#* ⟢ EMBER GRAVES ❮ visage ❯ | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

that-weird-breton-girl · 8 months

Text

Irideis, Part 11

Parts 1-10 here

In front of the temple doors was a goblin who, to keep things brief, nabbed the temple map Aradin’s mate Brian possessed. It took little convincing for the goblin to hand it over to me, but where I expected an illustration, I only saw the contents of a poem. It mentioned a “son of Selûne”, his grave, the moon, and the stars.

Inside, a squad kept watch in the entry hall.

“Oi!” A goblin wielding a battle axe confronted me. “State yer business. Now.”

I put one hand on my hip. “I have an audience with the one in charge.”

She squinted at me. “You one of those Moonrise types, then? Your kind don’t usually deal with Boss Ragzlin and Priestess Gut. Guess you’re after Minthara.” She gave me a once-over. “Could be ‘er blood by the looks of you.”

Is she like my father, or like those who stole him from me? “That’s who I’m looking for.”

The goblin assessed me. “She’s in tellin’ the warchiefs wot’s wot. Next raid’s gonna be a big’un, I hear.”

As we entered the inner sanctum, the hairs on my skin pricked. The fumes of melting flesh.

In the centre, a small queue of goblins lined up in front of the one I inferred was Priestess Gut. Behind her was an altar of skulls and tusks, to her side a large flaming brazier with long branding irons, glowing orange-red where they and the embers made contact.

“Let the faithful come to receive Her blessing!” Priestess Gut proclaimed.

The goblin next in line stepped up and extended his arm. Priestess Gut snatched it and lifted a branding rod from the brazier. I quickly averted my gaze and hurried up the stairs to our right as the recipient cried out in agony.

In one of the rooms on the second floor, a human was strung to a torture rack as part of an interrogation. I convinced the torturers to leave under the guise of being the human’s new tormentor. Once out of earshot, we asked the human, named Liam, about Halsin and set him free. He desperately warned us that Emerald Grove was the goblins’ next target.

We continued our investigation. More broken statues of Selûne, graffitied with bloody symbols of a handprint with a skull as the palm. Deeper in the temple, major sections of the second floor had been destroyed, revealing murky depths. Beneath the makeshift wooden floor boards that spanned the gaps, the rattles of spiders echoed below.

In a large room, a hulking hobgoblin performed a necromantic ritual with surrounding onlookers. By the process of elimination, this was Dror Ragzlin. His subject was a mind flayer corpse. As we passed by, Dror used a scroll to beckon the corpse to rise, demanding the identity of its killer.

Further in, a dark violet scrying eye hovered between empty bookshelves that lined the walls, its gaze unchanging. Around the corner, a rash voice.

“Your scouting part has not returned, and half the intruders escaped your guards.”

“Sorry, mistress. We mucked up.”

A goblin cowered before a drow, whose ghost-white hair was tucked into a thick bun. She adorned sleek armour. Minthara.

“Until their sanctuary is found, I will take something precious from you every hour that passes.” She rasped. “A trinket… a tongue… a limb…”

“I-I ain’t got no use without me limbs!” The goblin stuttered. “The lads’ll make the prisoner squeal soon enough, I swear!”

The drow raised her hand in authority. “Silence now, creature. Or I will silence you forever.”

As she turned to address us, maroon eyes locked onto mine.

I caught my breath and a cold hand caressed my thoughts. The chamber around me melted away, revealing a dark, endless nowhere. A glassy-eyed woman with long, braided hair leaned over Minthara, whispering into her ear.

That figure… that’s one of the Chosen…

The vision faded away.

Minthara opened her eyes and smiled amicably at me. A webbed tattoo graced her pale lavender neck. “A True Soul? Praise be, sister. Are you here to join my hunt?”

A lump grew in my throat. Don’t you dare call me that. I memorised her visage, imagining it at that fateful scene, long ago. People like her tortured Mother.

Noticing my hesitation, Shadowheart spoke up. “We’re on a hunt of our own, looking-”

“Was I speaking to you, faerie?” Minthara spat. “Keep still, or else I’ll cut out your tongue.” She turned to me. “You should manage your darthiir better.”

I swallowed. “Will keep that in mind. I’m looking for a druid named Halsin.”

An intent gaze. “Interesting. What do you know of this druid?”

Erm… “I have orders to capture him.”

Minthara’s eyes narrowed. “Orders from whom? This is my command, and if you were sent here, I would have been told to expect you.” She straightened her back. “It appears that you are new to your rank. Henceforth, you shall report to me. Your name?”

Shit. Shit. “I-Irideis.” I couldn’t think of a fake name in time.

To my relief, Minthara looked unfazed, unconcerned about my name. “Here are your orders, Irideis.” She leaned over a map of the Sword Coast sprawled out on a table. “The druid makes his home in a nearby sanctuary where his followers worship a false god. I intend to find it and destroy it. There is a weapon the Absolute seeks; I’m sure those wretches have it hidden away there.” Her low voice rumbled with excitement. “We will find it, amongst the dead and the ashes.”

The artefact. “You want me to locate this sanctuary.”

“Correct. Do so, then report back to me.”

I carefully nodded and turned around to leave.

“My patience wears thin, True Soul. The hunt must begin.”

There was a largely uninhabited area of the temple where we set up camp that evening. It was partially exposed; the sky peeked through gaps in the ceiling. In the distance, the drumming continued. We supped.

“I suppose that could’ve gone worse.” Shadowheart said. “I was half-expecting Minthara to attack when you opened your mouth, Irideis. You acted as though a Beholder had gotten you.”

“You must control your fear before it leads to your demise.” Lae’zel advised with concern.

“Mm.” I tersely answered. My mind wandered aimlessly in the air, flickering between memories.

Astarion put his hands behind his head and leaned back against a slab of stone. “It doesn’t seem like a coincidence that you happened to have an item that can protect us from the Absolute’s influence, Shadowheart. How did you come by it?”

She replied quietly, still adjusting to the fact that her guarded secret was now known. “I was part of a group sent by my cloister.” She glanced at Lae’zel. “We were to take the artefact from the githyanki and bring it to Baldur’s Gate, no matter the cost. Though… it turned out the cost was very steep. I was the only one to survive. I took the artefact and fled, only to be ensnared by mind flayers before I could finish the mission.” She sighed. “That’s all I know. That’s all I need to know.”

“How can you go through all this trouble and not understand why?” I asked. The change in conversation grounded me.

“I told you already - I surrendered my memories, for the sake of the mission. Shar’s secrets must be protected. Duty demands it. Once I fulfil my mission, my memories will be restored.”

“How do you know that’ll happen? What’s stopping your contact from holding on to your memories?”

“Lady Shar rewards her faithful. You just don’t understand. There is no more to question about it.”

Astarion pondered. “I can’t help but wonder if that wound on your hand has something to do with your devotion.”

Shadowheart inspected her right hand. “It’s my burden, from Lady Shar. It never quite heals, and sometimes it causes terrible pain to rip through me. But somehow, I can feel her influence.”

“What makes it hurt?” I asked.

“It’s difficult to say… sometimes I wonder if it’s supposed to be guiding me, punishing me, testing me… but perhaps it’s none of those. Perhaps it’s completely random. Granted, I’d like to hope there’s more to it than that, some meaning that Lady Shar will reveal to me in due time. Until then, all I can do is endure.”

Lae’zel rolled her eyes.

I haven’t encountered anything in the wilds that could relieve divine punishment. There must be something… “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?”

“I don’t think so, but you’re sweet to ask. Maybe just be patient the next time you see it happen. It’ll pass soon enough. It always does.” She stared at the campfire. “Pain is sacred to followers of Lady Shar. Pain will give way to loss, and then to the peace of her eternal darkness. You can tolerate a great deal of suffering, so long as it has meaning.”

It was now an established routine; Astarion would show up in my tent, always a couple of hours after everyone retired for the night. We’d both sit down, I’d summon my familiar, he’d get his blood, and then he’d leave.

As I held the spider in my palms, I glanced at the marks on the vampire spawn’s pallid neck. The terrifying eyes I saw in his memories flashed by. “How does someone become a vampire? I mean, an actual vampire.”

“It’s simple, really. Just find a vampire that will drink your blood and turn you into a vampire spawn: their obedient puppet. In theory, the next step is to drink their blood. Once you’ve done that, you’re a free and true vampire.”

Vampires are never free. “So… they bite you, you bite them?”

Astarion gave it some thought. “Mm...yes and no. The problem is, once you’re a vampire’s spawn, they completely control you. They have to allow you to bite them.” His brow furrowed. “And why would they do that? Vampires are power-hungry creatures. They won’t lose a servant just to create a competitor. Trust me. It doesn’t happen.”

“Hm.”

“Don’t tell me you want to be a vampire.”

“Oh no!” I blurted. I could never enslave myself to sanguine hunger, to never eat food or see the sun again. Seeing that my answer slightly offended him, I clarified. “No, I was just wondering. That’s all.”

“Alright then.”

It was that night I began to become accustomed to the icy pain that shot through me when he bit me. Instead of jolting violently, my body recognized it as a new, but nonetheless unpleasant, routine.

Afterwards, Astarion sat back in satisfaction. But then he nervously looked at me. “You know, I’ve had this condition for two centuries, but truth be told?” He cleared his throat and darted his eyes away. “You were my first.”

A strange warm feeling bloomed inside me. It felt nice, weirdly enough. “I figured.”

“In all these years, I’ve only fed on beasts. Drinking the blood of thinking creatures is a different thing entirely. You’re delectable. And now I can’t help but wonder how the others taste.”

“They seemed against the idea, remember?”

He sighed. “Alas. It doesn’t hurt to ponder the question, though. Take Shadowheart, for example.” He waved his hand in the air to emphasise his description. “She strikes me as having a heavy, enigmatic flavour. Vintage port on two legs.” His eyes widened in wonder. “But Lae’zel? What in the hells would she taste like?

Lae’zel. She’s unlike anyone I’ve met. I thought of her golden eyes, olive green skin, and pursed lips, then considered all the drinks I encountered in my life. “Something exotic. Maybe an Amnan liqueur?”

“Ooh, that sounds appealing.” He grinned. “I’m almost convinced.”

“Tried it once. Never again.” I licked my gums in remembrance. “This is still theoretical, right?”

“Absolutely. A mere… thought experiment.” Astarion tilted his head. “So… in the spirit of theoretical questions… if you had to take a bite from one of them, who would it be?”

I was dumbstruck. “Erm…” I thought about that first night, when first he snuck in my tent and I retaliated. When I bit into his arm to free myself, a small bit of his blood had reached my tongue. It tasted of cold metal. “To be completely honest? You.”

“Oh… I’m flattered. Who knew you had such taste?” He rubbed his neck. “I suppose you did technically bite me back there.”

There was a lull in our conversation. My wound stopped bleeding.

“So…”

“What?” I asked.

“What do I taste like?”

My cheeks grew hot. “I don’t remember. It wasn’t much, anyway. Tasted like copper, I guess.”

He huffed in disappointment. “You really aren’t one for words.” He rose. “Unfortunately, all this talk is making me hungry. I’d better find something I can actually sink my teeth into. Something that’s not a drunken goblin, anyway.”

“Good hunting out there.”

“Eh, there’s nothing that tasty lurking out in the woods, but I’ll make do. Sweet dreams.”

#irideis #baldurs gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 #astarion #lae'zel #shadowheart #bg3 tav #bg3 #baldur's gate iii #irideis part 11 #astarion x mc #astarion x tav

13 notes · View notes

keepsdeathhiscourt · 1 year

Text

Diminuendo

Elijah Mikaelson x OFC (referenced)

Warnings: descriptions of violence and death

Word count: 621

A/N: This is a short drabble inspired by Diminuendo by Lawless and part of larger fic I'm slowly fleshing out. Thanks for reading!

Summary: Even an immortal has his limits. When love is once again ripped from Elijah and he's forced to face the man behind the Red Door, he'll discover that there is music in the horror.

The rush of his breathing cut through the permeating silence in jagged, arrhythmic waves that seemed utterly incongruous to a musician’s psyche. There was an aspect of meticulousness to music; a devoted rigidity. And therein had always laid the appeal, the magnetic draw of symmetry, of balance. Each note had its place within a larger, more demanding structure. It could not come half second too late nor early lest the entire piece careen into utter chaos, give itself over to dissonance.

And so dissonant was the cadence of his breathing that his trembling fingers found themselves tapping against the side of his leg, absently urging him back on beat and back into control. He inhaled slowly through his nose, vaguely aware of the acrid smell of burning flesh intermingled with blood before he released it all back into the room.

The first thing he noticed as he blinked the world back into focus was the blood, deep and dark. It left its claret signature beneath his shoes and across the concrete. It served as an uneven paint for the walls and a macabre shroud for the bodies. And there were many, he noted with a detached curiosity.

Why were there so many?

Hazy recollection stirred somewhere in his subconscious, beyond the threshold of a red door that had been flung recklessly open.

He tipped his head from one side to the other, stretching the stiff muscles of his neck.

In another life, he would have felt the heavy tendrils of guilt seeping into his gut right about now. The disheveled, disgraceful state of his suit would have made the ruined fabric burn against his skin.

And his hands...his hands unrecognizable beneath the blood would have sent him into a spiral of shame.

But he could not seem to find the will to care. Curiously, he could not seem to draw up any sort of emotion at all. Rage satiated, he was left only with profound emptiness. Emptiness and that gnawing, distant ache in his chest that no amount of bloodshed nor vengeance had yet been able to eradicate completely.

The sound of approaching footfall behind echoed: the sharp, even staccato of heels on cement masking his unsteady breath. The rhythm changed, steady at first and then a faltering stuttering percussion, before coming to a complete halt.

He turned to face the intruder. A pair of blue eyes surveyed the room, wide first with confusion and then with the horror of realization. She made a tentative step towards forward. Her mouth opened for a moment and then closed, lips trembling all the while. He cocked his head slightly to the side, eyes glossy and distant.

“Elijah.” Rebekah managed a hoarse whisper. “What have you done?”

The tremulous, breathy intrusion of her voice sparked the ember of a memory. Images coming back to him in flashes.

A young woman with eyes like warm coffee peering at him over her book with a shy smile.

Then it shattered and twisted.

Starless eyes gaze blankly up at him, coldly empty and the color of grave soil.

His jaw twitched and he was vaguely aware of the pregnant pause. His sister was waiting for him to speak, to explain away the actions revenge had wrought and his hands had carried out. But the abject horror in his sister’s glassy eyes nor his own grisled visage reflected monstrously back in them could truly reach him. All he could feel was grim satisfaction and the temporary balm it provided.

A life for a life.

Death to pay for death.

The heart pounding crescendo flourishing to a fever pitch of screams, ebbing away into the diminuendo of the final, tragic notes, and then, finally silence.

Nothing else mattered now.

#elijah mikaelson #elijah mikaelson fic #elijah mikaelson x oc #the originals #the originals fic #tvd

3 notes · View notes

deltablack · 1 year

Text

In shadows of a distant realm, where stars are dim and cold,

Where astral winds do howl and moan, a tale of woe unfolds.

Amidst the void, a vessel drifts, unbound by anchor's grip,

A listless wanderer, bereft, adrift on cosmic trip.

The hull, decayed and withered, wears the markings of the grave,

Once strong and proud, it's now undone, a restless, rotting knave.

Its sails, once bright, now threadbare, torn, like shrouds upon a bier,

Embrace the void's eternal night, where hope and dreams do disappear.

Through the eons it has wandered, guided not by star or fate,

But rather by the hungering dark, and ceaseless, weary weight.

It knows no end, nor true beginning, it heeds no siren's call,

A ghostly ship, forever cursed, to wander 'til it falls.

A wretched crew doth haunt its decks, their souls in chains and rust,

Each man a shade of his lost self, consumed by grief and trust.

Their hearts, a hollow cavern, where light and joy did flee,

In search of solace and reprieve, they find but misery.

The captain stands, his visage stern, his eyes like embers glow,

His compass, shattered, spent and worn, no course or harbor shows.

He gazes out upon the vast, the darkness his embrace,

And dreams of finding solace, in a distant, brighter place.

Yet ever on, they drift and sail, through blackest, endless sea,

Entwined in fate's cruel, twisted web, with no hope to be free.

A cosmic dance, a bitter waltz, of souls forever lost,

Amidst the chaos of the stars, they pay the final cost.

So, heed their tale, ye mortal ones, and stay your course to roam,

Lest you, like them, should lose your way and never find your home.

For in the void, the whispers call, and draw you to their sway,

The dark abyss, it beckons, as your spirit starts to fray.

#poetry #melanchaholic #depressing poem #decay #lost #b&w

0 notes

blarghsandblurbs · 1 year

Text

I’m choking on the emotion

Don’t speak your thoughts

It’s a waste of space

What we really think

Be silent

Judgement awaits

Let’s talk nonsense to pass the day

What is it we’re seeking

Look into my eyes and doubt me

I can’t breathe a word

The violence

Inside is

It’s dripping

Conceding

Your death would mean nothing

I wouldn’t bat an eye

I once said

A prisoner

A warden

My jailer

If you knew this

When you stole him

You broke me

I daydream

Of the day

You held the knife to your throat

And now

In my mind

I’m laughing saying “do it”

It’d be a favor

It’s worth it

The tears I wouldn’t shed

My smiling visage

I wouldn’t be able to help it

Relief

When you looked me in the face

And said you wanted to have me killed

And I smiled back and said

“I don’t care I thought it too”

You don’t know I gave someone permission to

Haha what is this

I don’t wanna know I say

These feelings in me I once cried and shied away from

Now I have no one to blame but me

Funny how we toy with the concept of life and death

And it loses the tragedy

When he looked me in the eye before he took his own life and told me

“You don’t know what it is to want to do it in cold blood”

Cold blood has to be a lack of care

Then what is this when it feels like freedom and relief?

I’m waiting for the day I can smile at your grave, leave flowers on it, piss on it, give a middle finger and walk away

It’s so much easier to feel this way about a narcissistic abusive piece of shit than to cry helplessly

Is something fundamentally broken in me?

I wouldn’t do it now because of the pain it’d cause

But without reprocussions? I can’t say gladly or easily

But I know when you’re gone it’s be the day I can breathe freely

Running from you was the best decision I made

It’s a trap of fuckery

Love isn’t fair

But you know what? With you I never got there

I don’t believe in love like that anymore

I’m over it and done for

For my peace of mind I should probably forgive you

But the embers of my rage burnt out

And what was left behind in their wake is kind of miserable I’d think

But I can’t bring myself to think that way about me

Some stranger will read this and wonder what the hell is wrong with me

But that’s okay because this is a side of life’s game you’ll never get to play

And you don’t want to twenty years deep

Waking up from a bad dream

When ashes was all that remained of the ending of an illusion of caring for something sweet

Love love love

It destroyed my life and everything in it’s entirety

And saved me

What remains of me and my love is what love was given to me

When a hard heart runs soft because love settled in deep

I’m here

I’ll take you to the other side

So my nightmare means something

And the darker sides of life you don’t have to touch

I’ll shake you to wake you up

From the ending of that bad story

Walk with me and talk with me

You say I know so much

I learned a thousand ways to die on the inside

And come back from the ashes

Because pain isn’t what I want to live in

They say experience is worth a thousand words

But a thousand words more I have

Because I found the meaning in everything

0 notes

ajwrites52 · 3 years

Text

Batober Day 4-FEAR

(Set on a different Earth, please head to Ao3 to read the origin and background of this Batman. If interest is large enough, I might post some chapters over here on Tumblr.)

The chill October air sends shivers down the boy's spine. Most children the age of ten would be in bed, being tucked in by their parents. But not Jimmy Prescott, an absent father and a mother who worked nights, and the ten-year-old had nothing at home but an empty fridge. Like many boys in Gotham, he and the others found entertainment; this was probably the worst one ever devised. With only a flashlight in hand and the clothes on his back, Jimmy wandered into the cold and empty cemetery. He looks back at the gates, his seniors sitting on their bikes waving to him and pushing him to keep going. Biting his lip, he pressed on before stopping at the rusted fence and overgrown weeds that protected a closed-off part of the cemetery.

"H-He's not real. He's just a story, that's it."

His trembling hand pried the gate open, the loud creaking of the hinges scaring a murder of crows to fly away, startling the young lad. He could hear his classmates laughing at him from a distance. He clenched his fist and shined his flashlight forward before entering the dark walkway towards the dilapidated and crumbling tombstone surrounded by rotten weeds. Jimmy shines the flashlight on the fallen golden plaque and reads it beneath his breath.

"Here lies Dr. Jonathan W. Cane. March 1635-1692. May his spirit forever lie in rest and never return."

He rummaged in his coat pocket and took a deep breath, his body quaking as he unfolded the slip of paper and set his phone to record. He stared at the broken grave and swallowed his fears before beginning to speak.

"Oh, dear Doctor Crane. Long may he reign. When the red roses bloom and the moon hangs in the air, shall your eyes open? When the crows cry out, and the land turns cold, shall you speak your first words?"

BRAKAKOOM!

He shakes as he stares up at the sudden arrival of storm clouds above him. He gulps before continuing with a shaky breath.

"When Gotham cries, and her children grow old and die. S-Shall your fingers grasp your scythe."

The second crash of thunder erupts in the sky, causing Jimmy to jump as cold raindrops begin to hit his head. He would turn back, but if he didn't bring back proof, he would be the victim of endless teasing and bullying by his compatriots. So, he continued.

"Will you stand up when the streets flood with lights and people? Will you take your first steps when your demonic servant takes flight in the night sky?"

The wind begins to whip around him, causing the drops of rain to feel like razor blades against the child's skin. He's now utterly terrified and wants to leave as soon as possible.

'Screw this!' he thought. He grabbed his phone and crumbled up the paper before running for the exit. But the wind got stronger the farther he got from Crane's grave. He felt as if he was fighting nature itself as he got closer to the fence; the thunder roared and screamed in his ears while the lightning blinded him temporarily. Jimmy didn't know why, but every part of his body shouted to him three simple words.

"Don't. Turn. Around."

The hairs on his neck stood up as he ran faster than ever before. He felt something, some dark and horrifying thing behind him. He could hear it too; it had a voice like a cold blade scraping against his eardrums. He was almost there. But he then felt the wind whisper in his ears; it was that voice once again carried by the wind. He feels long, and skinny fingers wrap themselves around his neck while another grabs his left arm. A cold and boney presence places itself on his shoulder as he hears it whispers in his ear.

"Don't turn around. Finish it."

Jimmy's eyes welled up with tears, his short life flashes before his eyes as he can feel his pants warming up upon him, soiling himself in fear. He wants to scream, to scream for help from his mother, who he wants to arrive and save him from this THING!

"Finish it."

"I-"

"Finish it."

"Help."

"Finish it!"

"HELP! ANYONE!!"

"FINISH IT!!!"

He sobs and cries out, hoping that he'd be close enough for at least his friends to hear his pleas for help. But it was to no avail. No one was coming for him. Not his so-called friends. Not even his mother, who had no idea where he even was. He then felt himself being slowly dragged back towards the grave. The boy's body turns ice-cold as he nears the tombstone once again. He feels the claws of this creature pierce his neck and slither themselves into his esophagus. As he returns to the grave, he once again hears that same spine-tingling voice in his ear once more commanding him.

"Finish it."

So he did.

"M-Mr. Crane. Mr. Crane. When you stand and talk again, who will be your Scarecrow of fear before you disappear?"

Jimmy felt his vocal cords severed; he slowly held his throat. His hands feel something warm and wet. His torso follows the same sensation before his eyes look forward, only to find the graveyard gone and replaced by a dense, thick fog. Jimmy's tears hit the ground as something begins to form in the distance. A silhouette starts to form of a tall male figure walking towards him. His eyes widen as he recognizes the man. A feeling of elation and joy overwhelms him at the appearance of the tall, dark-haired gentleman dressed in a black cloak with a strange cowl with white eyes. The man removes the cowl and smiles, revealing a handsome gentleman's face with a kind smile.

"Hey, kiddo."

"D-daddy?"

Tears of joy now fall from Jimmy's cheeks as he holds out his arms for his father. The man smiles and embraces his son before whispering into the child's ear.

"Why you, of course. You shall become my silent and strong Scarecrow while I walk the earth. For you shall show them all their true fears."

Jimmy freezes up, his father pulling away from the hug and looking at him with angry and hateful eyes. His father screams and shakes the young man, blood dripping from every orifice as he berates the young boy.

"I hate you! I HATE YOU! YOU USELESS BRAT! I LOST EVERYTHING BECAUSE OF YOU!!!"

Jimmy tries to defend himself, to understand as he feels himself sinking. He cries out to no avail. His father continues to bleed out before falling to his knees and screaming as Jimmy can do nothing but watch before falling into the grave of Dr. Crane.

"Thank you, Scarecrow."

His screams bounce against the seemingly bottomless pit before he can hit the metaphorical bottom. A large hand grasps onto Jimmy's wrists, holding him in mid-air, "Don't struggle."

Jimmy could barely piece together descriptions of his savior, he couldn't tell where the shadows began, and the figure ended. All he could note was his piercing white eyes and the yellow light ruminating from his chest. His voice was gruff, almost like he was a monster, and his palm covered his whole wrist.

"NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!"

The tunnel trembled and began to fall apart; Jimmy looked down at his feet and screamed at the horrors he saw below. The shadows of the abyss below glowed bright orange; from shadows emerged a colossal skull consumed in flames. Its fanged maw opened up, unleashing a giant tower of fire upwards. The apparition roared with an abhorrent and ear-shattering scream.

"HE IS MINE!!!!"

"Hang on!" The dark figure unlatched itself from the walls, its wings unfurling as they took off upwards towards the closing gap. The heat hits their backs; they escape by a hair's breadth, crashing onto the muddy ground. "Ow."

Jimmy's eyes open slowly as the rain hits his face; now looming over him was the exact dark figure that saved him earlier. Now freed from the abyssal darkness, Jimmy could sparse more precise details of his hero. The glowing circle on his chest held an Emblem in the shape of a bat; he discarded the burning black cloak that once decorated his back. A metal cross with a gold center and silver tip; his body was covered in grey armor. His waist and face were covered by a black cowl sporting elongated ears. His white eyes didn't seem human; they were cold and detached.

"Get out of here. This place isn't safe." His voice was just as cold and harsh as in the tunnel. He glares at the pit, walking towards the place they just escaped from; he pulls the cross from his back and stiffens. That's when the ground beneath them shook with deadly fury, the earth cracked, steam and hellfire burst forth from the ground sending both flying away as he emerged from the grave.

"THAT BOY IS MINEEEE!!!!!"

His roar ruptured the sky and summoned a ferocious storm. The sickening orange glow illuminated the area as Batman glared at the light.

"HE SPOKE THE ENCHANTMENT! HE BROUGHT FORTH MY POWER! HIS FEARS FEED ME!!!"

Jimmy could no longer scream, the sensation of his lunch evacuating his body prevented as he looked upon Crane's indescribable horrific visage. His fingers, long like needles jutting out his bony wrists, his torso was nothing more than a ribcage with little to no skin attached to it and shackles attached to his arms and neck. But what would never leave the child's mind were his eyes.

A skull covered by a burlap sack, sharp fangs in place of normal human incisors, and black voids with burning crimson embers in the area of eyes. Crane emerged from the grave, towering over them both like a giant while screaming in anguish and rage. His wide mouth tearing parts of the bag, revealing rotten skin underneath and long grey hairs.

"YOU CANNOT TAKE HIM FROM ME!!! THE CONTRACT IS SEALED, AND HIS FEARS SHALL BE MINE!!"

Batman spat on the ground and clenched the cross in his gloved right hand; in his other, he pulled out four Bat-Shaped daggers to hold in between his fingers.

"Bold of you to think that I actually care. You're not taking that child or anyone, Crane."

His screams were unholy. He slammed his bony palm into the ground sending shockwaves towards man and child. With a click, the silver tip of his cross fired outwards like a bullet, a chain acting as a cable. It wrapped around the boy's leg and pulled him towards the cowled man as they crashed onto a nearby clearing. Jimmy's breath became erratic, and his tears ran down his already wet cheeks. His eyes glazed over as he could only mutter words in a language lost to modern ears. Batman groaned in pain as he carried Jimmy behind a nearby gravestone, hiding them from Crane's wrath.

"Damn it. C'mon kid. Wake up and snap out of it!" He shook the boy by the shoulders, quickly rummaging through one of the pouches on his belt for aid. He placed a paper talisman against the boy's forehead and pressed his thumb, causing the slip to glow and burn with a bright yellow light. Instantly, color returns to Jimmy's skin as he quickly exhales another round of bile. "Good. You're out of the trance. Jimmy, right?"

"W-What's going on?" asked Jimmy, fighting the words out in between sobs. The boy is hoisted up onto his feet, with Batman placing a charm in the boy's hands.

"No time for questions. Listen to me, run to the gate and place the charm on the outside. Then say these in this order, never break it or stop. And whatever you do, don't look back!"

"B-But," Batman pulled him close, whispering the chant into his young ears before pushing away. With little to no hesitation, he leaped over the grave, chain whip in hand.

"No buts. NOW GO!" Jimmy trembled as he cowered behind the headstone. The sounds of battle raging on behind him, Crane's screaming and roaring burrowing into his eardrums. Clutching the charm to his chest, he bolted forward, screaming with his full breath.

"JIMMY! JIMMMMMYYYYYYY!!!!!! Don't YOU RUN FROM ME!!!"

Jimmy screamed louder to ignore the ghouls' cries. He felt the ground distort and change around him; each drop of rain felt like another weight being added onto him. His legs wobbled, and his breathing became raggedy.

"KEEP GOING!" Screamed Batman from the battlefield. Jimmy pushed forward, ignoring the pain in his body as he neared the gate.

"Jimmy?"

His body froze; still, his blood went cold as he trembled in place. A feminine voice wormed its way into his ears. It was kind, concerned, and all-around comforting. "Jimmy? What are you doing here? You're supposed to be home!"

"M-Mom. I-" his words clung to his throat; every synapse in his brain screamed at him to keep running, but his legs refused to move.

"I work day and night! Slave over a hot stove to feed you! And here you are, doing god knows what! HERE! WHAT ABOUT YOUR BROTHER! GOD! WHY MUST YOU CONSTANTLY DISAPPOINT ME!!!"

Her once kind voice fell apart at the arrival of a sinister and distorted cracked tone. Like nails on a chalkboard, she continued her ravings, getting ever closer to the boy. "I SHOULD'VE LEFT YOU ON THE STREET WHEN I HAD THE CHANCE! YOU' IRRITATING CANCER ON MY LIFE!!!"

Her rants continued, even more, causing Jimmy to fall to his knees in terror. He was done. This was all too much for one boy to go through. He-he should've just surrendered himself to Crane and saved himself and others the pain, but before he could turn around to accept his fate. One of Batman's daggers flew past him, nipping his cheek and snapping him out of the trance. In the reflection of the blade, he saw Batman lunging at the giant Scarecrow avoiding every attack.

"KEEP GOING!" he yelled from the battlefield. Jimmy clenched his teeth, and despite every molecule in his body yelling at him. He ran forward, ignoring Crane's grip on his soul as he grabbed hold of the rusty gate and slammed the paper charm against it. With a deep breath, he screamed out the command given to him by Batman.

"Through the murky waters and misty woods, I cast this spirit out of this infernal boon. I renounce your evil power and hold. I remove your binding from my soul! Jonathan Crane, I demand your soul leaves this place! I remove your brand and fear you NO MORE!!!!"

BRAKAKAKOOOM!!!!!!

A bright white light blinded Jimmy, its light burned his shirt, and he felt what felt like lightning strike every cell in his body. As he flew back from the explosion, the world fell apart around him into a bright orange void. He turned around, and all he saw was the burlap sack containing Crane's face burned away, and his natural face was revealed to his former victim.

His hollow eyes released a waterfall of blood and tar, and his mouth released curses in a language, not even he could parse. The demon's face opened its maw and flew towards Jimmy, cackling as it attempted one last time to claim the boy's soul.

"NOT TODAY!!"

Before he could swallow the boy whole, Batman descended with his cross in hand, unleashing the bladed tip with the chain. He slammed his weapon in between Crane's eyes, cracking the skull apart and unleashing a bright and unholy white light. Jimmy screamed, only to be scooped up in Batman's arms as the two were engulfed in the explosion.

"Yo, Jimmy. You okay?"

Jimmy opened his eyes and screamed as he fell to the dirty floor. He scanned the area, finding himself surrounded by his former friend as they stood before the gate. The Batman was nowhere in sight and not a sign of Crane. The scratch on his cheek was no longer there nor the charm he'd used to defeat the demon.

"I-I gotta go home." With little hesitation, Jimmy rode off home. A new sense of vigor in his veins as he left the cemetery. The remaining boy's began to ponder and eventually mock Jimmy's quickness. Still, they too fled in droves as they finally took notice of the large black and grey figure that loomed over them draped in a long black cape. His white eyes sent fear deep into their souls as they evacuated the area in haste.

"Good. And stay out." He said. Batman Batman turned to the site of the paranormal he stood in moments earlier. He placed a small blue gem within the lock of the gate; within seconds, the gate crackled and resonated with an electric blue aura. It hummed before going silent, forever. Batman smirked and turned away, vanishing into the night to his next battle against the monsters in the night.

-THE END-

#batober 2021 #batman #gothic #fear #horror #dc comics #dc superheroes #scarecrow #monsters #demons #ghosts #elseworlds #dc universe

8 notes · View notes

spookyspaghettisundae · 3 years

Text

Typical Colin

Helen jolted awake. To her growing shock, she was not in her own room, but in an unfamiliar, cold, dark place. Not on a bed, but on a hard concrete surface, coarse and rough. High ceilings, distant walls, all swallowed by shadow. Harsh edges everywhere, coupled with the smell of rust. She could taste the grit and filth of this abandoned hall.

Grime had fogged up windows, through which moonlight shone inside, dimly drawing outlines upon crates and steely shelves cluttered with all manners of junk, encased in bubble wrap and cardboard and seas of packing popcorn.

A warehouse she had never seen before, never been inside of before.

From where she was sitting on the ground, she almost jumped onto her feet when she heard something scraping. Metal against stone. Screeching, grating noises.

Drawing closer.

She backed up into one of the shelves, sending shockwaves through the clutter on them and causing it all to rattle and clink and then something toppled over and—

SMASH.

Glass shattered on the floor, shards, and liquid scattering all over, immediately followed by something like vinegar assaulting her nose.

The scraping sounds stopped. She held her breath, knowing what would follow.

Then the scraping started again. Faster.

Heading her way.

In a growing panic and increasingly nauseating dizziness, Helen scrambled away from the sounds closing in on her, taking a left turn here, pacing just quickly enough to not make noise but not fast enough to be running, then taking a right there, meandering her way through this maze of towering shelves and stacks of cardboard boxes of which no human could reach the tops. She descended deeper into the darker insides of this warehouse.

When she stopped to hide in a nook between objects cloaked by shadows, her heart beat so fast and loudly that she worried her pursuer could perceive it. Holding her breath again only made her heart race faster and fear itself erupted from her pores in a cold sweat.

The scraping passed by her, separated by a wall of shelves standing in between them. It was so dark back there that she could only make out a vague silhouette, further obscured by whatever had been piled onto the shelf beds.

Something the size of a man, walking on all fours like a dog rather than upright, creeping through the valley of warehouse junk with abrupt and stiff movements.

SHWINK. SCRANK. SHWINK. SHANK. SHWINK.

It sounded like four huge knives being dragged across whetstones to sharpen them.

Imagery of arm-sized blades filled her mind, attached to stumps where hands and feet should be. Even though she could not see them, her imagination filled in the blanks with something awful. Dripping with ichor, peering out from hollow sockets instead of eyes. A mouth without teeth, made only of hands and grasping fingers.

All in her mind.

Something else audibly clicked.

Behind her.

Trembling like a dry leaf hanging onto a skeletal autumn branch, she slowly turned to face whatever had just made that sound behind her.

Before having fully turned around, a soft glow flared up. Red, hot, and cold, all at the same time, weaker than a candle, closer to the glimmer of a cigarette.

A very big cigarette.

The toxic smell of smoke filled the air and made her cough, covering her mouth.

Something close to what she had just imagined. An eyeless thing only half her size, with grasping hands for a mouth. No blades, though. Its arms ended in stumps from which embers and ashes trailed off, carried away in a nonexistent breeze, like the ends of burning cigarettes, only grotesquely oversized and feeding from pallid flesh that stretched thin around gaunt limbs.

It raised those glimmering stumps, threatening to burn her, while looking pathetic and desperate at the same time. Like a small child, pleading for something and stretching up to try to grab it from the adult keeping it out of its little reach.

All fear drained from Helen. A scorching anger took its place.

She screamed at this amorphous abomination.

"You never got it, did you! Heroin was where you should have drawn the line, Nadine!"

Helen screamed at her old dead friend. But Nadine had never listened, and would not now, either.

SHWINK. SCRANK. SHWINK! SHANK! SHWINK!

The scraping gained speed and stopped abruptly.

The blade-armed thing was exactly behind her, and she was about to turn around and tell it to fuck off, but understood the futility of it. She just never got through to any of them.

Instead of seeing Kent, when Helen turned around, she jolted awake.

This time, she had awoken in her bed. Sitting up in a tangle of sweat-drenched pajamas and sheets, she stared at the empty spot beside her—the spot that had stayed empty for a full year.

Clink.

Clank.

Soft sounds from downstairs.

Sounds from the kitchen.

They made Helen's blood run cold. Her bangs were clinging to her forehead with sweat, sweat born from the nightmare and now painfully felt in the cool air of her bedroom, molting with the knowledge that there should not be any sounds coming from downstairs.

Because Helen lived alone ever since—

Ever since—

Her grip around the baseball bat tightened as she cautiously descended the stairs, creeping around, corner by corner, the hardwood floors burning coldly against her bare soles. A whole slew of unpleasant sensations, all overshadowed by the dread of a home invader, amplified by the horror of having left her phone in the kitchen, her only means of calling for help now separated from her by said invader. And only this baseball bat at her disposal.

Would anybody find her? Or would neighbors eventually notice the smell coming from her house after her inevitable murder, telling police and reporters alike how they would have never expected such a horrible thing to happen in their neck of the woods?

Clink. Swish.

Bottles jingled in the fridge.

Bastard was helping herself to her food, adding insult to injury. Had the lights on in the kitchen and everything—making no secret of the intrusion. Like he owned the place.

How ever had he bypassed the alarm?

His shadow bobbed back and forth, broadcasting his presence as Helen waited in the darkness behind the doorway, baseball bat raised high above her head and ready to crack a skull.

When she turned the corner, she gasped. Some part of her had been ready to scream and swing and strike, but what she saw—or rather, who she saw—robbed her of all ability to act. Her brain broke a little bit in the attempt of making sense of it.

Colin stood in the kitchen, making himself a sandwich. His skin was pallid, his clothing half-decayed and eaten by worms or corpse juices, all of which made sense for a body that had been buried for over half a year.

What did not make sense was him being here, standing in the kitchen, slathering mustard and mayonnaise onto bread and stuffing it with cheese and cold cuts. She had told the doctors to pull the plug half a year after the incident, then he was buried in the local cemetery. Almost twenty people had showed up to mourn his passing.

He turned around with his gross sandwich slapped together, took a bite from it with yellowed, rotten teeth, and started chewing with a terrible grin stretching across his face. More sadistic and malicious than anything he had ever displayed in his lifetime.

Mouth half-full, he said, "Hello, honey. I'm home."

Helen was speechless. Could anybody blame her?

She wondered if she was dreaming, but after waking up from a vivid nightmare just to walk into this unfathomable situation, she very well felt the stark contrast, the difference between reality and the glamours of surreal dreamscapes.

This was very real.

He chewed, swallowed—in a way that looked painful, like he was trying to swallow a cup of gravel—and forced his face to widen his grin. Some of his skin was sloughing off around the edges, drooping from his chin and jaw and turning his face into a grotesque caricature of his former life. But without a doubt, this was him.

This was Colin.

"Surprised to see me? Well, guess what, bitch. I'm here for some payback. I'm here to serve justice from beyond the grave. I—"

"W-what are you talking about?" she asked, cutting in while he rambled on about making her pay and other nonsense that sounded like it came from a bad movie.

Undead Colin guffawed. A raspy, throaty thing, emitting a stinging smell reminiscent of vomit.

"What I'm talking about? Bitch, you know exactly what I'm talking about. You had me killed by those punks. And you thought you could get away with it."

He continued eating the sandwich with a comically oversized bite. Almost to punctuate his accusations. Could he even digest food like this? The way he swallowed continued to look painful, like he was making a point more than enjoying anything from his previous life. Crumbs tumbled from the corners of his drooping lips, slime dripped down right after it.

Helen blinked and shook her head, unsure what of this baffled her more: Colin's return from a coffin buried six feet under, or what he was accusing her of. He took another bite from the sandwich.

"Are you out of your mind? Honey—"

"Don't you 'honey' me, you murderous witch," he grumbled, muffled, mouth full, sputtering out some sloppy chunks in the process.

"Those punks were just some hoodlums, some hooligans tweaked out of their minds on drugs. The cops said they had already put several homeless people in the hospital before they attacked you. You were—they were—you cannot seriously believe that I had anything to do with that. You were on life support for five months. Everybody tried to talk me into pulling the plug way sooner—I am in massive debt over it."

Colin's lips smacked as he chewed, and his face contorted. Dead skin wrinkled and sagged more dramatically than it ever had in his lifetime. Probably because gravity was dragging most of it down.

Confusion marked his visage.

He swallowed again and paused in his almost comical display of pretending to eat like a living human being.

"What?"

Undead Colin was clueless of how many awful things he was dredging up. A full year since his hospitalization and effective departure from this world—and here he was, bringing it all back in the most unpleasant way possible.

Tears welled up in Helen's eyes. She had struggled so much to come to terms with it all, to get over it all. She was not even sure if she had managed to fully move on, yet.

"When one of those dumb asshole kids confessed, he said you were challenging them, taunting them. He said you said you could take them all on with your hands tied behind your back. They tied your hands behind your back and beat you to death, you big oaf!"

Undead Colin had stopped eating. Things were obviously not playing out as he had envisioned.

"You mean you and your lover-boy didn't hire them to murk me?"

Helen's outburst was violent, shaking the baseball bat without raising it, choked by sobbing and anger.

"What the fuck are you talking about? What lover-boy?"

Small chunks and gobs of food lazily plummeted from Colin's speechless, dead mouth.

"You mean you and Frank—you and Frank weren't—you know—"

"No! What's wrong with you?"

"Y-you and Frank always spent so much time together, you knew each other way longer than—"

"So fucking what? I never cheated on you! You should have just asked! I would have told you. You fucking moron! What are you doing here? How? How even?"

No answer.

His milky eyes darted to the baseball bat in her hand, the head of which now rested on the white tiles of her kitchen floor, hanging uselessly by her side as she wiped tears from her swollen face with the back of her other arm. It was just too much for her to take.

And Undead Colin was slowly beginning to put two and two together.

"So, you, uh, you're livin' alone now? Huh?"

"It's been a year. Well, more like half a year since we buried you, but there was nothing they could do. You were—"

She lost her speech, going hoarse. Wiped more tears from her eyes because they kept welling up and flowing uncontrollably.

Part of Helen wanted to hug Colin. But even standing several steps away, he smelled like someone had vomited into a dumpster that a skunk had sprayed its stink in and on top of which a pack of dogs had taken a crap. The stench filled the entire kitchen. Through all the confusion and sorrow and tears, there was a flash of her wondering how many cans of air freshener it would take to get rid of the awful smell.

"Shit. Uh. I'm sorry, babe. I—I thought you and Frank—you know. So, I was wrong, huh? That's good, right? Good to be wrong for a change!"

"Yes, you were fucking wrong, you fucking asshole. I missed you so much."

"W-well, uh, I'm sorry for bothering you, then. I promise it all came from a place of, uh, love. I, uh," he stopped mid-sentence. Thoughts that must have trailed off. The words died in his dead mouth.

He gingerly placed the sandwich on the counter, no plate, just spilling crumbs everywhere and allowing some mustard to splotch the surface. Undead Colin stared off into the corner. His typical air of abashed shame lingered about him, just like the last time when he set the barbecue grill on fire and burnt off his eyebrows despite insisting that he knew what he was doing when he squirted bottled accelerant into it.

For Helen, the floodgates were open, all memories bubbling to the surface. The tears were not only born by bitterness and loss, but happy memories, as well. And wondering about all that could have been. Helen now wondered what would happen next.

She started to ask him about it, "Does this mean that—"

He interrupted and said, "I'm sorry. I'm—I'm so sorry I didn't have more faith in you. Sorry for accusing you."

He sighed. A long gasp, like a whole cemetery breathing its last breath. Then he collapsed. Colin crumpled to the floor in a lifeless, stinking heap. He did not even twitch for a split second, all the unlife evaporated from his being at once. His milky-white eyes remained open, his body contorted in an awkward arrangement of limbs that were not supposed to bend that way and had no business being left in such awkward positions.

Helen started to sob again and covered her eyes. Torn away as abruptly as he had inexplicably returned from the dead.

A fly even buzzed about him.

It took minutes until she recovered from a jumble of broken thoughts.

Then she realized that he had left her with the mess of cleaning up after him again.

Of course. Typical Colin.

Did not have the decency to crawl back into the coffin he had clawed his way out of. Some poor groundskeeper probably had to take care of re-burying him all over again. And she had to get his body back there, somehow, too. Her skin began to crawl at the thought of what kind of insects he must have had on and in his corpse.

Minutes later, Helen groaned at the realization while pacing in a circle.

Then the doorbell rang, and the rhythmic, repetitive flashes of red and blue light outside the windows suggested that police were at her front door.

Panic gripped her again, because this was no dream, and now she had to deal with the absurdity of it all. She had to pick up the pieces.

Typical fucking Colin.

—Submitted by Wratts

5 notes · View notes

sasorikigai · 2 years

Note

It's an unconscious gesture, nearly reflexive for one's hand as its fingers are light to squeeze around the warmth of other laying palm, not being tight to hold nor fully letting go while his dormant visage remains lulled by the peacefulness of sleep. Hidden darkened depths, what does bring the restless soul such a blissful comfort and quiescence?... Multitude of answers leading to the single reason, the only matter for Ryou is his and his beloved's shared enfold, soothing both of their hectic spirits during the time of well-deserved rest. ( for any verse of your liking y e e t )

'𝚃𝙰𝙺𝙴 𝙼𝚈 𝙷𝙰𝙽𝙳' 𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙼𝙿𝚃𝚂 (unprompted). || @sonxflight || accepting

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || Luscious raven straight hair that shimmers like gold beneath the moonlight and fiercely set eyes remain still and shut, as the stars scatter through the night’s sky and the formidable warriors on their own right become lovers as they lay in intimate proximity of the other. The inhalation of the brisk air stings Hanzo’s lungs as his seemingly motionless eyes flicker imperceptive to feel the dampness of the grass, to feel the pulse of his body in synchronization with the earth below to feel what it is to be alive. Engulfed by the stars above, and nestled beneath such imperturbable and fathomless silence, nothing, but the rhythmic lull of Ryou Sakai’s heartbeat becomes the floating cadence amidst the air they breathe in tandem. Hanzo Hasashi is without the uncertainty and the chaotic onslaught of the abyss, of his demonic vice’s creation that would cleave his chest open and cause vicious paroxysm, by causing a chokehold on his spine.

Laying evermore still in meditative contemplation which feels more like he has been transported in-between realms of attentiveness and unconscious slumber, Hanzo feels his conscious gradually being cut away, much more towards his reality where the sky above them remains as smooth as a calm sea, clouds forming an endless iceberg. All his eyes can see is an endless stretch of foam and sea, a snowstorm in the far distance approaching their makeshift camp, as the celestial tapestry seems more like rivers gently flowing in underwater currents. Forests, manifesting themselves like fields of seaweed beneath the rushing onslaught of frigid wetness.

Their colossal heart may continue to be strangled and mangled beneath their shared and respective trials and tribulations that further blossom despair and trauma, with their entirety being scarred as the silent wreckage of them reverberate ceaselessly. It’s the same as the morose melancholia that continue to flow through his veins as magmatic hellfire and sadness originating deep from his perpetual grief and remorse, which thrum in his blood. For Hanzo Hasashi was meant to grieve until his last breath, and his existence and reason for living would be rendered naught if it weren’t for effulgent embers shining bright with timeless light, dwelling in the depth of his heart and soul, through his Arcana.

His comfort and warmth would traverse even through the ocean’s void, through the vast ages of his torment and agony, lest they could join in their eternal graves as the heliac resplendence of their light annihilates the impervious darkness of the world. Didn’t the universe already enfolded them in solemn, sacred embrace and entwinement? It all began with the imperfections of their hearts seeking to find the most perfect puzzle piece as they found all the missing fragments needed to mend their fissured crevasses and cracks. The incessant knives of the vicious, brutal kombat may continue to thrust and their blood will run smoldering red.

Parts of Hanzo Hasashi will never see the world the same, for the wounded, unhealed part of him are black and twisted, broken down to never see the blissful grin of his wiped-off smile. The duality of his hellfire may be the conduit that would only catalyze chaos, become an ancient form of his physical and mental torture, but Hanzo Hasashi knows he keeps on healing, growing, evolving, expanding, and changing, so that others, including his most beloved, his heart will never meet the same version of him twice.

Like a nocturnal flower there in the shadow, Hanzo’s proverbial, everburning warmth softly opens for Ryou Sakai and to him only; as the delicate winds of his eased, graceful movement careens towards his beloved, his emanating phantom flames softly caress part of the samurai unknown and lights a path in the darkness (if there ever exists one in his dreamscape) as he carefully slides an arm under Ryou’s neck, gently coaxing his slumbering body atop his own.

How they become completely coalesced that way - entire, bare, silent, and overflowing with unconcerned tranquility and peace. How Hanzo’s shoulders drop and soften around the settled weight, as the softness of his smile reaches his eyes, which reflect the endless vastness of the sky. Blades of grass sways in the wind, and with Ryou Sakai’s steady, slowed heartbeats twirling in the stronghold of his arms, the clear joy in his eyes continue to linger as he too, slips deep into somnolent haze, followed by the deep slumber. ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 ||

#✗ the ineffable testimony of spawned hellfire (scorpion)#✗ seeking reconciliation with his own humanity (iii)#✗ epitome of sunlight (ryou sakai || sonxflight)#(hanryou)#(heliac flames)#sonxflight

2 notes · View notes

merryfortune · 3 years

Text

Lunacy

Written for 100ships Challenge on Dreamwidth

Prompt: 06 Lust

Ship: Eirika/Valter

Fandom: Fire Emblem Sacred Stones

Word Count: 2,941

Rating: M

Warnings: Chose not to use warnings

AN: Big thank you to @seasaltmemories for being my beta :D

Tags: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Forced Relationships, Obsession, Abuse, Murder, Themes of Rape/Non-con

Every night, without fail, the Goddess of the Moon used to light up the night skies, turning every end of the day into a feat of joy and merriment with just her appearance as she danced through the skies, no chariot of her own, just her and her two glass slippers. The nocturnal hours that she lit were precious and safe, completely and utterly free of the fear of the dark.

It’s not like that anymore. Sometimes she is able to grace the world with the whole of her dance, other times she is shrouded in darkness. Worst of all are the nights when she’s not there at all.

Ever since the Goddess of the Moon was forced to wed the God of the Dark, she had been unable to dance like she had in the more innocent days of yore. The gentle, restful night had been transformed due to their union as with his occurrence within the world had caused a new, dreadful fear to become known to the world. Thus cementing the God of the Dark as having a reputation for being the stealer of one of the two most precious lights that resided within the heavens.

The moon had been taken from her twin, the sun, her elder brother.

Ephraim, the older twin, the literal golden boy, was the emissary of the sun. Commanding a golden chariot pulled by golden horses, he lit up the day with his fierce warmth and light, bringing energy to all lit by it. From the people to the animals to the plants. Each and every day, over the course of several hours, Ephraim and his horses would cause the sun to arc over the world. He would leave a blaze in his wake regardless of which season it was but that is what made him and his chariot, the sun, so admirable.

Meanwhile, at night, Eirika would take to the skies in her brother’s place. She had no chariot, only her two glass slippers but her dance was elegant and illuminating. Her dance would lull children to sleep and her rapier would allow for light to gleam off it, revealing safe paths for weary travellers to follow. Where her brother blazed, she was a dew or a frost. Soft and forgiving, soothing, healing.

Both the sun and the moon had their fair share of followers and devotees.

But Eirika had a devout follower like none other. A man by the name of Valter who had been praying to her since he was a child. It was a childhood interaction between him and the Goddess of the Moon that had caused him to become utterly obsessed with her.

He recalled that fateful night with brilliant clarity, when the Goddess of the Moon had come down from the heavens and presented himself to her in the flesh and nectar.

Beaten. Starved. Abused. Just a sampling of what Valter endured as the bastard child of a noblewoman and a rapist. And like many others, the night was the only reprieve from the scrutiny and assault that he faced from the people around him meant to be his family or carers.

He escaped outside, into the cool and into the fireflies that lingered near the pond at the rear of the orchard. Far, far away from the house with the little, battered cot that he had to call a bed. He looked up into the sky, through the treetops and the stars, and saw her. The most beautiful woman a child could ever conceive of: he saw the moon and his eyes filled upon that visage and with tears, too.

He prayed. He begged. He worshipped in the blinding, holy light of the moon with no temple or ritual. Just his brutal feelings and brutalised body. He laid down his body and soul for this and for that, the Goddess of the Moon stepped down from the heavens and appeared before him.

She caressed this child’s bruised face and cradled him, she ran her fingers through his hair and untangled the knots. Valter wept in her arms and so, Eirika gave him a blessing that he would take to his grave: she kissed his forehead and thus, a seal was placed upon him. The mark of the full moon. So long as he was faithful to her, no harm would befall him all the same as any other beneath Eirika’s moon.

Then, once Eirika felt that she had consoled this child, she disappeared into his arms. A cavalcade of moonlit glitter, silvery and blue, and returned to her eternal dance in the night sky. Every twirl of her body, every kick of her long legs, every flick of her hand, another movement of the moon made as it had its own arc over the Earth.

With the blessing of the Moon Goddess protecting him, his parents never raised a hand against him and he realised something. He was not weak anymore. He was not their prey. And so, empowered by the seal upon his forehead, Valter found his hierophilic purpose in life. Looking up at the indigo skies, he watched, entranced by the moonlight, by the goddess herself. Every night, he watched. He prayed.

Admiration and prayer gave way to obsession in the mind of young Valter as Eirika never visited him again, no matter how he pleaded and begged for her to reappear before him. And so, hopes and wishes, no matter how suffocated with his twisted affection, gave way to actions. He would do whatever it took for Eirika to notice him once more amongst all her mortal followers. Whatever it takes.

Eventually, Eirika did notice Valter once more. He became all consuming to her attention, sickening her to her very core.

He had grown into a man, a man like a wyvern. Tall, bulky, and sneering all the same as that heinous, fanged reptile. His prayers had turned to rallying cries of orchestrated tragedy. Each struck reverberating through the goddess whom he showed his devotion to in frigid cold blood. Until she had to cry out to no one at all as the gods had no higher power they could truly turn to.

He was slaughtering innocents, those whom he deemed as unworthy followers of her and anyone else who had the misfortune of crossing his path like a black cat. Every kill, a prayer and as they were prayers, Eirika felt each and everyone of them, even so far flung as into the skies and heavens. Every plunge of his spear against his so-called offerings was felt by Eirika as deep as the pain could possibly go and further still.

She felt the eviscerations that he put his victims through, the way he disembowled and revelled in the resulting viscera, how he desecrated what little was left. Every wound, every puncture. Though Eirika did not spill with a single drop of blood, she felt it as though it were a waterfall. The phantom penetrations left her on her knees as she could only grit her white teeth through it at all, screaming, sobbing, body and soul violated with his weapon of choice. His lunatic devotion.

To the envy of the gods of war and the like, Valter was single handedly causing a disbalance in nature and the aether. All in adoration of Eirika and for it, Eirika would be the one punished by her fellow gods and goddesses. Not even her brother the sun could protect her as Lyon, the emissary of death, made his way to the moon, a tranquil fury at Eirika’s perceived negligence.

He visited Eirika in the wayside of twilight, before her nightly dance would begin and he found her on her sublime abode, of marble and pure white rock, retching, holding herself as she felt more - dozens - killed in her name. Lyon knelt beside her.

“Hark, my friend,” he told her, stroking her shoulder, an embodiment of light such as Eirika was not meant for such darkness, “but you must have courage and take to even your own follower to cease his atrocities. My domain is overflowing with souls who were not meant to be cut down by death just yet, it is disruptive, please understand, dear.”

“I understand, Lyon, I will find a way to cease this madness.” Eirika said, sucking in a breath to sound braver than she was.

“Excellent.” Lyon agreed and in a smog of shadow and dust, Eirika was left alone.

She gazed out across the sky and she felt so, so small before the might of humankind and even all the universe. She had never felt that way before. She was a goddess, after all. So, she found herself seeking the counsel of someone whom she could always trust: her twin brother.

Time was of the essence but Ephraim appeared on her cross path eventually. She hailed out to him and he halted his horses. They whinnied and whined but with Ephraim’s expert command, they stopped and he dismounted from behind the guard of his chariot.

“Unexpected to see you this soon, sister.” Ephraim greeted her.

“I need a little of your help.” Eirika confessed, fidgeting. “I have never had a follower kill in my name, let alone slaughter. I have been told to end him but I do not believe myself to be up to the task alone.”

Ephraim stroked his chin thoughtfully, “I am informed of the situation and believe it is yours and yours alone, little sister.”

“I have never taken up arms against anyone,” Eirika said, “I am not like you brother. I am not a warrior. I am a lover, not a fighter.”

“Then perhaps you ought to use that to your advantage. Fight with words, rather than weapons.” Ephraim said then sighed. “With that, I must dismiss you. As you cannot prolong the night, neither can I prolong the day.”

“I understand, rest well later, Ephraim.” Eirika told him.

She watched as he and his horses left her. She watched the sparks and embers in his trail, they were beautiful but in the right temperature, could ignite the very crops that he was meant to rear. Eirika wondered if the indulgent blessing she had given away so recklessly a few years ago was the same. Her heart wrenched and sure enough, the killing prayers had begun again and her offerings were in the form of heads cleaved from necks rather than trimmed hollyhocks or similar.

It brought her to her knees with indecision and powerlessness. Eirika, a goddess, was left snivelling and sobbing in the wake of the murder in her name. She hadn’t a faintest clue how gods of war and death endured or if it felt different to them.

Desiring nothing more than to at least end her own suffering, let alone the grief of the loved ones of those who had been killed in her name, Eirika found her courage. She would find her own way to fight against this follower of hers. Eirika took a deep, heaving breath and her gloved fists strengthened. She tried to lift herself up but she was struck once more by the sensation of a piercing lance but she endured the pain as innocents were killed in her name. She vanished from the edge of the world where she had met her brother.

Reappearing in a scourged field, Eirika stood, uncertain and she gazed out past the fallen, slaughtered bodies. This may have been a village once and it was as though war had razed it but she only saw the silhouette of one man and his lance in his hand. The one man who had caused this tragedy and his weapon of choice.

Valter twitched. He could sense a cool change in the dusk. His movements were unnatural as he lumbered around, enthralled, that he appeared to be in the presence of someone more than loyalty. Eirika steeled herself. His gaunt face split into a manic grin. A lust for life, a lust for blood, and worst of all: a lust for her, Eirika sensed from it.

“Eirika, my goddess, you recall me?” he asked as he began to amble forward, tired by his slaughter, using his lance as a cane to hobble with, and yet enthused by Eirika’s reappearance before her.

In front of her, he laid down his weapon, overjoyed that his prayers had finally been heard, it seemed. He took her hand and smothered her knuckles with kisses. Eirika remained akin to marble, just a statue, glaring yet neutral. Valter’s passion disgusted her but what really made Eirika tremble was the realisation that he still bore her blessing upon his forehead. It shone like a beacon, completely unmarred from the passage of time, unmarred by the splatter of blood, completely unlike the rest of his face.

“Yes, I remember you, the child that I assisted.” Eirika replied gravely.

Valter lifted his head and Eirika saw a jaundice to his eyes, they were wide, “I was worried my prayers were eluding you, I am nothing but devoted to you, my goddess, your attention is all that I desire.”

“They have been heard, Valter,” Eirika said, firm, “and they must stop.”

Her proclamation shocked Valter to stone. He blinked. He behaved as though he could not fathom her words.

“This killing in my name must stop.” Eirika continued, her voice getting louder now.

Both of them were distraught but somehow, Valter was more so. He gawked, on the brink of anger. His one-sided love betrayed.

“I will do anything to bring a stop to your murder.” Eirika told him.

“Anything?” Valter echoed and disbelief gave way upon his rugged face to something conniving. It made Eirika’s skin crawl.

“Yes, anything, so long as it is within the boundaries of my domain.” Eirika replied, sheepish, already regretting her words but she hoped that so long as his request was per her own magic, then she would be true to her own word yet she dreaded Valter’s reply.

He took a moment to peruse his words and gather what his anything would be but his teeth glinted, “I have my request.”

“Let’s hear it.” Eirika replied, bravely, keeping her chin up even though she dreaded what was about to come from Valter’s mouth.

“I want power.” Valter said. “Power of the gods.”

“I must deny that, I can give you no such thing.” Eirika replied and she tried to step away from Valter but he grabbed her hand.

Eirika’s heart could have jumped from her chest but instead, it sank. Valter came down to his knee, still holding her hand and Eirika realised what he was asking for her.

“I could share in your power, as your husband.” Valter said. “Have me as your mortal lover…”

“But make you a god.” Eirika finished his sentence for him.

He was perversely delighted, clearly thinking it a good omen of her marriage for her to do that. Eirika swallowed a lump in her chest and her expression remained firm. Brave. She took a breath.

“For a dowry, you will receive power over the dark, the home of the night sky and moon, but for the engagement, you will relinquish your killing. Those are our vows.” Eirika scowled.

“As you wish,” Valter replied, his voice a sick caress, “my love.”

Valter kissed Eirika’s hand once more. Just once. And there was a swell of power. The transfer of part of Eirika’s domain into another. She kept herself strong through it as she felt part of her power diminish and was eaten up by Valter.

“You are now Valter, God of the Dark.” Eirika christened him and she could feel a shift in the balance of nature and aether but she didn’t think she was going to be scolded for it.

This shift recontextualised itself and Eirika could feel the new presence of the dark. Not as a time of rest and solace, but as something that could have horrible dangers lurking in. An old fear, from before her time and birth as a goddess, revived and revitalised because of the birth of the new god before her, at her feet.

“Come, Valter, we must make haste. The night must begin, it must go on.” Eirika told him, hurried him.

Valter slowly got up and smiled eerily, “With pleasure.” he replied.

Though she wanted to be let go, Eirika instead took Valter’s hand. To turn the moon, to blanket the world in darkness and sleep, soothed by the gentle light of the moon… unfortunately he now had a place in this as a newlywed dance, no matter how unnerving.

Valter was sharply keen to assist. His hand was large against Eirika’s and despite being defined by her dualism with her brother, she had never danced with a partner before. His hands were stony and so were his movements, he was a warrior, not a dancer, Eirika quickly realised.

He trod on her toes, cracking the glass slippers her feet were adorned with but he was an eager partner, if anything else. Eager but inadequate, he took charge. They danced but it was not the dance that Eirika, or the world, had once known so effortlessly, so innately. As such, the moon was partially enshrouded in a shadow that had never been there before.

Thus, for the first time in all the history so far of creation, earthly and heavenly, the moon began to wane. A shade of darkness, her possessive husband, hid the moon’s face as she tried to dance as usual, beginning a new lunar cycle the world had not seen before but would come to know ever after.

#100ships challenge #writing tag #eirival #otp: both sides of the moon #fire emblem sacred stones #fire emblem #sacred stones #eirika x valter #valter x eirika #valter fire emblem #eirika fire emblem #gore cw #rape cw

5 notes · View notes

starlcved · 1 year

Text

shhhh.

* ⟢ EMBER GRAVES ❮ visage ❯

* ⟢ EMBER GRAVES ❮ script ❯

* ⟢ EMBER GRAVES ❮ aesthetic ❯

* ⟢ EMBER GRAVES ❮ study ❯

* ⟢ EMBER GRAVES ❮ desires ❯

* ⟢ EMBER GRAVES ❮ headcanons ❯

* ⟢ EMBER GRAVES ❮ edits ❯

#* ⟢ EMBER GRAVES ❮ visage ❯#* ⟢ EMBER GRAVES ❮ script ❯#* ⟢ EMBER GRAVES ❮ aesthetic ❯#* ⟢ EMBER GRAVES ❮ study ❯#* ⟢ EMBER GRAVES ❮ desires ❯#* ⟢ EMBER GRAVES ❮ headcanons ❯#* ⟢ EMBER GRAVES ❮ edits ❯

2 notes · View notes

homesteadchronicles · 4 years

Text

KINGDOM COME: Writing Excerpt (”Down the Path of Penance”)

Another night of inspiration, another piece released. Albeit much shorter than my last excerpt, this touches on an important subject: the dichotomy between the newfound prince and the once-princess. The intent here was to work on their dynamic, balancing between the bickering and bantering siblings often switch between on a dime, and divulge more of this nation’s mysteries.

Did it work? Let me know! For now, kick back and read on...

___

EXCERPT DETAILS:

PROJECT: Kingdom Come CHAPTER: Royan VII (The Undying) CHARACTERS: - Royan Godewine: Norian prince, knight captain, reluctant heir to the throne - Sigrid Godewine: Former princess, adoptive sister to Royan, daughter of the now-deceased king SETTING: - The Path of Penance: The primary street leading from the city gate to the Waymaker Cathedral at the capital’s heart - Almsgard: A fortress city built into a mountain that serves as the capital of Norire - Norire: One of the seven kingdoms who lost their king in the last war CONTEXT: - On the morning of a nationwide memorial service for their fallen king, Royan and Sigrid prepare to transport the casket down the Path of Penance

CONTENT WARNING(S): Referenced Character Death

___

Had it not been for the diadem weighing down his own hair, Royan would not have realized: Sigrid had traded her veil for a crown.

Although their king left no widow in his wake, Norian culture dictated that the next of kin would instead take up the mourning wear in their parent’s stead. For Sigrid, it meant swallowing her pride and slipping into a gown as gray as the grave. Like the smoke of a funeral pyre, Royan thought, the echoes of their childhood history lessons coming back to him now. Like the ash left behind in the fire’s wake.

The image of Sigrid in steel and silver had become such a common sight that this dress seemed all the more drab in comparison. Even the wolf pelt draped about her shoulders could not salvage her visage. What did it matter? The absence of a veil left few eyes looking elsewhere.

“You know,” Royan said, with an upward gaze and upturned lips, “this is the one time I can say ‘no one wants to see your face’ and you don’t have the right to beat me up. You’re sort of stealing my thunder here!”

Sigurd snorted. “No one would be staring at your ugly mug either way.” Her horse chose then to swat him with its tail, in unspoken cahoots with its caretaker. “But if you mean the veil, I won’t be wearing it.”

“Oh, now I see,” Royan replied, propped up against the makeshift casket. “You have a death wish!” He slapped the stone beneath him until it sang in agreement. “Good thing there’s room: we’ll have to squeeze you in. If Mom doesn’t throw you to the wolves herself.”

“She might have,” Sigrid agreed, “had it not been her idea.”

“...pardon?”

“Your mother decided to send a message: that it was time our kingdom moved on. For five years now, they’ve stood still, waiting for some savior to say they can keep going without their old king.”

His sister turned to him, perhaps for the first time that day. It must have been, for how else would he have missed the conviction and contrition, each smoldering like embers in her eyes? “Haven’t you noticed? Noticed the...the nothing in them!? How their tears freeze before they leave their face, hands numb to the ones they hold. Our people have forgotten how to feel, Royan!”

Sigrid confronted the crowd awaiting their grief-stricken royal, defiant and dignified. “I won’t deprive them of a princess in pain. No, they will see what it means to weep and walk forward.” In a whisper, almost too soft to be anything but a prayer, she said, “I only hope they follow in my footsteps...”

And then, she pressed on.

#writing excerpt #original writing #amwriting #my writing #creative writing #writeblr #writeblr community #writers of tumblr #writers on tumblr #writing #kingdom come #royan godewine #sigrid godewine

67 notes · View notes

jaybear1701 · 4 years

Link

Chapter Summary: Scylla begins her new role as an “instructor” at Fort Salem. It goes about as well as you might expect.

“This is some shit.”

Raelle hadn’t voiced the massive understatement. Beth Treefine did. And, for once, Raelle agreed with the haughty High Atlantic. Beth’s Unit stood shoulder-to-shoulder to the left of Abigail, Tally, and Raelle in the small gym that would serve as their training ground for whatever forbidden Work they’d be learning. The walls felt like they were closing in. And Raelle couldn’t even begin to parse out the jumbling emotions that made her head spin as she watched Scylla, back in uniform, trading hushed, tense words with Anacostia and Izadora.

“Isn’t Scylla, like, your ex?” Glory Moffett whispered out of the corner of her mouth to the Bellweather Unit’s right, brown eyes wide and round.

Heat prickled up Raelle’s neck.

Both Abigail and Tally shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

Beth’s head snapped toward Raelle. “Seriously, you dated a terrorist?” Her lips curled in disgust. “Why am I not surprised? You Cessions do love trash after all.”

Abigail grabbed Raelle’s wrist before she could launch herself at Beth and earn a month’s worth of demerits. “Shut your dirty, fetid mouth, Treefine, before I shut it for you,” Abigail threatened with a dangerous glare.

“Come on, Bellweather,” Beth scoffed. “Even you have to admit this is bullshit!”

“And what exactly is bullshit, Treefine?” Anacostia’s question boomed out into the confined space. “Is following orders bullshit?” She stalked toward Beth, who stood at attention. “Or maybe it’s doing whatever it takes to crush our enemies once and for all.” Standing toe-to-toe with Beth, Anacostia stared her down. “Is that bullshit to you, Private?”

“No, ma'am.” Beth kept her eyes trained forward, fear of the Goddess in them.

“Good.” Anacostia walked down the line, glowering at each War College freshman. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.” She paused briefly in front of Raelle before she continued on. “You’d do well to remember it.”

When she got to the last member of Glory’s unit, Anacostia returned to a position in front of the soldiers.

“For those of you who don’t already know, this is Scylla Ramshorn.” She beckoned Scylla forward. “Outside, she’s just another soldier. But here, she’ll be your instructor for the next few weeks. Treat her with anything but respect, and you’ll answer to me.” She moved to the side to stand next to Izadora.

The air thickened in Raelle’s lungs as Scylla stepped forward, fingers casually tucked in her pockets, a small smirk on her stupidly beautiful face. Except the smug smile seemed almost too stiff, a brittle mask tenuously held in place.

Scylla cleared her throat. “I know this isn’t ideal for you,” she began, making eye contact with everyone but Raelle. “It’s not exactly a picnic for me, either. But the sooner we get through this, the sooner we can defeat the Camarilla.”

“How?” Abigail asked.

Raelle bit the inside of her cheek, while Tally stifled a groan.

“Bellweather,” Anacostia growled.

“Ma’am, I mean no disrespect,” Abigail explained, even as she eyed Scylla with caution. “A ceasefire is one thing. I genuinely want to know how the Spree can possibly help us.”

“The same old military tactics won’t work against the Camarilla for the same reason you’ve never eradicated the Spree in two decades,” Scylla explained. Off several blank looks, she added, “You can’t kill what you can’t catch.”

“And you’ll catch them with what?” Abigail crossed her arms. “Your winning personality?”

Scylla grinned. “There’s always that.” She slid a hand into her right pocket and fished out a zippo. “And this.” She flicked it open and lit it. Raelle’s lips parted as Scylla brought the flame to the edge of her jaw until it caught fire.

“Holy shit,” Glory gasped.

The blaze consumed Scylla’s entire face for several seconds before it petered out, leaving a second version of Abigail, embers slowly fading from her hair. “Boo.”

Frowning, the real Bellweather stiffened. “What the hell?!”

Dark memories of “Helen Graves” clawed at Raelle’s stomach, sharp and deep. “So, the key to defeating the Camarilla is, what, deception?” She couldn’t stop herself. It was infinitely easier to drop her filter when Scylla didn’t look like Scylla. “You’re definitely a pro at that,” she muttered, earning a jab in the ribs from Tally.

Scylla-as-Abigail blinked once, slowly. Still, she didn’t look at Raelle. Clicking the lighter once again, she burned off Abigail’s visage and returned to her own, blue eyes glowing as flames licked around her face. “If you can’t tell friend from foe, then you’re vulnerable.”

“You mean infiltrate them,” Tally said. “And expose them.”

Scylla smiled, genuinely this time. “Craven, I knew you were the brightest in your Unit.”

Abigail’s scowl intensified. “How are we supposed to infiltrate them if we can’t find them?”

“Who says we haven’t?” Scylla said in a way that unsettled Raelle, who thought back to the latest Camarilla massacre. Scylla had said she was sent to investigate, but had it been more than that?

“So, does no one care that this Work is clearly outside Canon?” Beth unhelpfully pointed out.

Scylla regarded Beth with a look that could only be described as pity. “Canon is nothing more than a cage. Meant to keep you in check so you never realize the full extent of your power.”

Anacostia coughed into her fist and raised one brow at Scylla.

“But I digress,” Scylla conceded. “Who wants to go first?”

No one volunteered.

“Wow.” Scylla held up her hands, lips quirking sarcastically. “Don’t everyone answer the call at once, now.”

“Collar, you’re up.” Anacostia’s bark was unusually loud in the awkward silence of the room.

Raelle schooled her features, even though she wanted nothing more than to glower at her former drill sergeant. Tally and Abigail watched her with thinly veiled apprehension. She followed Anacostia’s command and approached Scylla, who still refused to meet her eyes.

“What Seeds do I use?” Raelle asked, affecting a bored drawl.

Scylla finally looked at her, and all the air squeezed out of Raelle’s lungs. “No Seeds.” She took in a breath that seemed to shake imperceptibly. “Mother Tongue.”

Raelle’s eyebrows arched. “You’re joking.”

“Do I look like I’m doing standup?”

Scylla recited a short phrase, then repeated its serpentine staccato beats. Despite its brevity, it was difficult for Raelle to follow even as she subconsciously stared at the precise movements of Scylla’s lips.

“Eventually you won’t have to say the words,” Scylla finished.

“What do they mean?” Glory asked, her question startling Raelle.

“In light shall I be cloaked ,” Scylla answered. “In darkness shall I be revealed.” Wetting her lips, she tore her gaze from Raelle to address Glory. “Our ancestors created this Work during the Burning Times. Fought fire with fire to escape from their oppressors.” Her attention returned to Raelle. “Like the Spree do now.”

“And how many die from it?” Raelle’s jaw tightened as she clenched her fists.

Scylla’s stoic expression wavered, a crack in the facade, but she didn’t look away. “How many die from inaction?”

They started at each other for several beats, a game of chicken to see who would blink first.

“Um, hello?” An impatient Abigail interrupted, snapping them both out of their near-trance. “The Work?”

Scylla glanced at Anacostia before offering her lighter to Raelle, who made it a point to take it without brushing against Scylla’s hand. For self-preservation.

Raelle stared at golden zippo, recalling how she had seen it on the small locker Scylla had used as a makeshift nightstand; how Scylla never seemed to be without it. Now she knew why. She pushed open its cap. It took several sparks before it came to life.

“Now, think about someone,” Scylla ordered.

“Who?”

“Anyone. Picture them in your mind.”

Raelle closed her eyes, but the only person she saw was Scylla. As if it could be anyone else. “Okay,” she said, hating herself for her weakness.

“Good, now repeat after me,” Scylla said, once again slipping back into Mother Tongue. In light shall I be cloaked. In darkness shall I be revealed.

Raelle attempted to repeat the Work. Horribly. She tried again. And again. Tried to give shape to the words with her tongue and lips, to get used to how they felt in her mouth.

“Now raise the flame,” Scylla said.

Opening her eyes, Raelle brought the lighter near her face. Its heat stung her jaw.

“Don’t be afraid,” Scylla whispered.

Heart pounding, Raelle lifted her chin. “I’m not afraid.”

The challenge was clear in Scylla’s blue eyes.

Raelle drew her hand closer to her chin, but the flame was too much. It seared her skin, and she dropped the lighter with a yelp. It clattered against the floor as she cupped the burn. She wasn’t sure what mortified her more: the failure or the disappointment that flashed across Scylla’s face.

***

In the breath between life and death, memories flooded Raelle’s vision, hazy and random like hundreds of fireflies on a summer night. Of her mom and dad. Warm smiles, tight hugs, joyous laughter. Of Tally and Abigail. Infectious optimism and steady leadership. Tough love from Anacostia. They blended and bled into her link with Abigail, whose own recollections centered on Petra, her five fathers, her Unit, Adil, and Charvel.

But in the center of the maelstrom was Scylla.

Raelle no longer felt pain from where the Camarilla’s arrow pierced her body. Instead, her chest filled with love and anguish, longing and regret.

“Scyl.” She stretched out her arm, trying to grasp Scylla’s hand and coming up empty, a millimeter out of reach. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Scylla only smiled, a melancholy twist of her lips, sapphire eyes luminescent.

A burst of white engulfed Raelle, blinding and brilliant. Shutting her eyes tight, she felt fingers tightening around her left hand. She squeezed back. She’d never let go.

***

Raelle absentmindedly pushed peas around on her tray, the tines of her fork scraping metal as she separated them from the sliced mushrooms. She wasn’t hungry, despite eating only half a bagel hours ago, her stomach still wound tight after that less than stellar training session with Scylla. Of all the Spree. It had to be her. The absurd coincidence reminded her of that old black-and-white movie her dad loved. How did that one line go? Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine. That was it.

Someone nudged Raelle’s shoulder and waved a hand in front of her face, dispelling her line of thought.

“Hey.” Tally said, sympathy apparent in her warm brown eyes. “You still with us?”

“Yeah, of course.” Raelle nodded, putting her fork down.

The crowd in the War College mess hall had grown since they arrived for lunch, as had the volume of chatter from the hungry soldiers, most if not all of them absolutely clueless about the extracurricular activities happening on campus.

“You’re thinking about her,” Abigail observed next to Tally on the other side of the table.

“I’m not thinking about anyone,” Raelle lied even as her traitorous heart wondered where Scylla had gone with Anacostia and Izadora.

“You’re such a liar.” Abigail shook her head as she raised a glass of water to her lips.

“Well, I’m thinking about her,” Tally chimed in. “She’s actually a decent instructor.” She shrunk underneath Raelle’s stare. “You know, all things considered.”

Abigail rolled her eyes. “You’re only saying that because you’re the only one who was actually working that Work.”

“One of the perks of linking with a 327-year-old?” Tally leaned forward as if she was sharing a deep secret. “Instant Mother Tongue.”

“Of all the people to impersonate, though.” Abigail speared a piece of pineapple and popped it into her mouth. “Hilary? Really? I thought you were over her and Gerit.”

Tally shrugged up a shoulder and deflected, “Who did you pick?”

“My mom,” Abigail answered. “Could you imagine her face?” She shared a chuckle with Tally while Raelle continued to sulk. “How about you, Rae?”

“What does it matter?” Raelle asked, knowing full well they knew she only had one person in mind.

“It doesn’t.” Tally reached out and gently covered Raelle’s right hand where it rested on the table. “But, you know we’re here for you. You can talk about her, if you want.”

“Why would I?” Raelle resisted the urge to pull away, not wanting to hurt Tally’s feelings.

“Because you still need to get your shit together,” Abigail said, tone creeping into overbearing Bellweather territory that still managed to set Raelle’s teeth on edge.

“My shit’s just fine.” Raelle clung to her obstinance. Had a knack for it. It was the one thing she could still control.

“Your shit’s a mess.” Abigail’s gaze flicked over Raelle’s shoulder and she did a double take. “And it’s about to get worse.”

Raelle swiveled in her seat, stomach dropping. As if the day couldn’t get any worse. Her mother was now approaching their table. In uniform, no less, a hesitant smile on her face.

“Raelle,” Willa greeted softly.

Raelle gritted her teeth so hard her jaw ached.

“This must be your Unit,” Will said when Raelle didn’t respond, offering her hand to Abigail. “You’re Petra’s daughter. Abigail, right?”

Hesitating only briefly, Abigail stood and firmly took Willa’s hand and gave it a firm shake, once up and down. “Yes, ma’am.”

“She’s told me so much about you. I feel like I already know you.” Willa stretched a hand to Tally, who also rose to her feet to clasp it. “And you must be Tally. I knew one of your aunts. Mae? One of the finest soldiers I’ve known. She told me once that the Cravens received a dispensation from conscription.”

“Oh!” Tally’s brows shot up. “Yes, ma’am. But I… I volunteered.”

Willa blinked once. “You decided to serve even though you didn’t need to. Admirable. If only we all could have that same choice.”

An awkward hush wrapped around them, a tense bubble amid the white noise of the mess hall.

“Well, it was nice to meet you officially, ma’am,” Abigail picked up her tray, awkwardly canting her head to encourage Tally to join her. “But we best be going.”

They reluctantly left the table, both eyeing Raelle with concern.

“I should go with them,” Raelle said, standing to collect her own things.

”Actually, I was hoping we could talk,” Willa said.

“Have you talked to dad yet?”

A hint of pain glinted in near identical blue. “No.”

“Then we have nothing to talk about.” Raelle got up and quickly deposited her tray in a receptacle. She made a beeline for the exit, hoping to catch up with Tally and Abigail.

“Raelle, please.” Willa followed her outside into the afternoon heat. “I know you’re angry. And you have every right to be. But if you would just let me explain, you’d understand.”

“Understand what?” Raelle whirled around. “Why you abandoned us? Made us think you were dead? Sent Scylla to…” She stopped short. The last thing she wanted was to talk about Scylla. Didn’t want to even think of the possibility that Willa had deliberately assigned Scylla to train her Unit.

“Yes,” Willa said simply. “You owe me at least that much, girl.”

Temper flaring, Raelle stepped into her mom’s space. “I don’t owe you anything,” she snarled.

Raelle stalked away, emotions ablaze, a ball of pent up fury as she trekked across the grounds. She let the anger consume her, ignoring the sliver of disappointment that wrapped around her heart when her mom didn’t follow. Contrary to popular belief, she wasn’t dense. She had thought about Willa’s reasons nearly everyday. And logically, she understood.

Alder’s military system was slavery. There was no doubt about that. So many women had been forced to early deaths they didn’t choose, and the same fate awaited their daughters, and their daughters’ daughters. Her mom didn’t want Raelle to become war meat. Hell, Raelle didn’t want to become war meat. Perhaps in some twisted way, Willa thought she was also protecting Edwin, breaking his heart to keep him safe from the war. The Spree sought freedom to live their lives without fear of being hunted down and killed, like Scylla’s parents. But they were also murderers, just like the Army–both entities so mired in darkness that Raelle wasn’t sure they’d ever see the light.

She knew all this. But her heart still couldn’t get past the betrayal of it all, and the fear of everything she still didn’t know about the terrible lengths Willa had gone to in furtherance of her cause. It was easier to cling to pain and resentment, than to wade into brackish water and attempt to separate brine from the fresh.

Her eyes began to sting and she stopped to suck in several deep breaths. She had wandered the grounds, unseeing, and somehow found herself at the base of her favorite grand oak tree. It stood massive and towering, limbs curving and snaking toward the sun, the silent keeper of memories and secret moments. Raelle braced a hand against its rough bark, pushing until it dug into her skin. She had to collect herself, or at least fake it as best she could, before her next set of classes, which included even more testing with Izadora. Or else she’d never hear the end of it from Abigail and Tally.

When her anger had cooled from a boil to a simmer, Raelle rounded the tree, intending to settle between it’s exposed roots, only to receive an unexpected jolt when she found her spot already occupied.

By Scylla.

Because, of course, it had to be Scylla. Sitting under Raelle’s favorite tree. Their tree. Where they had stolen kisses from each other and made plans for the future. Where Scylla had once lifted Raelle and spun her in her arms, carefree and in love.

Raelle’s chest constricted at the realization.

“S-sorry,” Raelle stuttered out. “I didn’t realize anyone was here.”

Startled, Scylla dropped the pen she had been holding. It rolled into the gutter of the journal she had been writing in. “Raelle…”

Crystal blue eyes widening behind a pair of black, wire-framed reading glasses. They reminded Raele of the ones Scylla used to wear late at night in her dorm room, studying thick tomes on mycology and necromancy while Raelle dozed on her bed after a long day in the rough room.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Raelle started to back away.

“You don’t have to leave,” Scylla regained her composure and picked up her pen. “I can go.”

“No, you were here first.” Raelle turned to leave. “I’ll just….” Her heel caught one of the tree’s gnarled roots. She stumbled slightly, but managed to maintain her balance, if not her dignity, face red with embarrassment.

Scylla chewed at her bottom lip. “You know, it’s a big tree. And we’re big girls. We can both stay without bothering each other.”

Raelle almost laughed. They both knew that would be impossible. And yet, the way Scylla regarded her with no expectations, an open invitation with no pressure, it made Raelle want to believe they could do it. Co-exist. If not exactly peacefully, then at least politely.

For the mission.

At least, that’s what Raelle told herself as she ignored all her survival instincts and sat on the ground, back against the crags of the trunk a few meters away from Scylla.

Silence blanketed them, not quite comfortable but not unbearable either, as a gentle breeze ruffled the branches overhead. Scylla’s pen scratched softly against paper, and Raelle stole a glimpse of Scylla out of the corner of her eye. The sun’s rays rippled down through the leaves, light and shadow flickering over Scylla’s gorgeous profile, head bent and dark hair swaying in the wind as she resumed writing.

Unlike Willa, Scylla made no efforts to address the unspoken tension between them–more massive than any proverbial elephant. Didn’t try to explain, or apologize, beyond what had already transpired between them in that prison cell so many moons ago. Raelle wasn’t sure if that was good or bad, or if it would even change anything, regardless.

Her stomach sank anyway.

Because unlike with Willa, Raelle felt remorse regarding Scylla, who had been captured and tortured because she had chosen Raelle over the Spree. Regret had burrowed inside Raelle’s heart the moment Scylla had pleaded with her in that horrible dungeon. Had transformed into a gnawing guilt that continued to fester long after Raelle callously dismissed Scylla anyway, wanting to break Scylla heart the way Scylla had broken hers. Raelle had no idea how to fix it, or if she even could.

“How’s your chin?” Scylla broke the stillness.

Raelle gingerly touched the healed skin. She’d almost forgotten it had been burned in the first place. “All fixed up. Which is more than I can say about Treefine’s hair.” She had no idea the High Atlantic could screech that loudly.

Scylla let out a soft chuckle. “It’ll grow back.”

“Not at the rate we’re going.” Raelle ran her fingers through the grass, tips tickling her palm.

“It’s only the first day,” Scylla said. “It gets easier.”

“Oh yeah? How long did it take you?” Raelle asked and then instantly wished she could take it back. Scylla’s parents had probably taught her, and here she was bringing up those painful memories. “Sorry, I…”

“It’s okay.” Scylla shook her head. “A while. I didn’t want to get burned. But, eventually, you get used to it. Learn not to fear it. Until you feel nothing at all.”

I’ve been burned before, Scylla had told Raelle that one time, deep in the cemetery in the woods. Both literally and figuratively. And Raelle had contributed to it. They’d both hurt each other, intentionally and unintentionally. Raelle’s heart throbbed against her ribs. She wanted to reach out, but knew she couldn’t. Not any more.

Before she could respond, someone called out Scylla’s name. A young woman with long, brown hair beckoned from a distance. Raelle frowned.

“I have to go,” Scylla removed her glasses, voice soft. Closing her journal, she pushed herself onto her feet and dusted off her pants. “See you around, Raelle.”

“Scyl, wait,” Raelle blurted out, scrambling to her feet. She didn’t know what possessed her, but she had to get this out.

Scylla paused, head tilting slightly.

“What I said back then.” Raelle licked her suddenly dry lips. “About being sorry we ever met.” Hot shame spread across Raelle’s cheeks. “I didn’t mean it.”

Scylla’s expression shifted through a myriad of emotions–surprise, pain, and sadness conveyed in each subtle twitch of her mouth and crease of her brow–until the sea of her eyes calmed. Softened.

“Thank you,” Scylla whispered before she quickly turned around and walked away.

#raylla #motherland fort salem #raelle collar #scylla ramshorn #motherland fort salem fic

30 notes · View notes

kazeofthemagun · 3 years

Note

🤝+51 because lesgo you pick B)

Fifty reasons to touch someone

- Where it hurts.

@cursedfortune

It was a quiet evening spent by the fire, silence interrupted only by the sizzling of embers and Mortem's occasional teasing. He flipped a page boredly, yellowed paper adorned with various hand-drawn images of plants and calligraphy - old poems from her world, written down with an unflinching pen. How pleasant the curves of letters, strokes laid down by an artist with a mind both morbid and sweet. Another flip, and a comment escaped his lips, about one of the herbs. Mandragora. Its roots bore a visage similar to human - how peculiar. Myth, or reality? He could not help but inquire.

Mortem seemed extremely eager to prove to him its existence, and bolted upright. Her arm reached out in a most unfortunate fashion, he opened his mouth to speak, no, not enough time to mentally prepare -

She grasped his hand and pulled forward and up, he instinctively rose to a stand, blinking once, twice. Oh, Winds. Not again. Flash-freeze, the Hunter all but glued to the spot as Mortem excitedly attempted to lead only to be met with an immovable statue instead of the man from mere moments prior. Blue eyes seemed fixated on one spot, somewhere off into the distance. Was he... shaking?

Behind his dark collar, he mouthed a name. Please, go away, lovely phantom. The voices were growing louder. Louder, louder. He could feel her paper-thin skin tear and turn to rainbow dust, and slip between his fingers, blood, flesh, bone and all. S-she died holding his hand. Au...ra. Au...ra... Anything to shake that illusion. Or, was it one? How could he be sure it was not reality? He could almost smell the ozone, crimson lightning dancing in the corners of his vision.

Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. It is here. It has killed her. It has killed them all. Go away..! Leave, please..! No...! It was never meant to end like this. He was the one who chose death. He was the wielder of Magun, deathsbrand, a sacrifice to the Temple’s demon..! Not her, not them, he. He was the one who was supposed to die. His broken promise brought doom onto them all. He promised they would be together, forever, and then he stepped up and allowed them to rip out his heart and turn him into a walking corpse, an undead half-machine of tar-blood and Soil. A demon. His sister deserved to have had a brother, and he chose power, the evisceration of humanity. There was nothing holy in this. The universe was disgusted, and made the fabled red curse a reality - just for him. He was a sinner. Already a heretic, and now an oath-breaker. A betrayer. Vile. Foul, wretched monster who murdered his sister with his hubris -

Accursed children of crimson hair who bask in the blood of all they hold dear. Evil omens, heralds of misfortune. YOU KILLED HER, BLOOD-RED WOLF, YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN DEAD, A BLEACHED HUSK IN THE DESERT.

YOUR CRADLE SHOULD HAVE BEEN YOUR GRAVE.

No..n-no.

"NO..!"

And he snapped back to reality. With a scream. A howl. It was a sound that wolves made, not men. Dumbfounded, he raised his hand to his face, clenching and unclenching fingers. Nausea washing over, he allowed ice-blue orbs to stare into ones of warm coal - similarly perplexed, perhaps terrified. He knew he was terrified. He had not been ready. He had not been vigilant enough. Not enough. Never enough.

Never good enough to save, only to watch destruction and horror follow in his footsteps like the plague. Evil omen. Herald of misfortune. He retched, covering his mouth, gulping down a burning tide. She wanted to help, spoke some hushed words; He motioned at her fervently as he sat back down - It's okay. It's going to be okay.

It’s going to be...okay. He had endured worse punishments from his fragmented mind. Worse yet he still would. And yet...

...It wasn't an easy thing to voice, so he didn't. She understood without words, he felt. How the Hunter feared simple touch. A simple gesture, twisted into a reminder of all of his sins and failures. She knew. Mortem knew. She was wise and she saw.

He didn't need to voice it.

He didn't need to voice his shame.

#you gave me free reign and u got angst. typical of me #cursedfortune #[[Back and forth on the Pendulum ║ Mortem #[[ask response #Kaze has canon PTSD and a dissociative disorder and you could argue if some of the Soil speaking is schizophrenia instead so.. RIP his head #Handholding trigger #a BAD one

1 note · View note

eleeria · 4 years

Text

the snap

Mentions: @lormeus TW: Blood, death.

---

You have always been your fathers’ daughter.

There are still raven feathers coating your fingers; the dying caws of avians still sound in your ears, and though you know later you should apologize to Eli for the life being ripped from her friends, now you push it from your mind.

You move through the snow at a clipped speed, ducking between the trees with daggers in hand. You had the foresight to grab your armor and favored weapons before you disappeared into the mountains of Alterac without a trace, evading Lormeus’ increased patrols. Rarely do you use your rogue skills any longer, but there’s something refreshing about being free of obligation and people watching you. That thought alone makes you increase your speed, until you’re truly dashing through Alterac, hunting for something to take your mind off of everything.

(The birds keep cawing in your ears, and no matter how much you run, you’re hard-pressed to escape them. Fucking birds. Fucking Lightsworns and their mind games. No one controls Eleeria Silverwing. Do they?)

There. Just at the top of the hill, you hear the soft sounds of well-trained horses, and the faint clink of plate armor carefully cushioned to not make a sound to most ears. Human ears. You are Sin’dorei, the long ears of your kind well-trained to detect even the faintest noise; these human tricks don’t work on you, amplified by your lack of sight.

When you descend upon the small group of cavalry, it is fast and without mercy. The first man falls from his horse into the snow, his neck slashed across with a poised strike of your blade. It’s been so long since you’ve had daggers in your hands you nearly forgot what they felt like. But as he bleeds to death, staining your boots and the earth below, it’s like you’ve found an old friend in your hands once more. You look up and smile at the other humans, the dying man’s blood splattered across your face and armor in a grim visage of what awaits them in a few short minutes.

(In another life, you would never have seen yourself holding a greatsword, or a polearm. In another life you-- but the memories are fuzzy -- and you can’t quite catch them before they slip away. Happiness is mandatory, citizen.)

“Who’s next?” You growl out in accented common. The two remaining scouts blanch in fear and begin to turn their horses. The beasts, terrified of the scent of blood, the sight of you, and the fear of their riders, balk at moving quickly under duress. It’s enough time for you to pull yourself out of the snow and charge at them, your daggers sinking into their mounts’ legs. They whinny in pain, bucking the scouts -- who crash to the ground and, expertly trained, roll over to pull themselves up with haste. They waste no time in closing in on you, expecting an easy, outnumbered match with a traditional assassin -- you can see it in their faces, the assumption that you’re some Talon sent on a stealth mission.

Wrong. You’re the motherfucking General.

And you’re going to murder them.

It’s been awhile since you’ve fended off two attackers at once with just a set of long daggers, so your steps are a bit rusty at first. You remember when your father taught you the difficult act of fighting with two weapons. Vanaal’s callused fingers had positioned yours on the daggers, showing you the forms and how to stand. The art of dual wielding required the entire body: the daggers were a seamless flow from your shoulder to the tip of your weapon, used in one complicated dance. Two parts of a whole, they had been your favorite thing to learn at the time because it reminded you of swimming through the air, the way you graced the floor with turns and slashes of your weapons.

Now, you pick back up on the lessons of your youth after a few sloppy parries, sliding into proper form with a sharp exhale of breath to calm yourself into a focused rage rather than the slices and hacks of pure passion. You hate these men, their black armor and smug expressions. One of them circles you, attempting to flank you; you continue to trade passes of your weapons, careful not to play your hand too soon. They don’t know who you are, though they might have a guess. With your mask over your face and your hood up, you’re just another passing rogue in the Horde military, if one with strangely dim eyes. You’re cautious not to use your magic before they get into position, not wanting to give yourself away.

As soon as the soldier closes in on your flank, you twist. Your daggers shine in the sudden light that explodes from your hands, running down your weapons and slashing at their eyes. You don’t intend to hit them with it; rather, you intend to blind them with the sudden flash of brilliant magic. They stumble back with a sudden cry, and you press the offensive. Your daggers flash with magic, the holy light an extension of your arm and will just like the weapons beneath them. It flickers like embers of fire as you take several slices of your blades at one soldier, using the back swing of your off-hand weapon to fire several shots of light magic at the second man to keep him at bay. You feel yourself sinking into your death magic to see, rather than relying on your blinded eyes. Now that you’ve realized you can extend it in all directions, it’s become easier to use it to grasp what’s around you, even if seeing through the magic is nothing like seeing with your real sight. Still, it makes it easier to detect where the second soldier is, so your light magic remains deadly and precise, even as you close in on the first man with your physical attacks.

One of his slashes of the blade catch your hood, slicing the fabric but sparing your face -- barely. Sloppy, sloppy. You could have parried that had you been paying attention rather than getting lost in threads of half-remembered fighting techniques. Orange hair spills through the sliced opening, and the pause he takes as he puts it together: the magic, the eyes, the brilliant hair, gives you just enough time to break through his guard and slice his throat as well.

Two down, one to go.

You turn on the final man, pushing your hood back so the ruined leather isn’t in your way. The final scout seems momentarily petrified, holding his shield and sword with a tight grip.

“They didn’t say the General was--”

“A rogue?” You answer, flipping one of your knives with a grin. “No, I imagine not.” You know, from the way he follows your every move with a panicked gaze, that you have already won. You walk towards him with purpose in every step, and he backs up. “Surrender, and I’ll simply send you back to your Marshal with a message.”

“For the Lion!” He hefts his shield and tries to muster some determination. You know that in a fight against a skilled combatant, a shield presents some obstacles for your daggers. Nothing you couldn’t handle in a long encounter, but with the screaming and flashing of your magic, you don’t have a lot of time here any longer. These thoughts filter through your head like routine after so much time spent lurking in the shadows.

There is only one option to end this quickly. It will certainly give away your immediate presence, meaning you’ll need to flee swiftly after this -- but it’s worth it to see these fuckers to the grave.

As he steps in to attack you with his sword, you push the weapon away with one of your daggers, dropping the other into the snow. He looks at the sudden loss of a weapon, and you press your sudden advantage. Your hand slams against his shield with a metal thud.

And the entire clearing in Alterac bursts into holy flame.

The man is absolutely incinerated. Though your magic knows friend from foe, the air crackles and sparks. The few sparse trees catch fire, as the clearing simply disintegrates in holy flame. The animals flee from the concentrated blaze, and when you’re done -- when you’ve stared him in the eye with your sightless gaze as his flesh melted and bones cracked -- you stop. The fire disappears as suddenly as it came, and you scoop up your dagger.

That felt so good, it’s a little scary. You didn’t know how angry you were until it all came out. No one tells you what to do. No one can tell you how to do anything you don’t want to do. There’s no one in your head but you, alone in this burnt and damaged clearing. The only thing you can hear in the night is the sound of your own breathing, your heartbeat in your ears. Even the animals have fallen silent in fear of a nearby predator.

(The predator is you.)

You swiftly cut the heads off of the two men who still have heads, tucking them in a sack you brought with you. Quickly, you dash something into the snow with your blades. As the sounds of approaching hooves sound from the Alliance side of the siege, you make off into the woods with your prize, with no one the wiser of exactly who was in the woods, murdering these would-be assassins. You don’t stay to see what the humans think of your handiwork, but you’re pretty sure they’ll get the message.

Kill for the living, kill for the dead.

#writing #wyrmrest accord #blackheart accord #rp writing #she got angry

9 notes · View notes