Little Rain Clouds Part 3

Obey Me! Datables (minus Luke x MC!)

Featuring: Simeon, Solomon, Diavolo, and Barbatos

Part 1

Part 2

 ~One of my favorite recurring tropes in fantasy is the little personal raincloud that covers a character and pours on them for hours on end, so I thought it would be cute to see how the datables would react to getting cursed with their own little rain cloud.

Simeon~ 

Our favorite Angel has no shortage of admirers in the Devildom, he receives tons of little gifts and tokens from his admirers and he doesn't have it in him to turn them all down.

He has amassed quite the stockpile of gifts, sweets, and trinkets. One of which resides within a peculiar-looking canister.

Cautiously he thumbs the seal not expecting it to break on contact. A plume of smoke flows through the lid and accumulates above his head until there is a little cloud above his head. It gently rains down over him as he lets out a good-natured laugh. “Well, I certainly didn't expect this,”

You try to help him by offering to hold his DDD and call Solomon to help figure out a way to break the curse. The sorcerer said that the cloud only can produce a certain amount of water and it would disappear once it has finished its precipitation. It could be hours or it could be days.

Simeon doesn't mind his cloud at all, it actually has a pleasant temperament, it does not pelt him mercilessly or cause a hailstorm. A little rain is no reason to get upset so he moves on with his day waiting for the spell to wear off.

Wanting to stay outside Simeon walks through the gardens looking for anything that may need a nice little watering. His hair is soaked and stringy, and his clothes are practically sticking to his skin but he looks remarkably handsome walking through his own little rainstorm with a pleasant smile on his face.

Solomon~

Solomon should’ve known better. Just because he can keep jars of non-fatal curses and creatures on the shelves of his dorm room doesn’t mean he should.

All it takes is a careless wave of the arm to knock over a murky glass jar and out pops a little rain cloud spirit.

This one, in particular, is especially angry towards the sorcerer since he was the one who captured it many years ago. It has been patiently waiting, biding its time until it would be free to rain its vengeance down on Solomon’s pretty white hair with half-frozen raindrops the size of golf balls.

You don’t know what you were expecting when Solomon called you up to his room, but it certainly wasn’t him holed up in the bathtub looking worse for wear. The rain is pelting him so hard that the skin is red and irritated all the top of his head is getting pelted so vigorously that it will definitely be leaving a bruise later.

He understands that the rain will stop eventually, but he just doesn’t want to have to suffer through this alone especially after having to endure this for the last two days.

What he doesn’t understand is why the rain seems to subside a little bit when you came into the room to check on him. Curiously he takes a step towards you and the rain gets less aggressive. He keeps moving until your chest to chest and you’re both getting mist underneath his cloud. 

With a little sigh of relief, you sit on the little bench in his shower as he leans up against you finally able to catch his breath. You stay like this long after the rain has stopped and The gentle sound of his sleeping breaths fills the room.

Diavolo~

No one in their right mind would ever curse the demon king with a rain cloud spell. And Diavolo knows this, But it definitely bums him out that he doesn’t get to have that kind of fun with everybody else.

He decided to be innovative one day and accidentally knock over a vase containing a harmless little raincloud spell. As the rain hits him he breaks out in to jovial laughter.

"This is wonderful, I feel like everyone else." He looks at you and extends a hand out to you. "Mc, I believe there is a romantic human custom in which pairs dance together in the rain, would you care to join me."

"I would," you say taking his large hand and allowing yourself to be pulled underneath the raincloud. It socks your skin as he twirls you around so graciously for someone of his size.

By the time the rain has stopped, droplets cling to his tunic and run through his hair as his golden eyes never leave of rainsoaked form.

"I enjoyed that very much MC." he says kissing your hand. “I hope we can do this again sometime.

Barbatos~

Barbatos takes his duties rather seriously and almost never makes clumsy mistakes. But today as he was dusting some ancient relics his mind was drifting to a certain pretty little exchange student who he can't stop thinking about.

Through the veil of daydreamed fog, he worked diligently not noticing just how close a glass urn shaped like a tear drop was to the mantle of the grand fireplace.

The lightest touch of the duster sends it tumbling to the floor faster than he can react. It shatters on the ground and little wisps of cloud rise from the fragments. They join together and form a massive cloud above his head.

Barbatos's eyes widen in panic at the recognition of the magic. He rushes toward the door, but it's too late. The cloud begins to pour rain down over him and the Demon Kings new carpet.

The rainfall stunts his progress cleaning and proves to be too difficult of an obstacle for him to attend to his duties the way he normally does.

Upon hearing of the incident Diavolo excuses Barbatos from his duties until the spell wears off but now the Demon sulks on a stone bench wondering what he can do with himself to be useful. It's not common he finds himself in a helpless situation so he hasn't a clue what to do.

Until you come along. With eyes full of care and understanding you sit down next to him on the bench not minding hw the rain messes up your hair and uniform and chat with him.

He is so happy to finally have your undivided attention that the harsh droplets feel like tiny kisses as he tells you whatever it is your heart desires.

You are both so enraptured by the conversation that neither of you notice that the rain has stopped falling hours ago.

There are many books coming out this month, and I thought it would be fun to highlights five of them with gorgeous covers that caught my attention. Have any of these caught your eye yet?

Damned if You Do by Alex Brown Page Street

Seven years ago, Cordelia Scott’s abusive father left without a word, and life has been normal ever since. The seventeen-year-old spends her days stage managing the school play (which is going great, if anyone asks), pining over her best friend, Veronica, and failing one too many pop quizzes. She’s never been sad that her father left, but she knows something is...missing. When her school guidance counselor, Fred, reveals during a session that he’s actually a demon, she learns that something is indeed missing: a piece of her actual soul. Why? She unwittingly made a deal with him to make her father disappear – then bargained to have the memory erased. To make matters worse, Fred is here to make another bargain: Help him with a “little” demonic problem, or she’s doomed to spend eternity in Hell with her father. The deal? Help Fred neutralize a rival demon, who means to do more harm in her hometown than your average demon deal. --Cover image and summary via Goodreads

The Dark Place by Britney S. Lewis Disney Hyperion

Seventeen-year-old Hylee Williams didn't ask to disappear. But she did disappear, and not only that, but when she vanished from our world, she materialized in a dark, twisted version of the night that changed her life forever: the night her older brother went missing. Just as Hylee realizes this moment could be the key to unraveling the truth about her brother, she's yanked away from the dark place back to our world. Craving a sense of normalcy, she goes to a party with her best friend--where she meets Eilam Roads. Tall, handsome, and undeniably, inexplicably familiar, Hylee can't help the pull she feels towards him. It's a classic teen girl-meets-boy situation, until it happens again. She disappears, right in front of him. Together, Hylee and Eilam investigate the truth about time, space, and reality, with Hylee increasingly convinced her time travel holds the key to saving her brother. But the more they learn, the more Hylee begins to see darkness lurking in her world--and in herself. -- Cover image and summary via Goodreads

Forged by Blood (The Tainted Blood Duology #1) by Ehigbor Okosun Harper Voyager

In the midst of a tyrannical regime and political invasion, Dèmi just wants to survive: to avoid the suspicion of the nonmagical Ajes who occupy her ancestral homeland of Ife; to escape the King’s brutal genocide of her people—the darker skinned, magic wielding Oluso; and to live peacefully with her secretive mother while learning to control the terrifying blood magic that is her birthright. But when Dèmi’s misplaced trust costs her mother’s life, survival gives way to vengeance. She bides her time until the devious Lord Ekwensi grants her the perfect opportunity—kidnap the Aje prince, Jonas, and bargain with his life to save the remaining Oluso. With the help of her reckless childhood friend Colin, Dèmi succeeds, but discovers that she and Jonas share more than deadly secrets; every moment tangles them further into a forbidden, unmistakable attraction, much to Colin’s—and Dèmi’s—distress. The kidnapping is now a joint mission: to return to the King, help get Lord Ekwensi on the council, and bolster the voice of the Oluso in a system designed to silence them. But the way is dangerous, Dèmi’s magic is growing yet uncertain, and it’s not clear if she can trust the two men at her side. A tale of rebellion and redemption, race and class, love and trust and betrayal, Forged by Blood is epic fantasy at its finest, from an enthusiastic, emerging voice. -- Cover image and summary via Goodreads

I Feed Her to the Beast and the Beast Is Me by Jamison Shea Henry Holt and Co.

There will be blood. Ace of Spades meets House of Hollow in this villain origin story. Laure Mesny is a perfectionist with an axe to grind. Despite being constantly overlooked in the elite and cutthroat world of the Parisian ballet, she will do anything to prove that a Black girl can take center stage. To level the playing field, Laure ventures deep into the depths of the Catacombs and strikes a deal with a pulsating river of blood. The primordial power Laure gains promises influence and adoration, everything she’s dreamed of and worked toward. With retribution on her mind, she surpasses her bitter and privileged peers, leaving broken bodies behind her on her climb to stardom. But even as undeniable as she is, Laure is not the only monster around. And her vicious desires make her a perfect target for slaughter. As she descends into madness and the mystifying underworld beneath her, she is faced with the ultimate continue to break herself for scraps of validation or succumb to the darkness that wants her exactly as she is—monstrous heart and all. That is, if the god-killer doesn’t catch her first. From debut author Jamison Shea comes I Feed Her to the Beast and the Beast Is Me , a slow-burn horror that lifts a veil on the institutions that profit on exclusion and the toll of giving everything to a world that will never love you back.

Her Radiant Curse by Elizabeth Lim Knopf Books for Young Readers

One sister must fall for the other to rise. Channi was not born a monster. But when her own father offers her in sacrifice to the Demon Witch, she is forever changed. Cursed with a serpent’s face, Channi is the exact opposite of her beautiful sister, Vanna—the only person in the village who looks at Channi and doesn’t see a monster. The only person she loves and trusts. Now seventeen, Vanna is to be married off in a vulgar contest that will enrich the coffers of the village leaders. Only Channi, who’s had to rely on her strength and cunning all these years, can defend her sister against the cruelest of the suitors. But in doing so, she becomes the target of his wrath—launching a grisly battle royale, a quest over land and sea, a romance between sworn enemies, and a choice that will strain Channi’s heart to its breaking point. Weaving together elements of The Selection and Ember in the Ashes with classic tales like Beauty and the Beast, Helen of Troy, and Asian folklore, Elizabeth Lim is at the absolute top of her game in this thrilling yet heart-wrenching fantasy that explores the dark side of beauty and the deepest bonds of sisterhood. -- Cover image and summary via Goodreads

someone deserves a raise for this

Some Legend of Vox Machina thoughts...

A bit of a ramble of my thoughts on episode 8, “A Silver Tongue”, and it’s potential impact on later episodes... Mostly de Rolo sibling thoughts.

(Gonna talk about later campaign stuff, so don’t read if you don’t want the streams or the series spoiled. And I don’t know what tags people are using for spoilers, so I’m just going to put it all under a cut...)

I really, really liked this episode the most out of the three we got this week, and I’d like to ramble a bit on what it feels like it’s setting up for later events concerning Cassandra, Orthax and the List.

In the campaign, at least to my memory, when Cassandra’s name appears on the gun, it feels like a moment played for drama against the context of Cassandra’s betrayal. But this episode feels like it’s establishing a different motive.

As early as episode 6, we see how quickly the news that she’s alive cuts through the tide of rage following his revenge on Stonefell. How much “I have a sister.” says in so few words about what that means to Percy, that he finally has something in Whitestone to fight for, something to hope for.

In episode 6, Percy abandons the group’s plans the minute he sees Stonefell. He was the one Percy was least looking forward to. Stonefell is a murderer and a sadist, but he’s always been the Briarwood’s stooge. But in episode 7, he’s willing to negotiate with Anders, because he has Cassandra hostage. Anders who betrayed their trust, the face he saw when murder entered his heart. His revenge is taking a backseat in that moment, because of course Cassandra is what matters. And then episode 8 gives us that long, tense scene where Keyleth is working to save her, and Percy is watching despite Anders standing there, pouring a drink and gloating. It takes a lot to break Percy away from that moment, for the fear he holds for his sister’s life to go after Anders, and even then it’s when she’s in the best hands available in that moment.

And after Anders is dead, we get that beautiful, clear shot through the lenses of the mask when she says his name. We see his eyes are clear, that the minute he hears her voice, his rage and any other influence are washed away. He drops the gun and the mask to run to her.

Later, Orthax will demand Cassandra’s life, and he will use her betrayal to justify it to Percy, but I feel like the real reason they’ve given us is that Orthax sees Cassandra is a threat. She’s a threat to the pact that he’s made with Percy. A hope for his future against the despair he’s lived with, the emptiness that losing his family left that Orthax crawled into to spur his quest for vengeance. She’s threatening his very promising meal ticket of an endless all-you-can-eat soul buffet at the end of Percy’s gun, and his only hope to defend his interest is for Cassandra to die. Cassandra has to die, because her forgiveness represents a future, both for Percy and for Whitestone. A life that isn’t just rage and pain, and the violence that was supposed to keep Orthax fed.

Because if Percy can forgive Cassandra, he can one day learn to forgive himself and believe he deserves that life. He’ll have something to live for, something to fight for against the demon’s influence, and if that happens Orthax loses everything.

He’s been biding his time for years, subtly enough that Percy didn’t know he was there. When he demands Cassandra’s life, it’s an act of desperation, and when he emerges to attack the party, it’s because he’s already lost.

(P.S. I’m really hoping they keep the gold-iris-black-sclera look around for later seasons, to indicate Percy is using Hex. They’ve shown him use it outside of Orthax-murder-mode, and in a situation where I think he used Hex in the game, so the precedent is there for down the line. It’s there in the canon that his struggle with Orthax left its scars on him, and that some fragment of the demon’s power is still at his disposal. And it’s such a look. Those are the eyes I want to see staring down Craven Edge, demanding it give his big dumb older brother back. I want those eyes when he says “I will find an abyss so deep and so far, you will never taste a drop of blood again.”

Look, found family Vox Machina feels are the best feels, and it didn’t have a lot of screen time, but Grog and Percy’s unlikely sibling-esque dynamic was one of my favorite things in the campaign.)

NAME. Ramses Runihura ( Apep ) AGE & BIRTH DATE. 3000+ & Unknown GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him SPECIES. Rift OCCUPATION. Unemployed FACE CLAIM. Mena Massoud

BIOGRAPHY

( tw: death, murder, natural disasters ) To speak his name was to invoke chaos, misery, and strife. How much safer the ancient ones believed themselves to be as they whispered well earned titles instead through hushed tones. Lord of Chaos, World Encircler, Soul Eater. The monikers shifted in waves along the loose sands of time, each more devastating and horrifying than the last, yet veracious all the same. The mythos painted him in dashing colors as various reptilians throughout history, but always returned to the most shrewd and ineffable of all: the great serpent.

Apep, or Apophis as his mother once named him, cannot recall the moment of his creation, woven somewhere in the primordial threads of existence shortly after his brother’s rise as architect of all… Or so the endless droves of mortal supporters would eventually claim. The sun god who fashioned himself an entire universe purely for his own worship, how pretentious and it allotted far more credit than Ra deserved on even his best day. Amun and Horus were both absorbed into the overrated caricature at some point, disregarded for their contributions which eventually blended into credit undue for this golden god. Still the blind fanaticism continued and his brother’s ego grew with every passing century, solidifying Ra’s undeserved role as King of The Gods.

Where the citizens of antiquity adored and fawned over the sun god and his intolerable pharaohs, Apep’s impressive abilities were shunned and dreaded. Unlike his brother and fellow deities, no one worshipped at the god of chaos and darkness’ altar. They did not even deign him worthy enough to construct a shrine in his honor. Instead the world sprung fear and hatred of the one who directly contrasted their beloved patron of light. Solar eclipses, devastating natural disasters, and terrible storms were linked to his name. Not without merit of course, but Apep believed it justified for those who so blindly trusted the gods to care. If anything, he should have been praised for not cowering behind sanctimony and false benevolence.

Distaste and distrust turned humanity bitter. They made a yearly ritual of banishing his presence from their lands in which priests would build effigies of Apep thought to contain all of the evil and darkness in Egypt. The symbolism might have been considered flattering were they not burning the representation to protect against malevolence for another year, nor housing a secondary figure which was taken into the temple before being beaten, crushed, smeared with mud, and burned. From therein they narrated stories about Ra’s numerous and overblown victories whilst reciting useless spells which did absolutely nothing to quell Apep’s thirst for cataclysm. Even the dead were thought to require protection from his brutality in the underworld lest he swallow them whole, so they were often buried with spells that could ward him off.

How astonishingly naïve. Darkness, like its sister death, could not be subdued by mere carvings and prayers.

None saw purpose through the god of destruction’s perspective, not even those who shared in his divinity. Too often whilst attempting to challenge his brother did he find himself in combat with the other celestial beings protecting Ra–– who, frankly, didn’t deserve their loyalty. Every night as the sun travelled across the sky, human text claimed that Apep’s roar would fill the air and he launched his persistent attack. Ironically, more often than not he discovered himself across from Set, a youthful harbinger of chaos whose true nature could only be subdued for as long as he remained beneath Ra’s forceful thumb. The deities rested on opposing ends of the spectrum, where Set harnessed his true disposition and relied upon morality, Apep remained a force for pandemonium and could not be reasoned with.

It was written that Apep’s movements often resulted in earthquakes, and his numerous battles with Set were thought to have created the origin of thunderstorms. How deliciously poetic and twisted, until Set inevitably became corrupted by his very nature and no longer wished to serve Ra in his army against Apep. Just as the great serpent predicted, none were immune to their own penchant for carnage and his fellow chaos lord plunged into the darkness alongside him. The pair considered themselves to have a… mutual understanding of sorts from then on. Loathed by the people of Egypt and the world, cast out in the sacred texts and admonished for simply adhering to what they were. What they had always been.

Yet mankind were weak, dispensable, and quite unimpressive in the grand scheme of the cosmos. Their opinions meant little when the greatest enemy, Ra, still held the lofty throne and continued to exist as a pain point. Unfortunately, such fixation on the King of The Gods undeniably led to Apep’s downfall and became his undoing. The trap was admittedly laid quite carefully, and were he not so arrogant as to assume his brother’s moral obligation then perhaps he might have been able to avoid its snare. Caught by his brother and thrown unceremoniously into the veil between worlds without method to escape or wield his power, the god of darkness lingered in the clutches of oblivion.

From inside of this schism he began to plot, turning over any opportunities with the sort of cunning only found in the most cold-blooded of snakes. Despite no longer acting as the devourer of souls within the underworld, he still maintained a bond and audience alongside Hades. Another pantheon, another overlooked pillar of divinity, the pair had long since bonded over the villainous mantles bestowed upon them in direct contrast to their louder, brighter siblings. The lord of death began to whisper words of chaos and destruction from the Grecian realm, it was decided then that direct vengeance against Ra could be placed aside while there were other ways to infiltrate humanity. If anything, it provided ample room for his brother’s difficulties to grow. Ra could weaken himself in time as Apep punctured holes in the world.

Thus he whispered back instructions for a being of his own creation and the method through which it could be done. Hades, as all loyal companions do, began to spread the word of such power throughout the Greek world and soon enough the mischief spread into additional pantheons. Some were repulsed by the notion of this new being, but far too many were taken with its purpose and possibility. They deemed them cubi, humans turned immortal and cursed with the ability to devour souls. Unknowingly fashioned in Apep’s own likeness, of course.

As the first fledgling incubi and succubi began to wander the world, consuming souls and magic, causing ruination in their wake, the primordial god bided his time. He witnessed their numbers grow and then dwindle in harmony with the empires of mankind, but in truth felt nothing towards their existence at first. They were simply a means to an end, a method in which he could enact chaos from within this unholy confinement. Eventually they began to die out entirely, bitten by those infernal shapeshifters and reduced to a pitiful count.

No matter, the dawning of a new age came and with its arrival stemmed the unanticipated crack in an already delicate prison. The veil seemingly tore and eons of patience finally paid off; Apep discovered freedom in the hastiness of his escape. Noticeably weakened from three millenniums spent housed in the limbo between divinity and the mortal plane, he pressed forward into the human world with every intention of regaining his former glory and strengthening what little army of immortal demons were left. The cubi meant nothing to him whilst trapped, but now that he actively rejoined the playing field? Well, they might just be his ultimate tool in destruction.

Everything he did now would culminate in the pursuit of the intentions Apep had possessed since birth… Ensure the crumbling of Ra’s empire and plunge the universe into unending darkness.

PERSONALITY

+ ambitious, independent, cunning - narcissistic, wicked, merciless

PLAYED BY MARTY. PST. She/Her.

Did you ever post In Blood and Sin?

No. The drive I had stored the outline for that story got damaged and I lost everything I had saved in there and I didn’t have any backup for that story. So I kinda of let it go.

But the premise was more or less this: 

I remember I was planning for Klaus to create a universal triangle of dark magic in order to bring back Kol. The supernatural hot spot would be Prague that has supernatural history and would be one of the places Klaus has lots of power in and would be known as a neutral ground for all the Originals. A blood pact they had made centuries ago to never harm each other in the borders of that town.

Klaus would need some intricate magical objects to create the triangle that would need him to get to the catacombs of Paris, to the pyramids in Egypt and places throughout the world that would be known to be haunted. He had already gotten what he wanted from New Orleans. And he already had the most important thing too. In order to create a universal triangle of dark magi that would be connected to different natural places in the globe, aside from the dark objects he would plant at the three points of the triangle in the center he would need a supernatural battery that would emit the kind of energy he would have to harness in order to keep the triangle working enough for Kol to be resurrected. That would be the spawn’s bones. In my story the demon baby would have been too powerful for Hayley’s body to be able to carry it to term. It basically sucked the life out of Hayley and wasn’t been able to be born because of it and that’s why the witches wanted it and had the whole curse of it being the end of the witches since its power could create the triangle to begin with. That’s why Klaus wanted the baby so much. In order to use it for canon fodder to bring his brother back. (hold on to that thought.)

Caroline and Stefan would tag along in this adventure. Stefan for Caroline and Caroline of course since she was blood bound to Klaus and Elijah and Rebekah would join them in the future. Klaus shows Caroline the world. Literally. Through cities and the supernatural aristocracy and underbelly. He show her all the potential vampires have and she reminds him how it was to be carefree and less gloom and doom. And their connection grows. Even their dreams and memories interact. As does their desire for each other. Also they kind of share blood constantly which fuels their feelings more.

Only is it love or addiction? 

Elijah would help Caroline realize that in order to battle any kind of addiction (as she would be addicted to Klaus’ blood) she would have to find something that she truly wanted more than that. Something stronger that would put the one desire to rest but it would be almost impossible to find something like that and even if she did she’d then be consumed by the other stronger desire which would be just as dangerous if she couldn’t balance it. 

In the end Caroline would grow to realize that her inner desire to embrace the vampire who was and could be was much stronger than her blood addiction to Klaus because it was in the end what fueled the addiction to begin with. She’d have to give in to the vampire in order to retain her humanity and freedom and in doing so she realized that what represented that for her was her desire for Klaus himself. Not only his blood but for what he was for her. For how he awakened her darkest desires, for the world he offered, for everything he helped her learn and overcome in their journeys and in the end she’d be free from the blood addiction and Klaus’ hold only because she’d be the one choosing.

Of course the blood addiction was also a spell Rebekah had created in order to avenge her brother because she knew all along what Klaus and Kol had done to Philip because she had heard them that night in the ship and eventually knew this was why Klaus daggered Kol. In order to not lose her because he was afraid she’d find out the truth. Only she knew and she was biding her time. She waited for her brother to finally one day love in the way she did and then she’d take her vengeance and she found that opportunity when Klaus met Caroline and Rebekah saw herself the lengths he was willing to go for her so she wanted to hurt him where it’d hurt the most. In his Original pride and in his delusions over love. Rebekah’s plans would be revealed through her relationship with Stefan.

There would be a fallout between Klaus and Rebekah and even Elijah. But in order to bring back Kol they’d need to unite because the most powerful witch covens in the world would not allow the triangle to happen due to the natural repercussions.

The Originals manage to create the triangle with Bonnie’s help that was willing to do so in order to help Caroline. She’d have followed Caroline to save her from Klaus originally and help her break the blood bound spell even though Caroline managed to do that herself.

The triangle works but the resurrection is not one. Every edge of the triangle brings back an Original. Klaus knew that so he manipulated the two points of the triangle. One brought back Kol. One brought back Henrik. The other? Klaus knew he’d bring back two more so he used Finn’s ashes to bring him back. He was willing to do that in order to bring back all his brothers.

By the time the story ends Klaus and his siblings venture to find their brothers. The triangle worked but because witches intervened those that came back to life are somewhere around the globe and not at the designated points of the triangle that backfired and brought down parts of borders that connect the world of the living with the world of the dead. Basically the magic from the dead bones of the baby detonated and took with it the witches that tried to oppose the triangle and that magic became poison infecting and instantly killing their bloodlines throughout the world. Just as the vampires from Kol’s and Finn’s bloodlines had dropped dead now witches all around the world got infected and died spreading a virus that has the potential to wipe out the whole supernatural world thus bringing the prophecy for that spawn to life (something of that sort anyway because I had seen that from blogs here in tumblr since I wasn’t watching the Originals).

So it basically apocalypse now and because the borders of life and death cracked Mikael and Esther managed to get through too.

So all the Originals are back. 

It is war.

Caroline decides to follow Klaus. He doubts her intentions at first believing they are remnants of Rebekah’s spell and her blood addiction but Caroline makes him see this is her choice. Stefan goes with Rebekah and Elijah leaves with Bonnie that through it all has created a supernatural link with those she resurrected from the triangle and has visions of what they see and where they are and somehow it is Kol she is more connected too. Probably because Kol sneaky as he always was managed to use the whole mess in his advantage not only to come back from the dead but also to manipulate the dark magic Bonnie used to his favor and resurrect his powers through her, despite him being an Original Vampire.

The world is a far more dangerous place than every before and the dead are alive. 

And that would be an open ending unless I would decide to write a third part LOL

Every Father Loves His Son

Do you love your father? Does your father love you?

For many of us, the answer to those questions is a given: Yes, of course. But for others, the answer is complex, revealing relationships fraught with complications; or it may simply be a resounding no. Absence, abuse, neglect, adultery, divorce, and so many other actions can cause a child’s trust to break and set a curse upon him or her, one that may take decades to break, if it ever does at all.

Father-son relationships, both good and bad, form a framework for the Vinland Saga anime, and particularly through a negative one during the middle portion of this run. Episode 14 of the series opens with a shot of the bearded and partially disrobed King Sweyn of the Danes, scars crisscrossing his back. The imagery may be meant to evoke Christ, though it’s not the beloved one who went to the cross in place of mankind; instead, this is a terrible and cruel king.

Sweyn’s relationship with one of his sons, Canute, reveals his inadequacies. While he feigns a fear that the boy, whom he sent to besiege the Goliath-like warrior, Thorkell, may be dead, the king is actually hoping that this misfortune has come to pass—he ordered the prince into danger so that he will be killed, leaving the Sweyn’s other son, Harald, to be his successor.

Despite the circumstances, the timid and childlike Canute clings to the image of a good father, one who loves him without condition. Later, after being taken hostage by the pirate Askeladd, who has executed the entire populace of an English village, he kneels before a cross set at their grave, along with his guardian, Ragnar, and Willibald the priest. In a moment of despair, Willibald confesses that he doubts God’s goodness. The normally reserved Canute becomes livid, and says that he must not doubt that the Father is good. After all, as he retorts, “Every father loves his son.”

Later, a flashback helps to fill in the story between father and son. A young Canute has prepared a dish for the king, but it is not received well; Sweyn tosses the food aside, screaming at the prince for acting “like a slave.” Ragnar tries to explain away the king’s action, babying Canute as he always does, but the viewer knows the truth: While Canute is a faithful son, his father is a tyrant.

Later in the series, another father-son relationship, just as unforgiving and abusive, takes center stage. Askeladd, who like Ragnar to Canute, is somewhat a (twisted) father figure to the series protagonist, Thorfinn, recalls his own childhood. His father was a Dane who enslaved his Welsh mother. She is thrown aside and descends into madness, eventually confronting her former master. As he lifts his sword to slay her, the young Askeladd steps in. Impressed by his courage and skill, his father takes him in and trains him, but the scheming Askeladd is just biding his time. He later murders his dad and frames a step-brother.  The recollection is told when Askeladd, pained by the death of his right-hand man, Bjorn, and frustrated with Thorfinn’s continual desire to duel him (Askeladd’s men killed Thorfinn’s father, Thors, years prior), explains more than emotion is required to successfully fuel vengeance. One also needs the wherewithal to follow through fully on his intentions.

Canute stands as witness during the duel between Askeladd and Thorfinn (what would be their final one). By this point, the prince has overcome his timidity and is himself scheming to commit patricide and regicide both, empowered by Askeladd and Thorkell, who have become his retainers. The change of heart occurs as Canute, previously so devout, comes to a realization regarding fatherly love, and decides to rebel against God:

“Is there no love in the hearts of men? Is anyone sane in this world? Everyone’s the the same. No one knows how to love. No one knows the meaning of life. No one knows the meaning of death. No one even knows why they’re fighting. I’ve had enough. I’m sick of it. What we lost in exchange for wisdom, the most important thing, it’s something that we’ll never get back as long as we live. We’ll never attain it. Yet, even then, you still tell us to seek it? Father in Heaven…I no longer seek your salvation. If you will no longer give us salvation, then with our own hands on this earth, we shall create our own paradise.”

Canute sees God’s silence as worth fighting against, and decides to create his own “paradise” on earth, even if it means “becoming a demon” to obtain. That line of thought falls right matches Askeladd’s, who says that no matter who you believe in as God, it’s up to humans to do the deeds, to make change happen. They both seem to believe in the watchmaker theory, that God has set the world in motion and now just observes without intervening.

It’s not reasonable for Canute for Askeladd to think this way. They grew up in a world where religion is hardly is questioned. They are knee deep in the middle ages, with the Enlightenment and its scientific values, offering a further way to think about the universe, almost a century away. And they have witnessed and been party to a violent, unforgiving world. Askeladd fully participates in it, killing the good man, Thors, among many misdeeds in his long life. But most personally, he and Canute saw cruelty up close at a young age from the very men who should be kindest to them, the men who should most closely resemble the kind, selfless Christ. And yet those men killed, waged war, destroyed, and abused them, their family, and other innocents.

And in this madness, what they’ve concluded is that God is silent. He doesn’t deliver the good from the hands of the evil. And so they both spiritually “overthrow God” by killing him, Askeladd literally assassinates Sweyn, the perverted image of Christ, by beheading him. This occurs mere days after Sweyn’s son put his belief in Christ, also perverted by poor theology, to death.

In Shusaku Endo’s classic book, Silence, he, too, investigates the question of “Why is God sometimes silent in times of great suffering?” in a historical setting, but this one hundreds of years later and across the world, focusing on the persecution of Christians by the shogunate as the Edo era begins. As violent as Vinland Saga is, Silence is even more difficult to swallow, as the government tortures and executes loving, kind Japanese believers in front of the foreign Jesuit missionaries that are their true targets. The man at the center of the narrative, the priest Rodrigues, begins to lose faith: How can God allow this to happen? The power to stop it, as is explained to him, is completely in his hands: Rodrigues need only step on the fumie, thus rejecting his faith, and the torture and violence will end.

It would be too unkind, too flippant, to give the typical church response to this question, which is that the suffering around us is mostly due to sin, and that Christ offers us freedom through his grace, though because we live in a fallen world, we may still endure pain—even terrible suffering—until one day when we walk into eternity with him. As much truth as this statement carries to believers, it doesn’t convey the image of a loving God to those who are suffering now. What of the child soldiers in Africa who are victims of violence and turned into killing machines, much like Thorfinn? Of villages wiped out across the world in acts of genocide, not too distant a scene than that of Askeladd’s killing of the peaceful Christians in Vinland Saga? Of parents who abuse their children and families and destroy their lives, as with the fathers of both Askeladd and Canute? The promise of salvation seems too far off, too unreal when someone is trying to kill a young child right now.

I see the rationale in the biblical answer, and I trust in God’s ways. I believe that the fall is our fault, that the terrible things we think and do are because of the sin we’ve committed, the sin done upon us especially by loved ones, and the sins of our society. I believe, too, that Jesus’s death and resurrection means that for eternity, for the 99.99%+ of our “lives,” we’ll live in peace and goodness. And I believe that the kingdom is here now, too, and that when we live like Christ, we can change the direction of our lives and in the lives of others.

But that doesn’t mean that I don’t wrestle with God, like Jacob did; it doesn’t mean that I don’t struggle with my own pains, and see how much more challenging life is for others, and then struggle further. My faith sometimes really isn’t faith at all—it’s a “giving up,” proclaiming that “God is good” instead of continuing to dive deeply into the problem of suffering, which is to say that I would rather follow blindly than consider issues that poke (or spear) at my faith. After all, my faith is imperfect, my mind is small, and my willingness to love is limited—which all means, I suppose, that I do need God desperately after all. On one hand, I’m like Canute, questioning and even blaming God (What response would he have given me had I been one of Job’s counselors?!), and with the other, turning to him in thankfulness and petition because I believe in his truth and have experienced his forgiveness. I am forgiven, but the human in me still fights against the holiness of my new heart and stumbles along the prideful path I’ve carved rather than the narrow but beautiful one God has laid out for me.

I think that, like Canute and Askeladd, I don’t only consider the misery of the present—I get lost in it. I forget both about the kingdom I’ll one day walk into, and also the kingdom now that fights against the evil forces of darkness all around us. Canute blames God and wants to spit in his face, but forgets the blessing he’s received, that despite the abuse at his father’s hands, he was given opportunity to be in a position to help bring peace, one which God would want for us, to a world that isn’t peaceful. The Father desires peace on earth among his creation, while more importantly offering peace to each of us in our hearts, even while we try to snatch that blessing away from one another. But then like Canute, we blame a God who doesn’t snap his fingers to make everything “perfect,” while he is actually here with us fighting by our side.

And in that way, his relationship to us is mirrored in the healthiest father / son dynamic in Vinland Saga—that of Thors and Thorfinn.

This father loves his son and protects him. This father even loves his enemies, punishing them, but still offering mercy. This father chooses death rather than to kill those he rightly should. Thors, now years (and by the finale, some 20 episodes) removed from the tale, is a good father, full of love and justice. And like the Heavenly Father, even though no longer physically in front of Thorfinn, Thors is still drawing him near, with memories of his goodness and visions that encourage him to forgive. The world has been terrible to Thorfinn, but the specter of his dad is even now trying to bring him peace. Why does Thorfinn not kill Askeladd, who he has sought vengeance on after all these years, even when the pirate is dying and tells him to drive the final knife home? It’s because that even though his hateful emotions erupt frequently, deep inside, Thorfinn has started to take his father’s lessons to heart; he has forgiven Askeladd for his crime, and further, as evidenced by how he returns to save the old man during Thorkell’s river attack and by his tears during their final goodbye, even loves him.

“Every father loves his son.” Canute’s statement isn’t true, not even about his own dad, but it is true if you add “good” into it: “Every good father loves his son.” A good father wants what’s best for his child, which isn’t riches, comfort, or even happiness, though the latter is a byproduct of the greater gift he would bestow. He wants to give his child “peace.” Thors walked away from the Jomsvikings because he desired to rear a family in peace, without war and far away from the evil of man. And even now, a decade or more after his death, he still follows Thorfinn, gently pushing to him to make peace with himself and others, to forgive.

And in these visions, Thors also does one thing in addition. He reminds his son of a dream to settle in Vinland, a world not so harsh as their Icelandic home, a land filled with green hills and rich soil. It is a place beyond the horizon, unspoiled by mankind and its violence, where suffering is no more. A perfect place. A land of peace.

The land to which the good father leads.

=====

Vinland Saga can be streamed on Amazon Prime.

October Prompts - 19th

Prompt - ‘If you thought you were safe, you thought wrong’

There had been no justice. Worse than that, there had been no vengeance.

However Aziraphale had pulled off that little stunt in the court room, Hastur wasn’t buying it. It was a trick. That was how the demon worked. All tricks and misdirection. Perhaps he had managed to somehow block the effects of Holy Water. It didn’t matter. There were other ways to skin a cat. Or a demon.

Physical torture would have been better, but Lord Beelzebub had given the command that Aziraphale was to be left alone. No touching, which was… frustrating. He would have peeled open so nicely. Plenty of loose flesh to work with after all.

So he’d found another way, a way – in fact – suggested by Aziraphale himself.

The lazy bastard was a great admirer of something called “sigh-cology”. The way he’d explained it, you didn’t have to hurt a person’s body to do them harm. You affected something around them. Better, Aziraphale had said, if it’s something they care about. Smash someone’s favourite toy and watch them cry, then plant the seeds of rage and vengeance. Easy.

So Hastur had eyes on Aziraphale’s favourite toy.

The angel called Crowley.

Ligur had found out about that, Aziraphale’s dirty little secret. Didn’t say how, but Ligur always was a smart one. They knew about Crowley – one of Heaven’s few earthbound envoys and a quiet little goodie-two-shoes by all accounts.

After the embarrassment of a trial, Lord Beelzebub hadn’t put any prohibitions on him. Hadn’t even mentioned him. Hastur consider bringing him up, another reason they should deal with Aziraphale, but Lord Beelzebub was pacing and growling and no one got in the way of the dark Prince in a mood like that. 

It wasn’t hard to find Aziraphale’s little pet.

The sentimental bastard of a demon didn’t even bother hiding where he was going. He was all but living in a church with the skinny little runt of an angel. They held hands. They cuddled. Once, Hastur even saw them sitting on a bench in the garden one evening, sharing a blanket and drinking mugs of something together.

It was a disgrace. Demons everywhere would be considered soft by association.

Aziraphale needed to remember what it was to suffer.

Hastur bided his time, waiting until Aziraphale was out of the way and the angel was off-guard. If he thought he was safe, he was very, very wrong.

It was a sunny autumn afternoon when Hastur made his move.

The angel was in the garden, sweeping up fallen leaves with a broom, and glanced up as Hastur came closer. His eyebrows rose, but – infuriatingly – he didn’t look worried. He just leaned on his broom and gave Hastur a friendly smile. “Afternoon. Hastur, isn’t it? Duke of Hell?”

The solid certainty Hastur had been standing on suddenly felt like it was wobbling. “Er.”

The angel Crowley grinned and picked up the broom and started sweeping again. “Have you come to threaten and/or kill, torture, maim, knobble or in any other way do harm to me?”

Hastur had a finger upraised to say something, but all the words deflated out of him. “Yes!” he spluttered. “Of course I have! What did you expect a demon to do?”

Crowley sniffed and shrugged. “Dunno, really. Usually, the demon that comes round here hogs the covers and eats all my digestives.”

“Aziraphale,” Hastur growled with distaste.

“Mm.” The angel turned back to face him. “You’re probably lucky you came when it’s just me here…” Shrewd brown eyes gazed at him. “But that’s why you came, isn’t it? Go after the bastard’s weak spot when he won’t see it coming. He won’t like that.”

“Do you think I care what he likes?” Hastur bared his teeth. “Nothing personal, angel.” He snapped his fingers to summon up infernal flame. His hand flamed in purples and reds. Then fizzled out. He stared at it, then snapped his fingers again. Same thing again. “What the–”

The angel was leaning on his broom again, eyebrows raised. “Problem?”

The demon gnashed his teeth, snapping both fingers and casting up a whirling wall of flame.

Which vanished as if it had been sucked into the ground.

“What is– for Satan’s sake!” Hastur shook his hands in anger. “Damn you…”

Over and over, the flames dissolved the moment he created them

Crowley shrugged as if nothing untoward was happening and brushed a few more leaves into a pile. 

“Did you even both to look around when you came through the gates?” he asked, when Hastur’s litany of profanities trailed off into angry panted breaths.

“Wh-what?”

The angel waved around him. “This place. Did you even look?” He gave that annoying sunny smile again. “Go on. I can wait.”

Warily, Hastur glanced around the courtyard, then adjusted his vision to take in every plane. For a moment, he saw nothing and then he saw everything. Terror hit him a second before he howled in pain, his hands leaping to shield his eyes. The nexus of power was blinding, criss-crossed all over the building and the gardens and the walls. 

Somewhere beyond the white-out of his vision, he heard the tap of the broom handle being put down, and abruptly, there were hands on his wrists, prying his hands away from his streaming eyes.

The blinding brightness vanished and the angel was standing in front of him, his grip like iron around Hastur’s wrists. Hastur blinked, shaking. He could still see the glow of power, centred around the skinny, ragged creature in front of him.

Impossible.

That level of power was–

He hadn’t seen anything like it, not since–

Not since… before. 

“Funny thing about place,” the angel said, “it’s protected. It’s neutral. It’s safe.” He smiled, calm, benevolent and damned heavenly. “I’m telling you this because if you come after me again, if you come after me beyond these walls, it won’t be safe.” His eyes blazed like smoking embers and when he spoke, the harmonics in his voice burned down to Hastur’s bones. “Don’t make me hurt you.”

Hastur stared wildly at him. “What the Heaven are you?”

The angel laughed. “Oh. Right. I never introduced myself, did I?” He smiled and this time, there was nothing sweet or harmless about it. “You might have known me as Raziel.”

It was quite a feat to swallow one’s own tongue, but Hastur achieved it, recoiling back in horror. Raziel. The angel who had intervened, who had held time – and Lucifer – at a standstill, who had defied Heaven without Falling, who carried the Almighty’s word to the humans in form and deed. The angel who was part of Lord Beelzebub’s prohibition: do not approach, do not touch, do not provoke.

The angel opened his eyes. All of them. They were all around him, like stars all over his jet black wings.

“Don’t try me, Hastur,” he said, eyes glowing like hot coals. “I don’t like to harm people, but if you come near me or Aziraphale with ill intent again, I will make an exception.”

Hastur nodded, stumbling back over his own feet.

The power and blaze and darkness winked out and the angel was skinny and smiling again in the afternoon sunlight.

Hastur stared around warily, his heart thundering. He couldn’t see the fences of power blocking him in anymore, but he knew they were still there and he was helpless and unarmed. “Y-you’re letting me go?”

“Mm.” Crowley retrieved his broom from the ground. “Don’t try all the ‘you’re making a mistake, you fool’ and diabolical laughter and all that. I’ve heard it before. It didn’t take.” He gently nudged a small pile of leaves into a bigger one, then glanced at the rigid, terrified demon. “D’you want a cup of tea or something? I could get one. You look a bit shaken up.”

“Cup of tea?” Hastur shrieked. “You – you’re a god-damned Archangel!”

“Was, technically,” Crowley corrected. “Only the Archangel part. Briefly. Got demoted. Never God-damned, though. Famous for it.” His smile lit up his face. “But you knew that bit, didn’t you?” He jerked his head towards the church. “Honestly, I could make you a cup. It helps.”

Hastur stared at him. “You… you’re serious?”

Crowley nodded. “Like I said, this is neutral ground. I can’t hurt you, you can’t hurt me. Might even have some biscuits if Aziraphale didn’t get into the tin again.”

“No.” Hastur backed towards the gate and then, for some reason he couldn’t quite wrap his head around, he added, “Thank you.”

Crowley smiled. “Fair enough. Offer stands if you ever want one.”

Hastur shook his head again, retreating out the gates.

That… that wasn’t meant to be what an angel was like! Not at all! Offering tea and biscuits! What kind of angel did that? He glanced back at the church, frowning. He’d never had tea or biscuits before and the angel hadn’t hurt him, even though he could’ve.

He shook himself, frowning.

Was this what it felt like to be… tempted?

Ugh! No. No tea! No biscuits! No!

There was definitely something not right about that angel.

In the Mind of a Writer - a Sam-centric coda to 15x04 that has Dean/Cas elements

Sam is tormented with strange dreams again. Being a demon and killing his brother was only the start. It seems night after night his mind plays a new, horrifying concept with him and his brother as the starring leads.

However one night he gets a break, and instead of being a part of the action can sit back and watch. Is it better or worse to not be included in the script? Will he learn anything new from the role of audience member? And just exactly what is the reason for these dreams in the first place?

Sam leans against the hallway, hand splayed across the wall and sliding it while he staggered towards his bedroom. Blinks bleary eyes downwards, he tracks his feet in case one decides to trip the other and send him sprawling to the floor. He stumbles when his hand skipped over a space in the hallway, Sam flailing. If it weren’t luck guiding him towards the door knob he would have fully fallen. Instead, shaken, he squeezes both the knob and the door jamb.

“What did I…” Glancing into the empty room, Sam knows exactly where he is. “ Oh .”

Cas’s room. Or what used to be of it. There’s not even a bed left, pieces remain from the night Dean dismantled it with the help of Jack and Whiskey.

He found him there, screwdriver and drink in hand, barely coherent. “What are you doing?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he drawled, stumbling over to a dresser with no drawers. Smashed to bits around his brother. “Had a totally… totally awesomeidea. Turn this into a gym.”

“A gym?” Sam asked, “Dean, we already have a gym.”

“We do?”

“Yeah… you just never go to it,” Sam frowned, cautiously approaching him, “Dean, are you -”

“Then it’ll be something else,” Dean said, swinging wildly. Narrowly dodging the tip of his screwdriver, Sam jumped a safe distance away. “Maybe a memorial room… Yeah, to r’member those we’ve lost.”

Sam liked the idea. “But here?” he continued, “Dean, this is Ca -”

“Why not here Sam?” Dean asked, surprisingly sober like he flipped a switch. Glared at him with cold, dead eyes nestled in puffy, red skin. “S’not like anyone’s using this room.”

Arguing with Dean like this is like taking tackling a demon without an angel blade. In no mood for it, Sam let him be. The curiosity of what drove his brother to demolish their friend’s room didn’t leave. So he texted Cas.

And texted. Again. And called after the fifth unanswered message.

Finally in his room, Sam checks his phone hoping Cas responded. He’s greeted by the mocking checkmark of a read-receipt on his most recent text. “Seriously,” Sam scowls, dropping his phone onto the nightstand, “why won’t anyone tell me anything .”

Dean loves talking about problems when they aren’t his own. Played nursemaid to distract from his own inability to deal with his trauma. While Sam appreciated it, he knew it wouldn’t last forever. Evidenced by the unhealthy habits Dean uses to bide his time between being a good brother.

The two buckets of greasy chicken Dean wolfed down were obvious clues he was not in his right mind.

“At least it’s not booze,” Sam mutters, pulling the thin henley over his head. After the first few nights of drinking, his brother locked the liquor cabinet and instead chose to stuff his face.

Sam walked in on a rare sight, his brother nursing a wicked hangover. Seeing only a bottle and a half of whiskey drank, his hackles rose. “It’s not like you to be taken down so easily.”

“It’s called aging Sam,” he growled, “Apparently I can’t hold my liquor like I used to…”

He sighs, shaking his head clear of the memories of his brother making coffee with the saddest scowl fixed to his face. Sam needs an empty head when he goes to sleep, refusing to allow his subconscious any foothold to create another horrible dream.

Besides the one where a demon version of himself killed his brother, there were countless dreams he had that ended as miserably. Dean, fueled by Amara’s Mark, chopping his head off. Both of them hunting as the very creatures they fought, tearing into innocent victims with no remorse. Last night Sam ripped Dean’s soul from his body so they could both be killing machines dictated by logic. He woke up after the light died in his brother’s eyes while thanking Sam for ‘fixing’ him.

Sam knows if this continues he might go crazy. In one he already was, haunted by visions of Lucifer while standing over his brother’s lifeless body.

“Not tonight,” Sam promises, slipping under his covers, “It won’t happen tonight.” Voice shaky, Sam doubts he can control what he dreams. Any answer to this problem seems out of reach since the lack of sleep muddles his mind. Crosses wires and makes it harder to think. A good night’s rest might help, but there’s no telling if that might be soon.

Not until he closes his eyes. Which Sam does, since he can’t keep them open any longer.

Unfortunately, he dreams.

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

Long grass and weeds overgrown the Bunker’s entrance, vines overtaking the stairwell. From his overhead perspective, Sam sees Cas exit his truck. Unlike when he last saw him, his friend wears a black button-down over a t-shirt, torn jeans, and scuffed boots. Scars criss-cross the exposed skin of his forearms where the sleeves rolled up, and a heavy line was carved from his temple to his cheek. It enhanced the rough edges on full display.

Cas doesn’t enter, instead drifting towards the haphazardly parked car nearby. Sam hadn’t recognized it. Dean’s Impala in such a poor condition he couldn’t put two together. With mud-splattered exterior and dented hood, she looked nothing like the pristine Baby he sat in hours earlier. Interior faring no better, Sam saw discarded wrappers, empty bottles with spill stains and even more mud.

Dean would flip if he knew what had happened to her, Sam thought.

Entranced by the sorry excuse for the Winchester chariot Sam nearly missed Cas heading inside. He followed his friend inside, pausing to stare at the unfamiliar wasteland their home became.

Dim lighting didn’t disguise the dump the Bunker was. Similar wrappers to the ones decorating Baby cascaded down the stairs in a trail that stretched into the depths of the Bunker. With each step Cas took Sam’s dread inched closer and closer towards a mountainous peak and he can identify more in the main room. Like the yellowed mattress thrown on top of the world map or pages upon pages of books crumpled and balled in a piles, competing with the wrappers.

Cas searches for something in the mess. Focusing on his features, however, Sam has the sense he looks for some one .

Trickling sounds from nearby, and the closer he follows Cas the louder it becomes. “Dean?” Cas calls into the emptiness, “Dean? Are you there?”

“Right here!”

Standing in the corner, Dean relieves himself. Backside covered by his robe, Sam sees only the thick pale stream pouring onto the floor in a puddle and flooding under his feet. Nausea grips him tight at his brother’s gross display, especially when he grunts near the end. Shaking the final drops free and finishes peeing.

Dean turns and fully reveals himself.

Sam gasps at the sight of his brother, completely unrecognizable had he not answered Cas’s call. His sandy hair looks more flaxen, long enough to curl atop his shoulders. Unkempt like his crumb-covered beard. Dean only wears the robe, nothing on underneath. Obvious by the blase way he walks over with the stained garment open. A calm expression settles across his face like being naked in front of his best friend shouldn’t bother him. Except, knowing his brother, it should.

“Dean,” Cas starts, a darkness settling over his features, “I… I had heard but… seeing it -”

“Seeing what?” Dean asks, skewing his head to the side in an innocent mirror of his friend. Somehow Cas’s stare hardens further.

“What… happened ?”

Sam wants to know the answer - needs to. The more exposure to this version of his brother, the more he notices. Like the softness of his body exposed by the gentle swaying of the robe. Belly round and extended, muscles hidden by extra cushion. More than usual. And all of it is covered in streaks of dirt and grease and other smears he dare not name, like Dean hadn’t showered for an extended period of time. If he could smell, Sam believes it would knock him to the floor.

He keeps ticking off more boxes that raise Sam’s hackles.

Dean thinks longer than necessary before speaking. His eyes flicker slightly as a thought connects, and an easy smile crosses his face while the green dims to a pale, lifeless moss. “You know what happened, Cas,” he says, dragging a chair forward and collapsing in it. Slamming his gross feet onto the map, nudging the bed slightly, he swipes a half-eaten sandwich from the floor and tears into it. While he chews with his mouth open Sam studies his food. An inkling of recognition tickles him. “Chuck did it,” Dean continues, crumbs spraying, “brought back the Leviathan to wipe away his work and then packed up - onto the next universe. And when they came they did with a vengeance… picked up where they left off…”

Sam remembers. Looking at the sandwich he now notices the grey blobs oozing from the sandwich.

“No,” Cas shakes his head, lips trembling, “No, Dean, that… I know it’s been too long but how could this have happened? This… what happened to you ?”

“Shit, Cas what didn’t happen?” Dean chuckles, “You were there for some of it… Dick running for President. Secret service men with all that extra teeth… Sam dying -”

“Sam? Sam’s dead?”

“Yeah, like a while ago…”

His heart beats loudly in his ears, unsure whether from finding out he’s dead in this nightmare or because of the flippant way Dean mentioned his death.

Cas reacts though. Sobs brokenly, shoulders shuddering like they might collapse. In the next second he shoves the sadness down. “How?”

“Like everyone else we knew,” he shrugs, “We stormed a compound, took down a few of the toothy bastards. Tried to free a few of the captive cattle. Sam was helping this woman, fighting her to get her to budge, but she wouldn’t… and that’s when a Leviathan snuck up and ganked him. Blood… everywhere!” Grey drops fly with how wildly he swings the arm holding his sandwich. “I watched the whole thing, man. Like, ten of ‘em piled on and ate him right there. Nothing left when they finished. After all the fat they were probably in the mood for some lean meat.”

If Sam could vomit he would. Already he imagines the scene as Dean described, feels teeth marking his skin and ripping it from his bones. Maybe that’s why he is nothing more than a silent voice among his family.

“And so you gave up?” Cas asks, “Without Sam you couldn’t go on any longer?”

Dean pouts, tapping his sandwich to his chin. Smearing juices against the beard. “Nah,” he says, “It hurt when I saw it, I think? But y’know what I remember more? All the other people who were watching… doing nothing. Sitting like it didn’t matter… because it didn’t . Not caring because they weren’t able to, man… that’s the dream. It’s awesome . The chick Sam was 'saving' ended up drenched in his blood and she didn’t even scream. After that I guess I reconsidered what I wanted and… it’s not that bad being cattle. Eat as much as I want until one day I get eaten? Turns out I’m more okay with it than I first thought…”

“It’s not okay, Dean,” Cas pleads, closes the distance between them and kneels at his side. Lays his hands over Dean’s thigh, digging into the soft flesh. “Humans were made for more than this. You’re more -”

“Sure,” he scoffs, “And what did we do with all that more ? This is exactly what we deserve -”

“You’re not in your right mind.”

“I feel like I’m thinking clearly for the first time ever. And if I’m not who cares ?”

“I do!” Cas screams, “Because knowing what the Leviathan has done to Sam, has done to you … it fills me with so much anger . You should be just as angry as I am.”

“Anger leads to nothing,” Dean tells Cas with nihilistic wisdom, “Everything leads to nothing . Our story’s over, man. Chuck made his ending. Why should we carry on with the plot if the author doesn’t want to?”

Cas’s expression dips into righteous fury. “We continue for the people we care about, for ourselves. I know Sam is gone Dean but there are others you care about right? Who you love? Don’t you care about yourself ?”

“Maybe once,” he says, crumbling the wrapper into a tiny ball and tossing it at Cas’s face. Laughing, he leans back in his seat and stretches. “But the only thing I care about now is that I’m hungry .” Dean stands, ignoring Cas on his way towards the exit.

“Dean!” Cas calls after him, “You need to keep fighting. I… I need you.”

Pausing at the foot of the stairs, Dean cranes his neck to meet Cas’s gaze. Grinning with acted mirth, Dean says, “Needing people is overrated. I thought I needed Sam… Hell, I thought I needed you . I never needed anyone… love? Fake. You don’t love me and I don’t love you. I never have… you were just there. You were there until you weren't, and that's the same for everyone. We’re all trying to fill a void… the Leviathan found how to exactly do that.”

During his speech Cas’s features shattered into heartbreak, Sam being buffeted by the shards from where he watches.

“Want my advice? Hit up Biggerson’s… since you’re human it’ll be fine. Grab a sandwich and move on .” Dean trudges up the stairs to the door, slam echoing after him.

Physically alone, Cas finally crumbles. He curls into a ball on the floor surrounded by Dean’s filth and garbage. Sam shudders, hit with the heavy-handed symbolism. As a tear slips past Cas’s chin Sam feels a tugging from the side.

Cas’s sob sounds far away. When Sam blinks, his friend looks smaller than he did before. He realizes too late that he is being dragged from the Bunker. Sam fights to stay with Cas, to comfort him. To prop him up, encourage him that there’s still hope. Dean can still be saved.

A voice whispers from behind. “No more happy endings…”

Sam leaves the Bunker. Flying higher in the sky he sees Baby swerving lazily on the road, her frame becoming tinier and tinier. When she’s nothing more than a speck of black against grey, his vision whitens.

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

Sam wakes, gasping against his sheets. Twisting, he sits up and splays his hand across his chest. When his heart beats a hasty rhythm for his fingers, he calms slightly. The more he breathes, the calmer he becomes.

Another nightmare. Dragging his hand across his face, Sam curses the latest hellscape he created for himself. Remembers the broken figures of his brother and best friend. Normally their jagged edges fit together perfectly. Only there, the remains were too incompatible.

They all end the same, tonight’s being no different. Death. Sadness. Hopelessness .

Why his dreams can’t stick to a plot, Sam can’t imagine. If they repeated, after a time Sam could prepare. The spontaneity of their content keeps him on his toes in the worst way possible.

He scratches at his gunshot wound, it irritating him more than usual. Sam yawns and shifts off the bed, moving towards the door.

If he cannot sleep, then he’ll do something else. It’s worked every other time.

Sam doesn’t think about what will happen once he runs out of distractions.

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

Chuck pushes away from the desk, scrubbing his hands down his face and heaving a tired sigh. Glaring at his work, he forcefully shuts the laptop with a thought. “Don’t know what Becky was talking about,” he growls, standing. Pacing across the workroom from the Roadhouse to the Bunker. “Adding Cas never does anything… can’t drive the story where I need it to go…”

He pauses, considering his story from another angle. “Or maybe she was right?” he asks himself, “The Leviathan… weren’t good?”

As soon as it enters his mind Chuck crushes it into ash. Shaking his head, he grins. “They were good, Chuck,” he says, “with all those teeth… how couldn’t they be? But maybe they’re not final draft material…"

Returning to the desk, Chuck opens the laptop. Knuckles cracked, he begins anew. “The perfect ending is in here somewhere…”

A kingdom in ruins, his people and loved ones dead, Gladiolus turns to those he had once spurned: the gods.

For better or for worse, Retribution hears and answers.

Pairing: Gladiolus Amicitia/Noctis Lucis Caelum Rating: G

“So the prodigal son finally bends the knee.”

Gladiolus grits his teeth, keeps his eyes trained on the cracked stone on which he kneels upon. He hears featherlight footsteps circle around him, the soft patter of bare feet kicking up broken pebbles. A particularly sharp stone rolls into his view, and he stares at that instead. The barely lit torches cast dancing shadows around them, and he catches the echo of this other being’s form. He can’t tell if it’s humanoid or not.

“Why now? You blasphemed our names, tore down our shrines and effigies. And here you are, groveling on the floor so unlike the proud and regal prince you once were.” Gladio can hear the mocking smile in its voice, and it takes all of his will to push down on the pride that thrashed among the broken pillars of his castle. “So let me ask a better question. Why should I help you, a non-believer who spurned my very existence, when I could just leave you to meet out your due end?”

Because he shouldn't, because Gladio has no right to come to the gods after all that he's denied them. He knows this, and so does the god who prowls around him like a vicious predator circling its hapless prey. But he knows how negotiations and deals work; he's had his hand in many of his father's council sessions, learned from the finest tutors and diplomats in the art of politics. The fact that this god had decided to humor him with its presence means there's an interest, that there is something Gladio could offer. But because the gods are finicky and whimsical and never cut right to the chase, he needs to figure out what exactly the god sees in him — and quickly, before it loses interest and Gladio's last hope is smothered alongside the rubble of his nation.

After biding his time and taking the blows of the god's sharp words in silence — the not so subtle insults adding salt to his open wounds of seeing the last of his kingdom burn under black flames — he swallows thickly as he chooses his next words carefully. He knows not who he's summoned or if this deity is malevolent or benign. It could be a demon in disguise or a powerful spirit posing as some higher power, keeping up with the ruse so it could lure him into its trap and devour his soul and flesh and bones.

And Gladio only knows two things. One, this god clings to a masculine form, judging by the voice. Not by sight, because he had not dared to lift his eyes from the dark stone floor of this deserted and broken temple. And more importantly, two, that this is the only one to answer his plea and he could absolutely not fuck this up. His kingdom and his people were dead and gone, all buried underneath the thundering march of his enemies’ boots, and he had literally nothing left to lose. Even his life was forfeited the moment his father shoved him into the one-way passage that led to the forest edge, before he saw the blood spring forth from the sword impaled into the king’s chest.

Only, now that he’s at his lowest, he has everything to gain. And what he wants are revenge and justice, to see Iedolas' head perched upon a spike and decorating his front yard. For retribution alone, he would offer anything.

“I’d offer you my kingdom and my crown, but I don't have either — not anymore,” Gladio says slowly, trying not to grieve over his loss. Not yet, not now.

“So a king of nothing kneels here. But gold and silk never interested me.” It sounds unimpressed but not uninterested.

Gladio figured as much, so he's left with what should have been burned out with the rest of his people. “I don't know what a mortal's life is worth, but it's all I have to give. I can give you worship, praises, sacrifices, whatever it is you gods like. If you help me, I'll rebuild the shrines my family tore down. I'll turn Iedolas’ bones into an effigy in your name, even.”

“Ah, the Mad King.”

Gladio flinches at the title, anger boiling at just the mere mention of Iedolas’ moniker. The agonizing seconds that tick by is enough to cool it though, and he thinks it's done. It's all over. He didn't think his single life was worth much to a god anyway, but it was worth the shot. So he wonders what his next move should be, if there's anyone left to resist Iedolas’ blight —

“So be it. Your fleeting life is mine.”

Gladio feels cool fingers slide along his bare neck, and he can't help the shudder the foreign touch invokes. He almost can't believe the words he so clearly heard, except the fire that licks at the places he's been touched is more than enough to ground him.

“My will, your law.”

He closes his eyes and grits his teeth as fingers trace a pattern down his back, across his shoulders, and he feels a burn follow the shadows of his touches, a bone-deep sensation that reaches into Gladio’s very soul and coils magics around his fragments. He knows it's a contract, proof etched into his skin, proof he's signed his life away. Surprisingly, he isn't bitter about it.

“My word, your bible.”

This time, the voice ghosts the shell of his ear, its hand palming the front of his chest right over his heart. It burns the greatest here, and he's unable to hold back the sudden gasp, the magic piercing and needling under his skin. Gladio opens his eyes to see pale feet before him, not a speck of dirt or dust on porcelain skin, despite pacing around this decrepit place. He still doesn't look up, out of fear. If he dares raise his eyes now, he threatens to break what promise is being burned into him, to lose this miraculous favor he's been given when no one else would offer. And maybe, he fears the unknown. Of what little stories he's heard of gods, he knows some to depict them as beautiful creatures, others as fearsome beings surrounded by flames and blinding light.

“My name, your god.”

The burn spreads across his shoulder blades and down both his arms, but the pain is a dull ache and no longer searing. Or perhaps, it never dulled in the first place, but all his nerves turn their attention to the fleeting touch trailing down his jaw and under his chin. Two fingers command him to lift his head, and he does as ordered. In the past, he would have never put his knee to the cold dirty stone, never allowed someone to touch him so boldly. But that had been the time in which Gladio was royalty; now he's only a man whose will is chained and tethered to a being who lords over him.

He stiffens, however, when he meets two ice-steel eyes, a gaze so sharp and deep that he feels his soul lay itself utterly bare for dissection. He lets go of a breath he didn't know he was holding, only to have the air sucked clean out of him right after. The god finalizes their pact, and takes a piece of Gladio's soul as down payment and collateral, stealing his fragments right from his pliant lips. He feels something inside him shift, to make room for some heavy chain that wraps its burning coils around his soul, replacing what was taken from him.

Gladiolus sees black, and tastes blood in his mouth and a foreign name on his tongue.

“And what is this god's name?” it asks, almost sarcastically, one note away from mocking. And Gladio knows, the way it burns his mouth as it demands to be freed.

“Noctis.”

He whispers it with a reverence he never thought possible, especially not from such a heretic as he. It feels too smooth on his tongue and slips so easily from his lips. Because of the contract, he wants to believe. But he can't help but feel every word fall to dust and ruin before the god's name. As if he learned speech only to utter that single word, like his voice was given just for this one moment.

He thinks it possible. So much so when he sees that sharp curve of a smile — those lips that had just sealed Gladio’s fate, turn loving and frightening and vicious all at the same time. Thunder rumbles the stone walls, and the foundation of his entire world crumbles and remakes itself within Noctis’ torturous hands.

“Who are you?” He thinks it’s a rude question, an insult, but their contract is done; if what he’s heard of the gods is true, then Noctis won’t break his promise, won’t call their deal off and eat him alive. He should know this, really. But all he had was a name and this unfamiliar tether weighing in his chest.

Noctis’ smile turns crooked, and Gladio can’t tell if he looks amused or slighted.  

The god — no, his god — turns his eyes and follows the trail of his fingertips that graze over the feathered pattern of Gladio’s chest, the testament to their vows. What follows is an entirely different burn, not painful but hauntingly pleasant. In the dim firelight of the crude torches, he sees a blue flame swirl beneath the frozen steel of his eyes. There is power here. Power that could include him into the dust of the earth, yet it's reigned in under featherlight touches and a strangely gentle caress, as Noctis’ hand turns to cup Gladio's dirt and blood-stained cheek.

He looks at him almost lovingly, except his too sharp teeth and slitted eyes invoke fear and awe. Gladio thinks the myths and legends to be true: Noctis is both terrifying and magnificent. He's a marble statue come to live, but he exudes raw energy and arcane magic, and it bleeds into the air around him. Gladio had smelled the charged ozone the moment Noctis had came to him, atoms and physics bending to his will or cracking under his sovereignty.

His lips part in a cold but not cruel laugh, and Gladio believes it to be a beautiful sound. Because it sounds like vengeance, justice, a promise of redemption.

“You should at least know the names of the gods you so hated, or just what they hold dominion over.” Noctis’ eyes crinkle in amusement, and his smile is genuine. He strokes his thumb at the dark bag underneath Gladio's eye before removing his hand to grasp gently at the back of his neck.

Noctis draws their foreheads together, and once again Gladio feels breathless as he loses himself in those chasms of frozen darkness, enough to ignore the way the god's fingernails dig dangerously close to an artery.

Noctis’ whispers sound like the awe-inspiring notes of a grand organ, reverberating against the broken remains of the temple ruins like it would a church's marble and gold walls; and never did Gladio think he would find himself a worshipper basking in the sonorous hymns of Noctis’ voice.

“I am the moonless night in which the scorned seek out their wrongdoers and receive their due in blood, the edge of the guillotine that takes the life of murderers and rapists only to give it back to the bereaved.”

Gladio feels his pulse quicken underneath those fingertips.

“I am the steel of swords, the screams of soldiers and peasants, as they seek to right what has been wronged. I am the hammer that turns evil into justice, the cold silence that precedes and follows the promise of vengeance.”

And he can see it. He sees the visions Noctis paints for him, sees the future of what is promised to him.

“I am their Retribution. I am your Avenger.”

Gladio had never put much stock in the gods. But in this moment, he can do nothing but believe. He's been baptized in the fire of his god, made a covenant of his own flesh, and borne witness to the revelations. He shudders under the god's touch, feels himself vulnerable under that suffocating gaze, but he can't help but want and seek out more.

When Noctis removes himself, Gladio barely holds back the disappointment, and he misses the heat on his skin. His gaze trails after the other, who walks to the runes etched into the cracked walls. Noctis traces something, running his fingers over the faint echoes, and the once lost magic is breathed back to life, power pulsing through the stone.

“I promise you your justice. But for now, you rest. You won't be able to fight a war in the state you're in.”

Gladio realizes they're protection spells, and he's trying to decipher them when Noctis suddenly pulls at him from behind. He was just there, in front of him off to the walls. Gladio flails his arms as he falls backwards, hands grasping at air, until he finds his head cradled within the god's lap. The jagged and hard stone beneath him should be jutting into his spine but all he feels is a comfortable firmness, a reminder of his royal chambers. It doesn't make sense, but he doesn't want to ruin the moment, not when his eyelids feel so heavy right now and his limbs weighted with lead. He hadn't been so tired before.

“Rest,” Noctis repeats, “Everything can wait until morning.”

Gladio does as he's commanded, but he doesn't think he'd be able to disobey even if he wanted. He catches a glimpse of something odd and foreign in Noctis’ careful gaze, and he wonders if it's supposed to be sympathy or tenderness or perhaps something else entirely. He doesn't have much energy to dwell on it, however, and everything blurs at its edges until he's lost in black when he feels a hand cover his eyes. Instead of the nightmares that had plagued him, the visions of blood and his father's falling body, he dreams of a warm darkness and its stars.

When he wakes, it is with no pain or ache. He somehow knows his wounds are healed, and the knowledge is what prompts him into opening his eyes. Gladio sits up and pats down his chest and arms, searching for the evidence — or lack thereof — that he had been wounded in the first place, until he gets a good look at his arms and sees the brand that feathers out and splays across his skin. It's a stark reminder that last night had been real and not a figment of his delirious and grief-stricken imagination. It comes as a relief.

“I can't heal, if that's what you're wondering. I asked Luna to.”

Gladio swivels his head around, sees Noctis looking ridiculously graceful as he sits cross-legged on the floor. He furrows his eyebrows.

“Luna. Lunafreya.” Noctis gestures helplessly in the air.

Gladio isn't understanding what he's saying, or who Lunafreya is. Noctis catches notice and sighs, shaking his head lightly as his soft dark tresses brush his cheeks.

“I had forgotten you know nothing about us. Lunafreya is a god, sister to Ravus, to Allegiance. She is the soft moonlight that brings comfort to the broken, the light that brightens the path walked in darkness. She aids the sick and broken, grants miracles with her touch, and breathes life with her kiss,” Noctis explains. There's a certain fondness in his eyes as he speaks about her. “She is Hope when all is lost.”

“Oh, then my thanks to Lunafreya.” It's… awkward, thanking a god he was raised to deny. But Gladio is sincerely grateful, regardless.

He turns fully around to face Noctis, mimicking his posture and crossing his legs, when he sees two figures cross the rubble of the temple entrance. It’s daylight now; he must have slept through the entire night. He tenses, and all his muscles tighten and poise to attack, when Noctis stares him down and merely lifts a hand. Somehow, Gladio knows it's a sign to stand down. And he does so, albeit begrudgingly. He doesn't like how Noctis holds the reins, how a simple gesture is enough to cow him. He's used to giving orders, not receiving them.

Noctis turns his wrist to have his palm face up, and one of the men places a small basket in his hand. He takes it and places it on the floor, sliding it across the stone to Gladio.

Gladio sees the contents, recognizes the fruits that are set to one side and the cooked rabbit that lies separate by some sort of thin parchment.

“Breakfast?” he asks, raising his eyebrows. He wasn't expecting, well, this. But to be honest, he had no idea what he had been getting himself into in the first place. He picks off a slightly charred piece of meat and pops it into his mouth regardless. It's slightly bitter from the burnt skin and in desperate want of seasoning, but his stomach doesn't complain, not when he's gone days without eating.

“I want to clarify some things with you,” Noctis says, resting his elbows on his legs. He entwines his fingers together, and he leans forward with his chin propped on top of his knuckles. The two men flank both of his sides, the shorter blonde on his right and the brunette on his left.

“Fair enough,” Gladio says, after swallowing down his food. He eyes them suspiciously. Introductions would come later, apparently.

“You know how we work, at the very least?”

Of course he knows that much. The gods never do the work directly. They operate in the shadows, act as puppeteers pulling on strings from above in their heavenly thrones or from some spiritual plane. Oracles and prophets speak for them, grant blessings in their stead, channeling divine power through some sort of link.

And it's precisely because of this shady process his family had scorned the gods for generations. They were heretics and  nonbelievers, but they ruled well, took care of their kingdom and their people. His father and rest of the royal did what they could, aid the sick and poor, distribute reasonable justice and the likes. But the Amicitias looked upon the gods with scorn. Too many times did religion birth bloody crusades and false gods, killing and persecuting needlessly to bring glory to some deity who didn't deserve even a single utterance. Their priests and supposed Oracles were swindlers and tradesmen at heart, tricking the poor and broken to wring out whatever coin they had left. These “great” gods kept to their cozy palaces and watched from above, toyed with humans as expendable playthings and threw souls into twisted fates for their own enjoyment.

They didn't deserve worship.

“I do. Never do anything yourselves, I got that. I don't expect you to fight my battles for me.” His words come out more scalding than he means to, but it's no simple undertaking to shrug off what had been instilled into him his entire life. Gladio grimaced only slightly. In any other situation with facing a god before him, he would have been more careful; but he bears a covenant with Noctis, which includes a promise that his god will not kill him until their vows are fulfilled. And hopefully, he’ll make a decent enough impression for Noctis to let him go in the end.

The god seems to take no offense to the heated tone, however. “Good. Because I will not stride into the war fields and turn your enemies to dust myself.” He lifts his hands, one gesturing to each of the men at his sides. “They will.”

Gladio nearly chokes on a grape, and he coughs it up, the round fruit rolling across the floor to land at the blonde's shoe. “What?” he rasps through the tears at his eyes, thumping his chest with his fist.

Noctis breathes out a silent laugh. “My Wardens, my most trusted overseers.”

“Ignis Scientia,” says the one on the left as he adjusts his glasses, “The holy fire that bathes the corrupted and nefarious, the flames that burn away the rot of the wound so it may heal, the eternal pyre of rightful judgment and Retribution.”

“Prompto Argentum,” chirps the other, “I'm the swift silver of the executioner's blade, the flash of metal that glints off a mother's knife as she slits the throat of her child's murderer, the final shot of rightful judgment and Retribution.” A bright smile splits across face. “And lover of all things Chocobos.”

Ignis rolls his eyes and groans, sharing a look with Noctis, who only returns the gaze with a shrug.

“But you gods don't do things yourselves?” Gladio questions, though it's more of an uncertain statement. He stops picking at his food, attention entirely focused on the three before him.

“We are not gods. We are his Wardens. I am the holy —”

“Yeah, I think he heard us fine the first time, Iggy,” Prompto quips, before the other could run through his introduction again. He looks to Gladio and shrugs. “We were like you. Humans once, believe it or not.”

Gladio narrows his eyes in skepticism. He's heard stories and myths of legendary heroes ascending to godhood or the likes, but they were only that. Stories.

“No longer humans but not quite gods,” Noctis adds, closing his eyes and nodding sagely. “They act for me when I can't.”

“When you can't? Aren't you gods, y'know, omnipotent?”

With a long suffering sigh, Ignis steps forward. “To some degree, yes. But what would happen if such all-powerful beings clashed with wild abandon? Humankind and the entirety of Eos would be left in ruins and chaos. So the gods made a pact. Should they ever disagree or desire to meddle in human affairs, they would never do so directly and instead use mediums — Oracles, prophets, Wardens, ‘Chosen’ kings and queens or heroes. Even a heretic as you should know that much.”

“Ignis.”

“Apologies,” he says to Noctis. “Ex-heretic. A devout worshipper and blessed champion now, I do believe.” The look he offers Gladio is almost condescending, with that subtle smirk and lift of his brow.

Gladio does his best to ignore that and clears his throat. “Alright, so let me get this straight. I'll have these two pseudo gods fighting with me? That's actually a lot more than I was expecting.”

Noctis smiles wryly. “With a caveat.”

It's Prompto who speaks up now. “We won't be going around and making everyone drop like lead flies. There's some weird and specific rules about how we Wardens get to work but yeah, that's the idea. Except two ‘pseudo gods’ and a prince won't be enough to stop a crazy army and a crazier king.”

“So we make our own.”

They all turn to Noctis, Gladio half-expecting him to summon up a marching brigade at this point.

“You aren't the only one who holds a grudge against Iedolas. More than a handful of kingdoms and nations have fallen because of him, which you could say, works in your favor. There's only say, several thousands who wish for Retribution, wish to see their slain comrades and families avenged.”

It's certainly true. Tenebrae was the first to fall; the midnight attack drowned her forests in a sea of flames, and she was conquered in less than a week. Altissia was confident they would not be invaded; sea-locked as they were, Niflheim would certainly have troubles reaching her island fortresses. But no one expected the flying machines that carried its soldiers across the great oceans. Without a proper military or defense, the lovely island nation was turned into ruins in a matter of days. Niflheim was spreading its claws like a cancer, systematically destroying everything as it greedily swallowed up whatever it came across.

“We'll start with the Galahdians,” Noctis continues, “Nyx Ulric, the one they call ‘Hero,’ and his little ragtag group. Then onto Leide and Duscae and Cleigne, where the Hunters are scattered across. Altissia and Tenebrae have long since fallen, but there are plenty of those who long for freedom and revenge.”

Gladio's head goes spinning. It'll be a lot of travel, a lot of time spent recruiting and staying under Iedolas’ radar. The idea is so daunting he wonders if it would all be possible. But of course it is. He is an Amicitia, wrought from iron and stone, and even if the gods would declare him their enemy, nothing would stand in his way.

But the gods aren't against him — not when he has one vying for his victory. And the fact that Noctis is already putting his plans into motion, actively giving his aid instead of watching at the sidelines is… Almost scary.

Gladio looks from Prompto to Ignis and back to Noctis. “Not to put this the wrong way, but this is a lot more than I expected. It's almost… Unfair?”

Noctis’ expression suddenly goes tight, all mirth replaced by sober eyes and a low voice. “It long stopped being fair when Ardyn started all this.”

Whoever this Ardyn is, it's not good, judging the way his two Wardens stiffen up. Ignis’ jaw perceptively tenses, and even Prompto's sunny aura clouds over.

“Ardyn? This is his doing?” Ignis asks, voice gone rigid.

Noctis sighs and nods, his shoulders sagging as he presses the heel of his palm onto his eye. “He twisted some rules, and of course leave it up to him to find loopholes in our pact. But he's wormed his way into Iedolas, and none of us know what he's really planning or what the reason is.”

“Yeah, well, since when did Ardyn need a reason for anything?” Prompto says, his face scrunching up in distaste. He sounds bitter, almost venomous, a stark contrast to his upbeat personality only moments before. “He didn't need one when he went screwin’ around with my life when I was still human.”

“Ardyn?” Gladio asks, a bit too sharply. He's more than curious about this Ardyn fellow, a god by the sound of it, and the perpetrator for all the disaster and chaos that plunged his kingdom into rubble.

“A god. For the past centuries he's been mostly silent and he fell into obscurity for a time. Until now. Iedolas’ mad conquering spree is from Ardyn's influence,” Noctis answers.

“Why is he doing this?”

“For the only reason he does anything else. Because he's bored and wants to play.” Prompto speaks with that same bitterness. With the way he spits out the words, Gladio knows the guy does not have a good history with Ardyn. He almost feels sorry, but at least they both have a common ground to stand on.

Noctis rises from the stone and dusts off his pants, as if any dirt had gotten on him in the first place. “Bahamut has his hands tied right now, so I'm only levelling the playing field. Iedolas has Ardyn, but now you have me.”

He smiles, a grin so confident and promising that Gladio believes his every word and vow.

“It’ll take time and effort, sweat and blood, but you Amicitias know all about that.” Noctis extends a hand and beckons the other to stand. Gladio obeys, and his god curls his fingers around the lapels of his tattered jacket, dragging the man’s face down to his own. “So just you wait, Prince. For all the denial and heresy you’ve spoken against me, I’ll make a believer out of you yet.”

Noctis’ warm whispers ghost against his own lips, and Gladio wonders if this is another vow in the making. Despite himself, Gladio feels a surge of arrogance and wants to test the waters of his new god’s patience. He quirks a haughty grin and stares into the deep blue pools of Noctis’ eyes. “Is that a promise?” he asks, almost challenging.

Noctis, however, sees through the ruse and lowers his lashes, and he laughs against Gladio’s lips. His fingers uncurl themselves from the leather lapels and move up to lightly grasp the prince’s dark locks, matted with blood and dirt. He slides his hands through them easily enough, and he gently digs his fingernails into Gladio’s skull and tugs him closer.

“A promise.” He passes his lips across Gladio’s, sees the expectant and hungry gaze in this haughty mortal, and stops just a hair’s width before pushing him away. “For another time, dear Champion.”

Gladio swallows down the disappointment, quells the heat rising in his skin. He can work with that; they had all this time, after all, and Gladio could be insufferably patient when he wants to be.

“But for now, my prince, we’ve a war to win.”

Noctis extends a hand. Behind him, where the sunlight peeks through the temple entrance and bathes his dark form with golden light, Gladio imagines a shining halo encompassing his very edges. Like a valkyrie come to take this warrior spirit to the next realm, where his father and his old friends wait. But not yet, not when he's promised a war to fight, and he can't die until he sees Iedolas’ corpse for himself. So instead as a spirit come to whisk him away, Gladio sets him as a goal, a challenge, and a pledge all in one.

“Yeah,” he says thickly, swallowing the anticipation and awe in his voice. He takes Noctis’ outstretched hand, and he's helped up with little to no effort. “Yeah, we do.”

Prompto jumps up and slaps a friendly hand on his back, chirping on about how they'll all get along just fine. Ignis already starts fleshing out Noctis’ plans, throwing ideas and possible avenues this way and that. Between both the Wardens’ words jumbling into each other, Gladio can barely process what either of them say.

The only thing he understands is Noctis’ wicked grin and the glint in his eye, and the oath seared onto his lips and skin. His low laughter sounds like war drums, and Gladio's pulse quickens to match the cadence.

“Ready?” Noctis asks, leading them out of the temple and into the sunlight.

Gladio squints against the harsh rays, but he welcomes them nonetheless. He'll welcome more than a little light, in fact. Rather, bring him fire and steel and gunpowder.

“Ready.”

The Trials Of Temara Pt.2

This story was written with the collaboration of @artofanabiosis who wrote the first half of the story. You can find that on their blog here.

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Fleeing under the dense foliage of the forest, Temara thought of where she could go to avoid the H’mam and the Moon’s wrath. The Sea of a Thousand Currents? No, the moon controls the tide and would sweep her under in an instant. The Starfall Isles, perhaps? If only they did not welcome astral bodies into their homes and their studies. She knew she needed a place with no light, somewhere even the moon’s rays would have trouble reaching her.

“I heard that the Shaded Woods were quite dark and secluded from light, maybe you could find refuge there.” whispered Velour.

With no other options, Temara took the spirit’s advice and began her journey to the Shadow Flight, sure that her clan, the H’mam were already on her trail.

After a month of traveling and evading the H’mam, Temara finally made it to the Shaded Woods. She decided to make a small lair for herself in the Driftwood Bog, close to the border between Nature and Shadow. For a small time everything was peaceful. She had covered her tracks from her old clan, sheltered in a heavily shrouded part of the bog to avoid the moon, and hunted to her pleasure. Life was good.

After about a week the dark spirit Velour began to become bored with Temara’s safe haven.  “Aren’t you tired of living like this? No clan or proper lair for yourself? Only hunting and sleeping your days away in this state of limbo? Would you parents be proud of where you are now?”

“Be. Quiet.” hissed Temara. “You do not know what my parents were like, you have no right to bring them up.”

“Oh? How can you be so sure?” mused Velour, “I am a part of you now, and your memories of them are very vibrant and beautiful.” “I would dare say that I know them as well as you, maybe even better and I am thinking that they would be ashamed in your actions. Killing the chief in their name after they already accepted their death? Nothing but dirty vengeance in their eyes, I’m sure.”

“SHUT UP!” screamed Temara as her tears began to pool.

“Suit yourself, it is not wise to ignore the truth.” said Velour as he left her alone with her thoughts and memories.

--

A season had passed since Velour first spoke of her parents, and the taunting had only been getting worse. Now he began to show her cruel visions. Her parent’s shadows in the distance, members of the H’mam in the corners of her eyes, and her dead Chief plaguing her nightmares.

“Why are you doing this?” weeped Temara, “You said I would not regret your deal, but it is your deal that is tormenting me!”

“Ah, you should have known better young dragon, or are you like your parents? Shortsighted and ignorant to your own decisions? Do you really believe that killing your chief was wise? Now look where you are! Alone, in a bog with a hut barely worthy enough to be called a shelter rather than the ‘lair’ you so claim it is? And to think YOU of all people evaded the H’mam, ha! Or did you? Maybe they are biding their time, waiting until you are nothing but a sack of sour muscles to give you the same fate you did to their leader? Perhaps they have been here this whole time, laughing at you as you fake complacency and complete your puny hunts of rabbits and small river pigs!”

Temara did not know how much longer she could endure under Velour’s scrutiny.

--

Velour’s words cut through Temara like serrated daggers. His mind tricks were horrible and relentless. Surrounded in his darkness she knew she needed a distraction, something to make him shut up for a few hours. She decided to visit the Everbloom Gardens in the Viridian Labyrinth. It would not be hard to get there, just a half hour and she would cross the river separating the Shadow and Nature flights. It took all her willpower to force Velour out of her mind as she took flight. As she was nearing the border the trees began to thin and the sun’s rays of light warmed her tormented body.

As she crossed the river, she looked back at the Driftwood Bog. What was she thinking, settling down in a depressing place like that?

“You weren't thinking, you just acted without thought. Just like your parents.” said Velour.

She ignored his comment and looked down at the river’s edge. Something was off - shouldn't the water be blue and not a bright shade of green? She leaned closer, only to see roots and leaves scattered at the bottom. Suddenly, they started moving. The leaves formed a lush mane, and the roots grew until they resembled long elegant horns. As the being opened its beautiful green eyes, it began to speak.

“Ah, child, you have done much to get you here. You have endured what others could not, and have forsaken your entire clan for a wrong that was not yours.”

“Who are you? And how do you know about my past?” said Temara, fearing yet another foul trick by Velour.

“This is no trick, child. I am the Gladekeeper, master of this garden and lord of the Virdian Labyrinth. I see your struggles as clear as you can see the sun. Your mental capability is as strong as the bark from the Behemoth and you heart still beats with the courage and passion it took to complete your goals despite that foul demon haunting your soul.”

“Please Gladekeeper, rid me of Velour. He has been nothing but a burden, pitting me against my own sanity every waking minute and steals all the comfort of my sleep with his terrible nightmares. Please help me.” pleaded Temara.

“I cannot change your past, young dragon, no more so than I can severe your pact with the spirit. You willingly gave him your blood and formed a bond that no deity can break.”

“Then it is hopeless. As long as Velour is with me I will eventually seek death to end his torture.”

“I can offer you a better deal than he did child. I can offer you true safe haven, in a clan that would care for you, provided that you bring your hunting prowess with you. This clan has a blooded history much like your own, but there you can seek companionship and support to help deal with your demons. All you need do is pledge yourself to my flight and my honor and I will show you the way to Clan Glaeden, your true home.”

Temara could barely contain her joy. A home? With others, besides Velour? A real chance at starting over? She could hardly believe it. “I will take your deal Gladekeeper, and promise to serve you and provide for this new clan to the best of my abilities.”

“Wise choice, child. Now take this, and go to Clan Glaeden, concealed in earth and with love to share, this is where your true home will be.”

As the vision of the Gladekeeper disappeared from the water, a small scroll was left and a small parade of butterflies began to make a trail for Temara to Clan Glaeden. As she picked up the scroll her body began to shift. Her large horns fused, creating crests. Her enormous bulk shrunk and compacted into an agile body with lean muscles. Her eyes changed color as she grew another set and her skull reformed to take its new shape.

Frantically looking at the river’s surface she saw that she was no longer Temara the Imperial, she was Temara the Mirror.

“A final gift to throw the H’mam off your trail, no one will be looking for a mirror in the Viridian Labyrinth.” whispered the Gladekeeper.

“Thank you, for everything.” Taking in a deep breath into her new lungs, Temara started to follow the trail of butterflies.

“This won’t save you, even if you have changed your form to throw off H’mam pursuit and will live in a cave, in a clan safe from the moon, I will ALWAYS be with you no matter what.” threatened Velour.

As the sun brought warmth to her hide, Temara said, “I don’t care. I have a new home to get to and I do not need your words right now.” Preparing her mind, she pushed him to the corners of her thoughts with a strong mental effort. “As long as I have others to spend time with, a reason to live, and the sun at my back, I can and WILL endure whatever your throw at me.”

Her mind temporarily her own and a new hope in her heart, Temara followed the path to Clan Glaeden, the sanctuary and new beginning she had been hoping for.

KATYA ARISTOV

NINETEEN ❈ SQUALLER THE ORDER OF SUMMONERS (ETHEREALKI)

She watched her world burn upon a stake, eaten up by flames founded on hate and fear. When she still had the moon in her eyes and the rays of the sun hanging on the edges of her lips, she had not known that her parents were her world. How could she, when everything in life seemed so rich and lasting – as if she lived in perpetual spring? Spring bloomed in the laughter that bellowed from her parent’s laughter, from the light that seemed ever-present in the wrinkle of their eyes. It is what children often think, for the sweetness of life always has a way of making itself seem as if it was intent on remaining at one’s side forever. But those promises are always broken, for they seem to be the only oath that liars know to never break. Thus, she discovered the irony of life; the promises that people say are infinite and untouchable are the ones that are easily cast asunder. Just like the promise of a parent, when they say they will do everything in the power to never leave you. Lies. She does not fault them for their charity, nor does she regret the kindness of their heart. Could one fault a bird for singing or a wolf for hunting? It is the nature of a creature, to do as fate bids of them. So, too, was it her parent’s nature to lavish kindness in every breath they took or compassion in every word that left their tongue. In her naivety, she had thought that such traits were nothing but eccentricities. In her naivety, she had not realized that such traits were damning. But their condemnation was not to be hers as well – for kindness was found in their nature, not in hers. 

They were traveling along the mountains that bordered Fjerda, intent on finding themselves a new home after the decimation of their old one. Her parents had known the danger that was likely to be there, for them and their kind. Two simple Squallers were just as duplicitous and abominable in a Fjerdan’s eyes as two powerful ones. Idiots that they were, her parents had believed that there were those who could be taught different. Young Katya, had laughed at their stupidity, at their lack of fundamental logic – but had humored them anyway. When they were persecuted for their idiocy, she laughed no longer. The winds that her parents had summoned, rescued young Fjerdan boys from being crushed by a tree in the middle of a storm had been gentle, almost imperceptible. It was, however, revolting to them all the same. Before the storm had even passed, they had beset her parents like people who had just seen demons at work, attacking them with savage cries and fists raised. A wounded deer had a better chance against a pack of wolves than her parents against the Fjerdans. Than the other Grisha who had been bound and gagged, lost travelers seeking refuge only to find themselves damned. They had not noticed the small child, standing behind a tree – eyes wide as she peered at the carnage that ensued. Nor did they notice the quiet girl, who watched from affair as a trail of tears glistened on her cheeks, chest heaving from a pain that refused to make itself known from, as the acrid smell of flesh and smoke clung to hung in the air until it was relieved by a gentle breeze. This breeze was the only gentle thing she would ever know. She watched her whole world burn upon a stake, eaten up by flames founded upon hate and fear. 

So, mercy became to her like the poison of a snake, kindness a rot that was worse than bile in her mouth. The village that had murdered her parents was wrecked at the tips of their fingers – for it seemed only fair that their world would be ripped away just as hers was. She knew how her parents would have cried if they had seen the way that her gales of wind wrecked and ripped at the life of the small village. It seemed as if the whole mountain trembled at the power of her fury. Humans – ridiculous, vile, wretched humans would learn to tremble at the sight of her as well. There was no village that did not receive a taste of her ruin, for she had seen the fear in the eyes of those who had murdered her parents and knew it stemmed from the weakness of their position. Abominations, they had cried out as the torch was raised in the air. Gods, she hissed to herself as one after the other fell before her, the air choked from their lungs. The wreckage that lay in her wake as she traveled to Os Alta was unlike that of any other Grisha seen. For, when she arrived at the kingdom, she wanted to be sure that they would know her name. And they did. They knew her name like a terror in the night -- like a ghost caught in the wind. Although they were loathe to accept her for what she was; a murderer, a Valkyrie intent on bringing retribution for something she did not know she lost, they let her in. They did not truly know what they let in, the weapon that was more dangerous than the guns, bullets, and canons that they so greedily sought. The war that she vengeance she hungered for was not for her own sake, no -- it was for the sake of Grisha-kind. 

There was a place for happiness; once there had been a place where she thought things could have been different.  But there was never a place for mercy, there was never room for the pitiful weak, the revolting and spineless. The humans had shown her nothing but brutality, and so she would show them nothing but ruination. Is there any satisfaction as great as fulfilling a blood debt? Is there any retribution as fulfilling as that of a child avenging the deaths of their parents? And where she had been left for dead, instead she found the foundation of her life. She would be bitter, she would be better. Better than they, the souls that stared at her each time she closed her eyes, could ever hope to be. She was young, yes; but she had a stunning propensity for greatness. You could smell it on her, the tang of salt, of rain, of thunder and lightning and the cry of a dark-haired girl on the ocean cliffs. Ruthlessly sardonic, they called her. Stingingly impatient. But she will bide her time and build her strength until the moment comes when she can create graves and cultivate death for those who deserve it most. She will raise the True Sea with her own bare hands and devour storms with a single shout, if that is the price for vengeance. War or no war, she would have her due pay; she would have her consolation, she would have her hate.

CONNECTIONS

DRUVIK JADEJA: His lavishness and indifference to the suffering of their people will be his downfall. When she looks at him she sees something unfettered and untouched, a pristine figure that is begging to have darkness thrust upon them so that he might realize life shall never be a living dream, but a perpetual hell. In the few, belligerent minutes that she is forced to speak with him or acknowledge him, she always makes a point to make her words twice and cutting and thrice as poisonous. Perhaps it is because he is a mockery of the kindness that her parents had shared with those less fortunate -- what with the way rotten sweetness and mercy comes from him like a plague. The way that sin seems like an intimate friend and lover.  Perhaps it is because she simply hates him, as is her god-given right. Either way, a verbal war is waged by them and she cannot wait for the day she declares her victory. 

LEI YUL-KEUNG: Just as she has the propensity for greatness, so does he have the potential for great ruination. They were birthed from the same sorrow, molded by the same unerring hate. It is natural that the two would find each other and seek to make themselves a storm of fury. The long hours that they spend together are the only form of comfort she knows -- a comfort that leaves her limbs aching with exhaustion and her brow coated in sweat. Though she goads him and ruthlessly calls for him to be better, it is just as much for her own sake as his. Their quest for vengeance is not one that is easily garnered, nor is it easily understood. Just as Grisha understanding of thisness and thatness is fundamental, so too is hers of vengeance. Soon, his will be too. 

STASYA BELOV: Her capacity for hate is an endless well -- just as her parent’s compassion had been. In Druvik she sees a caricature saccharine sweetness that had damned her parents. In Stasya she sees their genuine kindness, their gentleness that remains authentic despite the war that the world rages against it. When she had first arrived in Os Alta she had sought to protect the innocence of Stasya, had bared her teeth against those who might have done otherwise. But she wanted to make sure they would not repeat the mistakes her parents had. She had reached out to Stasya, tried to teach them how to find the mettle in their bones. They had simply answered with a smile and a shake of their head, compassionate and quiet even in their rejection. Stupid. Foolish. DAMNED. She has tried to be the bringer of their salvation -- but if they insist on being a martyr then she will not be the one to watch. 

KATYA IS PORTRAYED BY MARINA NERY & IS OPEN.

For the first time in weeks, I had exactly zero messages, anon or otherwise, asking me about the new episode. Let me say, I feel y’all’s apathy. There were a few things that are worth mentioning, though.

First of all I AM THRILLED THAT GAVIN WAS RESTORED TO HIS PROPER TIMELINE. As to HOW and WHY and all the rest of the details surrounding Gavin’s return... I’m just gonna...

BUT IT IS DONE. I am more than willing to just close my eyes to the timey-wimey bullshit fixing their original problem dredged up. It’s just gonna give me a migraine trying to sort through this problem. I just... can’t be fussed to care.

For ~plot reasons~ I’m just gonna... handwave the whole mess and pretend it’s just... not a problem anymore and just move on with my life. Especially since it didn’t really seem like Bucklemming themselves could be fussed to do it much justice. The whole plotline played out with the feeling that they’d been ordered to clean up their mess by Dabb and they went about it in the most perfunctory and grudging manner possible.

Okay. :)

On to the other important plot-related stuff, in order from least disappointing to most disappointing:

Mary’s descent arc is moving along apace. Those BMoL weapons that we find absolutely morally reprehensible (that mutate vampire blood to poison them en masse like some sort of radiation sickness, and now a ray gun that boils rugaru brains at twenty paces), Mary thinks they’re neat and effective tools. Her “training” session with Ketch was a more voluntary and only slightly less horrifying callback to Castiel’s “training” under Naomi to kill a warehouse full of Deans. To an extent, I think when Dean learns the entire truth about Mary’s involvement with the BMoL, it’ll have the same metaphorical impact. Basically a room full of “you’re dead to me” Deans... a la “the face.”

(aside to note that all I could think of when Mary complained about “the face” was Phil Dunphy on Modern Family talking about how “in the know” he is about the kids’ lingo... before listing off the acronyms he knew... including WTF, which he sincerely believed stood for “why the face.” WHY THE FACE. And yes. This was a serious WTF for me... in the correct meaning of wtf...)

So yeah, Mary’s come ~partially~ clean to Sam and Dean. She’s been willing to accept Ketch’s statements about Toni having been a “rogue operative” who wasn’t working within the authority of the MoL, but Sam and Dean have seen just a little bit too far behind their curtain. They’ve also had experience with these sort of shady deals, and unlike Mary, they’ve grown FAR past the “shoot first, ask questions later, just kill ALL THE MONSTERS” mentality. Mary still believes in that definition of hunting. On top of all the guilt she feels personally-- rightly or wrongly-- for the lives her boys ended up leading.

That fundamental core belief is in need of some serious shaking, and I think (I hope!) that 12.14 begins to address that for her. She’s still keeping some secrets (like her role in having been ordered to steal THE COLT in 12.12...) so Sam and Dean are still partially in the dark as to the extent of her shady dealings. There’s definitely more revelations to come to light before they have all the information they need to begin putting the RIGHT questions to Mary...

Dagon’s an interesting character. Kinda relieved she was used so lightly in this episode, so they didn’t have a chance to do anything regrettable with her... but still... both she and the two angels had no trouble finding Kelly, when Cas and Sam and Dean have been looking for her for weeks now with no success. I’m now rolling my eyes at the logic gap with that one, but then I remember Bucklemming and again it’s just easier to handwave it and accept they lack a grasp of narrative continuity and logic. *HEAVY SIGHING*

I’m slightly confused as to how she was able to just annihilate two angels so easily when Ramiel needed to use Michael’s lance on Cas... but then again maybe he could’ve just poofed Cas to death and he just wanted to watch him suffer with the wound from the lance instead. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

(I should probably just title this essay *shrug emoji*)

(anyway, moving on)

Rowena was a delight, as usual. I love that she’s developed her own interesting relationship with Sam and Dean, independent of Crowley. And despite the fact that Rowena has worked with Crowley when their motivations were to defeat a common enemy, it’s interesting to see the sort of situation that has the power to drive a wedge between them.

I’m glad that Rowena’s grudge over being forced to kill Oskar has finally gotten a little payback. I also find it interesting that her revenge also including a “child” who had been “displaced in time.” Rowena had given Oskar immortality, which in its own way is just as problematic as Crowley’s desire to give Gavin a shot at a normal life in the wrong time.

Crowley’s weirdly powerful feelings toward Gavin, I believe, stem from just how human and vulnerable he’d been through most of s9 when he was at the peak of his human blood addiction. Granted by 9.21 he’d “recovered” a lot from that, but he was also biding his time waiting for Dean to completely succumb to the Mark. Crowley had some weirdly familial feelings for Gavin, after having largely ignored the boy for most of his life. Getting a chance to give Gavin a taste of normal modern life was probably the least he could do to repent for that... but the fact he STILL seemed to care so much now is just... weird. IDK.

I saw another post complaining that Sam and Dean didn’t “let” Crowley have a proper goodbye, and Rowena had frozen him when he’d reached out to Gavin. BUT CROWLEY WAS NOT ABOUT TO SHARE A TEARFUL GOODBYE. HE WAS ABOUT TO BOOP OUT WITH GAVIN AND TAKE HIM TO PLACES UNKNOWN TO PREVENT HIM FROM RETURNING TO HIS PROPER TIMELINE. So, no. I don’t think their actions there were hypocritical.

Dean’s shirt during the “Send Gavin Back To The Bottom of the Ocean” scene was eerily similar to the ugly plaid couch on which Cas nearly died in 12.12. So, watching Gavin reunited for all time with the “love of his life” while wearing the goofiest look on his face as these people who were brought back together by the power of their love in order to repair a broken timeline and restore a bunch of innocent people to life... *it’s all about the love... and love* and I mean thanks costume and props folks for dressing Dean in Castiel’s 12.12 couch basically. I see what you did there. I only put this so far down the list because it’s interesting, but that’s all it is.

Cas and Dean are still having private phone calls. But after the intensity of 12.12, and the revelations about Cas and his feelings, what we were given as a reminder here was just... underwhelming. There was just no weight to it, as if 12.12 hadn’t even happened. As if Cas hadn’t nearly DIED, and confessed his LOVE and feeling of FAMILY and BELONGING. It’s just... opportunity wasted to have given some sort of (or ANY sort of) emotional punch to the fact that Cas has just ~randomly left the bunker to fruitlessly continue the random Kelly search~ all alone. I mean... ???

Crowley. Oh dear. Can you say, Character Assassination??? I mean, wtf, bucklemming. After one of Crowley’s strongest episodes in YEARS, where we got a plethora of incredible insight into his motivations, his history, his intelligence, and his FEELINGS for the Winchesters-- including Cas-- all of a sudden we get this ridiculous disaster of characterization?

Seriously, WHAT THE FUCK.

What was both ridiculous and terrible here:

Crowley really had no idea that the Winchesters had failed to kill the nephilim?

THEY HAD BEEN IN PRISON BUCKLEMMING! REMEMBER? WHERE YOU’D PUT THEM WITHIN MINUTES OF THEM BANISHING LUCIFER IN THE FIRST PLACE?! AND IT WAS YOUR STUPID FUCKING PLOT HOLE THAT ALLOWED THAT TO HAPPEN IN THE SAME MOMENTS THAT KELLY WAS ALLOWED TO “ESCAPE.”

I mean, you could’ve just left her in the White House with the President and had Cas escape safely with Sam and Dean, BECAUSE YOU, CROWLEY, HAD THE ABILITY TO JUST BOOP IN AND PICK KELLY UP TO DO WHATEVER YOU WANTED WITH HER DOWN THE LINE. BUT NOOOOOOOO IT’S YOUR OWN DAMN IDIOTIC CANON ACROBATICS THAT HAVE LED US TO THIS INANE PLOT SITUATION FROM WHICH THERE IS APPARENTLY NO REPRIEVE. YOU STUPID FUCKERS.

So in order to make this entirely idiotic and contrived plot line work, you have to warp a character so far beyond logic that they barely even seem to be the same character we saw the week before... and no. After the brilliant writing, the loving recollection of past canon and the incredibly nuanced characterizations we’ve had over the prior three episodes, this just felt THAT MUCH MORE FUCKING CONTRIVED AND WRONG FOOTED.

I’m not really gonna forgive this bit.

Crowley, Mr. “i’m the only one on the board who doesn’t underestimate those denim wrapped nightmares,” Mr. King of Protecting his own Self Interest, Mr. You’re Good But I’m Crowley... you... bucklemming... want us to believe that in ANY ITERATION OF REALITY that Crowley is not only petty and vengeful enough to have his demons pull the same “resurrect the meatsuit” bullshit they pulled to fix your meatsuit with in 11.01 TO DIG UP AND REPAIR LUCIFER’S FORMER VESSEL NICK, as well as “studying the molecular makeup of the cage” in order to forge some weird dog collar thing strong enough to hold Lucifer, and that you would risk unleashing Lucifer on the world again ENTIRELY OUT OF PETTY VENGEANCE BECAUSE YOU WANT TO FORCE HIM TO CLEAN YOUR FLOOR WITH HIS TONGUE?!

I’m sorry. That’s just... no. That’s too much no.

AND IT GETS WORSE!

Not only is Crowley suddenly behaving idiotically out of character here, HE IS ALSO SUDDENLY MORONIC ENOUGH TO LET INFORMATION SLIP IN LUCIFER’S HEARING? Like the fact that he even had a son at all, let alone was having some sort of ~personal issues~ surrounding this weird parental family dynamic?

AND CROWLEY IS REPEATEDLY PUTTING HIMSELF IN A SITUATION WHERE HE’S LET HIMSELF BECOME COMPROMISED THIS WAY?!

I mean... this is NOT the Crowley we’ve seen lately. The Crowley who would sacrifice the only weapon that could potentially put Lucifer out permanently. One of the FEW weapons that could even protect him from what he should likely expect will be the revenge of Dagon and Asmodeus after Crowley essentially broke his deal with Ramiel... yet he’s too busy being a petty little tyrant toward Lucifer to be concerned about them?

I guess I’m particularly outraged about this 180 degree about face in Crowley’s characterization because after three OUTSTANDINGLY character driven episodes in a row, what we got here was a TERRIBLE FUCKING MESS.

Most of s12 so far has felt so deeply personal, like all of the major plot arcs have been deeply rooted in the characters own feelings and history, and have revolved around the questions of what is family and what is love and who am I and where do I fit in this world.

And in 12.13, it seems like ALL of that was just tossed out the window in favor of a couple of utterly contrived and flimsy plot points.

With a few obvious exceptions as stated above, it just felt entirely out of step with the rest of s12. In the hands of a capable writer, that could’ve been an entertaining and believable episode. But what we were served lacked any of the finesse and character development we’ve grown accustomed to.

Pro tip for writers: You have to make the plot actually fit the characters you’re writing for. This episode is an excellent example of how NOT to do that... >.>

Spider Lords - The Vampire Lord

Deep within the jungles of Xen’Drik lays a ruined temple that was not built by the giants. The architecture resembles that of the giants, but upon entering the temple’s semicircular arch, any informed visitor would realize that it was not built for the massive humanoids. Deep in the bleak darkness, underground, beneath the ruin, Araknos awaits. He is a Lord of False Presage, a king of spiders, and a powerful vampire. One of the oldest vampires in Eberron, Araknos saw the rise and fall of the Xen’drik giant civilization. Ages ago, the dragons of Eberron rediscovered the Prophecy and started the war that ended the Age of Fiends. During this war, a group of giant spiders became sentient and started to grow in might. Even before achieving their current level of power, the spiders proved potent allies and worthy opponents. Unlike his kin, Araknos did not initially side with the dragons. He saw more in common with many of the fiends, and offered his services as an assassin and spy for the demon armies. Before long, his espionage left him impressed with the ways of the wyrms. Araknos was willing to betray either side in order to preserve his own life, but could not decide which group was most likely to survive the conflict. A rakshasa rajah, Nur’Galthazar the Blood Lord, discovered the spider’s bewilderment. The demon recognized the spider as an important ally, a force the demon army could not afford to lose. Confronting Araknos directly, the rajah offered him the chance to participate in a dark ritual that promised to grant the spider a new kind of power. Instead, the Blood Lord cursed the spider with vampirism, then sent him into the ranks of the dragons to satisfy his bloodlust. Furious at his betrayal, Araknos was determined to fight the primal cravings of vampirism. He sought help from his fellow spiders, and they formulated a bloodlike solution capable of holding his appetite at bay. The satiated Araknos spent the final centuries of the age fighting against the demons, even working alongside the dragons he had been sent to kill. Eventually, though, the war ended and the dragons recognized the spider lords as enemies. Araknos’ fellow spider lords could not obtain the blood solution, and he was forced to hunt in order to survive. Araknos travelled to Xen’Drik to feed on the giants and explore his growing power. Once again time took its turn, and the centuries strolled by. Araknos survived two planar incursions and observed the rise of the common races with disinterest. His life did not change until one century ago, when a brash young silver dragon named Immirah found the fragments of the Prophecy regarding the spiders’ supposed doom. Curious, Immirah investigated the stories and grew angry when he discovered that the ancient wyrms had hidden this information from the younger dragons. As a member of the Chamber he believed fervently in the importance of the Prophecy, and was sickened by the thought of a force actively trying to disrupt it. Eventually, Immirah followed the hints of the Prophecy to Araknos’ lair in Xen’Drik. The dragon was too arrogant to think that a giant spider could pose any threat to him, and Araknos quickly took advantage of this ignorance. Fascinated to see a dragon after so many years, though, Araknos did not kill Immirah. Instead, he kept him prisoner. Through coercion and torture, Araknos learned much about the dragons’ lives on Argonnesen. In the process, he made another discovery. Apparently, the potions brewed by his brethren during the Age of Fiends had always contained dragon blood. A single bite of blood from the silver dragon was enough to satisfy Araknos’ hunger for months. Immirah is still a captive in the depths of Araknos’ lair, chained to the ancient temple walls in human form. Tormented by his act of recklessness, Immirah curses his stupidity and waits for a chance to exact his vengeance. Araknos still guards his prisoner, sharing any new information with the other Lords of False Presage. As he bides his time and deepens his knowledge of Argonnessen, Araknos dreams of the day when he will drink the blood of entire dragon armies. Arkanos the Vampire Lord Vampire Lord Spider Lord Ranger 3 / Fighter 2 Huge Undead Hit Dice: 16d12+16 plus 3d8+3 plus 2d10+2 (149 hp) Initiative: +12 (+8 Dex, +4 Improved Initiative) Speed: 30 ft. (6 squares), climb 30 ft. (6 squares), fly 50ft. (perfect) Armour Class: 34 (-2 size, +8 Dex, +18 natural), touch 16, flat-footed 26 Base Attack/Grapple: +21/+44 Attack: Bite +34 melee (3d6+15/19-20/x2 plus poison and energy drain) Full Attack: Bite +34 melee (3d6+15/19-20/x2 plus poison and energy drain) and slam +29 melee (2d6+22 plus energy drain) Space/Reach: 15 ft./10 ft. Special Attacks: Poison, web, minions, hypnosis, spell-like abilities, blood drain, children of the night, dominate, create spawn, energy drain Special Qualities: Darkvision 60ft., damage reduction 10/-, low-light vision, tremorsense, nondetection, spell resistance 17, alternate form, fast healing 8, gaseous form, resistance to cold 10 and electricity 10, spider climb, turn resistance +8, control weather, wild empathy, favoured enemy (Outsiders (native)) Saves: Fort +25, Ref +30, Will +23 Abilities: Str 41, Dex 26, Con -, Int 27, Wis 26, Cha 29 Skills: Bluff +17, Diplomacy +37, Hide +30, Intimidate +17, Jump +22, Knowledge (Dungeoneering) +15, Knowledge (Geography) +15, Listen +40, Move Silently +38, Search +23, Sense Motive +39, Spot +40 Feats:Alertness (B), Cleave, Combat Expertise (B), Combat Reflexes, Dodge (B), Endurance (B), Great Fortitude, Precise Shot, Improved Critical (Bite), Improved Initiative (B) Improved Natural Attack (Bite), Iron Will (B), Leadership (B), Lightning Reflexes (B), Mobility, Power Attack, Spring Attack, Track (B), Rapid Shot (B), Whirlwind Attack (B) ========================================= Environment: Any Organization: Solitary Challenge Rating: 23 Treasure: Quadruple Standard Alignment: Neutral Evil Araknos speaks the language of the Spider Lords as well as Giant, Infernal and Draconic. Combat When threatened, Araknos almost always begins combat by immobilising foes with his web attacks. Using the time he has before his opponents break free, he will use his abilities to call allies to him and then moves in to feed on his helpless, overrun prey. Hypnosis (Su): A combination of the Araknos’ unusual language and subtle hypnotic patterns in their eyes allows him to seize the mind of weaker beings. This hypnosis is a full round action that provokes an attack of opportunity, and can affect all creatures within 30ft with up to half the HD of Araknos. Affected creatures must succeed on a DC 23 Will save or be affected as if by a charm monster spell. In addition, affected creatures with less than 6 HD are subject to a daze effect. The save DC is Charisma-based. Poison (Ex): Injury, Fortitude DC 21, initial and secondary damage 2d6 Str. The save DC is Constitution-based. Minions (Ex): TTiny spiders are attracted to the lair of Araknos, and using his hypnotic language he can call these spiders to swarm against his foes. Three times per day as a standard action, Araknos can call 2d6 spider swarms to fight for him. The swarms gather in areas chosen by Araknos on his next turn, but cannot be more than 60ft from him. The spider swarms fight to the death unless otherwise instructed by Araknos. Web (Ex): The Spider Lord often waits in a web suspended above its lair, then lowers themselves silently on silk strands and leap onto prey passing beneath. A single strand is strong enough to support the spider and one creature of the same size. The Spider Lord can also throw a web eight times per day. This is similar to an attack with a net but has a maximum range of 50 feet, with a range increment of 10 feet, and is effective against targets up to one size category larger than the Spider Lord. An entangled creature can escape with a successful Escape Artist check DC 21 or burst it with a Strength check DC 25. The check DCs are Constitution-based, and the Strength check DC includes a +4 racial bonus. The Spider Lord often creates sheets of sticky webbing from 5 to 50 feet square. They usually position these sheets to snare flying creatures but can also try to trap prey on the ground. Approaching creatures must succeed on a DC 20 Spot check to notice a web; otherwise they stumble into it and become trapped as though by a successful web attack. Attempts to escape or burst the webbing gain a +5 bonus if the trapped creature has something to walk on or grab while pulling free. Each 5-foot section has 14 hit points, and sheet webs have damage reduction 5/—. The Spider Lord can move across its own web at its climb speed and can pinpoint the location of any creature touching its web. Nondetection (Sp): Araknos is subject to a permanent nondetection effect as the spell, except that no checks are allowed to bypass the effect. Spell-like Abilities:At will – message; 3/day – invisibility, darkness; 1/day – prying eyes, sending. Caster level 16th. The save DCs are Charisma-based. Blood Drain (Ex): Araknos can suck blood from a living victim with his fangs by making a successful grapple check. If it pins the foe, he drains blood, dealing 1d4+2 points of Constitution drain each round the pin is maintained. On each such successful attack, Araknos gains 5 temporary hit points. Children of the Night (Su): Araknos can command the lesser creatures of the world and once per day can call forth 1d6+1 rat swarms, 1d4+1 bat swarms, or a pack of 3d6 wolves as a standard action. These creatures arrive in 2d6 rounds and Araknos until released. Furthermore, the vampire lord can sense through the senses of any such commanded creatures, and communicate empathically with them, to a range of 10 miles. Dominate (Su): Araknos can crush an opponent’s will just by looking onto his or her eyes or speaking foul words. The vampire must use a standard action, and those merely looking at it are not affected. If Araknos is using its voice, the target must be able to hear the vampire lord's voice when it speaks at a normal volume level. Anyone Araknos targets must succeed on a Will save or fall instantly under the vampire’s influence as though by a dominate person spell (caster level 12th). The ability has a range of 30 feet. Create Spawn (Su): A humanoid or monstrous humanoid slain by Araknos’ energy drain rises as a vampire 1d4 days after burial. If Araknos instead drains the victim’s Constitution to 0 or lower, the victim also returns as a vampire. In either case, the new vampire is under the command the Spider Lord and remains enslaved until its master’s destruction. At any given Araknos may have enslaved spawn totalling no more than 42 individuals; any spawn he creates that would exceed this limit are created as free-willed vampires. A vampire that is enslaved may create and enslave spawn of its own, so Araknos can control a number of lesser vampires in this fashion. Araknos may voluntarily free an enslaved spawn in order to enslave a new spawn, but once freed, a vampire cannot be enslaved again. Energy Drain (Su): Living creatures hit by Araknos’ slam attack or bite attack gain three negative levels. For each negative level bestowed, the vampire gains 5 temporary hit points. Araknos can use its energy drain ability once per round. Alternate Form (Su): Araknos can assume the form of any animal, as the druid ability wild shape used by a 12th-level druid. Araknos can use this power at will as a move-equivalent action. The vampire lord can change from one animal shape to another without having to revert to its spider form. Fast Healing (Ex): Araknos heals 8 points of damage each round so long as it has at least 1 hit point. If reduced to 0 hit points in combat, it automatically assumes gaseous form and attempts to escape. It must reach its coffin home within 24 hours or be utterly destroyed. (It can travel up to one hundred and eight miles in 24 hours.) Any additional damage dealt to a vampire forced into gaseous form has no effect. Once at rest in its coffin, a vampire is helpless. It regains 1 hit point after 1 hour, then is no longer helpless and resumes healing at the rate of 5 hit points per round. Gaseous Form (Su): As a standard action, Araknos can assume gaseous form at will as the spell (caster level 5th), but it can remain gaseous indefinitely and has a fly speed of 20 feet with perfect maneuverability. Spider Climb (Ex): Araknos can climb sheer surfaces as though with a spider climb spell. Control Weather (Sp): Araknos can cast control weather as a 12th-level sorcerer at will. Telekinesis (Su): Araknos can use telekinesis (caster level 12th) at will. Telepathy (Su): Araknos lord can communicate telepathically with any living creature within 100 feet that has a language, and with any vampire under its direct control to a range of 1 mile. Favoured Enemy (Ex): Araknos gains a +2 bonus on Bluff, Listen, Sense Motive, Spot, and Survival checks when using these skills against native outsiders. Likewise, he gets a +2 bonus on weapon damage rolls against such creatures.

des_read.listen.write

A Bond Made

In a home on the bay, mainland, opposite the peninsula, there is an ornery, spoilt man. He has a sense of entitlement like few can endure. He has delusions of grandeur entitling him to a wife he does not deserve. His mission is clear. He will travel to an island far from where he is, convinced he will bring a wife home. His journey is far, and his determination evident. Through many tests and trials, he bides his time. When the opportunity presents, he uses his strengths as a bully to intimidate a wife into going along with him. He returns home to his mother with his prize, basking in his victory.

A Bond Broken

His journey to catch fish keeping him away too long, his lonely wife seeks the entertainment and company of maiden friends. Receiving word from his sister-in-law that she is out and about, his reaction is of great fury. With this unsatisfactory and disappointing news, he vows to break every promise he ever made. He journeys back, over the hills and through the woods, to fetch supplies with which he will become a warrior. This, going against the words of wisdom from his mother and the sacred vows made to his wife. None of that matters to him anymore. All vows now must be broken according to this unreasonable, haughty man. Vengeance will be his if it is the last thing he does.

The Demons Elk

He is finding so much resistance now. What minute bit of a strapping a young man he may have once been being no longer. It is just the same that he is as cunning and determined as ever. Motivated by selfishness, he demands a wife. He is denied. His determination is unmatched. He will do anything to have his way. He refuses to heed the warnings of those around him. Off he goes, into a chaotic scene of wild elk chasing through the woods and countryside. The calamity he creates makes him the laughing stock. More and more people turn on him. Then, he creates an enemy for himself.

Elk, Horse, Swan

Something intense is happening here. This guy is never going to quit. He presses on. He really believes he is God’s gift. Even after falling flat on his face … he refuses to let that slow him down. Traveling over great distances, through many treacherous terrains, he moves forward in his pursuits. He is told to get lost, and when that isn’t enough, he asks for trouble. Into the wooded canopies, he goes, attempting to bully another suitor into his clutches. He will take any dare, any challenge at all to win his way. Will it ever end? “When will karma take a big ole bite out of this sociopath’s ass?” one is left to wonder! Alas! The enemy comes just when the tragedy nearly repeats itself. Dead, unable to redeem himself, justice for all women in the region can be celebrated. Take that, you Farmind, you!