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cuckoo-on-a-string · 1 year

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Hello, Mr. Monster (One. Sand)

Morpheus x OC/reader (female), Soulmate AU, Eros and Psyche retelling

Chapter track: "The Killing Moon" by Echo & The Bunnymen

18+ (smut/spice kicks off in next chapter)

Warnings: (non-sexual) violence against a child, tarot, herbal medicine/witchcraft

TAGGING: Tag lists break my posts, BUT I reply to comments the day of new chapters, so you'll get a personal update every time you stop to chat. ;)

A/N: Welcome! Enjoy. Holy shit, friends, we're gonna have some fun.

@moon-tracks: Your much delayed prompt has born fruit! Goblin fruit, I'm afraid. Hope you enjoy!

One: Sand

Soulmates were more dream than reality.

Not that they weren’t real and true in the waking world, but humans liked nothing better than to bury their truths, especially the dangerous ones, the beautiful ones that blossomed with thorns and teeth. Everything that made a soulmate – dreams and desires; destiny, delirium, and despair; even death and destruction – tallied among the Endless and thrived in the subconscious.

And true to humanity’s intrinsic contradictions, each soul wanted nothing more than to find its mate and feared nothing so much as a true match.

Such beautiful, sharp things. The unseelie who kept the little tent at the gates of the goblin market under Brown Bridge liked making terrible, terrible gifts of them. The process was bloody, and the results devastating. Revealing a soulmate required some scratching – deep inside, through a human’s mortality, which kept the conscious and unconscious apart. But what happened next in the months and years of their tattered mortal lives is why they did it.

Parting the veil so one soulmate could know the other without any kind of reciprocity always led to doom. A human would do anything for their soulmate once they found them, knew them. Their intense affections led to obsession more often than not. Sometimes it turned violent, and they destroyed the thing they loved, the one who did not recognize their mate. Despair claimed others who turned destruction on themselves. Because of the damage to their mortality, that often took great effort and multiple attempts.

High drama. A wonderful show.

And the unseelie found the softest victims to dance for their amusement.

Their tent sat just outside the gates of the market proper, where any mortal might see them and mistake them for a homeless citizen warding off the river wind in their simple tent.

The trap was simple: they glamoured a few leaves into dollars and let one or two go tumbling down the way. Any human who snatched the leaves and ran earned a curse. Their pockets and wallets would grow holes. Or they’d lose all love, passion, and interest in whatever they spent the false money on – it could be a bowl of chili or a bauble for a lover. Whether they lost interest in eating or forgot their lover, they quickly lost the unseelie’s attention, too.

The mortals who returned the money had a darker fate. A lovely dream with hidden razor while to tangle them deep. The unseelie thanked them and offered to reveal a bit of the victim’s fortune, to see who they would fall in love with. Most accepted the offer, simply to humor them. An unseelie could be most persuasive.

One snowy day, after the festive season had passed and all humanity’s generosity dried up in the harsh winds of the new year, a little girl picked up the tumbling leaves.

She brought them back, pinched in mittened hands, a smile glowing under her breeze-chafed cheeks. A little adventurer who’d escaped her parents’ attention, all unbroken hope and unsullied naivety. The sort of pretty fruit, the unseelie might be tempted to pluck from her mortal life – if it weren’t for her damned eyes.

They knew what the child saw the moment they looked. The girl saw with true sight. Fighting the urge to cringe away from the attention cutting straight through their glamour, the unseelie smiled back, all teeth. The child didn’t even flinch, only holding out the money out for long, black nails to pluck from her grasp.

“I think these are yours,” she said.

The unseelie snarled through their smile, seething with hate. It flared like a fresh blaze from a banked fire at the child’s presumption. “Thank you. I must give you a boon in thanks.”

Shaking her head so the pompoms on the end of her hat’s ties swung around her neck, she said, “I don’t need anything.”

“I don’t offer toys or trinkets, child. Don’t you want to know the name of the one you’ll love?”

“I already love lots of people.” The child pondered. “That sounds like it would take a long time. I meet someone new to love every year at school. Or when we get new neighbors, or –”

A little sharper than they intended, the unseelie injected. “A soulmate, child. Your true love. Like in the stories your kind so loves.”

That gave the child pause. The unseelie could practically see the animated films rolling behind their eyes, the pretty picture books and saccharine romances.

Careful to maintain their smile, they added, “It’s a secret only someone like me can reveal. You’ve done me a favor. Now I must return it. You would not keep me bound, would you?”

Little eyebrows flew up over wide eyes, and the child all but leapt to accept their offer. “No! I don’t. Okay. You can tell me the secret, and then you’ll be free, right?”

With one long arm, they lifted the flap of their tent, revealing a space much too large for the sagging frame to contain. With the other, they caught the girl around the waist and pulled her gently within. “Of course, of course. Come inside where it is warm.”

The little fool did.

She looked around with eyes of wonder, eyes the unseelie desperately wanted to pluck from her face, but a lifetime of suffering would hurt far more. And they’d promised, after all.

They ushered the child to pile of cushions, and she plopped down like she was about to hear a story before bed. Far too trusting. Far too confident in the kind world shaped by her parents’ guidance and protection.

Their anguish and grief would taste so deliciously sweet.

Without preamble or further misleading truths, they let the fabric fall, sealing them in a bubble realm where no one would interrupt the procedure. Then they lunged, pinning the child to the cushions by the shoulder as they scrabbled between planes of matter to find her mortal shroud.

The impact briefly knocked the air from her lungs, but she started bleating as the unseelie’s talons scraped against the partition between aspects of the human soul, those only united in death. Those cursed eyes watered, overflowed, and the unseelie hissed with naked malice and pleasure as they scratched away more and more of the golden curtain, hunting for the promised name while inflicting as much damage as possible.

The tiny thing struggled, trying to pull the arm away from where it disappeared into her puffy coat. But she was neither strong or magically savvy enough to accomplish the deed. All she could do was shriek and suffer, calling for help that would not come in a world apart. Her tiny fingers, flashing with glittery nail polish, tried clawing back, angling up at her attacker’s face, but her arms couldn’t reach.

The pattern of the child’s wyrd emerged from her subconscious, the weave of action and fate intertwined as paths and crossroads to create a life. The unseelie felt it hum and shudder under their questing talons, watched as subtle shifts adjusted around their presence, forever altering the girl’s course.

And finally – a name.

Morpheus

They froze.

The girl nearly wriggled free as they stilled, elbow-deep in her essence.

For the first time in their long life, the unseelie felt unspeakable dread. They knew the name caught up in the girl’s fate, the one thrumming through her heart, waiting to be found and kindled into waking fire.

They studied their work, looking for an accident, a misunderstanding, some confusion of the patterns behind the tattered veil. But, no.

The little chit was bound to an Endless. No games would work here. Yet the damage had already been done. Should the Dream Lord ever return, he would see what clever fingers tore apart his soulmate’s mortality and come for terrible vengeance. The unseelie was no mortal. The rules that protected humanity offered them no shelter.

Perhaps the Dream King would not return. Maybe he would stay lost for the long, long years of this broken mortal’s life. And it would be such a long life now. She would carry on past missed appointments with Death, a breath away from everything she should have had. It was the unseelie’s doing, that long life.

They pinned the thrashing child flat again and stared into her reddened eyes, the eyes they hated to very, very much, and had an idea.

But broken mortality wasn’t really immortality. Anything might kill a little girl, or a flood of anythings.

The Dream King couldn’t be angry if they filled her heart with him. And if all those lose dreams and nightmares flocked to the tiny, tasty morsel glittering with a bit of their lord’s power? Well. Hardly the unseelie’s fault.

They’d only given her a gift.

Pinning the girl with their knee, they freed their hands to conjure a vial no bigger than the girl’s thumb. They barely had a thimbleful of Dream’s sand, collected over decades from sleeping minds and a couple cursed souls, and now they must use it all. They dipped one long claw inside.

Their arm sank back into the girl’s chest, summoning fresh screams and tears as they groped for her heart. Her wyrd wrapped tight around the pulsing core, and the unseelie worked carefully as they made the first cut, letting the sand fall into the open wound.

The screams – impossibly – rose in pitch.

The Dream Lord’s name took shape in a more literal sense, visible now to anyone with the vision to see it. Fae, gods, and Endless. Gifted humans, dreams, and nightmares. Anyone with a grudge to settle could take it out on her tender flesh. Anything hungry for a taste of the Dreaming need only take a bite.

Morpheus’s name shone with power, and the sand had already started through her blood, binding her even closer to the missing king and his realm. Every inch of her.

Satisfied with their work, they pulled their hand free – away from her heart, through her wyrd, through the tattered curtain of mortality – and licked their talon clean of blood.

Sweet. A shame their first taste must be their last.

Glowering down at the girl lying in a sweaty mess of wet hair and winter clothes, the unseelie felt the tug of their deal on their own heart. They must complete the bargain or be extinguished.

Well.

They’d give the girl a warning, the closest they’d come to kindness. As she panted, drenched from tears and sweat, they leaned low and rasped a truth into their damned eyes.

“Your soulmate a monster even the gods fear.” They felt a shiver wrack the little girl’s prone body under their weight and sneered. They still owed a name. “He is called Morpheus.”

Deal finished, vengeance for the true seeing eyes acquired, they rose, pulling the girl by her hair to the tent’s entrance and hurling her onto the icy pavement. No farewells. No explanations. No offers.

Done and done.

The tent left its place under Brown Bridge, looking for a new market in a new city. Preferably one without unwary soulmates to missing Endless wandering into traps and making life difficult. They would not meet again. The unseelie would make sure of it. The world was a big enough place to get lost in, and an unseelie prospered in the shadows.

Back under the bridge, a little girl stumbled to her feet, clutching her aching chest, aware that something terrible had happened to her, but too confused and upset to explain.

She stumbled home with a name and injuries her parents couldn’t see.

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Two Decades Later – 2022

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The Magician reversed. The Devil. The Star.

The cards stared up at her with a story she struggled to read, a simple three-card draw she’d hoped would explain what pulled her back to England time and time again, regardless of expense and frustration.

She’d meditated before she drew each card, focused on her question, on her present, on her own energy.

But it didn’t feel like her story.

“Aisling?” the voice on the phone crackled. “Still there?”

Still glowering at the tarot on the bedspread, she reached for her cell, pulling it closer to physically remind herself of the conversation. The puzzle frayed her attention, and she found herself torn between friend and fortune.

“Yeah. Yeah, sorry.”

Tea. She needed tea. Leaving the mess on her bed and bringing the phone to the rental’s kitchenette, she set the electric kettle to boil while explaining her distraction. “The cards aren’t behaving. I’ve pulled nothing but major arcana all week, the same three cards. It’s like someone else’s reading.”

On the other end of the line, her friend hummed. Aisling’s distraction was already a red flag, she knew, and now there’d be questions.

Much as Constantine liked to pretend she had no fucks to give about heaven, hell, or those trapped in between, she had a few attachments she hadn’t fully accepted as such. Good news, really, because once Johanna realized she cared about someone she hacked them out of her life with vicious efficiency.

“Sounds like weird shit. Where are you? What are you doing? You said you were in England but you haven’t come to bother me.”

Aisling peered out the leaded window as she popped a tea bag into the pot. Across the blooming garden, the towering gothic edifice of Fawney Rig loomed.

“Oh, you know.” She turned away from the phone, like she couldn’t even meet the screen’s black stare as bubbles of guilt fizzed in her stomach. Looking for a teacup gave her an excuse. Like she needed one. “Somewhere you’d disapprove of.”

Johanna’s growling sigh made her smirk even as the guilt rose to a boil in her gut.

“I’ve told you: you’ll always find trouble when you looking for it. So, stop looking.”

Despite knowing about – and using – her true sight, Constantine still clung to the belief Aisling could make her life better by ignoring her intuition. But she’d never found that to be true. Normal people could choose to ignore omens and portents, could pack up house and start a new job in a new town to avoid their problems. Aisling’s problems followed her wherever she went. Tenaciously. Her intuition just helped her keep a couple steps ahead. Sometimes, it even let her help other people. Like Constantine, in fact.

Anyway, unless she cut her eyes out of her head, she’d never be rid of that first curse.

“Yes, well, that’s always been my problem, hasn’t it?” She tried not to sound bitter, but she could taste the acrid bitterness as the words left her tongue. Lot of feelings there. Not Johanna’s fault. Even if she didn’t get it. She heaved her own sigh and decided to steer the conversation to new ground. “Anyway. What are you up to?”

Johanna shrugged. Aisling didn’t have to see her to know. “This and that.”

Thready plumes of steam escaped the kettle. She grinned, waiting for the beep that would announce tea time. “Trouble and turmoil?”

“The usual.” Johanna paused and the line went quiet. Aisling could vaguely hear the city traffic echoing through the speaker, and she wondered if Constantine was on her way to a job. “Whatever you’re getting yourself into, be careful. Stop by and see me in London when you have time.”

The kettle beeped, and the hot water burbled into the little teapot like it was rushing to meet an old friend. As the faint aroma of the simple black blend hit her, she looked at the white roses nodding around a nearby trellis, considering what Johanna might need.

“Out of salt?”

“Nah. Just want proof of life.”

She shook her head. Four minutes until the tea steeped.

“Hilarious.”

“Practical.” Spoken like a true magic user. Less fairy tales and pixie dust, more blood and obituaries. “I mean it, Ash.”

She couldn’t ignore the note of warning in Constantine’s voice, and she didn’t fight the urge to reassure her.

“I’ll try.”

“To be careful or come see me?” Johanna asked like she didn’t expect either.

The tea was ready. Steeped or not. Too hot or too cold. She needed it.

And she needed to figure out the damn reading.

“Both. I’ll talk to you later, Johanna. Bye.”

Constantine snorted. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

The call ended, and Aisling poured a cup of very hot, half-steeped tea. She took a sip as she arranged herself in front of the cards and decided she’d had worse, even if it was weaker than her New Year’s resolution to give up caffeine every January.

She should’ve used one of her herbal blends, a magical tisane to open her third eye or ease the gap between her dreaming and waking mind, but she was a little worried her hosts would come knocking and pick up on the smell. Logic and reasoning would have to do.

The reading still didn’t make sense as a whole, no matter how much she stared at it, so she broke it into parts.

She could place herself in it – sort of. A tangential connection or two linked current events to the first card.

The Magician.

It clearly represented Roderick Burgess. Inept, weak-willed, and insecure.

He’d been quite a character back in his day, styling himself a magus when he was nothing more than puffed up cult leader.

In the century since his golden days, the Burgess family sank out of the limelight. While hardly destitute, they found themselves facing the same class struggles as other rich, landed Brits with dwindling incomes and rising costs. Their grand home, once their greatest pride, became the millstone around their necks.

Aisling had no idea what economies they’d taken, but they’d put the outbuildings to use. Or one of them, anyway. A few renovations, and the gatehouse became a small apartment up for rent. The cramped quarters made for an awkward little utility flat, but it served buckets of charm and hinted at a haunted history. Crack for tourists. The house wasn’t open for tours, and the owners requested no photos of the main residence be taken, but it was enough to draw guests for a night or two. Everyone liked a good ghost story, and Fawney Rig was rotten with them.

Aisling rented the space for a week, yanked by the nose after she found the innocuous listing online. Her intuition screamed to go – hunt – search – find… something.

It should be in the middle, though, if it represented her present. The Magician sat to the left, the past position, and her intuition insisted it referenced the magus, not his mansion.

The Devil took the present.

It wasn’t a friendly card. Its range of meanings all tied back to physical or psychological bondage. She’d heard the stories of Burgess keeping the Devil in his basement, but Constantine’s work proved Lucifer was safe and well in the bowels of Hell. Maybe he trapped something else in the cellar. Weak magic users like the magus often pulled on secondary powers, unable to draw from their own. It wouldn’t explain the family’s decline, though, if they still had the beastie in chains.

Her cards were rarely literal, but maybe her intuition simply wanted her to get into the basement.

A nice, obvious suggestion. She’d already tried.

She carried what she considered three curses. First, her true sight. That was an accident of nature or fate. The other two she blamed on the fae she met on a winter night under the bridge. She only understood what it had done when she was older – destroying the veil between consciousness and intuition, then carving a monster’s name on her heart with a fragment of the monster’s own power.

The last two curses made her a powerful oneiromancer. She walked between dreams and reality when she slept, like a mix of lucid dreaming and astral projection. When she entered Fawney Rig her first night as a guest in her sleeping shape, she found all doors open to her. All doors except the one to the basement.

Intent blocked it like a magical ward, dying wishes to keep out magic and dreams.

She’d never seen anything quite like it, and wondered how many members of Burgess’s cult died with visions in their minds’ eyes before they passed.

Roderick’s ghost scowled at her as she examined the door, and she’d flipped him the bird on principle. He couldn’t hurt her. Too weak. An abandoned soul who’d done something to piss off death, he faced an eternity of powerlessness, watching with no control. They hated each other at first sight.

She had three more days in Fawney Rig’s gatehouse. If things went well, she’d reach the basement that evening with a different approach.

Which led her to the third card. The Star, a predictor of opportunity and help unlooked for, a symbol of faith, hope, and dreams.

They were all too close to being meaningful without actually slotting into any order that made sense. Together, the three cards suggested a path tangential to hers, one she crossed or play a part in.

But it wasn’t her fortune.

Which begged the question: whose was it?

She chugged the rest of her tea – a little cooler and still weak as fuck – before sweeping up the cards and tapping the set back into their painted leather holster. As she fasted the clasp, the pattern caught her eye. The pattern wasn’t unusual for a magical tool – a star set in a geometric pattern for inspiration and protection.

Her thumb brushed over the four points of the white mark. Did it represent her? If so, what aspect guided her role, and whose future would she influence?

Her left hand rose to her chest, rubbing slow circles as she considered. The ache was her most faithful companion. It grounded her when she lost focus, anchored her to her physical body and dreaming self with every burst of throbbing pain. People waxed poetic about heartache, but she knew it in all its forms, and there was nothing romantic about any of them. She hadn’t met her soulmate. Probably never would. But the bastard made her hurt regardless.

Tea finished and cards packed, she checked her phone for trains leaving the local station in the wee hours. Once she finished whatever she’d come here to do, she imagined she’d need a quick exit, stage left.

Possibly pursued by bear.

Hours passed, shadows circled the room, and she watched the day melt behind Fawney Rig’s gables.

Her suitcase – carpetbag, really – sat by the door, ready to escape the consequences of her actions. An ocean should be enough distance. The paper trail didn’t worry her. She paid in cash for a reason. But whatever was in that basement… hopefully their fortunes only tangled briefly.

Full again, the teapot waited for her to pour a cup and begin her spell.

Since her sleeping self couldn’t breach the door, she’d need to walk through in her corporeal body. All fleshy and vulnerable to things like the security guards who came and went twice a day through the servants’ entrance her window overlooked. They had guns, and she didn’t want to find out if they were the type eager to use them.

If she had to be awake, they had to sleep.

Fortunately, one of her curses could help with that. It would cost her, but Fawney Rig had good security, and she had few options left. Besides, there should only be five people in the house. She’d survived five days without sleep before. She’d be fine.

So she filled her cup and made her circle. Witch’s salt whispered between her fingers as she drew the shape, leaving black smudges on her skin. She didn’t bother wiping it off. The muted scent of burnt herbs filtered through her senses as she lifted the cup to drink. Skullcap, wormwood, and rosemary washed her mouth and throat clear of waking worries, and as the magic warmed her belly, seeping into her blood, the sand sleeping there woke.

Johanna’s sorcery followed strict rules. Words and symbols summoned and channeled the power. Without them, things went sideways, or they didn’t go anywhere at all. But Aisling was no sorcerer. More of a witch. And while she needed tools and potions to do her best work, she preferred the quiet over chants to guide her.

In silence, she gathered the depthless sensation of REM, honed it with fatigue and a desperate need for rest. Heavy lids. Closing eyes. The sweetly inescapable call of a good night’s rest after an endless day’s work. She held the urge. Fed it. Let it steal her own sleep. When swelled, stretching like a restless child trying to doze, she threw it all in an invisible wave towards the house. Her hands pushed out, physically mimicking the force, and held the pose until the wave crested, crashed, and washed into foam, drenching Fawney Rig with her intent.

She felt the waking minds within sink under the spell’s influence, and she spared herself a minute to release the focus, come back to her thoughts and plans and body. The ring of black salt remained undisturbed. Nothing fought back, then. That was good. It meant she had less to worry about while she broke a few laws.

The empty cup joined the teapot on the counter, unwashed and abandoned. Until she knew if her pretense of a polite guest would see the light of morning, there was no point, and her spell wouldn’t keep them asleep forever.

Blank-faced, the man in the moon watched her stride through the garden, hunting for the little pot near the gazebo where Paul kept the spare key.

They met her first day in the gatehouse when she paused to admire his flowers. He was a sweet old man, and he was happy to share about his beloved garden. His first love at Fawney Rig, though not his greatest. When he explained he used to be staff, she’d given him her very best smile and laughed.

“I guess that makes you Cinderella.”

Clearly a romantic, that one. He smiled at his feet, saying it “Wasn’t quite like that,” but obviously pleased with the vision she’d spun him. When he found out she was staying by herself, he’d shown her the key.

“For emergencies. The gatehouse isn’t the most secure, and we’re a ways from town. You know, just in case.”

If both hosts were so sweet, she might not have heeded the mysterious call to the old house. Her world had more dark than light, and she’d hate to leave tar and ash in Paul’s beautiful flowerbeds.

But then she met Paul’s husband.

She couldn’t say exactly why she didn’t like Alex, but he had a brittle edge like a rusty knife lifted against the world. He wore the fragility of the perpetual victim, eternally on-guard, someone who’d been hurt but could never move on from their pain, because if they did, they’d have to admit they were also an abuser.

He had ugly secrets locked away in his grand house, festering away like septic boils, and every inch of her being insisted it was her task to lance them.

She took the key with regret, but she still took it, and the heavy front door opened like she’d been invited in.

Everything she’d picked up in her days outside the manor proper landed twice as heavily as she stepped inside, shoes tapping over the polished floor. Her dreaming form had limitations. It walked a path between awareness and the unconscious, and it had trouble picking up on much beyond what she went to sleep intending to do or find. Now, she breathed in every detail.

The old manor creaked with the burden of death obstructed. It choked on lives unnaturally extended, ghosts kept alive by magic and petulance until the world left the estate behind. It had become more museum than home, and though Alex and Paul had cleared out a few places to call their own and wired in modern conveniences as they were invented, the place seemed to hold its breath. It laid largely undisturbed with the glassy eyes of balding taxidermy guarding the sins of a dead man.

Because Roderick Burgess was a sinner for sure. Wild tales aside, the angry ghost silently raging at her from on high wasn’t that of a benevolent soul. Sleeping or waking, her eyes looked true, and a ghost was a ghost in any world it walked.

She spared him a middle finger again. Just for funsies.

Prick.

He wasn’t worth any further attention.

The door, however, was.

She pulled back the curtain shielding it from the hall and examined the lock. It had many keys. She’d seen the heavy, jangling rings of them the guards carried, and Alex Burgess must be paranoid enough to keep one on his person. But in her sleeping quest, she’d discovered lots of things about this door. No one needed to tell her where the spare key hung on a hook under the aged buffet in the hall. It practically glowed to her dreaming eyes, and her waking fingers found it quick enough.

It slotted in the hole and released the bolt with a click. Easy as could be. Just like the key from the garden.

All these little treasures stashed away in case of emergency were about to cause one.

The portal to the basement yawned wide. At long last. The hollow silence warned her away, but the place under her ribs twisted. Determined.

So, through the door. Down the stairs. Trotting, quick and quiet on her nameless mission into the bowels of the Demon King’s estate. She could imagine Johanna’s voice cutting across space and time, picking apart her plan, shitting on her magnetic attraction to the cursed and unfortunate corners of the world. No back-up. A vague idea of an exit strategy. No clue what she was walking into.

What could possibly go wrong?

The goosebumps on her arms forecasted doom, but she couldn’t ignore the sparking current running through her chest. The farther she went, the clearer the sensation became.

Despite the electric lights, shadows clung like dust, growing deeper and wider as she neared the bottom of the stairs. The basement sucked the life out of the LED bulbs, refusing to share its secrets with an outsider. Hush, it whispered, hide it, bury it, keep it from the daylight.

Each step charged the static creeping over her skin. Her heart threatened to fall out of rhythm with the little shocks as it swelled around her like the sea. Something she could taste. Something she could drown in.

She didn’t have to look into the room to know the guards slept. She felt it. Their resting minds hummed in the space like a pair of bees. If that wasn’t proof enough, a snore echoed between the bare walls, carrying up the stairwell.

At the end of her descent, she found an iron gate. Whatever the Burgesses had ferreted away, they feared it. But she’d have time to find her own fears in just a moment. First things first. An important life lesson, even in darkest dungeons.

Especially in darkest dungeons, actually.

She didn’t look through the bars, keeping her focus on the lock. Bolted from the inside, a simple keyhole begged for a pick or a spell to let her pass. It wasn’t her area of expertise, but the mechanism had soaked up decade up on decade of magic, and it was nearing the tipping point between magical artefact and mundane tool. Magic stained everything in the basement, to the point she wondered if she might see her own footprints lingering, like marks on a sandy beach down the stairs.

Johanna had taught her a few tricks to handle locks over the years, and this one begged for something more than traditional keys. She slipped her fingers between the bars, resting her finger over the keyhole as she listened for what it wanted. It asked for something. It was tired of standing guard for so, so long, and it just wanted a reason, an excuse even, to let go. It wanted a fucking rest.

Poor old thing.

She found a word, matched it to her intent, and whispered.

“Deditionem.”

The lock turned with a creaking groan, and the gate sighed open on rusty hinges.

Sparks rippled like fire through her chest, and she shoved her hands deep in her pockets to stop herself from rubbing the ache.

She was not alone.

Her eyes swung along with the gate, drawn to the bright center of the dungeon, where a prisoner sat in a glass cage, like a hollow moon in the void of the underground.

Human eyes might’ve mistaken the hostage for a man, and damn if he didn’t look like one. A beautiful one. But she saw something more.

Even in the smothering dark of the cellar, his shadows glowed sharp. Threats whispered through the angles of his stiff posture, and the stars in his eyes glittered red.

He sat like a king, straight and cold, holding himself apart from the petty creatures who’d snared him with dignity and poise of inexhaustible grace.

He’d already noticed her. Unblinking eyes fixed on her face, unimpressed, but attentive. Not friendly in the least.

She held the staring contest for a full minute before she snapped, lashes fluttering as she floundered for something to say, not quite ready to look away.

“Hi.”

Inspirational. Truly.

Still, it broke the standoff – or at least the quiet – and she moved further into the room, looking over the moat, the glass cage, the arcane circle painted on the floor. Her eyes stayed on the restraints. The… whatever he was sat very naked in that globe, and she’d gladly bet it wasn’t voluntarily. That gave her plenty of reasons to look away, and a beautiful excuse to avoid as much eye contact as possible.

She made a full circuit, and though he didn’t turn more than his head to watch her, his attention prickled. Her own footsteps haunted her, filling the room like a shadow army. If he wasn’t going to participate in a conversation, well, she wasn’t above talking to herself.

“You are angry.” Somehow, he sat even straighter, and she tripped over herself to explain. “I don’t blame you. If I was in your position, I’d be pissed, too. But I have to be… careful.”

She squinted at the golden circle, baffled by the sigils. She needed a better look.

Backing away from the edge of the moat, she got a running start and jumped over the long pit. It was a close thing, and her arms pinwheeled on the brink of a fall. Gravity took pity on her, and after tipping back and forth on the balls of her feet, she recovered her balance.

There wasn’t much space on the island, and she found herself very near the glass – and very near the entity within. He regarded her with the same, impassive judgement, but one eyebrow had drifted higher than the other. He didn’t need to speak to tell her she was an idiot. There was a bridge, after all, between his island and the rest of the basement floor.

She shrugged. “Never trust the obvious.”

Never trust clear routes when their owners had reason to boobytrap them. Never trust pretty men kept under glass.

Looking away before she got lost in those starry eyes, she crouched at the edge of the symbols trapping him. She recognized most of them, but the configuration eluded her. A summoning circle, but for what? All she could see was what it couldn’t do.

“You’re no demon,” she muttered to the floor. “You’d have offered a deal by now. Or a few choice threats. Hellfire, and brimstone, and all.”

The quiet remained undisturbed as her voice faded, and the pressure mounted in her chest. Trying to soothe the sting, she let herself rub over the invisible damage, aware she was revealing a weakness, but even more aware of the gross imbalance of power. She could strip down and show him every scar, tell him every mistake she’d ever made, and it wouldn’t make him any more powerful. It wouldn’t help him out of his cage, either.

Too quiet. She needed to think. As her fingers skated in a figure-eight above her heart, she continued her debate aloud.

“You’re beyond any dream or nightmare I’ve ever met. I doubt you’re a djinn or a faerie.”

She looked up with a question blooming on her lips and froze in place.

He’d moved.

As she studied the magic keeping him prisoner, he’d shifted closer, balancing with one hand against the glass as he scrutinized her. His burning gaze dared her to look away again, demanding something, and for an instant, she forgot how to breathe.

He had hair like the night wind. She imagined if she broke the glass, that wind would become more than a metaphor, sweeping the world clean of the house, the people inside, and any soul foolish enough to earn his wrath through the long years of his imprisonment.

She didn’t need to know the entity’s name to feel his presence, the chained power ringing through his cage. Whoever – whatever – the Burgesses trapped, they had good reason to fear setting it free. When the defenses fell, that power would tear through the immediate vicinity like a river breaching a dam. Intelligent eyes tracked her, analyzed her, judged her. But a force of nature sat in that bubble. Not a man.

Pieces of an old story sat around her, and she took her time, anxious as they grew into a simple tale. Roderick Burgess snared a power beyond himself, confident in the way men looked at mountains and saw gold, the way clever folk tamed lightning and harnessed the wind. But he’d miscalculated. This creature moved in spheres beyond mortal reasoning. He trapped his family with a curse, a burden they could never release, that would never bow to bargaining. Something that never should’ve been locked away in the first place.

And now she’d gotten tangled up in its wyrd, according to her cards.

She must be very careful if she wanted to survive this. Intact. Wrath had a tendency to spill over on bystanders, and she stood very close to the boiling cauldron.

Holding that demanding gaze, she said, “I’m going to help you. Whatever you are, I don’t think you belong in there.”

Doubt soured his expression, but some of the red faded from the stars. He heard her. He was listening. And he was jaded as all hell. She wasn’t the first to make promises.

“I am going to get you free. But –”

He sat up again, hand still on the glass, to peer down his nose in naked distain.

She scoffed. Gods. All men-shaped things really were the same. Proud, impatient bastard. “Calm down and let me finish.”

Whatever the summoning circle’s origin, it stank of fragile, dead magic. It remained as a rule, but nothing living fueled its power, and she could break it easily.

As she drew her athame from the sheath at the small of her back, she continued, “I don’t think I want to be here when you get out. Like I said, you’re angry, and I have people depending on me.”

She held the blade up so he could see it, and she wondered if he could feel her comparatively feeble magic as she lifted it across the magical boundary. Simply cutting the air over the marks weakened them, and she saw him stiffen, nostrils flaring before she bent to finish the job.

Her athame was beautiful – a steel dagger crafted in a friend’s forge. Silver filigree twisted down the blade like a gale between seven-pointed stars, and lacey wormwood leaves glittered in the same material over the handle. The basement air left the shapes cool against her sweaty palm.

The tip touched stone just within the ring, and she pulled the sharp edge through the concentric rings of gold paint in a clean stroke, encountering no resistance as she severed the lingering power. The fine cut was invisible to the naked eye, but the magic crumbled like a dead leaf under a boot.

Smirking to herself, she tucked away the dagger and gleefully thought of how upset old Burgess would be. No wonder the family needed two damn guards to protect such shitty casting.

Her eye wandered back to the entity, and she slowly rose to her feet, rubbing her chest as he stared with wide eyes.

He looked like she’d slapped him. Surprise mingled with awe or horror. He wasn’t easy to read. But it wasn’t gratitude glowing in his expression.

Something had happened.

Did she do something?

Her heart was on fire.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

He didn’t answer, though his lips parted. Either he wanted to speak and had forgotten how, or he feared to share his thoughts, though they begged to escape into the open air.

It wasn’t her business. She took two steps back, sweeping the glass sphere for signs of a latch or door. It looked like it had been built around him. Hell. It probably was. Like Wendy in the little house the Lost Boys made her, but so much worse.

The cosmos in his gaze stirred, swirling like a whirlpool as the fire under her skin continues burning. Dangerous. This was dangerous. He was dangerous.

It was time to leave.

She’d done her part.

“If you need more help, you have to tell me.”

She had to check. The sphere and the circle clearly worked in tandem to keep the prisoner sealed away from the world, and breaking the sigils affected him somehow. Would he be able to break the second barrier on his own, or would she have to put herself at further risk?

He glanced at the sleeping guards. Looked her over again, eyes growing harder as he buried that raw shock she’d unwittingly triggered. The barest shift of his head relieved her of further responsibility.

“Fine. Good luck.”

One of the guards jolted in his sleep.

Oh, most definitely time to leave.

She risked the bridge on her way out. Faster that way. She didn’t look back as she pushed through the iron gate, didn’t hesitate on the steps, or in the hall, even when gunshots rang out below.

A burst of panic that had been hiding beneath the curiosity and pain sprang free, fraying her nerves with its teeth as she fled the manor. She took her waiting bag from the door to the gatehouse and sprinted down the dark road towards town.

The sun would find her miles away, on her way to someplace further still.

The tarot reading solved. The captive entity freed. Roderick Burgess forced to watch it all from limbo.

Now came the reckoning.

She had every reason to leave and not a single one to stay.

She could move on. She was very literally doing just that.

So why, as her feet pounded down the long gravel drive, did the scars in her chest burn to turn back?

Next Chapter

#morpheus x reader #morpheus x oc #sandman x reader #dream of the endless x reader

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abigailmoment · 4 months

Text

Karlach and Astarion were playing three Dragon ante, and Astarion mostly wasn't cheating.

He also wasn't winning. This was partially because he kept drawing the mortal card that flipped the win condition for a gambit, and he had trouble changing his strategy to account for that. But it was mostly because he was trying to figure out how to work something casually into the conversation. But the subject on his mind didn't have any natural place among their usual idle comments about combat and rules clarifications.

Eventually he despaired and just said: "Karlach."

"Mm?" she said. She was staring with great concentration at her hand, which was lined up in front of her, leaning against a tree branch that had been trimmed smooth and whittled a little groove that the cards could perch on.

"Have you ever been in love?"

"Shit. Uh," she looked up from her hand. She squinted off into the distance, as if checking her past. Then she shook her head. "No. No I haven't."

"Really?" Astarion felt a little surprised.

"Yeah, no." She shook her head again. "I was a kid back in Baldur's Gate. And then, you know, Hell."

"Right," Astarion said, reordering the cards in his hand. "Of course."

"You?" Karlach asked him as she pointed at the card she wanted to ante.

Astarion took the card and put it face down in front of her.

"I'm not sure," he said, playing his own ante, face down. "You know. Amnesia."

"Yeah," Karlach said sympathetically. "That's a thing."

As if it were a bad case of the flu, that some members of the party had caught.

Full text below.

Full Text On AO3

"Well," Karlach said bracingly. "Here's hoping?"

"Hoping," Astarion echoed. "Indeed."

He reached down to flip their antes.

When Astarion sat down on the deer pelt outside of Lae'zel's tent she stopped sharpening her spear and peered at him suspiciously.

"What do you want?" She asked.

"I was just wondering how things were going between you and Shadowheart," he said lightly.

The suspicious peering upgraded itself to a glower. He put his hands up.

"Not making fun," he said. "Just asking. Just curious."

"Why?" she put the spear she had been sharpening down and picked up a scimitar.

"Can't I be interested in the well-being of my companions?" he asked.

"No," Lae'zel said flatly, beginning to sharpen the scimitar.

"How predictably brutal," Astarion muttered. "Find then. Don't tell me."

But he didn't leave, even as Lae'zel worked on the scimitar and filled the air with grating noise. Astarion didn't leave because she hadn't told him to leave, which was almost an invitation when you were talking to Lae'zel. And also: she was looking at the sword in the way people in bars sometimes looked into their drinks. It was the way people looked when they had stories and wanted to tell them so much that they stopped being picky about whether the person listening was a friend or a stranger.

Lae'zel pulled the scimitar away from the wheel and checked its edge.

"She held a knife to my throat," Lae'zel said. "And then she followed me into the night. I have tasted her. I have made her sweat and ache and tremble."

None of that was in any way surprising. Astarion had been present for the first part. He made a vague noise that implied he was paying attention, but didn't interfere with words.

"We have drunk wine together," Lae'zel continued, more slowly.

Then Lae'zel clicked her tongue and hissed in disapproval. But it wasn't at Astarion or what she was saying--she was apparently unsatisfied with the scimitar. And more interested in fixing that than talking. So she set it against the grindstone again. More irritating noises, because apparently some people were too good for whetstones. By the time she paused again Astarion was fidgeting with his sleeve.

Lae'zel checked the scimitar's edge, grunted in satisfaction, and set it aside.

"We spoke," she said. "At length."

Gods, that was a very long wait for very few words.

"About?" Astarion asked.

"Nothing," said Lae'zel. "Many things."

Lae'zel deliberated over what weapon to pick up next. She seemed to be having some difficulty choosing. Eventually she decided not to pick up any weapon at all. She put her hand on the edge of the grindstone, drawing her thumb up and down the rough surface of it.

"I don't want to hurt her," she said, curiously. A little wonderingly. As if she were just realizing this.

"Ah," said Astarion.

Lae'zel's eyes snapped up to him, as if she had forgotten he was there and was only now reminded.

"Leave," she decided sharply. "Now."

"Going. Going," Astarion said, standing hastily. -

He was not going to ask Wyll. That would be useless and mortifying. And the men were such gossips.

Astarion came up with a way that he didn't have to ask Gale directly. He volunteered to be the one to distribute food one night. Tav gave him an odd look, but didn't go so far as to actually comment.

Astarion included a bottle of Ithbank with the wizard's portion. Then a half hour later he approached Gale with the thought that Conjuration and Transmutation were really the same thing, weren't they? Just fiddling with objects. Shouldn't they be the same school of magic?

Tipsiness muted any suspicion Gale might have about Astarion's sudden academic interest. And once Gale started talking the only thing you needed to do to direct him was ask questions. Classifying the strict differences between the schools of magic led fairly naturally to talking about how he had learned about those schools. And from whom.

"Divination began with star-charting, of course," Gale was sitting between his telescope and the replacement crystal ball Tav had found for him after his first one had vanished. "Charting the celestial spheres is a complicated process, but everything is made easier by the presence of a learned companion."

"Stargazing together," Astarion said with only the faintest touch of interest. "That sounds pleasant?"

Astarion was a sitting couple of feet away, leaning against one of the white trees with red leaves. Close enough to speak easily, but positioned in such a way that Gale didn't have to look directly at him. Because while Gale would ramble happily to Tav or Wyll for guileless hours, he tended to cautiously censor himself when he remembered he was talking to Astarion.

But apparently the wine or the placement was working as intended, because Gale answered with thoughtless ease.

"Oh, exceptionally pleasant," Gale said. "It's really just magnificent to have someone who understands. Who understands the complexity of the universe, and also is of a mind with you in the importance of learning its intricacies."

It felt like there was something true and useful in those words. Astarion stayed quiet and listened.

"Celestial divination was an enlightening collaboration," Gale continued. "But call us old-fashioned, because we both preferred that old convention of mystical research. A quiet evening and an esoteric tome. Open between us, ink glinting in the firelight. Pouring over paragraphs and comparing notes. Companionship so comfortable that it almost felt like solitude."

"But isn't," Astarion said quietly.

"Precisely," Gale said, responding to Astarion but eyes still fixed on the point he was making. "A true antidote to loneliness. Though of course it isn't always easy. Being close to someone never is. But I know she will always care for me. And I will always be able to make her purr."

That was a surprisingly lascivious thing to say, after all the soft poetry. And also, it didn't sound like the sort of thing Gale would say about the woman who had broken his heart and then told him to kill himself. Astarion realized he might've been operating, for the last few minutes, under a misapprehension.

"Are you..." said Astarion. "Are you talking about your cat?"

Gale turned to look at Astarion directly, frowning.

"Tara is not a cat," Gale told him, emphatic and scolding. "She is a tressym."

Astarion's head hit the trunk of the tree he was leaning against with a faint 'thunk'.

"Of course," he said.

***

This is part of a series. The rest of the story is on AO3.

***

#astarion x tav #tav x astarion #astarion #bg3 astarion #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #the moment when Astarion realizes he's caught feelings and has no idea what to do about it #and is trying to sift context from the only people he has access to #in typically cagey and circuitous ways #the act 2 confession reads like something that has been stewed and panicked over for a good long time

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biomecharnotaurus · 1 year

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Do you have any tips for people who want to get into cosplay? It both sounds and looks really interesting but I’m too nervous to try/start.

First off:

Don't worry about the acting part, it's less stressful than it really seems, and I'm saying this as somebody who suffers from anxiety since his teen ages and had an history of pretty frequent anxiety attacks. I started cosplaying in the year 2014, made my proper first "heavy duty" cosplay in 2016.

But do keep in mind, cosplaying comes with its ups and downs and I won't sugar-coat things, so I'll start with them.

Pros

RP in real life is very fun.

You'll probably be stopped by a lot of people if your cosplay is easily recognizable, so be ready. Pictures. A lot of pictures. Which seems a bit awkward but it's often pretty wholesome.

Interacting with other cosplayers (without bothering busy people) is fun.

Going with a buddy definitely makes the experience a lot better. D&D party irl with weaponized autism

Meet new people! Sometimes.

Do fun activities! You can even swordfight your friends and other random cosplayers in small arenas sometimes. FIGHT THE GENSHIN COSPLAYER WITH A FOAM AXE ANON

You can win a Tekken tournament with a full rotting rabbit animatronic costume on!

There is at least one Dance Dance Revolution machine. I don't need to say more.

Cons

Cosplaying is often expensive. You can cosplay on a budget but it comes with lots of in-place reparations.

Bring water and food with you. Drink. A lot. Especially if you have a full armor or a monster fullsuit. You could literally die from exhaustion and/or from overheating.

People are gonna probably take pictures of you without asking. Yell at them with rage because that's illegal

Awkward interactions do happen. Yours truly had to scold a child and her mother at the age of 16 because I was resting my cosplay head next to me (Springtrap cosplay) and the child was trying to pop the eyes of MY cosplay head while I was talking to my friends.

Bring a reparation kit. A little sewing kit, some strong glue, hot glue gun, a piece of cloth you don't have a problem using to keep things in place with, make-up wipes and the make-up you are using as well, if you have any on. That and an emergency kit with bandages and band-aids. Shit can happen.

You are gonna sweat. A lot. Take breaks.

If you have something like a helmet on you are gonna have blind spots. You are probably not gonna hear nor see people calling you sometimes lol

Conventions are expensive. But that's not a cosplay-only thing, keep that in mind tho.

People often forget you are a person outside of the character you are cosplaying as. Which could be both a pro and a con honestly.

Now, I'm not nor a woman nor feminine presenting, but if you are one of the two...gamers are fucking weird sometimes, so be prepared in case.

The actual making the cosplay part:

Do your research on the kind of cosplay you want to do. A partial armor? A full armor? Clothing/make-up? A full monster/animal suit? YouTube is full of good tutorials. Techniques are universal for any typology of cosplay, so don't worry.

If you need cosplay parts you don't know how to make, just look up for "pepakura template *insert thing*". Download a program called "Pepakura viewer" on your PC and look up for Pepakura tutorials if you need any help, there are plenty. You'll probably find templates for the specific part, maybe for free, but mostly for like 10-20 bucks on Etsy. You can also just straight up buy props. Keep in mind 3D printed props can be very fragile tho.

You don't need to make every single part, buy premade things if needed. Hell, you can even just buy a premade cosplay from a seller, doesn't matter.

Improvising is important to find solutions to cosplay making problems. Any technique is a valid technique if it works for you...but please, for the love of everything that is good, DON'T. USE. CARDBOARD. It's gonna absorb your sweat, get moldy and the fumes from the mold CAN KILL YOU. Not joking.

Important: buy a mask with interchangeable filters and safety glasses when you use paints. Also, wear gloves. Your health comes first.

If you are making an helmet...buy at least 2 small fans and install them inside vents below or next to the visor inside the helmet. Believe me when I say this. They do sell ones with premade circuits on Etsy, if you are not particularly good with wiring and stuff.

AliExpress is unironically good for supplies, if you don't want to spend too much.

Sewing and using strong glues makes things last for ages, hot glue does not and it sucks, as much as people use it. Use safety equipment while using glues, of course.

Again, YouTube is your friend in this case. Search for anything you'll need help for.

...you should probably look up at reviews if you plan on buying anything from sites like XCoser.

That's it!

#ask #anon #cosplay #cosplay tips

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flooficandii · 1 month

Text

thats got me thinking actually . i havent rly had the energy nor the interest to update nuniq's doc to include interactions w/ the newest agents . including harbor and tjats literally her boyfriend lmao 😭😭😭😭 but anyway lemme make some poorly drawn depictions of what nuniq thinks of the newer agents (starting from clove to gekko)

clove

honestly. nuniq wasnt too jazzed about the idea of hiring a kid (grown adult but theyre a kid to her), especially an untrained one . she understands they might have a link to omen going rogue but is still iffy about the whole situation

also oof. the whole immortality thing? yeah it must be a lot to bear for clove, theyre just very good at hiding it. but like with a lot of the young radiants, nuniq lets them know they can approach her about this stuff bc shes been through it too

she can admit she gets pissed at clove bc their immortality causes them to make more reckless decisions on the field . she wants to get it in their head that you still have to be smart about these things no matter how much power you have

but! she thinks clove is very nice. very silly very sweet guy who is an excellent storyteller. storytelling is very intertwined in both nuniq and clove's cultures so she loves listening to whatever clove can whip up

clove has probably dragged her into dnd at least once

she took a while to grasp it but thats ok shes trying her best

anyway yeah clove talks a lot and sometimes nuniq cant understand them so she has to ask them to slow down

iso

valorant hired him because he was a kingdom killer and nuniq was ALL FOR THAT !!!!

she can tolerate the cocky smug little shit thing bc hes professional at least

hes not very hard to work with and is very cunning and calculating. nuniq likes that

iso has most definitely heard about nuniq before and was surprised to see her alive bc a lot of media made it seem she was dead to quell the uprisings against kingdom

nuniq is fascinated by iso's radiance but it definitely makes her think about how fast and how complex the concept of radiance itself is evolving . to think he could create his own pocket dimension with prismatic energy

besides that i feel like they mostly mind their own business

theres a mutual respect for eachothers skill and grit and they just *nods*

deadlock

like the thing says. theres currently some weird tension between deadlock and nuniq rn (and its surprisingly not gay)

theyre both so cold its kinda hard for either of them to approach eachother

deadlock is. working on her relationship with gekkos creatures! which nuniq appreciates

but idk nuniq never forgets anything and its hard for her to get over the fact she almost killed wingman multiple times

+ proposed awful countermeasures to keep the radivores in check

yk that one headcanon someone made about gekkos friendliness and critters winning over a lot of the protocol?

and how they immediately had beef w deadlock because of it?

yeah thats the situation with nuniq

things have simmered down with the creature situation but nuniq mostly ignores deadlock outside of work

and frankly i think deadlock's scared of nuniq too so

gekko

last but not least GEKKO !!!!

nuniq loves gekko!!! hes so silly

hes fun and lighthearted while still being a good fighter

being around gekko makes nuniq feel. Friendlier idk how else to describe it

also his critters have 100% stolen her heart sometimes she asks to babysit wingman when gekkos busy

she has had to apologize for aput using dizzy as a chew toy though

gekko has dyed nuniqs hair temporarily; it was northern lights-colored streaks that looked really cool when braided, she kept it for about a month until it washed out

overall she thinks hes very sweet and she and reyna can get along over being protective of him

anyway yeah i think thats every agent so far after harbor! wow !!! i cant believe we've already made it this far to agent 25 .. and agent 8 still hasnt been revealed yet i love valorant lore (tired

#valorant #valorant oc #valorant nuniq #valorant gekko #valorant deadlock #valorant iso #valorant clove

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nerves-nebula · 4 months

Text

it is a little strange as a home schooled person who occasionally watches documentaries for fun and listens to books/essays/articles about like queer history and decolonization and stuff to see people kind of insinuate that they were supposed to learn everything relevant to their entire life in public education because 1: I have never had a high regard for public education and am frequently glad that i was not put through it as a child despite being abused at home and 2: you can still learn things.. outside of a school/college...?

like i was home schooled and some of that was just educational neglect so i didn't really know where places were on a world map in general, like which part was europe. and which continent was africa. and i didnt know the days of the week or how to read a clock going into high school either. but i slowly learned those things because they became relevant to me and important for me to know- i didn't just say "well my mom never taught me that how was i supposed to know" and leave it there. you bitch about not knowing and then you... learn about it...

and like i get that it can feel exhausting or feel a bit boring to look into serious stuff. i'm tired basically all the time (i dont know why my current guess is depression) and i have trouble reading a lot of text at once, even if it's something im interested in. which is why i listen to audiobooks and use text to speech, and why i'm usually doing something else like a mindless mobile game while listening to said books/essays.

sometimes my dad says the best thing he and my mom did for us was having us learn how to teach ourselves things (like drawing, which is what got me my art school scholarship) and i think he's right in some ways cuz at least my first reaction to not knowing something isn't "why didn't anyone TELL ME" it's like, oh i didn't know that i guess i should add that to my list of things to look into.

my biggest obstacle is honestly just being too fucking tired to figure shit out but even then its like. ok later.

#nnstuff #rambling

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novelsnovelsnovels · 5 months

Text

Chapter 3

Our hero

tw// mentions of ptsd symptoms

He was pacing again.

Every time Buck caught himself doing it he went and made another batch of herbal brew to soothe his nerves. This was the seventh one tonight, and his stomach and bladder couldn't take it anymore. He could swear his piss came out lavender-scented now. And it did nothing to calm him down. He'd have to ask Sivale for something stronger; this plant mix just wasn't helping anymore. He paused to stare at his hand. It wasn't shaking yet, thank Baar, but his unrest was growing by the hour. The temptation to go look for a bottle of his father's brandy was dangerously persuasive tonight, and only the memories of his previous drunken mishap kept him away.

Mishap. Hah! What a cute word for it.

He was already on the thinnest of ice, and one tiny blunder was all it would take to get him kicked out of Runrick permanently. If he was lucky. He'd get skewered by someone's rusty pitchfork if he wasn't. But he couldn't fault them for hating him. He deserved it, and then some. If it weren't for his mother, he probably would've thrown himself at the townfolk’s mercy, and let them punish him however they saw fit. Heavens knew there were enough mothers and fathers that wanted nothing more than to take out their anger on him. Anger he had caused. And grief. So, so much grief. It might even help him a bit with his own feelings of guilt, but he didn't think he deserved any absolution.

Common sense would dictate that he leave Runrick, preferably in the dead of night, when it was least likely that someone would be waiting for him around a quiet corner with a pocket knife. There was no future for him here. He had no friends anymore. Only a heart-broken mother and a disappointed father. And it killed him to see how the town's reproach was extended to his parents as well.

They had been nothing but supportive neighbors and productive members of this community, kind and welcoming to everyone, yet no one was willing to cut them some slack because they had the misfortune to be saddled with a useless, piece-of-shit son like him. The fact that there was a town gathering taking place right at this moment and they hadn't summoned his father was a loud testament to how ostracized their family had become. It was another blow to his father's weakened heart. He didn't know how many more he could take.

Yes, it would be in everyone’s best interest if he just left. Only…he had nowhere else to go.

Buck stared out of his window. He could see the tower of the prayhouse from here. Was the gathering still going on? It was already dark outside, and that meant the way home was more dangerous now. The thing came mostly at night, after all. Or maybe they thought it was safe now since the beast had just claimed someone and should be satiated (poor Bramby) That was a hunter logic, though. This thing wasn't an animal. A predator, yes, but from Shulffa's accursed lot. It had no distinct pattern of attack, nothing about its behavior was akin to any animal they knew; sometimes it was sighted twice in one day, sometimes it disappeared for weeks on end, then reemerged thirsty for blood at completely random intervals. And not just to eat. It often left entire carcasses behind, which meant it would also kill just for the fun of it.

It had first gone after their livestock, then started killing people, went back to cattle, and then back to humans. Even now, another assumption about the thing got turned on its head. Up until today, everyone thought it only attacked at night, but Bramber's remains were found early this afternoon. He had been seen alive this morning, which meant the creature had paid him a visit in the middle of the freaking day. And that wasn't even the worst of it. He had been ripped to pieces in his own home. So not only was it willing to hunt during daytime now, it also came after you in your own house. Bramber’s home was well away from the outskirts of town.

Maybe that's why the gathering was taking so long. Maybe people simply thought that the holy prayhouse was the only place left in Runrick that could protect them, and they were now stalling so that they could stay in it for as long as possible. If Baar's house of worship was indeed the only thing that kept the creature at bay, then he felt even worse for getting his parents shunned from it.

Deep down, though, he knew it would eventually come after them there, too. As long as the thing was alive, it would keep killing. Hiding wouldn't save them. It needed to be stopped. He believed this wholeheartedly. Even now, after his disaster of an attempt to personally rid Runrick of the monster. He also still believed that bringing together Runrick's strongest men, and going after the creature armed and prepared had been the right course of action; he just had been the wrong person to lead the party. Oh, he had looked the part, alright, and had actual military experience to boot. Sure, Buck came back a bit odd after his time on the front, had a bit of a drinking problem too, but hey, he was still good, ol' reliable Buckcrown. The rowdy but promising youngster turned Runrick's pride and joy when he had been accepted into His Majesty's army. The only man in town ever with that accomplishment.

That had to count for something.

Well, turns out, it didn't.

Buck cursed every story he heard as a child about brave and noble knights, cursed that one book he read over and over as a boy that made him dream of just wars and honorable soldiers, but mostly, he cursed his own stupid and naive younger self. Every one of his childhood friends had been content with becoming hunters and woodcutters and steelworkers. And they had all wanted to stay in Runrick. That hadn't been good enough for Buck. He had wanted more; strongly believed he was meant for more. Everybody told him so, too. So he enrolled in the army the second he found out about the war at Alcsania's border against the barbaric Borsecia nation. He wanted adventures, hoped for riches, but most of all, he desired glory. The prestige that came with a clean uniform and a shiny medal.

He came back with none of that. Instead, what he got was nightmares, an unsound mind, and a number of nervous habits that had mothers warn their children to stay away from him. The incessant pacing was only one of them.

Now that he reminded himself of it, the need to start pacing again returned. He kept still, but now his right leg started twitching. He let it. He kept staring at the tower.

There was probably nobody they wanted to see less than him right now. His campaign had been a tragedy. He had led their sons and brothers and husbands right into the creature's waiting maw. Those who hadn't perished right then and there, had come back either mauled or marked. Only him and Bramber had escaped without a scratch; Bramber, because he ran at the first sight of it, and him because he froze up. The creature ignored him in favor of screaming, squirming prey. Apparently, even monsters thought he was too pathetic to be worth their time.

Why in the world did he think he could pull off the brave leader bit?!

No, he knew why. Buck had wanted to relive the time when he had everyone's admiration and trust. A time when he stood in front of his friends boisterously, proclaimed bold dreams, and was cheered for it. He so, so desperately wanted to prove to them, to his parents, and to himself, that he was more than the sad, quiet man that drank himself under the table and then picked fights with garden fences. That the war hadn't broken him completely.

Reality had punished him for his selfish, childish aspirations once already. And he hadn't learned.

Now, the sound of firing canons in his nightmares were accompanied by the screams of his friends and the slash of overgrown claws ripping through flesh.

His breathing and heart rate was picking up. At this rate he'd lose another night of sleep. He needed to do something. He still kept staring at the tower.

They probably wouldn't even allow me in, much less listen to me.

For a while now, a semblance of a plan had been stewing in the back of his head. He had tried to snuff out the initial sparks of the idea, simply because he had failed so spectacularly with his first one. He had no right to go and form another one. Still, he had needed something productive to occupy his long, sleepless nights and so he let his mind wander. Or wander wasn't really the right word. His thoughts kept circling the same thing over and over. Fire. They had tried shooting it, stabbing it, poisoning it. Nothing worked. But they hadn't tried burning it yet. Witches and the bastards of Shulffa were tied and burned at the stake, after all. Fire had to be the answer. But how to capture the thing and keep it still long enough to light it ablaze? Well, this is where his idea turned grim. Someone needed to lure the monster inside a small structure - a shed maybe - somewhere it couldn't get out off easily, and that someone would then set the whole thing on fire with it, and himself, still in it.

That someone, of course, was supposed to be him.

As sad as it was, it made the most sense. For everyone. They'd get rid of not only the monster, but the town's useless drunkard as well. The self-sacrifice might help clear his name, his parents might be forgiven, and the aggrieved families would get their vengeance. Win-win for all.

If he presented it like that, they might listen to him.

…........

Alright, he'd give it try. What's the worst they could do to him for suggesting it?

His parents were down-stairs; they never went to sleep until they knew he was laying still in his bed. They must have heard him pacing and were now sitting at the table concerned that their son was going to have another bad night. If they saw him head out at this hour they'd just worry even more. He'd climb out of the window and return before they'd notice he was gone. He was tired of causing them heartache. This idea of his....it would hurt them too, but at least they'd have some peace afterward. He grabbed his tattered jacket and quietly opened the window.

He hadn't done this since he was a child.

Back then, he and the others would meet after night fall and have the best of times while everyone else was asleep. They'd play games; hide-and-seek was far more challenging in the dark. Or they'd go spy on the inn, the only place in town open at night, and try to listen in on what the adults spoke among themselves. Whoever brought back the most interesting gossip was the winner, whoever got caught would lose.

They'd even venture out into the woods, as a test of courage. He'd always win that one, going further and staying longer than anyone else. That game had been his idea, of course. Great Mother's mercy, had he been a stupid kid. He had been dragging his friends into danger since childhood, it seems. There weren't any monsters back then, but wolves and bears were regular visitors. The grown-ups always warned them to never go into the woods alone, but they wanted to prove they were as brave as their elders. One hungry, wayward wolf was all it took to finish a child, and it had simply been pure luck that nothing happened to anybody back then. Stupid, stupid kid. And he had stayed stupid. No one had died then, but Buck had to go and rectify that. Galb, Bolovan, Rokhau, Marou; they all had been his friends, and all were now dead. Egbrim's arm got ripped off; Mullber was still ailing in bed from his wounds; Nad lost his mind to madness after staring into the creature’s eyes for too long. The others escaped mostly intact, but with scars that would never fully heal. They were probably at the prayhouse now too. Meeting their eyes was going to be hardest part. If they could bear to hear him out just one more time, he'd promise to pay his dues to them. He took one deep breath, and stepped out.

________________________________________________________________________________

The air was brisk, the cold cutting into his flesh mercilessly. His jacket was barely of any help, but it had been difficult enough to climb down the vine even without a thick winter coat weighing him down. He walked fast with large steps, but didn't run. It was easier to pay attention to surrounding sounds this way, in case something was creeping around in the shadows. Buck had gotten used to having street lights while down in the south-western provinces. He didn't feel as comfortable as he used to be, walking around in complete darkness, monsters or not. And he wasn't the only one. He could catch the occasional flicker of the candle light inside the houses. Most buildings around here didn't even have a fireplace, and any form of electricity was completely out of the question. Before, when it got dark, people just went to bed. Now, there was at least one candle burning in each household every night, and at least one person staying up to watch over it. At least the local tallow business was getting a profit from this.

There, just one more turn around the corner. He contemplated going in through the backdoor to observe the group and the discussion secretly from the side before making his presence known. Feel the room so to speak, and assess whether or not it was safe for him to approach them. One the other hand, if he went in that way he'd might just chicken out and leave. By using the main entrance, he had no choice but to stay and face everyone.

One pause to collect himself, one more deep breath, and he swiftly turned the corner -

And stopped dead in his tracks. Blinked. Froze.

There was something moving in front of the prayhouse's entrance. It was as black as the darkness surrounding it and the only reason he was able to notice it was because of its erratic back and forth movement.

It was the creature. What else could it be?

He was right, the prayhouse wasn't any safer. The large number of people was what must have attracted it all the way over here. It found its way right to the center of town, and was about to burst in and slaughter everyone. He couldn't let that happen. He had to rush it. No, it would just kill him instantly, and that would ultimately help no one. He had to yell, as loudly as he could. Get its attention, while warning the others at the same time. Maybe enough would manage to escape by the time it was done with him. It wouldn't save all, he realized this. Some would die, but if he could help save just a few, it would be worth it.

Except he couldn't get his throat to make a sound. He couldn't even get himself to start breathing. He wanted to make noise, any noise, but his body wouldn't cooperate. Buck could feel his lips moving, trying to form words, but there was no strength in his chest to push out any sound. He couldn't even whimper.

Again. He was going to stand by and watch people die, again.

Please, please, please no.

And then it stepped forward. The prayhouse was one of the only well lit structures in town, with a large chandelier and several other candelabras illuminating the interior. Some of that light was spilling out into the street from the round glass window hanging above the double doors. As it approached the steps leading up to those doors and stood in the sallow light, Buck could finally make out its actual shape and size.

It...was a man.

He was dressed head to toe in black. Who even had threads this dark? Clothes around here tended to be either white-gray, a variation of the color brown, and the occasional dirty green. No one wore black here, not even at funerals. The beast was pitch black. The beast was the blackest thing he had ever seen; a huge, misshapen splotch of living ink with long spider-like limbs. Whenever he thought of it, the first thing that came to mind was that deep, eerie obsidian. No wonder he had thought first of the monster.

Who was that man? He wasn't from Runrick, that was for certain. He doubted anyone from Pelase would come here anymore. A traveler?

Who in the holy fuck would willingly come to Runrick? Around this time, no less.

He suddenly felt very angry at the newcomer for having scared him like that. It was silly and irrational, but with the way his insides were still quivering from the shock, he thought a little bit of unjust irritation was excusable. He was about to open his mouth and call out to the man when the man suddenly turned around and went the other way. Two, three, four large steps, and then stopped. Turned around and walked up towards the doors of the prayhouse again. This time, he reached for the handles. Stopped. And turned around again. This was what he'd been doing before too, when Buck couldn't see him clearly. Pacing nervously.

Now Buck wanted to laugh. He didn't know if it was because post-shock hysterics were setting in, or because he found this image of the jittery mystery man hilarious, but he felt like he was going to start guffawing any second now. Then the man did something even stranger. He pulled off his hood, and ran his hand a couple of times through his locks. The movement was brisk, but vigorous, and not entirely a nervous gesture. Something gave Buck the impression that the man was now feverishly wishing he had a mirror.

He still couldn't see him very well, but the sight of that rich head of dark hair seemed familiar. He was still certain the man wasn't from Runrick, but he had met him somewhere before. The military? Was he here for him? He would've started worrying if not for the fact that he couldn't quite convince himself that that's where he knew him from.

The man arranged and rearranged his locks, then pulled up his hood, pulled it off again, picked at his tresses again, and pulled up the hood, this time for good, apparently. He then started to brush and smooth his clothes with his hands. As he bent down, he seemed to just notice how muddied his boots and lower side of his pants were, and cursed. He couldn't hear him that well either, but “Shit, should've at least changed these fucking pants!” sounded like a plausible conjecture. He saw him raise his shoulders and then lower them with an audible exhale. He was bracing himself for something.

Who was inside the prayhouse that made him so anxious? The man looked at the house resolutely, and almost rushed at it. With one motion he pulled open both large wooden doors, and stepped inside – a little too dramatically, if Buck were to be honest.

He had been so absorbed in his observations of the newcomer that it took him disappearing from view to snap Buck out of it and into action. Guess he was still a little woozy from that scare earlier. Either that or the lavender was finally kicking in. He looked at the slightly ajar double doors the man just walked through. He couldn't enter that way now, so he ran back around the corner and prayed Suisel had left the backdoor unlocked. He wanted to see what this was all about first before he let anyone know he was there.

The backdoor led to a small antechamber located at the far side of the left wall, right next to the main shrine. He could see the entire room and entrance from there, while still remaining relatively hidden from the congregation. He didn't need to bother with being discreet though, since everyone's back was turned to him. They were all now facing the newcomer that had interrupted their exclusive gathering. Something had just been said before he came in. Buck only caught the fading echoes of someone's voice resounding in the room. He was pretty sure it belonged to the stranger. What had he said?

The room wasn't as full as he had expected, but it was still quite the turn out. Seemed like not everyone was willing to brave the darkness after all. Their small prayhouse wouldn't have been able to fit in even a fifth of their town anyway; but Buck knew that should disaster strike them, and this building was the only safe place left, it would the people present here now that would be given sanctuary before anyone else. Especially those seated on the newly added benches in front, right next to the shrine. These people were Runrick's gentry. Chief Slatrim, the priest and his wife, Olvic with auntie Eshe, Ogette and Olle, ol' man Ceric, Gulver and his whole family, Piencer and his whole family, Furcut , Utmar – anyone who was either of higher rank or a rich merchant, or a boot-licker to one of them. The rest had to stand.

Chief Slatrim was the first to speak. “Who are you?” He slowly got up from his seat, a chair placed right in the middle of the dais, right before Baar's shrine, so he could overlook the gathering. Next to him, Priest Santr chimed in. “How dare you say that name in Baar's house,” he croaked, but remained cautiously seated.

Buck heard the stranger huff in amusement. “Funny, you didn't seem to have a problem with saying that name over and over again last time I was here.”

Last time. So, Buck had been right, he had met him before. He must have visited Runrick in the past, before Buck left for the military. That voice didn't sound at all familiar, though. If he could only see the man’s face, but it was still mostly obscured by the shadows of his cowl. He was also too far away from where Buck was hidden.

He was just standing there, a dark frame hovering in front of the entrance, and seemingly uninclined to come any closer than that. There was something ominous about his presence in here, a stark contrast to the almost comical little routine Buck had witnessed out-front. The others grew more agitated too. He saw Suisel sneak up to the priest and whisper something to him. The priest then nodded, and Suisel disappeared behind the shrine. He came back out holding a shot gun and went to stand behind Santr and his wife. Chief Slatrim had his helpers with him too. Shumper and Slaop left the wall they had been leaning against to take up their positions as the magistrate's sentinels. They were large, bulky men, practically raised by Slatrim to be his personal labor dogs. “Don't make me ask again,” roared the magistrate. “Who are you and what do you want?”

“You should know, you sent for me.”

There was moment of silence as everyone looked at the magistrate, but Chief Slatrim just stared back in confusion and replied in a low, angry voice “I didn' send for no one.”

“Is that so,” the man replied with fake surprise. “Oh dear, then that letter must have been about a different town named Runrick that is being plagued by a strange, dark-furred beast. Guess you folks don't need any help, then. My mistake. I'll take my leave.”

The entire room reacted at that. Chief Slatrim squelched the racket. “We do have...a problem,” the magistrate continued hesitantly,” but I don't remember sendin' anybody any letter.” He turned to look at Priest Santr questioningly. The priest shook his head, a little too urgently, “It wasn't me. I promised, didn't I.”

“It was me.”

Every head turned to look at Olvic. The merchant stood up, his face set in grim determination, but there was a little bit of guilt marring it. “I had to. There was no reasonin’ with ya no more.”

The room was quiet again, save for the sound of someone taking in a deep breath, and then releasing it slowly and unsteadily. The magistrate was furious, and fighting back his natural urge to start yelling. Slatrim was facing away from Buck, but he could already imagine the man's jaw quivering, teeth clenched and face flushed; those beady eyes peering sharply at Olvic. Slatrim had always had a bad temper, but it had gotten so much worse with age. He didn't take too well to being disobeyed, but Olvic wasn't someone he could push around easily. The head-merchant stood his ground. “We’re bein’ killed here, Slatrim. How many more 'til ya see we can't take care of this on our own?”

“If ya don't like how I run things, leave! Take ya own damn family and go!”

“I tried!” Olvic looked away in shame. “But Pelase won't take us. Said they don't want any of us comin' there. They're afraid we will bring misfortune, as well as that thing, with us.”

The room started buzzing with hushed discussions, people clearly concerned about what the merchant had just told them. It would seem quite a few of them had considered leaving the town themselves, and the news that it was no longer an option alarmed them.

“It gets worse,” Olvic continued,” they're thinking of blocking the road, so that none of us can leave. To keep the curse contained, they said.”

The buzz grew into an agitated commotion, people now outright frightened and despairing. It was one thing to not be welcomed anywhere else, quite another to be practically trapped in with the beast. Runrick only had one road that connected them to the outside world, and that led to Pelase. If they lost that, the only other way to leave would be through the forest, on foot, and that was practically suicide now.

Some yelled their outrage, others cried and moaned, but among the uproar Buck picked up one particular sound that took him completely aback. It wasn't loud, shouldn’t have been distinguishable in all that noise, but it was the dissonance that made it stand out so garishly. Everyone else started hearing it too, and slowly quieted down to look at the newcomer incredulously. The man was chuckling. When he noticed everyone staring at him, instead of stopping, he doubled down and started laughing. Soon, all that could be heard was the stranger's chilling laughter reverberate in the room. The magistrate's ire cut in. “This funny t'ya, boy?”

The man finally quelled his fit, but he kept his smile on. No, not a smile; that was a smirk. Even with him so far away, even without seeing that specific malicious glint in the eyes, Buck knew that there was disdain behind that upturn of the man's lips. It was wide enough to show a row of pearly white teeth, and there was something about that display that made Buck's blood run cold. He knew now, without a shadow of a doubt, that this man was trouble.

“Yes,” he replied earnestly. “Very. And I think neither you, or anyone else here, would hold it against me if they knew why?”

“Well, then why don't ya share it with the rest of us,” hissed the magistrate.

“Alright,” chirped the stranger.

He then started moving forward, walking casually towards them. People bustled to get out of his way, all eyes on him. He walked down the center of the nave with long, purposeful strides, right up to the magistrate. The shorter man tensed, Shumper and Sloap also ready to jump in to help their boss. The man didn't stop, didn't even slow down, as he went right passed the magistrate. The old man had wavered and stepped aside when it became clear it wasn't him the stranger had been walking towards. He casually passed between Shumper and Sloap, both towering over the hooded man, completely unfazed by their attempt to intimidate him with their fierce glower. He walked down the aisle and climbed up on the dais, looked at the chair Chief Slatrim had been sitting on, turned around, and plopped down on it. The uproar was back. The priest and his wife, who had been sitting next to the magistrate, now jumped out of their seats too. “This is insolence,” cried the priest, but made sure to get off the dais before he did so. Instead of responding, the man grabbed the now empty chair the priest had been sitting on and used it as a leg rest. Without so much as uttering a single word, the stranger had managed to insult both the magistrate and the priest more than they had ever been in their life. Not even his old teacher had ever gone so far. Buck wasn't particularly fond of either the magistrate or the priest, both having expressed their displeasure and disappointment in Buck harshly and condemning him to isolation without any remorse, but they were still his elders, and the leaders of his town. They still deserved some respect. Who is this cheeky little shit? He was close to Buck now, but the proximity didn't help any. His profile was covered by his hood, only a straight, sharp nose and a hint of lips peeking from behind it.

Chief Slatrim was still as a statue, only the muscles in his jaw twitching. He might have been a short-tempered, bitter old man, but he was shrewd enough to recognize a power play when he saw one. “Well?” he demanded. The man didn't reply immediately. Instead, he just kept staring at them. A slight rotation of the hood indicated that he was surveying the gathering, as if to take note of who was there. Buck made sure he was well hidden behind the corner of the room.

“Most of you were there that day, so you all should understand why I'm so pleased by all of this.”

The magistrate lost his patience “WELL?” he roared again. “Will ya just fucking explain yourself already?”

“Better than that,” the man chirped, “I'll show you.”

And the man pulled of his hood.

It didn't hit immediately. The anticipated reveal turned out to be underwhelming when the man's face didn't instantly tell Buck anything about his identity. But as he kept looking, it slowly came to him, bit by bit, separate pieces that he realized fit together. The more the puzzle filled out, the more familiar the image became.

The thick, black locks he had recognized outside suddenly appeared in a long-forgotten memory; a pale-faced boy sitting alone underneath a tree. The boy had deep dark eyes that always held a bit of resentment when looking at you, just like the man before him did now. The shape of the nose, the cut of his cheekbones, and everything else about his face matched a little with what he remembered. Some things were definitely different about him. He still had that same sickly complexion, but the dark circles under those eyes had disappeared, and his cheeks weren't sunken in anymore. He had filled out, you could tell. He was also radiating confidence now, to an obnoxious degree to be honest, whereas before he had been rather gloomy and skittish.

However, Buck's most glaring memory of him was that of his yellow-tinged pupils looking helplessly back at him, mouth too filled up with sharp teeth to speak properly. That memory was then followed by another one, just as vivid; the boy, bruised and beaten, was furiously yelling at them, the raw hatred in his voice and Ogette's frightened sobs spurring Buck into action. The last thing he did to Luric, before he left town to be raised and trained by one of the most prominent and powerful families in the country, was hurl a rock at his head.

“Shit.”

It was only when he saw Luric blink in surprise and begin to slowly turn his head in his direction that Buck realized he had said that out loud. And Luric had heard. He immediately pulled his head back behind the corner, twisting so that his entire backside was now plastered against the wall between them. Buck needed the support; his legs were shaking. He was breathing hard, his heartbeat loud in his ears. Had he been fast enough? Had Luric seen him? He tried to listen if footsteps were coming his way, but there was nothing. He didn't dare peek around the corner anymore, so he kept his ears open.

Meanwhile, recollection started to dawn on the rest of the townsfolk as well. Buck could tell by the higher pitch and urgency in their voices, and the tumult kept escalating as doubt and confusion dissipated, and realization struck; the past had come back to bite them in the ass at the worst possible time.

“It can't be him.”

“No! No, no!”

“Are ya kiddin' me?!”

“There is no way, it's not him.”

“I told ya all. I told ya he'd come back someday. I said it!”

They were getting hysterical, just moments away from running out the door. Luric was here for vengeance, they were certain of that. So was Buck. He felt like at any moment he'd change into that horrible creature and maul everyone in the room. Buck's fears would come true in the most unexpected way. Same scenario, different monster.

“QUIET,” Chief Slatrim's voice thundered, and everyone got shocked into silence. Buck leaned his head forward only slightly, just enough for the chief to appear into his line of sight, but not enough to be visible from Luric's position. At least, that’s what he hoped. The magistrate had a steely glare fixed forward, almost as if he was trying to stare Luric down. Buck heard the preacher shriek at the merchant. “Who in Baar's beard did you write to?”

“To...the Institute of Occult Science or somethin'.”

“You what?”

“I have friends in Pelase. Or I used to. Before things got too bad, I sat down with Kishker. He has a cousin' down in Ratimu, and he said that they had their own troubles with a damned creature too. They sent for someone from the Institute. They came and got rid of it. That's what they do, they send people to kill these things.”

“Ya sure 'bout that?”, the magistrate rumbled. “As I recall, they said somethin' 'bout rounding 'em up to use the damned things.”

Shut up, you stupid, pig-headed old man, Buck thought anxiously. The magistrate was set to prove that Luric didn't scare him, but the barb could cost everyone their lives. The preacher and Olvic thought so too, and hurried to move past that loaded little moment. “D-Does it matter,” stuttered the merchant,

“if they took it with'em instead? Ratimu got rid of it all the same.”

“Does this look like we're in good hands to you?”

“Well, I didn't know they'd send him, now did I?”

Great! The last thing they needed now was for the priest and the merchant to go off at each other like they always did at the alehouse. But Luric's voice cut all of that short.

“I could leave if you want.”

What?

“What?”

“You're not obligated to accept our help. You are the town officials, after all. Just say the word, and I'm gone.”

This time Buck did look all the way around at Luric. This was a taunt, it had to be. The chief thought so too. “Really, now? Ya' not here t' finish what ya started? Or watch us get eaten by one o' yours? How are we t’know this isn’t all yer doin’.”

If you suspect that, don’t say it to his fucking face! Buck wanted to punch the magistrate right in his stupid, wrinkled mug. This stubborn old man will be the end of them.

“I mean it,” Luric continued as if the magistrate’s accusation wasn’t worth wasting a single thought on. “I'll go, if that's what you want.” Another commotion, another wave of doubt and hope. Buck saw Slatrim narrow his eyes in suspicion, but opened his mouth to speak. Luric cut in before he had a chance to say anything.

“However,” he started loudly, “don't expect anyone else to come in my place. The only reason they even sent someone all the way in the middle of no-one-gives-a-fuck was because of me. Because I volunteered. No one else was interested in coming to this pigpen of a town. Your case wasn't exactly high on our list of priorities.” He leaned forward and leered at them, smirk wide again. “Now, I'm telling you to consider this carefully: You have a monster creeping around and picking you off one by one. You can't get get rid of it on your own, and you can't escape it either, now that Pelase cut you off. Winter is fast approaching too, and once you're snowed in, it's over. I assume you're not doing too well with provisions either, what with that thing killing your animals, and trade with the outside stopping completely.” He leaned back in his chair. “So, I'm asking you just once. Do you really want me to go?”

Buck was stumped. Everything Luric had just said was right. They were trapped, in more ways than one. And with a great number of Runrick's young men either dead or wounded thanks to Buck, their greatly diminished man power left them weakened not only in the face of this threat, but in the face of the merciless winter as well. What choice did they have?

Buck had come here with the intention of offering his sacrifice in exchange for their safety and forgiveness, but he doubted he'd receive more trust and jubilation than Luric. But...were Luric's motives as honest as he proclaimed? Was it wise to accept the help of someone who had once wished death upon them? He thought again of the young boy screaming at them, eyes mad and fangs bared.

“Do you speak the truth? Are you really here to save us?”

Luric looked at the priest. “I'm here to kill the monster. That’s all.”

“What can you do alone, that a dozen of our strong, young men couldn't,” yelled a brave voice from a safe distance.

Luric started laughing. “Well, I could give you all a demonstration of what it is exactly that makes me special and best suited for this job, but…I think you all already know.”

Everyone fell silent at that. Priest Santr kept glancing over at Slatrim, as if expecting him to say something. The old man was oddly silent, eyes still locked on Luric. Luric then sighed and reached inside his coat. He brought out a small hand book and tossed it at the priest's feet.

Santr hesitated but bent over to pick it up. Buck noted how he tried to touch it with only the tips of his fingers. He opened it, and his eyes grew large. He leafed through it, disgust more evident with every turn of the page. “What are these vile drawings supposed to be?”

“Those are renditions of the monsters I personally fought and killed,” Luric explained casually. “Consider that my letter of recommendation.”

Slatrim turned to look at the book then, and several other people behind them slithered closer to peek at it. Various exclamations of amazement and horror could be heard. Buck really wished he could get a look at it himself. “These things,” the priest started, “do they really roam our earth so freely?”

“Those don't anymore, but many more like them, or worse, do.”

“Great Mother of Baar!”

People whispered some more. There was a shift in the tone, Buck noted. Less trepidation, more debate. People were starting to consider.

“You'll note that most of those pages are empty. It gets filled with every monster I bring down. It depends on you whether or not the next page will have a drawing of your creature or not.”

The debate grew more heated.

Buck dared another look at Luric. There was a pensive expression on his face as he watched the townsfolk talk amongst themselves. No, not pensive; it was cold and calculating.

“Do you finally understand what it was that the Duchess meant then? Why she traveled the country to find people like me?” All attention was on him again. “What you didn't understand back then is that there is a difference between a real monster and a man that change into one at will. Unlike you, she still regarded me as human...just with extra abilities that could be harnessed for the benefit of fine people such as yourself. You all know the saying 'fight fire with fire', don't you? Well, that's what this is. What you saw as a curse, she saw as an enhancement. A fire in us that could be used against creatures like the one you have now.” A pause as Luric leaned forward again, elbows on his knees. He peered into the crowd, an almost gentle smile om his lips. “I wonder, if you hadn't made me leave,” another pause,” if I had still been around when the creature first appeared, maybe, just maybe, I could've stopped it. Maybe nobody had to die.”

The crowd erupted. Luric's words had struck their target dead-center. It was especially effective because the gathering was full of people who had lost someone to the monster, and their pain fueled the contention that was blooming in their mind. For the first time since Buck could remember, people were questioning the magistrate’s choices.

“YOU DID THIS!” Slatrim's ear-piercing roar echoed for what seemed like an eternity, promptly silencing the talk and the direction it was heading in. This had always been his method of garnering attention and securing orderliness; coerce everyone into submission with the force of his vehemency. The man was so convinced of his and everyone else's place in this community, and he bludgeoned that conviction into everyone else's head too. People questioning his decision was unfathomable, which is probably why Buck thought there was a hint of alarm in his eyes. “Ya brought this upon us! Back then, when ya cursed us. This is ya doin'! Ya just here t'see it through!”

“Didn't you listen back then, old man!? That's not how it works. I can't-”

“ I don't give am damn what that lyin' bitch told ya!”

Oh, no. Oh shit!

The magistrate was trying to bring back everyone on his side and did so with all the subtlety and finesse of a sledgehammer. Slatrim saw that he was losing ground, and the man was nothing if not territorial.

Buck held his breath and waited for hell to break loose at Luric’s hands.

“I see,” Luric said with eerie calmness. “Well, guess that settles it then. Sorry to have wasted your time.”

“Wait!” That was Olvic. “Don't go. It is as you said. Ya leave, it's over for us.”

“Olvic!” yelled the magistrate.

“No, Slatrim. This time YOU listen! I will not let my family die because of yer pride and stubbornness.” He then turned to the rest. “What choice do we have? We can't save ourselves, that has been made clear. Don't y'all want this to be over? To stop fearing for ya life and that of ya loved ones?” Another buzz, and then-

“Baar's beard, I do.”

“Olvic's right, this has got to stop!”

“I want it gone!”

“Kill that wretched thing! Kill it!”

“We want vengeance for our son!”

“I want t'see its fuckin' head on a spike!”

And just like that, the current turned around completely in Luric’s favor. Where before there had been only apprehension and distrust, now there was anger-fueled exaltation, and it was only growing in intensity with each interjection. Buck understood it where it was coming from. They had all been living in a permanent state of fear and despair, and this was the first whiff of true hope they had gotten in weeks. It was what had helped Buck gain support for his attempt too. They needed release for all that built-up tension, and Luric had come in and opened the flood gates. Buck could practically taste their gratitude.

There was enough common sense left in Slatrim to understand that even his iron grip couldn't hold this back, so he endured it, mutely and stone-faced. The priest, on the other hand, tried to shrink and disappear.

Buck looked back at Luric again. His gaze was directed downwards, eyes hidden behind his bangs. He was smiling again. Luric had smiled a lot since he came here. And not once had it looked kind or genuine to Buck. All of his smiles had been disquieting, but this one in particular worried him. Just as he was trying to figure out what it could mean, Olvic's shout drew his attention.

“Apologize, Slatrim! Tell 'im to stay and help us!”

Oh,dear!

Obviously encouraged by the support, Olvic rounded on Slatrim. There was another power play becoming evident now, Buck realized.

Then Luric's voice cut in again. “I think we're well past apologies, wouldn't you say?”

The room calmed. Luric suddenly got up, all hints of a smile gone. He stood tall and imposing, the platform he was on only adding to this air of dominance. He raised his chin slightly, and though his eyes were looking down on Slatrim and Santr, Buck knew he was addressing everyone there. “I want you to beg for my help.”

The chill in his voice sent a shiver down Buck's spine.

“B-Beg, my lord?”

“'My lord'? Wow,” Luric chuckled. “Quite a step up from 'bastard of Shulffa'. And let's not forget 'spawn of a whore', 'wretch', 'mongrel', 'sheep shit'. Some of those I think were even before we found out about my condition. Those really hurt, I tell you. But you know what hurt even more? Getting kicked and punched in the head and stomach repeatedly. Any of you remember that?”

The room was deathly still. Buck was afraid to even breath.

“I remember everything clearly. I begged. I begged you to stop, I begged you for help, I begged you for forgiveness, even though I had done nothing that warranted your forgiveness. None of you cared. You kept hitting and spitting on me. Do you remember? It happened right here.”

People were whispering again. The apprehension was back.

“So yeah, I really am fucking pleased about this. I think you're getting just what you deserved. For what you did to me and to Mr. Carshtin. And for your sake-” he eyed Slatrim and Santr, who were frozen in place “- I'd try not to spout that bullshit again about me being the one that attacked and killed him. Not in my presence. I was there, I saw who did it. I don’t know if you’ll ever admit to giving the order, but there’s never been any doubt in my mind that you were behind it.” Slatrim had the good sense to keep his mouth shut this time.

“So, you really are here for vengeance, then.”

As soon as the questions left his mouth, Buck started praying that he had yelled it loud enough for it to bounce of the walls and make it harder to discern where the voice had come from. Luric seemed caught enough in his own descant to not care about who had just spoken. He just raised his glare towards the cluster of confused faces.

“Don't worry,” Luric answered to no one in particular, “ I will only do what I was sent here to do. I will not raise my hand to hurt any of you. You're not worth the effort. Not to mention that I don't want to touch any of you. I will kill the monster and do nothing else. But as I said, only if you beg.”

There was no mistaking the malice in his voice. Buck had been right to suspect that he was here for far more than what he claimed. This was all about getting back at them. But that knowledge didn't change their circumstances in the end. Luric really was their best bet at getting rid of it, assuming of course his oath of not raising his hand against them was true. If not, Runrick's bloody plight had just gotten bloodier.

The townsfolk were restless, some already pushing for Slatrim to start begging, others still reluctant. There was no clear cohesion among the masses anymore.

Even with Luric's contempt laid so plainly before them, some were still willing to take their chances with him. Luric had dangled hope in front of their faces, and they had all taken the bait. Now they were hooked on his promise of salvation.

“I'm not beggin' for nothin'! Y'all wanna sell ya' soul to Shulffa's bastard, go ahead!” Slatrim’s stance was firm, but Buck couldn't help but notice that the fire had gone out of his voice somewhat.

“Pigheaded fool! Do our lives mean nothing t’ya?” Olivic pushed himself forward through the crowd and threw himself at Luric’s feet. “Please! I beg ya, my lord, help us! Take yer anger out on me if you wish, but help us!” It was quite the show, and the audience was clearly moved. After all, nothing garnered admiration and devotion more than the willingness to sacrifice yourself for others. Luric’s cocked one eyebrow at Olvic’s gesture, one corner of his lips slightly upturned. He seemed a little impressed, but a whole lot more amused. He saw right through it. Buck was just close enough to see him mutter something under his breath. He was pretty sure it was something along the lines of, “Sly bastard.” For whatever reason, he went along with Olivic's game.

“I suppose that will have to do for now,” he said, while staring at Olvic’s bowed head. “Tomorrow, I will set out to find the thing.” He was speaking to Slatrim again. “I want you to prepare all documentation regarding the monster, so I can have a better understanding of what I am dealing with here. Expect me and my colleague around noon.” With that, he stepped down from the podium and strode towards the exit. This time even Shumper and Slaop jumped out of the way. As he passed Slatrim, Luric paused, as if he just remembered something else he wanted to say to the magistrate. “Oh, and by the way” he leaned in, voice low yet still audible in the silent room. “I know I said I wouldn’t hurt anyone, but if you ever say anything disrespectful about Lady Archvel again, I will kill you.” And without waiting for a reply, he continued towards the door. Before he walked out, he looked over at Utmar. “I’m staying at your inn, just so you know.” A screech, a loud clang, and he was gone.

Everyone stood in shocked silence.

They all had trouble wrapping their head around what had just happened. Buck too was absolutely stunned. Talk about an unexpected turn of events. So much for his attempt at redemption; how could he even compete with Luric waltzing in and stealing the show like that? If Luric really was as strong and capable as he claimed, then there was absolutely nothing left for Buck to do.

But….

Again, the image of that furious little boy flashed before his eyes, and the feeling in his gut tightened. Was it wise to leave their lives in the hands of someone who despised them so profoundly? Luric still held a burning grudge towards them, that much was clear. As long as he delivered on his promise and nothing else, then it didn’t matter, but it was hard to imagine that he’d be satisfied with simply verbally browbeating his past abusers while he was here.

Something about this just isn’t right.

When he heard the others move, Buck quietly slipped away through the back door. He needed to get home before his parents noticed his absence.

No, it was better to tell them where he’d been, and who he had seen. This way it will be easier to convince them to stay inside the house the next few days. He turned to look towards the square, in the direction he assumed Luric would be walking to get to Utmar’s inn. He swore he could still make out the blackness of his cape in the dark, right before he merged with it.

#fantasy novel #horror #the shadows in runrick #dark fantasy #writing #I can’t keep a consistent update schedule to save my life

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cannibalcreeps · 7 months

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Loveliest Creeps can i get uhhh Three-finger realising he's caught the dreaded Feelings™ for the reader and how you think he might go about making his interest known to them?

yknow I'mma make a new story with these boys and reader >w> ---------- You had been working for the old man for about 5 months in now, Three-Fingers had noticed, working at that shitty little gas station him and his two brothers would sometimes go to so they could fill up the ol' truck, after all their old man never stopped them. The first time the brothers spotted you was when you bolted inside the store of the gas station with Maynard, while Saw-Tooth filled up the truck. Both Three-Fingers and One-Eye tried to find ways in, tapping at the windows and doors, cackling at you and the old man. You on the other hand, were shitting bricks with the old man, confused and wild eyed. Yes Maynard had warned you, he sure as hell warned you that there were three giant ass men that came and stole his shit and to never call the police, never tell anyone because you would be in a world of hurt. You were so unsure about taking this extra hand job but no other place would pay a good wage or give you proper days off, with Maynard he gave you both Tuesday and Friday afternoons off once 1pm hit and the weekend off, along with a surprisingly decent paycheck, though under the table, and to take whatever from the store for lunch as long as it was under $10 which you thought fair. How this man was paying you $300 a week was a mystery on its own, but you thought having to just hide every 3rd week from some scary men was worth it, even if sketchy. Seeing them though, holy shit you almost passed out, they were huge and deformed, looking like killer slashers from horror movies. Them banging at the windows didn't help, but the old man just ushered you to keep it quiet. After the five months though, you were practically scrolling through tiktok or instagram as you stayed locked inside while the three men raided the place from outside, you didn't even hide yourself despite the old man's protest but really it was only the two smaller ones who did all the stupid faces outside the windows while the largest just filled up the truck with the most brain dead look on his face. The scrawny pointy nose ferret one though, always stared at you as he made his faces and mocking threats, you ended up actually giving him a dirty look once and stuck out your tongue which surprised and amused the grimy man. Ever since you did that, Three-Fingers couldn't stop thinking bout you for weeks, to the point he was daydreaming and getting on his brothers nerves with how distracted he was. Any time they came past, he wanted them to stop even if they didn't need too, getting a bit mean towards One-Eye by chasing him off if he got too close to any window you were by. He wanted to catch you outside just once, he had no idea what he would do but he'd make sure his brothers didn't lay a finger on you, like a spoilt child not wanting to share a toy. These thought were really hitting him though, was he actually catching feelings or was it just a weird obsession. His two brothers were catching on, they weren't stupid and knew when a sibling was catching some sort of feelings towards victims, though they didn't mind as long as it didn't affect their lively hood. Really you had better hope he never got you when you weren't inside that damn station, sure he could just smash his way in but where was the fun in that, also his old man would probably lose his shit, as much as Maynard was a nuisance he still was their dad. But what the boys didn't know, even if they tried to camp out the place, was that Maynard was picking you up from a bit up the road so as to make sure the three idiots didn't just try and grab you when driving up. Either way, that man was going to find a way to get to you and you will eventually learn about his intentions and feelings towards you very fast with how aggressively handsy that man could be. Most likely he was going to end up catching you and the old stinker slacking and just kidnap you, but for now he made kissy faces and bared his teeth at you through the cracks in the windows.

#i'm'ma just say that Maynard pays through the money he takes from his kids victims and he's actually sitting on a shit ton of money #au! Maynard is actually rich but just doesn't give a shit bout money cause his cannibal kids sure don't #hope you enjoyed this one my friend UwU #wrong turn ask #wrong turn answer

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canmom · 2 months

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VR observations, 10 months in

I've been a game dev for 10 months now. It's pretty great, I'm enjoying it a lot, I get to spend my days doing crazy shader shit and animations and voxels and visual effects. Hopefully the game that will come out of all this will be one people enjoy, and in any case I'm learning so much that will eventually come back to the personal ~artistic~ side of things. I can't talk about that game just yet though (but soon it will be announced, I'm pretty sure). So this is a post about other games.

Mind you, I don't actually play very many VR games, or games in general these days, because I'm too busy developing the dang things. but sometimes I do! And I think it's interesting to talk about them.

These aren't really reviews as such. You could project all sorts of ulterior motives if it was. Like my livelihood does sorta depend on people buying VR headsets and then games on them. This is more just like things I observe.

Headsets

The biggest problem with VR at the moment is wearing a headset for too long kinda sucks. The weight of the headset is all effectively held on a lever arm and it presses on your face. However, this is heavily dependent on the strap you use to hold it to your head. A better balanced and cushioned strap can hold the headset still with less pressure and better balance the forces.

The strap that comes with the Quest 3 is absolute dogshit. So a big part of the reason I wouldn't play VR games for fun is because after wearing the headset for 30-60 minutes in the daily meeting, the absolute last thing I'd want to do is wear it any longer. Recently I got a new strap (a ~£25 Devaso one, the low end of straps), and it's markedly improved. It would probably be even better if I got one of the high end Bobo straps. So please take it from me: if you wanna get into VR, get a decent strap.

I hear the Apple Vision Pro is a lot more comfortable to wear for long periods, though I won't have a chance to try it until later this month.

During the time I've been working at Holonautic, Meta released their Quest 3, and more recently Apple released their hyper expensive Vision Pro for much fanfare.

The Quest 3 is a decent headset and probably the one I'd recommend if you're getting into VR and can afford a new console. It's not a massive improvement over the Quest 2 - the main thing that's better is the 'passthrough' (aka 'augmented reality', the mode where the 3D objects are composited into video of what's in front of you), which is now in full colour, and feels a lot less intrusive than the blown out greyscale that the Quest 2 did. But it still has some trouble with properly taking into account depth when combining the feeds from multiple cameras, so you get weird space warping effects when something in the foreground moves over something in the background.

The Vision Pro is by all accounts the bees knees, though it costs $3500 and already sold out, so good luck getting one. It brings a new interaction mode based on eye tracking, where you look at a thing with your eyes to select it like with a mouse pointer, and hold your hands in your lap and pinch to interact. Its passthrough is apparently miles ahead, it's got a laptop tier chip, etc etc. I'm not gonna talk about that though, if you want to read product reviews there are a million places you can do it.

Instead I wanna talk about rendering, since I think this is something that only gets discussed among devs, and maybe people outside might be interested.

Right now there is only one game engine that builds to the Vision Pro, which is Unity. However, Apple have their own graphics API, and the PolySpatial API used for the mixed reality mode is pretty heavily locked down in terms of what you can do.

So what Unity does is essentially run a transpilation step to map its own constructs into PolySpatial ones. For example, say you make a shader in Shader Graph (you have to use shader graph, it won't take HLSL shaders in general) - Unity will generate a vision pro compatible shader (in MaterialX format) from that. Vertex and fragment shaders mostly work, particle systems mostly don't, you don't get any postprocessing shaders, anything that involves a compute shader is right out (which means no VFX graph), Entities Graphics doesn't work. I don't think you get much control over stuff like batching. It's pretty limited compared to what we're used to on other platforms.

I said fragment shaders mostly work. It's true that most Shader Graph nodes work the same. However, if you're doing custom lighting calculations in a Unity shader, a standard way to do things is to use the 'main light' property provided by Unity. On the Vision Pro, you don't get a main light.

The Vision Pro actually uses an image-based lighting model, which uses the actual room around you to provide lighting information. This is great because objects in VR look like they actually belong in the space you're in, but it would of course be a huge security issue if all programs could get realtime video of your room, and I imagine the maths involved is pretty complex. So the only light information you get is a shader graph node which does a PBR lighting calculation based on provided parameters (albedo, normal, roughness, metallicity etc.). You can then instruct it to do whatever you want with the output of that inside the shader.

The upshot of this is that we have to make different versions of all our shaders for the Vision Pro version of the game.

Once the game is announced we'll probably have a lot to write about developing interactions for the vision pro vs the quest, so I'll save that for now. It's pretty fascinating though.

Anyway, right now I've still yet to wear a Vision Pro. Apple straight up aren't handing out devkits, we only have two in the company still, so mostly I'm hearing about things second hand.

Shores of Loci

A few genres of VR game have emerged by now. Shooting and climbing are two pretty well-solved problems, so a lot of games involve that. But another one is 3D puzzles. This is something that would be incredibly difficult on a flat screen, where manipulating 3D objects is quite difficult, but becomes quite natural and straightforward in VR.

I've heard about one such game that uses 3D scans of real locations, but Shores of Loci is all about very environment artist authored levels, lots of grand sweeping vistas and planets hanging in the sky and so on. Basically you go through a series of locations and assemble teetering ramshackle buildings and chunks of landscape, which then grow really big and settle into the water. You can pull the pieces towards you with your hand, and then when you rotate them into roughly the right position and orientation relative to another piece, they snap together.

It's diverting, if kinda annoying when you just can't find the place the piece should go - especially if the answer turns out to be that there's an intermediate piece that floated off somewhere. The environments are well-designed and appealing, it's cool to see the little guys appearing to inhabit them. That said it does kinda just... repeat that concept a bunch. The narrative is... there's a big stone giant who appears and gives you pieces sometimes. That's it basically.

Still, it's interesting to see the different environment concepts. Transitions have this very cool distorted sky/black hole effect.

However, the real thing that got me with this game, the thing that I'm writing about now, was the water. They got planar reflections working. On the Quest! This is something of a white whale for me. Doing anything that involves reading from a render texture is so expensive that it's usually a no-go, and yet here it's working great - planar reflections complete with natural looking distortion from ripples. There's enough meshes that I assume there must be a reasonably high number of draw calls, and yet... it's definitely realtime planar reflections, reflections move with objects, it all seems to work.

There's a plugin called Mirrors and Reflections for VR that provides an implementation, but so far my experience has been that the effect is too expensive (in terms of rendertime) to keep 72fps in a more complex scene. I kind of suspect the devs are using this plugin, but I'm really curious how they optimised the draw calls down hard enough to work with it, since there tends to be quite a bit going on...

Moss

This game's just straight up incredibly cute.

youtube

Third person VR games, where you interact with a character moving across a diorama-like level, are a tiny minority of VR games at the moment. I think it's a shame because the concept is fantastic.

Moss is a puzzle-platformer with light combat in a Redwall/Mouse Guard-like setting. The best part of Moss is 1000% interacting with your tiny little mousegirl, who is really gorgeously animated - her ears twitch, her tail swings back and forth, she tumbles, clambers, and generally moves in a very convincing and lifelike way.

Arguably this is the kind of game that doesn't need to be made in VR - we already have strong implementations of 'platformer' for flatscreen. What I think the VR brings in this case is this wonderful sense of interacting with a tiny 3D world like a diorama. In some ways it's sorta purposefully awkward - if Quill walks behind something, you get a glowing outline, but you might need to crane your neck to see her - but having the level laid out in this way as a 3D structure you can play with is really endearing.

Mechanically, you move Quill around with the analogue stick, and make her jump with the buttons, standard stuff. Various level elements can be pushed or pulled by grabbing them with the controllers, and you can also drag enemies around to make them stand on buttons, so solving a level is a combination of moving pieces of the level and then making Quill jump as appropriate.

The fact that you're instantiated in the level, separate from Quill, also adds an interesting wrinkle in terms of 'identification with player character'. In most third person games, you tend to feel that the player character is you to some degree. In Moss, it feels much more like Quill is someone I've been made responsible for, and I feel guilty whenever I accidentally make her fall off a cliff or something.

A lot is clearly designed around fostering that protective vibe - to heal Quill, you have to reach out and hold her with your hand, causing her to glow briefly. When you complete some levels, she will stop to give you a high five or celebrate with you. Even though the player is really just here as 'puzzle solver' and 'powerful macguffin', it puts some work in to make you feel personally connected to Quill.

Since the camera is not locked to the character, the controls are instead relative to the stage, i.e. you point the stick in the direction on the 2D plane you want Moss to move. This can make certain bits of platforming, like moving along a narrow ledge or tightrope, kinda fiddly. In general it's pretty manageable though.

The combat system is straightforward but solid enough. Quill has a three button string, and it can be cancelled into a dash using the jump button, and directed with the analogue stick. Enemies telegraph their attacks pretty clearly, so it's rarely difficult, but there's enough there to be engaging.

The game is built in Unreal, unlike most Quest games (almost all are made in Unity). It actually doesn't feel so very different though - likely because the lighting calculations that are cheap enough to run in Unity are the same ones that are cheap enough to run in Unreal. It benefits a lot from baked lighting. Some things are obvious jank - anything behind where the player is assumed to be sitting tends not to be modelled or textured - but the environments are in general very lively and I really like some of the interactions: you can slash through the grass and floating platforms rock as you jump onto them.

The story is sadly pretty standard high fantasy royalist chosen one stuff, nothing exciting really going on there. Though there are some very cute elements - the elf queen has a large frog which gives you challenges to unlock certain powers, and you can pet the frog, and even give it a high five. Basically all the small scale stuff is done really well, I just wish they'd put some more thought into what it's about. The Redwall/Mouse Guard style has a ton of potential - what sort of society would these sapient forest animals have? They just wanted a fairytale vibe though evidently.

Cutscene delivery is a weak point. You pull back into a cathedral-like space where you're paging through a large book, which is kinda cool, and listening to narration while looking at illustrations. In general I think these cutscenes would have worked better if you just stayed in the diorama world and watched the characters have animated interactions. Maybe it's a cost-saving measure. I guess having you turn the pages of the book is also a way to give you something to do, since sitting around watching NPCs talk is notoriously not fun in VR.

There are some very nice touches in the environment design though! In one area you walk across a bunch of human sized suits of armour and swords that are now rusting - nobody comments, but it definitely suggests that humans did exist in this world at some point. The actual puzzle levels tend to make less sense, they're very clearly designed as puzzles first and 'spaces people would live in' not at all, but they do tend to look pretty, and there's a clear sense of progression through different architectural areas - so far fairly standard forest, swamp, stone ruins etc. but I'll be curious to see if it goes anywhere weird with it later.

Weak story aside, I'm really impressed with Moss. Glad to see someone else giving third person VR a real shot. I'm looking forward to playing the rest of it.

...that's kinda all I played in a while huh. For example, I still haven't given Asgard's Wrath II, the swordfighting game produced internally at Meta that you get free on the Quest 3, a shot. Or Boneworks. I still haven't finished Half Life Alyx, even! Partly that's because the Quest 3 did not get on well with my long USB A to C cable - for some reason it only seems to work properly on a high quality C to C cable - and that restricts me from playing PCVR games that require too much movement. Still though...

Anyway, the game I've been working on these past 10 months should be ready to announce pretty soon. So I'm very excited for that.

#vr #computer games #game development #shores of loci #moss #Youtube

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