#sleep inside the ghostly maw

[heartfullofleeches]

Ok so what if, this was before static knew that sleeping didn't mean dying, reader decided to take a nap at the house y'know what would happen

The door to the house creaks open with a ghostly cry. Your footstep weigh against the aged wood as you enter. Quietly, you call out. "Hello?"

The settling of the house is the only reply. You furrow your brows, stepping further into the abandoned dwelling as you look about. Its sole resident had summoned you to the place through messages in your head; waking you in the early hours of morning, just because it messed you that badly.

"Static?" You whisper-shout up the stairwell. Nothing, just like before. You exhale, walking into the living room for your next stop. Another call, another reach of your voice against empty wall. You groan. Rubbing the exhaustion from your eyes, you look down at the couch against the back wall. Besides a few tears in the back cushion, it looked like heaven right about now. You decide that if they want to see you so badly, they'll come out eventually and head over to rest. Not even a second passes after your head hits the arm rest and you're out.

-

Within the kitchen; behind a little wooden door, scratches against metal could be heard from inside. From the basement, Static climbs up the elevator shaft to the first floor; wedging the fingers of its free hand under the door and crawling out to the titled floor below. Standing to full height and stretching its constricted limbs; it then checks on its passenger tucked under its right arm.

It was a teddy bear; stuffed in a chest in the basement and kept from the damage of time. A yellow bow sat atop its fuzzy, cream colored chest; its outfit completed with a pair of small overalls with a heart stitched into it. Its left eye was green and smaller than its black right one; various patches of its body sewn back together over covered with patchwork fabrics. It was a item cared for with love and affection from its previous owner; just like what Static had for you.

Static chitters as it glides across the kitchen floor; calling out to you in its own special way. It thought it had hear noises earlier, but the house was now full of the silence it had grown used to. It fails to spot you as it first leaves the room; poking its head into the living room with more clicks leaving its throat. It shuffles out into the open area, and that's when it sees you.

Your eyes were closed; chest riding and falling so gently it doesn't notice the small moments. It kneels beside you, poking at your face with a single skeletal finger. You don't move. You look so peaceful. The only other time it could recall a human looking like that was when they had passed on...

They suddenly stiffen. They grip your shoulders; shaking you gently as worried moans spill from their stitched lips. Somehow, you manage to sleep through it all; your face scruching up as its wispy hair tickles your nose. It doesn't even think to do the logical option of calling out to you. A dark fluid begins to leak from its eyes; flowing like tar and bubbling out like lava. It shakes you harder and that's when you begin to stir; only for you to woken abruptly by a sharp; splitting screech.

The sound comes from both Static's unhinged maw, and the back of your mind; static electricity shooting through your skull like pop rocks. You could hear every emotion it felt through its cry. Sadness, anger, fear. Its claws tear through the fabric of your shirt; gripping the skin almost painfully right. By a miracle, you manage to tear free from their grasp as you cover your ears and try to shout over them.

"Static! What's wrong?!"

Its cries come to a halt; tears silly drooping from its large eyes as it stares at you. It groans softly as its expression softens; making direct eye contact with you.

"Y/n..?"

Its raspy voice echos in your head; still drenched in grief.

"Yes, it's me. What happened?"

Its shoulders slump.

"I was... afraid."

You pull your hands down from your ringing ears. "Afraid of what?"

It pauses.

"Lost you.."

"You thought I was dead? I was just sleeping.

"Sleep?"

Its head tilts in confession. You sigh. "Yea, it's something humans need to regain energy."

Static knew what that was; just never knew there was a word for it. There were times when its body began to heavy to lug around; and so they would collapse until they had the strength to move. They pull their eyes away from yours; glancing at the floor. You look in the direction of their stare; eyeing the little bear on the floor.

"Did... you bring this for me?" You pick up the bear, slightly surprised at the quality. It nods; lowering its head into your lap while stilling looking up at you. You comb your fingers through its hair.

"I love it, Static. Sorry for making you worry."

It leans into your touch; purring at the contact. It thinks back to when you were asleep; how at peace you looked. With the fear of the time over, they longed to see you like that again and would do anything to ensure you got the rest you needed in the future.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere scenarios #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere oc #yandere insert #yandere monster #soft yandere #monster x reader #monster x human #monster lover #static my oc

[c-rose2081]

Mess Not With a Resting Dragon

Love Like Dragons AU

Bevie | Huma | Gildry | Mal & Audrey BROTP

—

Audrey the Aurorian Dragon wasn’t a fan of being cold. Unlike Mal — Evie’s five-year-old Isle Dragon — who loved lurking around corners, under furniture, and inside cupboards; Audrey was quite opposite. She spent her lazy afternoons basking in warm sunlight on clear branches or at window sills. She lounged by the oven door when Evie was baking, played in rolls of fabric left behind while Evie was designing, and slept at night on a well heated perch next to her and Ben’s shared bed. The creature was very much her husbands little Princess, and Audrey was sure Evie knew this as well.

Currently, Ben was out of town. Evie had been watching both dragons closely, as Mal had only just recovered from a Dragon Cold. It had taken only a few days of Ben’s week long getaway for Evie to notice something weird going on with Audrey. Though she would be there in the morning on her perch, as always, she seemed lethargic and snappish. She ate regularly though, and played a bit. So Evie thought perhaps she was simply missing Ben, as he very rarely went away without her.

In the mornings, Evie would let the Dragons out, and leave the door to the porch open while she worked on her designs in the Den. Mal came and went often — nothing weird there — but her pink counterpart often stayed outside all day long. This was unusual, because the weather was getting colder as Summer began its annual shift into Fall. Evie was well aware that Audrey was a priss about her body temperature, and it was odd of her to stay out so long without even coming inside to eat. Halfway through the week, despite a late Summer drizzle rolling in from Atlantica’s direction, Audrey refused to come back inside. Period.

Evie tried to wrestle her out of the garden, but was shocked to retrieve a sharp nip on the hand. It wasn’t a malicious bite; Mal’s play wrestling was often far worse. But it was a bite none the less, and Evie had never been bitten by Audrey before. As she had when Mal caught a cold, Evie began her usual routine of worrying. What if something was wrong? What if Audrey caught something from Mal? What if she died while Ben was away and came home to find his Princess gone?

At once Evie was filled with dread. She wanted to call her husband, to tell him what was going on and how she didn’t have Uma’s number to call her for help. But he trusted her to watch the ‘kids’ (as he referred sometimes), while he was away. And Evie didn’t want to disappoint him. After all, it was only a week. She should’ve been able to handle a week at home by herself.

Instead of calling Ben, Evie dawned her bad weather gear and began watching. The rain didn’t let up for days, and Audrey still refused to come inside. She had taken up residence in one of the rose bushes in the garden; one so dense and prickly that there wasn’t any way for Evie to get her out, or even see inside. Mal, who Evie hadn’t noticed at first, was able to slip into the bush just fine. The pair would make a bit of noise, as though they were conversing, and Mal would leave and fly off.

After a day of watching said bush, freezing her butt off but determined not to let anything past her, Evie still wasn’t sure what was going on. Mal, her dear spiky fiend, would visit the bush at least five times a day. Sometimes she would have things that she found around the house. The first time it was a dishcloth, the second time a spool of thread, the third an old sock belonging to Ben that had been behind the washing machine. And so on and so forth. Evie hadn’t ever seen Mal so keen on playing fetch; not like she was ever keen on playing to being with.

Audrey herself wouldn’t come out of the bush, not once. And only when Mal brought a dead mouse from the shed did Evie understand why the Princess hadn’t come back in. She wasn’t starving; as Evie had first thought. Mal was feeding her wild catch. Thoughtful; but weird as the two so often bullied each other. As darkness fell and the storm grew heavy, Evie was forced into retreat. Of course she was worried about the dragon in the bush, but she didn’t need to get sick either.

Evie didn’t get much sleep that night. She tossed and turned as thunder rolled overhead, and rain assaulted the windows. She was only just beginning to doze off when Mal began to scream. It wasn’t a sound Evie had ever heard come from her best friend. It was a horrible, desperate wail, as though she were in such great pain that she might just die on the spot. Leaping out of bed, Evie stubbed her toe in the dark but ignored it. She shoved on her Ugg boots, tucked into her jacket and bolted down the stairs phone flashlight in hand.

She found Mal at the door to the patio, flapping and scratching at the glass in panic. She banged her body against the panes, forcefully rattling the hinges, desperate to get outside. Evie fell over herself getting the door open, and Mal bolted out at breakneck speed. And as Evie followed her into the storm, she knew something was horribly wrong.

The sounds coming from the garden were like war. Growling and hissing, whimpers, cries and thuds. Skidding to the shed, Evie was already soaking wet as she turned on the floodlights, illuminating the entire backyard. Two rather large bodies circled Audrey’s rose bush, the leaves and branches trampled and broken down. One dog and Audrey were engaged in a fierce battle, the dragon’s back forced down into the muddy grass by a large brown paw as she used teeth and claw to swipe at the stray dogs nose.

The other dog was now engaged with Mal, the purple dragon pissed and tearing into its fur and flesh with her toothy maw. Startled by what she saw, Evie entered the shed and grabbed a shovel from the wall. She was just in time to keep the German Shepard from biting Audrey’s neck, swinging her makeshift weapon hard and striking the animal with its flat face. There was a horrible BANG of metal on skull as the dog was knocked to one side, whimpering in pain and running away into the hedges where it had come. The other, realizing its alpha was retreating, followed suit.

Breathing hard, Evie’s heart was leaping in her chest as she dropped the shovel with a clatter. Audrey had managed to get back to her feet, but walked with a hard limp and many cries of pain. She looked horrible, covered in bites and scratch marks. One of her wings appeared to be torn slightly, and part of her topmost ear was missing. She went straight to the bush, crawling through the debris. Evie’s composure shattered when she heard the most heartbreaking wail.

Hurrying to where Audrey now stood crying, three eggs sat in a nest made of various items from around the house. There used to be four eggs; four little baby dragons which Audrey had no doubt been incubating for the past several days. But one of them had been pulled out of the nest by the dogs. One baby dragon had been lost.

Crumbling to her knees, Evie trembled in the night and the rain as Mal pulled Audrey close with a wing and held her tight with both arms. The new mother continued to wail with grief and pain, the sound echoing like a ghostly song on the wind. That’s where Ben found them all when he returned home later that night, weeping in a ruined garden with Evie unable to speak past blue tinted lips. Ben immediately carried his wife upstairs to warm up and dry off, and then called Uma.

He returned to the back garden not long after, wielding under his arm a large plastic tote lined with several old, fluffy blankets. Gently, he moved Audrey from the broken down nest into the box, followed by her remaining clutch of eggs and what he could salvage of the nest. Mal had already gone upstairs to be with Evie, keeping the woman warm with her own body heat as she slept fitfully and tearfully.

When the bluenette came down the next morning, her eyes bruised and body sore from the night prior, Uma and a man she didn’t recognize stood with Ben in the living room. Gil was also present, one massive wing draped protectively over a basket which held the remaining eggs. Mal went to meet him, crawling to sit on the table above the basket, as to have a better view.

Uma currently had Audrey on the table, stretched out across a red stained towel. The man she was with wore elbow length leather gloves, holding the poor thing down as his partner made expert movements with a needle and thread. Audrey cried all the while, the sound breaking Evie’s still fragile heart.

“Hey, you don’t need to be in here for this,” Ben whispered upon seeing her, tugging his wife along to the kitchen. She began to weep again, but Ben silenced it quickly.

“Shh, it’s ok. It’ll be alright, E,”

“B-but it’s not,” Evie managed, “I knew something was wrong. I knew it. I-I should’ve done more.”

“Love, you didn’t do anything wrong,” Ben pleaded, “you should never mess with a nesting dragon. You did the right thing leaving her be,”

“B-but she’s hurt now because of me. I should’ve stayed, I should’ve called...”

“Why didn’t you call?” Ben asked, squeezing her arm gently, “E, I could’ve been back. I could’ve been here to help,”

“This trip was so important to you, Ben,” Evie insisted, stomping her foot slightly in tired frustration, “I’m a full grown woman. I’ve lived on my own since High School. Yet the minute you go away...” waving towards the living room where Uma was working, Evie sighed heavily, “I wanted to show you I could handle it. I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

“Oh, Evie...no, no,” pulling the woman to his chest, Evie let him run a hand through her hair, closing her eyes at the feelings of comfort it brought, “you could never disappoint me. I love you so much. I’m just glad you’re all safe.”

Nodding weakly against her husbands broad, warm chest, the two glanced up as Uma entered the kitchen from the other room. She was sweating a bit, resting both hands on her hips as she exhaled.

“So what’s the word?” Ben asked wearily, cringing at the possibility of bad news. Uma, thankfully, didn’t seem ready to give it.

“She’ll be fine,” the woman nodded, “must’ve put up one hell of a fight though. You said it was a Shepard that did this?”

Evie nodded in confirmation as Uma scoffed and ran a hand over her braids, “right, well. Keep her off that leg for a while, I’ll prescribe some meds to keep her sedated until she heals up. Keep an eye on that wing too, we don’t need it getting infected,”

“And the other eggs?” Ben asked, “they’re all ok?”

“For the most part, yeah,” Uma answered, “one of them has developed a crack, but it didn’t hurt the integrity of the egg. May just end up being a dragon runt,”

“Dragon runt?” Evie questioned, “what does that mean?”

“Runt of the litter,” Uma explained, folding her arms as to find a better position, “it might come out funny looking, or small. In the wild, dragon runts are left behind by their mothers to fend for themselves or get eaten. But since Audrey lost one, she may just accept it anyway.”

“She’ll grieve, then? I know Aurorian Dragons are supposedly quite emotionally sensitive.”

“For a few weeks I think,” Uma confirmed, “it’ll probably be best for Gil to stay here as emotional support. He is a father after all, and Coastal Dragon males are left to watch the eggs in the wild,”

“How do you know so much about dragons?” Evie wondered curiously, “is there like, a manual for this stuff?”

“I worked at a sanctuary for a bit, before I met Harry,” Uma admitted, nodding to the living room. Speaking of Harry; the man in question entered the kitchen. He placed both hands on Uma’s shoulders, and Evie immediately noticed the two missing fingers on his right hand.

“Well, lil blighters are all resting up, now,” he spoke though an accent, though it was one Evie couldn’t really place in her hazy, sleep deprived brain, “we best be goin’ soon, luv. I got a shift t’nite at the yard,”

“Right,” Uma agreed, “you guys call me when you start seeing movement in those eggs, I want to be here when they hatch.” Uma insisted, taking the hand Ben outstretched for a shake, as he wasn’t ready to let Evie from his arms just yet.

“Thank you, Uma. I can’t thank you enough. If you ever need anything...”

“Call you. Yeah, I know,” Uma laughed, waving for Harry to follow her out. When the front door clicked shut, Evie let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

“See,” Ben said gently, “it’ll be ok.”

Swallowing the rock in her throat, Evie let Ben guide her back out into the living room. Audrey and the eggs had been moved back into the plastic tote, folded up in blankets to keep her warm. Gil — left behind by Uma and Harry till the eggs hatched — sat sentinel by the box, one wing stretched over its top. Mal still lay draped over the side of the table, chin rested on a folded arm, watching the both of them, “come on, Evie. Let them rest; you need your sleep,”

“Mal,” Evie said, causing the purple haired dragon to lift her head slightly, “you watch over them. Ok?”

And Mal, cranky as she was, snorted a plume of smoke and returned to her former position of watchman as Ben and Evie went upstairs for a midday nap of their own.

#disney descendants #descendants fanfiction #descendants #dragons #fanfiction #alternate universe #audrey rose #mal bertha #ben florian #evie grimhilde #uma daughter of ursula #harry hook #gil son of gaston #love like dragons au

[vampylovesaliens]

Pariah - p2

the innocence

All was quiet aboard the Phantom, save for the wind that brushed the outside of its hull and faintly rattled in the engine housings. But the darkness in the ship’s corridor was no concern to the small figure who carefully climbed down from her hammock and tiptoed lightly down the hall, pale skin glowing faintly in places where her blood ran close to the surface, particularly in her eyes which lacked any other pigment to dampen their glow.

In the small kitchen she reached for the pantry door, bracing it to stifle the telltale creak of the battered old door to the oversized cupboard. She already knew where to look; the spicy-sweet glazed candies were right there up on the second shelf--too high for her and she dared not risk climbing for fear of toppling the whole shelving unit. But as soon as she spotted the container there above her she extended a hand, her eyes narrowing as she called on her little skill. The container shuddered, then jerked, then shakily wobbled outward away from the shelf until it hung suspended above her. She grimaced, trying to maintain control in order to lower it gently to her hands, but the angle was too awkward and she was slipping, her focus shaking, the container was falling--

She yelped, bracing for impact, but the container never made contact. She glanced up, blinking as she spotted it hovering there just inches above her crest with the faint shimmer of psionic energy that surrounded it telling her she’d been caught. “T’chendris-hlau.” Her father’s voice growled from the dark, and she turned to face him with an apologetic tilt of her head, her gaze downcast as he stepped over to her, the container floating to meet his hand. “You should be in bed, little one.”

“I wanted a snack.” She sighed, looking up at him as he uttered a reassuring click to let her know she wasn’t in trouble despite her compromising position. Kha’zu-hlau towered above his young daughter, silvery tresses hanging loose around his ever-stern face that bristled with spines that she often spent ages counting when she sat on his lap. He crouched to her level, his free hand reaching out to give a light tug on one of her own stubby tendrils with an amused chuff. “Clever little daughter of mine. What shall we do?”

“...Let me have one?” She replied hopefully, her mandibles twitching in a smile as she nodded toward the canister that his claws tapped lazily on. “I promise I’ll go back to bed right away.”

“What would your mother say.” He jokingly chided, even as he unscrewed the lid of the container. But he did not reach in to grab one, instead angling it so she could see the candies within, while still holding it out of her reach. “If you want one, you must work for it.”

“That’s too small, taka.” She protested, shifting her weight anxiously. “It was hard to get the can by itself.”

He rumbled heavily, shaking his head. “I will not reward you for giving up, T’chendris-hlau. If you want it, you will find the strength to take it. Remember what I taught you.” He placed his free hand on her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze to reassure and reaffirm. The child frowned, her mandibles pulling in tightly over her small fangs before she closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. It was still difficult to quiet her youthful thoughts, but she focused on his lessons. Their shared gift was more than skin-deep, running in their ghostly-white flesh; it lay in their minds, a strange manifestation of power that other Yautja did not understand. She finally managed to collect herself, focusing her thoughts on the singular goal of acquiring one of the candies. She reached out with her mind, the steady hum of it in her ears, a vague pulse in the air to anyone else, and she felt the edge of the canister, painting the picture of it in her mind. And inside, the candies--a bundle of blurry noise that took extra effort to process into individual parts, but finally she focused on one, just one. And shakily, painstakingly, she guided it up and out of the container, letting her father guide one of her hands out flat to welcome it.

As the candy dropped into her palm she gasped, shaking slightly as she opened her eyes and collected herself. Kha’zu-hlau growled his approval, tilting his head down to press his spiny crest to her small, smooth one. “Good work, little one. You have earned your treat.”

The initial exhaustion gave way to excitement as T’chendris-hlau pressed the small treat into her maw, her tongue holding it where she could savor it without it falling through her small fangs. “I did it!” She hissed, not wanting to wake her mother despite her excitement. Kha’zu-hlau chuckled as he nodded, scooping her into his arms as he carried her back to the sleeping quarters. “You did. You’re growing stronger every day, my child.”

The praise warmed her even more than the spices that melted over her tongue as he placed her gently back into her hammock, leaning in to lightly touch their upper mandibles together before he returned to his own bed below, sliding in next to her mother who had thankfully slept through the whole mischievous escapade. But as much as the excitement thrilled her, the exertion made sure she was asleep quickly as soon as she had finished enjoying her prize, lulled to sleep by the mellow hum of energy from her father’s mind, never fully dormant but always peaceful when he slept, strong and steady and reliable.

#my writing #pariah #T'chendris-hlau #i know i said i wanted to finish the next chunk of duality first #but i wanted to post this blegghh im WORKING ON IT #yautja #alien #predator #scifi #spaceship

[owillofthewisps]

beckoning light - part two

notes: this took longer than i thought! in part because i am easily distracted by one shots.  and while i know where i’m going with this story, sometimes getting it down on paper just isn’t easy.  also geralt is a terrible patient, i feel it in my bones.

also not sure why on earth i thought i could finish this in two to three parts.  it will likely not be much longer than that, but it will be longer.

rating: mature. just some dirty thoughts, really.

pairing: geralt of rivia/female reader

word count: 3.5k

part one

the wisps have never lead you astray, but you did not expect them to lead you to him.

He wakes when first light creeps under the shutter.

It is his sudden stillness that stirs you into the waking world, though it takes you a moment to register the frame you’re pressing your knees against is not Asha, but that of a sturdily built man.  Your mind moves like honey, dripping slow and sweet with sleep as you flex your toes against brawny thighs.  Your companion shifts. You breathe out a drowsy inquiry, a murmuring noise laced with gentle promise and a flicker of heat.

It garners you a rough noise that is edged with its own heat, but there’s a silvery thread of pain woven through the sound.  It is not a sound you know, and your eyes flutter open stickily.  Geralt, you realize as you uncurl yourself, that drowsy haze melting from you.  

You prop yourself up on your elbows, just high enough that you can peer down at him.  His eyelashes, long and sooty, flicker like shadows against his skin as he blinks away sleep.  

It is hushed in your home, the forest only beginning to stir outside your door, the soft calls of the birds muted by the shutters.  The quiet is heavy between you, like the syrupy air of midsummer, so thick that you can taste it.  Geralt’s eyes trace the neckline of your shift - you are sleep-hot still, your shift catching on your damp skin and pulling low - before he meets your gaze with the same steadiness of last night.  

“Haven’t lost the will to live yet, I see,” you say.  

“If I had,” Geralt says, his voice somehow even rougher with the dregs of sleep, “that sound might have brought me back.”

“Best you not die, then, if it’s only a might.”

He huffs out what could the barest hint of a laugh, but then he grimaces, one of his large hands coming up to press against the bandages swaddling his wound.  

You push yourself fully upright.  How easily you forget, you think, how easily the true nature of pain slips through your fingers. “Let me see,” you tell him, soft and firm, wrapping your fingers around his thick wrist and tugging gently.

Geralt grunts, but he lets you peel his hand away.  He watches as you examine the bandages swathing him, your fingers playing delicately across the edges, darting away from his skin every time his muscles tense.  You cannot tell if it is pain or simply a reaction to the light touches.  Perhaps it is both.  His bandages are grimy at the edges now, and there’s blood blooming in a thick stripe at the center of his chest, following the path of his wound.  The bloodstain is rusty with age at the edges, but the center is still damp, the color dark like wine.  

The wound opened sometime in the night, likely, and while you have heard that Witchers heal faster, you think of the wet touch of his blood soaking through your shirt last night and wonder how much more blood he has to lose.  

“There is little I can do, I’m afraid,” you tell him.  “My healing abilities start with cleaning and bandaging and do not go much further.” You rise to your knees.  “Hadrian will not be long, though, and I do have some celandine, I think.”

“I’m fine.”

“Mhmm.”

“I said I’m fine,” Geralt says, catching you by the hips as you swing over him - carefully, using your thighs to brace yourself well above him to avoid any pressure on his wound - to get out of bed.  His hands are firm against you, large enough that his fingers splay over much of the plush of your hips, and even weakened by his wound, you can feel the strength coiled in him.

You consider him for a moment.  His furrowed brow is damp with sweat, his eyes slightly hazy, and there’s a tilt to his mouth that speaks of pain, but the set of his jaw tells you that you will have better luck pushing a boulder uphill than moving him.  “I still need to rise,” you tell him.  “You in my bed or not, there are things to be done as the day begins.”

Geralt releases you slowly, his fingers falling away from your hips, brushing over where the fabric of your shift has rucked up from his grip.  The heat of his hands leaves ghostly imprints on your hips, the warmth prickling against your flesh until it fades.

Asha uncurls from her spot by the hearth as your feet touch the ground.  She waits, head cocked, and then blows out a sigh when you don’t go to the door, every inch of her slumping. “Don’t complain,” you tell her, kneeling by the hearth and beginning to stir the fire back to life.  She whuffs, settling her head against your hip, all silken, warm fur, and you run a hand over the familiar curve of her skull.

Geralt has a gaze like irons, you think, something that winds around you and hangs heavy.  You can feel his eyes on your back as you work at the fire, coaxing it until the first lick of flame skates up the side of the new log, the orange glow of it gnawing at the wood.  He is still quiet.

You, though - you are used to the quiet of the forest, where words are just beneath the silence, in the still judgement of the trees and the fluttery din of the birds in the same breath, in the sound of your feet sinking into soft loam and the hush of dusk under the crowns of the oaks, their branches stretching to blur out the sky.  You hear Geralt’s silence and tuck it into yourself to try and translate later. Part of you wonders which came first - his quiet, or human scorn.

The fire is crackling merrily now, a symphony of warmth, and you pour a little bit of water in your hands to wash the soot away.  Asha huffs when you flick the excess water at her, her tail thumping against the hearthstones as you laugh.  Another quick flick sends water pattering down on her coat, and Asha snaps at you playfully, the click of her massive teeth ringing out through the house as she snags your sleeve.

“Alright,” you tell her.  “I’ll stop.”

She lets go and nudges against your hand.  You hum a quick tune, smoothing your hand over her proud brow.  

The bed creaks.  “You’re going to open your wound again,” you tell Geralt, keeping your eyes on the fire as it pops and sputters.  You drop a thin birch log into the heart of the flames and watch as it is consumed. “I’m running out of shirts for you to bleed on.”

He grunts.

You come to your feet with a sigh, turning to face the bed.  Geralt has pushed himself into a seated position, sweat gleaming on him, his muscles rippling beneath his scarred skin.  His chest is heaving, the bandages straining tight.

“You aren’t going to heal like this,” you point out, stooping to collect one of the wooden cups from last night.

“Witchers heal differently.”

“Differently, yes,” you say softly.  “But you still need to heal.”

“I’m fine.”

“If just saying things made them true, the world would be a much different place.”

Geralt grunts.  The rumble of it makes your fingers tighten on the cup.  It’s not far from the type of sound you usually pull out of men with your teeth and tongue, stolen from deep inside, all smoke and heat.

“Drink,” you say, holding out the cup of ale.  

Geralt’s fingertips skim across your knuckles as he takes the cup from you.  It is a fleeting touch, soft and warm like spring rain.  You wonder if it is the type of touch he uses to coax a lover back into bed.

“Drink,” you say again, because though he has taken the cup, he is merely watching you over the rim of it, his amber eyes aglow in the fire’s light.  “I’m told it helps with the pain.”

Geralt’s brow furrows for an instant, but then he is drinking.  The muscles in his throat flex and play as he swallows thickly.  You swallow, too.

Asha whines and nudges your hip with her head.  It almost tips you.

“Impatient,” you tell her, steadying yourself with a hand on her scruff.  She huffs, nudging at you again.  “This is not how we get what we want.”

Asha grumbles, and this time, it isn’t a nudge.  You crack with laughter as she headbutts your hip hard enough to send you stumbling back two paces, the sound spilling from you like water.  “Alright,” you gasp, little laughs still tumbling through your lips.  You cup her head with both hands, trailing your thumbs over her velvet ears. “Alright.”

When you glance up, there is something soft tucked in the corner of Geralt’s lips.  It fades under your attention.  Asha whines again, and you sigh.  “C’mon, then,” you tell her, heading for the door.  You reach for your cloak before you remember that it is crumpled near the bed, stiff with Geralt’s blood.  The curse slips past your lips, but it will only be for a moment, so you step out the door in just your shift.  The chill of the morning bites at you almost instantly, the hard-packed dirt frigid beneath your toes, your breath misting in the air.

This early, the forest is still dark, the shadowed groves like empty maws.  The rising sun is shedding more light every moment, but the canopy of the forest will keep the heart of it hidden for hours yet. You gaze into the woods, into the shadows of the trees, the whisper of their rustling leaves weaving through you like a half-remembered melody, and take a step forward.

Asha goes hurtling past like a crack of thunder, jarring you out of the fog that has settled over you, her powerful haunches bunching as she runs, crashing through the underbrush.  She disappears into the treeline like a wraith.  You wait for a moment, but she does not reappear.

When you step back inside, the fire’s warmth greets you like a lover, coils around you and presses against your skin. You pause just beyond the doorway.  

Bathed by the firelight, softened at the edges by the golden glow, Geralt is something hazy, like a dream stealing into the waking world.  As he shifts, his muscles flex under his skin, his bicep bulging as he raises the cup to his lips, which shine wet with ale, and you consider returning to bed.

The bandages catch your eye, though, the white of them almost lost amidst the cream of your sheets, and you instead move to the kitchen, running your fingers over the clusters of dried herbs to ground yourself.  

“Come,” you say, “you should eat.”

The sheets rustle.  

“If you dare try to rise,” you say, tearing off a chunk of bread from yesterday’s loaf, the crust crunching beneath your fingers and laying it on a plate, along with a fat piece of cured sausage, “I will pin you down in that bed.”

“And how terrible that would be.”

You glance over your shoulder.  There is heat to Geralt’s gaze, and it pricks at you, makes your fingers tighten around the plate’s edge.  “Eat,” you tell him, crossing to the bed, handing him the plate.  “Hadrian will have words for me if I do not feed you.”

Geralt grunts, but he takes the plate readily enough.  You refill his cup and return the flagon to the kitchen.  

You eat as he does, letting the salt of the sausage linger on your tongue before washing it away with the ale.  As is your habit, you move while you eat, gathering up your blood stained shirt and cloak from the floor.  You hum to yourself as you do.  If Geralt minds the noise, he says nothing.

As more light creeps in around the shutters, overtaking the glow of the fire, you realize that you have not yet made an offering this week.  

You pull a few small jars from the shelves and settle at the table.  Geralt seems content with the silence, but you have always filled your home with chatter.

“What is your horse’s name?” you ask.  Part of you is simply curious to see if he will answer.  Clearly, he speaks, but you suspect he has little tolerance for meaningless pleasantries, words just to fill the silence.

The silence stretches, and just as you think he will not answer, he says: “Roach.”

“She’s sweet.”

“When she wants to be.”

You laugh softly, prying one of the jars open and peering inside.

The honeycomb is dense with sticky, sweet honey, the faintest smell of clover wafting to you.  You scoop out a large piece. The wax breaks easily beneath your fingers, and you drop it into one of the small bowls you use for offerings.  The honey trickles down your fingers like sunlight, the color of it reminding you of the golden waves of wheat in fall.  You lick at it without thought, taste the salt of your palm just under the mask of the honey’s lush nectar, pull a fingertip into your mouth and suck it clean, and Geralt curses under his breath.

You look to him and there is something consuming to him now, all covetous hunger.  Your breath hitches.  There is still honey thick on your lips, and you wet them without thinking, the tip of your tongue sliding over the full flesh, catching in the honey, pulling the sweetness into you once more.  

A muscle in Geralt’s cheek flutters.

His eyes, darkened to the color of resin in the fading sun, rise from your lips to catch your eyes. You think of those amber eyes peering up at you from between your thighs, and the heat flares low in you, starts to kindle into something fierce.  Geralt keeps his gaze steady, snares you with the fever of it.  You have known deep, quick attraction before, heavy and fierce, but the Witcher’s intensity robs you of your breath.

Even the fluting birdsong filtering in from the forest cannot pierce the quiet that has settled over you and Geralt.  The world feels muted around you, as if your head is filled with cotton, only the thrumming hum of your heartbeat loud in your ears.

Geralt, though - Geralt is clear to you, sharp-edged with want, his massive hands flexing against the sheets.  And you want, too, you want those hands on you, pushing between your legs to cup your cunt, and weaving through your hair to fist tightly at the nape of your neck.  If he were not injured, you think, you would already know the taste of his skin.

Some distant, blurry part of you thinks of the wisps.  You wonder what the forest knows.  

There is a knock at the door.  It blows the cobwebs of desire entangling you away, pulls you free from Geralt’s burning attention, though the searing spark of it still idles in your belly, as if you have swallowed an incandescent star.

You rise to greet Hadrian as he steps inside.  “You’re late,” you say.  Geralt makes a quiet, sour noise at the sight of the healer.  Neither you nor Hadrian deign to acknowledge it.

“You should not be sitting upright,” Hadrian says to the Witcher.  Geralt’s brow furrows, a tempest waiting to unleash, and Hadrian fiddles with the end of his braid.  You watch as he winds the ebony strands tight around his lithe fingers.  In this fight, though, you would lay your coin against the Witcher.  

“And yet I am,” Geralt says.

Hadrian shifts, all lean muscle, and you know that stance.  Pain is a stranger to you, something seldom felt, more myth than reality, and Hadrian struggles against the tide of your nonchalance every time he thinks you require healing. It makes that posture familiar, and you know he is digging in his heels to weather Geralt’s storm.  The healer is no fighter, but he shores up his defenses like none other you’ve met, lets his patients’ sieges break upon his gates.  From the set of his jaw, Geralt recognizes there is a different sort of fight at hand.

You’ve little desire for a headache this soon after daybreak. There is also little you can do to assist Hadrian; he is skilled well beyond your measure. You fetch your boots and slip on the supple leather.  

“Where are you going?” Hadrian asks.  

“Out.”

“And if I need your assistance?”

“Then call for me,” you say, picking up the bowl of honeycomb. There’s honey glinting sticky on the edge.  You swipe your finger through it, start to bring it to your mouth, and pause.  You cannot bear to look at the bed.  Geralt’s eyes are a dragging anchor on you, fierce and relentless and tethering.  He could draw you to him in an instant, you know. You lean over to rub the honey off of your skin on a nearby cleaning rag. “I am not going far.”

Hadrian mumbles something you can’t quite catch.  When you glance back, he’s focused on Geralt, his hands gentle as he tugs at the bandages despite Geralt’s glower, his keen grey eyes evaluating.  Geralt groans through gritted teeth as the healer begins to unwind the soiled bandages. They pull at the edges of the wound; it starts to leak blood sluggishly.  

Geralt seems made of stone.  He is all hard lines as the healer begins to work, impenetrable despite the gleam of sweat on his brow.  

The stitches are neat and numerous; Hadrian’s careful work reminds you of delicate embroidery.  It’s a long gash, digging through much of Geralt’s torso, and you wonder what creature left such a mark.  You think such a wound might have killed any but a Witcher.  

Hadrian bends over the wound and obscures your sight.  Geralt’s eyes find you over the curve of Hadrian’s back, and you swallow.  Your fingers tighten on the bowl, but you flash him a small, soft smile, your lips tilting like the gentle curve of a conch shell.  It feels like an offering at his altar.  

Geralt blinks, and though his expression does not change, something eases in him.  Perhaps a smile is the rarest of things to him, a most unusual gift.  You think it likely.

You turn from him, from his sunrise eyes, and swath yourself with one of the lightest furs you own.  It’s unwieldy, you suppose, but it will do to replace your cloak for now.

The morning air has warmed.  It still has a bite, though, a chilly kiss against your skin.  You pull the furs tighter around your frame.

The godling’s stump is not far; abundant with moss and small leaves, it is just beyond the edge of the far side of the clearing you live in.  The stump is a grand thing, with an entangled root system that lifts above the dirt, dotted with creamy mushrooms and young ferns still unfurling.  The godling is a rare sight, elusive even when you were a child, though they would sometimes crawl from their stump to run through the underbrush with you.  Now, it is often only their eyes that you see, peering wide and round from the shadows of the roots.

You hum to yourself as you approach the stump.  It’s an old song, one that your father taught you, one that resonates with the forest, makes the leaves rustle.  You kneel before the stump and push the small bowl close to a section where the roots part, just slightly, just enough for a small body to scurry through.  

“Thank you,” you tell the godling, the words soft, “for watching over us.”

There is no reply.  

You slide a rock under the bowl, raising it just enough to delay the ants, you hope.  You push to your feet and brush the dirt from your shift.  Small bits of moss cling to the fabric, and they are damp between your fingertips as you pinch them away.  

It is a meandering walk back to your home.  You are in no rush, are kept warm with your body heat trapped beneath the furs, and the forest is waking still, small mice darting to and fro at the woods’ edge. You can hear the forest humming.  

You pause by your small cellar.  It’s little more than a hole in the ground, but it suits your needs.  You slide the wooden cover back into place once you have a small handful of carrots, and make your way to the lean-to that is housing Roach.

Her ears perk as you approach. She accepts the first carrot eagerly, nosing up against you for more, and you stroke a hand over her neck.  

She’s just pulled the last carrot from your palm when something catches her attention.  You peer down the small path that cuts through the thinnest part of the crescent of trees around the clearing.  

The lanky form of the alderman is easy to recognize, though the sight of him makes your lip curl.  He is not alone. The alderman’s companion is unfamiliar, both in silhouette and in the fact that he is carrying what appears to be a lute.

There is only one place they can be heading, for the path ends at your home.  

You cross your arms over your chest, hugging the furs tighter around your form, and wait.

taglist: @fairytale07 @waitingtobeimpressed @imsoft-barnes @ayamenimthiriel @nonamejustshame @1950schick

#geralt of rivia x reader #geralt x reader #geralt imagine #the witcher x reader #the witcher imagine #story: beckoning light

[yilingradishfairy]

Dying Leaf

Link to AO3 (1770 words)

Written for Day 17 of Untamed Fall Fest 2020 - Falling.

Summary: Wei Wuxian had thought he would have hit rock bottom by now. How much further can he fall? He has long since fallen from the high branch he had flourished on before. But he cannot seem to touch the ground yet, floundering desperately in the wind. His deeds during the war are like the final spectacular colors on dead leaves: impressive, yet they are only the vibrant marks of dying. His soul has surely withered away by now. He is tethered here by only a spare few. Though he cannot be the brother they want, he will watch over them as the protector they need. He will keep going until his body collapses.

Content warnings: Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Whump, Emotional Whump, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark, Body Horror, Cannibalism, but like, Canon Compliant, Still, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Canonical Character Death

I have some feelings™ about that little ghost boy, so I covered the supervisory office scene in some detail. I actually pared it down quite a bit, and I don't think it's much more gruesome than EXR's translation. Still, please make sure you read the content warnings. We’re all responsible for what we consume on the internet.

He stands at the top of a mountain. He's almost surprised that he can stand at all. Wen Qing and Wen Ning left long ago, though Wen Ning wanted to wait with him. Wei Wuxian insisted that they had done enough.

It was enough.

He looks over to where his brother, his shidi, his sect leader lies. He kneels down to hover an unsteady hand over Jiang Cheng's lower dantian, reassuring himself for the twentieth time that it worked. The sacrifice was worth it. It was enough.

He stands again and notes the position of the sun in the sky. Jiang Cheng’s sedative will be wearing off soon. He stubbornly ignores the chill in the air, the one he would never have noticed a week ago, and sets off down the mountain. It feels like he left a part of himself behind.

He did.

Maybe this is for the best, he tells himself as he taunts the Wen soldiers. This way, Jiang Cheng will never find out. He forces himself to laugh in their faces. He dares them to kill him. And maybe I will come back to enact revenge. One vengeful spirit taking down this entire regiment. He spits onto their robes. What a perfect plan.

He's almost convinced them to do it. Instead, they haul him up, up, up into the sky. Higher even than the mountain he had just descended.

Then they drop him into the abyss. Into the mountain of forgotten corpses. Into the dreaded Burial Mounds.

He falls down, down, down.

Then resentful energy reaches up like a black fog, enveloping him completely, slowing his fall. The haze clogs the air so thickly, Wei Wuxian can hardly breathe. He chokes and gags on the thick hatred blanketing the entire area. It rushes into his lungs, crawls along his skin, and batters against his body. He reaches for his own spiritual energy to counteract it. To protect him. To keep it out. But there is nothing inside him but an empty hole.

The resentful energy rushes to fill it.

It's crawling into his nose, through his veins like liquid fire. It's oozing black hate into every pore. He hears whispers, feels hands, breathes smoke. The voices rise in volume until he can hear that it is his name. They continue to rise until they are shouts.

“What do you want?” he asks hoarsely.

The voices coalesce into one. “You.”

And he falls, even further.

Even once he lands on the ground, his descent doesn't stop. Piece by piece, every part of him falls away. Sloughs off like an old skin. He steeps himself in the thick, heavy miasma of the Burial Mounds.

All the souls left to rot here, all the stories with no conclusion, clamoring for a person to pour into. The general of that infamous war that led to the formation of the burial mounds. The countless soldiers slaughtered here. The untold multitudes carelessly dumped here in years since by the self-important Wens.

Wei Wuxian learns so many stories that he can hardly remember his own. The spirits feed him, protect him, gift him a dizi, promise him power. In return for being their instrument. Destroy the Wens, they whisper. Make them pay, they demand.

He travels up to the highest peak in the Burial Mounds. He shrouds himself in resentful energy, like armor. Then he marches down to the living world to begin his task.

He comes back to enact revenge, as he promised the Wens. But instead of one, he is many vengeful spirits, hunting down the regiment, one by one. The fierce corpses, though under his command, retain their individuality. Each Wen soldier is killed however their slayer deems fit. They fight over the ones that wronged them the most and mindlessly annihilate the rest.

Wei Wuxian brings a few select corpses with him to face Wen Chao.

The woman he had scorned and the little boy he had drowned.

"He starved you, boy?" Wei Wuxian asks. The boy nods his head jerkily, eyes fixed hungrily on Wen Chao's whimpering form. "We'll fix that," Wei Wuxian assures him with a pat on his ghostly shoulder.

Wei Wuxian lifts his dizi to his lips, but keeps his eyes open. He won't miss one second of his deserved revenge. He allows the woman and boy to do as they will, watches them hack Wen Chao into slices.

The boy tries to choke down the raw flesh but cannot. He chomps bitterly, stubbornly, until finally spitting it out in frustration. He beats his frustration on Wen Chao’s mauled, bloody leg, and the man’s mouth opens in an anguished scream. The boy freezes, and he looks up, into that gaping maw. He scrambles to tear off more of Wen Chao’s leg, and he shoves the meat into his open mouth. Wen Chao gags through it, but the boy claws his mouth open and forces more in.

Wei Wuxian thinks that he should feel disgusted. Or that he should feel victorious. Instead, he feels nothing. But it worked. The victory was worth it. It was enough.

Afterwards, he formally joins the Sunshot Campaign. It is strange to dine with the living. To converse with his brother and sister. To remember that he has not always been this empty husk, filled with the wishes of a thousand others and one shared goal. He had been Wei Wuxian. He had a place with these people who called him brother.

They try to draw him back in. To recreate the family they had been. But they cannot. He has been cut off from them too long, shriveling like a stale leaf, dead on the branch. The cultivation that they’re so worried about has been the only thing that kept him alive. This is what brought him back to them, though warped and deformed. It was his salvation on the Burial Mounds, and it will be their salvation from the Wens. He knows they don’t understand. He makes sure they won’t, that they will never understand the choices he made and the circumstances he endured. He knows that it was worth it. It was enough.

He has accepted that it will never be just the three of them, ever again. For he is no longer one, but many. And he keeps losing the thread of his identity. Wielding all those energies and stories and hate has a cost. He can’t sleep anymore. He lies down, but he doesn’t dream. Instead, he closes his eyes, and all he sees is them. He lives their stories every night. He feels their pain, their anguish, their rage. All of this borrowed energy swirling inside of him, clamoring for their vengeful conclusion.

So he stops lying down to sleep. Instead, Wei Wuxian steals off into the night, searching for Wen burial grounds. He marches down into countless graveyards, digging down and down to raise up a new horde.

He listens to every single corpse’s accounts. He internalizes all of their stories and uses them to his advantage. "They wronged you," he whispered. "You want to fight on our side." Some of them are persuaded. Some are so resentful, they don't care who they kill. Some rebel, and he simply drains their resentful energy into himself and leaves the husk of the corpse behind.

Before every battle, he amasses a great army with a single purpose. Annihilate the Wen. And annihilate they do.

He had thought he would have hit rock bottom by now. How much further can he fall? He has long since fallen from the high branch he had flourished on before. But he cannot seem to touch the ground yet, floundering desperately in the wind.

His deeds during the war are like the final spectacular colors on dead leaves: impressive, yet they are only the vibrant marks of dying. His soul has surely withered away by now. He is tethered here by only a spare few. Though he cannot be the brother they want, he will watch over them as the protector they need. He will keep going until his body collapses.

Though stated as a hyperbole, Wei Wuxian now knows his claim to be true. Falling to the ground in the midst of battle is far too dangerous to do more than twice, however. He wonders if there was a way to channel his resentful energy through a receptive object, to lessen the strain on his weakened body. He experiments for a few weeks before finding the answer.

The answer is yes.

But now he wishes he hadn’t asked the question.

He tells himself that it worked. The experiment was worth it. It was enough.

At least, the war is now over, and their vengeful goal is achieved. He releases his hold on the satisfied souls, now accompanied only by the stalwart. He continues to masquerade as himself, but he knows it won’t last long. He cannot stay. The living fear him too much now. He hopes that he can pass as Wei Wuxian long enough to see Jiang Cheng well established, and then maybe he can ascend to find peace.

It is not to be. 

He must again cut himself off from the people he loves most. He is grateful to have had them as long as he has. But he has a new cause to champion. One that no one else is both able and willing to take up. He now wields his corpse army, not to destroy Wens, but to protect Wens. A branch of the Wen Sect guilty of nothing more than their name. He leads them up to the Burial Mounds, the only place he can protect them. He brings his corpse army home.

And he clings to that dead branch for two years. A dying leaf balancing on a condemned branch, bracing for the inevitable. He weaves winding tracks into the slumbering Burial Mounds, laying protections, buying supplies, and selling food. But he doesn’t realize. He is just one brutal mistake away from falling again. From falling and taking the whole tree down with him.

He stands there, at the end. He has already destroyed one half of his accursed seal; let them have the other. He backs up to the edge of the cliff. The bottomless pit yawns wide beneath him, beckoning darkly. The esteemed Hanguang-jun tries to save him, another bond he has severed. It’s not enough. Wei Wuxian has been falling and falling for so many years now. He wrenches his hand away, he loosens his grip on the branch, and he falls again. Finally, finally, he hits the bottom.

I love magic systems, and MDZS and CQL leave lots of space for headcanons. I've been trying to develop my own sense of how Wei Wuxian's demonic cultivation might work ever since I started working on a continuation of my You Ignite Me fic. I’m enchanted by the idea of a semi-sentient Burial Mounds. The tortured souls festering within, waiting for their chance for vengeance. Staking it all on one broken cultivator, keeping him alive, grooming him to be their instrument of revenge. 

Credits to @words-writ-in-starlight (link) and @hunxi-guilai (link, link 2, and link 3) for the Burial Mounds feels and headcanon inspiration.

I hope you enjoyed this! Please let me know what you thought! Come yell with me about angsty necromancers ^_^

#untamed fall fest #mdzs fic #cql fic #the untamed fanfic #wei wuxian fic #my writing #dead dove #tw: cannibalism #cw: cannibalism #i haven't written in a while #so i'm really glad utff is back #but wow #this came out way darker than i intended #i just got imagery of wwx falling into the burial mounds #connected to falling FROM the burial mounds #and tracing that through the sunshot campaign #i love the imagery of falling/dying leaves #though you can probably tell i'm not a plant person #but then all my modao headcanons started pushing their way through

[stevmarie]

So how ‘bout that haunted house au??? Because I may have had an idea...

A groan echoed through the bowels of the house, rumbling from deep in its gut, and everyone simultaneously froze in what they were doing. Eyes darted to and from faces, a strange silence settling in where previously there had been light-hearted banter. Natsu was the first the break the fragile quiet.

“What the hell was that?”

“Sounded like it was coming from the basement.” Grey muttered

“Sub-basement,” Laxus said.

“There’s a sub-basement?”

“That’s where the boilers are,” Lucy explained.

“This place has boilers?” Natsu asked with a grin spreading across his face.

“How else would you heat over two million square feet of space, genius?” Grey snapped.

Another groan shivered through the walls, this time followed by an alarmed squeak from the blonde heiress. Laxus, not in the mind to endure any more jumping and fidgeting, clicked his teeth and turned towards the servants stairwell.

“Where are you going?”

“To get some damn work done around here,” he snapped back, “Boilers don’t start themselves, do they?”

He slammed the door behind him as he pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and started making his way down the too-narrow stairs. The steps turned at odd angles beneath his feet with small ruts worn in the stone from countless trips up and down. A sort of grey-ish grime coated the walls up to his shoulder as he spiraled down, down, down, probably from hands that ran themselves, dirt-covered and sweaty, across the off-white brick.

“Boilers don’t start themselves.”

He hadn’t put a lot of thought into that phrase when he’d said it, but now he was starting to dwell on it. He hadn’t asked who Lucy had hired to try the fix the inner-workings of the mansion other than himself. As far as he was aware, he, Mirajane, Lucy, Natsu, and Grey were the only ones here. Mirajane certainly wouldn’t have gone down here alone. So that begged the question who was down here...

He finally found himself at the bottom landing, staring at black pipes that snaked from just above the door and disappeared into darkness. He peered inside, shocked at the deep encroaching shadows unbroken by lamplight. Was whoever down here completely in the dark?

It was cold and damp, feeling more like standing in the middle of a cave than a basement. Black pipes were strung up to the ceiling, strapped to the sides of the walls, and disappearing up and in like worms writhing their way through the mansion. A deep rumble started from far down in the darkness ahead, growing in intensity and thundering towards him. His body braced instinctively as it rushed by, shaking the pipes around him and bellowing up into the foundation. He didn’t realize he’d been clenching his teeth until he forced himself to pull another drag from his cigarette.

He was definitely headed in the right direction.

Stepping into the hall felt like being swallowed. As he walked through the cold damp, he glanced around the tops of the walls, looking for spiderwebs. He’d heard spiders like places like this, dark and dank and quiet. He would have thought he’d be ducking under them in a place like this, untouched for so many years, but there wasn’t a single one to be found. But then, as much as spiders loved a place to hide, it took quite the disillusioned arachnid to attempt to make its home in a sleeping, open mouth. And that’s exactly what this place felt like, like walking right down into a throat. Rattling and breathing around him, resting, waiting for him to make one incorrect step to trigger an automatic response and be swallowed.

Laxus didn’t like it down here, he decided. Not because of some silly thing like the thought of being swallowed, of course. That was kid stuff.

A noise echoed faintly down the chamber at him, something that sounded very much like one thing striking against another. A crunch and rattle, the clang of metal against metal, and then the crunch sounded again. Laxus stood in the hall for a moment, trying to figure out what it was. The initial response of calling to the source of the noise died in the back of his throat because the thought of braking the darkness around him suddenly seemed terrifying.

There’s a mansion in San Jose, California called the Winchester Mystery House and - no matter if you believed ghost stories or preferred the more believable tales about predatory mediums working on the grief-stricken minds of rich widows - most people tend to agree that it’s haunted. Amid stories of doors leading to nothing, rooms left unfinished, and the sprawling design of a labrithine building that directly mirrored the decaying sanity of an elderly woman, there were tales of workers that still hammered away at metaphysical walls and threw around the tools of unsuspecting contractors who tried to make routine repairs. The idea snuck up in the back of his mind that this was exactly what was happening, the ghosts of long-dead servants were now toiling away in darkened corridors, their labors never finished. It made his skin prickle.

Laxus had never worked in a haunted house before, mind you. He’d worked in old houses, yes, and ones more ruined than they were salvageable. He’d been in places frequented by odd noises and knockings. He’d laid wires in walls with tragic histories. Most times he’d find that a good corbonmonoxide detector would destroy a longstanding haunted house. But something about the Heartfilia mansion just didn’t say you’re breathing too much poisonous gas to him. The place had been unsettling since the moment he’d stepped from his car; dark in places that didn’t make sense, and oozing unfamiliarity and patient malice. An open window couldn’t banish the strange, sticking dread that clung to the raftors of this place. And the noise echoing down the hallway sounded very much like something that didn’t belong, eerie and broken as it was, like a minor’s dredging through the heart of a cold mountain.

Laxus’s stomach dropped as he stepped forward into the darkness. He saw something dim reflecting off the pipes down at the end of the hall, like the slightest glimpse of light through a mist. It wasn’t warm like the lamps upstairs. It was cold and distant, ghostly and blue in the way snow is, or fog. It wavered slightly and then, quite suddenly, dashed away. And then Laxus heard it again, louder now as he drew closer, a crunch and then a rattle, followed by a metallic clang. It reminded him of walking by the railroad tracks as a kid and climbing the mountain of gravel heaped for use later, the sound of rocks gliding off one another as they were dislodged by his feet and tumbled in a miniature avalanche down the slope. The metal clang, and now Laxus could hear a high-pitched squeal of hinges.

A low noise started, slow and eerie. A voice hummed distantly a hollow tune, slightly off-key. Laxus’s heart thumped it’s way up his throat as he approached the bend in the hall. The sound of rocks tumbling was incredibly close, made loud either by his fear or by whatever had made it coming near to him. He stood still, staring at the corner as he tried to find the will to turn and see who was on the other side. The humming stopped, the sound of stone ended, and the groan of hinges filled the space until a metal door clanged shut.

He felt incredibly loud and bumbling as his foot scuffed against the floor. He turned and his eyes meandered their way across a flashlight laying on its side, light cutting through unnaturally dark haze into the gaping mouth of a boiler. Two more stood beside it, doors shut tight with something black oozing from their closed maws. Laxus felt a little dizzy as he stood there staring at the empty boiler room. His breath was coming in fast, his eyes landing on abandoned work.

“What in the hell do ya think yer doin’?” a voice demanded and Laxus nearly jumped from his skin. He snapped his head around to a darkened doorway past the bench that held the light. A stark shadow stood there, hunched over some long shape. Laxus nearly swallowed his cigarette at the sound of metal hitting concrete ground, “I just shoveled coal!”

“I’m... uhh...” Laxus stuttered as the shadow stepped out of the darkness and into the limited light of the flashlight.

“Don’t ya know shit about workin’ with coal? Get rid of the fucking cigarette, unless ya wanna send us both up,” he growled, crossing his arms and glaring over at him.

“Oh!” Laxus responded eloquently, fumbling to find something to put his cigarette out on. He settled on the wall, not figuring Miss Heartifila would be giving much of a fuck about the walls down here being dirty, and somewhat awkwardly cleared his throat, “I’m Laxus.”

The man raised a brow at him, giving him a hard look over before something sparked in his eyes, “The electrition?”

Laxus smiled more out of courtesy than actually wanting to, “Yep.”

“Th’names Gajeel,” he replied, placing his hands on his hips, “Sorta a handyman. Would be a mechanic, except I never got around to passin’ the test.”

“Not certified but still fixing the boilers?” Laxus asked in good humor.

“I was the only person they could find who’d worked with steamship boilers before... course, those were oil, not coal.”

“Semantics,” Laxus said.

He shrugged and then slouched back into the dark room. Laxus stepped farther in, eyeing the massive machines and their many strange gauges and knobs. The black stuff on the ground, Laxus realized, was coal dust and the two closed boilers had been filled with the stuff. Laxus had no idea how long it must have taken to do, especially alone, but he could only assume Gajeel had to have gotten here long before the rest of them.

“You do all this yourself?” Laxus asked. He heard the deary complaint of a squeaky wheel and turned to see Gajeel pushing a wheelbarrow heaping with coal. He grunted as he heaved it into the open boiler, clapping his hands and sending darkened plumes of rock dust into the air.

“It ain’t so bad once you get started,” he muttered, slamming the door shut and turning a knob to seal it. He turned and headed off in a direction deeper into the room, and Laxus followed closely behind, not wanting to be left alone in the dark. There was a workbench, or Laxus thought it was, with long metal poles wrapped in cloth. There was a bucket of water colored pitched, and it was clear why when Gajeel stuck his arms deep into it, wetting down his hands and running them across his face. The water cut streaks into the soot covering him, staining his shirt. He grabbed one of the poles.

“What’s that?”

“Hopefully, it’s what gets everythin’ running,” he said, dunking it in oil.

“If it doesn’t?”

“It’ll probably blow us up... hell if I know. I’m just hoping none of the pipes corroded. That’ll be a hell of a mess...”

They returned to the boilers where Gajeel checked valves and gauges, griping the entire time about pressure and how the whole place is probably a death trap, before plunging the pole down into the bowels of the boiler, waiting a few beats while slowly turning it, and then pulling it out again. There was a flicker in the observation window that grew steadily brighter.

“Give ‘er a look,” Gajeel’s voice sounded amused, but he’d turned around before Laxus could glance at his face. As he toiled down the line, Laxus peeked into the belly of the thing. White brick lined the sides of the boiler, charred from use, and the fire danced its way across the rock, turning from a fighting scarlet to livid white and tipping in blue. It was mystifying to watch it flicker and taunt its way through the monsterous pit, and for the first time since Laxus had gotten to this godforsaken place, he started to feel warm.

A deep vibration started at his feet, rumbling the pipes like an earthquake and setting the whole house into a vicious buzz. Smoke belched from one of the vents before shuttering and and stopping. There was a dreadful moment when the entire boiler shivered and groaned, sending that same egregious moan echoing loudly through the house, and then it lolled to a comfortable hum. Gajeel crosses his arms, watching his work completed with a smug set to his features, as the room filled with the reddish glow of coal fire.

“Well, I’ll be damn. We might get this place livable after all,” Laxus sighed, “How long d’you think it’ll take to get the house warm?”

“A place as big as this? At least five hours.”

“I don’t think I can go five hours listening to the heiress complain about the cold.”

“Bit of a princess, ain’t she?”

Laxus rolled his eyes and Gajeel snorted, the noise as alien to the place as the heat now filling the room. With more light, Laxus could see piercings catching the red glow on his eyebrows.

“She seems one of those damsel-in-distress types, always gettin’ into trouble. Can’t wait ‘til she finds a mouse. Bet she’ll be climing right up into those strong arms of yours.”

Laxus laughed and it felt like a relief. The trepidation that had been clinging to him for so long, the inherit off-ness that had been sinking its cold fingers into him, his uneasiness at being in this massive, unknown place, it all disappeared in the midst of simply being able to laugh. A sheepish grin broke out across Gajeel’s face. Laxus wasn’t sure if it was the black dust peppering his face, the way the warm, comforting light of the boilers bounced across his eyes, or maybe just having another warm presense in the otherwise suffocating basement, but Laxus was sure the entire place had just gotten a bit brighter.

#fanfiction #laxeel #laxus dreyar #gajeel redfox #fiction #fairy tail fandom #fairy tail laxus #fairy tail gajeel #fairy tail fanfic #fairy tail #gajeel x laxus #laxus x gajeel #gajeel #laxus #haunted house au #haunted house #mild flirting #this was fun #i really want to write this #spilled words #stevmarie speaking

[fandomrecycling]

Pax and her Potions: Prt 2/3

Part 1 here I guess

@anxiousworm @vlanderzine I blame worm for infecting me with angst but also this kinda worked p-well ngl.

Grabbing a bundle of sticks, Pax shifted through her cloak to make room for the new stack of ladders beside her pickaxe, food and notebook. After clicking that both her parents were indeed asleep and that there was no one in the streets below, she pried open the wood planks to her bedroom and looked down.

The drop was easily at least a dozen meters off the ground, maybe more. There was a tree she could jump to, but Pax didn’t trust her athletic skill. Replacing the removed planks and ladders once she hit the ground, the amature alchemist frowned up at the redstone lamps.

Technically speaking, there were no dark spots in the city. The mayor had spent dozens of diamonds ensuring that there was no risk of monsters beyond the walls entering or appearing in the middle of the night. Even the rooftops were lit up with torches. It made sleeping difficult.

On the plus side, that meant most citizens were conditions to avoid darkened patches at all costs. So the dimmer alley with only a single light source was the perfect place to creep through.

Keeping a tight grip on her tool, Pax leaned out from the alley to the small procession of sleepy guards who were standing guard at the portal. One was leaning against the obsidian structure, the other fiddling with his sword. Looking into her inventory for a moment, she found a spare stick and threw it in the opposite direction.

That worked better than she expected, cliche as it was. Both guards jumped at the sound, raising their swords in alarm. With their heads turned, Pax dashed into the open square and ducked behind a set of tall bushes.

She was forced to wait several more seconds before they wouldn’t see her in their peripheral vision. Running up towards the portal, Pax suddenly stopped.

Staring into the swirls of violet energy, there was a palpable heat radiating from the frame. She would have compared it to a summer breeze, but that was too gentle of a metaphor. Hovering a hand just over the portal, a flash of heat made her flinch back.

A moment of realism crashed into her. This was dangerous, more dangerous than just stealing ingredients for faulty potions. This was another dimension, this was fire and monsters and possibly death.

“What are you doing?” Pax asked herself.

The guards were returning. She threw herself into the portal.

The heat she’d felt radiating from the portal was nothing compared to this. Pax coughed from the humid air and ashes stinging her throat. She wasn’t even in the Nether proper, having landed in the small hub that the miners used.

Stone brick and slabs decorated the small room, with little tables that the workers could use for their breaks. A corner of the hub was locked by an iron door, with the inside filled with chests. There were tunnels cut through in all four cardinal directions, with minecart chests and rails running down as far as she could see.

Pax almost considered breaking into the locked room for more supplies, but she knew that it was likely trapped against any real thieves. Instead, she chose one of the tunnels, squeezed her pickaxe, and began to dig upward.

In all her stories, they described caves as dark, damp and scary places. Where you could be faced with the growling maw of a zombie or a spider dropping onto your face at any moment. Digging in the Nether was some other kind of dread. Pax could hear the bubbling drip of lava through the netherrack, making her flinch every time the sounds grew louder.

When she finally broke through the surface, it didn’t seem like it was the surface. The sky - at least as far as ‘sky’ meant - was a distant roof made of deep red stone. Fires speckled the ground, with long streams of lava dripping down from the layers and layers of floating islands and cliffs.

The mines below her suddenly felt pitifully small in comparison. There was just so much to explore, she almost forgot what she was here for.

Nibbling on a small bundle of golden carrots, Pax made her way across the scorched landscape. As she walked, she heard an odd sound between a snort and a growl behind her. She heard something creak, then an arrow cut a gash across her cheek.

Screaming, the girl wheeled around and found a humanoid pig creature reloading a crossbow. It was the first, non-zombified creature she’d seen and Pax had a moment to marvel at another sentient creature from this realm. Until she found another arrow pointed at her face.

The girl dashed away in an instant, remembering to dodge the magma blocks haphazardly placed across the ground and the lava pouring down. Arrows whizzed by her and another lucky shot cut another hole through her cloak. It wasn’t until she was faced with a sheer cliff that Pax turned again.

Her hands were shaking so bad, she dropped the half-eaten golden carrot and clutched her pick like a sword. The crossbow was level with her face, growing closer after each tick. It was a meter away from her but her legs refused to move.

The piglin blinked, beady eyes glancing down to the dropped food. It lowered it’s crossbow. Pax relaxed her grip.

“Uh, hello?” She asked, feeling slightly stupid.

It bent down and grabbed the carrot, stuffing it into its mouth and chewing the carrot to paste. Pax grinned, “You’re hungry?”

She fished out another carrot, threw it to the ground, then pressed her back against the wall. The piglin’s face formed something that might’ve been a grin as it bent down to munch on the carrot.

To her surprise, it also dropped it’s crossbow and began fishing through what looked like an inventory. After it finished the second carrot, it dropped a pile of greenish-orange slime, picked up it’s crossbow and walked away.

Pax watched the mob disappear back into the misty red before she felt confident enough to poke at the strange substance. Her first thought was that it was some kind of weird piglin poop, but it lacked any poop-like smell so she dismissed that theory.

Whatever it was, the mob had offered it to her out of some kind of trade. It looked interesting at the very least, so Pax stuffed handfuls into her cloak and began to tower up the side of the mountain.

The height gave her a good vantage point to look across the landscape. And to her luck, there was a fortress a few feet away. Smiling, Pax climbed down, dashed towards the closest pillar and threw down the first ladders. Sticky ash clung to her skin, excitement and fear blending together into a heady concoction.

Once she made it up to face one of the barred windows, she tore down the fence that blocked her and climbed inside the fortress.

It was quieter than she expected, the red bricks insulating her against the ambient sounds of the nether. Pax could hear footsteps, though; a shambling, rattling sound that echoed down from some unknown place deep in the structure.

Flipping through her notes, Pax found the copied out section of her book on myths that detailed some of the old mages ingredients. She was pleasantly surprised to find that the weird slime the piglin gave her looked like one of them. The specific item she was looking for, though, was a deep red, fungi-like plant named ‘netherwarts’.

There wasn’t a detailed map that showed her where she’d find this plant, so Pax found herself wandering aimlessly. Despite the oppressive atmosphere, hidden monsters and any manner of unknown danger, she was absolutely thrilled to have made it this far.

Coming down from a staircase, Pax was about to start down the new corridor until she saw the plants. She started a scream of delight, then slapped a hand over her mouth and refused to breathe. The clacking sounds grew louder, closer.

She needed to get out, but she needed that netherwart. Jumping down and onto the plot of soul sand, she tore up the plants, grabbed a chunk of the cursed dirt to grow them on and ran back up the stairs and towards her exit.

Pax screamed this time when she came face to face with a blackened skull. A stone sword nearly cut a gash down her chest, then Pax felt herself fall. Rolling down the stairs, she forced herself to her feet and blasted down the new corridor.

Wither skeletons; even she didn’t think they were real. She swerved around corners, her momentum throwing her into the walls. From what few windows she could see, the fortress extended over the bowles of a lava lake. Digging out would just be suidice then.

The next corner she turned made her heart drop. The corridor broke away, the rest presumably resting under the magma below. Pax whimpered and turned, hearing the skeleton growing closer and pinning her between two options for a painful death.

She didn’t have any combat training and she certainly wasn’t fireproof. Shuffling through her inventory, Pax pulled out the rest of her ladders and looked up to the broken remains of the hallway.

Climbing up and onto the roof, she had even less protection from whatever might drop down, but she made sure to break the makeshift stairs so mobs couldn’t follow her at least. Backtracking from where she came and making use of her ladders, Pax soon found her original entrance and began to build her way down.

A new sound made her turn her head. Hovering in the sky, a ghostly white creature with tendrils and red eyes spat out a ball of fire.

Pax let go of the ladder, dropping her onto the ground from higher than she could tolerate. Shock buzzed up her heel and through her spine, nearly knocking her off her feet. The ghost-creature had closed its eyes, but hovered closer to her position.

Running with fresh bruises, she cried out and blocked her face as hot flecks of exploding netherrack pelted her thin cloak. Scrambling up the mountainside, Pax heard the shriek of another fireball and managed to throw one arm up onto the edge.

The impact threw her into the air, flipping her over before crashing into the pit the explosion left. Pain filled her senses; lingering along with the smell of burning hair. Agony flared all across her back, refusing to dull and growing worse as all her adrenalin was sapped from her body.

She had just enough sense left to try and bury herself with whatever materials she had left and prayed that the ghast would leave her alone. Biting her sleeve to muffle her crying, Pax waited in the dark with dying ember ticking her nose.

#mcoc trio #minecraft #minecraft oc

[frostclawdragoon]

Prompt #29: Paternal

((Featuring @verdantbard​‘s character, Caoimhe! :3))

In recent years, sleep came so easy. The nightmares of war, of blood and death, were few and far between. Even then, they weren’t so bad, and it was never hard to fall back asleep.

But there were some nights where Nalin would awake in a cold sweat.

So when a loud crackle of thunder snapped in the night sky over the Windsong Manor, shaking the house to it’s very foundation, Nalin jerked upright in bed with a sharp gasp and a whispered curse below his breath. Eyes wide, and muscles tensed and tight, his head darted about, scanning the darkened interior of his room barely alight by the remaining embers of the fireplace. His breaths were heavy and quick, and he could feel his palms and brow beginning to sweat.

His old scars from toothy dragon maws began to ache with a ghostly pain, and he clutched a hand to his chest, instinctively feeling for wounds and blood under the loose fitting shirt. There were none. The fact that there were no wounds and that the house was still standing should have been enough to calm him, but his mind raced, bringing up old, terrible memories of a time where sleep and unburned homes were a luxury.

“Nalin?” Came a soft, careful voice.

Instantly he was pulled back to the present with a hard blink of his eyes. Nalin looked over to find Caoimhe sitting up beside him, a worried smile on her face. When she saw that he was back, that he wasn’t lost in the memories of his past, she reached out and squished herself into his side, hugging him close, just in time for another snap of thunder to echo roar outside, the rain beginning to hit the windows beside their bed hard.

He winced the sound, his hands reaching up to cover his ears. A second after, and a gentle melodious song began to fill the air as Caoimhe sang a familiar lullaby. It filled the space with her comforting aether, and Nalin slowly began to sink into her embrace as her song progressed, leaning heavily onto her as his body lost all tension.

He focused on her voice to drown out the sound of the thunder, and he began to feel his mind clear and exhaustion return…

That was… Until the bedroom door clicked open.

Nalin shot up from Caoimhe’s arms, practically flinging himself from the bed as he grabbed the lance he kept leaned nearby -- he slept better with his weapon nearby. He was crouched, half on the bed, half-off, ready to pounce at whatever was coming through that door.

And when he saw the outline of a little au ra peek into the room, Nalin’s guard dropped.

“Haku?” Caoimhe asked as she stood up from the bed as well.

“What are you doing awake?” Nalin asked a moment after as he gently set the lance back against the wall.

Haku only timidly stood there in the doorway.

Another boom of thunder. Nalin winced at the sound and tensed, but the sound of rapid footfalls running across the room caught his attention again as Haku bolted straight toward Caoimhe and clung to her in a tight hug. She looked at Nalin, then down to the young boy holding onto her.

“Oh Haku… Did the storm wake you up?” She questioned.

Nalin could see Haku’s head nod. He recalled when he found him in Kugane, the boy was covered in ashes and soot. He wondered how many Garlean weapons had gone off during the raid on his village, how many noises that sounded all too close to thunder... He wondered how much destruction and death a boy of ten summers had seen...

It made his blood boil. But also made his heart ache.

Nalin caught a flash of lighting outside, and braced himself for another crack of thunder. It snapped loud, shaking the house. The storm was right above them, no doubt. He noticed Caoimhe looking a little overwhelmed that her husband and son both were trembling and she simply did not have enough arms to tend to them both.

Then, she gasped with an idea.

“... You know what we could do to wait out the storm?” Caoimhe smiled at Haku. “We could build a fort!”

“A… Fort?” Nalin asked. “Where are we going to get the materials for that? And why in the middle of the rain?”

“No, no, not an actual fort. A pillow and blanket fort!”

Nalin tilted his head, his brow furrowed in confusion. Caoimhe pushed Haku back to hunker down near him.

“Do you want to help me and dad build a fort?”

Haku rubbed at the tears in his eyes, but looked just as confused by the idea as Nalin. Caoimhe only beamed, and looked to her husband standing on the other side of the bed.

“Nalin, you get the fire going.” She turned back to Haku. “You help me get the sheets off the bed!”

Nalin and Haku both were still no less confused, but set out to do their tasks. In a short time, Nalin had stirred up the fire again, and then began helping Caoimhe rearrange the seating nearby to make the foundation for this fort she went on about. With the aid of a couple of Nalin’s many practice staffs, they began making a blanket fort with the opening facing toward the fireplace. They covered the floor with more plush blankets and as many pillows -- and plush toys they fetched from Haku’s room -- as they could. Caoimhe had also brought over books, games and, of course, snacks. Eventually, this fort took shape, and Caoimhe was the first to crawl inside, patting the comfortable floor beside her.

“Come on, come on!” She urged.

Haku crawled inside second without much hesitation, looking extremely excited to see this fort while also hiding away from the flashing lighting and rumbling thunder. Nalin squatted down to look into the fort, seeing his family inside with eager looks.

“... You do realize I’m unreasonably large, right?” He directed that at Caoimhe.

She only beamed more. “Yup!” She patted the ground again, undeterred.

Haku shook with silent laughter.

He sighed, then crawled into the fort, shifting about to try his best to get comfortable in a small space that was far more suited for a hyur woman and the au ra child with her. Eventually, he just decided laying on his side was the best option, and his legs absolutely stuck out of the fort, much to his dismay and Caoimhe’s utter giggly delight. She gave him a blanket to cover his legs with.

She then quickly scooted to have her back to Nalin’s stomach and leaned against him comfortably, then urged Haku to sit beside her. As soon as he was close enough, she covered them both with a blanket next and hugged Haku close with an arm, then reached over to one of the many books she had brought and opened it on her lap. Nalin peered around the two, spotting the picture book she had. A storybook of various fairy tales.

She began to read to Haku, who sat and listened with extreme attentiveness and awe. Although she was not singing this time, her voice still carried that same special, warm aether that filled the space of their fort with calmness as she drowned out the storm carrying on outside. With a small smile forming unknowingly on his face, Nalin’s eyes drooped closed, the image of Caoimhe and Haku snuggled up with him in the glow of the fireplace forever engraved in his mind, replacing the dark, painful memories and nightmares that had plagued him not more than a few moments earlier.

Fairy kings, magical flowers, heroic princesses and brave knights… It didn’t take long for both Nalin and Haku to fall back asleep to the comforting voice and gentle tales of Caoimhe. When she noticed they both slept so soundly, undisturbed by the now distant thunder and softening rain, she snuggled down in the blankets herself, whispered a soft goodnight to them both, and drifted back to sleep.

#FFxivWrite2020 #FFxivWrite #Nalin Stories #ITS TIME FOR EXTREME FLUFFY FAMILY TIMES #Angry Dragoon Man Actually Happy For Once: The Story #added a gif because WHY NOT

[officialtrashbin]

Always

O o f  so I don’t think this was at all what you were waiting for anon but I hope you enjoy it all the same!

Rating: M+, for prostitution, smut, and dark themes Alternate Universe. Corvus/Proxima, mentions of background pairings.

* * * * *

He’s had the audacity to dream his dreams again, and in them, he’s done something terrible.

* * *

She lays next to him in bed, an uncareful creature she’s grown in to, smoking a cigarette. He looks at her, covered only by the corner of the sheet; the lights from the building across the street flicker, and the crimson shadow of the neon sign spills into the room in intervals, bracketing her impossibly soft, blue face. She makes him feel a certain way.

“I missed you,” he says.

“Is that all you missed?”

She’s being coy. He puts his hand on her thigh and traces the momentum of her pulse. Her skin prickles where it bends under his fingertips.

He tells her, “Sometimes I miss dying.”

“Oh, Corvus.” She leaves her cigarette burning in the ashtray and straddles his waist, framing his face with her hands. “I am already so lonely when you aren’t near. What would I do with myself?”

“They make toys for that.”

She laughs from her chest, he notices, a self-contained thing. Her mouth captures his. She tastes like the accumulation of her line of work—ash, whiskey, a handful of mint—then, distantly, against the back of her tongue akin to the ghostly whisper of words never spoken, him.

* * *

The first time is business.

He was supposed to be meeting his brother in a decently priced motel in the lower historic district, but a run-in with the Shi’ar had delayed their reunion almost a full week. Corvus decides three days in that he’d rather not spend another night alone, and wanders the city streets at dusk, hood cast up to defend against the downpouring rain.

The place he finds half an hour later is called Sanctuary. Down the alley to its right side, protected from the weather by a long, sloped roof, he glimpses a lone Kree eating out an escort.

He goes up the steps and knocks. The right front door swings open. A woman standing in the foyer glares squarely into his face; her deep green hair is braided back, and she isn’t dressed like any of the escorts. She looks more of a hit-for-hire type.

“Hurry in,” she says to him. “You’re letting the heat out.”

He steps inside and she shuts the door behind him.

“You’re new,” she observes. “What are you looking for? Comfort? Fun? Prices start at three hundred.”

He hadn’t thought about that. His eyes briskly traverse the foyer, taking in the luxurious, classy interior; there are buyers, men and women and otherwise, all different species, with escorts to match the same array of variance, occupying the vast, open corridor.

He shifts his weight.

“Haven’t decided yet.”

He knows he has to buy eventually, but he has leeway with picking who he wants; he takes a second glance at Gamora, and quickly realizes she’s the guard. She carries knives and pistols to deter the potentially dangerous clientele.

“Also, no weapons,” she tells him, holding out her hand. “You can come collect when you’re finished. Don’t worry, I lock these things up.”

“I understand.”

He gives her his glaive and she disappears through a door to the right. Without the staff in hand, he feels vulnerable. But, he tells himself, it’s only for one night. So, he gathers his wits and paces the length of the hall, peering through the doors to learn the building. The rooms are open, cylindrical shaped, social venues. Only one of them yields alcohol.

He steps in, and sees her.

She’s sitting at the forefront of the bar, chatting idly with the server, a woman who doesn’t dress like an escort either; she’s in a navy teardrop dress. The softness of the lace is apparent in the way it moves with her, a painter’s brush stroke on a blue canvas, when she folds one long leg over the other.

He swallows drily.

“I’m assuming you’ve found your taste,” Gamora says next to him. She’d managed to advance on him in his daze, and he curses himself for being so careless.

“Perhaps.”

“Midnight is expensive, but worth the pay, if you enjoy getting your dick snapped in half.” Gamora hears glass break the next room over, and huffs. “I need to tend to that. See me if you require anything.”

“Will do.”

When she leaves, he finally deems it safe enough to move. He goes to the bar and internally practices his lines before laying his hand on the back of the stool and pulling himself into it. She pays him no mind, only throws back her shot of whiskey and then puts a cigarette between her teeth.

The server behind the counter is a tall, blue-skinned woman, with sharp cut cheekbones. He orders a round from her, on the rocks, and finishes it before finally saying something to Midnight.

“How much?”

“You can’t handle me,” she shoots back, giving him a disinterested once-over with her eyes.

He scoffs. “I’m a creature of arrogance. I can handle you, or I’ll die trying.”

That gets a smirk out of her. She says, “Seven.”

He could do seven.

* * *

There are rules. Subjective ones. Guidelines, followed by a golden reassurance that the Master of the House won’t tolerate harm to his escorts by penalty of death. When the lock on the door is secured in place, he asks her about her own additions. She kisses him, slides easily out of her dress; it puddles on the rug.

“I don’t beg for anything,” she says, “or ask for mercy from an outstretched hand,” she slides her finger under the length of his belt like slitting open an envelope, “and I like it rough. No exceptions, or I’ll take your money and throw you out.”

He considers that a challenge.

The sheets are clean, though the bed creaks under them, worn from years of use. It’s only a matter of time before he gets his mouth on her breast and three fingers buried to the knuckle inside of her, and he’s denied her orgasm each time she’s gotten close. She grinds her hips. Calls him a bastard flarkin’ tease.

“Want to come?” he hisses against her neck.

“Fuck—yes, yes—”

“Then beg.”

And she does.

* * *

Afterwards, when they’re both spent and exhausted, he isn’t sure what to do with himself. He sits on the foot of the bed and lights a cigarette. He registers the sudden chill of her bare skin against his back, her soft breasts to his shoulders, and the definition of her muscles as her arms come around his waist. He feels inadequate in her presence. Not good enough for her.

She sets her chin against him. “That was fun,” she utters, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Won’t you stay the night?”

“Another time,” he says honestly.

“So you’ll be back, then.”

“Maybe.”

Maybe becomes yes, becomes always. It’s the closest thing to a promise he’s ever had to make.

* * *

He only sees her once a month after work steers him elsewhere. Each time, her price gets lower, though he’s willing to pay anything she asks; it’s always business, a long and involved process from start to finish. The fifth time, they sit up in bed at nearly dawn, having gotten no sleep, and she tells him things he doesn’t know what to do with.

“I envy you,” she says.

“You wouldn’t, if you knew what I was.”

She’s halfway through her cigarette. He picks it from her mouth, takes a drag.

“I don’t care what you are,” she says. “What matters is that you’re free. You can leave this place any time you want.”

“Can you fly a ship?”

“I can.” She turns her head to look at him. “But. You should know better than me. Nothing is that easy—especially leaving behind a life so lived in.”

He takes another drag, and gives her the cigarette back. “How much for another round?”

“For you”—she falls into him, putting her lips on his—“free of charge.”  

* * *

Each year, the dead are less dead. That’s what his father used to say, and when translated from their language into the common tongue, it’s roughly equivalent to calling oneself old. He doesn’t want to wait for old age to claim him. Not after everything he’s seen, not after what he dreams—such terrible dreams that he wakes up next to her in a panic, reaching for her hand in the dark.

“Corvus?” she utters, half-awake. “What is it?” She rolls over and holds him against her chest. “Was it a nightmare?”

“The dead,” he says, “they become less dead.”

“I always think you want to tell me the truth, but then decide that saying something cryptic is easier.”

That isn’t an entirely untrue observation. He breathes in deep, feels her pulse through her skin.

“What about you?” he asks.

She considers it, and tells him, “I dream of leaving, of being elsewhere.”

Though, he finds out, there is nowhere to go, or anywhere else at all; he listens to her tell him about the planet she came from, Kree-controlled and Kree-mined, always at war. Wide awake, they sit at the edge of the mattress; she talks, he listens. Half-way through her criticism of her own species he leans over and lights his cigarette on hers. She smells like yesterday—the cheap summer ale, hand-washed linens, parlor smoke, soap; he debates whether to invite her back to bed.

Then she gets close to him, and whispers in his ear.

“Will you take me away from here?”

* * *

The escort’s name is Ebony Maw, which indicates that he’s opinionated. He is with Proxima when Corvus isn’t, a good friend of hers, perhaps, always a preference for the male clientele and studiously to the point with everything he speaks of. Corvus has never had a reason to talk to him. Maw, however, finds him when he’s leaving late one morning, and delivers an opinion anyway.

“What has she fed you this time?”

Corvus bares his fangs. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Of course not.” Maw presses his fingertips together and smiles grimly. “You are not the first. Let me guess—she’s asked you when you’ll take her away from here. Softened you up with her ambitions and her rectitude towards the Kree?”

His fingers tighten around the neck of the glaive.

“Perhaps you should ask her what happened to Ballista Grim.”

Corvus snarls. “You’ll find I care little for your commentary. I have somewhere to be.”

The Maw says nothing to that, and watches Corvus leave.

* * *

He doesn’t go back for nearly two months, but the allure of another night with her eventually outweighs his own pitiful resolve and he saunters through the doors and finds her at the bar and relives the first moment they collided lives, gentle as derailing trains. It’s routine by now. They lock eyes, she doesn’t say a word to him, throws back her drink and snuffs her cigarette. She takes his hand, guides him upstairs to that secluded room at the end of the long, long hall and fucks him hard against the mattress.

In the afterglow of it, she tells him, “I thought you weren’t going to come back this time.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“I know Maw said something. He doesn’t like you much.”

“I don’t care if he does or doesn’t.” Then, “Who’s Ballista Grim?”

She lights a cigarette and reaches over to the window, sliding the panel open to let the cool city air into the room. “A lot like you. Killed people for a living, came here a few times a month to let off steam, and I took a particular liking to her. Maybe I have a type.”

“I assume you’ve made a bad habit out of falling for your clientele.”

She laughs. “Of course not. Lista was…different.”

“As for me?”

“As for you,” she says. “You’re…” She smiles distantly, perhaps reflecting, and sucks in a drag. “Lista was the one who put the idea in my head. She wanted to buy me.”

“I take it the Master of the House didn’t appreciate that?”

She offers him a smoke and he takes it. “You see, Than—I mean, the Master, has plenty of hires, and other methods of income. He shouldn’t be so worried about one woman being purchased out of his care, but…” She shrugs. “When the offer to work was made to me, I chose this. I wanted to be here, at least, in the beginning.”

“What changed?” he asks.

“I learned that everything is violence,” she replies. “Love, war, life. All of it is a battle, with a losing side and a winning side. I thought that escaping my homeworld would change that. When Gamora was ordered to put a bullet in Ballista’s head, I realized how naïve I truly was.” She snuffs out her cigarette on the nightstand ashtray. “I know now that anywhere I go will be like this, but at least I will go to war on my own terms.”

He touches her thigh. She feels cold as the night, and alive.

She wipes at the tear in the corner of her eye and tells him, “You’ll be relieved to know, though, they haven’t talked about you yet. Maw is the only one who suspects anything, but he’ll keep his mouth shut.”

He wants to tell her that they can’t threaten him. They can’t kill him. Instead he kisses her and pulls her down into the sheets with him.

She wraps her legs around his waist and holds him close. “I need to know something, Corvus.”

He hums into her neck.

“After everything I’ve told you… Will you still want to take me away from here?”

He hesitates. Slowly, he puts his hand on her cheek and holds her gaze.

“Always.”

* * *

In his dreams, he does something terrible—to her, for her. It’s dawn and they’re still awake, sharing words, and she’s telling him once more about how much she can’t wait to leave here. Here. He realizes only now that here means everywhere, means this life. He could do it. He could do what she asks of him, what the dreams warn him of; take the blade hidden under the bed and push it slowly through her throat.

“Proxima—”

His hands are shaking.

The tip of the dagger lurches through the first layer of skin, and a drop of blood careens down her collarbone. He can’t get the image out of his head. Being near her makes the dead become less dead.

“I love you,” he hisses through grit teeth.

“Oh, Corvus.”

Her hands slide into his, holding him there.

He inhales deep and takes in the scent of her nearness. His own mind is rendered unreliable—he knows only that he’s about to make a decision, one way or the other, even when both end in disaster.

She says, “Will you finally take me away from here?”

#corvus glaive #proxima midnight #corvus x proxima #proxivus #request fill

[qhostqizmo]

I can’t Bear to keep this secret

I’m still not good at titling. Ya’ll have to live with me like this. I’m sorry.

- - - - - - - - - - -

The event played beneath his eyelids every time he closed them to rest. A menacing beast towering above; maw spread wide to reveal large teeth and a bellowing roar he could feel in his bones. It was a sight that didn’t give him nightmares, up until recently.

Where the bear had bitten him and drawn blood, he’d been able to pass off as a swipe from its claws. It was healed before anyone had a chance to inspect what had truly caused the wound.

He was ashamed, and frightened. Maybe a little of himself; as he felt the curse of the werebear weigh heavily with each passing day in his veins, but mostly, of them. These traveling companions he called friends were more then just his allies at the end of the day. They were family. Each one had slowly become, on some strange quirky level, someone he trusted. How often had he been given these privileges? What were the odds anyone else would accept him as he was; with what he had done to his step-brother, with all his broken pieces and strange dark secrets.

If he hurt a single hair on their heads, he’d never be able to forgive himself. But if they turned away from him… The thought made his insides quiver. He would have nothing. Nothing.

He bit his tongue, jostled by the wagon ride to open his eyes once again and banish the sight of glowing eyes descending upon him and sinking into the flesh of his shoulder. He reached up to grasp at it; a ghostly pain there but not there.

“Are you alright, m’lord? Do you need some of your ointment rubbed on your shoulder?”

Amon cleared his throat roughly as he gazed to the woman sitting beside him. She wore her bleeding heart of concern open on her chest, and in the furrow of her brow as her worried eyes gazed him over.

“I’m fine,” he reassured her. He dropped his hand. Truly, he felt much better, at least, for the moment. He was centered by the gravity of her eyes; the sun pulling him back into orbit.

Although Essätha didn’t appear entirely convinced, she smiled at him warmly just the same. Her hand stretched across to lay upon his as a sign of reassurance. Her touch left a trail of tingling awareness in its wake. Although she made no sign to remove her hand, he turned his over greedily to take hold of hers. He was going to need all the strength he could get tonight, and maybe it was selfish, but if he could imprint as much of the puzzled but soft look in her gaze upon him, or the smell of lavender on her hair, or the softness of her touch in his mind, maybe he’d be okay.

“We made great time, it looks like the campsite’s just ahead,” Sulhadur called out to the back in a chipper voice.

“Glad we made it before sundown,” Adela sighed, swishing her tail idly back and forth as she joked, “I’d hate to be ambushed by any wolves.”

The nobleman had to suppress a grimace. He too was grateful they made it before sundown, and prayed Adela’s jest wasn’t a bad omen for an entirely different creature: the one residing inside him.

As the wagon jerked and fumbled down the short lane to the camping site, K’varr finally took its beady-eyed glaring off of him to take to the sky, screeching. He didn’t blame the bird’s distrust; it’s instincts were likely more keen then anyone else on the cart. The only animal companion who didn’t seem to shy away from him still was Caesar, who rested their head protectively upon his knee and hefted a large and imposing yawn with gaping jaws and all as they finally came to a halt.

“Pile out!” Ravamora shrieked, eagerly leaping off the side and into the grass.

“I’d like to get up, really I would, but I can no longer feel my legs,” Penimra announced, glancing up towards Abe as he dismounted from the front. “Abbbeeee-”

“Manners, Master Penimra, ladies first,” the Paladin spiritedly replied, offering out a hand to aid Adela out of the back first.

Caesar whimpered as Amon gently pat his head, the mastiff rising to his paws to look over at him. Although the great dog’s face was usually droopy in expression, he appeared extra saggy around his eyes as though deeply worried. He offered a great huff, and hobbled over to jump from the back with ease, waiting patiently for him to step out.

Amon climbed out the back and offered his hand to Essie, who wobbled and almost fell into his arms on the way out. He offered her a crooked smile and a blush she returned, trying to ignore the way Abernathy had stopped to watch them with his own beaming grin.

“I’ll start the fire!” Pri’cha chirped with their usually pleasant demeanor. They didn’t wait for anyone to respond before scurrying over around the edges of the wilds to collect firewood.

“We’ll get to work on building the tents,” Abe grunted, pointing to Sul as the Dragonborn offered a nod. “Penimra, why don’t you go with Adela to refill the waterskins; I can hear the stream some yards down that way.”

“Ugghhh why are you giving me work?”

“You can otherwise join Rava, who seems to be doing a fine job picking from the berry bushes we saw up on the road.”

“… Waterskins it is.”

“Mmm, guess that leaves us as the unpacking crew,” Essie remarked as she nudged him.

He offered her a strained smile. His skin was growing itchy and uncomfortable, and he was growing all too aware of the emptiness in his stomach. The sun still had a few hours before it hit the horizon, but with each passing minute his focus seemed to erratically jump.

As the group parted into their pairs to begin setting up for the evening, the nobleman found it a bit easier then even normal to lift and parade around all their goods to the security of the tents and trees to keep away from the wildlife and, well… bears. After unloading much of the cart by himself far before the two paladins had even began working on the second tent, he excused Essie to join Pri’cha in setting up dinner.

It didn’t take long before the wafting aromas of supper was filling the air. His stomach growled furiously, and with each sound Caesar whined and scampered helplessly around his feet.

While the rest of them chatted and exchanged jokes, Amon kept his hands busy. They felt small and clumsy, for some reason. He tied some of the luggage up into the safety of the branches, and added everyone’s things into their preferred sleeping areas. While the roast of meat and potatoes crackled on the iron skillet over the flames, he forced himself to gather firewood and avoid the conversation. Or more importantly, avoid diving his hands into the coals themselves to feast, and feed the bear inside of him.

“Amon!” Abe called out, appeared baffled as they all joined along the edges of the fire. “Come, join us. Dinner’s almost ready.”

Swallowing the puddle of drool sitting on his tongue, the nobleman obediently lumbered his way over to take a seat near Essätha.

The food smelt heavenly. Even his faithful canine and Adela’s bird forgot to glower and stare at him, sensing the predator beneath his skin. Sitting in a pool of sauce with mushrooms and a glistening of meat fats, the potatoes perfectly fork-tender and piles of warmed breads loaves piled along the edges to soak up the greasy gravy. There as some cheese sliced, and a pan of green beans with onions and crushed up nuts. Rava’s berries collection had made it into a beat-up looking serving bowl, with sprigs of mint they’d scrounged up. What appeared to be some sort of attempt at a bread-pudding, but clearly a bit overcooked, sat near it for the berries to be served atop.

“You burned desert,” the wood-elf sniffed.

“I couldn’t watch all of it,” Essie defended, filling one of the tin plates with food. “I was busy moving the beans from being directly over the fire.”

“You should have let those burn.”

“Well, you won’t be getting desert anyway unless you eat all your vegetables,” Abernathy reminded her with a twinkle in his eye.

“No thanks, I won’t be wanting burned sweet-bread anyway.”

“Ungrateful,” Essätha mumbled, shaking her head. She turned a smile up to the nobleman, offering him the plate she’d filled. “Hungry?”

Amon swallowed. Their words had all been a muffled haze to him, staring at the mouth-watering spread.

“I could eat.”

She snickered, helping to ladle out some of the gravy upon Pri’cha’s dish. “Hopefully it’s not too overcooked for you, m’lord.”

Still steaming from the heat of the raging fire, Amon stabbed his fork into the juicy piece of meat. It was tender, and flaked into pieces. He shoved it into his mouth; the searing heat burning his tongue but the staring monster inside rumbling with encouragement.

Tears in his eyes from the heat, he shamefully gorged himself on another bite while everyone was still settling into their spots and blowing on their food.

Measuring how fast he ate was an obstacle. He tried to sneak one spoonful here, and another there when everyone was too preoccupied and leaning into each other laughing and chatting to notice him. If not for Essätha’s vigilance, he wasn’t even sure if he’d have the thought of mind to feed Caesar as distracted as he was. She filled the bowl carved with his name so no one would mistakenly eat from it up with some of the meat, and some dried jerky for him to dig into.

Amon was disgusted with his jealousy. The dog got to dive right in, make a mess, and woof his food down without any comment. But his stomach gurgled and demanded more. He could not rip into his meal with a voracious appetite no; he was a man, and not an animal. At least… that’s what he tried to remind himself.

Groaning, bellies full, everyone began to lounge back with ease. Ravamora leaned forward just enough to peer over the skillets and pans with interest, declaring with a color of shock in her tone, “Wow. No leftovers.”

“Guess some of you will be up early finding food for breakfast,” Penimra declared. “I’d prefer some eggs, I think. And bacon, if you’d like to get started setting up traps for a hog.”

“Shut up Pen, or we’ll cook your goose,” Adela threatened.

The group burst into a barking jolly of laughter. Only Amon remained silent, itching at his flesh and thinking of how badly still his chest gnawed and ache with hunger.

“I’ll be taking first watch!” Abe called out eagerly. “Who’ll join me?”

“I will!” Pri’cha elected, raising two of their arms with a delicate wave.

“I guess I’ll be taking second,” Sul reported.

As they delegated among themselves who would be taking watch for the evening, the nobleman clutched at his chest. There was an ache in his lungs. His mouth felt weird; like his teeth were too large for his jaw. As he shifted, he was certain he felt one of his cuspid teeth graze his tongue. Definitely sharper.

A soft voice cleared their throat beside him. “M’lord, it’s growing dark. Would you like to turn in for the night with me?”

He grunted, running his hand over his face. Quickly, he tried to hide it, horrified to see thicker hair peering out from beneath his cuff.

“I’ll join you in a bit,” he answered, feeling a growling vibration in the back of his throat. “I’m not feeling that great.”

The same cloud of concern hung over her once more, and stole the light from her eyes. “Is there anything I can do, or get you?”

Amon nearly groaned beneath her delicate touch, but swallowed it. He wasn’t sure if that was a reaction was from the bear, or from him.

“I’ll be fine,” he reassured her, patting her hand. “I think I just need a bit of fresh air. Give me a moment to cool off and freshen up in the river.”

He took hold of her hand then, and removed it from his side. It tug on his heartstrings guiltily to glimpse her face at that last second. She looked surprised, and worried, and a little hurt as he placed her hand back on her knee. He slipped his cloak off his shoulders and folded it over once to place on the worn logging beside her as he stepped away.

Slipping past Sulhadur as he moved in to occupy his tent, and Adela and Rava as they went to organize their things and get changed, Amon slipped past the trees down the slightly overgrown path that lead in the direction of the river. The sound of water lapping grew louder and louder as he moved down a gradual embankment, careful not to tread any poison oak strewn about. The last of the branches and bushes parted way to reveal a small grassy bank, and the currents of the stream sluggishly moving and winding out of sight.

Sighing, he looked to the sky. Sure enough, the moon was rising, and the last rays of light had left only stains of red and orange fading out as the brightest starts began to bloom.

His limbs were shaking uncontrollably as Amon wrestled with his jerkin. He dropped on the ground hastily, and began to pull the hem of his tunic up. A groan echoed in the back of his throat, feeling a flare like fire in his aching joints ignite.

He snapped his belt out of the loops, perspiration dripping from his chest, his temples, his forehead. Amon gasped, dropping to his knees. He didn’t untie his boots, but helplessly and forcefully shoved them off. The cool, springy grass or cool breeze coming off the water did nothing to lower his body temperature, which felt like it was rising to inferno levels.

Collapsing, exhausted, he writhed. He gasped. He clutched at his chest, panting.

With a hideous snap, his spine cracked and popped. What cry he had was stuck in his throat as he flipped and turned; eyes rolling back in his head as he shut them. The pain was agonizing, immeasurable. He didn’t know where he was, who he was, what he was.

A carpeting of fur began to rapidly grow upon his chest. The nobleman clawed at the dirt, shocked to see that indeed instead of finding grassroots beneath his fingernails, he had elongated claws. He gasped for air once more, his back arching, his joints creaking like doorhinges, his jaw popping as it shifted unnaturally.

When he opened his eyes again, the world had taken on more hues of gray then color, but he could still smell the flora shampoo in Essie’s hair even from out here.

He lunged, trying to stand up, and his still-morphing legs fell out from beneath him, making the beast he had become cry out.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear… what?”

“That noise,” Essätha whispered, staring out into the forest.

“What did you think you hear?” Adela inquired, suppressing a yawn to the best of her ability.

“I don’t know how to describe it… a groan?” she helplessly explained. Her hand moved over her chest, feeling an unmistakable longing. But to what?

Grunting, Abernathy pushed himself to his knees and set aside the honing stone he’d been using on his axe. “There are many things in the woods, Essätha. You’re bound to hear something out there.”

Her burning gaze rounded on the half-orc. “M’lord’s out there, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“And he’s a capable man,” the elder paladin reminded her gently, readjusting his grip on the large weapon. “But you’re right, we should go check on him. Being near a water source, there’s bound to be plenty of creatures wanting to quench their thirst.”

Relieved, she hopped up from her seat to scamper towards the pathway. Her eyes darted back and forth impatiently, waiting for Abernathy to round up some of the others from the tent. In the end, not wanting to leave their gear open to wildlife or other roadside travelers, he elected on himself, Sulhadur, and Adela to join the one member of the party who would unquestionably be scouting out for the nobleman.

“Are the lot of you ready?” she inquired, her voice testy.

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Essie,” Adela scolded. “Let Sul get his sword and shield from his tent.

She huffed, folding her arms. Busy glowering, and pouting, she didn’t notice Caesar come padding over until the dog was nosing her side, whimpering. Her gaze flickered down to those big, soft brown eyes pleading up at her, and his paw extending to lightly brush the bottom of her slacks as he lamented.

She rubbed the dog’s ears, but he remained looking positively depressed. “It’s okay Caesar, I’ll be right back with dad.”

“Arrrrwuff,” he responded, circling her to point down the lush covered path.

“No. You’re staying here. We need someone responsible to look after camp.”

Another whimper. The mastiff tucked their tail low and went to circle anxiously around the camp, like he wasn’t sure what to do and couldn’t sit still.

“What’s wrong with Caesar?” Sul rumbled, puffing smoke out of his nostrils as he joined her.

“I don’t know,” she murmured, “but I have a bad feeling about it.”

“Alright! Everyone’s ready,” Abe burst in happily, strutting over with a gleaming smile and his spike-bracers wrapped around his arms.

Sulhadur exchanged a look with her, questioning, but she shook her head. She’d rather not think about why the dog was acting up, while shoving vines out of her way and ducking below tree limbs to maneuver through the woodlands. Adela let out a quiet curse as she stumbled over some roots tangling up from the forest floor. Overhead, the sound of a crow; quite possibly K’varr themselves stretching their wings, let out a horrendous screeching.

Nerves weary, Essie slid down the embankment first. Her boot caught on something, nearly hurtling her to ground before she caught herself. She turned back to warn the others of whatever she’d nearly fallen over, and stared.

One of Amon’s boots.

Sulhadur came next, followed by Abernathy who was helping Adela down the slope.

“Amon!” Abe called out, brushing a few leaves from his clothes.

“Uh… Abe.” Adela visibly swallowed, pointing a finger towards the bank.

Following the Tiefling’s digit, Essie’s eyes rounded. They all hurried over, nearly tripping over each other in a rush.

“Those are Amon’s trousers,” Abe grimly reported, rubbing his beard.

“They’re torn nearly to shreds,” Sulhadur observed, softly.

No. No no no, this wasn’t happening. This wasn’t real. Her breathing became more shallow and a vague lightheadedness swam over her as her eyes jerked and danced across the pool of water moving downstream, its surface glistening with the full moon’s brilliant glow.

A series of grunts and growls had everyone whipping their head towards the right. Fumbling along the bushes, a disoriented looking bear clamored loudly through the edges of undergrowth. It turned towards them, letting out a soft, almost cooing whine.

“Sulhadur, check the riverbank and water for evidence of Amon,” Torm’s follower directed, his orc-teeth bare at the bear in a challenge.

“Oh my gods,” Essie whispered, appalled. Her head was churning; her legs were shaking. She looked at the dirt; unable to distinguish anything.

As the grizzly backed the remaining distance out of shrubs, Abernathy charged. The bear somehow managed to fumble out of the way of the first swing, where the sharpened blade struck a tree instead. It backed up, nearly into the water, before turning towards them.

Pulling her arm back, Adela howled the words of her ancestors, and sent a spiraling ball of fire at the creature. It sprang into the edge of the water, splashing water everywhere to avoid the embers that hurdled past it. The chuffing sound it created wasn’t one of fury, but one of fear.

There was no blood on the ground. No blood and in fact, no signs of a struggle. The grass was clean from signs of a fight; no smears from boots straining to stand firm, no sticks used to fend off the animal, not even mud along the banks like the nobleman may have tried fleeing into the depths. Even the trees seemed unscathed from conflict, when surely anyone would have tried climbing or escaping by weaving through the growth.

She looked to Sulhadur, scanning the riverbank, treading knee-deep through some of its lapping tide. He kept looking back at them all with confusion and worry that he was not initiating an attack.

Essätha turned to look at the bear. Its gaze, whipping from Adela to her, locked on to her eyes. Breathing heavily, it regarded with wide, intelligent eyes.

She narrowed her own suspiciously. There was something unnervingly familiar about the way it looked at her. As it moved, the bands of light and shadow across its pelt revealed hues of black among the russet and brown of its fur color.

Abernathy charged, shouting. With a startled bellow, the monster launched itself from the water and jerkily dove from left to right as if to avoid the carpenter. But no matter its tactic, it was too large and unsteady on its paws; not nearly agile enough to avoid Abe’s axe a second time.

The blade struck the beast’s side, and it screamed.

“… Oh, Jubata,” Essie prayed aloud in horror.

As Adela began to weave a pattern into the air, Essätha ran by and shoved her. The other sorceress shrieked, falling sideways and splashing into the water.

“Abernathy, stop!”

The paladin raised his axe, preparing to swing a second time as the bear staggered.

“No!”

He brought the blade around in a wide arc just as she darted between him, and the werebear.

Abe pulled the weapon in, terror in his eyes. The edge clipped through her cape, tearing through fabric loudly.

With a suddenness, the beady eyes of the bear seemed to lose focus. It nearly shoved Essätha over as it leaned over her, opening its jaws to show its teeth all the way to the gumline, and roared at Abernathy. The sound was like thunder crashing down from the heavens.

“Stop! Stop stop stop stop,” Essie insisted, gasping as she spread her arms out between the two. The bear, disgruntled, sluggishly stepped back. It turned its head, trying to reach the gash at its side to lick.

Abernathy, mouth agape and breathing heavily, glared at her.

“Essätha, I could have killed yo-”

“That’s not a bear!”

“… Essie. Dear Essie. Sweetheart. I think you’re in shock.”

“That’s. Not. A. Bear,” she gritted out, jutting out a finger to point at what was, obviously, a large grizzly. “That’s Amon.”

“Are you crazy?!” Adela coughed, clinging on to Sulhadur as he helped her out of the water. “You just pushed me in water to protect the bear that probably sent Amon’s body down the river. Or what remains of it.”

“Adela, there’s no reason to get nasty.”

“I’m not crazy!” she insisted, trying to bury that horrifying image Adela conjured beneath six feet of mental dirt. She turned fully towards the bear, circling itself like a dog trying to catch its tail, only to desperately try lapping at the wound in its side.

“This is Amon! Look, there’s no blood on the ground; not even claw marks or a scuffle.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense.”

“Exactly!” she exasperated back at the Tiefling. Heaving a deep breath, Essie stepped closer to the werebear, causing it to freeze; eyes piercing at her and tongue hanging part of the way out.

“Twenty-two days ago, we fought a rogue werebear, banished from its tribe,” she recalled aloud, taking a step towards the bear. It rumbled, taking an uneasy step back as she continued pressing forward on foot and in speech, “We unfortunately had to kill the man, but not before he changed into his bear counter-part form. M’lord had said that he was fine; that only the claws had grazed him, but… I don’t think that’s the case.”

“Look at him,” she pleaded, sidestepping around the creature. It had silenced its rumbling and watched her as she slipped off her torn cape. She balled it up, gingerly pressing the material to the bear’s wound.

It groaned in agony, shaking its head.

“Shhhh,” Essie soothed. Pressing her weight into one hand to keep the material in place, she reached out to stroke the mane of fur along his head. The werebear closed its eyes into half-slits, much like a content cat.

“The fur has black mixed in with it. His eyes are smart. He didn’t even want to fight any of us; he tried to avoid confrontation. He didn’t hurt anyone, because only he was here. Only the trousers are torn up, and there’s no gore; his jerkin is lying over there, as are his boots, perfectly intact. And look at the moon, it’s full tonight!”

“The werebear must have bitten him,” she concluded. “A wild bear wouldn’t let me this close.”

“Those are all… wild stretches, Essie,” Abernathy hoarsely whispered, staring at the twinkling eyes of the bear.

She snorted. “If anyone knows a thing or two about keeping a part of yourself a secret; especially something like this, I think I’d know. I’m asking for you to trust me and to just… look.”

Offering a soft smile, she combed her fingers down the werebear’s spine. He huffed in response, turning to snuffle his nose against her hair, the nape of her neck, her ear. She tried not to laugh at the cool, damp nose against her skin, keeping a firm, steady hand to their bloody side.

Abe was the first to approach. Slowly, he placed his axe upon the ground and grew closer.

The bear turned to regard him. It shrank back, lowering its head.

“… Amon,” he whispered cautiously. “… My boy is that… really you?”

The bear snorted quietly.

“I am so, terribly sorry,” he muttered hoarsely. Reaching up, Abe placed his hand lightly upon Amon’s shoulder.

A stream of white-light emitted from his palm, and upon the fuzzy hair of the bear. Amon groaned, and the wound shimmered with a faint, pulsing light as it closed upon itself and healed over.

Relieved, Essätha reached for his face. Startled, Amon huffed as she grabbed hair from behind his ears, looking him in the eye.

“We are going to have words, m’lord,” she scolded. “Why on Earth would you keep such a secret from us, from me? Have you any idea what could have happened if one of us didn’t find out? Or if someone else found you?” Her voice cracked at the end, wavering as her lip did for a moment.

He whined, lowering his face. His head brushed hers, but what was meant to be expressed as a tender affection instead smothered her face in hair that left her sneezing and a few hairs on her lip.

“Gross, I got bear-hair on my tongue.”

“Urrnf,” Amon grunted, offended.

“I’ll gather his things,” Sulhadur cut in softly. “Now that we know what’s going on, and no one’s in danger, I guess we can go back to camp.”

“And get in fresh clothes,” Adela grumbled, passing a look towards Essie.

Abe placed a large hand on Essätha’s shoulder, making her jump. There was a knowing, warm light in his eyes, but also one of remorse.

“Thank Torm for your perception skills, Essie. I’m sorry I doubted you. I should have trusted you’d be able to see through Amon, no matter his form, with such ease.”

The blood in her face instantly grew hot. She swallowed, unable to do more then nod. She felt numb and unable to create a sentence, even if she tried.

“And Amon,” he turned towards the werebear. “I am truly, unbelievably sorry. I would have never struck you if I had realized, and known the story. I would never have unintentionally caused you harm.”

The bear bobbed its bulky head to the best of his ability, blinking.

Torn with regret, the paladin bowed deeply towards Amon. He still appeared deeply upset, the weight of his shoulders sagging and his face fallen as he dragged his feet over to Sulhadur and Adela, who were picking up Amon’s boots near the route back to camp.

Essie glanced back to Amon. He looked back at her, and tilted his head.

“Nu-uh. Not even cute bear eyes are getting you out of thisss,” she warned him in a hiss. “You’ve no idea how scared I was- I thought… For a minute I thought…”

She worried her lower lip.

“Rrrrr,” Amon attempted, pitifully, to apologize in a rolling rumble deep in his chest. He stepped closer, rubbing his head against her side.

Sniffling, the Yuan-Ti wiped at her eyes. “Let’s just get back to camp for now. We’ll talk about the rest when you have the chance to defend yourself.”

Whining, the nobleman plodded after her as they headed after the others. They made their way up the gradual slope without much difficulty, although Essie felt her face grow embarrassingly hot when a bear snout helped push her back to help her get up the last few feet. Amon lumbered nervously behind them, lingering wearily in the shadows to let them go ahead. It was an opportunity for them to explain the strange events they’d uncover, and for the others to absorb the information before Essätha waved him to join them from hiding.

Slowly, Amon’s bear-form lumbered into camp.

“Oh,” Penimra murmured, “I always thought Amon was more of an otter.”

Essätha swatted him on the arm.

“Cool,” Rava stated in her usual go-with-the-flow tone. “If we put Amon and Essie together now, we have a really cruddy druid.”

“Shut up, Rava.”

“I was just saying.”

“Krrrr, you look very soft, Lord Anon,” Pri’cha encouraged, dipping their head respectfully.

This time, a smile tugged at Essie’s lips. “Regal, as always.”

Amon shuffled in place as though he was… embarrassed?

Essie cleared her throat. “I’m going to respectfully ask everyone to go about their usual business now. It can be a bit… overwhelming, for people to be staring at you when you’re… not in your usual flesh,” she offered. “Let’s give m’lord some peace and space.”

There were a few grumbles from a few of the more curious, but they all begrudgingly began to slip back off to what they had been doing. Questions could wait another day or two.

Essätha turned, smirking to see Caesar circling beneath and around his master. He whimpered, nosing at the werebear’s fur and sniffing every inch of him. When Amon lowered their head, inspecting his companion, Caesar wagged his tail, albeit a bit nervously, and licked the nobleman on the snout.

“Phhu!” Amon sneezed, shaking his head.

She snickered, shaking her head.

As the evening waned a little further, everyone finally stopped gawking as openly at the bear sitting far from the campfire, and began to head into their tents. Essätha disappeared into the one she shared with Amon, hearing his distant and quiet coo of sorrow. She returned, carrying three blankets.

The first, and largest, he watched as she threw out over the ground. She pointed at him, then upon it. He looked at her for a minute, grumbled at her in some bear-ish gibberish that she could probably was him telling her to stop fussing, and circled the spot. He flopped down, huffing.

Caesar, eager, bounded over with his tail wagging enthusiastically. He pressed himself against Amon’s side, rolling around and groaning with pleasure.

Giggling, Essie snapped open another blanket over Amon. It barely draped over a quarter of his size. He looked from the blanket, to her.

“I’m trying.”

He breathed out, slowly. Closing his eyes, Amon nuzzled his face against the side of her head.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, and squeezed gently. A rumble moved through him, and he sighed.

Taking the final blanket, she wrapped herself in a cocoon, and laid against the free side of the bear not taken by the overexcited canine.

Amon turned to nudge her. He looked to their tent, and then looked back to her. It was hard to describe a bear’s face as looking ‘stern’, but that was the impression she was getting.

“Nu-uh, I’m staying right here with you,” she defended. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

Huff.

“Consider it part of your punishment,” she grumbled, rolling up into a ball. She rubbed her cheek against his plush fur. He was quite comfy.

Amon tried to shift and push her off three times, each time ending in failure. He huffed, looking to the tent and back to her. She blatantly ignored him, closing her eyes and waiting for him to give up so she could get some sleep.

With finality, Amon snorted at her, and rather loudly sprawled out to lay his head down, defeated.

Essätha patted his side, cuddling up against him. “Goodnight, m’lord Amon.”

“Arrrgg,” he acknowledged with begrudging acceptance.

She drifted off slowly, vaguely aware at some point that his eyes were upon her. It gave her the same feeling it always did, that of safety, of warm happiness, and of peace.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Essätha woke up, blinking in the early morning light. She shifted, wincing at the creak in her spine, and turned over.

She was… on the ground?

Snoring greeted her. A wide grin spread across her face at the habitual morning ritual of the sound, and she forced her aching muscles to guide her in sitting up.

Sprawled out on his back, Amon lay snoring.

A slow, reddening color rose to her cheeks.

Rising clumsily to her feet, Essie stumbled over to the nearest tent. The residents inside groaned as she pulled back the flap.

“Ssssulhadur,” she hissed. “Get up. Come help me with something.”

“Nnng… right now?”

“Yesss, right now!”

“Alright alright, I’m coming I’m… getting up.”

She allowed the flap to fall and waited, tapping her boot on the ground. After a few seconds, the Dragonborn slipped out.

“What d’you need?” he yawned, revealing a mouth filled with razor-sharp teeth.

She pointed over to where the nobleman lay, Caesar still asleep at his side, also upon his back.

“Could you please pick up m’lord Amon, and help get him to our tent?”

Sul blinked. “Ah. I can do that.”

“Thank you.”

The Dragonborn shuffled over, and scooped the nobleman up from the ground. Caesar gave a gruff good morning bark, and Amon’s head lulled, slurring drowsily.

“Wha’s goin’ on?”

“Relax, m’lord. We’re just getting you to our tent.”

Running ahead of Sulhadur, Essie parted the sides of the tent for him to duck into. It was darker in here. The Dragonborn deposited him gently to the ground. As Sul stepped out, yawning yet again, Caesar came crowding inside to flop himself down near Amon’s feet.

“Nnng… Essätha?” Amon groaned. He flinched, resting a hand against his side, where the red faded line from where the axe had struck him lay.

“Shhhh,” she whispered, sitting down beside him. “I’m right here.”

He grunted, growing still and quiet. She hummed to him leisurely, combing her fingers through his locks.

“… You’re not yelling at me,” he rasped, his eyes closed.

“I’m not going to yell at you. But we will be having words, when you’re fully awake, fed, and feeling a bit better.”

He grunted, prying his eyes open. The nobleman tried to shift.

Swiftly, her cheeks bright pink, Essie sprawled her hands out over his chest, stalling him.

“I-I don’t think so,” she stammered. “You’re q-quite nude beneath that blanket.”

The tired half-mast of Amon’s eyes grew wide and round. He looked down at the material draped over him, and wrapped it a bit more tightly around his waist.

With a cheesy, half smile, Essätha joked, “Once is a peek, twice is a show.”

To her surprise, Amon’s face grew equally red. He cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably against the bedroll beneath him. It was little protection from the cold, hard ground beneath.

“Lay back for now, and get some rest,” she reassured him in a compelling, adoring voice, lightly pressing a hand to his chest. He obeyed, looking from where her hand touched him up to her face. The light of the sun was beginning to lighten the top of their tent, piercing through with just the right angles of faded shafts.

He breathed in and out raggedly.

“Are you… feeling alright?”

“Yes,” he strained, reaching up to hold her hand. “I-… I mean in some ways, I am.”

She smiled at him, puzzled. Allowing him to hold one hand, she slowly laid down beside the nobleman, reaching over to continue combing through his hair.

“This alright with you?”

“Yes.” He sounded breathless. He closed his eyes, immersed in the experience. A shiver passed over him.

“… You know you could have told us,” she murmured. “You could have told me. I would have kept your secret. I could have tried to help you.”

“… I’m sorry,” he rasped quietly. He opened his mouth to continue.

“Tsssh. Nevermind; not right now. It can wait. Forget I said anything. Rest right now. Yesterday was… a lot to take in, I’m sure. Just rest right now.”

“Okay,” he grumbled, not sounding too thrilled with the idea. He curled his hand over hers, cradling it over his heart as he breathed, in and out, slowly and deeply.

She continued threading her fingers through his hair, looking upon his facial features. He looked tired; the circles a bit darker beneath his eyes, but he also looked positively peaceful.

Leaning in closer, she rested her hair against his side. Amon’s arm wound around her, rubbing her side.

A tug on her heartstrings.

She sighed gratefully, curling in to his open side, allowing her eyes to close.

She had utterly no idea the nobleman cracked his eyes open to stare down at her, a loving glow in his gaze. Positively clueless that the longer he stared, the more he wished he could pull her into a full embrace and kiss those inviting soft lips.

But this tender moment would do just fine; his hand rubbing circles along her side, and their intertwined fingers resting to his chest as she caressed his scalp.

#qhost story #Essatha Meduza #Amon Illiad #OTP: Essamon #softly written #ft: Noisy Bastards #Werebearmon AU #It gets its own tag now Ammy!

[harvest-honeymoon]

Raining Pitchforks

So,,, this is that Court Verse intro I talked about in the twitter poll I linked earlier. This is a long fuckin’ boy but I had a lot of fun writing it, since I really enjoy these characters.

Just as a note, this fic contains swearing, mentions of the Devil and urban legends, and 2 instances of misgendering, as Orianna/Pirouletta is a transwoman still coming to terms with her identity and hasn’t disclosed it to Sixer/King Dice. I know that subject matter can be triggering for some folks, so I’m putting a warning and ‘#misgendering tw’ for blacklisting purposes.

“Son of a bitch, whose idea was this?”

The question posed was rhetorical and often reiterated. It made Irving smile faintly and shake his head, even as he felt rainwater patter against the inside. Thunder rolled in the background, making his cup-headed brother Rudyard flinch.

Although the two toons lingered under an outcropping of trees, the torrent the sky bore seemed unyielding. The branches that loomed above them did little to shield them from the weather, let alone the handmade box of moonshine that sat at their feet. The rocky outcroppings behind them were slick from the rain. Even the mountains seemed soaked.

“You were th’ one who wanted out th’ house,” Irving replied.

“Well, yeah,” Rudy answered. “I was goin’ stir crazy! I can’t jus’ sit an’ sleep all day.”

The red toon wrung out his shirt, frowning. The bent, striped straw in his head swooped along his rim as he looked down at himself.

Although Irving didn’t pace about or bubble over, he too frowned, brow furrowed. He leaned against the damp trunk of a tree, arms folded over his chest. One hand’s set of fingers drummed on his upper arm.

“Y’think we rushed him?” Irving asked. “Made him nervous?”

“There’s nervous, then there’s leavin’ us an’ our hooch in th’ pourin’ fuckin’ rain,” Rudy said.

“I doubt he was gonna buy any of Ma’s stuff, Irv, even with th’ discount.”

Irving sighed quietly, bowing his head. Rudy picked up the box.

“C’mon, let’s go. We’ll catch our death out here.”

“We’re still fifteen bucks short.”

Rudy had started to take a step out from under the canopy, only to pause. Irv didn’t move a muscle.

“Irv, things’re tough all over,” Rudyard replied after a moment.

“It won’t be th’ end of th’ world if we tell ‘em we need a couple days. Even then, we’ve lived without electricity b’fore.”

The cup toon took the step he’d been planning, then another, starting to walk away.

“We can make candles like we used t’ when we were sippy cups. Bathe in th’ river.”

Rudy flicked his straw, so it sat comfortably at the back of his head.

“Who needs gas power anyway?”

Thunder roared just above them, causing Rudy to jump again and stop in his tracks. Unmoving, Irving glanced to the box Rudy held, his eyes lingering on its smudging XXX label.

“We promised Ma.”

Rudy swallowed, then returned to the tree. The brothers turned to look out over a field of grass beside them, each in thought.

With the heavy clouds that clung to the sky, the night was darker than most. The distant lights of Nib City hardly penetrated the gloom, only catching a set of defunct railroad tracks cutting through the prairie grass. Urban legend told of a ghostly train that had taken residence in place of the old engine, after the railway company dissolved under mysterious circumstances decades back. Nights like this guaranteed its arrival and departure for the unlucky found alone and destitute, or so folks said.

While no train occupied this space, the mere idea made Irving apprehensive. The mug-headed toon pulled out a cracked pocket watch and wiped at the glass face, to give himself something else to look at. The time read 11:59 PM, then 12 AM only a few seconds later.

At the stroke of midnight, the field was bathed in a soft, orange glow. Rudy stared, then nudged Irv to get his attention. Both pairs of eyes followed the light, which seemed to dance across the grass and shadows, to its origin, a cave in the mountainside.

This cave had its own fair share of stories, around Inkwell Isle. Some had claimed it was a bottomless pit, from which none who fell could ever escape. Some had said it was some primordial womb, where all had been born and were to die, should they try to reenter the sacred space. The most commonly held belief, however, was that the cave housed unfettered evi, so vile and conniving, the locals had blocked the entrance with stones for generations. The Devil himself was said to dwell within the cave, and should he find some hapless soul within his domain, they were most certainly damned.

Due to these superstitions and its peculiar resemblance to a yawning mouth, the cave had been dubbed The Devil’s Maw. As times changed, beliefs shifted, and explorers ventured into its depths, the aforementioned stones were removed from its entrance, but hushed whispers still spoke ill of the place and the youth were discouraged from entering its bounds.

By day, it appeared a sleepy chasm, untouched by color or sunlight… But now, it spoke with a tongue of molten silver to the young men, beckoning them inwards.

“...you’re seein’ that, right?” Irving asked.

“Sure am,” Rudy replied, awed.

“...last one there’s chipped porcelain!”

The cup toon took off like a shot across the field. Irving stalled a moment then pursued, shouting his way.

“Rudyard, what the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

“What’s it look like?” Rudy called back. “I’m goin’ lookin’!”

“Like hell you are!”

Clutching the moonshine to his chest, Rudy’s head sloshed liquid onto his shoulders and the ground behind him, but that didn’t stop either of them any.

“We need to sell that booze!” Irving spat.

“We’ve got 4 hours at most before the best bars in Nib close!”

“I know!”

“So why are you runnin’ the complete opposite direction, jackass?!”

Rudy grinned, looking to his brother.

“First off, my head’s gonna roll off my shoulders, with all this rain in it! I need it out, an’ I bet you do too! Second off, I figure if there’s light, there’s somebody livin’ here! If there’s somebody livin’ here, then there’s somebody who can buy our shit!”

Lightning struck just behind the two brothers, causing them both to yelp in surprise. Rudy let out an adrenaline-fueled laugh.

“You can’t tell me you wanna walk home while it’s rainin’ pitchforks out here!”

With these words, the brothers entered the cave and slowed to a halt to clean themselves up.

“I don’t, y’got me there,” Irv admitted. “But I doubt there’s anyone worthwhile here. The only folks you’ll find is at best, squatters, or at worst, a cult.”

“Since when do squatters put up neon signs? ‘R cults, fer that matter?”

Irving stopped and stared, following Rudy’s hand as he pointed. A large grouping of stalactites ahead and above them was emblazoned with a quartet of neon playing cards, each with a unique suit.

“...can’t say for certain,” Irv replied, unperturbed. “But I wouldn’t discount the latter.”

Rudy’s expression flattened, his hands busy straightening his head. He then picked up his box and started walking into the depths of the cave, with Irving in tow. The air had a strong sweet-sour smell to it, but it didn’t take long for them to get used to it.

“Y’were supposed t’ let me be right about people livin’ here,” Rudy snarked.

“Y’know, fer more than half a second.”

“That was a lucky guess,” Irving observed dryly.

“A lucky guess that’ll keep us from, I dunno, gettin’ pneumonia.”

“We probably have double pneumonia already at this rate.”

Despite his annoyance, Rudy chuckled as they walked along. Double pneumonia was another staple of banter between them.

“Triple fuckin’ pneumonia with a side ‘f exposure. It was like Noah’s Ark out there.”

The brothers continued into the cave, looking about as more signs of civilization came their way. Neon arrows pointing deeper into the Maw decorated the walls, as did moving signs depicting showgirls, drinks, chess pieces, dice, and more card suits. 2 more signs reading ‘WELCOME’ and ‘CASINO ENTRANCE’ were embedded into the hanging rock of the ceiling, with a 12 ft gap between each. The air around them warmed, the further they went into the cave.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Irv deadpanned.

“No way,” Rudy beamed. “Noooo fuckin’ way--”

“Who on Earth builds a casino in a cave?”

“Someone who’s real hep an’ happenin’ I bet,” Rudy said excitedly.

“They must have some real big operation, t’ have t’ hide it in here.”

“All the more reason to head back out,” Irving snarked, eyeing the advertising.

The brothers then happened upon a series of tall, rounded steps, carpeted with lush, red cotton and accented with gold trim. Two rows of white topped stanchions marked a path with velvet rope. At their feet read the words ‘TRY★YOUR★LUCK’. Beyond these steps laid a ritzy casino built on the edge of a cliff, unlike anything either of them had ever seen. Volcanoes erupted below and beyond their line of sight, painting the domed walls and ceiling of the cavern with the orange light they’d seen outside.

Dancing on the edge of theme park and luxury hotel, buildings in the shape of archaic chess pieces surrounded the back end of the establishment, giving the resort an imposing silhouette against the newly understood berth of the cave. The main building itself was tall and sleek in design, as it was cream in color with plum windows all down its front. Topped with a reddish dome roof, past a fountain of lava circled by prancing demon statues, and betwixt a pair of oversized game dice, the hotel lacked lighted signage, save for some neon pink cursive above its red front doors.

“The Devil’s Casino?” Irving mumbled to himself.  “That’s awful kitschy,”

Irving stood, contemplating the architecture, while Rudy mounted the stairs, smiling wide.

“I was right! I was right, there’s people here, they’ve got money, I was right--”

In that moment, Rudy reached the top of the stairwell, only to bump into someone who towered over him. The cup toon took a step back and shook his head, only to realize what had just happened. The stranger seemed to have come out of nowhere.

“Aw hell, sorry about that! Didn’t see you there.”

“Y’needn’t worry, my good man.”

The toon Rudyard had bumped into had a game die for a head, a pencil-thin mustache, and a winning smile. Dressed to the nines in a cream zoot suit, shined and spatted shoes, and a pink bow tie, the stranger readjusted his suit jacket after the brush-by, but did so without making a fuss. His voice was sure to smooth over any remaining matters, as it was slick and low, but friendly.

“I was hopin’ I’d bump into you two. I heard y’halfway down th’ cavern.”

“Our apologies, sir,” Irving said, stepping forward. “The echo in here carried further than we thought.”

Rudy rolled his eyes and folded his arms. The die toon let out a short laugh.

“I didn’t say you were causin’ a racket,” the stranger replied. “There’s no need to apologize.”

“Are you here t’ play, gentlemen?”

“Yeah,” Rudy replied with confidence. “We’re here t’ pl--”

Irving put a hand over his brother’s mouth, causing Rudy to grit his teeth against his hand.

“Actually, we’re here on business.”

“That a fact now? Well, I s’ppose I should introduce myself then,” the suited toon replied.

He put forward a gloved hand for Irving to shake.

“Name’s Heath Cesarano. My friends call me Sixer, an’ I own Th’ Devil’s Casino.”

“Irving Biccheiri,” the blue toon introduced himself. “This is my brother, Rudyard. We run a bootlegging business out in the Scapes.”

Irving and Heath shook hands, freeing Rudy in the process. Although he seemed miffed by his brother’s invasion of personal space, the red toon shook Sixer’s hand as well, when it was offered to him. On mention of bootlegging, the die toon’s eyebrow quirked in interest.

“Is that what you’ve got in your hands there?” Heath asked, gesturing to the box in Rudy’s arms.

“Finest stuff on the east end of the Isle,” Rudy boasted.

“We’re looking to sell it,” Irving explained.

“I see,” Heath said, rubbing his chin in thought. “Do y’mind if I sample your wares?”

“Be our guest,” Rudy replied. Irving swallowed beside him.

On choosing a bottle, Sixer uncorked it and took a sip,  hen pulled it away from his mouth. He smacked his lips as he tasted the spirits, then smiled at the young men.

“Say, that’s not half bad,” he remarked. “You boys’ve got somethin’ in the making, definitely.”

“In the making?” Irving asked. “Or worth selling?”

“Hah, you’ve keen ears,” Heath observed. His tone shifted as he spoke, sounding authoritative.

“I’m afraid that while I like what you’ve got, I can’t sell it at my establishment, nor can I let you sell it too close by. Th’ folks in there are lookin’ for high-quality hooch from names they know an’ can trust.”

Irving’s expression saddened with these words. Rudy took note and moved in front of Irving, looking Heath dead in the eye.

“No offense, Mr. Cesarano,” Rudy said. “But we’ve been selling our stuff all up an’ down th’ Isle.”

“We’re in some of th’ bars you’ll find in Nib City, an’ real popular in th’ Scapes.”

“That might be so,” Sixer replied. “But I only just met you boys t’night.”

“I’ve got a certain standard to meet at th’ behest of my landlord. It’s nothin’ personal.”

Rudy looked ready to argue but held off. Irving didn’t speak further, though it was clear he was trying to put on a brave face.

“We appreciate yer business, regardless,” Rudy told their new acquaintance. “That’ll be $3.”

Sixer pulled out four dollar bills and handed them to Irving. Irving paused, looking over the money in his hands, then looked to Sixer questioningly. Sixer winked, then spoke up again.

“If it ain’t too much t’ ask… Why are you boys lookin’ to sell, anyhow?”

Irving’s hands curled, as he folded his arms over his chest again.

“Simple,” Rudy answered, mirroring his brother’s gesture.

“We got bills t’ pay an’ mouths t’ feed, same as anybody. Rent’s comin’ up t’morrow an’ we’re eleven bucks short.”

“Ah,” Sixer replied. “My apologies for proddin’.”

“It is what it is. No need to be sorry.”

“I’m guessin’ you can’t sell much back in th’ Scapes, then?” Sixer prodded. “With yer presence?”

“Well, not right now, yeah,” Rudy agreed.

“We were s’pposed t’ meet somebody from Nib City for a deal,” Irving added. “But he didn’t show.”

“The storm caught up with us not long after.”

Sixer’s expression softened a little as the boys explained their situation. After a moment of thought, this softness faded away, instead replaced with a wily glint to the older toon’s eye.

“That’s a real shame that fella skipped out on ya, but I don’t think you’re out of luck for th’ night.”

Rudy looked on with interest. He had a feeling he knew where Heath was going.

“You could always take a shot at the games here,” Sixer continued. “If nothin’ else, you could dry off an’ get somethin’ to tide yourselves over.”

“I hear that storm ain’t s’pposed to let up until noon t’morrow. You won’t wanna be crossin’ those tracks out front if you can help it.”

Rudy considered the die-head’s words. Irving exhaled breath through his nose.

“You boys ever gambled b’fore?”

“I might be half yer size but I ain't-a kid,” Rudy scoffed. “Course I have.”

“Rudy, we should get going,” Irving muttered. “We couldn’t make a sale an’ we’re dry enough.”

“We couldn’t make a sale, sure,” Rudy replied. “But I could make a wager.”

Irving glowered at the prospect. Rudy frowned in response.

“Irving, if I play here, I could win us the cash we need t’ pay off rent t’morrow! We don’t gotta trudge out there, we don’t gotta get stood up-- It’ll be a cinch!”

The mug-head still didn’t look convinced, so Rudy put both of his hands on his shoulders, turning him away from Sixer so their discussion could be more private.

“Irving… C’mon, Irv. You’ve been workin’ yerself to th’ bone all month.”

Irving’s gaze went half-lidded. In the firelight and neon, the bags under his eyes could easily be seen. All the while, Sixer watched the young men talk to each other, grinning to himself knowingly.

“Let me handle th’ moneymakin’, you take a load off, an’ we can wait this out t’gether. You don’t gotta lift a finger.”

After a moment of consideration, the blue toon sighed.

“...Alright. If you think you can.”

“I know I can,” Rudy beamed. “They don’t call me Big Red fer nothin’.”

Irving cringed, making Rudy snicker. Sixer took a step forward, smiling.

“With a nickname like that, I can’t help but ask; you a craps player, by chance?”

“S’my favorite way t’ gamble!” Rudy answered, slinging an arm over Irv’s shoulders. Irving’s eyes narrowed.

“In that case, you should head on in an’ take a left, then a right,” Sixer advised.

“You’ll find our craps tables real easy.”

Rudy clinked his head against his brother’s as a gesture of affection, then took off into the casino, still holding the box of moonshine. Irving chose not to match his pace this time, as fatigue was starting to weigh on him. Sixer noticed as he looked down at his other pint-sized patron.

“And you?” Sixer asked. “Any preference?”

“I’m a cards guy,” Irving admitted. “But I don’t gamble, let alone in a place plastered with devils.”

Sixer’s grin got tight around the edges as he moved to Irving’s side.

“Aw, wheat, you superstitious ‘r somethin’? Don’t get yer suspenders in a twist, it’s just a motif.”

As the two walked into the casino, the various eyes of the devils in the decorating watched Irving as he passed. Irving didn’t notice at that moment, though he did feel oddly watched.

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” Irving replied. “What with that train track comment.”

“Hah, I wouldn’t call myself superstitious,” Sixer started.

“More just… Aware. I’ve had my fair share of experiences that’ve made me privy to the goings on around these parts.”

“Uh huh,” Irving replied, a bit distracted.

It was hard to blame him, with the hullabaloo going on around them, but Sixer still had to resist the urge to give him a dirty look. A uniformed toon with a heart for a head moved up beside Sixer to whisper something to him, before departing from the conversation.

The die toon looked down at the mug toon again, giving him an apologetic smile.

“As much as I’d love to continue our talk, I’m afraid I’ve got business t’ attend to. You’ll find our bars well stocked and lounges abound. If y’need anything, keep your eyes out for folks dressed like her--”

The die-head gestured to the heart toon, as she weaved in and out of the crowd.

“Or come find me. Oh, an’ I want you to have this.”

Heath extended a business card between two fingers to Irving. The card was matte and emblazoned with a devil, a pair of purple pipped dice, and multiple red roses. It even had gold trim.

“Like I was sayin’ earlier, you boys’ve got good stuff. I might take you up on the offer we discussed, should you improve yer product.”

“Thank you, sir,” Irving replied without enthusiasm.

“Please, call me Sixer. And if we don’t meet again, Irving, I hope you have a good night.”

“Likewise.”

With that, Sixer blended into the crowd, leaving each cup brother to their own devices.

— — —

By the time Irving supposed he ought to find his brother, an hour had passed. How, he had little idea.

One moment, he was being served water by an orange cocktail toon in a blue dress; the next, swing music roared through the halls, signaling the start of some sort of nightly shindig. Checking his pocket watch, the blue toon got up with a start and nearly fell off his barstool, but managed to tip his bartender and head out of the lounge without further trouble.

The joint reeked of booze, cigar smoke, and metal, with a tinge of marijuana and sweat, no matter what room he walked through. Noise constantly rang in his ears, ranging from vapid conversations and bad pick up lines to the obnoxious rattling, slamming, and pinging of an arcade. Top it off with the crowds of people trying to shout over the noise, and subsequently, each other, and Irving swore his porcelain head was going to crack from the decibel count.

It didn’t help that the damned place was so dark. For whatever reason, the architect had opted for interiors that caught shadows like a hungry spider, coupled with luminaires akin to candlelight. This only made the sounds louder, the smells stronger, and Irving’s mood worsen.

The mug toon’s discontent was so clear, it made Rudy pause just before throwing down his dice in another round of craps.

“Where were you?”  Irving demanded.

“Busy,” Rudy said as he rolled. “What’s it look like?”

The dice hit the wall of the table, revealing a 12. Rudy winced.

The dealer came over and took half a stack of chips, handing them over to a skeleton in a bow tie and a bowler hat. The patron leered at him, making Rudy grouse and pull what little stacks he had close to him.

“I hit a good streak while you were takin’ a break, so I’m ridin’ it.”

”How good?” Irving prodded

“Those chips are worth $1,” Rudy said, pointing to his hoard and across the table.

“Those’re worth $5, an’ these are worth $10. I even managed to squeeze a 25 out of an Aussie on th’ far end.”

Irving glanced up, seeing a skeletal, bipedal horse where Rudy gestured. The equine toon looked mean, even for a dead man.

“This is more than enough, then,” Irving figured, averting his eyes to Rudyard’s chips.

“It was,” Rudy said. “Until you threw me off.”

He shot his brother a glare, as the crowd cheered for another patron.

“Now I gotta win it back.”

“Do you still have what we made outside?” Irving pressed.

“‘Course I do! I ain’t as dumb as I look,” Rudy exclaimed.

“Then... What are you gamblin’ with?”

Rudy rolled the dice again, earning himself a $5 chip.

“My soul. I cashed it out for $75 in chips.”

Irving stared at his brother in disbelief.

“What?” Rudy asked. “I didn’t wanna spend th’ money you got.”

“Rudy, we’re in a casino named after the Devil.”

“Yeah? And?”

“What do you think the cashier meant when they said you could bet your soul?”

“Th’ cashier didn’t tell me nothin’. Some dominohead he was talkin’ to told me it’s a secret transaction unique to this joint. Th’ guy looked like a high roller, so I gave it a try. I didn’t have to hand any money over or anythin’.”

“They just… Gave you the chips?”

“No, I had to sign somethin’ beforehand,” Rudy shrugged. “But that was about it.”

“Did you even read it?”

“I skimmed it,” Rudy admitted. “It was just some casino contract. No big deal.”

Irving looked like he was going to ascend, the longer Rudy went on. Before Irving could chew his brother out, both toons felt powerful hands on their outermost shoulders.

“Hi-de-ho, gentlemen,” Sixer greeted them. “How goes your game?”

“Oh, I’m the only one playin’,” Rudy explained. “But it’s been goin’ alright.”

“I took up that soul deal ‘f yours for these chips. We’ll be eatin’ like kings t’night!”

“Did you now? An’ how’d you find out ‘bout it?”

The look in Heath’s eyes was too pleased for Irving’s liking. The die-head, as if reading his thoughts, moved his hands off them and stood beside Rudy, as the two talked.

“I was talkin’ to some domino guy in a boater hat, at th’ cashier’s booth. He’s the one who clued me in.”

“That’d be my buddy Pippin,” Sixer remarked warmly. “He helps me run th’ joint.”

“Does your ‘buddy’ happen to swoop in on every country boy who walks through your door?”

Sixer was about to say something, only to pause with Irving’s comment.

“Awful convenient he was there to give Rudy the news. Especially since you were the only person we told about our situation.”

The suited toon chuckled lightly. Irving could feel the air chill.

“Pippin doesn’t swoop, Irving. He loves people as much as anybody.”

Rudy, half listening to their conversation, rolled another turn and scored an 11. The table roared in approval, the dealer slipping him a couple stacks for winning the bet. Ironically, the dealer had a head of stacked chips himself, his face lined with horizontal stripes of orange, blue, and indigo.

Irving immediately set to work counting the chips. Sixer eyed him with a sharpening gaze.

“So with that ‘soul swap’ you did and our remaining debt, you’d need... 86 bucks to break even.”

“How much more do I need?” Rudy glanced his brother’s way, catching his worn expression.

“10 bucks.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” Rudy swore. “This table’s been colder than a meat locker most of th’ night.”

“Why don’t we raise the stakes, then?”

Sixer said this while motioning to the dealer, shooting Rudy a playful smirk.

“Sharps, get me a stack of fives, wouldja? I’m bettin’ th’ pass line.”

Sharps did as he was told, passing Sixer 20 $5 chips in exchange for a crisp $100 bill. The rest of the table’s players backed away, including the horse toon. Despite the change in atmosphere, Rudy grinned right back, a fire in his eyes.

Irving folded his arms tightly as the two men started to compete, forcing himself to watch the table instead of risking catching Sixer’s eye. There was something about the die-head that bothered him more than most, but he couldn’t place why, and that fact put him on edge.

A litany of rounds passed, but Irving wouldn’t have been able to tell anyone all of what happened. Some rolls got yells in glee, others had people throwing their hats to the floor. Chips went all around the rim of the table every which way, at dizzying speed. People chattered ceaselessly. The room seemed filled with eyes, all boring down on him and his brother.

Eventually, Rudy called out through the clamor, hopping up on the edge of the craps table to stand above the crowd. He breathed hard, face aglow from the adrenaline of gambling.

“Alright, you lot! This’ll be my last play!!”

Irving started to sigh in relief, only for Sixer to speak up. The die toon’s tone dripped with confidence and charisma, as he loomed over the craps’ table.

“If that’s th’ case, then I wager my soul an’ Sharps’! Right here, right now!”

Sixer pushed forward his remaining chips, which totaled to $150. The crowd whooped and laughed, eating up Heath’s enthusiasm like it was an inside joke. Sharps smirked faintly, shaking his head.

“Come an’ get me, small fry!”

The cup toon’s eyes rolled in his porcelain head like slots, turning to a pair of dollar signs.

“You’re on, Cesarano!”

Irving held his breath and lifted his head from watching the table, only to stare at something beyond the mass of people around them.

Across the room, there stood a great tapestry of imps and hellish creatures, galavanting through what appeared to be a monochrome jungle. Stretching high above the heads of the patrons gathered around, Irving would’ve figured it some priceless artifact… If the eyes of its inhabitants didn’t roll as well and fix on him. A chill spread throughout the mug toon’s chest.

“Rudyard,” Irving tried to say. “Rudy, we shouldn’t be here--”

“Irv, step off, I’ve got this.”

“No, you don’t. We need to go, now.”

The people around Irving booed, causing a ripple throughout the rest of the crowd. Rudy grimaced and threw his fists to his sides, midway through blowing into his rolling hand for good luck. His eyes had returned to their normal pie cut irises.

“I mean it, Irv, I don’t need your shit right now,” Rudy said sharply. “Let me do my thing.”

“My shit?” Irving demanded. “My shit?!”

“I’ve been dealing with your shit ever since we got here, Rudyard, and I’ve had it! If I weren’t exhausted from doing all the damn work back home, I would’ve dragged you out of here by your handle!”

The mug toon took a step forward, getting up in his brother’s face and earning more protest from the crowd. Rudy’s expression got dark, the liquid in his head bubbling.

“Well, now whose fault is that?” Rudy seethed.

“You never let me do fuck anythin’! I’m trying to do you a goddamn favor, so if you could sit the hell back and pull yer straw out of yer ass, I’d appreciate it!”

“Gambling isn’t a favor!” Irving spat. “Gambling is you, slacking off, getting into trouble, giving Ma a fuckin’ heart attack--!”

“You leave her the fuck outta this—” Rudy threatened.

“Then fold the damn game!” Irving ordered.

The cup toon clenched his teeth and looked his brother square in the eye.

“Fuck. You.”

Rudy threw down the dice forcefully, making them bounce hard against the back wall. Irving grabbed his wrist hard enough to bruise, but the damage was already done.

Snake eyes.

The crowd let out a low moan of sympathy and dissipated behind them. Now Rudy felt the same cold as his brother, looking down at the craps table. Irving stared down as well, then threw the cup toon’s wrist away, storming through the crowd and towards a doorway leading out of the craps room.

The moment he got a foot through the door, the mug toon collided with something hard enough to make him stumble backward. Irving sat up to protest, only to stop. In the meanwhile, Sixer made his way over to Rudy, putting a hand on his shoulder again, but without the camaraderie of before.

“Well, ain’t that a shame?”

A black sigil blocked the doorway. Looking around the room, similar occult drawings blocked the other doors, effectively trapping them in the room. Irving’s head moved Sixer and Rudy’s direction, hearing the snap of Heath’s fingers. With this motion, the contract Rudy signed appeared in Heath’s hand, which he proceeded to unroll and read over.

“Mhhm. As I suspected. You, my friend, are in debt.”

“Y’don’t gotta rub it in,” Rudy said quietly.

“Oh, I ain’t rubbin’,” Heath hummed. “But I’m gonna need both of your souls, as per our agreement.”

“What?”

Irving got up and stumbled back their way. Rudy couldn’t look him in the eye.

“I said,” Heath repeated. “As per our agreement, I’m gonna need both of yer souls, since that’s what I won in our wager.”

“Our souls?” Rudy asked. “As in… Immortal souls?”

“Mhhm,” Heath agreed. The die toon seemed detached, as if he’d gone through this spiel before.

“Why do you need his?” Rudy asked, pointing to Irving. “I’m th’ only one who signed.”

Heath smiled and shook his head, offering the contract for Rudy to read and reciting the terms off his head for Irving.

“Paragraph four, section one, addendum one. ‘Should the client be unable to pay a debt or a wager, due to a lack of necessary, spiritual capital, souls within the client’s company including, but not limited to, friends, family, pets, et cetera, shall be collected as seen fit, in order to ensure a fair transaction between the associated parties.’”

Rudy’s shoulders sank. Irving stepped forward to stand next to Rudy, though he kept distance between them. He stared hard at Sixer, trying to comprehend what had just happened.

“...so we’re damned, then,” the mug toon said eventually

“Essentially,” Sixer replied. “I wagered my soul an’ my dealer’s in th’ form of those chips. Ergo, two souls. Rudyard here only had th’ chips to cover one.”

“I didn’t think you could wager a soul,” Rudy said, with a little laugh.

“I-I thought it was a steal… I… I...”

“Aw, don’t beat yerself up, wheat,” Sixer said, waving his hand dismissively. “Hell ain’t so bad.”

“I visit from time t’ time. It’s a little on th’ warm side, as you could imagine, but it ain’t all fire an’ brimstone.”

“...may I see that?” Irving asked, gesturing to Heath’s hand.

“Sure thing, kid.”

Heath handed over the contract, which Irving proceeded to scour. Rudy looked to Sixer with wide, sad eyes, mouth faintly open as if he was trying to protest. Sixer averted his gaze from the cup toon, opting for Irving instead.

“Here.”

Irving pressed his finger next to another paragraph and turned the paper Sixer’s way, then back to himself, to read.

“...paragraph six, section six. ‘Should a client wish for the return of their immortal soul, they are allowed to perform a designated task for the interested party, according to said party’s jurisdiction. This can include the retrieval of items and other souls, the harm or killing of another person, with or without a body, assistance in correspondence between the party and others, et cetera. Should the task be agreed upon by both entities and completed by the client, the client’s soul, and any souls hitherto collected, shall be restored.’”

As Irving read, Heath’s eyebrows furrowed, then perked, as he thought on these words. He got a wicked smile, seeing Irving’s angle.

“So you wanna work for me to get ‘em back, huh?”

“Yes, sir,” Irving said, with a stony tone. The word ‘sir’ dripped venom.

“Well then you boys are lucky,” Heath remarked. “Cuz you ain’t the only ones who got rent t’ pay.”

The pair of siblings stared, apprehensive.

“I need souls like yours t’ keep the lights on here. My landlord ain’t interested in, ah, standard currency. There’s been a trend ‘round these parts of people comin’ to my place, sellin’ their souls to get chips… Then duckin’ out, whether they win or lose.”

Heath’s expression darkened. As he was 6’6”, he towered over the brothers, who each were around 4’0”, making him appear quite imposing.

“Now boys,” Heath went on. “Think of me what y’will, but I ain't-a cruel man.”

“I have it that my contract necessitates collection, but not immediately so. I let folks say their goodbyes, I let ‘em tie up loose ends… Hell, sometimes I let folks keep their souls ‘til their natural end if it strikes my fancy. I also know these folks are strugglin’, same as you. Everyone’s tryin’ t’ get by, however they can.”

Sixer paced around the cup toons as he spoke, fixing the rose in his lapel. He reminded Rudy of a jaguar, and Irving a cobra.

“But,” Heath concluded. “I believe that when terms like this are broken, they require punishment.”

“These folks agreed, like you, to hand over their souls and they know it. The lot of ‘em raided my casino a month ago an’ made off with their contracts, no doubt to try an’ forge up new terms, conditions, ‘r signatures. Those puppies are enchanted, so they can’t be altered by anybody but me, but I still need the physical copy I signed with my clients. They grant me proof of ownership.”

“So you want us t’ be yer repo men,” Rudy clarified. “Is what yer sayin’?”

“When it comes down t’ brass tacks, yes,” Heath agreed. “But you won’t be killin’ nobody unless you have to.”

“Those contracts have an agreed death date, as does yours. When I cash in, the clients will die as agreed, an’ their souls will be collected.”

“How efficient,” Irving said sarcastically. “How long do we have?”

“I’m sure you can guess,” Sixer hummed.

Irving screwed up his face, then let out a low, pained breath.

“Six days, six hours, and six minutes.”

Sixer smirked in surprise.

“I was right about you,” he said. “You really got a good head on those shoulders.”

“Sixer, all and no disrespect at once,” Irving deadpanned. “But I don’t give a shit.”

“You really should,” Heath purred in amusement. “It can get you places.”

Sixer slipped his hand into his pocket, then extended it to Rudy. Enclosed in his grip was $11.

“Consider this a deposit.”

Rudy took the money reluctantly, looking at Sixer with daggers. Sixer only smiled, like a cat who’d swallowed a canary. Once the money was exchanged, the sigils in the doorways disappeared.

Irving took initiative and walked out of the casino with long, punchy strides. Rudy followed not long after, leaving Sixer alone in the room. Once he was sure the brothers had gone, he called out to the rest of his patrons.

“Y’all can come out now, they’ve up and left!”

Like magic, the room was filled with people again, all getting up to raucous gambling and other forms of sinning. Sixer left the room with an accomplished laugh, dusting his gloved hands off each other. A moment later, he was seized by his bow tie and dragged down to someone else’s eye level.

“Where the hell have you been?!”

His captor was none other than his underboss Orianna ‘The Wheel’ Romano, a golden, geometric automaton in a dealer’s suit. Her nasally New Yorker accent bore into Sixer’s ears, but he didn’t mind at that moment.

“Giraudo, pal, you’re just the man I wanted to see!”

Sixer beamed on seeing her, but Orianna didn’t return the gesture. The name he called her made her uncomfortable, and while normally she could stomach its use, their current situation cut into her patience. She chose to press onwards in conversation and let go of him though, as she knew he meant no harm by it.

“You say dat every time I come sniffin’ you out, boss,” she huffed. “Now answer da question. I’ve been two steppin’ through dis helter skelter all night lookin’ for youse.”

“Sorry about that,” Sixer apologized. “I was outside earlier doin’ some carnival barkin’.”

“Carnival barkin’?” Orianna scoffed with a grin. “What year is it, 1925? Don’t we have people fer dat?”

“Sure, but I’m a professional.,” Sixer said with a sly wink. “Went t’ trade school and everything. I can’t let that degree get rusty.”

Orianna rolled her eyes and shook her head, smiling a little.

“Don’t suppose ya roped in somethin’ to fix us bein’ 19 souls short?”

“Actually,” Heath replied, smug. “The funniest thing jus’ happened.”

Orianna looked his way, tilting her tapered head like some great bird.

“I bagged two souls jus’ now. Pair of cup headed folks from th’ Scapes. One of ‘em signed a contract but got in two souls deep.”

“Oh, y’pulled the old ‘one two’ on ‘em?” the robot prodded, interested.

“Yeah,” Heath agreed. “The one who didn’t sign was onto me, but the other guy? Pff, it was like takin’ candy from a baby. No impulse control t’ speak of.”

“Gee, don’t dat sound like somebody I know,” Orianna snarked knowingly.

Now it was Heath’s turn to roll his eyes, but his smirk didn’t die away. He was used to this line of talk between them.

“So we’re only down 17 now?” Orianna clarified. “Dat’s good, but I don’t get how dat’s a rip-snorter.”

“A what now?” Heath asked with a little laugh.

“A rip-snorter,” she reiterated. “Y’know, somethin’ real good an’ goin’ our way?”

“You sure Kahl didn’t fit ya with a faulty lexicon there, Romano?” Heath prodded playfully.

“It’s a real fuckin’ word, y’goon,” she insisted, gesturing with her thumb over her shoulder. “Ask around town.”

“Alright, fine, later,” Heath conceded. “Still, though, that one who didn’t sign asked t’ see the contract.”

“No shit. An’ den what?”

“He volunteered the two of em t’ get back our receipts,” Heath explained. “Under paragraph 6.”

A beat passed. Orianna’s eyebrows rose and settled, intrigued.

“An’... How old are dese guys ‘xactly?” she asked.

“21 ‘r so,” Heath said.

“Twenty one—“ Orianna rested her forehead in her hand.

“Please tell me dey got magic.”

“...I… Didn’t see,” Heath admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.

“...we’re outsourcin’ collect fer our boondogglin’ t’ a couple twenty somethin’s,” Orianna summarized flatly. “An’ you didn’t even check if dey got magic?”

“It’s not every day y’get free labor,” Sixer tried to reason with a shy shrug.

Orianna closed her eyes tightly.

“...Heath,” she said. “Why da hell didja agree t’ dat?”

Heath started to speak, only for his underboss to interrupt him.

“We got people fer dat, y’know. Lotsa people, actually, who’d be willin’ to chase down dose contracts for ya at da drop of a hat. Why on Earth didja cut a deal like dat wid a couple a bumpkins too far from home?”

“I know we got people,” Heath said. “But those folks who ran off with our shit don’t fuck around. I don’t want t’ lose anybody unnecessarily.”

“Unneces— Caesar, dis ain’t da minor leagues any more!” Orianna barked.

She grabbed his bow tie again, so that they wouldn’t be so easily heard. Her voice was a sharp whisper.

“Who gives a shit if a coupla card heads die chasin’ down Cagney Carnation or whoever da fuck? We got people all over da place who’d kill t’ be runnin’ wid us!”

“I got that,” Cesarano growled. “But we gotta play this smart, Gira. That last raid got our boys Chimes an’ Pocus killed, on top of a stack of card heads. We don’t know if those debtors are tag teamin’ still or flyin’ solo.”

“Don’t talk t’ me about playin’ shit smart,” Orianna seethed. “It’s my job t’ play shit smart. Or didja forget that while you were tryin’ to be 25 all over again?”

Heath pulled himself from Orianna’s grip, baring his teeth. Orianna gave him a hard stare.

“You watch your tongue,” Heath warned.

“An’ you keep dat bleedin’ heart ‘f yers on a damn leash,” Orianna said frankly.

“Just what the hell is that supposed t’ mean?”

“It means yer not thinkin’ straight.”

Orianna rested her arms on her hips, gesticulating in fluid, mechanical motions.

“It’s a shame we lost Chimes an’ Pocus but dat’s how it is sometimes, Heath. You of all people should know. An’ cuttin’ a deal wit’ dose kids? Dey’re adults, even if dey’re dumber dan a sack a bricks. Dey came here of deir own free will, an’ dey lost da draw. Why negotiate?”

Heath’s expression dipped, as Orianna continued.

“You dink dey can do all dat in six days? Or did one of ‘em give you puppy eyes ‘til ya bent fer ‘em?”

“I think they can,” Heath replied sharply.

“On what merit?”

“...they just…” Heath started. “I felt it, in ‘em. They had strong spirits, I guess. Reminded me of myself, back in those days.”

“If some scrappy kid from th’ Bleed could rise up, why couldn’t they?”

“Cuz—“ Orianna started, but caught herself. She hated being the bad cop in these kind of situations, so she exhaled some steam from her back vents, mirroring a sigh.

“...you really dink these kids got dis in da bag?” Orianna tried again.

“They might need a little help,” Heath admitted. “But I have… 80% confidence they got this.”

Orianna raised an eyebrow. Heath faltered.

“...ok, make that more of a 65%.”

“Dat’s what I figured,” the automaton remarked dryly.

“How do you think we should do this, then?” he asked.

“If I were you,” she said. “I would’ve sent a buncha card guys out dree weeks ago an’ kept ‘em pumpin’ ‘til we got dose contracts. If we needed reinforcements, I’d send dat lughead Iggy, August, ‘r Sharps out t’ finish da job. If we didn’t get any dice by dat point, den I woulda sent da kids as da clean up crew.”

Heath winced. Orianna noticed.

“Ah, sorry, analytic brain got goin’ dere,” she said with a modest expression.

“It’s alright,” Sixer said. “What should we do now?”

“If I were you, Mr. Sentimental,” she restarted. “Den I’d keep an eye on dose kids, either drough other people or checkin’ on deir progress myself, cuz I just can’t stand sittin’ behind a desk all day, drownin’ in paperwoik, an’ hearin’ my underboss tear me a new asshole wid ‘er brass teeth.

Heath let out a laugh, making Orianna smile.

“I’d use dose dorky die houses I got back in 1919 as a temporary base ‘f operations,” Orianna continued, still digging into her boss. “I’d hire somebody t’ trail those cup toons, an’ I’d default control of da casino to Pip.”

“To Pip?” Heath said between snickers.

“Yeah, cuz I’m comin’ with you, jackass!” Orianna said, earning another laugh from him. “Dis is a batshit crazy scheme you’ve cooked up an’ it’s my job t’ see it drough!”

“Alright, alright,” Heath giggled. “If that’s th’ case, you tell Pip he’s head honcho, I’ll handle the dick.”

“‘Course you will,” Orianna muttered playfully.

“What was that?”

“What? I can’t hear you over da sound of all these assholes partyin’! I’ll catch ya later, boss!”

Both of them laughed as they parted ways, with Orianna heading back the way she came and Heath to his office.

Once inside and away from the bustle of the game rooms, Heath sank into a purple leather chair and pulled out an address book. He thumbed through a couple pages, then let out an ‘ah-hah’ when he found the name he was looking for.

He picked up a white rotary phone and dialed the number under the name, the fingers of one hand tangling in the cord connecting the receiver and base. The dial up tone ceased after a couple moments.

“Hello hello! This is Alice, your operator. How may I help you?”

“Alice, doll, it’s great t’ hear from ya,” Sixer said warmly. “I hope you lot are enjoyin’ yer new gear down at th’ station.”

“We’ve never had smoother calls, sir,” Alice cooed. “Thank you. Is there something I could help you with?”

“Yeah, could you be a dear an’ get me Mike Phone?” he requested. “He runs that detective agency by th’ Bleed?”

“Of course, sir. Have a good night.”

“Likewise, sweetheart,” Heath purred. “Don’t stay up too late now.”

The call then transferred over a couple moments later. A masculine voice with a built in crackle spoke up.

“You’ve reached Transducer Detective Agency, Michael R. Phone speaking.”

“Hi-de-ho, Mike,” Heath greeted him through the phone, grinning wide.

“I’ve got a job for ya.”

#cuphead #harvest hand #court verse #mugman #king dice #pirouletta #rudy #irv #sixer #orie #misgendering tw

[tokensfortalkers]

d100 ONLY IN THE WOOD

From pulsing spiral shells

of perfect, woven red scales

our tribe extracts rich music

to sweat the land in dance

til vice weft seed in set.

The flowers of lava trees open like shattered glass spilling liquids of molten pollen

A single bud rests in a fallow field, shimmering a sign planted next to it reads "Needs blood"

For each fallen limb stepped upon, a tree breaks into splinters; limbs crack at the slightest touch.

Swamps travel swiftly and quickly. The same swamp can be seen many days from many mountains

Rock splits in a cacophonous crack, oozing red and blue liquid, when hardened go back in time.

A craft falls from the sky, blazing with heat and, eventually, berths opportunity

As it's marked, tree hisses -- a faint whistle (Return in 2d10 days to a deflated tree -- and a sapling).

Winds braid walkable paths of leaves in the air. Only as the wind dies, do the leaves fall away

Moles' noses are carved into stones, creating a fern gully of sniffing sculptures

Floating woven metal drip beeswax around a wick of living hemp positioned below an exposed bladder.

Pits in the skin caused by biting insects deepen into darkening and widening maws until the next day.

Boats along the lake shore are all shells for crab-like crustaceans

Footsteps are Taken away -- stored in vials to be poured out for later use.

Illusion barrier of ancients' lost city is on the fritz; such sensually polluting defenses nauseate.

Writing in the fog lights up where fireflies flutter from one location to the next

Oars cause lake water to be shoveled rather than pushed. Water sticks to implements, weighing them

Spiders in the forest have been cursed with human customs. Like to picnic and play volleyball.

Water shrine of exotic wood caused a lake to explode and freeze at the same time, resulting in ice caves.

Single bed and breakfast hosted by a ghost. Good meals, fascinating guest log, excellent books.

Drunk frogs defend an artisan well of wine fed by a massive pitcher plant suffering from allergies

Lamppost mill, owners tend to the lampposts, growing them from single crystals in careful vats.

Servile-yet-serpentile signs read what actions PCs took last, in an attempt to annoy them away

Flash flood is an illusion (unfortunate actions of panicking characters are not.)

Gruesome sculptures with pivots stand before picketed signs reading Tip Me.

Piles of leaves dart about wildly, clamboring in a cacophonous emsemble, deafening all other sound

Wellsprings of gasses hiss in notes. Covering them plays a flute-like melody, enchanting victims

Chasm blows anything blown into it back out and 10x smaller; thrown in again, reverts to normal.

Snails with numbers on shells litter the forest floor and trees. Snails are purple with black spots

Wisps travel from tree to tree like high traffic. Sign posted says Experimental Area: Keep Out

All equipment hums and wilts when held by an owner who isn't at least humming if not singing

Cairns of stacked pumice float from one spot to the next, rearrange their stacks, and continue

Odorous flowers create paths. Follow the fresh bread odor? Or the smoked meat one? Or some other?

Seeds in the shape of fetuses wriggle in warm areas, like in sunlight or the palms of ungloved hands

Pool of glass hatches and walls of plasmatic liquids make a maze of this deathly-still lake

Boxes of quartz contain tiny plants growing tinier morsels. Opening a box usually kills the plant.

Sky flickers between day and night as though it can't remember what time it's supposed to be

Cat rests atop a floating, bloated carcass, pounces upon a mouse, and returns to the carcass to dine.

Fruit dries quickly when plucked, its wrinkles taking on the face of the one who plucked it

Every tree has a name carved into it. A fallen tree's root ball harbors an unearthed prisoner

Boulders crack, revealing stone chicks. it would seem this particular part of the forest is a nest.

Silent beast work tirelessly at weaving spider webs into cocoons for sick caterpillars

Driftwood in the lake each have a hand in their centers bobbing in and out of view

Field of view shifts in parallax, at 5 frames per second. Woodland beasts appear and disappear wildly.

Whispers from holes dug in the ground reveal the names and notable deeds of those buried here

Fire blooms from grasses bent too quickly, their blades passing one another produce the spark.

A thick, sweet pollen clouds vision and clog up uncovered airways, causing light asphyxia

Baubles or trinkets are grown into tree bark, assumedly pulled up by the capillaries by mistake

Breezes fill in pockets of thick air, erupting when touched, causing a furious blowback

Expansive circles or carefully cut and laid stone course a map to old civilizations

Animal path cuts through a canopy of ever-shrinking oaks. Leaves of the oaks drip a shrinking tonic.

At night, animal sounds are mistaken for mad ramblings, philosophical musings, and arguments

Tapestry of quilted hemp died with shells and treated with aromatic oils blanket the area

Cylinders of colossal, rusting, fallen chimes chamber the only accessible paths through the forest

Pustules on the hillside reveal the mad workings of a unindustrialized colony deep below

Flute sounds emanate from cracks in the stone cliff and stop when the cliff is touched.

Sticks crossing one another reveal the true forest floor -- a barren desert.

Howls and screeches leave the players mouths, their hollow words swallowed up by something high above

Animals will only eat from the hand. Beg players to feed them. Starvation abounds.

Blossoms of a tree paint pictures in the sky as they fall. If shaken, produces a vision of the future

Salt deposits litter the forest floor from red trees puking fresh water over themselves.

Tree roots reach out of the riverbed. Stepping into the river inverts the forest's orientation.

Eels swim through the air, casting crude shadows in the shape of animals once presiding here

Croaking of ghostly frogs echo through the forest. Bumping into one causes it to spew fiery vomit.

Red dust litters the forest floor. When exposed to rain, turns into rivulets of blood.

Tress drink so much light, they are too black to see. Useful light is only produce pointing downward

Bushes restructure the limbs sporadically, limbs fighting over sunlight

Herd beasts chew vegetation growing on their backs, reluctantly move only when aggressively persuaded

Ghosts of a pilgrimage performed time and time again fill the ancient steps of this mountainside

Owls with heads turned in the direction of safety become parts of trees when viewed up close

Distending mosses sprinkle spores onto coats and cloaks, turning fabric slowly to more moss.

Dollops of cream leak from fleshy termite mounds. Animals congregate around, lapping the cream

In a stony nook rests a single hut. In the hut rests a single book, in the book, a single word: Run.

Snot eventually pours from trees periodically sniffling and obviously allergic to visitors

Groups of birds vanish from the sky. Reappear again and vanish again in the same spots.

Magenta plants leave the forest floor a royal, mossy color. Sleeping here feels deep. Forever, even.

Every strike makes a weapon sharper, a bow tighter and a blade swifter until, of course, they shatter.

Trees all appear as doors and are, in fact, door trees. Should probably knock before harvesting.

Animals incessantly beg to be ridden and then race at top speeds until players fail Ride checks.

Wood is lopsided. Limbs slowly move between trees to grasp at the light, feverishly and frightened.

Fetid bog's algae moves like lips, spewing low hums, sharing secrets of the wood's history

Jewelry in scattered piles brighten vision when worn and turn to bloody briars once leaving the area

Short afternoon showers morph brambles into herds, twigs into serpents, and rocks into turtles.

Furs nailed upside down to trees speak quickly hushed warnings of what lies ahead

Single silken bamboo drips milky sap from a cut, trapping all who enter until the cut is mended

Animals stop what they are doing to stare at visitors, moving closer and drop dead when touched

Single-occupancy thatched shelters litter the wood where a single well-dressed skeleton lies face up.

Leaf-vested and well-spoken asks to join visitors. Becomes a dagger in an inventory outside the area

Abandoned wine cave leads down, into a burial tomb filled with statues in the likeness of players

Thrown rocks never hit the ground, loop back around behind players in d10 hours.

All wine taken into the wood is greedily hunted by ever-agitated vines eventually hissing, barking.

Well-kept signs argue in text about which way to go and must be separated before being of any use

Shanty ranch house bigger on the inside is home to giant talking bats drinking blood from pet rats.

Fruit launches from trees instead of falling, is picked off by swift birds with sword-like beaks.

Village performs odd festive rituals to entice visitors to move in; keeps a log of failed rituals.

Meticulously decorated massive nut shells are filled with villager bodies (filled with exotic seeds)

Farmers moving a waterwheel state their river's reversed direction just as the river reverts again.

Baby birds fall from nests left and right, crying for help, they beg, plead. Where are their mothers?

Sign reads Wondrous Shop Right At the Boulder. There is no boulder. There is no shop.

Elk sheds, disembodied, crack and strike one another. Best not get between them.

Rivers of trailers filled with kids teaching kids how to manipulate space without time.

d100 Only in the Wood by shwac

#d100 #list #forest #weird

[cyberneticlagomorph]

The tips of Moira's nails graze your scalp and make you shudder deliciously. Your body greedily presses against hers, as if trying desperately to leech the warmth from her skin. She coos at you, calls you "cute", calls you "dear" and "darling".

And "hers".

You purr for her, press your head into her waiting palm, wrap your arms around her nonexistent waist. Oh, how far you have fallen, how pathetic you are now. To kiss up to your captor in more ways than one, and to love every second of the attention. You really are her pet now, crying and whining when she's gone too long, tripping over yourself to feel her touch, even for a second. Something breaks within you when she's near, a switch that snaps on at the cost of your dignity.

Your lips brush hers, cutting her off mid-sentence. You revel in the silence, learning to love the taste of herbal cigarettes and stale coffee.

You don't sleep with her, you aren't that broken, no, not yet. Even if you were, her movements seem stiff, labored, as if she were in pain. There are places all across her body, too tender for you to touch. She hisses and snaps when you do. You understand.

She's gotten weirder lately, mostly physically. Her biolume is almost hideously bright, now. The tips of her ears are knife-like, and the sharpness of her teeth? Terrifying. Alluring. She's a funhouse mirror mimicry of you, like the assassin she sent to steal you away. You try not to think about it, thinking about it always leaves you sobbing in the shower long after dark, long after the 15 minute timer has shut the water off.

Today, your time together is brisk, to the point. You press your face into her bony chest and rumble while she plays with your hair and whispers about nothing in particular just, whispers. About her day, about the other faculty, about you. Mostly you. You don't pay attention to what she's saying half the time, too busy forcing yourself to imagine her as someone else, anyone else. It doesn't work most of the time. She asks you questions about your body, your makeup, your mods. She asks you if your prison is to your liking, if anything can be improved.

You bite your tongue and shut your eyes, you've already asked for so much. She wants you to ask for more. This feels like a trap, like each favor you ask for is going to need to be paid back with interest. But still, she untangles your tongue with her own, loosens your lips with sweet kisses. You tell her you miss the sky, you tell her that you are bored in your cage. You tell her that you miss coloring your hair. She tells you that she will fix things, make things better for you. You are unsure why she would go to these lengths just to please you. Does she really love you, or does she just love your silence?

You are lonely when she leaves, you hate that you are. You hate that you miss her. Nothing alleviates your boredom today, not Youtube, not Tumblr, nothing.

The masked lackeys (you've started calling them "Jerries") come in to clean your room around lunch, they change your sheets, disinfect your bathroom. You are scanned and looked over, one hesitantly ruffles your ears. You behave. You don't bite. But you do give them a look that clearly states that under different circumstances you'd split them up the middle and bite out their heart.

They don't touch you again. They pack up their things and leave. You sit on the floor and eat your lunch in peace, listening to Spotify over the speakers of your laptop. At least you have that. The censoring is aggressive, spiteful at times, but done in real time. As you thoughtfully chew on the remains of some poor songbird, you think to yourself a series of devious thinky-thoughts that are soon interrupted by the familiar jingling of the walls melting open to let someone through.

Cold silver and black eyes stare back at you, set in in a face so ghostly pale, it looks corpselike. You remember that face, you've seen it every time your life has gone to shit recently. Any fear you might have felt is quickly swallowed by rabid, feral anger.

Charon watches your expression twist in displeasure and distrust with her personal brand of practiced boredom. That's all you two do for quite some time, stare hatefully at each other, in unfathomable silence.

Your hackles are raised, but can you really do much else? You wrack your brain for answers.

Have they finally gotten tired of your requests?

Is your "academic assistance" no longer required?

Is she here to kill you?

Can she kill you?

Has your Luck finally run dry, dooming you to all the deaths you thought you'd escaped?

Charon takes a step inside, and you bare your teeth like a cornered animal. She smiles, just a little. A concerning upwards twitch of the corners of her mouth, made all the more malevolent by her resting bitch face. She looks like someone that delighted in pulling the legs off of insects as a child, and you don't plan on being her new plaything.

Your movements are clunky and slow, dragged down by your unnatural weight. Even if you could get the drop on her, what would you even do? Charon takes another step towards you, slow and deliberate. She gazes at you the same way a trainer gazes at an unruly animal, a thing to be broken. You circle each other like wolves, hackles raised, teeth bared. You're both itching for a fight that never comes. You are interrupted by a gruff, smoker's rumble of a voice, telling the two of you to knock it off. In the blackened, toothless maw of the doorway stands a woman, well muscled and impossibly ancient. Truly she looks no older than 40, but she exudes this aura of existence that feels like she's been here since humans were crawling among the muck, banging rocks together, and she'll continue to be when humanity have devoured this tender little rock and turn their endless appetites to the stars.

The name on her ID badge reads "S. Belmont". She sets her empty, cold eyes on you and you feel the fear of a thousand thousand generations of night-creatures, flinching at whip-cracks and sword-blows. You feel the fear of the darkened, impossible to find places where your bones will be hidden away and studied.

Yes, you know of the Belmonts, everyone knows of the Belmonts. Monster hunters, vampire killers, those that stalk the Night herself. You have never been afraid of them until now, until this one set her eyes on you. She has killed the fight in you with only a look, leaving little more than stunned prey in her wake. 

She turns her eyes on Charon, voice as biting as a whip, "Do your job, or I'll do it for you." a threat, a warning. A promise.

Charon grabs you by the scruff and starts to march you out of your cell, past the Belmont with the cold cold eyes without a word. The hallway beyond is blacker than black, even your less-than-spectacular night vision is useless here. She marches you into an elevator, visible as only a sliver of light in the blackness. It takes you up and up and up, past countless floors you cannot see. She takes you to a place buzzing with activity.

There are people here, people like you. People with fantastical cybernetics and animal ears, with odd eyes and gems in their skin. All dressed in white, with heavy collars at their throats. They sit and lounge, chat and smile, watching the massive screens on the walls, sitting in front of glorious sloping windows.

You are roughly tugged away before you can get a good look at anything. Dragged off to some room full of windows, a humid indoor garden with a ceiling of glass. The plants here are silent strangers that you cannot speak to, but that doesn't stop you from crying when Charon lets you go. You fall face down among the daisies and sob, rolling on your back to watch the rain drops glitch on the glass in the endless emerald afternoon.

#ic #action post #enclosures #ask to tag

[z-angseth]

The Scenic Route

“West by Southwest is the scenic route to the ocean.” Botholomew recited as he gazed at the horizon through the trees. He hoisted his worn leather bag over his shoulder and placed his tattered hat on his head. His joints creaked as he stretched before setting off for the day. One foot in front of the other, he walked between the trees with the dawn light at his back.

Botholomew reflected on where he had been; about the sweeping planes, about the mountains with snow, about the short people who liked to celebrate every opportunity they could, but mostly he thought about the trees. Without missing a stride he reached down to grab a dry looking log and began to gnaw on it. There were many many different trees in the world, or at least what of it he could remember. An old man once told him how trees work a long time ago but Botholomew couldn’t remember exactly, only that the sun was important. He could remember that he wanted to see the ocean, and he reminded himself how to get there every morning so he wouldn't forget. He thought about how some of the the trees change and how some of them don't. Today the trees that change were on their way to being lush and green.

The gaze of a deer caught his attention mid thought but the animal scampered away by the time he noticed. There were also many kinds of animals that he could remember. Most of them are harmless but some creatures he should to stay away from. Bears came to mind but he was sure there were others. “Some kind of lizard, too?” He thought. Botholomew grabbed another log after finishing off the one in hand. A village came into view as he trekked, and the rumble of a storm warned of coming rain. He quickened his pace but the rain began before he reached the village. His hat did the best it could to keep him dry but it was largely in vain. Botholomew ducked his head under the threshold of the stable, nearly spooking the mare resting inside. While he wiped as much of the water off of himself as he could, a tall woman wearing a black cloak approached him. She came up to nearly his shoulders. Usually Botholomew was met with caution from strangers but this person walked up to him with a calm familiarity.

“The Mechanical Man of Stararige… you're an awful long way from home.” she commented.

“My name is Botholomew. I do not remember my home but I am traveling to see the ocean.” replied Botholomew as he hung up his hat to dry. He was used to his reputation preceding him. “I am taking the scenic route.”

“You certainly are.” The tall woman confirmed. Botholomew could see a smile from under her cloak but no more of her face. He took a towel out of his bag and began drying himself off. “Be careful to avoid the next few towns,” the woman warned “they won't be very friendly to you.” He was not expecting such advice but he appreciated it nonetheless. He looked up to thank her but she had disappeared. Botholomew looked around the corners of the stable’s entrance but he was unable to spot any sign of her; he couldn't see very far without getting wet again. He hung up his towel and resigned to sit down to look out into the shower.

He liked the sound the rain made and wished he could be out in it without worry. Sitting still with his thoughts, the mare warmed up to his company and approached him. Botholomew wondered if he was made to be a creature of work, like a horse. While he waited, he threaded fresh straw into his hat to patch the many holes it had acquired, stopping occasionally to pet the mare.

The rain let up before his hat ran out of holes. Botholomew returned his towel to his bag and his hat to his head. He said goodbye to the horse and continued along his way. The rain made the wood wet and harder to eat, Botholomew didn't like that about the rain. He traveled for three more days before he spotted another village. He remembered what the tall woman had told him and did not venture near. As he journeyed the terrain became increasingly rocky.

Another five days of walking brought another village into view on the horizon through the trees. Something startled a flock of birds, causing them to flutter out of the forest canopy. He looked up and saw a large, winged lizard soaring overhead. “That was it, winged lizards were to be avoided.” He recalled “Dragons.” Botholomew was pleased to have remembered something important, but the moment of satisfaction was brief as he realized the implication of what he saw overhead. He quickly crouched by the largest boulder nearby and stayed completely still, watching the beast circle above.

“You dared strike down my father, Leomaris, and so I, Eriloth, shall be the last thing you see; my voice the last thing you hear; and the terror I strike within you the last thing you feel!” The dragon menaced before swooping down in Botholomew's direction. He ran, panicked, as fast as he could and leaped out of the way, but the dragon did not seem to notice him. When Botholomew uncovered his eyes he realized that Eriloth was not interested in him, but was attacking the town; hot acid sprayed from his maw and ignited the structures of the settlement. Botholomew could not bear to watch idly and so he rushed to the village to help any way that he could. The people of the village tried to repel the dragon and extinguish the fires, but their attention turned to Botholomew when he arrived.

“It is the end of times!”

“Dragons and now soldiers of Hades!”

Members of the town guard lined up around him, trying to keep their eyes on both him and the dragon.

“Halt! Come no further!”

Botholomew stopped and brought his hands up.

“I am here to help, not to harm.” he said but the town guard did not appear swayed “I cannot fight.” he reassured. The captain of the guard weighed her options.

“If you cannot fight then help us with the fires.”

Botholomew nodded and dashed towards the nearest burning structure. He wrenched the barn's door open and lead the animals outside.

The villagers were less trusting of Botholomew than the guard was but they dared not stand in his way. He carried buckets of water to put out flames and carried people out of burning houses. It wasn't long before Eriloth was satisfied with the destruction wrought and left, but the village was in ruin.

As the dust settled, the people surveyed the remains and mourned their losses. The ash from the fires dulled Botholomew's fern colored paint to a more ghostly hue. The people kept their distance from Botholomew but the captain of the guard wasted no time to speak to him.

“Thank you for helping us. You saved many lives today, but you need to be on your way.”

“We shouldn't shun him because he's different” said a member of the guard who wore maroon

“He is a creation of witchcraft!” Shouted another in dark orange.

“He risked his life to save our families.” Defended a third who wore navy

The captain of the guard knew she needed to address the dissonance.

“Our visitor did perform a great service to us all, but my duties are to ensure the safety of our village, and our people will not be at ease so long as he is here.” She announced to the guard. “Brave sir,” spoke the captain softly and directly “I apologise for the circumstances you've stepped into, but you must leave.”

Botholomew nodded and continued on his way.

“West by Southwest is the scenic route to the ocean.” He softly recited to himself. Botholomew knew that some people didn't want him around, but that knowledge neither soothed his sadness nor help to put his mind at ease. He worried about the village if the dragon came back. He reflected on what the tall woman had said and he hoped for no more rain before he reached a friendly town. As the sun set on the eventful day, Botholomew set down his bag and his hat and took a seat on the ground as he did every night. As if the previous day made no difference, the next morning came like the many that preceded it. He continued his hike and ate more dry wood, but around midday he heard some rustling behind him. He turned around to look and saw the two members of the town guard that spoke in his favor.

“Brave sir!” called out the one in blue “What is your name, brave sir?” Botholomew stopped and introduced himself.

“My name is Botholomew.”

“It is good to make your acquaintance, Botholomew.” Said the one in red “My name is Millicent, and this is my brother Giovanni.”

“Your actions in our time of peril warrant  our sincere gratitude in their own right, and the way our village mistreated you leaves us deeply in your debt.” Said Giovanni

“Would you have us on your quest?” Asked Millicent “We offer to you any aid we can render.”

“Friends are always welcome. I wish to see the ocean and I go west by Southwest because it is the scenic route.”

“The Sea of Nirut is not far, a week's journey at most.” Replied Millicent.

“That is good to hear, but I have spent most of my travels alone, so I must apologise ahead of time that I do not know much about making good company.” Admitted Botholomew as he resumed his hike.

“You need not worry about that.” assured Giovanni

“Will you two be in trouble with your captain for following me?”

”Probably, but good is more important than law.” replied Giovanni. Botholomew contemplated what he was just told for a long minute. He wasn't sure if he agreed with the sentiment, or disagreed for that matter, but he was thankful nonetheless.

“From what lands do you hail, Botholomew?” Asked Millicent, her question brought him out of his thoughts.

“I come from Katinopis, the capitol city Stararige specifically," Botholomew replied "though the only thing I remember of my time there was that I had to leave.”

“That is a long way to travel. You must rest well.” Remarked Millicent.

"I walk until I cannot see and then I wait until I can see again."

"You wait? Do you not sleep?" Inquired Millicent. Botholomew contemplated her question.

"I do not." He replied

"That is remarkable! Even those with the heartiest endurance need to rest. So it is true that you do not tire." Interjected Giovanni.

"I need to eat, I need to stay dry, and sometimes I need to mend myself, but it is true that I do not know what it is to be tired."

"You are a very remarkable man, sir Botholomew." Remarked Millicent.

The trio continued west by southwest, all the while sharing stories and good company. After a week's travel the sound of waves crashing in the distance became audible, later that day the team reached a clearing leading up to a cliff's edge. Botholomew approached slowly, the churning tides below filled his field of view with every step. When he reached the cliff he sat on its edge and basked in the scenery. The ocean's breeze played with the brim of his hat. His companions sat beside him and breathed the salty mist of the sea below.

“What do you plan to do now that you have taken the scenic route to the ocean?” asked Giovanni.

Botholomew thought about the question. The goal he had planned for so long was finally at hand.

“I wish to enjoy this for a while longer but I don't know what to do next.”

“You certainly earned as much time as you want.” said Millicent.

Botholomew gazed out across the horizon and felt a warm joy inside. He sat at the cliff and watched the sun set, which was the most beautiful sunset he could remember. Giovanni and Millicent remained nearby and set up camp. Botholomew did not move until after the sun finally slipped out of view behind the waves. He joined his companions by the campfire they had built and broke the silence.

"From what I remember of my journey here, there are plenty of places to see in this world."

"Well said, Botholomew." Nodded Millicent.

"If there are plenty of places to see, then there must be plenty more scenic routes to take to see them." Continued Botholomew.

"This is also true!" She chuckled. Botholomew leaned back and looked up at the sky. A particularly bright star caught his attention towards the north.

"Tomorrow," he declared "I think I will go that way." Botholomew pointed in the direction of the star.

"Another scenic route?" Asked Giovanni

"Another scenic route." Confirmed Botholomew.

"We'll gladly follow if you'll have us." Offered Millicent, Giovanni nodded in agreement.

"I would like that." Said Botholomew "The scenic route is better with friends."

[merryfortune]

Vrains Rare Pair Week - Day 14

Day 14 / Jan 05 – Time Travel / Superheroes

·         Ship: Takeru/Yusaku

  Since coming to live with the Kusanagi Brothers at the local shrine, Yusaku has come to realise that there are a lot of things in this world which are rather over-explained. He wasn’t the spiritual type, so he didn’t really get it but Shoichi, the elder brother, loved to harp onto Yusaku anyway about all the stories and legends of the area. The Thousand-Year-Old tree and its significance and the uncanny ability of the way things go missing in the Hidden Well: these were all stories that Shoichi loved to spurn for his two wards. Yusaku listened but mostly to be polite and so that he didn’t have to converse back.

  However, as Yusaku traversed the forest, uncertain of every step that he took, he had come to wonder if perhaps there was genuine stock in what Shoichi had to ramble about.

  Yusaku swallowed. He retraced the impossible sequence of events in his head. It started when Jin, the younger brother, wanted to retrieve his cat – Lightning – from the Hidden Well. Lightning was a disagreeable cat who did what he wanted, when he wanted so it wasn’t unusual for him to find some sort of trouble. Today it was by somehow managing to go into the building which housed the Hidden Well.

  Jin, too overcome with fear regarding the Hidden Well, enlisted Yusaku to go grab his cat. Yusaku thought this was fine so he went down there. But there was a scratching. A great and terrible scratching – however, Yusaku ignored it and chalked it up to the cat whom he soon found stalking around the base of the well.

  Yusaku bent down and picked up Lightning and that’s when the seal atop the Hidden Well burst open. Jin screamed, and Lightning jumped out of Yusaku’s arms. Behind Yusaku, thousands of ghostly white hands burst and in the midst of such an ethereal illusion, real arms grabbed him and pulled him into the well.

  Yusaku screamed and as he fell through the air, it felt as though he were no longer in the well but in a different dimension. All around him was murky darkness: an inky, purplish-black and he was not alone.

  There was a creature. Long and taunt with unnatural proportions. A centipede and a human rolled into creature with arms and legs most foul. Thousands of legs, all conjoined to this long and rolling green body with a pink underbelly, which slowly flicked as flesh returned to the staunch, white bone. A face – humanlike – but with a jagged maw appeared before Yusaku and its arms – six in total upon its humanlike body.

  It lunged at him. All of its hands attempting to grab at him and Yusaku was terrified. His body turned stiff as he found himself useless to move in this space. He and the creature were both plummeting through it, but one of them had some sort of advantage due to size. Easily wriggling about and reaching out.

  Yusaku screamed. His mind shut down in his terror. His hands curled into fists, bringing them close to his chest as he tried to feebly protect himself from this monster. His eyes clenched shut and he searched deep inside himself for some sort of revelation. Yusaku was certain he was about to die, and he was certain that he would find something important to think about in these precious few moments and yet, he blanked. All he could fixate on was the fear. The thumping heart and rushing blood.

  The monster swiped at him. And it did not miss. But Yusaku was not harmed. Slowly, he opened his eyes and he found himself protected, though he could say – or recognise – what by. All he knew was that he was being shielded by some sort of divine pink-purple light, surrounding him and keeping him encapsulated. And when the monster had swiped at him, the light had completely protected him, and even from its future advances.

  When its hand had tried to pierce through the light, it had burnt the monster. Completely and utterly disintegrating its appendage. The monster howled. It recoiled back and disappeared into the darkness.

  Yusaku’s heart pounded and soon, he found himself on the ground. He hadn’t crashed into it, but he felt earth beneath his hands as he stared up into the darkness, slowly letting shafts of light into it. He smelt fresh air and he couldn’t see the monster. But his fear was real. That wasn’t some sort of illusion, Yusaku was certain as he got up.

  He looked around and he saw vines clinging to the walls of the well. He took a breath and grabbed onto one of the vines. Using it and the brick, Yusaku was able to scale the inside of the well. As he pulled himself up and over the edge, Yusaku realised that he wasn’t home anymore. He wasn’t even in Den City either, he was thinking as he glanced around and tried to evaluate his surroundings.

  He was in the middle of a meadow. It was bordered by trees and the sky was so wide and open. Clear, too without a nary cloud to be seen. It was utterly unfamiliar, and he was dumbfounded by it, and yet, he still was able to see something he knew in this place so strange. And now, Yusaku found himself willing to believe that the impossible were possible.

  Thus, Yusaku found himself staring – and later walking towards – a very familiar tree. It was tall and skinny, unnaturally so. It couldn’t be mistaken otherwise. It was a very familiar tree and if Yusaku’s hunch was right, it should be the same as the one that is enshrined at the Kusanagi Shrine: The Thousand-Year-Old Tree. Though, admittedly, it looked far younger than compared to how Yusaku was used to seeing it, so old and ancient.

  But as Yusaku approached it, he realised that not everything was the same. It was covered in vines; grasped around the tree trunk with a powerful grip which was mostly concentrated on the other side so, he drew curious. He walked around the front and he found something strange.

  Pinned to the trunk of the tree, was a peculiar-looking youth. He was bound tightly in vines and by an arrow which pierced his shoulder. He donned strange clothes, all of which were scarlet but as Yusaku got closer still to him, there was more than his garb which was odd. His hair was white with red-orange highlights, it was long too and rather fluffy. Atop his head, he had animal ears: they were [x]-shaped and striped, like a tiger’s.

  The youth looked as though he were sleeping and when Yusaku put his hand to his mouth, he could feel the youth draw breath and exhale. Yusaku’s brow furrowed. He looked around, perhaps for an explanation, perhaps not and he couldn’t make heads or tails of this situation. His eye was always catching and returning back to the arrow which pierced him.

  Yusaku’s mouth dried and his eyes darted away from the arrow. It didn’t seem to be hurting him. Nor were the vines which constricted him. And so, Yusaku tried to glean other information from him. There was something…. Uncomfortably familiar about him and yet, Yusaku could not think of a stranger person or appearance.

  His ears flicked about. Like a cat in sleep’s and Yusaku took a breath. He decided to do something a little embarrassing. He raised his hands further from the boy’s face and to the top of his head. Yusaku pinched his ears and scratched behind them.

  “Soft… cute…” he found himself mumbling aloud. Again, he was haunted by a strangely familiar sensation.

  He had done this before. He had met this person before and done these things before. He swallowed and Yusaku decided that he ought to do that which he shouldn’t. He let go of the boy’s ears and then grasped the arrow.

  Yusaku’s fingers wound around the body of the arrow, tightly, and then he yanked. A brilliant light spilt forth from the boy’s body – pinkish-violet – instead of blood as Yusaku pulled out the arrow. When its head was removed from the body, there was no indentation to indicate it had been lodged there. And the arrow itself shattered. Splintered. It scattered over Yusaku.

  The boy began to rouse. He opened his eyes, slowly and groggily, and he found his voice: “…My love, is that you?” He began to slip from his place against the tree, the vines falling off of him and disintegrating.

  Yusaku’s eyes widened. He had heard those words before, but where…? When?

  His eyes fluttered open and his pupils were slit-like. His voice bubbled up through his throat and a great anger came over him.

  “What the hell? Why the hell would you do that to me?!” he yelled.

  He lunged at Yusaku and tackled into him. They both landed with a thump. He straddled Yusaku and grabbed his neck. His long fingernails, like claws, dug into the skin.

  “What are you talking about?!” Yusaku yelled; alarmed that this was the second time he had been attacked by something definitively inhuman.

  The boy paused. He sniffed Yusaku’s face and squinted. “Fuck.” he mumbled. “I’ve got the wrong person… So, who the hell are you and why do you look so much like Yusei?”

  “Yusei…?” Yusaku echoed. “I – I don’t know anyone by that name. My name is Yusaku.”

  “Well,” he said, and he began to draw back, “it’s good to meet you, Yusaku. I’m Takeru, I get called the Half-Tiger a lot though. I’m pretty famous, you probably know of me.”

  Yusaku grimaced. He was becoming all the more certain now. He really had fallen back through time – and into some sort of distant, fantastical past at that. But how did he explain that to someone like Takeru?

  And, slightly awkward, what was this feeling building in his chest? Why did he feel as though he knows Takeru from something way before any of this? And why was he feeling twinged with jealousy that Takeru’s initial fondness unto him, had been misguided?

  It all very much concerned Yusaku who had plenty more concerns as well. Most of them related to how was he going to return to the present, to Den City?

#vrainsrarepairweeks #firestormshipping #yugioh vrains #vrains #yugioh #yusaku fujiki #takeru homura #writing tag #inuyasha au time!!!!!

[myth-lord]

When your imagination and fantasy turns against you!

Meet a new group in my project! The creatures of your imagination, the  Tulpa, imagination and phobia made flesh. This group is very chaotic, very different creatures from very different cultures and myths, but I like that!

Tulpa (Tibetan) – Tulpa / Spirit / Parasite (Medium)

ART@: D&D’s SOLAR ANGEL

First stop is the real Tulpa, the imaginary friend that follows you around since you were a child and finally came into being when you needed it’s help the most. This ghostly humanoid sometimes appears during battles as a gentle opponent which helps you until you strike it, then it will disappear, this is different than most other good/neutral creatures which will actually attack you back when you by accident (or not) strike at them, but the Tulpa will just fade away from the battle. This is not very wise to do as the Tulpa may give extra experience when it survives with you through the battle. Tulpa are also known as Guardian Angels, they mostly look like beautiful angels with white wings and bright shining skins. I really wish my English was better, I have so much to tell, but so little words to make it sound good :-(

- Eoduksini (Korean) – Tulpa / Shifter / Parasite (Medium / Colossal)

https://nl.pinterest.com/pin/334392341058392657/

Next is the Eoduksini, a Tulpa which grows in size when you doubt yourself or when you are scared, the more fear this Tulpa absorbs, the bigger it will become.  Eoduksini are Tulpa made flesh after a person doubts himself very much, extreme depression or despair can give birth to these horrible monsters, most creatures have an Eoduksini following them in the world of Mythika, but only a few creatures give in to the amount of depression or despair needed to create a new Eoduksini in the flesh, most Eoduksini will never gain enough depression to gain a real body. These tulpas (like most other evil Tulpa) don’t limit themselves only to one person but haunt as many creatures as they like, but only when they gained fleshy forms.   In the game these creatures start out small, but they grow a size-category every time a character is under the fear-status, and these vile tulpas can cast the fear spell themselves, they can’t grow larger than Huge, but at that point, they are pretty lethal and dangerous in battle.

- Ewah (Native American) – Tulpa / Parasite (Large)

ART@ = D&D’s Phthisic

The Ewah is an old monster I already use for as long as I have a Tumblr account. It is one of the most dangerous and vile Tulpa in the world of Mythika. Ewan's feed on insanity and only extreme sick, violent or mad minds can spawn a new Ewah into the world. Unlike most other Tulpa, the Ewah actually grows from inside the body of the creature that spawns it, much like a brain tumor, slowly taking over the flesh of the host, first starting as an monstrous face on the back of the victims head, and eventually growing into a horrifying monster, the only parts that are left of the host are its face, arms, and legs which stick out of the back of the Ewah, screaming in terror forever, adding to the horror this creature spreads. Once in control, the Ewah spreads more madness and insanity by torturing the minds and bodies of everything intelligent it finds, hoping to create more of its kind.

- Grendel (Literature) – Tulpa (Large)  

https://www.artstation.com/artwork/gdKge

I hear you think, Myth Lord? Why is Grendel a Tulpa? Well, Grendel is actually a boss Tulpa, a single entity that was created through the fear and imagination of an entire town, they imagined there was a monster haunting their neighboring swamps, but they actually spawned what they feared so much with their mutual imagination and fear, this fear was so powerful that the Grendel was born in a swampy cave close to the town. The monster is extremely horrifying, spawning parts of all the worst nightmares of the villagers combined into one horrifying humanoid horror, fangs of all sizes decorate its oversized maw, its strength is legendary, and everything that views this creature is shocked or paralyzed out of sheer horror.

- Jarjacha (Peru) – Tulpa (Large)

http://oxlackinvestigaciones.com/2016/02/7-seres-mitologicos-andinos-la-leyendas-que-trascienden-a-traves-del-tiempo/

A creature spawned by perverts and dirty individuals which imagine incest or having fantasies of rape or worse, the Jarjacha takes the form of a Llama with the monstrous face of a human.   Once this Tulpa takes a fleshy form they start to assault the purest of heart with their vile spit, which burns their souls and which turns their imagination unclean and filthy so they eventually spawn a new Jarjacha themselves. These creatures rarely miss their target and they have multiple spit-attacks they can use. These cruel and vile creatures love to sow discord and sick imaginations around them and are highly feared by the denizens of Mythika.

- Keukegen (Japanese) – Tulpa (Small)

A very cute looking Tulpa, but extremely dangerous. Spawn from the minds of hypochondriacs, people which imagine they are always sick, eventually their imagined sickness will find a way to their house in the form of a cute and fluffy ball of fur. Unlike other Tulpas, there are always multiple Keukegens created from one person’s imagination, at the least three are spawned, at most ten. While they look cuddly their hairs carry all types of diseases, the most terrible is a skin-disease which make the victims skin crawl with terrible itching feelings, so bad this itch gets that victims often crawl their own skin clean off.

- Scarbo (French) – Tulpa (Small)

http://bug.images3.org/picture/1176-super-bug-warrior-in-armor-by-arvalis/

The most numerous of the Tulpas, these small gnome-like insect humanoids spawn from the imagination (and paintings, they live inside paintings) of the very creative and imaginative people, with a rich sense of fantasy. Writers, poets, painters and such artists are often plagued by Scarbo. When these vile creatures manifest they will haunt the hosts sleep by keeping him/her awake so they lose sleep and their imagination starts to fade over time, if that fails, however, the Scarbo starts to ruin the paintings, poetry, and books of their hosts during their sleep, changing words in the books with their magical abilities, making spelling errors in beautiful lyrics which are already finished or giving a beautiful woman in a painting a very ugly nose for example. Scarbo love to turn imaginative people insane, and Scarbo’s are seen as a bane for having a good imagination and a lot of fantasy.

- Siguanaba (Mexican) – Tulpa (Medium)

https://javilaparra.deviantart.com/art/La-Siguanaba-511764379

Spawn by cheating men which imagine being with another woman while sleeping with their wives. Once in their fleshy forms, these horrifying female Tulpa literally scare and terrorize their male victims/hosts to death. After their host is dead they turn their attention to other unfaithful people. They appear as beautiful women from the back at least as their face is actually the skull of a horse, they always wear this beautiful wedding-like dress to taunt their victims with. While these monsters mostly attack unfaithful and cheating people, any humanoid is their prey, and so they are also encountered by the heroes in the game.

- Sewer Alligator (Modern Cryptid) – Tulpa (Large)

https://pyro-helfier.deviantart.com/art/Sewer-Gators-644200066

 A terrifying Tulpa appearing like an albino crocodile with monstrous red eyes and sickly white flesh. These creatures spontaneously spawned from the imagination of the humans which live above their sewers. Fear and imagination for monsters in the sewers is as old as humans started to live in cities and towns, and after a while this habit started to spread and so Sewer Alligators are pretty common in the sewer systems of most towns, they are now seen as a pest, but children keep spawning them with their thoughts and fears.  

#Mythology #Folklore #Cryptid #Monster #Fantasy #Tulpa #long post