#true cobble is pot

[bazingerrr]

Your art is absolutely awesome and I adore the bill art! I love Bill x readers but sadly there’s not enough of them ;-;

Thank you so much I sent this ask to my friend and am going to print and frame this 💙💙💙

And yeah it’s an absolute shame there isn’t more /readers and inserters !! My friend brew posted some oc stuff ages ago but every time I check up on them something is beating the shit out of them 😭😭💙💙💙 Justice for that mf !!

If you want to see some crossover doodles look below!!

SOBBING LOOK AT HOW UTTERLY DOWN HORRENDOUS HE IS FOR HER!!

Btw if ur willing to show me ur oc and tell me backstory and cute hc between whatever character I WILL DRAW THEM SOBS I LOVE PEOPLES OCS SOSOSOSO MUCH

find Brew on @truecobblepot !!

Crossover time!!

Two Ladies and their Cannon Companions!!

Btw Bill’s only in a human form because they needed to go out to a restaurant in public !! Also not my official Human Bill design!! — because I don’t have one !! I like using other peoples designs but also messing around with my own because in my opinion I think Bill wouldn’t want to be stuck in a human body forever, I think he’d use his shapeshifting abilities to really switch around the options a bunch !! Which is great for me since I love character design ^^

The reason he looks like the way he does in this comic is cause I thought it’d be nifty to ham in the Party aesthetic — story wise he probably chose this form because Stanford made a comment about his triangle for in public and Bill chose this form to go into a restaurant to, like: “better? :)” I think that is very funny and I might make a prequel to this lol anyway that’s just the side note for Bill’s design here,

Brew also drew some /oc stuff on their account so you should totally check them out if u haven’t, but also don’t expect only that because they do other stuff on there!! The art is so top tier omg,,, if ur into game of thrones I think that’s the show they are currently binging!!

They are so cool.

keep ur eye peeler out! You might need to peel your eyes manually soon because I’m going to post the 4th instalment of Bill and Dan Doodles!!

#bill cipher #deciphered #this is about bill and dan #bill cipher x oc #bill cipher x reader #answering asks #wav answers asks #bazinge with 3 r #bazingerrr #true cobble is pot #truecobblepot #fandoms4life999 #Jess the coolest #LOVE THISSS #TY SO MUCH FOR SENDING AN ASKS #I CRAVE MORE #ITS JUST PSYCHOLOGICAL #self insert #srry to the bill cipher (regular) and self insert communities for tagging like this i’m organising my own blog too #mwah for the insert mwah for the bill 💙💙 #bill cipher fr #bill cipher fanart #bill cipher !!!! #fictional husband #fictional boyfriend #fictional other #reblogs appreciated but not needed!! #Stanford pines #Stanford pines fanart #Stanford pines x oc

[theygotlost]

ok fuck it idc here it is. I wrote 90% of this at 3 am last week when I couldnt sleep. just a little thang I had to get out

Living Not in Vein

William realizes he has more in common with Otto than he thought.

G rated + 759 words

They found Otto crumpled in a heap on the cobbles of the Street of Cunning Artificers. The frames of his dark glasses lay scattered among a mess of his equipment, all stomped out of shape. He groaned when Sacharissa knelt down and turned him over.

"His skin is ice cold! That's bad, isn't it? Is he dying?"

"Er, I think he's always like that, Sacharissa."

"Oh. Right." 

Otto was struggling to sit up.

"What happened? Are you alright?" She knew it was a silly question.

"Some men," Otto mumbled, "five or six... I could have dealt with zhem if my hands vere not so full... and if zhey had not brought so much... garlic..." He reached up gently to touch his neck, and that was when William noticed the band of suspiciously garlic bulb-sized welts.

"Oh, Otto..." Sacharissa breathed.

"I vill be fine," Otto declared as the pair helped him shakily to his feet. He forced a befanged smile, but it was more of a grimace. "No vorries!"

Supporting his weight, the three began their trudge back toward Gleam Street.

"But this is a violent crime! We should report it to the Watch!" said Sacharissa.

"And write a story," suggested William.

"Zhere is no story," Otto sighed. "It is not ze first time. Or second. Or third. And it vill not be ze last. It is not news. Just olds."

An uncomfortable silence descended. Dog bites man, William recalled. Man attacks vampire.

"Do you know vhat ze vorst part of it is?" Otto added quietly.

"What?" asked Sacharissa, her throat drying up.

"Otto—"

Otto struggled to get out his next words. "Ze vorst part is vhen I feel ze... urges rising up inside... vhen I have to sing my songs just to keep from givink in... all I can zhink is... zhose men are right."

"I am a monster!" he snapped. "I am dangerous! Zhat is simply ze truth! Oh, sometimes being on ze vagon is so hard, so hard...." He buried his face in his hands.

"Then why do it?" William heard himself ask.

"William!" Sacharissa hissed.

Otto looked up in surprise. "Vhat do you mean?"

There was no stopping him now. "Why not be a blo— a B-word-sucking creature of the night, if that's your nature? Why not be true to yourself? All this effort to deny who you are, and what for?" It was a question that had been weighing on William's mind for quite a while.

Sure, joining the Temperance League was pretty much the only way a vampire could simmer acceptably in the Ankh-Morpork melting pot, but William failed to see what they got out of it. Back in Uberwald— at least it was said, his internal editor added— the most powerful vampires lived in castles with twisted black spires and lorded over villages of terrified peasants who sacrificed their crops, or their firstborns, or a steady supply of virgins, or whatever. He made a mental note to send a clacks inquiry to the office of Lady Margolotta later to do some fact-checking.

Otto looked hurt. "A vampire is vhat I am, not who I am," he said, as if William was stupid for missing something so obvious.

"The difference being?"

"Who am I? I am an iconographer. Capturing ze light and shadows, zhat is my craft, my purpose! It is everyzhing! It is vhy I came to Ankh-Morpork in ze first place, yes? Ze people back in Schüschein zhink I am stealink zheir souls vith my cursed magic box."

“I suppose that—”

“Who are you, Villiam? I ask you zhis. Do you say, 'I am ze son of Lord de Vorde'?"

"No! I—"

"But it is just how you vere born, no? You cannot deny it?"

William felt the cobbles beneath him turn to quicksand. Otto was giving him the phosphorescent stare that only a vampire could give. "Well, yes, but—"

"So you understand."

For once, William de Worde was at a loss for words. He settled on tensing his jaw resentfully instead. 

Sacharissa, feeling out of place in all this, politely cleared her throat. “Perhaps we should be getting back now,” she said lamely.

For the rest of the journey, William stewed on the comments from the vampire leaning on his shoulder. The mere thought of his own father was making his skin crawl more than usual. Perhaps I really have been stupid, he reflected. What you are and who you are… they’re both true, aren’t they? But perhaps, for just a moment, the Truth can leave its boots off and relax. 

#ok *runs away forever #discworld #discworld fanfic #otto chriek #william de worde #sacharissa cripslock #mine

[aeion1412]

"The Traveler & Child"

                         <<<~~~•••~~~>>>

     "What's so good about reading books? They're just mindless fantasies, anyway." The young boy turned his chin away from him and harrumphed. 

     Looking at his reaction, Levi shook his head and simply laughed. The boy quickly whipped his head back at him as soon as he heard the laughter. 

     "Hey! What's so funny? Isn't it true, though?" The boy pursed his lips at him and glared. Levi ignored him. 

Turning his gaze back towards the window, he leisurely picked the paper cup in front of him with its warm, steaming liquid. As he sipped at his very own cup of hot cocoa that he missed so much, he slowly took in the beautiful scenery depicted outside the small cafe's window pane. 

There, lying outside just a few meters from where he sits, you can see tall blossoming fruit trees and adorable little flowers planted in small decorated pots. In the middle of the old, cobbled streets of this nameless town, laid generously in the middle of the path—poppy flowers, yellow tulips and purple lilies were gorgeously strewned around with love.

Up above, the sky is painted like a piece of invaluable art that encompasses the world where he currently resides, blanketing it with its magnificent intertwining colors of majestic violet, burgundy red and scarlet red, hazy oranges, and brilliant yellows and shiny gold.

    In the eyes of this young man, he saw the beauty and simplicity of nature, and saw the stories hidden underneath behind each face that were simply passing by in the streets of this small town that he can't even call home.

    He knew that behind every person and every object, there is a story waiting to be told. It doesn't matter to him how crude or complicated that story might be. He still finds it beautiful and enlightening.

    To him, he finds them eye-catching and breathtaking, no matter what anyone says.

This made the young man, who is still staring outside, widen his eyes and let out a gasp of awe and wonder. The young boy who was still glaring at him earlier, turned his head outside the window to follow the enraptured man's gaze. The boy's jaw slackened.

    He was equally surprised and shocked at what he saw outside.

    "How... How beautiful!" he softly exclaimed.

After staring outside the window for a few more seconds, the young man who introduced himself as Levi, slowly returned his gaze towards the young boy's face. Staring at him deeply, he cleared his throat and began to speak. 

    "You know," he began, stealing the boy's attention away from the indescribable wonder outside. 

    "It's not really bad for a child like you to read some children's books, like you know, fantasies," Levi said. The boy only stared at him as response. 

    Seeing this, the young man continued. 

    "Sometimes, we also need a little magic in our lives, like... miracles. Do you believe in God, Chase? ...No? Well, I believe in Him," he said.

The young man then raised the cup that he was holding, placed it on his lips, and took a long sip. He drained it down to the very last drop, savoring the sweet and bitter aftertaste of the dark chocolate drink. Placing the paper cup down in the same fashion, his eyes returned back to its sleepy and half-closed look, and his lips began to curl at the edges, as if amused. He then looked back at the boy at the side to face him. At the boy who calls himself, Chase.

 Levi began to smile. 

     "Even if they were just some fantasies created from the imaginations of a restless mind, I believe:

     Those stories are also a reflection of a person's feelings, and well-kept emotions and dreams inside," the young man said. 

     Tilting his head a little bit on the side, he extended an arm, placed his hand under his chin, and kept his gaze fixed at the young boy's face. 

     "It also tells a lot behind a person's thoughts and origins, and even if they won't tell you personally, if you look close enough—their stories are just hidden beneath the wrinkles of their face and deep inside the colors of their eyes."

     He then pointed to his chest and added, "It all comes from here. Right here." 

     The young man went silent.

     After a while, he released a sigh full of mixed emotions after that moment of silence. The boy just watched on.

     "'A Will Eternal'... How could I even forget those kind of stories?" Levi thought out loud. 

Chase, the young boy who doesn't have much to say at the first place, was now piqued at this. He leaned closer to ask.

     "What kind of story is that?" he suddenly said to him.

     The young man's thoughts were now interrupted. Without so much as a shred of disdain or a hint of anger, he opened his lips and replied. 

     "Oh? You mean, 'A Will Eternal'"?

     "Uhuh."

     "Alright."

     Levi shifted in his seat, seeking a much more comfortable position, and began explaining after a short chuckle at the boy's reaction. The boy decided to let it slide and just sat up properly to listen.

      "Hahahaha... Okay, okay, my apologies. If you're really curious, I'll tell you. Now, listen closely," the young man began.

"'A Will Eternal', is a long but endearing tale of a young, lonely man, who—because of his primary fear of death—decided to leave his hometown and seek out immortality. 

     With the help of an immortal cultivator whom has been owed a debt of gratitude by that young man's late parents—the protagonist was able to join the sect or an established group of cultivators, which the elder immortal who fetched him belong to, and began a new chapter in his life.

And starting from there, together with his fellow brothers and sisters and his dearest of friends who also practice magic to attain the sacred ways or keys to immortality, the young man began his more-than-a-thousand step journey to the path of everlasting life. A journey full of obstacles and peril, of joys and sorrows, of hopelessness and dedication, of peace and violence, of friendship and brotherhood, and of course, of love and faith... 

     It is a long journey about a young man, who in the end, was able to achieve his primary dream of immortality and learned the ways of life that made him who we was in the end—a powerful immortal who can now save and protect his loved one's lives against the claws of death and ravages of time...

     It's a wonderful story, don't you think? Because I think so, too. Yes." Levi finished with a nod of his own head.

     The young boy who was staring at him, felt a little bit stumped. He nearly choked.

     "I... I don't remember everything that you said, but hearing the last words about that story that you said is, umm... about friendship and love and brotherhood... and pain, I think... I don't really get how is it a wonderful story when it has pain and sorrows." Chase weakly muttered with disbelief.

     The failure of a narrator just laughed at this and said, "That is why you nead to learn how to read. Then you'll see..." 

     The young man gazed back out the window for the last time before closing his eyes with a look of wonder, almost like an epiphany.

     "You'll finally understand," he said. 

He opened his eyes back up to stare at the boy with sparkles in his eyes. The boy was caught off guard at this, so he could only back away a bit from this peculiar young man who just arrived in town today.

     "Books are wonderful. They are wonderful creations made by humans," the young man finally concluded. With that, this young man named Levi, slowly stood up from his seat to leave. Seeing this, the boy hurriedly grabbed at his sleeves to stop him.

    "Where are you going, Levi?" Chase asked with pleading in his eyes.

    "I need to leave now, to go back home."

    "Oh, but... Will... Will you ever come back?"

    The young man fixed his sleeves, dusted his shoulders, and smiled at the boy before answering.

     "Yes," he replied gently.

     With that, Levi turned his back to the boy. Chase could not do anything to hold him down, as this young man who introduced himself as Levi, wasn't really a member of their community. He wasn't even a part of this town. 

     He was just a traveler, he remarked, as he just said earlier in their first meeting in front of the little coffee shop that can barely be even called one. Inside, this 'traveler' had waltz in with a child he found playing on the streets by buying a bagel and a cup of hot cocoa, and giving it to him before asking to follow him inside.

 Yes, he was just a stranger.

     Realizing this, the boy could only hope that this kind stranger would return again to this small, nameless, and boring excuse of a town to tell him more peculiar tales that would make him wince in terror, or stories that would tug at his heart and soul. He winced at the thought of waiting for Levi, this young peculiar man, to return and look for him after he leaves this town which looks like a very long time. 

     He even believed that this might even take months and years, and he can't help but feel sad about the absence of this newfound friend he just met today, inside this small nameless town that he barely calls home. He didn't even know if he'll eventually return and meet him again.

 The young boy couldn't help but sigh.

     "How should I pass the time?" Chase thought to himself. He looked around the café, feeling a little lost and in dismay, and then decided to look back at the young man who just left him without saying any proper goodbyes.

      That young man was now out the door of the café and into the street, just about to cross over to the other side. The boy's fingers curled into a fist, and his jaws tensed.

      With a whoosh, the boy came running out with a shout. 

      "Will you bring me some books once you come back, sir! I'll make sure to learn how to read anything properly! Yeah... I, I promise that." Chase said as he slowly trailed off in embarrasment after garnering the attention of the people on the street.

     The young man however, didn't notice or simply ignored the stares around them. He just paused in his steps, pondered a bit, before replying.

      "Alright. If I ever come back here in time Chase, like I promised." He said to the boy. The boy was immediately ecstatic.

     "Thank you, sir! Thank you so much!"

    "Just call me, Levi. Remember that."

    "Okay," Chase nodded at him as a promise. 

     He finally turned around in giddiness and began walking away, feeling as if he just won a million dollars in the lottery. The boy now knew what he wanted to do with his life for once, and that is to learn how to read books, and not play in the streets with mindless or useless hurtful games with the other children living there.

     He decided he would stop living like a naive child and learn how to read books and create poetry like his mother. Ah, yes... His late mother that he loved dearly, Ailene.

     "Yes, to read books," he thought with a smile.

     And there, under the canopy of the beautiful sunset sky, the boy ran back without looking back again at the young man who is gazing at him with an equally warm smile. After a while, Levi then gazed upward at the heavens while standing very still.

     A breeze began blowing, the trees and flowers began swaying, and as a lone carriage passed the young man by in the street full of people... 

     He snapped his fingers, and suddenly, he was gone.

Only a nameless bustling town, with a certain street full of humans going through and fro, the occasional horse carriages driven here and there, and a quaint little café in the corner of this town where the story all began, remained. 

     This is the place where the story between a young man who calls himself a traveler, and a boy who once called himself a child, had begun.

   The story of Levi and Chase.

---------------------------------

       <<<~~~•••~~~>>>

Fin.

--------------------------------------------

[Writer's Note:

This really took me a long while to write, edit and finish. Gosh. But, I really love this particular scene. This particular story.

I really do.

It's no excerpt or even a scene taken out from a novel or a book I'm writing or about to write, yet it is a short story that I enjoyed writing out of all sorts of scenarios that popped up in my head, whether it's in the middle of the night, or worse, in the middle of me taking a bath (or a dump, yes).

So, hope you enjoyed reading this even if it wasn't perfect. I haven't completely revised everything to the best of my abilities, as I was really itching to post this for a while, now.

Thank you for reading.]

--------------------------------------------

#writing #writers on tumblr #writing practice #writing style #inspirational #life #my writing

[astarab1aze]

Kírât, of true Sunjatta

     A city built upon the backs of all those cast out of their homelands, unwanted, displaced, or wholly feared by the peoples of Sunjatta, Kírât sits hidden in the Dustveil – which spans from the depths of the furthest easterly reaches of the Diremark to the crux of the Stormlands of Chimeria far to the west – as a monument to Sunjatti undesirables. The streets are cobbled with dusty sandstone carven from desert mountains and solidified spider nests, and every house, home, tavern and hovel is built narrowly to fit; but so, too, are they fashioned of sand and stone, ashen-orange and twilight adorned in cactus wood and flags of spidersilk, red ochre and turquoise in-lays resembling gossamer webs along every doorway in the city, and in the looming shadows cast by a waning sun, there is both heart and great reproach to be seen within the worn architecture itself. Along towering walls reaching far into the sky were great statues of something old and wretched with too-large and too many eyes and even more limbs - countless, some might say - and their figures imposing, foul, but it is widely understood these statues serve as warnings, deterrents against the pitiful beasts plaguing the Dustveil, or even the likes of strange wildlings and the inevitable horns, drums, and trumpets of war.

     Before the city lies hundreds of miles of vast, treacherous desert fraught with ceaseless drought and gargantuan spiders of a mindless breed, which the hardened peoples of Kírât have taken to slaying since first settling in their hard-won castle-city of sand. With iron and blood, courage and wondrous spirit, the people of Kírât rule over the Dustveil, pushing legions of spiderlings and widows into their holes, and the Stormlands and forestry beyond the dunes, much to the dismay of what few elves still maintain their posts at the end of the East Road, the Adamantine Gate, leading into the Fhal'Tiran forest - and they were certainly, previously few. 

     Rains in the Dustveil came on rare occasion and each heralded a new beginning - the Kírâti New Year - and many of the dwarves, humans, elves, and beastfolk living behind sandstone walls would rush out into the streets with barrels and buckets and pots to catch the rain, and a feast of desert rice, fell goat, and cactus fruit would be had in the downpour with the glow of witchlights strewn above on the rooftops. The streets would echo with elfsong and hearty laughter and smoke would brim and billow free of shop windows, tavern chimneys, and the braziers burning at every corner. Taken by the promise of a new beginning, many would dance arm-in-arm and all about the city square around the sandstone fountain, overjoyed by such bounty, but all would bow their heads and give thanks to the gods above, and the feast would carry on merrily. The peoples of Kírât were not known for spirited parties nor any kind of particular extravagance, but exceptions were often made at the start of their new year, and in the roaring of the aqueducts, precious water would be allocated to what few crops they could manage to grow. Canaemery, Black Foil, hopflower, and Dragon’s Breath bloomed in the hot desert sun, and such petals and leaves of verdant green, murk and mud, pale yellow, and breaths of crimson would become the very basis of all trade in and out of Kírât - of which elves and dwarves and men and the odd beastfolk alike would spin into pipeweed, poisons, and ales of a harsh and fiery sort. Such was appreciated and often hoarded at the behest of travelers and merchants wishing to spend their coin on the best Kírât had to offer - although, those of a wiser disposition in so treacherous a land would quite beg to differ - and many were left with riches of little use, wandering a festive city with nothing to show for it. 

     They all were equally left in awe, for Kírâti people were not known for any particular sort of extravagance, generosity, nor grand celebration. They were tough, and with calloused and scarred hands they continued forward as if no party or jubilant feast had ever come to pass. They reaped the rewards of their patience and due diligence, and set aside their gleefulness for every day ahead of them was often violent, terrible, and rife with that which no other people could contend. When twin moons rose high above the endless sands, both round with the fullness of silver light, widows would climb out of their burroughs and the undead would claw free of sandpits, underground caverns, and dunes, and all would trample over one another in search of sustenance - or an end to their pitiful unlife. Hideous creatures, these legions of the darkest corners of the desert, made their way to Kírât, the only settlement for hundreds of miles plump with what they sought, and they would unleash upon them floods of venom and accursed arrows, battering the gates and thrusting their rusted swords and fangs against sandstone walls until, at last, they would crumble.

     But the people of Kírât were of a resilient and steadfast nature, and such was perhaps more highly valued than anything else at all.

     Their adversaries would be met with swift judgment, cold steel and dragon glass, the rawness of magic unknown and ancient, the secrets of the world that’d shunned them. Death was not an option for them but a definitive consequence for all those that dared bring to harm any under the Kírâti banner. The piercing scream of a hail of arrows set free by the elves would herald a first strike and scores of dwarves armed with warhammers and great swords would follow; Beastfolk would come barreling out of the cracks, their truest of shapes seen by the numbers scattered across the battlefield in silver light staining the desert a ghostly hue, and men would ride on their backs with swords, shields, and bows at the ready; but all would stand prepared to defend their home with their lives, as kinsman, as brothers, united not by fear but determination and the will to protect their way of life with their lives. They would not fall to the likes of the shamblers crowding the graveous dunes, nor the spiders whose fangs glistened with fell venom, and their children, their wives, their mothers, sisters, cousins, and all those who kept the hearth warm would live to see the first streams of golden light when the sun should rise above sandy hills and reveal to all the blood that had been spilt. Precious few of their own would be lost in the tides of battle, strewn about in pieces, unrecognizable and delivered home on carts with their weapons to serve as heirlooms, reminders of their sacrifice in grand halls, but the putrid carcasses of the spiders were to be looted, their venom taken to the alchemists, their silk to the seamstresses, and the rest to feed all those who’d gone hungry.

     And so, too, would graves have been dug beneath the city, remains placed in dark tombs and winding catacombs lit only by flickering flame, and a lament would be sung by their kin, a haunting echo cutting through shadow like a knife piercing flesh. All would bow their heads in sorrow, adorned in blackened dress, and the sound of weeping would yet mingle with the agonizing song marking their passing. Shawls of woven spidersilk would then be pulled over the dead, long and wispy, and blooms of dragon’s breath would be set upon their heads as crowns – for in their fall, they would be given the highest of honor no other would have given. In life, they were but soldiers, knights, exiles cast out of their homelands as unwanted, unneeded, or wholly despised, but in death, they would be honored as kings. Many would give fleeting words to express their grief, some unspoken and merely cried out, before the dead would be sealed away in the darkest reaches of the city they built.

     Such pain was not shouldered by their families alone. Rather, all those who flew the Kírâti banner would bow their heads in turn in the days to follow and stories would be shared with great joy, for the dead would never have wished for their kinsman nor their families to sink into despair but remember them instead. It would not do for a people with so few joys to be robbed of what little they’d had, and while Kírâti people were not known for any particular sort of extravagance or song or dance, a party both of mourning and remembrance would be had for the lost and the bereft, for the dead were to be honored as kings.

     Among all things, the people of Kírât felt much more deeply than any might expect, for they stood to lose far more than they had, and as the days came and went, their very lives hung in the balance and they met such losses, such hardships and turmoil, with a strength of heart none else could ever have hoped to covet for themselves. Perhaps it is due to the strength of men, the wisdom of elves, the spirit of the dwarves, and the cleverness of the beastfolk; Or it is the willingness of all to see beyond circumstance and difference and gaze upon the crest of any dune and bear witness to the greatness they could achieve through perseverance, shared ground, honesty, and oaths fulfilled. But no matter what it was that tied them all together, they nonetheless braced the city walls and watched over their lands as though the lives they’d lived before were but forgotten, lost to the ever constant and inescapable ebb and flow of time. Hardened by sandstorms and an onslaught of vicious undead and widows, by the arid sands and blistering sun, their ability to survive is brought on only by a sense of duty rejected by their former homelands, and unfathomable experience and willful cooperation.

     Unexpectedly, most of those who dwell in Kírât are elves, abandoned and forgotten by their hidden Fhal'Tiran kin, banished to the twisting, swirling, ever-changing dunes of the Dustveil, and there are none among their ranks spared any mercy. It is as unexpected a thing as any, for many would think the elves a source of wisdom and utmost maturity - but they send away and discard their own anyway. How cruel, then, that they should banish their people to lands they are not known to withstand, to suffer the harsh winds and days-long sandstorms, sweltering heat and unforgiving journeys through hundreds of miles of it all. 

     Sédalín Sevaaris no longer remembers the oath he swore, driven mad by a grief of his own, and through the terribly long passage of time, his rule has waned, and so, too, has he left in ruin his people. He’d exiled many of his number to the Dustveil, or wherever else they may have gone – it was no concern of his, to be sure – and as such, Kírâti numbers have been bolstered with the skill of elven craftsmanship, magic, and battle prowess, lending strength to not only their fellow elves, but the dwarves, men, and beastfolk who reside there. Such is priceless, such is kept close and adapted to the needs of all.

     Weary are they who take the West and East Roads into Kírât and they arrive weakened and parched by their nigh impossible journey, but they are willing, taken in by their fellow exiles, gifted a freshly cooked meal and a bellyful of mead or precious water, and thus the opportunity to live among them – to win back the life that’d been taken from them. Second chances were offered to all those who collapsed in the shadow of the city’s walls and with clay carafes and blankets of woven spidersilk are they ferried beyond the gates into the heart of the city, where healers and alchemists would see to any wounds and especially those burning and festering as would be caused by any blade of the undead or venomous fang of a widow. Merciful are the people of Kírât, despite their unmatched toughness, for even the roughest and hardest of hearts may soften under the right circumstances.

     Not all who wander into the city are troubled or aggrieved; Some may even be merchants or mere travelers lost among the sands, and such are welcomed with the promise of coin to be spent; though, as one might expect, it is a rare thing in fact to find a Kírâti willing to part with even a small portion of their hoards of Dragon’s Breath ale or reserves of Canaemery beyond the keeper of Khûthd’s Rest. Spidersilk tapestries, expertly crafted swords, hammers, shields, and carapace armor, enchanted blades and cloaks, staves and wands, spellbound tomes and the guidance of herbaflorists, and perhaps much more were open to wanderers, drifters, adventurers, and merchants, but there were none with so cool-burning a hearth as Fuäd, short and stout as he with a wispy white beard and cropped wiry hair, nor so open as to share his supply of prized ales and pipeweed.

#☿ || Headcanons. #♞ // Verse: Of Endless Suffering. #/ this is literally my favorite fictional city ever #/ it's in like 7 of my projects both private and rp-related and no idc idc idc #/ this is loux land #/ also technically kirat is so well hidden you'd probably never find it *unless*-- kinda deal

[deeisace]

You could hear the sea from here. Or, more accurately, the docks. It was probably more true to say that the sea proper began further north, and here it was the river, instead.

You couldn’t really hear it, anyway, it was fanciful to think so. It wasn’t the waves crashing, it was the wind in ships’ sails, the creak of the rigging - and that itself drowned out by the never-ending rarely-pausing movement of people and things that kept the docks and the city itself alive.

But it was easy, ensconced here in Charlie’s attic rooms (up two flights of rickety stairs, and with the sash windows as closed as they ever were, still rattling some in that same trade wind), with the night drawing in, to imagine you were at the seaside.

A seaside village, in the country - not like a walk along New Brighton’s prom, packed with holiday-makers - somewhere a little more peaceful, provided you ignore the occasional stevedore’s shout and horse hooves on cobbles.

A very fanciful thought, a lullaby of the sea not really heard, sleep soon to come.

Later, Charlie would arrive, tired from her day and fingers bitten by hatter’s needles, and wake you only briefly with the creak of a floorboard and the shift of fabric as she herself stripped to her shift and slipped into the bed beside you, mindful not to rouse you further and of the hour, the sailor’s church tolling eleven as she settled, and you pulled her close to you, never opening your eyes.

The morning was less slow, a rush as always to be up and out to work as quickly as possible, the winter sun low and slight but the cold more fierce than ever. You pulled your shawl tighter, and watching Charlie peel out of the yard, determined not to be late, resolved to buy a coffee from the sandwich man on Church Street. He would be busy on a Monday morning, and the coffee was often stale and thick as mud, but it would warm you up in time to get the train south of the city, and maybe you could finangle a pot of tea out of Annie while you did the doctor’s accounts for him before the afternoon appointments began.

#bellamy belle ami belle amour #my writing #i don't usually write in is it second person? 'you'? but i think it turned out okay #something of a going over of a previously written scene - but then; mondays don't really change do they? say this is a different one #'lullaby of the sea' struck me and i found a notebook with space in it so #i should really be doing a great many other things oh dear

[localguarddog]

The Wilds

Auntie Ethel x Wild Magic Sorcerer Reader

CW: first of all, auntie ethel is her own warning, emotional manipulation, magic fuckery, eye injury, gore, getting drugged lmao

You can't deny the pull of your magic, even when you're at your best. It's chaotic, hard to control, and even harder to ignore. So when it gets irritated with the unknown aberration in your skull, it makes itself known. Your magic has never been so volatile. This is the first time in months that you've had all your magic lose itself in the act of manifesting.

Luckily, it had it's advantages when defending this grove from it's would be goblin invaders. So much so that they were quick work. Still, such power comes with a price, and that price this time? Fatigue. So much fatigue. So of course you head to the kind woman who has potions, of course you speak to her, of course your magic reacts to her, of course she has the touch of that chaos in her like you do.

Of course you spill your guts to her, telling her of your horrid time and how it's made you a walking bomb practically. Her kindness, it's so nice, such a perfect reprieve in the midst of this horribly tough day. Even if it's got a hint of mischief in it, even if your body and soul is telling you she isn't someone to mess with lightly.

It's your magic at it's work once again, so drawn to a kindred spirit that it compels you to seek her out, without the company of your cobbled together party of the infected. The swamp reveals itself in all it's glory to you, the weave too thin to truly fool you here. You feel that same twinge of the woman's magic in the illusion that blankets this putrid place.

Soon enough, you come upon her little teahouse. Despite the locale, it's cozy, comfortable, the smells of fresh soil, herbs, and just a hint of decay waft through the air. Not to mention, you feel so at home, your fingertips tingling with your untapped power as hers buzzes through the air inside.

"Oh! Petal, you came! Good, good, come in and take a seat, hm? I'll put on a pot for you and sort out my things. I've got just the trick to get that irritable little bugger out, I think!" Her cheery voice and kind smile melts you into relaxing, so you do just as she asks, settling into a comfortable seat near her large hearth.

The woman gets to work, filling a handled kettle with water, tossing in some tea mix and hanging it over the flames. As she works, you continue to watch her, eyes trailing her as you begin to notice small....discrepancies in her actions. She moves her arms about as if they're longer than they actually. Her fingers delicately wrapping around things as if she has sharp talons on the end of each digit instead of the blunt nails of an apothecary.

She seems to be looking in different spots than she's actually reaching for, as if her eyes aren't where they're supposed to be located on her body. Your body sings with the weave as all of these pieces come together, the puzzle finishing itself for you.

You aren't....scared. No, you really aren't. Perhaps she has a trick or two up her sleeve, but she's like you. The wilds has touched you both, perhaps her more so than you, but still, you are fonts of pure magic.

You clear your throat as you adjust in your chair, and she glances over with a hum. "Uhm......I hate to be a rude guest, so please don't feel the need to stay in a form that's so....restricting."

Auntie Ethel's eyes widen, a mirth filled smile gracing her aged features as she laughs. "Oh, look at you! Such a polite little petal. Then, let me get more comfortable, it will be easier to fix you right up this way, anyhow!"

The air around you seems to electrify, as the illusion fades away, revealing the true body of Ethel. A green hag, you're quick to recognize. Her hunched over form sports a strapless swamp moss colored dress, her shoulders broad with arms that are far longer than her legs, each hand tipped with razor sharp claws. Her smile splits in her face, sharp teeth visible as she gives a curtsy to you.

"Auntie Ethel, Sister of the Seeing Pearl at your service, sweetness. Now, let me get back to this little potion, it's nearly done!" She turns back to her work, working more fluidly, her thing white hair and leafy green adornments swishing about as she moves about.

You can't deny her power, nor the way she could frighten just about anyone. You also can't deny, that you have seen far far worse. Not only in the last day or two, but in your entire life. One does not simply erase the image of an infant aboleth from one's mind.

In fact, you find a beauty in her monstrous form. The way mushrooms, mold and plants grow from her algae colored skin is astounding. Does she have mycelium underneath the layers of her skin? Do roots penetrate through her muscles and into her bones? Is that why she's so powerful? So strong?

Not to mention, oh not to mention, how the magic that radiates from her in waves seems to soothe you down to your very soul. You haven't felt so at home in many many years. It's not often you can encounter the fey that so blessed you at your birth. So being able to find one after such a horrid day, you feel blessed by the very Gods themselves. Or, well, perhaps the archfey of the wilds themselves.

While you're distracted with your thoughts of this fey's strange allure, a cup of dark brown tea is set on the table near you, alongside a glowing tonic. She pulls up a stool to the table and rests her elbows on it, looming entirely over you as she looks down from her perched position. 

You sip the tea, it's earthy and rich, with a hint of something sour. Not terribly so, but enough for a kick after most of the drink goes down. You pick up the tonic, looking over it. "What's this..?" 

Auntie Ethel smiles and begins to gesture widely with her hands as she speaks. "Well, the solution to that little unwanted guest in your head is quite simple, truthfully. All I need to do is take out your eye, give it a little kiss, and place it right back in. But, your magic, as darling as it is, could possibly reverse any work I do, so this little potion will ease it enough for me to do my job undisturbed, petal." 

You keep eye contact with her as she speaks, your breath quickening ever so slightly at the idea of her taking your eye out just to....kiss it? Why do you expect more than that? What are you expecting, actually? Why do you feel so small all of a sudden? So cornered? So damn warm? 

Without much thought, you nod your head slowly, uncorking the drink and drinking it down in a few deep gulps. It tastes incredibly sour, but you don't wince. You want to take it down well, you want to impress her. 

She hums softly, grabbing you by the chin and tilting your head upwards. A clawed thumb and index finger hover near your eyes as she looks between them, deciding which one would be less needed than the other. After her mysterious conclusion is drawn, she's quick to pull your eyelids taut by pulling down on your cheek and up on your eyebrow. The hand on your chin comes free and she slowly pushes claw tips into the socket. 

It hurts, by the gods it hurts so bad, but you don't find yourself in that much pain. That tonic, did it do more than what it was supposed too? You feel so light, as if you're floating. As your eye is removed you only feel a slight pull and then a gentle snap as the optic nerve is severed. 

You watch her bring the eye up to her face and kiss it. Her sharp teeth glisten as she pulls it away, magic swirling over the surface of the eye as it seems to go entirely white. Gently, she places it back into your head, and the optic nerve sews itself back together. You feel so fuzzy, so warm, you can't stop yourself from leaning forward. She wraps her arms around you, cooing softly as talons stroke your back. 

"There we go petal, rest now. That tonic is strong stuff. I don't want my new little pearl getting sick now." She hums a soft song, as slowly but surely, you drift off to sleep. 

#bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #auntie ethel #bg3 auntie ethel #this one is purely for a friend and also myself because i loved the wild magic sorc dialogue with her soooo much #we support gilf fuckers here

[zzzsleep]

Guys is Oswald cobble-pot MLM gay exclusively in Gotham or is that up for interpretation bc I’m wanting to make an oc for him and I don’t know if it’s weird or not

Is this true (I haven’t watched gotham yet but I wanna start for him and Ed)

My oc is technically genderfluid but presents as female most of the time,,— this would be a polycule situation also,

Deleting this post in like one day I just need to know plspls

(No reblogs pls so sorry to clog the feed)

Usually when I like a character they end up bisexual or unlabelled in some way so I don’t want to be weird abt making an oc for Oswald— I DONT KNOW—!!!! I know I’m looking too deep into it and logically I can do whatever I want as an oc maker but -!! I want to be accurate-( even though I haven’t watched the show)

Oh and !

Can someone tell me the context for the “flirting with a female officer”- I feel like that sounds situational-? I just want to know without spoiling myself for bigger stuff etc— pls help me plspls

#gotham #the penguin gotham #Oswald cobblepot gotham #gotham penguin #gotham Oswald #gotham Oswald cobblepot #pls help #so sorry

[doomedandstoned]

Warsaw's WEIRD TALES Return with Frightful Spite on Frenetic 2nd LP

~Doomed & Stoned Debuts~

WEIRD TALES are back with plenty of new steam to burn in the provocatively titled, 'Second Coming, Second Crucifixion' (2023). Throwing all fucks to the wind, the stoner-doom trio from Poland present their second full-length album this weekend, and today Doomed & Stoned readers get an advance listen.

The band's first major release since the pandemic is true night music, fit for dirty, windswept streets 'neath lonely street lamps and shuttered buildings, brown bag in hand, guts emptied for all the world to see.

When I asked frontman Dima Rasputin about the sinister monicker that accompanies the shocking album cover by artist Kriss, he told me, "Well, you know, people are so dumb. If Jesus Christ comes back they will crucify him again." As to the tone, thematically and lyrically, of the songs before us, Dima adds, "So overall an overall disappointed feeling is a big part of the album. With them noses in them phones, we are doomed."

Weird Tales make their intentions known straight away with "Disgusting & Mean." Guitars screech, fret, and snarl, while groovy bass and drums double team to pummel your senses, topped by forlorn vocals that decry the absurdity of dealing with jerks we encounter in this rat race.

I see your dirty eyes I hear your dirty voice I don’t like your lies You think you’re wise? Now look at me, come on! You can’t get what’s going on! Do you see this smile? Now you die!

”Dead People’s Shit” takes the tempo down just a notch or two for this churning doomer. Upon first listen, you might think this is a tale told by a ghost, but indeed it is about the living dead and told from the perspective of one confronting them. “You are dead, how can’t you see it?” Then he cries out, “Nobody listens, nothing is real. Can you even feel?” The song might serve as a critique of a world in which each person escapes into their own private dimension of addictions and distractions.

”Undertaker” is a dyed in the wool doomer, in the vein of Cough, that carries plenty of emotion. Some excellent guitar work on display, as well. The song reaches into the depths of the genre and pokes at its boundaries.

Following this, is Krokodil Blues, a reference to an easily synthesized homemade drug so horrifying in its effects that it was hard to believe that anyone would want to try it. Currently fent and tranq are doing much the same thing in the States. The ‘20s are shaping up to be The Age of Anxiety for everyone, as the artiface of modern civilization and high technology ratchets up its demands on all of us. Is it any wonder that people want to escape? These chemicals, however, are transforming the human being into the basest of animals.

Should I have to explain This shit drives me insane When the God talks to you There is no choice I’m warning you!

"Damned Lovers of the Swampire" is another standout track, with damning downtuned fuzz-covered riffs that reach inside of you and grab you by the guts. Five minutes in, the song breaks out into a groovy foot shuffle full of spit, bile, and blood, and the guitar burst at 6:30 is wicked bluesy, finally giving way to the screams of the damned. Then the album draws to a conclusion with the voracious 9 minute monster, “Acid Lobotomy.”

Second Coming, Second Crucifixion represents Weird Tales most concerted and terrifying effort yet -- lyrically and musically nihilistic to the core. Dima (guitar, vox), Kriss (bass) and Smoku (drums) have cobbled together a true soundtrack for the End Times. Look for the album to drop this weekend on Interstellar Smoke Records (pre-order here). Stick it on a playlist alongside Dopelord, Temple of the Fuzz Witch, Salem's Pot, Church of Misery, and Electric Wizard.

Give ear...

SECOND COMING, SECOND CRUCIFIXION by WEIRD TALES

SOME BUZZ

'Second Coming, Second Crucifixion' consists of six new tracks -- 40-minute riff-based dance music for psychopaths. On their most rebellious and edgiest work to date, Weird Tales are manifesting disappointment in humanity, friendship and love. Hatred from the deepest abyss of the heart is mixed up with the creepshow stories about schizos, drug addicts, and slaughter.

Starting as a stoner doom band, they incorporated proto-punk, psychedelic and noise to their music and amplified it with narcotic psychosis. Now they put it to your face straight from hell!

Harsh guitars, rapid, vigorous drums and dirty bass will fall on your head like a storm. Filled with dark psychedelic vocals and filthy lyrics it brings sardonic fun to all fans of heavy music, who are disappointed with life.

Like a stab between the eyes, Polish Warsaw trio Weird Tales deliver their outrageous new full length album via Interstellar Smoke Records.

Follow The Band

Get Their Music

#D&S Debuts #Weird Tales #Warsaw #Poland #doom metal #sludge #Interstellar Smoke Records #D&S Reviews #Doomed and Stoned

[quill-pen]

So I saw this gif while looking for gifs yesterday and just had to post and talk about it... AND BESS AND EBENEZER, OF COURSE.

IT'S HEADCANNON TIME, PEEPS!🤘

Idk what this gif is from, but I'm guessing the flower is in place of a wedding ring? And it just got me thinking: Ebenezer never gets Bess an engagement ring.

For various reasons their engagement is impromptu and rushed and lasts two months at most (maybe not even that long). And in that time everything is about the wedding planning and Ebenezer fighting to try and make sure at least some of the preparations are what Bess wants. (At this point, Bess is just so done and strung-out from dealing with her mother's family, she really has no bite left.) So it goes without say, an official engagement ring is the last thing on Eb's or Bess' mind, especially when there's already a wedding ring itself to be designed, never mind the dress! (Because, damn it all, if Bess can't get her perfect wedding day with her dream man (because he has no idea that man is actually him yet), she's at least going to get her perfect ring and her dream dress as long as Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge has any say in the matter!)

Now, Ebenezer is a proper gentleman, and he likes and understands the importance of tradition. So, much later on, after the wedding and after true feelings come to light, Eb probably asks Bess if she ever felt put out over not really having an engagement period and if she'd like to have an engagement ring despite already married. Bess of course assures him that, no, she wasn't upset about it (other things, sure, but not that) and, no, she doesn't need one. What would she do with it since she already has the wedding ring? Keep it in the box on her vanity to look at? (😉"Wolf, I only partially married you for your money, remember?" Oh, she's a cheeky lass, this one.) So no engagement ring is ever purchased.

BUT I can so see Ebenezer doing this: weaving rings out of little flowers he finds wherever he/they go and giving them to her. Walking down the street and there's a frail little flower poking up through the cobbles? It's going to die there, and should be granted one final blessing of residing on Bess's finger before it withers away. They're out on a picnic or a walk in the park or the countryside and there are wildflowers all around them? Eb will spend an unreasonable amount of time deciding what kind is prettiest and would look best on his wife's hand. Sometimes, he'll manage to weave more than one together so it's almost like a little mini-flower-crown sitting on Bess's ring finger.

For a while, the man gave her a flower ring every day--sometimes several throughout the day. Their gardener more or less put a stop to that, as Ebenezer was kind of wrecking havoc on the back garden and flowerbeds and pots around the house. Now he'll only take from there on occasion (typically whenever the first flower of each type blooms). The gardener still isn't thrilled about this but he also knows it's a bit of a losing battle. Besides, Eb pays well; he'd be an idiot to cross such a fine employer, particularly over something connected with said employer's wife.

Ironically enough, Ebenezer has never given Bess a ring made from her favorite flower: bluebells. He knows she wouldn't like watching them wilt and die away on her hand. She'd much rather enjoy them as they're meant to be: attached to the soil, living and growing and wilting and blossoming again after a long slumber--thriving through their natural cycle as they're meant to. So no bluebell flower rings or bouquets for Dearest and Best Wifey. Potted versions or seeds for the gardener to plant though? Absolutely!👍🏻

Honestly though, as adorable and sweet as the idea of Ebenezer taking the time to meticulously weave a flower ring (and sometimes even more carefully choose the flowers to do it with) is, my absolute favorite part of the headcannon? HE PROPOSES TO HER ALL OVER AGAIN EVERY TIME. DOWN ON ONE KNEE AND EVERYTHING. And he always makes a little speech about how much he loves her and wants to spend the rest of his life with her and how happy and loved she makes him feel and how even more happy and blessed he would be if he could continue being her husband and how he will always strive to make her feel as happy and loved as he does and to be the best possible man he's capable of being for her. A little excessive, perhaps, but, to be fair, there wasn't much of a proposal the first time around. (How did it go then? Wouldn't you like to know?😏 A writer must have some secrets, folks!🤫).

And of course Bess gets all flustered and giggly and tongue-tied, because how could she not? She has the absolute sweetest, handsomest, most loving, and most charming hubby ever! So she usually has to just nod her answer, but of course she accepts every time! And then she'll stroll around happily bearing her sweet smelling "re-engagement ring" for as long as it lasts. No, Bess doesn't feel like she missed out on the engagement stage at all, and she certainly doesn't care about never having a ring to mark it. (Engagement rings don't mean much in her experience anyway--they're just a pretty "maybe later" with no real commitment to back them up.) Besides, she's walking into all the engagement parties and weddings they're invited to on the arm of the world's most wonderful man, her perfect wedding ring on her finger, and a freshly woven, little flower ring nestled right beside it. (Because you best believe hopeless-romantic Eb was going to remind her how he wants to remain hers forever as they're going to help another couple celebrate their choice to make the same commitment.) How could she possibly fuss over what she didn't have? Look at everything she does have!

(Ebenezer better be careful, more than a few bride-to-bes and other ladies have absolutely fawned over Bess's cute little flower rings and become enamored with the idea of having ones themselves. I don't think flower ring weaving is a skill too many men possess: Eb will either have to face the wrath of annoyed suitors and husbands or else start up a flower ring side business. Bob could definitely help him--he's got massive flower ring weaving energy.)

#scrooge 2022 #ebenezer scrooge #netflix scrooge #scrooge a christmas carol #scrooge #fanfiction #scrooge x oc #ebenezer x bess #scrooge headcannons #scrooge fluff #scrooge romance #IT'S TOO DAMN CUTE--I'M DYING😩 #flowers #rings #flower ring #why do i see the Scrooge's gardener as a short wiry short-tempered little Irish man? #you'd never guess he was the nurturing sort just by looking at or talking to him #he probably has stated outright he never liked children or cared for animals so he never had any #and he gripes and complains about how touchy and frail plants can be #but bloody hell if he ain't the best damn garden this side of Timbuktu #nobody knows how he does it and like hell he'd share his secrets #Bess is definitely the one to hire him #she likes his personality #he reminds her of someone from her past #Scrooge wasn't so sure #but he has to admit the man is an absolute marvel at his job #if only the man weren't so... prickly #gardener is definitely named O'Leary #ebeness

[ossian94]

The Skin-Bound Tome - Part 1

Author’s Note:

A day early but just as promised, here’s what I cobbled together for my Halloween characters so far. For now, this can be considered a 1.5ish draft, which means it’s not only far from finished but also subject to change and received little to no edits.

Considering the last view days I'm happy I still managed to finish this one in time.

Apologies for any spelling and grammar mistakes, as well as any strange word choices. English isn’t my first language.

Word count: 11.709

Story contains: some violence, minor gore and some religious stuff

Viewer discretion is advised.

Anyway, please enjoy!

Part 1 — Prelude

It was the last chapel still intact. The last sanctuary untouched by the vile hands of the self-appointed Divine Lord. And Father Tremo was the last priest and protector of its cracked walls and partly shattered stained-glass windows. But protector was a little too big of a title. The chapel sheltered him more than he could ever hope to keep it in the state it was in. Still, he stayed and attended the abandoned altar, lighting the candles there only during daytime when even such a tiny spec of light couldn’t betray him to the enemies eyes. 

Yet, a far greater risk proved the fire he used to cook his meagre meals. Its smoke posing the threat during daytime and its bright glow during night. But he had to eat, so he kept the fire small and only cooked at night, when at least the smoke couldn’t betray him from afar. It was, as Father Tremo had feared, during the preparations for his supper he was found.

The moonlight was gloomy as it penetrated the remnants of a cold summer. Still, animals mulled about their nightly routines and whispered through the underbrush, hunting for prey or looking for shelter. Father Tremo sat on a chalk coloured rock slope, gazing into the little flames as they licked over the small branches he had gathered that evening. The stew in the pot on top of the fire was thin and almost tasteless. It was all he had and coming by more was almost impossible. Only a miracle could help him, but his hope for it was almost completely gone. Soon he would be forced to leave his post. Soon, if he wanted to continue living. But what kind of life was this? Was it even worth continuing?

Orphaned at a young age, Tremo knew only the life of a Franciscan as he was raised within the order. The minimalist lifestyle of the order had never bothered him, as he never wished for more than God would offer him. Wanting to stay with the monks, he had started early on to follow their ideals and showed a penchant for the scripture. His devotion and studies culminated in his ordination as a priest, but mere hours later, all of his joy dwindled as the Divine Lord made his appearance.

Tremo still remembered the Divine Lord's face as he had seen it that day on the street to the city. He had the face of an angel. Even, untouched by any sickness or worry. His blue eyes as bright as the sky. His golden hair shining as if a kissed by sunlight. Back then, this man had seemed like an incarnation of a saint or a real angel as he rode along the street, followed by what appeared as formidable knights in shining armour. But not a day after he had entered the city, he had shown his true intentions and taken over the land with monsters and demons following his call.

From that day onward, the whole world became bleak and desolate. The people hungry and lethargic. Once the Divine Lord had given himself this blasphemous title, he had ordered all churches to be destroyed, their reliquaries sacked and their protectors executed.

Tremo had managed to escape. At first, he had thanked God, but his hope was slowly dying away, much akin to the tiny flame he kept himself warm with. 

Suddenly, the animals fell silent. Father Tremo felt their dread as the hair at the back of his head began to stand on end. A heartbeat later, the sound of horseshoed hooves crept slowly closer, accompanied by heavy boots.

For a second, Tremo wanted to flee, but his body felt too weak to move. So, he decided to stay and await whatever end the true Lord had in store for him.

The rider appeared a moment later in the dim circle of light the fire permitted. He was tall, but his bulkiness seemed to stem from the few parts of blackened armour he wore underneath a crimson cloak. The horse he leaded was pitch black and wearing chain mail underneath a crimson duvet. Yet, this image was enough to make Tremo start to tremble in fear, for the knight bore the emblem of the Divine Lord. 

“May a weary traveler find some rest at this homely fire?” the knight asked, his voice very young, almost feminine and gentle.

“I-I have nothing to offer, Sire”, Tremo said hastily.

“But I do”, the traveler replied, and went towards the fire to throw more wood into it.

With a loud crack, the flames grew and emitted a cloud of embers. Frightened, Tremo jumped to his feet and felt the months of malnutrition catch up to him. The knight caught him and placed him back down on the cold stone. It was a gesture as kind as it was gentle, a remnant of a time long gone. Tremo didn’t appreciate it as much as he would’ve once and felt ashamed for it.

“A feast it won’t be, that which I offer, but a nice supper. Better than this watery stew”, the stranger said.

With those words, the stranger went to his horse and pulled two rabbits from the saddle, as well as a back of grain.

Tremo didn’t know how to feel. On one hand he needed the food to remain alive, on the other hand he worried about the knight. Didn’t he recognise his habit or the small wooden cross Tremo was hastily concealing underneath his tattered garments? The self anointed Divine Lord had ordered all members, buildings and insignias of the true Lord to be either confiscated or ransacked and destroyed. As for the humans… They were to be killed in sight. But this knight, despite showing the coat of arms of the Divine Lord, didn’t pull his sword but offered food.

“Being charitable in these times has become a rarity”, the stranger said, and threw the grain into the boiling water. “I, for once, like to keep this tradition alive. Especially with a member of the Order of Saint Francis of Assisi.”

Tremo gasped and flinched away upon hearing those words. The knight just laughed and sat down next to him without pulling away his cowl. The shadow beneath the crimson fabric was deeper than it should be. Even the light of the fire couldn’t penetrate it, despite its warm shine reflecting off the knight’s armour.

“I don't seek to harm the unfortunate, if it can be avoided”, the knight continued. “And, if I were onto killing you, little brother, then I would’ve done so without you noticing.”

“What do you want then, Sire?” Father Tremo asked without looking at the monster next to him.

“I told you already, little brother”, he replied, amused. “A good supper and a place to stay for a while.”

“I give myself over to your mercy, Sire”, he said with a sigh. “Do as you please but, please, don’t kill me.”

“Nothing easer than that”, the knight laughed and started to prepare the rabbits.

—

All chatter stopped once the front door of the inn swung open. It wasn't unusual for patrons to come and go as the evening turned into night. And usually, it would warrant only those sitting alone or waiting for someone to bother to look up. But this late evening was different.

The man entering Osdas' inn seemed to have carried an exceptional aura that choked all conversation even before he'd fully entered the inn. Osdas, the owner of the inn, had to admit that he was impressed, but not in a manner he wanted to be. The silence also didn't help to ease the tension in his muscles as the stranger stopped in the door. The man was tall with board shoulders, either used to hard work or at least the use of heavy tools. The way he carried himself spoke of great strength and a power neither Osdas nor one of his sturdier patrons wanted to challenge. There was also the fear this could be one of the Divine Lord’s dreadful knights, who kept their faces hidden underneath cowls infused with dark magic.

The man suddenly pulled the hood of his teal, expensive looking cloak down and revealing a youthful face framed by long silklike coppery hair. Beyond a few freckles and bitter looking eyes of nearly the same hue as his cloak, there was little to be seen. Still, Osdas noted some black lines on the forehead covered by a few strains of hair. It was most likely some dirt, although this didn’t fit in with his expensive garb.

It was then that Osdas noticed the sword at the hip of the stranger. Judging from a mere glance, it was the most expensive thing he had. Especially the large ruby on the pommel and the gilded parts spoke of the weapon's worth. Yet, Osdas didn’t felt like haggling for it nor taking it by force or wit.

„Will you move on already?” a woman asked behind the stranger and pushed against him unsuccessfully.

The man narrowed his eyes for a moment, then he obliged her and stepped aside. Osdas, on the other hand, had to fight to keep his composure and judging by the shift of atmosphere a lot of his patrons felt the same way.

The woman was gorgeous and seemed too pretty to frequent inns like Osdas' or to be traveling with a man like her companion. Her flaxen her was braided into a simple yet elegant pattern, adorned with blue flowers and a few silver pieces. Her eyes were pale blue and her clothes consisted of whites, dark blues and silvers. Even her cloak was adorned with silver treat forming a pretty mesmerising pattern of flowers, vines and leaves. Despite the dark of the night settling in, she seemed like a ray of divine light, almost too bright to look upon. Osdas could see various of his patrons try their luck, but considering the sinister looking man accompanying her, only a fool would dare.

„Are you the owner of this place?” the girl asked once she and her companion had reached the bar.

„Yes, Milady”, Osdas answered and grew smaller underneath the dark calculating gaze of her companion.

„Very well!” she exclaimed and tilted her head, so the jewellery in her hair jingled slightly. „We would like to take a room for the night.”

„One bed or two?“ he asked, still side-eyeing her companion.

„The cheapest,“ she replied with a defeated smile. „We’re on a tight budget.“

„I see,“ he said and handed her a random key since all his rooms were cheap.

She thanked him with a bright smile, while her companion kept silent. Osdas had seen plenty of silent people. Some had nothing to say, others had been too shy or were too tired to do so. But this man… There was something off, but the old innkeeper couldn’t fathom what, and he didn’t want to know either. After all, most secrets aren’t worth dying for.

—

The room was as cheap as they come. Veduca had stayed in worse places, after all, so she was mildly surprised to not only find the furniture in one piece but also the bed free of bugs. Not that she needed the bed per se. But Lodwin needed to rest. Especially after the latest encounter with the so-called knights the Divine Lord of this area was employing.

„Please be so kind and undress,“ she asked of Lodwin, who had entered the room after her and hadn’t moved away from the door after he had closed it.

He gave her a look of contempt.

„I’m not going to seduce you if you don’t want me to“, she replied sullen. „I told you so multiple times, remember?“

At this, his expression shifted, and he turned away.

„Please, Lod, is it so difficult for you to accept that I’m only half human, but still prefer to show kindness rather than enslave and murder?“ she asked, saddened by his rejection.

At this, Lodwin looked at her with slight embarrassment before looking away again. Veduca smiled and moved towards him. He didn’t move away, but she knew that he didn’t like to be touched.

„I need to look at your injuries“, she explained tentatively and left her hand hovering a few inches above his chest. „They won’t kill you, but they incapacitate you. How will you get to this so-called Divine Lord and kill him with just a fraction of your strength present?“

Lodwin grimaced and went past Veduca towards the bed. On his way, he unclasped his cloak and removed the chest-plate and metal gauntlets. He threw everything on the bed once he was close and continued to remove the teal doublet and undergarments he wore underneath.

Veduca waited beside the door for him to finish. Despite the less than ideal situation, she found herself again admiring him. While she had been with plenty of handsome and smart men in her life, there was something about him that drew her closer than all the others combined.

Lodwin was a handsome man. At least, as handsome as someone can be who went through the torture he had endured and was still enduring. His body, albeit muscular, was riddled with deep scars forming certain patters only the most unusual, most cruel of unnaturally acquired wounds can leave behind.

The most prominent were the long claw-marks on his chest and large splotches on his arms, reminiscent of the large nails that were driven through his palms, elbow and shoulder. Their twins marring his legs in the feet, knees and hips. Veduca remembered them clearly and again found herself wondering how they didn’t impede his movements.

Less obvious but much more sinister were the fine scars of an ancient scripture carved into the remainder of his skin on his back. They were so fine that more often than not they appeared like a silvery sheen, if at all.

The last major scar, he had, was the mark of a rough rope around his neck. While he had been hanged before being tortured and sacrificed, according to Veduca’s father, Lodwin hadn’t lost his voice due to it. It were his screams that costed him the ability to speak. Damage so thorough that neither Veduca nor her father had managed to reverse it.

She still felt bad about it.

But she felt even worse about the new wounds. While she hadn't caused them. Neither actively nor passively, she felt bad. After all, they've had only enough time to get away. Only enough time to seal the gashes and cuts rudimentarily. It was the kind of spellwork even she despised.

The spellwork kept Lodwin from loosing too much blood, but like glass it turned his body into an anatomical study. Especially through the large gash on his right side, she could see his intestines move. Veduca didn't know what was worse. The grotesque spellwork or the fact that Lodwin didn't felt the pain nor that he would die of those wounds.

—

Once Lodwin had undressed his upper body, the slender sorceress approached him. He watched her wearily as she stopped before him and smiled. Her illusion spell was already fading and revealing her hair to be silvery white and her eyes of two different colours. The right eye pale blue, left eye light grey.

Veduca looked into his eyes and asked a with a single gaze for permission. Reluctant, Lodwin lowered his head to signal that she could go ahead. She nodded in return and touched him ever so gently. He in turn closed his eyes to keep his thoughts occupied.

Lodwin was conflicted. About his situation, the relationship with Veduca and the strange future ahead of him, if he could even call it a future. There was just one way to go about. One step after the other. Best not to think more than necessary.

The whispers of Veduca's incantations creeped into his ears. Her voice was firm, yet it reminded him of mist floating around and through him. With it, his memories resurfaced from the night he had been killed. The pain… The needles torture… The betrayal…

Lodwin bit down until his teeth hurt.

„You need to relax”, Veduca suddenly said and patted his arm. „Growing all tense and stiff doesn't help you remain in top form. You need to loosen up your muscles and joints in order to fight properly.”

Frowning, he looked into her mismatched eyes.

„Oh my, you needn't look so glum”, she chuckled. „It was just an innocent suggestion. How about you get back into your shirt and sleep?”

At this, he looked from her towards the head of the bed. It wasn't a large bed and the pillow and covers looked like they had both one too many and not enough cleanings. Still, it was better than to sleep underneath the sky, considering temperatures close to the freezing point.

Slow, he looked back to Veduca. She looked quite expectant yet reluctant at him.

„You know?” she asked and titled her head slightly, accompanied by the jingle of her jewellery. „I do wonder how your voice once sounded, but at the same time I think you wouldn't have talked that much either.”

He scowled, grabbed his shirt and put it back on. The only reminder of the wounds she just healed was a minor tickling sensation. And the ghost of Veduca's touch.

Kicking off his boots, he pulled the cover aside and laid down. Huddling into the thin blanket, he watched Veduca as she removed the majority of her jewellery in front of the small mirror. Once this was done, she pulled her hair open and produced a brush out of thin air. It was oddly soothing to watch her do such mundane things. So soothing, in fact, that Lodwin fell asleep soon after.

—

“I can tell you a story, little brother”, the knight said, and threw the last meat into the stew to cook. “This silence might suite you, but I prefer at least a little bit of chatter.”

“I won’t oppose you, Sire”, Father Tremo replied, without daring to let the stranger out of his sight for even a second.

“I would rather not keep you from your prayers, little brother”, the stranger remarked with an audible smile, but the unnatural darkness of the cowl made it difficult to verify.

“What kind of story would you tell me, Sire?”

“The story of the Divine Lord. Judging by your face, you do think you know it already.”

“I-I didn’t mean to offend you, Sire!“

“You did naught, little brother. And, as assuredly as the sun rises in the morning, you like any other person in this land thinks of knowing the story of the Divine Lord. How he marched like Archangel Micheal into the capital, but sized the crown like the Devil incarnate. How he took over the land with monsters and demons, all hell and beyond has to offer. But do you know how Rosomil actually became what he is today?”

“And why would you, who’s among his knights, bearing his insignia on your amour, tell me, a forlorn priest, this story?”

“Exactly because of that”, the knight said after a moment. “And you will listen and, most importantly, remember it well.”

Tremo felt an almost animalistic fear clawing at his innermost being. The way the knight had spoken had been as if those words were a command even the Devil would’ve to obey. What exactly was sitting next to him, preparing food and talking about the Divine Lord as if he were just a mere legend and long gone.

If the knight new about the impression he just made or not, Father Tremo didn’t know or even dared to get to know. So, he just watched the stranger start to pour some hearty smelling meal out the pot into two wooden bowls. Along with a spoon, he gave one to Tremo, who took both in his trembling hands.

“Eat your fill, little brother”, the knight said, and placed his bowl down on the stone. “While I tell you the truth of the Divine Lord.”

—

Rosomil was a member of the Order of the Crimson Hand. A secret order meant to hunt down demons and all kinds of nasty fiends and those who would call them forth and dare to stain their hands with the blood of innocence. As it was customary, in order to become a member of the Order of the Crimson Hand, one needed to have had contact with those despicable powers without having wielded them themselves.

The man, who calls himself now Divine Lord, had thusly started his life as the child of a poor innocent girl who had happened to fall into the hands of a necromancer. He was raised to be a vessel for the necromancers vile magic experiments. Nothing more than a puppet to be played with and then discarded. But before the poor boy could be sacrificed, the Crimson Hand showed up and killed everyone but the little boy with the wide blue eyes and the golden hair.

You can rest assured, little brother. There hadn’t been any demon within the child. But instead, there was something very human growing in the boy's heart: the wish to do better. The wish to rid the world of misery and all those who enable it. A noble goal, easily corrupted, but we aren’t there yet.

Rosomil was taken in by the Crimson Hand and took all their teachings to heart, and with time the wide-eyed child turned into a handsome and fiercely devote man. The Master of the Order was so happy with Rosomil’s growth and advances, that he made the boy, upon reaching his presumably eighteenth year, a knight of the Order of the Crimson Hand. And all was well within the Order.

Time went by as it does and Rosomil managed to uproot whole convents of necromancers, devil summoners and worse things. He and his group of four knights were called the Blade of Crimson among the Order. There was no abomination they couldn’t defeat, but even the best have one day to face their master. Especially if there’s a weakness within the heart, ignored by or hidden from the conscious mind.

You see, little brother, Rosomil was the best the Order of the Crimson Hand had to offer, but he was plighted by despair. Yes, he saved countless lives, made the country safer and helped his Order to grow, but all of it was too slow for him. He desired to rid the world of all ungodly things, to return it into the paradise it once was. There was just one problem. He was merely human. For every evil, he uprooted and disposed of, two new ones seemed to take its place. What could he hope to accomplish within his life that wasn’t undone, either still during his lifetime or long after his death? Human nature is fleeting and ever-changing. Something he was well aware of.

Rosomil prayed to God, asking for help or a sign. But God stayed silent, seemingly content with what the young knight accomplished in His name. After all, Rosomil saved the lives of innocent people, pulling them back into the light of the Lord. His work was good, no questions asked, but to Rosomil it wasn’t enough. He had to do more. Help more people. Save more people.

With fervour, he doubled and tripled his work. Lucky for him, he had found companions willing to follow him to Hell and back again. And, for the time being, he was content, fighting the good fight.

—

Since an old accident, Osdas could only find a few hours of sleep, usually sitting on a large pillow on his chair behind the bar. And so, he was on this very chair when he woke up with a start and opened his eyes in a confused haze. It hadn’t been the dream, which had woken him, but his aching back. Stretching it as far as he could manage without falling to the ground a wailing mess, he shifted in his chair. The moon shone through the milky windows. Osdas reached for the oil lamp and lighter in front of him, but before he could take either, he flinched.

The tall stranger. He stood like a lurking predator in the dark, facing the door. Immediately, Osdas feared a robbery. Beyond the stranger and his lady-companion there was no none else in the inn and Osdas couldn’t fight such a brute of a man even with the help of someone else. Deciding to be smart about this, the innkeeper made himself smaller in his seat and waited. If he just let the stranger do whatever he wanted, he could at least live to see another day.

Suddenly, the stranger moved. It was a subtle movement, reminiscent of a cat stalking a mouse. Osdas followed the coppery wave of hair, as this was the only dominant spot of colour in the moonlight-dim room.

Suddenly, a ghastly thing emerged from the floorboards. It looked like it was made from black clothes and a dark curse. Skeletal arms emerged from the thin fabric, covered by stretched out pale skin. They ended in bony claws holding bare blades without a handle.

Osdas stifled the scream that was welling up in his throat. At the same time, the redhead pierced the creatures with his sword. It let out a shriek and vanished. But where it was, two more emerged.

The stranger dispatched those too with great precision. He was fast. Almost inhumanly fast. But more of those creatures appeared and started to swarm him.

Suddenly, one of those creatures appeared right next to Osdas. Up close, it was even worse than hidden within the shadows. A gnarly skull floating in the hood of a black cape. Skeletal hands holding straight blades coated with rust and smelling like blood.

The monster raised its arms in a fluid motion, the blade shimmering deadly in the cold moonlight, and slashed at Osdas. Shrieking, he tumbled from his chair and felt on the floor. Sharp pain scalded up his back to the base of his head and caused him nearly to black out.

—

Veduca shaw the demonic shade attack the innkeeper and rushed to his aid. As usual, only a flash of her staff she kept concealed during the day was enough to drive the abomination away. As fast as she possibly could, she created a barrier above the innkeeper and herself.

Not a second too late, as another shadowy monster appeared right beside them, but luckily outside the barrier. With the wail of a mourning woman, the creature slashed at the magical barrier. Its blade only caused bright blue sparks to shoot into the air.

After a few slashes, the monster decided to go after Lodwin, who mowed them down with inhuman speed. Still, Veduca could see that he wasn’t doing well. There hadn’t been enough time for him to recuperate from the last battle.

A gasp beside her, forced her back to her present situation.

“It’s alright, good sir”, she told the innkeeper with a warm smile. “Lod will take care of those vile creatures.”

Despite her father telling her to not be as generous with her abilities as she tends to be, she placed her hand on the old innkeepers back and conjured one of her more potent healing spells. It worked immediately, judging by the relieved sigh the old man made, but it also knocked him out for good. Probably for the rest of the night and part of the following day even, which might as well was an advantage.

Suddenly, the sounds of the battle were gone. Afraid, Veduca looked up but saw only Lodwin standing in the middle of the trashed inn. He breathed heavily and used his sword as support.

Hasty, she placed the old innkeeper on the ground, with the pillow from his seat underneath his head. Once that was done, she walked to Lodwin, who straightened his back and sheathed his sword.

“Are you hurt?” Veduca asked him worried.

Lodwin regarded her for a moment with a sour expression, but shook his head.

“Are you certain?” she insisted. “I would hate for you to be in pain.”

This time he looked bashful, but he adamantly shook his head.

“Fine then”, Veduca sighed and looked around the inn — it looked like a whole horde of ruffians had entered, trashed everything and left.

Again, ignoring her father's warning, she used her magic to repair the room and make it a little more homely. Lodwin watched her intently, but his thoughts remained a mystery to her. A mystery she wished to understand.

—

Lodwin felt that this attack wasn’t over. He waited for the sorceress to finish her meaningless task, then he moved out of the inn. Veduca called after and followed him to his dismay. On the street in front of the inn, he stopped and turned around. She didn’t walk into him, but looked at him with an expression that made him regret being so rude.

“What’s the matter, Lod?” she asked, concerned.

As an answer, he unsheathed his sword and showed her with his finger on his lips to be silent. Perking up, she tilted her head inquisitively. To explain himself, he moved his sword in the slashing motion of the demonic shadows he just slew and pointed into the forest.

“The sorcerer’s close by?” she asked in a hushed whisper.

Lodwin nodded and move towards the place he could feel the sorcerer’s magic in the air. Veduca help him back by the arm. Miffed about her clinging to him, he tried to push her off, but failed.

“You’ll need my help if you go”, she explained, and stepped in front of him. “You haven’t had any real rest since your last battle with those two Dark Priests the other day.”

Angry, he pointed to his chest and past her. Then he pointed towards her, shook his head and pointed back towards the inn.

“Don’t say, you’re worried about my well-being?” she asked like a child, that got a long-awaited present. “Silly Lod, I’m capable to save myself. I’ve done so for longer than you’re alive.”

Unhappy about it, Lodwin pushed her aside and headed towards the sorcerer. He didn’t need to look behind himself to know that Veduca was following him. He could hear the jingle of her jewellery right behind him. If it weren’t for those, she could move without a sound, but Lodwin wasn’t sure he wanted that either.

The path ahead, if one could call it that, was a trail left by animals. It went past thick bushes and young trees barely taller than the shrubbery. The older trees were huge in comparison and their branches reached towards the ground, obscuring what was ahead. Despite this considerable disadvantage and the darkness of the night, Lodwin moved ahead with his drawn sword at the ready.

Suddenly, the trees gave way to a clearing, above which the moon shone mournful onto the chalked remains of pillars of a long-lost church. Lodwin stopped and crouched down. Veduca followed his example and stayed close by his side. The fragrance of lavender, which always floated around Veduca like a pleasant lilac cloud, eased his nerves.

A movement beside the pillars snapped his attention back towards his goal.

The sorcerer was just like the first two Dark Priests Lodwin had encountered since his resurrection. Dark robes, shaved head and hollow eyeholes. Despite the grotesque lack of eyes, the Dark Priests could see. Even this one appeared to be not as blind as his condition should suggest. After all, he avoided the rubble scattered between the pillars as if it were board daylight.

Judging by the sluggishness of his movements, the sorcerer had expended a lot of energy. No wonder considering the number of shades he had summoned. Lodwin remained cautious. The Dark Priest could still summon one or two more entities.

For now, all Lodwin and Veduca could do was to watch and wait for an opening.

—

“You tell me that the Divine Lord was a member of the church?” Father Tremo asked, utterly shocked.

“More or less”, the knight answered after chewing on a piece of meat. “The Crimson Hand wasn’t an official part. It didn’t even exist, considering everyone involved. No need to burden the common populace with the existence of demons and their hunters.”

Tremo didn’t want to believe this knight. After all, he could tell him whatever he liked. There wasn’t even a minor chance for Tremo to verify those claims anywhere. Most books of the church had been destroyed. But why would a knight of the Divine Lord lie to a priest, for that matter? Especially considering what he told.

“The story isn’t finished, by the way”, the knight continued after he had finished the remainder of his supper. “So, let me continue…”

—

Rosomil and his companions fought many valiant battles against dark magic and those who stoop so low to wield it. But it didn’t help. No matter the number of lives saved, Rosomil felt further despair, which made him susceptible to the very forces he had sworn to fight. And as fate would have it, he was presented with an opportunity.

It was about five years ago. Monks in a monastery in the north made a peculiar discovery. Upon an increase in ghostly murmurs and whispers floating around the monastery, they sought the source of those apparitions. A source, which they found remarkably fast. Namely, they listened for the whispers and traced them towards an old wall, a remnant of the pagan temple which the monastery was built on. Without delay, they tore the wall down and found a peculiar room.

The room was huge and shaped like a pentagon. Its walls were lined by rows upon rows of books, scrolls and stone tablets and where the wall were unobstructed they found ancient runes and scribbles depicting ghastly rituals. But the heart piece of the room was a large tome bound in rough leather, showing pagan tattoos and leaving no room for doubt considering its nature. Frightened, they called the bishop for help and the Order of the Crimson Hand became involved.

Rosomil and his companions sized the books, performed the necessary rites to seal off all ill magic within this room, and closed the wall again. Afterwards they build a small altar of Saint Micheal in front of the wall, then they left. A task well done.

Rosomil, despite this being one of the easier and more enjoyable deployments, still felt inadequate, for the scribbles on the walls had shown him more innocent lives lost to barbaric and cruel means. Despite it being centuries in the past, despair upon his own human limits to help them, made his mind weak.

Before he left alongside his companions, he went back to the newly erect altar to Saint Micheal and kneeled in front of it. His prayer expressed his still utter devotion towards the Lord and all his Saints, yet also his doubts. He asked for a sign or a word, but God remained silent. Unbeknownst to himself, Rosomil supplied that moment the dark seed within him with fresh water. But the seed needed more to take truly root.

As it was custom within the Crimson Hand, all members also had to study the powers they fought against. It was a necessity despite the danger it held, since it helped them understood what to expect of their enemies. Thusly also the skin-bound tome was moved into their main place of study, an old monastery hidden in the high mountains. And, as its captor, Rosomil was expected to study it and find out who had created the book and to what end.

This tasked proved to be more difficult than any might have expected. The letters within the book and even what appeared to be pagan tattoos upon the skin were unlike anything the Crimson Hand had ever seen. No spoken or written language accounted for the strange symbols and mesmerising pattern drawn onto the dry and yellow parchment pages.

Rosomil went through pages and pages of the records of the Crimson Hand to find anything alike. It was straining work, making his mind swirled with suspicions, doubts and frustration. It went even so far that, when he closed his eyes, he saw the patterns and swirls from the pages. They curled and coiled like snakes through his mind and mixed with his thoughts and feelings of inadequacy.

Frightful for his soul, he doubled down on his prayers and acts of devotion to the Lord. He wished with his whole heart for answers and a remedy for his human inability to understand the machinations behind the book. But the sign or hint he hoped for eluded him. It went so far he considered revealing his heart to his companions, seeking relief from the pain in his soul and the growing hole in his heart. Yet, to consider isn’t something that causes a thought to become an act and thusly, Rosomil remained silent. After all, he couldn’t show weakness in front of his brothers. He was among the highest-ranking members of the Order. To express doubt would weaken the entire Order and spread it like a plague. In the end, he continued his research and prayers in silence.

—

“There is a thing I need to ask of you, Sire”, Tremo said, as the knight didn’t immediately continue with his story.

“Ask, little brother, and answers shall reveal themselves”, he replied mocking. 

“There’s a rumour about the Divine Lord”, he began cautiously. “They say, he… In order for him to gain the power, he needed, they say… They say, he killed his heart. For without his heart, even God can’t touch him any more.”

“It’s a metaphor rather than the truth”, the knight replied, thoughtful, and placed a few more branches in the fire. “The truth is much grimmer than that. He killed his four companions. Or rather, he sacrificed them in the name of the demon he pledged himself to.”

“Oh Lord, why?” Tremo breathed and felt tears well up in his eyes. “I don’t understand. How? How can someone do something like this?”

“Despair, little brother”, the knight replied, stern. “Unchecked, it breaks all ideals one holds and pierces one with those, like shards from a mirror.”

“Did they suffer?”

“They did. But one more so like the others.”

“Why?“

“Because he was closest to Rosomil.”

—

The Dark Priest seemed in pain. Something Lodwin knew to be the case after such summonings. No matter the ability or health of the caller, something had to be given. Blood in most cases. As if to prove him right, the sorcerer moved into the moonlight and revealed multiple gashes on his pale arms, some of which still leaked thick blood.

“Easy prey”, Veduca breathed, almost inaudible.

But before she could move ahead and use one of her spells, Lodwin held her back. She looked at him disappointed, which he ignored. With a few sharp gestures, he made her understand, that he suspected someone else to be still around. Such people like the Dark Priest had proven more than enough in the past to work at least in tandem, as Lodwin knew from his past life.

“You’re right”, she voiced as silent as possible.

Even without there being another sorcerer, another shade might lurk within the shadows of the ruin. Careful and still crouched, Lodwin followed the line of young trees to keep cover. He knew what to do and how to achieve certain advantages in a fight against all kinds of magic wielders, but back then he hadn’t been alone. Back then he also hadn’t had the advantage of being immortal, still he wasn’t a big fan of the pain any wound entailed. Being unable to die means feeling the pain of being dismembered and butchered without death easing it — something he knew all too well.

Once Lodwin had rounded the ruin enough, he could see that there wasn’t another sorcerer, which confused him. This was uncalled-for and made his nerves stand on edge.

The sorcerer suddenly raised his arms as if to embrace the moon high above them. A heartbeat later, the form of the man crumbled like paper in a fist. Blood splashed onto the ground as something ripped from his back with elongated claws. At the same time, a demonic screech echoed through the ruins and the trees, causing all living things, who could, to flee in sheer terror. Even Lodwin felt his blood run cold upon hearing the scream, while memories of his tortures death surfaced like a flood, ready to drown him. 

—

Veduca immediately recognised the mind terror on Lodwin and weaved her strongest spell, to keep him conscious. While he recovered remarkably fast, this spell had been enough to alert the demon of their presents. The monster was faster than the human eye could see and jumped at them, ripping the body of the sorcerer apart like an empty sack.

“Lod!” Veduca shouted and erected a protective shield around their general area.

She felt the impact of the beast in her whole body and groaned. But the barrier held and bought Lodwin the time he needed to recover his wits. Without hesitation, he attacked the beast and managed to cut one of its arms off without much resistance.

As fast as Veduca could, she weaved more spells of protection around him and herself, which wasn’t easy due to Lodwin moving, but she had grown quite good at it already. At the same time she went through all the depictions and descriptions she knew about all kinds of demons, fiends, beast and monsters alike.

“It’s fast”, she observed tense, while Lodwin managed to stall it by moving in unpredictable patterns. “The head of a raven, the body of a wingless dragon… It sprung from the body of its summoner… Its call causes mental stress… It can be harmed by normal means and doesn’t regenerate.”

There were a few candidates she knew about, but all of them different from this creature at least in more than one aspect. Helpless, she could only think about the most general thing to dispose of this monster.

“Behead it!” she shouted and used a spell to slow the thing down.

Lodwin spared an annoyed glance towards her before slashing at the beast. With a screech, it jumped backwards and lost its balance due to its missing leg. Using the opening, he aimed for the bristled neck, but at the last second, the creature jumped away. The blade just left a gash, causing the monster to become more aggressive.

—

The pain was flaring up like fire. Long elongated claws leaving gashes in his flesh. Hot blood seeping into his clothes, sticky to the touch with an intense coppery smell, clouding his mind.

Lodwin knew that, despite his curse, he could black out. If he wasn’t finishing this beast fast, it could dismember him fully, feasting on his flesh, and he would feel it. Every bit of it. Forever.

He parried the claws. He evaded the beak filled with sharp teeth. He slashed and cut, but got slower with every move. Blood-loss and fatigue caught up to him like skeletal claws, holding him down and dragging him inch by inch into the soft ground.

The beast also slowed down, but not fast enough. Its wounds, seeping blackish blood accompanied by a burning stench. Whatever it was, it was far from the things he had fought in his first life. It was feral but also cunning. It seemed like an animal, but its red glowing eyes showed malicious intelligence more akin to a true demon.

“Lodwin!” shouted Veduca, followed by a bright like.

Purely on instinct, he dropped onto the ground. A second later, the beast was struck by bluish lighting, which knocked it to the ground.

“Try again! I try to force it down long enough!” Veduca shouted, followed by a surge of magical energy.

Despite hating that he had to rely on magic to win this fight, he knew he needed the help to even have a chance. Lodwin mustered his entire strength and brought his sword down on the thick neck. The muscle there was like iron, but he was stronger and pushed through.

Tendons snapped.

Bones broke.

The beast let out a wail that sounded like a mourning woman, then it went limp.

Lodwin gasped for air and fell over. He had no strength left and remained where he hit the ground, right next to the monster.

—

The knight had fallen silent for some time now. Father Tremo was uncertain as to what to do or even expect next. Should he ask the knight to continue or stay silent? Should he use the time for a small silent prayer, thanking the Lord that this knight hadn’t killed him yet? But eventually, he only thought about what the stranger had told him until now.

Tremo didn’t understand how a seemingly pious man like Rosomil, if this was truly the Divine Lord's true name, could become a tyrant. How could he throw away his good goals and morals and become the absolute opposite?

Suddenly, the knight let out a worn sigh. Tremo flinched and looked at the man concerned. 

“One more”, the stranger murmured, sounding bitter but also relieved.

“Sire?” Tremo inquired in a hoarse whisper. “I-is something the matter?”

“Do you have something to drink?” the knight asked and turned to face him, with the living shadows hiding his face underneath the cowls.

“Water”, he answered, tense. “I’ll get you some spring water.”

“Much Appreciated.”

Without hesitation, Father Tremo stood up, picked up the empty bowl of the stranger and went past him. The spring was close by, but far enough for the moon to be the only light source left. Once he stepped outside the light of the fire, Tremo felt easier in mind and body. Still, the presence of the knight loomed behind him like a noxious cloud. It would be easy to just go. To leave, but Tremo couldn’t. The knight had offered him a meal he hadn’t had in weeks, if not months. And he told him the story about the Divine Lord. Something no one had heard before.

“But why?” he murmured. “To what end?”

It seemed utterly insane for a knight of the Divine Lord to betray his master like this. After all, Tremo couldn’t imagine him to be happy about this being shared. Perhaps there was unrest within the vile ranks of the Divine Lord. An insurrection subtlety brewing right beneath his eyes but invisible to him.

“Oh, Lord, I’m part of this now”, Tremo realised and felt icy cold.

But wasn’t he already a target of the Divine Lord due to being one of, if not the last, Franciscan still alive in the country? He couldn’t hope to run and hide forever. Maybe it was best for him to join this knight. At least he seemed charitable enough.

Feeling lost, Father Tremo arrived at the spring and went towards sparkling water. After he drank some himself, he looked at the reflection of the moon on the clear water, which filtered in mesmerising patterns through the leaves of the trees. It was a beautiful small moment Tremo usually cherished as it showed him that the true Lord was still there. That He was still allowing beauty to exist despite the darkness suffocating the land. But this wasn’t enough. If there was no one opposing the Divine Lord, he would sully even this last remnant of beauty. How could God let this happen?

“No, Tremo, don’t abandon all hope”, he reminded himself. “The world might appear like Hell overtook the Earth, but this is still Earth. There has to be hope.”

With a serious expression, he filled the bowl with the clear water and returned slowly to the fire. The knight sat where he had left him. But this time there was a dark spot between the armoured feet of the man. It looked like blood.

“Sire?” Tremo asked, uncertain, and stepped towards the knight. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine”, he replied with an audible wavering smile, while covering the splotch by his feet with dirt. “No need to concern yourself with my health, little brother. Just give me the water.”

Reluctant, he closed the distance and gave him the bowl. The knight took it with a thanks and drank from it without the shadow lifting from his face. Tremo waited until the knight had emptied it and gave it back. There was some blood on the bowl, which took him off guard.

“I-I know of some medical herbs growing close by, should you need them, Sire”, he said, concerned.

“Herbs won’t help me, little brother”, he replied and stifled a cough. “It’s temporary for now. So… You can do me a greater service by listing to the story I’m telling you and committing it to memory.”

Father Tremo moved back to where he had sat and looked at the fire. At the same time, the knight cleared his throat and continued his tale.

—

Silence to the mind is like a festering wound to the body. And thusly Rosomil’s mind weakened, slow but steady. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t hide his affliction from the man closest to him. A man by the name of Lodwin.

They both were of the same age and found within a week from each other by the Crimson Hand. Due to those similarities and their shared wish to save people, who suffered like they did, they grew fast very close. And not only did they found solace within each other, but they also completed each other in different aspects. While Rosomil was distant to most, Lodwin was warm and welcoming, easing those they saved into accepting their aid. While Rosomil was conniving and preferring to accomplish his goals through his mind, Lodwin was strong and direct, preferring to approach all dangers head on. Their bond was so obvious that even the Order took note and ordained them both as sworn brothers in the fight against evil.

So, Lodwin felt the despair growing in Rosomil and asked him one day in private about his sorrows. At first, Rosomil feigned ignorance. He told him that everyone had days they felt down and that he needn’t concern himself with him. Lodwin accepted his words, but he did continue to worry. Especially once the skin-bound tome had come into the Order's possession, he felt new waves of despair creeping over his sworn brother. 

The book slowly but steadily took up all of Rosomil’s thoughts, while its secrets eluded him ever more. Lodwin tried to take his sworn bother’s mind off the book, but he failed.

In an attempt to get the heads of the Crimson Hand to consider burning the skin-bound tome, he appealed to them and described his observations of Rosomil and the book. In the end, a partial investigation took place, much to Rosomil’s dismay, who felt betrayed by Lodwin. But the investigation found no active demonic influences emitting from the book and gave it back to Rosomil. Still, the damage was done and distrust spread like a poison through Rosomil.

Furious, he faced Lodwin and told him off, saying that it was his burden as God had seen fit to bestow upon him. Still, Lodwin told Rosomil that he was on a dangerous path considering his obsession with the book. Rosomil, not wanting to hear about it, forbade Lodwin and their other companions to enter the room with the book. He yielded, but only with a heavy heart.

But Lodwin didn’t remain idle. Again he went to the heads of his Order but was rebuffed yet again. The skin-bound tome needed to be studied and deciphered. They told him much the same his sworn brother had said, that it had been God's will for Rosomil to find and secure the book, and thusly he had to carry the burned on his own. Again furious but at his wits end, Lodwin yielded. 

—

The pain was intense, but it had to be done. Lodwin knew from Veduca that she needed to clean his wounds before healing them. Immortality was no protection against infection. Especially if the dirt was the blood of such a vile creature as he had just slain.

“Just a Moment longer, Lod”, Veduca said in a strained voice. “I’m almost done.

Slowly his vision cleared, and he could look around again. The first thing he saw was her relieved smile framed by her silver hair, shining like a halo in the pale moonlight. Despite her nature, Lodwin felt grateful for having her around. Not only because she was able to heal him, but also because she seemed much kinder than those who shared her nature usually were.

“Are you alright?” she asked conserved and frowned.

With some difficulty, he signed to her that he needed a few moments.

“Alright, I’ll take a look at the monster over there”, she replied. “We need to know what exactly it was.”

Lodwin nodded and closed his eyes. A gentle wind settled in, letting dry leaves rustle across the ground. The temperature was colder than before, but he didn’t mind. In fact, it was quite pleasant. 

“How remarkable!” Veduca remarked with clear wonder in her voice.

Exhausted, Lodwin turned his head toward her. Despite her slender frame and the considerable size of the head of the monster, she held it up without trembling muscles. Turning and twisting it around, she looked like a curious, innocent child, which made Lodwin smile.

“It looks like the head of a giant multi-eyed raven, but it has more in common with a dragon!” Veduca explained and placed the head back down. “Even the body seems more Draconian in nature than like a bird, but it’s clearly meant to be one. I’ve never seen anything like this before. Huh? What’s that?”

With an inquisitive look on her face, she got on her knees and pulled the remaining front claw of the beast up. There seemed to be something at its chest, mesmerising Veduca into temporary silence.

Lodwin used this moment and pushed himself up. Since Veduca was preoccupied by her discovery, she didn’t stop or help him up, which he preferred. Upon standing up, he felt the blood-loss catch up to him yet again. Cold sweat covered his brow, while his vision became darker and his heart started to race. Still, he pushed through and forced his aching body to remain steadfast. Suddenly Veduca stood in front of him as if she had grown out of the ground right then and there.

“Oh dear, you need to rest”, said Veduca, and placed one of her warm hands on his cheek. “You’re awfully cold.”

Despite his reluctance and discomfort of touch, he leaned his head into her hand and closed his eyes. A heartbeat later, he found himself barely conscious in her arms on the ground.

—

Veduca had barely managed to keep Lodwin from hitting the ground like a sack of grain. As fast and steady as she could, she started to examine him.

At first, she suspected him to have become poisoned by the creature's strange blood, but to her relieve, what ailed him seemed to be merely anaemia. His deadly pale face as well as the fleeting movements of his eyes hampered her happiness. Sure, he couldn’t die, but this didn’t mean that he wasn’t suffering. And there was also the problem of how to get Lodwin back into the inn.

“I’m stronger than any ordinary human woman, but even I can’t carry him like this for such a distance”, she murmured, tense. “I’ve also expended a lot of energy using all those spells…”

Suddenly, a faint warm glow illuminated the ruins. A moment later, a huge hooded figure appeared between the pillars. Upon seeing her, the figure pushed the hood off and revealed the head of a giant goat with a multitude of eyes, accented by red markings in the rough golden fur, and two pairs of horns. One pair straight, the other twisted into a tight spiral. All the while, the warm glow around the newcomer coalesced on the forehead of the goat into a bright flame.

“Father!” Veduca called out with a relieved smile.

“Here I am, dearie”, he said, his voice warm and deep, while moving towards her.

At the same time three floating skulls, one violet, the second blue and the third green, appeared around him, which made the goat-man roll his many eyes. The skulls started immediately to murmur incoherent phrases and strange, garbled words.

“I wish they would leave me already”, the goat-man, annoyed as he arrived at Veduca’s side.

“They just like you and have no other place to go”, she remarked with a smile, which died the moment she lowered her gaze towards Lodwin. “I need your help.”

“I know”, he replied, kneeled next to Lodwin and took a long look, while the murmuring skulls followed suite.

Lodwin opened his eyes and gazed at the goat-man with contempt.

“Calling me a filthy demon isn’t very polite of you”, the goat-man said amused and licked with his long tongue over his lips and nose. “No matter if you just do so in your head or not. I would prefer you call me ’my saviour’ or ’master’? Ah, I understand… Well… Just call me Azazel, then. Again? Oh my, for me granting your wish of revenge, you’re awfully displeased with my service. Anyway…”

“He lost a lot of blood, father”, Veduca explained, while Azazel examined him.

“Yes, and he came in contact with the blood of the beast”, Azazel remarked with a disgusted look at the carcass of said monster. “The blood is a highly corrosive liquid, it seems, but you did well with the cleaning and partial healing of his wounds, dearie.”

“Do you know what this thing is?” she asked with a frightful glance towards the dead beast.

“I can just say that it’s nothing from this realm, nor from hell or even heaven. I feel the remains of an alien power within it, but… It’s almost as if what lies over there is just a mere shell, and what inhabited it has returned to its origin.”

“It’s insides, at least where Lod cut it open, seem to be missing”, Veduca remarked with a shudder.

“Empty vessel…”, murmured Azazel in deep thought. “Not so empty when alive but a shell when killed… No. My guess would be that it grew within the human it infested. Once the man had used up all of his energy and life-force with his summonings, whatever enabled him to call forth those shades had taken over and rearranged some of his matter into this monstrous body to shield itself and attacked.”

As he spoke, the floating skulls moved towards the carcass of the monster and looked at it with wonder, it seemed. Veduca couldn’t help but smile. Despite them having lost their minds, they were more like children than tortured souls. A small relief, as she liked to think.

“How many of those so-called Dark Priests have you two killed?” her father asked, while picking Lodwin up as if he were just a small child.

“This was the third one so far”, she replied and went ahead to show him the path to the inn, after she had picked up Lodwin’s sword.

“The first two were still killed in their human form?”

“Yes. They had used only magic to attack and mind-control a few people.”

“Did you take the time to examine their bodies?”

“We had to flee as one of the twelve knights of the Divine Lord appeared and Lod was badly wounded and unable to fight. I guess the knight send this one after us to finish what the others started.”

“Try, if you can, to perform an examination the next time you two manage to kill one before he splits open. I want to know if monsters like this inhabit just the body, or if my theory holds true. But only do so, if you’re safe to do so. I don’t want my precious daughter to be hurt, yes?”

“You don’t have to worry about me, father. I’ll take good care of myself, and there’s also Lod.”

“You tend to overexert yourself, dearie”, Azazel remarked, while the floating skulls caught up with them, illuminating the path ahead with their multicoloured glow.

“Oh, is it that apparent?” Veduca asked embarrassed.

“I’m your father, dearie, as such I always know”, he said with a fatherly smile, which looked quite grotesque on the goat head but made her smile nonetheless. “Please, remember to take things slow, yes?”

“I will!” she replied happy.

A few moments later, they arrived back at the inn. Thankfully, due to the late hour, there was no one around. Still, to make sure it stayed like this, Azazel whispered a few words, which covered the whole area in an aura of sleepiness and calm.

“Don’t be so ungrateful, Lodwin”, he suddenly said as they reached the entrance. “I won’t carry just anyone like they’re my bride. Patience, patience, my friend. I’m letting you down, don’t you worry. Veduca, dearie, can you take this ungrateful hooligan up to your room?”

“If he'd like to, I can take him piggyback”, she replied, amused.

“He just told me, he rather walks on his own”, her father said with a mischievous glance towards Lodwin’s grim frowning face. “Well, hero, let's see how far you can go.”

For a moment, Veduca suspected her father to drop Lodwin like a heavy brick, but he let him down quite gentle. Once he stood, he turned immediately away from her father and moved towards the front door. But the moment he touched the handle, his bad condition caught up with him again. With a slam, he stumbled against the door and nearly fell. Immediately, Veduca went to him and warped his arm around her shoulders to keep him up. 

“I’ll help you up the stairs and into bed”, she said and caught a glance of his embarrassed expression, which he immediately hid with a turn of his head.

“I’m casting a protective barrier around this inn until midday”, Azazel explained and looked displeased at the floating skulls who had arranged themselves around his head and started to circle him while watching Veduca and Lodwin. “No one should be able to find you for a few days, but remember it’s just temporary. You two need any further assistance?”

“No, I think I can manage”, she replied and opened the door. “Give mother my kindest regards.”

“I will, dearie, I will”, he said with a warm smile and vanished in a golden glow along the skulls.

In the meant time, Veduca helped Lodwin into the inn. Everything there was as she had left before following him. Even the innkeeper was still on the ground, sleeping like a baby. Amused but also exhausted, she walked with Lodwin towards the wooden stairs and helped him up.

Back inside their room, she helped him onto the bed and placed his sword next to the nightstand. Since Lodwin could keep himself barely upright, let alone take off his armour, boots and the sheath of his sword, Veduca helped him with that as well. Once that was done, and he rested on the bed, she sheathed his sword and sat down next to him.

“Is there something I can bring you?” she asked. “Water?”

He nodded.

“One moment, please”, she replied and stood up.

But before she could leave to get something, he took her hand in his and pressed it gently.

“No need to thank me, Lod”, she laughed. “Rest for now.”

He nodded again and let go of her hand. With a warm smile and quite pleased, all things considered, Veduca went to fetch some water.

—

The straw that broke the camel’s back, or rather Rosomil’s mind, was a gruelling mission. It was a last-second call for help.

Full of despair.

Full of pain.

A group of necromancers had attacked a village and were turning everyone into mindless thralls, butchering men, women, and children while trapping their tortured souls to call forth an ancient evil. Due to their zealousness, their patron had covered them well, but, alas, they weren’t so perfect. The Crimson Hand found out and send their finest, with Rosomil at the helm.

What he and his companions saw is beyond what I wish to inflict upon you, little brother. The sight was so devastating that, would have an archangel witnessed it, he would’ve lost hope and turn his back to God. So, how could have poor Rosomil, so full of love and despair for mankind, hoped to resist?

His belief in God cracked like an egg thrown to the ground, and a whisper broke through the gaps.

“There is no hope if things stay the same,” it said.

The words cut deep. Deeper than any blade could. Widening the cracks in his crumbling ideals, hopes and dreams.

“You couldn’t save them”, it continued. “God didn’t save them.”

Distressed, he tried to deny the voice.

“N-no!” he murmured, drawing the eyes of his companions towards him.

But in their humanity, they didn’t recognise the evil gaining a hold on him. They thought he meant the massacre in front of them. Poor fools…

Together, they killed the necromancers and salvaged what could be salvaged, which wasn’t much at all.

On the way to the Order's headquarters, the whispers continued with fervour. They followed him during every waking and sleeping hour. There was no moment of respite left in him and the more poor Rosomil tried to stifle them, the stronger they became and mixed with his own thoughts, his own voice. 

“You can change everything. You alone. Listen to me”, the whispers, negged. “Listen to me and I shall grant you the power you seek! Go to my tome and I shall reveal its secrets to you and you alone.”

—

The air shifted.

The wind became unpleasant and cold.

Father Tremo huddled into his thin robe. At the same time, fear crept into his heart. The knight… He, or rather, it had changed. There was something abysmal about this being now. Something forcing Tremo to remain put, even as it stood up and continued the Divine Lord's story with a bone shaking voice.

—

The moment Rosomil and his companions entered the headquarters, he rushed into the tower he kept the skin-bound tome. Immediately knowing that dark things were underway, they followed him, but the door blocked. 

Inside the room, Rosomil took the book in his trembling hands.

“Blasted book and whispers! Cease torturing me!” he shouted at the ink stained cover.

Suddenly, the book fluttered open, its pages turning on their own. At the same time, the ink of the strange runes began to glow. 

“It is yourself and your god, who cause you pain”, a voice answered from within the flittering pages. “Deny the latter, and the former will cease to hurt you.”

“I won’t!” he tried to rebuff the book, but his own wavering voice betrayed the cracks in his mind and heart. “God will-“

“God didn’t save them, and he sends you and your companions there once the majority were dead and those still clinging to life mad and better off mercy-killed. You were just clean up for this mess.”

“But…”

“It’s hard to accept, but you know I’m right, don’t you?”

At this, he opened his mouth and closed it again. His mind raced along the paths it had already treaded.

“What can I do?” he asked, barely audible, his blue eyes empty and the golden sheen of his hair dull.

His companions felt something was off and hammered their fists against the door. Haunted, he turned his head towards it, but I finally appeared as a shadow behind him, blocking his view.

—

The knight stood suddenly right in front of Father Tremo, the cowl pulled back, revealing the pallid face of a woman and eyes like burning coals. With a scream, he fell over and scrambled away, but the demon followed and bird legs. A heartbeat later, he hit a massive tree and was trapped like a mouse underneath the wings and claws of a bird of prey.

“And there I was”, the demons said fearfully calm, with a cold grin showing their sharp inhuman teeth. “And whispered to that poor fool, ‘Become the new god of this world and let God suffer as he made you suffer! All you need to do is take up the offer of my power!’ And do you know what Rosomil said, little brother? Can you guess his words?”

“H-he took y-your offer”, Tremo answered, barely able to give those words enough of his voice to be heard.

“Yes!” the demon shouted laughing like a madman and spread their arms, which looked like black wings but ended in grey scaled clawed hands. “But I’ve grown sick of him and the way he uses my power as if it were his alone! Damn this fool! He could’ve been a saint, but strived for the seemingly easier path! He didn’t even hesitate when I suggested that he should get rid of his companions!”

“But why are you telling me all of this?” Tremo asked trembling. “What good does it do you, to tell me the truth and reveal yourself in front of me?”

“Because another test of faith is underway, and it will determine the outcome of this world”, they explained calmer and turned with a tired expression to Father Tremo. “And because I want the truth to be known by someone else. Someone outside the grand scheme of things. Someone innocent.”

“And you choose me?”

“No. God did.”

End - Part 1

#text #novel #writing #original writing #halloween #happy halloween #halloween2022 #halloween 2022 #original story #original character #original characters #oc #original character story #horror #suspense #dark #demon #demons #blood #violence #gore #knight #knights #religion #monster #monsters #short story #fantasy #revenge #my art

[bazingerrr]

Bro how r u gonna forget William Afton kills children that’s like if I forgot the riddler told riddle(r)s or bill cipher b(ill)e cipher(ing)

#true cobble is pot #bazinge with 3 r #wav goes crazy insane #this is about bill and dan #rddlerposting 💙

[zueriverse]

The Escoffier Code

In "The Escoffier Code," Barbarissima embarks on a culinary quest that whisks her from the cobbled streets of Lombardia to the bustling boulevards of Paris. The adventure begins when an enigmatic parchment is discovered tucked within the yellowed pages of an original French edition of Auguste Escoffier’s "Le Guide Culinaire." Unlike its English counterpart, which famously lists hollandaise as one of the mother sauces, this parchment suggests that mayonnaise holds the true secret.

With her appetite for adventure as insatiable as ever, Barbarissima follows a breadcrumb trail of historical recipes, cryptic culinary riddles, and long-lost gastronomic texts. Each clue uncovers the misinterpretations that have led generations of chefs astray and reveals a hidden gastronomic society that has guarded Escoffier's original teachings for centuries.

As she delves deeper into the world of haute cuisine, our Polenta Adventuress finds herself entangled in a web of culinary conspiracies. From secret supper clubs to the hallowed halls of the Palais de l'Élysée, she must outwit a shadowy cabal intent on preserving their version of culinary history. Alongside a charismatic sous-chef with secrets of his own, Barbarissima races against time to decode the Escoffier Code before its truths are lost to the kitchen wars of history.

"The Escoffier Code" serves up a rich narrative garnished with intrigue, history, and the relentless pursuit of culinary perfection. As Barbarissima stirs the pots of the past, she discovers that the mother sauces hold not just the foundation of French cooking but the key to unlocking her own family's legacy within the world's culinary chronicles.

#barbarissima

[usstatesguide]

#IFTTT #Blogger

[arubascanner]

Top 4 Places to Visit in Europe with Just a Few Days

When you think of Europe, images of grand cathedrals, castles, and monasteries probably come to mind. And while those are all phenomenal locations to visit, they aren’t exactly the best places if you only have a few days to explore the continent. Europe is packed with so many wonderful places that it can be difficult picking just one as your number one destination. Whether you’re drawn to its historic cities, natural beauty or vibrant nightlife, there is something for everyone in this dynamic corner of the world! But let’s say for whatever reason you don’t have much time and need help narrowing down your options. Or maybe you’ve been fortunate enough to travel extensively throughout your life but want some fresh ideas. Either way, we’ve got you covered! Below are our top picks for the best destinations in Europe if you only have a few days:

Rome, Italy

Rome is one of the most iconic cities in the world and the setting for countless movies and television shows. Whether you’re a fan of “The Three Musketeers” or “Romeo and Juliet”, you’ll feel like you’ve stepped right into the scenes while wandering the city’s cobbled streets and ancient buildings. In addition to its cinematic charm, Rome is also a mecca for art and architecture, making it one of the best destinations if you’re a culture buff. Stroll the stunning Piazza del Popolo, the Piazza di Spagna, and the Trevi Fountain, or take in the immense beauty of St. Peter’s Basilica and the Sistine Chapel.

Paris, France

Paris is one of the most visited cities in the world, and for good reason. This vibrant and unique destination is a photographer’s dream come true, with iconic sites such as the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, and Sacre Coeur offering breathtaking views. While Paris is certainly a great place to explore on foot, taking the Metro or RER trains throughout the city allows you to see even more in a short amount of time. And don’t miss the chance to indulge in some Parisian cuisine as well. If you happen to be there during the summer, be sure to visit a rooftop bar for a truly memorable experience!

London, UK

Whether you love history, culture, or fashion, London is the place to go. The British capital is a melting pot of cultures and people, making it one of the most diverse cities in the world. London is also very welcoming to tourists, with most attractions offering discounted entrance fees or “pay what you wish” days. London is a vibrant city usually buzzing with activity, making it the perfect spot if you’re looking to experience a truly unique European culture. There are also a number of day trips and excursions that let you see even more of this amazing place.

Barcelona, Spain

Barcelona is like no other place in the world. It is a vibrant and extremely friendly city that is filled with beautiful architecture, beaches, and a vibrant nightlife. You could spend months in Barcelona and not exhaust all the activities it has to offer. If you’re an outdoor enthusiast, Barcelona is an excellent place to visit, with many beautiful gardens and parks dotting the city. But it’s not just a great place for nature lovers. Barcelona is also home to some of the best museums in the world, including the hugely popular Picasso Museum.

Conclusion

If you’re travelling alone or only have a few days to spend in Europe, you might be unsure where to start. Fear not, we’ve picked some of the best places to visit in Europe if you only have a few days. Whether you’re drawn to its historic cities, natural beauty, or vibrant nightlife, there is something for everyone in this dynamic corner of the world!

[softlyspector]

Winter

Summary: When Bucky is nearly assassinated, he finds more than he expects in the forest surrounding the palace.

Pairing: Prince Bucky x Witch Reader

Word Count: ~3k

Warnings: Blood

A/N: This had been sitting in my drafts forever. Now feels like a good time to start posting again.

You know, whispers the song of the wind, a witch lives in those woods.

He rolls his eyes.

He knows better than most what lurks in these woods.

Demons of all kinds dance about, waiting for the faintest sign of weakness before they struck like vipers. Since his mother died and, with her the magic, all sorts had awoken in the woods she guarded with her prowling wolves.

Now, his mother was ash and the wolves only howled.

Often, he wanted to howl with them, but thought he did not deserve the pleasure of snarling displeasure.

The great beasts stayed corralled near the palace in any case, teeth locked in the spaces between the iron gates and swirling snow.

Cold has settled between his bones, his blood warm and slippery between his fingers, rivulets that flow like his mother’s tears.

He wonders, as he unhitches his sword and lets it slide to the ground, the whipping wind cackling in his ears, if his father is happy.

Having his only son assassinated was something he had always expected from his father, the bitingly cruel man that sat on a throne bathed in ash and blood, but hurt nonetheless.

“The weight is slowing me down,” he snarls at that wind, that laughing demon.

In truth, the weight is killing him.

He’s lost his way in the snowstorm that descended from the mountains with a fury that he didn’t recognize.

Something to do with his mother, he’d guess.

You are already dead, it whispers. The mother’s white wolf lost in a storm.

He stumbles, cold pinching him, making his knees lock, legs fold.

The earth seems to shake when he finally collapses, fingers crimson, a trail of hot, bright red behind him.

He wishes his mother’s wolves could find him now, they’d protected him always as a child.

Though, maybe, like everything else, they too had been corrupted when she died.

He thinks of them, trapped, pink tongues across razor sharp teeth, howling out a grief so deep it broke the heart of anyone that heard it.

He rolls onto his back, attempting the staunch the blood spilling over his fingers, crusting beneath his fingernails.

Bucky huffs out a breath that sets his lungs burning. He will not die like this.

But the tips of his fingers are already blue in the fierce cold, icing his heart. He doesn’t need a looking glass to know that his lips too are cracked and blue.

“I will not die here,” he says.

The words are empty, and the wraith that has taken the form of a swirling figure at the edge of his vision laughs, skeletal and wispy. Bucky sighs, squeezes his eyes shut.

Words, they’re always empty. Actions speak, and told his father attempted to have him murdered. His mother’s snowstorm is killing him. A wraith is looming and he can feel his heart slowing, his beating blood falling uselessly on the icy earth.

Death feels inevitable in that moment, destined and true.

There’s a crack, a howl.

Winter white swirls in his eyes, everything tilting sideways. He’s going to pass out, before he sees what thing has now emerged from the forest to kill him with fire.

The worst days in his life were the ones where everything tried to kill him.

He’d always overcome them. Training, and camp, more training, soldiering.

Soldiering, and killing.

Those were the worst.

His eyes roll back, just catching the expression and frosted eyebrows of a woman so beautiful he thinks maybe, by the skin of his teeth, he’s made it to heaven.

~

It’s warm when he wakes, though still white.

White painted brick, the red of it speckling out in places, white pine bookshelves stacked with neat rows of white books, gold embossed titles on their spines. White blanks out the wide window, white light filtering into the room.

A white fur blanket is draped across his lap.

He feathers his fingers through it before he realizes he’s nude.

His sword was somewhere lost in the snow, though he doubts it would help him now.

What vexes him is the loss of his knives, stashed anywhere they would fit in the gaps of his amour.

He sits up, side covered in cloth, though no blood shows through the fabric.

“I would have poisoned the blade meant to kill Prince James of the White Palace,” a voice says, a woman gliding into the room, draped in a long robe. She smiles, “But I also would have plunged it straight through your heart.”

He swallows, watches her ladle something into a teacup from the iron pot hanging above the smoldering fire.

Normally he would have shot to his feet, fingers curling around anything that could be used as a weapon. Training and soldiering and camp and training. But she doesn’t worry him, feels trust sink inexplicably in between the spaces of his bones.

She crosses the room, sits quietly down, peers at him with her head tilted to the side until he finally takes the cup from her.

“The white wolf,” she says, reaching out to flick a strand of too long hair away from his forehead. “When you rule this land will you also bathe it in darkness and shadow?”

“There isn’t much of a chance of that,” he says, sniffing at the cup. “The king will be disappointed I’m not dead.”

She smiles, “Yes, but I’m glad that you’re alive.”

He takes a sip of the tea and it reminds him of warmer days, of a palace full of laughter and the setting sun, of the wolves curled at the base of his mother’s chair.

She tilts her head again, watching him slowly sip the tea, “You don’t seem surprised to find yourself here. End up in the homes of strange women often?”

Bucky shakes his head, hands her the empty teacup. “No. I’m grateful and feel that I shouldn’t question my continuing life too much.”

“And you think I seem harmless.”

“Aren’t you?” He asks, glancing around, searching for his clothes. “A maiden in the woods?”

She laughs, stands, swishes away gracefully, long embroidered bell sleeves trailing after her. “One would think you would know better Prince James. Considering the things that you know lurk in these woods.”

“Stories,” he says. “Only stories.”

“Your mother knew better. I know you aren’t as blind as your father is,” she says, disappearing through a doorway, returning seconds later with his clothes, clean and crisp. “Your armor is near the entryway.” She folds her fingers inside her sleeves after depositing his clothes in his lap. “When you’re ready to leave.”

He nods, shaking out his tunic to pull over his head. “The official line of the crown is that nothing strange makes a home in our forests.”

She smiles, settles by his legs again, “And you believe this line.”

“No,” he says, watching her eyes, watching her lean close. “No, I believe there’s much we don’t know about the forest.”

She blinks and the spell is broken, “I’m glad to hear that. The men you were with at the pass have all been slaughtered. If it weren’t for your mother’s sudden storm, you would have been killed by the assassins. I expect they’re facing trial at the White Palace this very moment and you’re right not to question why your heart continues to beat.”

He nods, feels the familiar roll of guilt in his belly.

She seems otherworldly, this woman. With deep eyes that speak in riddles and sparkle with warmth.

“Did you know my mother?” He asks, shifting his legs over the edge of the bed, shucking his trousers on over his nakedness without a shred of shame.

She doesn’t seem bothered, stays seated and examines her fingernails. “She knew everyone in the forest.”

“Witch of the Forest is that your title?” He asks, only a little sarcastic. “Where are my shoes?” He’s avoiding looking at her.

“With your armor.” Her fingers wrap delicately around his wrist. “You should rest, the magic is still working.”

He shudders, pries his hand out of her grip. “You are a witch then.”

“Worry not,” she says, rising to her feet, swaying across the floor, “I’m a good witch. You can take your shoes and go whenever it pleases you. Though I expect the tea will be making you tired soon.”

Drowsiness hits him hard in the center of his chest and he settles back into the bed. “Was that you with the fire?”

“Yes.”

“Wraith?”

She hums and he squints, “Silver?”

“Dagger through the heart.” She’s laughing at him. “And still no thank you to the witch who saved you from the wound in your side and the creature that would consume you before you were blessed with death.”

He doesn’t answer, eyes falling shut, wondering why he’s not more concerned with the situation he’s found him in. “How long?”

“Until you’re healed? A day. You need rest before you face the king and all his demons.”

Bucky heaves himself to his feet, wobbly at first and then better, getting his legs beneath him. “Thanks for your help.”

She nods, watches him with those strange eyes, a gaze that simultaneously makes him want to run away and devour her.

He clears his throat and stands, pacing by her to the front door of her cabin. He stoops to shove his feet into boots, gather up his armor.

Her head is tilted to the side again, eyes soft. “If you find you ever need a place to stay during your father’s campaigns, you have a refuge here.”

Bucky thinks he’ll never see her again, but something in her gaze says they’ll be seeing each other again quite soon.

He nods to her, she inclines her head back, and when he opens the door he’s surprised to find the world a piercing white, though the storm has since stopped.

In the distance, he hears a wolf howl.

~

The palace grounds are mud and dead trees, cobbled together stables and beaten people.

His mother’s wolves, once beloved, pristine creatures, are howling, snarling, teething on the iron gates that corral them, white coats muddied to a dull brown, coal rimmed around their eyes.

They cease growling when he passes by, on his way to the throne room, through the mud and remaining snowy slush.

His father is on the throne when he reaches the throne room. He stoops, keeps his eyes averted, trying not to wince at the pain lancing through his side, up his spine. Something slippery wet coats the floor.

“Your assassins have been executed. You kneel in their blood.”

“Father,” he greets, standing, ignoring the peeling of his boots against the sticky dying blood.

He father raises a brow, eyes cold. “You’re healed?”

There is no pretense of his father not knowing, what had happened, where he had been stabbed. He had ordered it after all, and they both know it.

“Yes.”

“We are fortunate. That my heir lives on.”

Silence stretches thin between them. Until Bucky dips his head, turns away. “James,” his father says to his retreating back, “see to those wolves. They’ve been a nuisance since my wife passed on.”

He sighs but doesn’t turn.

It’s been three weeks since he lost his mother.

He can’t get the witch out of his head.

~

The second times he sees her, its with fingers wrapped around the iron front gates, eyes sharp from between the crowd of peasants she stands with.

“Are the wolves being cared for?” She asks when he comes near, her voice sharp with reproach.

The others shrink away from the gate, but she doesn’t move. “Healing well?” She says when he doesn’t answer.

“Healed.”

She hums.

He doesn’t drop her gaze.

“Shall I come in then?” She asks. “I have something for the wolves.”

“What do you know of wolves?”

She tilts her head to the side. “Have you been their keeper then?”

He wonders what she knows of the beasts, inconsolable even weeks later, headless of the commands that had tamed them easily before.

“No, then,” she says when he doesn’t answer. “Could it really hurt to let me see them? I come bearing gifts.”

“For the wolves?”

She nods.

“Fine.”

Once through the gate, she leads the way as though she’s made the trek many times.

The wolves at snapping at each other, howling, snow swirling down around them. There’s a basket on the witch’s arm, and they still when she nears.

She falls to her knees, smudging the hem of her peasant dress, presses something through the iron bars.

The beasts prowl, circle closer, sniffing.

The bloody slab of red meat is gone in seconds, devoured by the alpha, save a bit for his mate.

She stands to her feet, the alpha eye level with her on all fours, towering, monstrous creatures that they were. She turns her head, meeting Bucky’s eyes. “They miss her, Prince James.”

Bucky suddenly remembers where he is, like shaking off a stupor, a long sleep. “You shouldn’t be here,” he says, glance at the spires of the castle behind him, piercing the gray sky like long tipped talons.

“Yes,” she agrees, though she seems burdened by that thought. “It’s dangerous here.” She turns to him, eyes flicking over him. “It’s always safe in my cottage, though.”

What double meaning her words hold, he doesn’t have time to ask.

She turns, takes a step forward.

There’s a flash, and suddenly she’s feathers and wings, a dark spot against a slate gray, snow filled sky.

~

He presses one last kiss to her bare shoulder, hips flush with hers.

Bucky collapses against her, his chest to her back. It’s a long while, dozing together in the sun, sated by skin, before he peels open his eyes, shifts his gaze over the serene planes of her face.

She turns onto her side when he finally pulls away, watching him as he tugs her close, to kiss her sweaty brow, tuck her beneath his chin.

Spring has settled over the world, the perfume of flowers thick in his nose, the weight of sunshine warm on scarred skin.

Broken flesh healed once more by the witch that had come to live in his heart. For many moons now she had, years passing by unexpectedly, love folding into his soul not necessarily returned. He’s older, roughened by the elements, scarred by time and blades alike. There are squint lines beside his eyes, new stripes on his skin to match those left by his father, and training, and the punishing soldiers’ camps.

He’s spent many afternoons like this though, wrapped in this tiny world before he was cruelly thrust back into his reality of blood and tears.

A reality sometimes interrupted, fractured by the sudden appearance of the woman in his arms.

Feeding the wolves who had taken her as a new master, fingers buried deep in their fur.

Finding her name traced into the fogged glass of the mirror in his bathing chamber.

A single dark feather on his pillow.

A birds wing brushing against his amour before a battle.

She is wraith and witch and goddess bundled into one.

He loves her all the more dearly for it.

“Suppose my father finally finds his end,” he says into the cloud of her hair. “Would you follow me to the throne?”

“It’s forbidden for a commoner,” she says, mirth in her eyes when she pulls back to meet his gaze. “I would make a fantastic mistress though.”

He grunts, rolls his eyes. “That won’t do.”

“Compromise, darling.”

“Compromise won’t do.”

She smiles, nuzzles her nose against his chest. “Yes, it has always been abundantly clear that whatever you do, you do it with your whole heart. I do think you’ll have much larger problems to deal with.”

He imagines the lords, gathering forces against the Butcher’s son, who would never have the stomach to be as cruel and brutal as his father. “You’re right.” He would have an uprising on his hands, gods forbid peace and justice descend upon their land.

“Of course I am. I know all.” She shifts away from him, to the edge of the bed to drape a slip around her body.

She settles like a thick fog in his mind most days, splitting his vision between the crown that needed him to free the land of his father’s brutal reign, and the home he wants so badly he feels it in the tendons stretched between his bones.

Why shouldn’t he have both?

She gave him what he wanted long before he realized it was what he was searching for. A home away from war, a place to rest and heal after battle. Rest he did, here in her home, wounds stitching together swiftly with the aid of her magic.

Safe, he had realized, the second time he inadvertently came to her home. He was safe with her.

He’s not sure when the thing between them began to take flight.

Maybe after his third visit when she asked about the stripes on his back, and he had admitted the scars were courtesy of the king, bedeviled as he was by his son’s chronic lack of malice, his unwillingness to follow in his father’s footsteps.

Maybe when he kissed her by the river that first spring.

Maybe when she had taught him how to care for his mother’s grieving beasts. They still prefer the witch over him, and he can’t much blame them.

Maybe when she touched his chest with gentle fingertips, and told him that not only was he a good man, but that he was meant to do great things.

“I would, you know,” she says, moving to boil water in the kettle over the fire. “If you could find a way. Though I fear making a common witch your wife, would not win you any popularity contests, among the lords or the common people.”

“Would you?” He sits up, reaching for her hand, remembering the first time he had kissed it, soft skin against his winter roughened lips. “I could use your counsel. You’re wiser than I could ever hope to be.”

She sits in his lap, pats his cheek, and he remembers the first time they made love, frantic and wanting, like the missing piece of the puzzle in his heart sliding home. “Promise me one thing.”

“Anything.”

“Promise you’ll remember this moment, that you won’t change who you are.”

“I promise.” Lips against the heartbeat in her wrist.

#bucky x reader #bucky x you #royalty au #bucky barns x reader

[coldmilkcreamery]

𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐨𝐟𝐟

~ 𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 ~

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: xiao dejun x male reader 💋

𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 2965

𝗱𝗲𝘀𝗰𝗿𝗶𝗽𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻: following a heart-wrenching break up with xiaojun, you leave the country—and reunite with him 8 years later at the grand opening of a friend's restaurant.

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴/𝘀: smut hahah lmao

𝘄𝗿𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 𝗯𝘆 ⭐️

𝗮/𝗻: this might be my favorite (and longest 😅😅) story out of all the ones i’ve written, like idk if it’s because xiaojun’s my bias in wayv but i really enjoyed writing it and am really proud of how it turned out hahaha, i put my blood sweat and tears into this story so i hope you guys enjoy 🥺🥺and happy valentines to you all and hbd to who is also my first bias, jaehyun haha have a great day and a great valentines <3

> 𝗺𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 <

-

Outside, the sun has dipped below the horizon and behind wisps of clouds and falling snow, the sky has turned dark. Compounds of snow and bits of ice lie on the streets and dress stoplights as you wait at the entrance of a newly opened restaurant in town.

A miniature landscape greets you at the entrance. Artificial river water ricochets off of artificial rocks, onto the chiseled marble paths that you step over on your way to the dining area.

You make glances around the restaurant. Crowds of people are cobbled together, flowing like river water around tables and floral displays. Looking around, a familiar face emerges from the congested crowd.

“You seem to have gotten quite popular.” You tap on the hem of Doyoung’s blazer, looking around the crowded facade of the restaurant.

“You made it!” Doyoung says. Like a jack-in-the-box, he springs out of the crowd, jumping onto you and engulfing you in a tight embrace.

“I am very much here.” You reply, muffled by the confines of his arms.

“My god, I haven’t seen you in years!” He squeals, tightening his grip around your torso. “You’ve aged. A lot.” He snickers, crimping his face into a faux scowl.

“You're not looking any younger yourself.” You spit back with squinted eyes.

“Still bitchy as ever.” Doyoung pats your head, lips forming a snarky grin. “Come in.”

“How did you get here so early? Weren’t you set to fly in about a week later from now?” He eagerly questions, excitement very much visible through his puffing chest and eye-squinting smile.

“Simple, I booked an earlier flight.”

“And lost my first class seat.” You seethe, holding up your economy class boarding pass.

“You’re the best.” Doyoung giggles.

“I really am.” You gripe, narrowing your eyes. “New York is one far place.”

“You’re one to hold grudges aren’t you.” He pats your back with one hand, prying the boarding pass from your finger’s grasp with the other before tossing it into a nearby trash bin.

“Follow me.” Doyoung grabs your wrist and he escorts you into one of the private rooms, briefly passing by the reception desk. “This is Karina, one of my staff.”

“Hi!” She waves.

“Where are we going?” You question as he pulls you towards the first sliding door from the right of the reception desk.

“Those rooms over there are the rooms for the VIP reservations.” Karina says.

“VIP?” You ask, shooting them an amused expression.

“I have a heart my guy, I didn’t cost you your business class upgrade for nothing.” He ruffles your hair.

“First class.” You scornfully correct Doyoung, squinting your eyes at him, pushing his hands off of your head.

“Have a seat.” He reaches his palm out to point to the cushions resting on the floor and the recessed floor in front of it.

You slip your legs into the recession, eyeing a few floral vases and intricately patterned stems of miniature cherry blossom trees.

“Seems like you really went all out on decors.” You slip your phone out of the pocket at the sides of your chinos that are in the light’s path, which shine olive green against the moonlight. “Selfie?”

“My dining area should look just as good as my food tastes.” Doyoung obnoxiously chuckles before smiling into your camera.

“1, 2, 3.” You say in unison.

“Aren’t those at least a hundred dollars each?” You raise a brow at him, resting your phone beside your plate after a click sounds from it. “Is that not expensive for you?”

“Not if they look this good.” Doyoung winks.

“Good lord.”

“Oh, uhh, by the way.” He whispers, sounding much more subdued than he had been the minutes before, his voice now softer than swinging doors and the sprinting servers.

“What is it?”

“I’ve told you the restaurant is offering discounts if—” He pauses intermittently in between words.

“For the last time, I did not and will not be bringing a date.” You groan, cutting him off, well aware of what you were going to hear next.

Doyoung breathes out a shaky sigh. He parades a look of pity, brows furrowed and head tilted at an angle with a frown.

“Hyung.” You slur your words. “I’m fine.”

“And hey it’s 2021, being single is the trend.” You object.

“I’m just looking out for you.”

“I know you are.” You try to reassure him with a smile. “But if you don’t mind, I want to continue eating the dinner that my friend prepared for me because he cost me a 12 hour business class flight.”

“Didn’t you say first class?”

“Either way, I had to sleep sitting down because of you.” You scoff.

“Alright, I’m going to check up on the other tables.” Doyoung nods, pressing his lips into a toothless smile. “Let’s catch up more over coffee after we close?”

“Sure.” You hum as he turns his back to tend to more customers. Going seat to seat, he greets them with a smile, shaking hands with the occasional occupant.

You rub your temples and look down slightly, resting your chin on the collar of the honey brown crew neck wrapped around your torso. The loosely tucked out hems of your denim shirt hang under it, fluttering in the air.

Behind the strands of hair being blown into your eyes from the air conditioning, your eyelids drop. You’re tired, exhausted, fatigued and everything else you can think of. Conversations around you seem to morph into buzzes of static.

Eyelids your field of vision as your upper body rests on the table top. Footsteps tap against the floor adding to the sound of clinking cutlery, sizzling meats and conversations muffled by the sleeves of your sweater.

A man waves in front of the reception desk as he struts into the restaurant. “Excuse me.”

“Good evening sir.” Karina greets, with a smile. “How may I help you?”

“I have a reservation.”

“May I have your name please.” Karina looks down on a monitor, tapping on a keyboard with one hand, brushing hair behind the shoulders of her blazer with the other.

“Xiao Dejun.”

“Ahh Mr. Xiao, you have a VIP reservation am I right?” She beams, looking back up at the man who briskly nods back.

“Your seat is in the first room to my right.” Karina reaches her palm out and points to the door.

Xiaojun utters a soft ‘thank you’ and looks over his shoulder to give Karina a small wave as he walks towards the room.

A restaurant attendant opens the door for him. Inside, it slides open, rustling like paper as its bottom grinds against the glistening wooden floor. Producing an exhale, you let your breath get sucked out through the openings of your nostrils and lips.

Behind your forearms, the big tsunami-like waves and tangerine colored koi painted on the door disappear into the wall. You squint your eyes close one last time, sprawling your limbs to stretch, terminating the sleep left in your system.

Your eyes flutter open, catching a man in its path, the figure becomes clearer the wider they open.

“X-Xiaojun.” You quiver in place, saying his name for the first time in eight years.  

“Y-Y/n.” Behind the auburn strands of hair in his face, his gaze meets yours. He timidly waves at you through a nervous smile. “H-hi.”

Was he good looking? Definitely.

Was he a good person? Oh god yes, and your breakup didn’t change your opinion on that.

Though not your first relationship, Xiaojun was definitely your first true love. But as some people say, life just happens. Months after your break up, you left for New York for a job opportunity.

It had been a considerable while since you had last seen or heard from him. Nothing aside from the occasional mention in phone calls with Doyoung and appearance in pictures with your other friends.

But here you were, back in Korea, the commandeer of your late night thoughts, seated beside you at the grand opening of Doyoung’s restaurant almost a decade later.

“It’s been a while.” You sheepishly smile.

“It really has.” Xiaojun agrees, reciprocating the smile. “You look great.”

“Thanks.” You sit up straight. “You do too.”

Outside, Doyoung continues to hop from table to table, tending to customers.

“Here is your order for extra noodles and a pot of tea.” Doyoung smiles at a woman. “Enjoy your meal ma’am.”

“Boss, you told me to inform you of the arrival of someone named Xiao Dejun was it?” Karina calls out for Doyoung, as he carries an emptied tray onto a free tray stand.

“Yes.” Doyoung breathily replies. “What about it?”

“He came just a few minutes ago, I’ve been looking for you to tell you.” She says with heavy and speedy breaths, resting her palms on her knees.

Doyoung’s eyes widen. “Which private room did you tell him to go to?”

“The first one to my right.”

“No-n-no oh no.” Doyoung strings his fingers into his hair.

“What’s the matter?”

“I needed you to tell me because I wanted to ask you to make sure they wouldn’t end up in the same room.” He rambles, vigorously rubbing his temples.

“Why?” Karina blankly questions. “Is there anything between them?”

“Xiaojun is his ex from 8 years ago.”

“Oh no.” She bows her head, covering her face with both of her palms. “Did it end badly or something?”

“You really ask a lot of questions don’t you.” Doyoung snickers. “Well, not exactly.”

“They broke up on good terms actually, the only problem was that it was so obvious that they still loved each other.” He says, sighs ballooning out of his lips.

“Wait,” Karina interrupts. “And yet, they hadn’t gotten back together since then?”

“Y/n left for New York before they could say anything to each other.”

“Don’t worry, it’s not like you knew.” Doyoung sees Karina frown and pats her head. “I just hope they can at least talk.”

And that you did.

Alcohol clouds your minds as you sit beside each other splitting sides at exchanged stories. The sting of the drinks fry the back of your throats and hiccups intermittently shoot up from you, cutting your sentences.

"It’s 12:30 A.M.'' You wheeze, making glances around the pretty much empty room.

"No way." Xiaojun spits out raspily, taking another sip of his cocktail, peering forward to get a glimpse of the watch on your wrist.

“Speaking of which, remember that time, about 11 years ago.” You playfully nudge his shoulder. “It was around this time when we went to get groceries and you attacked someone over a cut of steak.”

“I did not!” Xiaojun manages to speak up amidst the laughter drowning out proper communication from you two.

“Xiaojun, you pushed her so hard that she fell.” Your hand flops onto Xiaojun’s shoulder to prevent yourself from rolling over, letting out a prominent wheeze.

“She pushed me first!” He sternly objects. “Plus, if I didn’t, we wouldn’t have had those amazing fajitas.”

“That was a good early morning snack.” You agree.

“A good date too.” Xiaojun smiles back at you.

“Our first actually.” You add, looking down as a smile creeps into your lips. “That was such a long time ago.”

Which it was.

“Time just flies so fast doesn’t it?” Xiaojun replies as his palm slides up your fingers before settling on the knuckles at the back of your hand.

A rosy flush burns on your cheeks and your eyes go from your linked fingers and eventually trail up to him. You two momentarily lock eyes. He promptly jerks his away, withdrawing his hand from yours.

“S-so, wait, a-are you back here for good?” Xiaojun says.

“I guess so, things are getting pretty crazy over there.” You shrug, shooting him a crooked smile. “And the food’s too greasy, can’t eat any of it.”

“That’s good.” Xiaojun chuckles weakly. “You always hated greasy foods.”

“I’ve missed you.” You look into his eyes again and gently stroke his shoulder before going down to his arm and producing a sharp exhale. “A lot.”

“I-I have too.” He stutters, shivering slightly, his posture stiff under your touch.

“You know, every time I think about it,” You look down, and fiddle with your fingers. “I wondered why you never tried chasing me down the airport the day I left.”

“Y-Y/n.”

Deep down, part of me was actually hoping that you’d come after me and convince me to stay.

“So many times, I’ve wanted to fly out there to just try and pick up where we left off and—” He rambles, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists on his sides.

“What stopped you then?” You mumble. A frown stemming from your lips.

“I-I don’t know.” He voices out softly, with a furrowed expression.

“I do like someone Xiaojun.” You sigh.

“I figured.” Xiaojun stands up from the seat, slipping his shoes on and making his way out of the room.

“They’d be lucky to have you.” Xiaojun chokes on his words, his sentence growing weak.

“It was nice meeting you again.” His voice echoes into the empty room, his words ricocheting off of the walls and the soy sauce stained bowls before coming back to you.

You frantically jump up from the recessed floor. As his fingers cling onto the door’s handle, you grip him by his shoulders as he slides it open. “I never said it wasn’t you.” You call out to him, stopping him in his tracks.

Xiaojun turns his head, looking over his shoulder, slivers of tears in his eyes twinkling against the lights.

“So tell me then,” You whisper huskily, staring back into Xiaojun���s eyes. “Where were we?”

Tonight felt familiar.

The laughs, the fond glances, the touching. Being able to talk to each other and having good laughs while doing so. Being able to hit it off just like you had 11 years ago when Doyoung introduced you two to each other.

Being with Xiaojun just felt right even after a decade.

Enough was enough, you thought.

You dash towards Xiaojun, gripping the sides of his neck with both hands, pulling him closer to you. The tip of your thumbs slide over the tears sitting at the sides of his irises. Your eyes mirror his lidded gaze before wandering to the lips that you’ve longed for the past eight years.

Before your mind could even begin to process, your lips were on Xiaojun’s. Your eyes shut close as his palms land on your chest and slide up to tug at your shoulders.

You push him back against a wall, bruising the tips of some fingers between it and the back of his head. It dips to the side, as you press your face even deeper into his.

Slowly opening your eyes, your puckered lips hover over Xiaojun’s as you gasp for air. You tenderly stare into each other’s eyes for a second, bringing a hand away from the side of his neck to brush strands of hair away from his glittering eyes.

Soft moans escape from between your adhered lips as you reconnect them, further muffled by the contact of your tongues. Xiaojun’s forearms cross over your nape as you burrow your lips down to his neck. He lets out a breathy gasp that tickles your ears as his chin falls onto your shoulder as his mouth goes agape.

You bring your arms up as Xiaojun hastily pulls your sweater over your head and catapults it over the table of food. Your fingers scramble for the collar of his shirt as he undoes the top buttons of yours.

“Good work today, I’ll just make one last check around the place and I’ll get going.” Doyoung says, wiping sweat off of his forehead as he sprawls onto a couch in the waiting area. “See you tomorrow.”

“Thanks boss! Bye!” Karina waves as she exits the restaurant.

Doyoung walks over to the reception desk to see a patch of light coming from the opened door to the private room you were in.

“Is he not done eating?” Doyoung raises a brow, looking at his watch. “Was my food that good?”

“Hey Y/n, we’re closed for tonight, let’s go get some—” Doyoung’s eyes widen upon peeping through the opened door. “—coffee.” He continues his sentence weakly.

In a pushup position over Xiaojun, your hands are on either side of his neck, head buried under his chin, disheveled hair laying over his chest like a puddle. His fingers digging into the wrinkled back of your shirt as his knees wrap around your hips.

“You little—” Doyoung croaks amidst the pants, moans and heavy breathing. His eyebrows dipped as the lids of his twitching eyes vigorously vibrate. 

“Th-that wasn’t on the menu!” He softly yells. But ease seems to wash over him however, his agitated expression quickly morphs into one of relief. His mind wanders to the memory of the last time walked in on you two in the compromising position you were in.

Though not a pleasant sight to see, a second time at that, it does offer him the same kind of closure that it did for you. He didn't exactly like the thought of you two doing what you were doing, more so in his restaurant’s VIP room, but he’s happy for you. All those years of pent up regret and brooding, finally over.

Breathing a sigh of relief, he walks the other direction, pulling out a chair and taking a seat at one of the tables in the dining area.

“You’re still not getting that discount.” Doyoung closes his eyes and breathily mumbles.

“And you’re paying for coffee.” He grunts, glaring at the door. One thing he knew for sure was that you two were going to one really expensive café.

-

𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙚𝙙: 02.04.21

𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙞𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙙: 02.14.21

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