupted madness, of course he still couldn’t come out and admit what actually happened to him (especially to Bang of all people - whom Garou can’t show ‘weakness’ in front of the one mentor who personally enforced the lessons to be strong). That avoidance and denial of the truth instead speaks volumes to me of a different message: of a Garou who still refuses to accept, believe, or fully comprehend the actual act of violence that was cruelly and forcibly thrust upon him - as a victim to True Evil’s unfairness. “Yes really.” 

We’re given two sets of contradictory information here from which to parse the clues. (Where only one is likely believable as the truth...)

This ‘Garou’ claims (or rather, is allowed to believe) to be fully in control of his free will and this new ‘power’.....but not right after ‘god’ deliberately expressed his intent & agenda to make him into his avatar (against Garou’s will).

Because the Real Garou’s will was already shown before this (so believe and trust in this one):

Where he explicitly refused and absolutely did not consent to that.

Meaning there’s no excuse to deny, defend, soften, or downplay the true act of violence that was cruelly inflicted upon him to suffer; you just have to tell it like it is: Garou involuntarily became a victim to forced cosmic mindrape.

...Whether or not he’s even able to comprehend that, and regardless of how his lingering consciousness still tries to rationalize the terrible experience after the fact, doing his damnedest to struggle thru it and assert what he wants to believe, while refusing to acknowledge -that ‘thing’s existence- or accept the reality, and gravity, of what actually happened to him. (So you know how often male survivors can’t simply just come out and admit their trauma? Whether it’s because it’s something deeply personal or shameful, or because they don’t even know, realize, or understand they were a victim in the first place - yeah, that’s what this incident reminds me of. Which is certainly A Message that’s still buried under there...especially when all of this is still curiously presented thru Garou’s limited, definitely not omniscient point of view of the story too.)

The manga also spent ages (over 100chs) establishing the basis & foundations for Garou’s character. Deliberately showing us the crux of his emotional grievances & motivations before this, and repeatedly hammering to us like a broken record even, the signs of his true (good/heroic) nature so we’d never forget, dismiss, or fail to discern how the real Garou should actually behave. (Cause even in his wildest power fantasies, Garou still only attacked monsters; he never wanted to actually kill anyone - as in the heroes or civilians, as some ‘indiscriminate mass murderer’ or ‘hero killer’ - which he didn’t want to become in both the wc & manga. His actual goal was to indirectly lead towards saving the world to fix and make it safer for all the outcast ‘Tareos’ who’ve suffered like him - not destroy it and all the people/life within it.)

So there should be some major red flags raised when this warped ‘Garou’ abomination starts coldly spouting hugely ooc things like ‘All Life Eradication’ thru literal nuclear overkill and whatnot - because no, that’s not even Garou believably talking at that point, that’s the corrupted influence of ‘god’s agenda - who’s against humanity, speaking thru him and literally warping his voice & mind as a conduit/avatar to enact ‘his’ power and conduct True Evil wrath upon the world. Which is all against the actual Garou’s wants or best interests in mind! (The tragic thing is when Garou’s essentially blocked from even realizing that - tricked and forced into doing this anyway without his consent, and misled into believing it’s still ‘all him’ in control when the choice to do things his way has been forcibly taken from him. So you can’t take this “Garou’s” word as truth after his core integrity has been so thoroughly...compromised. It’s truly evil for him to suffer from something like this he did not deserve.)  

Also importantly: when Garou, who was previously lucidly aware in all his wildest, performative ‘absolute evil’ speeches before, couldn’t be taken literally at face value then (unfortunately it seems ‘god’ did and royally mistook Garou’s words to the other literal extreme...) Then certainly anything this thing says or does, warping the worst of his words & beliefs against him even, absolutely cannot be trusted as a genuine reflection of Garou’s true desires. :O No way. As that’s two layers far removed - both from his previous performatism and from the real Garou’s actual will to conduct his brand of ‘evil’ in the way he actually had in mind - to make the world a better place. Especially when the current residual ‘Garou’, who’s somewhere still in there, is in the process of losing his very mind or worse at this rate. (Now if this Garou could have successfully won in a mental battle of dominance, to endure/overcome ‘god’s influence, take back his control & agency, turn the ‘power’ into his own, and bitchslay this ‘god’ back into hell with a taste of his own medicine somehow, then that would be something entirely different. However the current situation doesn’t seem to be the case...yet?)

So despite anything he claims and regardless of whatever he’s still able to think or believe to be true at this point, his thoughts, mind, and will are still tethered to that thing‘s forced influence (we all saw the ugly truth about what actually happened to him)....and yet, beyond the extreme words that spew out of that void, it’s rather those pauses and momentary reactions that still linger behind them, that show me something else far more important. To the Real Garou who’s still in there, please stay strong. ;o; 

#opm #garou #manga spoilers #commentary #meta #long text post #when i can ironically gain more from the pauses and reactions 'garou' makes #over anything that spews from the void under the forced influence #only the Real Garou can be trusted here ;o;

[404fmdhaon]

creative claims verification — omen

summary: gyujeong writes this song inside bc’s dungeon, and he’s angry lol warnings: none wc: 1848, lyrics not included

it goes all like the cliches say — the brooding artist inside the depths of some studio, how ever many floors up chungdam’s heart. there’s packs of cigarettes sprawled, each one a witness to hours on end frustration and a bottle of empty hennessy that gives the allusion that he’s a begging drunk starved for a taste of inspiration.

except, he’s no brooding artist. fuck, if he’s had a say. not distressed by bits of artistic rage or stumped creativity. he’s a fucking sell out, a bitch of a sham. the end seat giving the moniker of some rapper who’s had his stomach full, throat quenched by the delicacies of what life has to offer.

hennessy, and he’s a liar to admit he’s grown accustomed to the taste of johnnie walker. but what’s he to say when alcohol all tastes like the droplets of acrid bitterness, and the drunken verge still comes within one and half glass.

it’s the same, he’s the same.

there’s a beat in his heart that rages on — the sounds of something easy, the sounds of kanye that sprawl out influences on him. he takes music like the gospel, holy and sacred to the notes of his heart. it’s a chord, a simple reverb of ‘omen’ high pitched, repeating the title he keeps closer to his heart. it’s always been an omen — a premonition that crawls low, underneath his skin. it’s the tingle in his spine that etches itself, forcing his knees to bend. succumb, on the floor as his eyes wander up to a light that no longer torches bright. 

there’s a darkness inside the first few hits of the notes. all sullen, hidden heavy. muted in the background — nothing casual, just a loom that pries like a breach into his soul. if sanctuaries could talk, they’d speak nothing but the doomed echoes of dulled out chords of an organ. 

but he’s crafted too many sins out a dead-end career, and the organ trades itself for manic ivories. he presses the keys in sync, a steadiness his hands hold. a chord? if he’s said much, it sounds more like two keys no harmonies. just the pure off-put, shamming itself to be a cacophony behind the reverb of voices, chopped and screwed. pulled low, distorted. maybe, he just wants to be haunted — feel the remains, and each word wielded together like weaponry, poised and aimed towards him.

been there done that, the scram of diss tracks aimed towards his title — the rapper of knight. a rapper? the word no longer holds validity, more like the satire that screeches on when he grimaces a bit in the tongue and cheek chuckle bursting open when he can barely manage to decipher his reflection in the mirror. hands clasped, this isn’t a sanctuary, it’s a full on warzone where he’s out in the open. publicity stand with fingers pointed, a full-on exposed target with no way to bite back, and a label that acts more as an oppressor than an ally. 

his fingers gauge on the beat, finger taps against the wooden table that he’s carved his name into. dead pressed cigarettes, it’s simple. steadiness, nothing more than the shoddy backtrack of a barren base. the empty hollow vessel, shaping the outlines of a song — but when has he ever made it anything that needs sheer opulence to decorate the pews he’s built with his blood and bones? his chin dips, a crack of a smile. it’s restlessness riding on the echoes of a lonely studio. an ode to the notion that he’s never needed more than loose stares and the act of writing himself off. they wouldn’t understand, not the ones back home nor the ones here — a black sheep, at best. it’s his take at a one handed track where his voice takes reign on the words he’s never been able to entrance to the empty room.

it starts like it always has. the monotonous beat on loop, the continuation. his hands on the keyboard that pulls up an empty note page — what fills the empty blinking cursor is the distaste. the venom he wants to spew to poison the ears of underestimation. 

eight years oppressed. eight years, a bitch inside a company. eight years, a sell out. bright eyes for a child inside the misfit basement of the underground scene, scribbling out the name for himself when he’s buried the moniker of ‘chung’ six feet under with no way out. haon — a rebirth, yet only becomes tainted by the image of frills with no thrills on stage. real recognize real? a fact that only becomes when they’re all lined by the same struggles, self-centered and self-occupied. too focused on a one-track road of success, but his lane’s been iced over — cold. frigid brush ins tacked with the sardonic laughs that spew when his title’s been stripped by the hands of bc.

hustlers only recognize hustlers but only gave each other the cold shoulder

a contract signed, and the string of malicious tracks. neutrality bc takes, bare in their response. and an even emptier hand on the public outcry — he’s only ever had himself through each maze of scandal. neutrality benefits the repressor, and he’s been a victim. diss tracks upon diss tracks, and his crew no longer has their back — silenced and omitted by a company that skews his history for what it is at face value. in this case, he takes it to the wise words of elie wiesel.

neutral benefits only the repressor, not the victim in all other words, all who are silent are the repressor quote elie wiesel

life’s always been this — he types away. the irony comes from a cursed life in a golden spoon, taught and mangled with the manners that never fall far from the tree. the only idiot that hasn’t had the decency to bite back, draw his poison in to drag the oppressors ten feet below. he’s been alone, managed his own tricks to mold out of what he has left. the last morsels of dignity fueling the deadly glares in how he spits to an empty target. 

my cursed life that resonated with that quote i’m the only idiot that doesn’t litter cigarettes so i spat and glared to survive the dumbasses, peer pressured

anger goes the more he lets on, the more his thoughts process and align into coherencies. a line he draws in a pure division of them versus me — a motherfucker be it, he’ll call himself. trampled on, a motherfucker he’ll remain with nothing to assess — they’ll call him what they want, a sell out. he’ll give them his worth in the flow even they know they won’t match. 

minuscule presence in the grand scheme of nothings, a baseless stage with fingers pointed. on camera as a ddandara of knight, he realizes how fucking stupid he looks when he’s dwindled down to nothing more than chokers and black leather. still to those that give him the doubt that comes from his bones — he salutes the middle finger. a self-proclaimed napoleon — after all, they’re the same bitches pegging him as a hero, war-crazy set forth on a pedestal. denial’s pathetic, he deems them worthless.

yeah, i’m changed motherfucker not like them motherfucker i’m still a motherfucker you nagging ass motherfuckers

they’re all phonies playing on the grr-kaws, and pews. the sounds where the words don’t make up the brunt of the fight — skills ablated. bang for buck, they can’t seize him in a corner with the centered life of hip-hop rhymes and flows. and inside bc? becomes a haywire empire of money and calculated movements, music that knows only the boundaries they settle in the dusk. and he’s tired of running his mouth, saving case for something far off like an omnipresent omen. the cut corners, he craves the dead-center words spoken straight to his face.

the fucks your problem, tell me all of it my tongue is exhausted

it’s all fucking politics by the end, and the song writes itself. it’s the lyrics that give way to the praised seat at the end of radio star — a seat he’s held himself. a fucking sham, sell-out disgrace. maybe public outcries in the right, and what he’s left to do is drop it at face value and retire from the scene. underground or in high spotlight — there’s one thing that lingers: he’ll eat them all up, dead or alive before he leaves. a hungry monster that reaches out, he’s never been set for the pews of a church. hell is a warm place, and perhaps — it’s his calling for a home.

complain like a bitch, but you all can’t make music for shit

it’s the last go, when he looks through the lyrics written.

a steady rhyme in each verse, music still on loop. it’s here he mixes and matches the punch of flows, rapping along in tandem with the beat strung out. shit beats him, and he’ll make his own grave with a one-way ticket to hell if he doesn’t finish here.

and what becomes is the next string of auto pilot: the movement of headphones pressed straight to his head, an omission for the recording booth in lieu of the mic he pulls forward. a 70,000 mic — a gift that comes from the first scope into the underground seeds sown. if this was the start of mockery, now it becomes a full-on war of direct hits.

he hits the red button that follows the clicks of a metronome holding him steady. there’s alcohol lingering on his tongue, and a face tinged with red that alludes to the reverie of anguish that lodges itself deep in his throat. void of nicotine, he’s restless the way his fingers tap against his knees and the way his toes hit the ground below. a one take, and he rolls with the punches where the beginning of the track comes as screams pulled soul heavy. lung deep.

the grittiness of his voice bleeds desperation, the lowlife shadows sunk, and he blames the innocent nostalgia that plagues the souls around him and before him. hell lets loose when he spits the first verse, inspired? no. fueled by the rage that he unclaws for the sake of his sanity.

it doesn’t stop, nonetheless pause when he’s hit the mic. suddenly, home becomes him and the emptiness of the beat, where his words flow louder than the punch of any bass. no snarls or drums, he wants the flow to carry the tides and rage a natural disaster of a hurricane to take the speakers in. 

it’s the vision he has in mind of the track to take the hearts of every person who’s ever questioned. doubted. pointed fingers into the background he’s left in the past. and to the poor souls of his past who continuously paint him as a disgrace to their home. a question into the world he lives, he tells them to fuck off — a motherfucker he’ll always be despite any step that comes forward or trips him back. it’s his ode and one-two take of cutting goodbyes, and raising the only thing he’s never known — middle finger in the air, he gives them a fuck you.

“fuck all of you” is his last farewell to the end. half caught on a record, half end by the time the mouse click signifies the complete end. 

another track buried in the hard drive of his own makeshift graveyard, and he’s realized he’s never been in the empty church. he was in hell all along.

#fmdverification #속마음 — 셀프

[kat-hawke]

Qwor wgah za kaaxth

(Following [Open Doorways] These events run in tandem with [Darkened Woods, Darkened Vale], which provides Alyssa’s point of view.)

The assault on the Vale of Eternal Blossoms had heightened since her last visit. The Old God’s influence spread wider and likely deeper, the count of eyes and gaping maws had increased tenfold. Tendrils of various sizes twisted and restricted the landscape, armies of N’Zoth were now embedded across the landscape, torment camps and ritual sites peppered the Vale.

Lingering on the rocky overlook from the secret mountain pass Kat looked upon the land below as Pandaren, Horde, and Alliance forces all clashed with the twisted minions in the clearing between the Shrines. For now, neither side gained any ground, the Golden Pagoda appeared to be the choke point that the denizens of Azeroth couldn’t seem to pass.

‘Gul'kafh an'shel. Yoq'al shn ky ywaq nuul.’ The dark whisper clawed at her mind as she watched the horrors below.

Eyes squeezed shut with an groan of discomfort, fingers pinching the inner corners and rolling softly as if hoping to relieve a headache which did not exist. Whispers and illusions had grown stronger over the last couple weeks but Kat continued to ignore the warnings. Shaking her head with a heavy breath she slipped the dark leather hood over her head and began her descent along the mountain edge.

The pull of the void grew with each step she took, feeling as if the massive eyes protruding from the patches of dark flesh within the valley were staring right through her soul. For the first time since Kat had flung her into the wall Alyssa spoke up.

"This makes it harder to preserve the power you've put into the dagger."  

Kat could feel the subtle tugs of the woman within the dagger working to preserve both sanity and soul.

"I have faith in your strength." Spoken without sarcasm, in a hardly recognizable sincere tone as she leapt across a weathered crack in the narrow stone path.

It took a moment before Alyssa responded, having been caught off guard. “Thank you. Work quickly. I will hold off the worst of it.”

"Quickly is the idea, but we'll see.” Her gaze scanned the burial grounds as she came to a halt on a small outcrop, crouching low in hopes of remaining undetected. “There's a lot more here than before. I'd say stay put, but."

"I wouldn't listen if I was there in person."

Slowly Kat nodded beneath the hood, muttering a soft ‘exactly’ under her breath before continuing the descent. Shadows shifted with life as they were pulled over the Director’s figure like a cloak, keeping to the outskirts of the burial grounds all the same as she speculated the larger Faceless would see right through her magic.

Pausing for a moment she quickly scanned the area, spotting on the far end a set of three ancient pandaren souls which had been pulled into this realm by the two k’thir who worked to twist the center most soul. Dispatching them wouldn’t be a problem, but the increased number of beheaders and faceless since the last excursion were a problem. 

Eyes narrowed as she pieced together a plan to move, her thoughts interrupted by a whisper that dragged across the mind like nails on a chalkboard.

‘Nothing you do is beyond my sight.’

Immediately Kat snapped her gaze to the left, finding the source of the insidious whisper. A single orange eye floating in the air, staring the director down, seeing straight through her shadowy stealth.

“Shit.”

With the single curse uttered she let a knife fly, the blade finding its mark in the center of the eye. With a piercing shrill the orb shriveled inward on itself until evaporating in a cloud of red and black smoke. The sound of its demise altering the forces around. Black beady eyes and helmet covered visages all turning to the Director’s position.

A tone of annoyance hung on her breath as the cloak of shadows was cast aside. Gloved fingers collecting the mechanical hilts from either hip. Thumbs flicked against the switches at the top of each, snapped the wrists to spin the hilts over as they unfolded for a second before fingers pulled them whole again. The blade within springing from the hidden position to unfold to the full extent with a click.

The first enemy charged; one of the human beheaders, the sword scrapping along the stones as it gained speed. Closing it raised the weapon overhead, bringing the sword down where the Director stood. A skillful pivot on one leg evaded the attack, using the momentum to dart forward in a low stance and drag her own blade across the beheader’s knee. Metal scrapped against metal as the attack proved ineffective. 

Her opponent swung a second time, bringing the sword around in one hand as it turned to face her. The opportunity to strike was slim but Kat took it, lifting one of her own swords to catch the attack. The folding blades couldn’t withstand a direct parry against the larger blade and Kat knew it, angling her’s so the barbed guard of the blade would catch.

As the weapons sung in their collision she capitalized on the kinetic energy, forcing the beheader’s arm up and over as she ducked beneath. The second sword lunging upward where the plate armor ceased to exist under the arm. Dark, almost black blood spewed from the wound as the blade receded from it’s strike, the Director stepping away in the half spin and shoving the opponent away. The larger form crashed to the ground with a heavy thump, starting to push itself up no sooner than it had hit the stones.

Both swords were held in one hand as fingers swept over the azerite stone that hung around the neck, drawing the stored energy into the palm, the euphoric sensation coursing through the Director’s very core. Fingers curled inward as the arm reached outward towards the struggling foe, the blast of fire singeing the glove as it snuffed out the twisted minion.

With a cant of the head her attention turned to the next set of approaching challengers, tossing the sword back to the hand before moving in. Sounds of blades colliding filled the air, magical discharge after discharge scared the surrounding landscape and armor of herself and foe alike. 

After several long moments she stood victorious over the half dozen bodies, panting heavily as she scanned the area for any further threats but none were to be found.

‘For every one you cut down a dozen more will take their place.’

The booming voice caught her off guard, causing her to stagger where she stood, boots shuffling on the stone to maintain her balance. Eyes shutting for a moment as the nose wrinkled up, ignoring the voice despite the urge to respond. Slowly her gaze lifted to the obsidian well the followers had constructed. A red hue radiated from within as a large stone tablet hovered in the air above, flanked by shattered pieces of tables on either side.

There was something beckoning Kat towards the well, tugging invisible strings she couldn’t help but follow. One foot in front of the other she moved closer, incoherent whispers flicking against the hears with each step she took. The brief moment of respite from fighting let her guard drop, distracted by the urge to investigate the potential power stored within the well.

The moment of mental fixation came to an abrupt end as the massive arm of a faceless dominator crashed into her side, sending the Director’s tumbling across the stones, swords knocked from her hands and sliding to either side. Dazed and disoriented Kat tried rushing to her feet, head still spinning from the blow as she staggered to a stand. Seeing double of the foe that rushed she tried to discharge another blast of azerite, choosing the wrong target from the two and missing completely.

Wasting the small window of opportunity the faceless came crashing down upon her. The three “fingers” of the largest hand wrapping firmly around her head, the leather hood doing little in the way of protection as it was torn from the armor. Like a vice the tentacles constricted around the skull and upper body, screams of pain muffled against the dark flesh. The monstrous creature flaying her mind within it’s grasp, speaking in the guttural tongue.

‘Sk'shuul agth vorzz N'Zoth naggwa'fssh.’

Writhing within the creatures grasp she choked and struggled for air, the challenge greater as her mind was assaulted. Memories pulled apart and reconstructed in horrific visions. One hand anxiously patted around the belt, searching for another blade, anything to try and free herself with.

A screech one could only associate with anger came from the faceless being as it slammed the Director into the ground within it’s hold. The resulting shock wave knocking the air from her lungs and clouding the mind. The overwhelming sensation of the void pouring into her thoughts tore through her very core, the body naturally rejecting the invasion.

‘Gul'kafh an'qov N'Zoth.’

Reality shattered as Kat’s vision was flooded with a vision of the Sleeping City. Dark obsidian and red hues twisted into view, wicked temples and obelisks stretching as far as the eye could see. Devotees and acolytes moving through the chiseled streets. Massive maws opened from the rivers of blood, countless minions of the Old God pouring from the open hole.

‘KYTH ag'xig yyg'far IIQAATH ONGG!’

Sanity began to crumble as her physical form curled up in the pain. Screams were drowned out by the creatures hold as the vision within continued to twist and grow. Sinister eyes now focusing on her within the mental space, the feeling of loss becoming overwhelming with each passing second. Fear set in as hopelessness washed over the breaking psyche.

A desperate plea was made, one final act before accepting the end. The azerite crystal on her neck was nearly depleted, unsure if enough energy remained to break the strong grasp of the faceless. Drawing upon what little she could find without physically reaching the vision slowed, buying precious seconds of clarity that couldn’t go to waste.

Without hesitation one hand reached across the waist to the dagger sheathed on the thigh. Breaking it free with a swift tug and sinking it into the pulsating arm of the faceless beast. It was a high risk move that put Alyssa directly in harm’s way, a risk she was willing to take if it meant survival.

Another round of ear piercing shrills emanated from the dominator as it dropped the Director against the solid ground and stumbled backwards. The other arm of the creature was nothing more than a single tendril which proved unable to grasp the dagger for removal, not that it could anyway.

Sucking in a deep breath as she clenched the leather at her chest Kat laid on the stone and shifted her gaze to the dagger. It’s glow growing brighter as it siphoned the life force from the faceless, a fleeting moment of panic for the warlock within crossed the Director’s mind as she watched the creature crash to the ground in a shriveled and colorless husk.

Pushing herself to her feet as she panted Kat stumbled her way towards the fallen creature, sounds of footsteps behind her prompting her attention to shift over the shoulder. A sigh of defeat rolled over the lips as she spotted another group of beheaders making their way down from the upper level of the burial ground.

As quickly as her feet would allow Kat scrambled for the soul-bound weapon, tugging it free from the withered flesh of the faceless and attempting to draw power from the blade itself. She was met with resistance as the warlock within refused to let her have the dark energy which had been siphoned.

"No.  You're out of balance, you can't have this." Alyssa’s voice quickly called out.

Spinning around the face approaching foes Kat growled beneath her breath, panic gracing her tone. "Fucks sake, now is not the time to be greedy!"

"It's not greed, this thing is pure void and insanity, you can't have this in your current state."

Beheaders were only a few steps away, the Director shouting aloud and within their telepathic connection as her eyes widened in alarm. "Alyssa!"

Whatever the warlock had said in response was lost as Kat focused solely on the power that was relinquished to her. Greedily she absorbed everything, forcing every once of energy back across the blade as it swept across the air. Each foot moved to carry the motion to completion, the amount of power that arced across the arm seared pain that reached her core, a deafening scream was let out but did little to ease the pain.

A wave of dark matter cut through the air where the dagger trailed, rushing forward in a large sweeping arc. The volatile strike cleaved the beheaders in half at the waist, moving through the foes until it reached the torment cells beyond. Unfortunately for the innocent pandaren hostages within, the cells gave way to the blast, resulting in the prisoners also sheared in two.

Weak and drained Kat collapsed to the ground again, catching herself on the hands and knees as the dagger clattered to the ground beside her. Vision blurred as she fought to catch her breath, bile lurching upward and spewing on the stones as she coughed. The left arm was completely numb, remnants of the void burns smoldering on the destroyed leather.

Heaving a few more breaths she looked to the dagger beside her, the pale glow of the soul within was much dimmer now than it had ever been before. “No...” Was all she could manage to get out, just barely above a whisper as a shaking hand reached for the hilt of the blade.

Sitting back on her haunches she pulled the dagger into her lap, staring with worry to the faint glow of the engravings. Swallowing hard between her heavy breaths she reluctantly asks, “Alyssa?”

"Here," Alyssa replies almost immediately, though a bit exhausted. "Over?"

Kat’s head rolled back with a weak smile as a faint feeling of relief washed away the previously held concern. “Yeah, let’s just get what we came for.”

"Thank goodness," some clear relief in her tone as well. "That got bad.  I could use a top up if you find anything uncorrupted to stab."

"Doubtful.” Kat’s gaze shifted to the cleaved Pandaren on the other side of the field. “Just make do."

Pushing herself to stand as Alyssa responded with a simple ‘I'm good at that.’ Kat took a moment to regain her bearings, moving slowly at first as her body raced to catch up in its current condition. Collecting the swords she had lost in the scuffle they were folded inward and the hilts were returned to the clips on the belt.

Attention turned then to the ancient pandaren souls she had come for, making her way to the disturbed graves were the golden incorporeal forms hung in the air over head. Drawing the Gilnean dagger again she sunk it into the heart of a soul, watching with hunger as it was drained.

[ @alyssa-ward​ ] [ Slight relevance: @simplysoriya​ ]

(Chapter I: Dark Secrets) ( [pt.I] [pt.II] [pt.III] [pt.IV] [pt.V] [pt.VI] )

#ic #plotlines #Descent #pt.VII

[sopewriters]

Superbia.

Seven Steps to Hell: The Seventh Step.

Series: Prologue | BamBam | Mark | Jackson | Youngjae | Yugyeom | Jaebum | Conclusion

Genre: Smut, honestly; 7 Cardinal Sins! AU

Word Count: 3.3K

Notes: Kinky shit happening. Slight D/S undertones, kind of dubious consent, erotic asphyxiation, among others. Don’t read this if you’re uncomfortable with anything I’ve just listed. Otherwise, please enjoy^^

Edit: Moodboard below submitted by @saf0607

“It was Pride that changed angels into devils…” 

- St. Augustine 

It’s finally time to face the last one, the darkest and most cynical of the Sins. You aren’t sure how well this will go, since you know that he’s the one who holds the most grievances—that his power stems through the rest of the Seven.

You dare to enter regardless, taking a deep breath as you approach a door that’s carved with runes. The ancient language is littered all over the entrance, incidentally drawn into concentric circles, as a protective measure. The rest of the Sins don’t have protection like this, which is what makes him so much more difficult to absolve.

You lay your palm against the center of the circle, breathing slowly as the symbols glow bright red for mere seconds, before the door swings open.

It’s time.

You walk inside the dimly lit room, projecting a calm that you certainly don’t feel. You know, more than anyone, how important it is that you preserve your image and appearance in front of this particular man, that you need to make sure he doesn’t see any weakness.

“Creator.” His voice, high and fair, cuts through the air, and you don’t let your expression flicker in the slightest as you turn to face him, taking in his regal features with a practiced eye.

He is prostate on the floor, arms twisted back and shackled to the floor in a painful arrangement; despite which he shows no such expression on his impassive face, which is carved to an imperial perfection.

You say nothing, knowing that this needs to be the first move in the game which you’ve stepped into. To acknowledge the man would only serve to tilt the odds in his favor.

If there is anything he would hate, it’d be to not be acknowledged. And that is what you aim to play at. Superbia is the deadliest of the sins, yes, hence why it is essential that you approach him with care and caution.

“What’s the matter?” His voice is dry, rough from a lack of use. He’s been here the longest of all of them, being the first to fall in the mortal realm, so it makes sense, really, that his voice is in a state of disuse.

“Too high and mighty to talk to me, Creator?”

You continue to ignore him, waving your hand so that a chair materializes in the corner—set so that you may observe him, but so he cannot do the same—and pull out an Old text, a story that you’ve particularly favored, about the fate of Civilization.

You can sense his frustration at being ignored so much, and while you would love to speak to him, you know that you can’t take the risk and let the pride run rampant, else the entire cycle could get jeopardized.

You take out the book, flipping to the page designated with a bookmark, mindful of your robes as you slump disinterestedly against the chair.

With each page, the silence grows more unbearable, even more so when you flip each page as obnoxiously as you can, the sound of paper tearing through the air.

“You are, aren’t you?” His voice is spiteful, which is to be expected, but he says after certainly isn’t, “Too good for the rest of us? That’s why you let us go to Earth every time, let us get killed fruitlessly for a crime we’ve never committed.”

You grit your teeth at the words, his voice grating on your nerves as you fight to remain ignorant to him.

“Oh, the High and Mighty Creator, revered by all for being Good and Virtuous, but for one tiny detail that everyone neglects.” His eyes, a deep violet, glint maliciously, “That you’ve condemned seven oh so poor souls to an eternity of misery, caused by your mistakes.”

Your grip grows tighter on the book, almost squeezing it beyond comprehension as he continues to spew unbearable words that dig deep.

“That’s right. It’s all your fault. It’s not ours, yet we’re suffering for it, while you get to prance around punishing us.” He growls out, and you taste a metallic flavor in your mouth—blood, from biting your lip so hard—as he spits out those vengeful words, “You like it, enjoy it, don’t you? You like having us agonize like this!”

“Jinyoung!” You snap out finally, breaking the rules but entirely too irate to care, “Watch what you say—”

“Why, in the name of Azazel, should I?” He yells back, straining uselessly against his bonds, though you can see fury dancing in his cold features, “You’ve suppressed us for so long that I ought to let you know about it!”

“Do you think I honestly do not know?” You demand, rising from your seat, book disappearing as it is dropped, “Do you not think that I recall every second of that dreadful mistake I made, the terrible desire to make the world balanced?”

“It doesn’t matter to me.” His voice is warm enough to freeze the entirety of the room, “Not when you can’t even fix your own mistakes.”

“Lucifer is unyielding.” You say firmly, “There is nothing that I may do about that. So I ask—no, demand—of you to simply keep the hope burning alive in your chest. The younger ones look up to you, Jinyoung, as do the elders, and do not forget that.”

“I don’t care.” Amethyst eyes flash in anger, as he flails some more, “Those idiots are worth nothing to me; they’re only a heavier burden on my shoulders. I only try so hard so that I don’t need to be in the presence of ingrates like them.”

“You don’t mean that.” You reason, even as your vision tints red, “Let go of your pride, for once, Jinyoung, and do what is right.”

“You’re asking me to let go of my pride?” He tilts his head back and laughs bitterly, the sound echoing around the chamber, “I am Pride! There’s nothing to be let go of!”

And herein lies the problem: Jinyoung has always been the most susceptible to his Sin, so is always the most difficult to absolve. You worry that, one day, you might run out of ways to do that but, for now, you must take him to task.

“I don’t want to do this the hard way.” You warn, “I am giving you one last chance to surrender your Sin, Jinyoung.”

It’s a useless sentiment, and you know it, even when he spits furiously at the ground near your feet, thankfully missing your person. Still, the disrespect cannot go unpunished and you sigh, trying to keep your frayed nerves under control.

“Very well.” You acquiesce, walking toward him, “I will do as you wish…though I really wish I didn’t have to.”

With a wave of your hand, the fabric clinging to his body begins to melt off, disappearing into the void. His eyes widen, as he clearly hasn’t expected this, but Jinyoung gives no other outward reaction to your move. You wouldn’t expect any less from him, of course: he is prideful, if nothing else.

“Do you think you’re above me?” You raise an eyebrow as you tower over him, forcing him to look up at you.

“Of course.” He hisses out, “I know I am above you. Just being in your presence alone is bothersome.”

“Is that so….” You drawl out, though a twinge of hurt sounds in your heart, before doing what you’ve never dared to do to Jinyoung before, pushing him down on his back with your foot.

As expected, his reaction is violent, though it does not come to fruition as the chains continue to hold him well.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” He snaps out, eyes blazing as he tries, and fails, to push you away, “Especially not with your feet!”

“Oh?” You raise an eyebrow, “And why shouldn’t I?”

“Because you’re disgusting.” He spits out the hurtful words, eyes a dark purple, “And clearly not worth an ounce of me.”

“Tell me, Jinyoung.” You change tactics, choosing not to respond to the verbal jibe, “You’ve always liked being on top of things, haven’t you? I wonder how you’ll react now, since what I’m about to do is…well, it’s very unexpected.”

“You’re forgetting something,” He sneers, kitten lips curling in disgust, “I still have eyes, Creator and…you’ve always been easy to read.”

“Is that so?” You hum thoughtfully, before snapping your fingers, resulting in a sharp intake of breath from the male, “How is this, then?”

There’s no answer, though you don’t expect one. Secured around his eyes is a satin cloth. You’ve made it so he cannot see, only hear and feel.

“Fuck. You.” He spits out, and you roll your eyes at how stubborn he is, since you know the job would be much easier if he were a little more cooperative. Well, you might as well have some fun while you do this, right?

“I plan to.” You smirk at his mouth, parted in surprise, as you sink to the ground so that you’re eye level with him, though he doesn’t know that.

You drag your hand gently through his silky black locks, smirking as he shudders with revulsion. You know Jinyoung usually wouldn’t mind, but right now, he’s under the complete influence of Superbia: and there’s no fighting it.

“Something wrong, Jinyoungie?” You question cheekily, smirking when he growls angrily, wrists undoubtedly getting chaffed from all his struggling, “I’d advise you to stop moving so much, so you don’t hurt yourself any more than you already have.”

“Shut up.” He snarls pathetically, mouth set in a frown, “I’ll do what I want!”

“That is adorable,” You confess, making his mouth part in silent surprise, “But, unfortunately, untrue. You see, Jinyoung, you can’t do what you want.”

Your mouth sets into a firm line. “You do what I want.”

“What—” He begins to say, but a flick to his exposed nipple has him shuddering in pleasure, undoubtedly sensitive there.

“What was that?” You ask, hands daring to further tweak the rosy buds, rolling them between your finger. He gasps and arches into your touch, biting his lip to prevent himself from making any more noise than he already has. You can see his face scrunched up in turmoil, and something in you crows with delight, because this is what’s necessary, and he’s falling right into the trap.

“D-Don’t touch me there, you filthy—!” He can’t even stutter out a complete sentence as his body is toyed with relentlessly, and you see that his member is hardening, slowly but surely.

“You’re already aroused for me?” You tease, seeing his cheeks heat in perhaps, anger or embarrassment, “I haven’t even touched you there!”

“N-Ngh, I don’t want your hands on me, you impertinent bitch!” He snaps out, and ouch, that is a painful blow to handle, but you have done it before, with him.

“Too bad,” You let your hands linger, brushing against his angry, leaking cock, “I thought you might have wanted to find your release.”

“Well, I don’t need help,” He hisses, biting his lip, “Especially from the likes of you.”

“Are you sure?” You thumb across his leaking slit, collecting drop of precome even as he groans, “I don’t mind leaving you like this…”

Hands ghosting along his cock, you bite your lip, gauging his reaction; you’re rewarded with a choked moan and wet lips opened wide in slack-jawed pleasure.

“You want me to touch your properly?” You press, applying a slightly firmer touch and rewarded with the bucking of his hips, “Do you, Jinyoung?”

“N-No,” He huffs out, though he cuts himself off with a louder moan at your insistent touches, skin flushing red, “O-Oh God.”

“You and Bammie seem to have similar interests.” You note in fascination, though you give an experimental squeeze, causing his breath to stutter, “So I’ll tell you exactly what I told him: God can’t hear you. Not down here.”

“F-Fuck you!” He glowers at being compared to someone else, someone that Pride deems unworthy of him, “Go to hell!”

“We’re already here.” You smile serenely as you take his cock in your hand, fondling it with hard, measured strokes, “So it’s a bit too late for that, Jinyoungie.”

“D-Don’t t-touch me!” He protests, though it begins to lack conviction, even to his own ears, “I-I h-hate you, damn it!”

“No, you don’t.” You tell him seriously, straddling his hips despite his complaints and, pulling your underwear aside, sink down onto him, “But, after this, you just might.”

A choked moan breaks through the air, as he twitches desperately, cock encased by your tight, inviting heat. Your core throbs with want, lubing his length with its juices in a parody of a caress; the two of you are joined, for a mere moment, before you lift yourself up and slam back down onto him, a mewl ripping from your throat.

“S-So tight!” His lips glisten as he cries brokenly into the dim light, and you don’t think much as you lean forward, planting yours against his. To his credit, he doesn’t reject you immediately, allowing you to coax his mouth into submission, letting you taste him and hesitantly doing the same back.

“D-Does it feel good?” You pant in exertion, rolling your hips against him in chase of that spike of pleasure, “Tell m-me, Jinyoung.”

“I-It does,” He whimpers, kitten lips still parted obediently from after you’ve leaned back, “P-Please!”

“What happened to your pride?” You challenge, breath stuttering when you angle your hips just right, and yes, it feels so good, “I-I thought you…you didn’t want me to fuck you?”

“I…” You can’t see his eyes, so you wave your hand, removing the blindfold, and are rewarded with the sight of his eyes flickering rapidly between purple and their normal, genteel brown, “D-Don’t…know…”

“Admit that you like it.” You tighten his bonds slightly, making his eyes widen and they look pretty like that, flitting rapidly, “You like being tied down, don’t you? Like it when you have no power, when you’re forced to lie on the ground that you say is beneath you?”

“Shut up!” His cheeks flush a pretty pink as he eyes you angrily, though it doesn’t hold much of an effect as you continue to gyrate against him, pleasure beginning to peak like you’ve been aching for, “N-No…”

“D-Deny all you want.” You tell him, thrusts getting sloppier the closer you make it to the towering white, waiting for the lust to bleed from your body, “But the truth always holds!”

Your vision begins to spin as your legs twitch, orgasm ricocheting in you as you throw your head back in bliss, still doing your best to continue your lewd movements, pulling tiny whimpers of pleasure from him, even as your eyes begin to readjust to the dim lighting.

“You want to come, don’t you?” You slip off him, smirking tiredly at his whine of loss, “Admit it.”

“I…I do.” He acquiesces, though his expression shutters, “I don’t need you to do it though.”

“You don’t?” You frown in mock disappointment, hand sliding smoothly up and down his shaft, your juices functioning as lube, “I think I know what you need.”

A low curl of excitement festers in your stomach as you straddle him, a move he clearly doesn’t expect going by his low moan. Amethyst eyes snap open in shock when he realizes that he can’t breathe, eyes watering as they meet yours, before landing on your delicate hands wrapped firmly around his throat.

“You like this?” You smile in amusement as you quickly release your hold, watching as he sputters for breath, hips rolling smoothly against his cock, so close, but never letting yourself sink onto his throbbing cock, “Like being this helpless?”

“No.” He insists, though his cheeks flush red, “It might be your interest, but not m-mine—”

He’s cut off when you press your hands back onto his throat, making his eyes flutter shut, dick twitching actively in interest, mouth parted lewdly for breath.

“I think I can make you come just like this.” You note in delight as he struggles to catch his breath again, “But, to think that someone so above everyone like you indulges in such…frivolous activities is certainly interesting.”

Knowing Jinyoung can’t possibly answer yet, you roll your eyes, hand coming to stroke him off, to help him reach his release.

“You want to come?” You ask again, for the umpteenth time as his hips follow your hand stutteringly, “Then I want you to beg.”

“Please,” He blurts out, tears dribbling from the corner of his eyes, “Please let me come!”

You only smile at him while furthering your pace, bringing him to the edge of release before you let go, at his disappointed moan, only to close your slick hands around his neck, squeezing lightly once, twice, thrice, before pressing down even harder.

“Look at you,” You drawl as impassively as you can, “Mouth going off about how you’re so above everyone else, yet here you are. You like being humiliated, you like it when you’re entirely helpless, aren’t you?”

His body twitches and his hands jerk furtively against their bonds as his eyes roll into the back of his head, and he cries out, painting his thighs white with his release. You let go of your hold on him only when he wheezes and, though you’ve been careful, you still worry a bit; the concern dissipates when his breathing calms, though his body still shutters through his release.

The chains disappear with a wave of your hand, and Jinyoung wastes no time diving into your arms, head burrowing into the crook of your neck, as he hiccups through his orgasm, tears wetting your collar bone.

“Are you alright?” You ask quietly, knowing Jinyoung’s the one in control again, that Superbia’s been driven out temporarily, and are rewarded with a small nod from the man, “Good.”

You stay like that for a little while, hand still running through his hair, until he’s recovered his wits about him enough to pull away from you and wipe himself clean the best he can.

“Y-You…” He croaks out, wincing at the pressure on his throat, but hurries to explain at your crestfallen expression (you didn’t realize it’ll hurt for him to speak now), “Got a lot more c-creative.”

“Thanks.” You smile softly, clothing him again easily, making him blink in surprise, before smiling fondly.

“S-Sorry for what I-I said.” He apologizes needlessly, because you know it wasn’t him in control, “D-Didn’t mean it.”

“Do not worry about it.” You assure him, helping him get to his feet after materializing your clothes, “I understand. Whenever you’re ready, you can go on ahead for rebirth.”

You motion to the door that appeared right after he was absolved, and he looks at it in understanding.

“Good luck, Jinyoung.” You wish sincerely, arms wrapping around his body in a gentle hug, rewarded with the warmth of his hands in return, “Take care of everyone for me.”

“I w-will.” He smiles sadly at you, eyes crinkling cutely in the corners as he nods, “And th-thank you.”

And, with that, you leave to the main hall, to take your leave from the place that’s tormented you, above all others. When you arrive, you take a deep breath, relaxing your mind, anticipating your warm chambers and comfortable bed, waiting to be whisked home…though nothing happens.

Your eyes fly open at the mad cackle that filters through the air, expression one of alarm.

“Lucifer,” You breathe shakily, as you realize you can’t leave, “What have you done?!”

Written By: Midnight :)

Seven Steps to Hell: The Conclusion.

#kreativewritersnet #got7snet #g7hyungnet #got7 smut #got7 #got7 park jinyoung #got7 jinyoung #park jinyoung #jinyoung #jinyoung smut #park jinyoung smut #got7 sce #kpop smut

[viridiansunlight]

Watchers at the Shore (Legacy)

“I’ve gazed at the Abyss, and it gazed back at me. Now what?”

The Watchers at the Shore are one of the ancient Legacies - their origins can be traced to the Awakened who first reached the Watchtowers post-Fall. Many of the even more primordial Legacies relying on the free connection between the Astral and Supernal were shocked, quickly fading as their members lost their power overnight, their remnants bonding over the shared loss of power. Recognizing that their former wisdom was now a mere mutilation of the soul, they casted it away into the newborn Abyss - hoping their vain sacrifices would at least appease it. Instead, it did shrink a bit, and the mages found themselves transformed, the void where their legacies used to be carved by the unmoving waters into new Attainments. Those were the first Watchers at the Shore, and they pledged to watch over the growing ocean of black blood, to perhaps bridge it one day.

The Gazers’ didn’t have a single origin place. In any city where humanity lived at the shore of a vast sea, they were there, contemplating similarity of the waters of the Fallen world and the primordial chaos of the Abyss, before using their insights to battle against the forces of the unmaking with knowledge, bringing the beings of the deepest darkness into light. They weren’t interested in politics, although they did join the Orders - a gesture meant only to ensure they weren’t hunted down for their suspicious practices and affiliations.

During the times of upheval surrounding the Great Refusal, the horrid practices of the Scelesti were more common, as was using the Abyssal shock troops, and the Watchers were needed more than ever - they did accept the Nameless, and later on, the Free Council amongst them, but for some time the youngest of Orders was treated with suspicion, as the veterans of the Nameless War were unsure if they won’t use the Ouroboreans’ knowledge to contact the Abyssal entities, as some of the worse of the Nameless did in the past.

Today, the relatively small Legacy still thrives, perhaps more vibrant than it ever was. The ease of travel, the need to learn, the enroaching Abyssal intrusions, all of them are refreshing the membership of the Watchers at the Shore - although, the borderline Left-Handed reputation doesn’t help their prospective students to find them, and find acceptance of their choices amongst the others, more mainstream Legacies.

(More under the cut)

Nicknames: Ouroboreans, Gazers

Origins:

Path: Any. Majority of the Watchers are Moros, Thyrsus or Mastigos, with Obrimos being vastly in minority due to incompatiblity of the Path’s symbols with that of the Legacy’s focus - ironically enough, Ouroborean Attainments use Prime.

Order: None. Watchers at the Shore are a Legacy that dances on the edge of becoming denounced as a Scelestus Legacy, but mages of all Orders, including the Seers, are welcome. Pentacle and Apostate mages still form a vast majority of the Legacy, although they keep to the periphery of the magical society, with the few Seers that worship the Gate but not want to commit to Her Prelacy use the Fishers’ Attainments as the poor substitute of the real authority of the Lone Exarch.

Background: Many prospective Gazers find their mentors after a traumatic Awakening -  often, due to almost drowning at the sea, or due to a tsunami wave. Others recruit from the Astral explorers frustrated with the limits of their ken, thinking that they should plumb the mysteries of Ocean Ouroboros at the edge of the World’s Soul to perhaps, one day, traverse it and reach the Supernal, and believe that the gentler, shamanistic Legacies such as the Dreamspeakers or the Imagineers won’t get them there. Finally, a third large group is drawn from the mages who want to understand the Abyss, while not succumbing to it and still remaining in a somewhat acceptable social position in relation to the Pentacle. Many an abyssal investigator/hunter in the past walked the path of the Watcher at the Shore.

Appearance: As with similar Legacies which live halfway in the Astral, the Watchers tend to stop putting much stock in the worldly appearance, although their fondness of water means that they at least maintain basic hygiene. Still, the long beards, unshaved legs, untamed hair and clothes that look like the Gazer put them over their pyjamas are common. An unnerving calling sign of many Ouroboreans, though, is their deep, black pupils that seem to swirl with chthonic waters whenever they use their Attainments, including the very first one. Many a Sleeper had mistaken a Watcher as being on drugs as a result, a judgement that certainly was influenced by their usual clothing style and enigmatic behaviour.

Doctrine:

Prerequisites: Prime 2, Occult 2. The prospective Watcher must’ve beheld the Ocean Ouroboros in the past, before seeking tutelage, and talk about their experience with their tutor in depth - the Watchers will know if the student is merely citing someone else - it should come from the heart, rather than the mind.

Initiation: The tutor beckons for her student to arrive at the shore of the Abyss. The student has to cast one thing that burdens them - for example, a painful memory, a toxic addiction, a broken relationship - into the unmoving water, spending a Willpower point to excise it from their soul. During this process, their Supernal Gnosis touches the Ocean Ouroboros and is forever transformed, aided by the tutor’s own Gnosis to not allow the Abyss to truly take root in the new Gazer’s soul.

Organization: The Ouroboreans are surprisingly well-connected. Many of the Astral travellers were surprised to meet a small seminar on what looked like a shoreside picnic, where the Gazers were comparing notes, checking on one another and planning investigations into chthonic mysteries. Those groupings are rarely formal, but foster the sense of familiarity and mutual help that connects the Legacy like few others do.

Theory: One of the secrets of the Ouroboreans is that they accept the common doctrine of some of the Scelesti - that all existance was ultimately born from the Abyss, and that the Supernal and it’s Fallen shadow are only a faint light floating on it’s surface. The Ocean Ouroboros, thus, is infinite in depth and scope, and the journey of the soul through the Astral is not as much upward movement, as downward, to the greatest depth - and greatest darkness.

The major difference between the Watchers and the Nefandic mages is that they don’t want to return the cosmos to the Void, but rather learn how to bridge the Ocean, observe it’s depths, and oppose the chaos of the Abyss. The Supernal might’ve been born from the dreams of the vast and uncaring Annunaki, but it’s light and order is still a more worthy ideal than the dreams of unmaking - and, the elder Watchers say, when one looks further, beyond the Abyssal Ocean, they might see the faint glimmer of Truth on the other shore - the Truth all Awakened aspire to.

Magic:

Ruling Arcanum: Prime

Yantras: Standing at the shore of a natural body of water (+1 for sweet water, +2 for saltwater); Standing at the shore of Ocean Ouroboros (+3, although only for the purposes of casting in the Astral); Using saltwater as a Sacrament, if it’s relevant to the spell’s purpose - usually contextualized as cleansing, divination or consecration (+1 if it’s just water with sea salt, +2 if it’s actual water from the sea); Presence of an Abyssal entity or phenomenon, with magic in question used to bind it, banish it, harm it or learn about it for those purposes (+2).

Oblations: Submerging in and swimming in the sea at the evening or morning hours, sitting on the shore of the Ocean Ouroboros in Astral for an hour while remaining mindful of your surroundings at all time, ritual bathing in a specifically consecrated pool with salt water.

Attainments:

First: Swimming in the Shallows.

Prerequisite: Initiation

The Watcher at the Shore gains the ability to remain in Astral while being awake in the material world. This functions exactly like a Dreamspeaker First Attainment, except the Gazer is immune to the Ecstatic Wind whilst in the Sidereal Wastes, and only in there - the Shore of the Ocean Ouroboros is as safe to them as Temenos (well, not exactly as safe, as anything that might come from the Abyss is deeply dangerous), although the rest of the Anima Mundi still requires for them to form an Amnion as usual. The Watcher needs not to spend Mana to meditate into the Astral, or pass the thereshold, and each roll on that extended action lasts merely a turn. Finally, they can instantly move from their Astral path to the Shore without the need to pass any of the Ordeals in Anima Mundi, although they need to pass Ordeals to access any other part of the Dreamtime from there.

Optional: Space 1

The rare Seers amongst the Ouroboreans call this Attainment the Parametric Vision. If the Watcher so desires, they can add this component to their Active Mage Sight as an Instant action - it never costs them Mana to do so, although it is a concious act of will, and for a good reason. The Parametric Vision unveils the influence of the Abyss on the world - the Gazers see it as erosion caused by the black, acrid waters.

Something unspoiled by the Abyss, like Artifacts or Supernal secrets would be pure and clean, but almost everything else is brackish, darkened and erode, Sleepers looking vaguely water-logged or half-drowned, and the Verges of the Abyss appearing as holes through which the endless, foul-smelling brine spews into the world. This is not a comforting sight, and the initiates’ training is partially meant to condition them to accept the true extent of the Fallen World’s corruption by the Void - but most avoid using this technique unless actively hunting an Abyssal intrusion, lest they’d forsake their hope in the world’s goodness.

Second: Stormproofing.

Prerequisite: Prime 2, Occult 3

The Watcher is considered to be constantly under the effect of Wards and Signs with Potency equal to her dots in Prime. This effect offers even greater protection against the powers of the Abyssal phenomena and Intruders - it adds the Gazer’s Prime to the relevant Resistance Attribute if the power is Withstood by that attribute, or to any relevant Clash of Wills roll if not. If the Clash of Wills already uses Prime, double this benefit instead.

Optional: Space 2

If an Abyssal Intruder or anomaly would use the Watcher’s sympathetic connections against them, they’re considered to be veiled as if by Veil Sympathy with Potency equal to their Prime dots. This also includes any magic touched by the Abyss, including any magic cast by Scelesti, but not any spell cast by another Watcher.

Third: Brave the Depths.

Prerequisites: Prime 3, Occult 3, The Watcher must’ve solved at least one Mystery involving the Abyss or the Ocean Ouroboros in the past.

Brushing against the dark waters of the Abyss brings out the worst in the most of the people - but not in the Watchers. Their commitment allows them to use one Mana to duplicate the effects of Ephemereal Enchantment, able to confine any being on the other layers of existance, as all in the Fallen World are touched by the Abyss. Against the Abyssal beings or intrusions, this effect is especially potent - each Mana spent allows the Watcher to deal Aggravated damage to their Corpus with weapons subject to this Attainment, as per the Reach effect of the spell. The wounds dealt to the Intruders manifest as cuts or bruised flowing with the acrid, dark water eating away their false flesh.

Optional: Space 3

If the Watcher’s Astral form is standing at the Shore of the Ocean Ouroboros, they may command a defeated or subjugated Abyssal intrusion or creature to leap back from the Fallen World to where they came from. This requires a point of Mana and a Willpower Point, expended as the Watcher establishes overlapping space between the borders of the World’s Soul and the location of their physical body - it appears to all onlookers as a human-sized verge into the Shore. Only the Abyssal being may leap through it, and the experience leaves the Watcher harrowed - their Astral body instantly disappears, and they gain Soul Shocked Condition. Logically, it means they cannot use any Attainments that rely on standing on the Shore as long as the Condition persists, including this one, but many Watchers see it as a worthy sacrifice.

Fourth: Dousing

Prerequisites: Prime 4, Occult 4

This is one of the powers of the Legacy that makes the other Awakened mistrustful of them. With an act of will, the Watcher can summon the weight of the Ocean Ouroboros to bear against an effect created by Supernal magic, suppressing the spell as per Supernal Dispellation, with Potency equal to Gazer’s Prime and Duration of a Scene. Against the abilities of Intruders or specific instances of malignant influences of the Abyssal Anomalies, this is a Lasting effect instead. Either way, it costs 1 Mana per effect suppressed.

Optional: Space 4

Whilst standing on the Shore, the Ouroborean can bless or curse another Awakened with Perimetric Vision. In the waking world, they make a mark on their forehead, and in the Astral, they will the merest drop of the Ocean to pass past them. This costs them 1 Mana, and is similar to the the effect of Apocalypse spell.

If the target was unwilling, or wasn’t excessively forewarned by the Watcher about the sheer extent of the Fallen World being half-drowned by the Abyss, the target suffers a Breaking Point against Understanding Wisdom, just as if she’d commited an act of Hubris. If that’s the case, the Gazer is treated as if they had commited an act of Hubris against the Falling Wisdom, with all it implies.

Most of the advanced Watchers, who want to make sure their allies will be prepared for the Abyssal intrusion, try to make their allies as ready for the bleak truth as possible, but the time isn’t always in their favour. the Ouroboreans that had fallen deep into Hubris sometimes ‘enlighten’ other mages so they’d see the extent of their Legacy’s burden, but usually this results in another Mage being merely traumatized.

Fifth: High Tide

Prerequisites: Prime 5, Occult 4. If the Ouroborean doesn’t have the Occult speciality in ‘Abyss’, ‘The Intruders’ or similar phenomena already, she must purchase it before attempting to learn the Attainment.

This is a bleak power, although used to the great effect against the beings of the Abyss. The Gazer’s Astral form must stand on the Shore, and by drawing on the connection of the death of all meaning, she supresses all Awakened magic in the area centered on her, as per Dead Zone spell. This effect doesn’t include the Legacy Attainments, including the Watcher’s own, but excluding any of the Scelestus Legacy Attainments. Powers of the Abyssal beings and all of the Abyssal phenomena are suppressed as well.

The effect lasts for a scene per 1 Mana spent, and affects everything within the radius in yards equal to Gazer’s Gnosis. Both during and after the effect concludes, the area appears to be scoured of colour, and smells faintly of brine, although the Fallen World heals this effect within a scene.

Optional: Space 5

Expending on the power of the Third Attainment, the Gazers can invoke this horrifying power, although always at a cost. Most moral Watchers would only consider using it against the beings and artifacts of the Abyss, or other most dangerous and evil things of the Fallen World, although the horror stories about the blasphemers of the Legacy who use this power selfishly make it all that harder for them to sleep at night. Most people within the Orders don’t know of this power. If they would, the Watchers would likely face much greater persecution than merely being relegated to the borders of magical society.

While invoking the Space 3 effect of Brave the Depths, instead of casting a being of the Abyss into the Ocean Ouroboros, the Watcher can let the black waters flow through the ‘window’ they create. Everything the water touches is annihilated, gone into the Void, as it usually happens when something touches the waters of the Ocean. The tide creates an eroded patch in whatever substance compromises the ‘floor’ - if it’s concrete, there wil be a hole, if it’s earth, then there will be a barren pit, salted and unable to support any life. All living creatures are annihilated, Abyssal creatures vanish and usually don’t come back again within the Watcher’s lifetime.

There’s one use that doesn’t require for the dark waters to raise through the ‘window’, however. Someone may cast something into the Ocean Ouroboros using the connection provided by the Gazer, and it works just as well as making a journey to the Shore on their own, using the same mechanics.

At any rate, opening such a window to let the Abyss through costs the Watcher 1 Mana and dot of Willpower instead of a point and causes Soul Shaken Condition in the Watcher as usual. Using this powerfor anything but the Abyssal creatures, or letting someone cast away their burdens into the Abyss is an Act of Hubris against the Falling Wisdom. The blasphemous or the desperate in the Legacy may forfeit the Willpower dot cost, instead spending a Willpopower point - but this comes from accepting the power of the Abyss instead of violently rejecting it, and results in an automatic loss of Wisdom. A mage who loses their remaining dot of Wisdom that way turns not merely into one of the Mad, but into a Qlippoth, a living, pulsating and tortured verge into the Abyss, blasting the area with the Fifth Attainment indiscriminately until they’re put down.

#viri writes #mage the awakening #watchers at the shore