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#corpse wax candle
vargamormusings · 1 year
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Processing bones in either water or earth can result in corpse wax. I do my best not to be wasteful when I am fortunate enough to find bones, and as a result, I am trying to utilize the adipocere. I was prepared for it to smell rotten , or at least gamey, but as it turns out, the smell of the beeswax far outweighs any smell that the corpse wax has!
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knightsickness · 2 days
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westerosi perfume culture thoughts based on medieval/early modern ^^
incense in septs to the point of both cat and sansa immediately thinking of the smell of it when thinking about the faith. this is fully a ‘the faith is just catholicism’ thing theres reference to a censer being used at tywin’s funeral, though this is also to cover the smell of the body - i believe its implied theyre using a lot more incense than they typically would and failing to overpower the rot smell
scented candles and incense are both used in septs and to scent rooms - scented candles higher-end, beeswax candles, which even unscented smell quite sweet and are quite expensive (they burn cleanly and don’t spit). animal fat tallow candles are much cheaper but perfume can’t stop rotting fat smelling of rotting fat it just combines with it. tallow tends to be used in poorer settings, for light not scent
scented beeswax candles used by tyrion and cat, and in the sept of baelor - imo v unlikely most smallfolk or smaller septs are buying them regularly, especially considering how many candles they need to keep lit. i’d say tallow 90% of the time beeswax on holy days
basically every noble in kings landing seems to wear perfume, ned specifically repulsed by the fact that robert now does which is crazy. whats roberts taste in perfume like
varys specifically is always described as perfumed, which is like. effeminacy due to eunuch status he leans into but also his ambiguous origin - while a lot of people in westeros wear perfume it seems to be significantly more popular in the free cities + beyond, vv frequently mentioned in dany chapters
perfumed and powdered often go together, varys and lysa off the top of my head - powders could also be scented, quite popular in france
multiple references to oldtown being heavily perfumed, dual reference to incense as a faith centre and worn perfume on a dowager, oldtown as a wealthy city and consumer centre
perfume also strongly associated with prostitution, an irony - septs and brothels often scented with incense, the ‘perfumed boy’ slaves victarion kills, satin wearing scent in his beard
popular scents rarely described in more detail than a type of flower or ‘sweet’ - most interesting perfume a westerosi lady wears is taena’s wildflower and musk, which cersei compares to the smell of moss
the tyrells seem to only wear rosewater this is pretty explicitly part of their branding as a house. even the blue bard a tyrell servant washes his hair with rosewater. most roses actually don’t distill well i’m assuming they have some westerosi equivalent to damask roses grown in bulk at highgarden or some other reach territory (probably at highgarden their scent in the gardens would be part of the tyrell image cultivation there. henry viii did this specific thing so you would smell his rose perfume in the gardens even when he was away from home which some historians have referred to as a ‘serve’) only like two varieties of rose work in perfuming. i’d also speculate that the roses margaery and her ladies brought to tywin’s funeral, if they were strong-smelling enough to cover the smell of an unnaturally rotting corpse, were probably roses scented with rosewater
perfume application on people typically oils, waters and more rarely waxes - multiple mentions of perfumed beards or hairstyles and waxes would be easier for that - perfume in baths common for the wealthy
no mention of scented accessories e.g. gloves or fans, though both immensely popular in elizabethan england - are there civet cats or equivalent in westeros? there are whales and thus presumably ambergris, taena’s perfume referred to as musky but unclear if this means it contains actual musk - animal perfumes are best for scenting leather, strong and waxy and other lighter scents can cling to them. dany wears scented silk clothes
tyrion associates worn perfume strongly with old whores, which suggests cheap perfume widely accessible, probably perfumer’s shops in major cities (notable bc otherwise we could conclude perfumers worked primarily for aristocratic patrons)
there are probably westerosi perfume-makers but its also likely theres a solid luxury import trade - dorne and the free cities both have established distinct perfume cultures and strong trade links with merchants
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radiojamming · 1 year
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PLEASE tell us more about mummy types, i know ice is your fave so feel free to go ham on that but all of them are so interesting to me
drives up in my cozy coupe that has MUMMY MOBILE written in sharpie on the side (ALSO PLEASE EXERCISE CAUTION WHEN LOOKING THESE UP; SOME OF THEM LOOK VERY GNARLY)
ICE/PERMAFROST - If you've followed me for a little while, you probably know more about these than the average fella! These are your Beechey Island Trio, your Ötzi the Iceman. Ice keeps bacteria from turning the body into a smorgabord, thus keeping these people fresh (and fluid-filled) for hundreds to thousands of years. And maybe some day down the line, some nerd finds you and thinks you're beautiful and never shuts up about you.
THE BOG - It's Tumblr. You all know about The Bog. Bog bodies are essentially turned into leather purses by the tannins and the anaerobic qualities of The Bog, sometimes effectively snapshotting their causes of death (usually something violent). Special shoutouts to fan favorites like Tollund Man, Lindow Man/Pete Marsh, Yde Girl, Grauballe Man, and Windeby I. And Hozier, probably.
HOT, DRY DESERT AIR - Think the Atacama Desert, the Mummies of Guanajuato, or your pre-embalming times Egyptians. In fact, it was the natural qualities of desert air that probably tipped the Ancient Egyptians off to the fun and fabulousness of preservation. You dry out to potato chip crispness but lose all the wet bits. Also Anubis is probably repping you.
ARID, COLD MOUNTAIN AIR - Same idea as the desert as far as lack of humidity, but better for your skin. Mountaintop mummies are some of the best preserved in the whole world. La Doncella is a fantastic example, as are the rest of the Children of Llullaillaco or the Cherchen Man and Siberian Ice Maiden. Sometimes this was done on purpose (hi bog bodies), but sometimes people just go up to high altitudes, die, and stay there forever.
HONEY/MELLIFICATION - This one doesn't fit the bill of spontaneous mummification, which is what I study. Honey mummies are made on purpose, allegedly by feeding someone honey until they're dead, and then dunking them in a coffin full of honey for them to steep like tea for the next century or so, then digging them up and making medicine/snacks out of them. Lots of alleged's, but still pretty cool if you're into idk becoming one with the slime.
SALT - Human jerky! Salt does to you what it does to all the other edible meats, of which you're just another brand. Salt sucks all the moisture out and keeps you nice, fresh, and flavorful forever and ever. The Saltmen of Iran are Thee Pinnacle of this type of preservation. Bonus is that you get weirdly sparkly when you're salted like a slug.
SAPONIFICATION - You become soap. Actually, if you want to get technical, you turn into what's called corpse wax (which is a surprisingly badass name for turning into a human candle) or adipocere. Mrs. Ellenbogen of the Mütter Museum is probably the best example of this, but it also happens to, uh, cave divers. Which is another great reason not to go cave diving.
PRISTINE AIR OF A SACRED BUILDING - Catacomb mummies! Incorruptible saints! Sokushinbutsu! If you're stuck in a religious house of worship and it just so happens to have its own little ecosystem (usually pretty dry, probably full of resinous incense), there's a non-zero chance that you'll get preserved very similarly to the mountain mummies. Getting stuck in a crystal casket doesn't hurt either. (Disclaimer: this is semi-anthropogenic for those keeping score at home. Some of these mummies are preserved this way on purpose.)
TAR PITS - Like the bog, but hotter, stickier, and smellier. Go in the tar, have no oxygen causing you to fall apart, turn into another leather bag time capsule. This more often happens to animals like those in the La Brea Tar Pits than people. At least that we know of.
WEIRD, AS OF YET UNKNOWN MEANS - Can we say for sure that there was only one reason why Lady Dai/Xin Zhui's stayed so preserved for so long? What about the other wet mummies? What about ones people find in trees? Or whatever the hell was going on with Elmer McCurdy? Maybe it's not unknown, but it doesn't fit the bill of typical mummies, or there are so many factors at play leading to preservation that we can't just call it by one category.
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lebenspurpur · 1 year
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what do they smell like
AN: I know I did this before, but I need to correct myself. Plus, it was like 2 years ago, so..
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ℝℤ 𝕄𝕚𝕔𝕙𝕒𝕖𝕝 𝕄𝕪𝕖𝕣𝕤
Most of the time, he smells like sweat and that sweet coppery odor of blood.
That changes whenever he actually decides to take a shower and change his clothes.
Suddenly he smells like nothing. And I mean nothing.
If you inhale deeply enough, you might get a faint whiff of sanitizer, like the kind they use in hospitals, but that's it.
You can decide for yourself if that's a blessing or a curse.
𝕍𝕚𝕟𝕔𝕖𝕟𝕥 𝕊𝕚𝕟𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕣
Paraffin wax.
So he smells like plastic and, like, the worst kind.
Maybe you need to convince him to use some bee wax candles for a change. Or some wax that smells like something nice, at least.
Which makes me think of another headcannon: Vincent hates the smell of cheap scented candles. He can not stand them. You'd think his nose might be desensitized to bad smells by now, but no.
The only scented candles he allows in his basement are the expensive ones, with real dried flowers or some good essential oils.
Other than paraffin wax, he smells like his body wash, which is the same as Bo's.
(You can not convince me they do not share one. Maybe buy him some nice shampoo while we're at it.)
The smell of the wax easily overpowers anything else, though.
𝔹𝕠 𝕊𝕚𝕟𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕣
Bo prides himself on owning some really nice cologne.
So, if he applies that, he actually smells really nice.
Other than that: cigarettes.
I feel like he actually has a nice smell, though. He smells like someone who'd call you sugar, if that makes sense.
𝕃𝕖𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕊𝕚𝕟𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕣
I know, we have the ongoing joke of Lester smelling bad, but I've changed my mind.
Of course, after working, he smells very bad. Like a dead animal that has been cooking in the sun for way too long.
But he's a clean boy! After he takes a shower, he smells like a mix of leather and something flowery, airy. Kind of like a freshly picked bouquet of wildflowers. Don't ask me where that comes from.
When he's been crafting something, he also smells like hot glue and wood, but it's not powerful enough to be unpleasant.
𝔹𝕣𝕒𝕙𝕞𝕤 ℍ𝕖𝕖𝕝𝕤𝕙𝕚𝕣𝕖
Dust.
Like, you know when something smells old because it's been standing somewhere without being touched for too long?
That's what he smells like.
He doesn't need to, though. He probably has an arsenal of really expensive perfumes and colognes standing somewhere in that mansion.
After he meets you, there's a slight chance that he'll take more care of himself. And in that case, he will finally use those fragrances.
As soon as he does that, he smells like that mansion looks. Rich, educated, charming, handsome even.
𝕋𝕙𝕠𝕞𝕒𝕤 ℍ𝕖𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕥
Hay, dry earth, Tommy smells like a hot day on a field.
When he spent some more time in the basement, the smell becomes even earthier and damp. Like a crypt.
Though, most days the 'warm' smell is stronger and it's really wholesome. When you hug him, it feels like you're hugging a cat who's been lounging in the sun for a while and got all heated up. (I just want to hug him, man.)
𝕆𝕥𝕚𝕤 𝔻𝕣𝕚𝕗𝕥𝕨𝕠𝕠𝕕
Now, that man smells bad.
Rotting corpses, vomit kind of bad. It's not good.
When he does his makeup and actually showers, it's not that bad anymore. Then, he just smells like the makeup he applies (you know, the stuff they paint children's faces with?) and (probably Baby's) body wash.
𝔹𝕒𝕓𝕪 𝔽𝕚𝕣𝕖𝕗𝕝𝕪
Baby loves sweet perfumes, especially when they have a fruity note (pun intended).
She has a few fragrances she always uses, and they make her smell really nice, and really sweet, kind of like candy.
If she doesn't apply those, she smells like lotion and body oil.
Pretty, that's what she smells like.
ℝ𝕁 𝔽𝕚𝕣𝕖𝕗𝕝𝕪
Motor oil, leather and rain.
Motor oil from working on the trucks all day long, leather from his jackets. Where does the smell of rain come from? Don't ask me.
He smells really masculine in that sense, like a ride on a motorcycle.
𝕁𝕒𝕤𝕠𝕟 𝕍𝕠𝕠𝕣𝕙𝕖𝕖𝕤
Do corpses emit smell if they're still alive?
Well, Jason does.
He smells like wet earth, rain, and the forest. A really grounding smell overall.
Hugging him feels like laying on the forest ground after it has been raining for a while. In a nice way, though.
It's really refreshing, and really pleasant.
𝔸𝕞𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕒 𝕐𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕘
Amanda uses really nice body wash. Something that smells like pine needles.
Other than that, she smells like old metal and disinfectant.
Old metal, because she spends half of her days designing traps and disinfectant because of John.
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cupids-scream-queen · 4 months
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❛ the wax muse ❜
Vincent Sinclair x f!reader
Summary: The muse of Vincent Sinclair.
(If y'all want a part 2 lmk!!)
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ততততত
If there was one thing that Vincent Sinclair did not like about corpses, it was the fact that he couldn't have them stand there without an exorbitant amount of work.
That was why he had you, his beautiful (albeit, strange) girlfriend, who was the only person willing to stand in front of him for hours, striking the most obscene and downright confusing of poses.
He'd always considered you the most beautiful person to step foot in Ambrose, with your patchwork skirts and your pen-drawn tattoos, your seven suitcases and Ford pickup truck that Bo swore should've been sold to a scrapyard fifteen years ago. From the moment you entered that town, you were his, and it was only a matter of time before you'd get to see that.
You met Vincent in a more pleasant way than the majority of people. Bo took you to the museum, where you promptly observed that the wax figures had something inside of them that wasn't quite right, but nonetheless the figures were beautiful. You asked Bo if you could meet the artist (Bo said he didn't come out for people) because you sculpted wax, too, and Vincent overheard and was nearly overjoyed. Another artist was a treat--much less one that worked on the same thing he did.
And you were an artist, though one of many trades. You couldn't pick one to focus on, so your portfolio was filled with many craftsmanship trades, including wax sculpting and glass blowing. Traditional art was fun, but you'd grow bored of it quickly--forging was one of the ones that kept you busy for three years.
"Are you sure I can't meet the artist?" You asked again, and Bo shook his head. You weren't buying it. No artist that you'd ever met refused to see someone that was going to compliment their work. Artists relied on compliments.
"No, sweetheart. Ya can't. He ain't open for talkin' with strangers, ya hear?" Bo's voice was obnoxiously sweet, and you could feel him trying to pull you in, but you stood your ground. Firm in what you believed you were going to do.
"I refuse to leave unless I meet him. He's got to be around here somewhere. Can't I just tell him he's good?" You were practically yelling, which was a reaction Bo hadn't seen before. Usually, girls were so enamored by him they'd forget all about the figures. Except you, who seemed to have more of an interest in piles of wax than him. It annoyed him, to a certain degree.
"Jesus, can't you just quit? He ain't gonna come out, so you can shut yer pretty little mouth and--" A door shut, causing Bo to stop mid-sentence. The sounds of shoes shuffling against the wooden floor, and a man appeared in front of you and Bo, wearing a wax mask.
"You're the artist?" You asked, your eyes wide. Not with fear, which was what Vincent was used to, but with admiration. "You're very good, you know. I do wax sculptures myself but they aren't nearly as good as this."
The man nodded, and gave you a little thumbs-up, which you thought to be adorable. Bo looked pissed, grinding his teeth together, trying to form some semblance of a plan to continue to lure you to your fate as a figure yourself.
"That's...Vincent. He does the sculptures," Reluctant to introduce you two, and even more pissed when you two became an item, Bo was against your relationship with his brother as long as you could remember.
Even now, your naked form on a stool, a candle in your right hand and a skull in your left, Bo was cursing up a storm at Lester, trying to understand why his brother of all people got a girl. Not just any girl, he yelled, but a pretty one.
Lester would always assure you that Bo's anger was because he hated the rivalry between him and Vincent, something that you weren't even sure existed. If it did exist, it was in Bo's head, which was a dangerous place not even you were brave enough to venture into.
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writingjourney · 11 months
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His Body and Blood | Secondo x Reader
Get in fuckers, we’re bringing Secondo back. Or… at least we try.
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Content: 2.6k words, gn!reader, angst, grief, gore/horror elements (there is a lot of blood), injuries, hurt/marginal comfort, 18+ please
This is my entry for the @petrifyingpapas challenge – this week's prompt was "resurrection". Please read with care and check the content warnings! ♡
Masterlist – Ao3 link
⛧ ✦ ⛧
Five human bones. A dead pig. Six liters of blood. Ten black wax candles. 
And, not to forget, Secondo’s embalmed body.
Already, you’re sweating, despite the bone-chilling cold in the Emeritus crypt. The howling of the wind outside startles you every few minutes, the rustling of leaves resembling the crunch of footsteps on the path leading into the cobwebbed, musty mausoleum. Painfully tight goosebumps spread out all over your body as the cold has your skin shrinking, hairs standing up almost statically. The subtle warmth of the candles barely penetrates your pores but their warm light grounds you as you mentally prepare yourself for what’s to come.
You tell yourself that it’s going to be fine. He can’t get any more dead than he already is. The worst possible result, you suppose, is the ritual backfiring and killing you in the process. But seeing your dead lover’s body spread out before you, his lifeless face, taut, pale skin stretched over hollow cheeks, narrow, bicolored eyes closed forever, you feel like you already died the moment the poison stopped his heart from beating.
The worst? This is supposed to be easy for you. Sure, resurrection requires elaborate rituals on any scale. It comes with many pitfalls and a high error potential, yes, but you’ve done it before.
You’ve done it before. Five years ago. On a mouse. 
But a mouse is a mammal and so is Secondo. Theoretically speaking, the difference is marginal.
With shaky fingers you use some of the blood to draw a pentagram around his body, the candles marking each intersection of its crimson lines. Fortunately, blood and the candles are easy enough to obtain in a Satanic Ministry that regularly practices all kinds of sacrilegious rites and rituals. The human bones hadn’t been as easy to find, considering that they need to be as fresh as possible. Estimating the levels of decay, using the dates of burial under consideration of humidity and temperature levels and consequently identifying a suitable body took you over a week. A nightly trip to the local graveyard right next to the town’s old church to excavate a corpse almost resulted in you being arrested for grave robbery. The pig, however? Well, if you pay the vastly under-funded farmers in your area enough, they’re surprisingly willing to sell you one.
A deep exhale and you struggle to your feet. The scene before you is almost grotesque. Secondo on the cold stone floor surrounded by the bloody lines of the pentagram and violently flickering candles, a dead pig right above his head, ready to be devoured, the rest of the blood filled into goblets for him to drink. You place the bones next to his limbs – two femora, two humeri, the last one, the twelfth thoracic vertebra, resting in the centre of his torso. All of those organic materials need to be absorbed into his body to help him regenerate and find the strength to house his lost soul, to once again become a home for the man you love.
You carefully move towards his face, tears pricking your eyes at the sight of him. Until now, you’ve had your focus on your strict instructions. A ghoul had to heave him out of his stone chamber earlier and you’ve consequently avoided looking at him too closely so you wouldn’t lose your mind. But now it’s getting serious and you’re scared, so fucking scared. The reality of the situation hits you with the force of a gut punch and you have to fight the urge to throw up.
 At the same time, a plethora of uninvited memories comes to flood your brain. Countless nights spent in each other’s embrace, stolen kisses in his office between clergy meetings, breakfast in bed every Sunday morning, his broad hand on your lower back guiding you into the shower so you don’t slip on the wet tiles  – all the little moments you only fully appreciate once they are lost to you.
A part of you wants to sit on the cold stone floor to gaze at him until you fall asleep. But there cannot be any delays, not tonight. You reach out to open his mouth and give his soul a channel to re-enter his body, but you flinch back when your fingers touch the icy skin of his jaw. It’s unresponsive, no resistance when you reach out again to push it open. His body is a weak sack of flesh and yet he looks so oddly alive in the candlelight. You half expect him to snap at you for waking him up so roughly, despite your touch being nothing but tentative and gentle. But of course nothing happens. Glancing down, you see that the tips of your thumb and index finger are black and white and you rub them together in thought as you force yourself to look at him one more time.
“I’m going to bring you back, my love,” you whisper. “I’m not giving up.”
You stand and take your place at the foot of your ensemble. It’s now or never, you realise, and a sudden determination takes hold of you that pushes any doubts or fears aside. 
Secondo taught you all that you know about ritualistic magic and even though at first you’d often cursed him for being stern, too strict with his students, too fastidious and mean, you now understand why. One mistake and it’s over, one mistake and you risk the life of everyone around you, including your own.
The latin words of your incantation flow out of you freely, the result of over a year of intense practice and rehearsals just for this, all while your Papa and his brothers had been carted around for display like animals in a zoo. The sudden burst of anger fuels you and you raise your voice, speaking louder and more clearly than ever before, the tone so distorted that you don’t even recognise yourself anymore. The air around you starts to crackle as the energies gather, invisible to your eyes until you spot the first few green sparks, accompanied by the sound of thunder, shadows dancing along the walls in unfamiliar shapes. The howling of the wind outside has returned as well but stronger this time, growing louder and louder until it reaches the intensity of a storm. You can feel the floor vibrating under your feet as you pass the halfway point.
A low buzzing inside your head makes you dizzy. Suddenly, the candles flicker out all at once. An earth-shattering explosion has the walls around you shaking and splashes of a warm liquid hit your face and chest, covering your whole front in wetness. It’s pitch-dark now so you can’t tell what caused it, but you know you can’t let up, no matter what happens. You opened Pandora's box and your only chance to push its horrors back inside is to finish your incantation, come what may.
More latin words, latin phrases. You’re properly chanting now, the last few verses leaving you in shaky clusters but still confident and rhythmic enough to let any spirit, any demon or otherworldly entity know that you mean them with all your heart. The shades are whispering back at you, deep voices, high voices, speaking in ancient languages you don’t understand. Opening a pathway between the world of the living and the dead is dangerous on any occasion, even more so if you’re trying to coax a single lonely soul back through the veil. You’re forced to ignore whatever is going on around you, have complete faith in yourself. 
As you near the end, the thunder is booming, almost drowning out your voice, and you have trouble breathing. The air pressure around you is too high, too intense, and after you finally speak your last words, you feel like you’re suffocating. Gasping for air, another wave of sticky liquid splatters against you, coating your mouth and nose and eyes. You can feel yourself getting light-headed until you can’t tell if the blackness surrounding you is caused by darkness or your slow loss of consciousness. Two more seconds and your knees finally buckle. You drop to the floor, violently panting, lungs burning from the air-loss, and roll onto your back to avoid toppling over.
That’s it, you realise, you did everything right and yet you’re going to die. A few painful attempts at breathing later you stop feeling your body. Floating in weightlessness the pain stops and suddenly you perceive a tickling sensation in your arm. You can’t see anything but you can feel the searching movements of a hand slotting into yours, fingers weaving together so familiarly. Against all reason you squeeze your eyes shut, then open them again. There’s a shadow above you now. No, not a shadow, a scheme, a specter, not dark but made of light. Like the fume of a cigar its edges move, morphing into vague human features until you can make out Secondo in the wafts of smoke. You can see him so clearly now, his hooked nose, severe features, mismatched eyes. He’s hovering above you, forcing your hand over your head. For a long moment all you do is stare at each other.
His head dips, then, and he leans in ever so slowly. You close your eyes, waiting for his kiss, waiting for that spark of recognition as his body joins yours to make it real. Finally, his lips graze yours ever so lightly but instead of the warmth you expect they feel like pure ice, wet and freezing. You startle awake, coming to in the all-encompassing darkness of the crypt. For a long moment, you lay there in utter shock and disorientation, but then it hits you. 
You’re breathing. You’re alive.
As soon as you regain the feeling in your limbs, you push yourself into the direction you assume leads to the exit and fish for your backpack. A minute of uselessly crawling over the cold, wet stone floor until your fingers get tangled in one of its straps and you manage to pull out the flashlight you used on your way here. It won’t immediately turn on and you almost start to cry in frustration but a good whack has it flickering to life. The first thing the light hits is a stone tile on the floor in front of you but you don’t take it in, blinded by the sudden brightness, just move the cone of light into the center of the room in hopeful expectation.
And it’s naive, it’s foolish and idiotic, but you truly expect Secondo to sit there, looking around in confusion, face lighting up as soon as he recognises you. You’re waiting to see his handsome face and fall into his arms, feel him breathing against you, alive and well and yours.
But of course none of that happens. 
He’s still lying there just like before, lifeless, static, but what changed is the room around you. The bones are cracked and splintered, pointy shards strewn across the floor. You have to thank Satan that none of the sharp pieces fatally injured you. But glancing down at yourself you notice that even so you look like Carrie did after prom – covered in deep red blood, drenched to the skin. The goblets have all tipped over and are now empty, the walls and floor covered in even more blood and gore, pieces of raw meat, bloody intestines and brains sticking to the stone as you realise that it had been the pig that exploded.
Carnage, there is no other word for it. You’re petrified by the scene until a loud, echoing sob breaks out of you. You run to Secondo and, uncaring of any splinters, drop to your knees by his side. He’s a mess as well, droplets of blood covering his face, but you hug him regardless, rolling half on top of him as your body gets wrecked by the violence of your breakdown. He’s still cold, still unmoving.
Still dead.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
There’s no reply. You stay there, weeping, shaking, apologising. Your body refuses to calm down, the grief fully taking hold of you, and what feels like hours pass until you’re gently pulled away from him. You open yours eyes to plain darkness at first but then another flashlight turns on and you can make out the silver mask of a ghoulette hovering above you.
“It’s okay, we’re going to clean this up,” she says. “We’ll put his body back. You go back home.”
“I-I should do it. I can’t leave him.”
She softly shakes her head. “You need to clean up and pull out those splinters, disinfect the wounds before they get infected. There’s always another try.”
You know what she truly means is that this is going to stay a secret, that they’re going to cover for you as long as it takes for you to either succeed… or give up. 
The ghoulette helps you stand, making sure you can walk before her claw-like hand leaves you. There is another ghoul waiting by the entrance, observing you, the same ghoul that helped you with his body earlier. The mask hides his expression but you’re pretty sure the only thing you’d see in his features right now would either be pity or indifference.
You glance back at Secondo before you leave, the pain stuck in your chest like a dagger, and you know that if you pull it out, there’s no way you won’t bleed out. So before you can crumble, you allow the ghoul to guid you outside into the eery silence of the abbey’s cemetery, a soothing hand on your shoulder, a steady presence in your back.
Still, the horror of what just happened clings to you like fog clings to a meadow, heavy and obscure. The reality of it is not hard to grasp: You failed. Something went wrong. One of the many pitfalls must have been your doom – perhaps the bones were too old, the blood too thick, the timing off by a few minutes. There is only one other reasonable explanation for a failed resurrection ritual – a soul that refuses to come back.
The thought has you stumbling, the ghoul’s hand reaching out for your shoulder to steady you. It’s entirely possible that Secondo has accepted his fate. You can’t help but wonder if your hallucination earlier was a hint that he’s reaching out to you – or a final goodbye.
“He would use any chance to get back to you,” the ghoul says as though he read your mind. “Try again until you get it right, little human.”
You nod. In tandem with the adrenaline in your blood slowly dwindling, you can feel the pain in your limbs increasing now, shards of bone stuck to your legs and forearms like tiny knives. Pulling them out under the shower is going to result in some significant blood loss but you can’t bring yourself to care. What is a little more blood on your soiled body? What is a little more pain for your lacerated soul?
After a few more deep inhales of the clear night air, you take a few more hesitant steps on the dirt path, barely any moonlight from above to guide you and your torch left somewhere down in the crypt. In the all-encompassing dark, the ghoul gives your shoulder one last squeeze. 
And then you’re alone.
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I know this is way out of what I wrote over the past few months but I hope it was enjoyable (?) nonetheless. Thanks for reading, feedback as always much appreciated ♡
Masterlist – My Ao3
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Text
tired [g.w. x reader]
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warnings: depressing
a/n: school's been draining me, so i kinda wrote this for myself.
--
tired.
that was the only feeling that plagued you.
not anger, not sadness, not even joy. it felt as though you had been cursed; stripped of the ability to feel anything. not even a crucio could override this everlasting numbness.
weeks after weeks, fatigue held you in a chokehold, draining every inch and crevice of your body of life; as if a dementor were kissing you.
it was visible in your eyes, the way dark crescents hung lowly neath them. it was visible in the way your hair stuck out every which way, unlike your usual and neat updo. your slouch, your drawl, your strained vision.
every now and then, you wished and wished and wished. you wished until you could barely think of anything more in the world to long for and yearn. and everything in the world seemed to be the ability to enter eternal stasis; frozen in time without a single care in the world - resigned to slumber you would never be woken from.
sometimes, you yearned to place down your quill and burst into flames - then disintegrate into ashes - then a magpie would swoop by and leave a great gust of wind that would blow you away, scattering you into different corners of the world.
just to be free.
OWLS were nearing, and with every second that brought you closer to your first exam, you couldn't help but dread the sound of parchment being crumpled up and tossed, or the smell of ink so strong you could taste it.
you could feel yourself wasting away with the mouldy centuries-old books in the library. every page was rough, rigid, thin, like your skin. meals were skipped, and you could only manage a cup of water. anything else and you were bloated.
it wasn't like you to be in such a ghastly state, and surely enough the people around you noticed. you pushed them away, though. your job at the ministry was at stake if you didn't get all 'Outstanding's, even for Divinations.
a pair of eyes watched over you. bad day after bad day, break down after break down. he watched you, fighting back every muscle and nerve in his body to just run over to you and hug you, telling you life would get better and that OWLS would be a thing of the past - a past you'd look back on and think 'i should've been living'.
the candle burning brightly, magnificently, at your side was getting shorter and shorter, and shorter. the wax was practically overflowing at that point, and had spilled all over the table. the glow of the flame loomed over your face - oh - you looked dead; like a reanimated corpse subjected to hours of scribbling and crumpling and scribbling and tossing until the strings cut and snap - collapsed.
you looked so frail, so small, no bigger than a thumbnail. he could just fit you in the palm of his hands.
'i just want her to be happy.' the boy thought, 'if i could just ease her worries.'
he longed to see the scowl on your face sculpt into a smile.
a smile so bright it brought the sun and stars to shame.
a smile so bright it could light up the world.
he longed to hear your laugh - your laughter that could bring even gods to their knees. and gods, he wished and he wished until he could wish no more.
he longed, and he longed, and he longed, until he was sick of longing - until he got sick of the fluttery deep pits of his stomach twisting and churning.
he just wanted to see you happy. just to see you full of life and not confined to the woes of the world.
he had no control over that, though. he knew it well enough. it was ingrained in him the moment he learned to walk.
he had no control over anything, of course. he was was a weasley. red hair. freckles. hand-me-down robes from myriads of generations ago. what power could he possibly have other than the power over a bludger and a puny firework?
still, he longed for the day you would finally look up and lock eyes with him without your mind being pre-occupied with arithmancy and charms. he could try working his charm on you, but with how you were right now, he was better off flirting with a wall.
so, defeated, he resigned himself to his quill and paper and then -
magic.
of course.
magic was the solution to everything.
he was quick to dip his quill into his well of ink and hurriedly scribble. he then folded it messily into a paper crane - then, with a little tap and a little blow, it flew over to you.
the sound of something landing on your table broke you out of your trance. you were in the midst of writing mountains upon mountains of words that slowly lost all meaning. your eyes darted over to the crane. your face - it softened. what was this sensation? it felt as though all of the muscles in your face, after decades of being scrunched up, had finally jellified. it ached, but soon after, relief came.
you picked it up, carefully unwrapped it and read its contents.
' beautiful girl. i long for the day you smile. all the best for your OWLS. '
then - there it was.
the smile he'd give up the world for.
it was there, and it was brighter than the pathetic candle that struggled to compete with it. no lumos could ever outshine it, and no nox could ever dull it.
beautiful, beautiful, girl, he thought.
he caused that smile.
that smile was his, and his only.
--
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adelaidedrubman · 6 months
Text
OCs AS ENTITIES (the magnus archives)
tagged by beloveds @direwombat @simplegenius042 @inafieldofdaisies @corvosattano @deputy-morgan-malone to do this fun little aesthetics game for a horror girlie! sending tags out to @socially-awkward-skeleton @henbased @pathologictwo @strafethesesinners @clicheantagonist @shallow-gravy @direwombat @quickhacked @jackiesarch @v0idbuggy @orionlancasterr @firstaidspray @stacispratt @8bitpizzacoupons @strangefable @roofgeese @ladyoriza @unholymilf @nonfunctioning-queer @voidika @captastra @confidentandgood @belorage @deputyash @nightbloodbix @blissfulalchemist @shellibisshe @cassietrn + like or unlike this post to opt in or out, respectively, of me tagging you in tag games!
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i.  THE BURIED.  weighted blankets.  drowning.  the comfort of a loved one’s weight. soil & sand piling on top of you. hugging so hard it hurts a little. cramped hiding spots.  letting out air underwater to sink to the bottom of the pool.  walls pressing in on you. not moving from a position even though you’re cramping a little.  dragging the last second before you have to inhale. lonely subways.  feeling like one with the earth.  a layer of dirt on you. looking for something below.  cardboard boxes & tiny pillow forts.  hands calloused from digging.  knowing that your purpose is just below the surface. entering your final resting place before it kills you.  a storm drowning you out. dust & sand speaking to you.
ii.  THE CORRUPTION. insects.  a close imitation of the natural course of life. an illness in a community. a rag that dirties more than it cleans.   an untreated wound.  containment.  breaching containment.  unbreathable air. fungi.  one with that you love.  one with what loves you.   a corpse unfit for a glass case.  hearing a song in the sound of tiny wings & legs.  honeycomb patterns.  an ecosystem within a person.  a curse passed on.  the hubris of a scientist.  an ugly death where a glorious one is owed. blood on a handkerchief.  parasites.  something pushing up the sewer.  a mask to keep something out.  trypophobia.  knowing you belong.  death weeks after impact.  fever. food that’s gone off. pandora’s box.   death behind a glass.
iii.  THE DARK. shadows. lights that turn off by themselves.  the feel of cold marble.  a beaked creature in the night. the difference between seeing darkness & seeing nothing. touch of something you can’t see.  hiding under a blanket.  white, clouded eyes. months without going outside during sunlight. pouring dark. unscrewing lightbulbs. black matter. light sensitivity. a starless night.  time before light was created.  a shadow on the wall without a body to attach to.  withering plants.  a world without a sun.  footfalls in an empty house in the night.  a light that doesn’t reach as far as it should.  desperate reach for a flashlight.  clothes that hide your shape.  staying unperceivable.  winter months in the north.  an empty church.
*later on but yeah she knows a guy like that
iv.  THE DESOLATION. senseless pain.  warmth of faith. wax where skin should be. a blazing fire.  heat without a source. the third or fourth tragedy in the family. losing everything you’ve ever held dear. so much to live for,  gone so soon.  the smell of gasoline.  touch that scars. coffee cup that never goes cold. scorch marks on wood.  inescapably warm air.  a child born in fire.  death of a loved one.  a candle without a flame.  an altar in the middle of the woods.  animals with burnt fur.  plastic explosives. burning hot metal.  sweating in an interrogation room.  never touching a loved one. disfigurement. kiss that ruins you.  the scent of burning fat. a tattoo that terrifies its viewer.*  the agony of hellfire displayed as art.  auburn hair.  little clothing in cold weather.  a ripple in the air.  trying to cool down in vain.
v.  THE FLESH. body horror.   factories. a hunger for something more filling. never quite happy with how you look. the terror of an animal waiting for slaughter. a very good meal. the liquid of a perfect steak. fighting your worst survival instincts. a twisted bone. long nights working out.  more than one heart.  appearance that shapes like clay. a bag of bones. bone broth in a pot.  knowing to fear pigs.   the butcher’s shop.   plastic surgery.  something alien inside your body. a hunger in the gaze laid upon you. unwitting cannibalism. forgetting what you used to look like. being admired for your appearance & appearance only.  teeth marks on skin. scars from wounds that should’ve killed you.  cooking in scarcity. fenced in with one way to go.
vi.  THE END. the last page of a book.  nightmares that don’t feel like nightmares.  a skeletal hand.  the grip of the grim reaper around your throat. existential pain.  ivory dice.  flat-lining in a hospital.  gambling with death.  as old as the universe.  soul & spirit tied to an object.  a dream where you die. closing your eyes for the last time. the pleas of a dying one.  knowing the fate of someone you know & being unable to prevent it.  a thousand cords tugging you towards your end.  skin that’s freezing to the touch.  an act of desperation. someone’s life for yours. an eternity spent alive. the cost of your selfishness.  watching your own burial.   causing your own burial.  the smell of death. numbness to fear.  words from someone gone. meaninglessness of the actions or lives of single people in the universe.  multiple near-death experiences you refuse to die from.
vii.  THE EYE. googling something you shouldn’t have. eureka moments.* the unforgiving lens of a camera.  witness reports.**  hidden libraries.  eyes of different colors.  feeling of being watched.  a death recorded in tape.   a tragedy you can’t look away from.   endangering yourself for knowledge.  truth. analog records.  a symbol of an eye.  a watch tower.  compulsion to document. turning on recording devices without thinking about it.  saving the evidence before the person. extracting information. truth or dare, without the dare. a thirst for knowledge. books that speak to you. coordinated shelves.  cataloguing systems.  voyeurism.  police report you can’t put down.** reasoning your way out.  smell of old papers.  books that read you back.
*not correct ones
**america’s sweetheart verse
viii.  THE HUNT. sharp canines.  sore calves after a run.  the scent of blood.  an adventure for the journey’s sake.  the adrenaline right before the kill.  a whistle’s echo.  the woods.  the doe eyes of a prey animal.  your own breath in the air.  sharpened claws.  being tracked.  fear of someone knowing your every movement.  hunting down monsters.  hide & seek.  running away only to end up where you started.  staying alive purely because the enemy enjoys seeing you run.  a set of footsteps behind you.  blood dripping from bare hands.  barks & growls.  focused eyes.  a victim going limp under your hands.  a mouth full of fresh blood.  catching the scent of something monstrous.  perfecting your craft.  peering into the dark & running after it.
ix.  THE LONELY. an apartment too small for a double bed.  completely vacant streets.  waking up to see everyone gone.  fog.  point nemo.  a house too big to hear your family members in.  alone in a faceless crowd.  a mask with nothing behind it.  separated cubicles.  a deafening silence where joy should be.  a blinding spotlight.  the least missed in your friend group.  streets without lights in the windows.  isolation.  not truly knowing your friends. your friends not truly knowing you.  need for silence.  fear of crowds.  staring into space knowing nothing is looking back at you.  a ship alone at sea.  depression.  knowing your friends are better off without you.  talking to someone only to realize they’re gone.  a family too large to notice you there. safety in being alone.
x.  THE SLAUGHTER. a game of tag.   senseless violence.  a true crime hobby.*   improvised weapons.  blinding rage.  intent to kill.   a horrific day in a quiet community.  a medal of bravery.*  holding on to what validates your anger.   history books that spare no details.  an injury you want revenge for.  war.  counting kills.  songs of soldiers.   a knife block on the counter.  a pool of blood.  shellshock.  unspeakable horrors.  anger pushing you forward.  unimaginable pain.  not seeing who will hurt you but knowing the pain is coming.  a fully human monster.  an authority sending its lessers to their deaths.  kill or be killed.  unedited wartime memoirs.*  a weapons collection.  not knowing the names of who you kill.  too many to remember.  loss of hope.  there’s no heroes in war.
*america’s sweetheart verse
xi.  THE SPIRAL. sleep deprivation.  corridors you can get lost in.  maze puzzles that loop back on themselves.  losing possessions.   losing people.  losing your sanity.  corkscew curls.  rows of funhouse mirrors.  optical illusions.  a separate reality.  walking through the wrong door.   delusions.  not knowing what your hands are doing.   blank spaces in documents.   hallucinations.  wrong proportions.  a nameless thing.  a place that has never existed.  doubting your own mind.  blind faith. losing track of names,  labels,  categories.   distorted sound.  an imperfection in a glass that twists the view.   loss of time.   a garish color.  doors that open to nowhere.  lies. an unnatural laugh.  jokes & tricks.  illusions.  a doorway.  a sculptor with a wild imagination. limbs in impossible angles.  doing what’s fun, not what’s sensible.  fractals you can get lost in.
xii.  THE STRANGER. wax figures.  a close approximation of a human face.  a borrowed appearance.  a strange smell.  glass eyes.  furs & pelts.  a dance.  a song of a choir.  the uncanny valley.  stitching yourself together.  the colors of a circus.  a puppet with no strings. mannequins.  glitter & sequin.  a stranger you’ve always known.  someone strange in the place of someone you knew.  stolen identities.  stolen skins. a machine imitating humanity.  the anonymity of a service worker.  hiding in plain sight.  uncomfortable to look at.  a faked accent.*  concealing.  forgetting who you are. forgetting who others are.  a replacement no one notices.  images that look posed.  the only one seeing the false face of someone.
*not faked, just exaggerated
xiii.  THE VAST. open spaces.   carnival rides going up & down.  fear of heights.  endless infinity around you.  your insignificance in an universe.  stomach turning at a drop.  fear of not the crash down but the moment you slip.  the sway of a cable car.  an adventure holiday.  losing track of where the surface is.  miles & miles of nothing around you.  staring at the sky & feeling like you may fall into it.  loss of control.  a fall that doesn’t end in death.  glass floor to the view below.  terminal velocity.  the sound of wind in your ears.   a reach over the railing.  a jump from the top of the building. falling into nothing.  feeling your feet let go of the ground.  a leap of faith. motion sickness.
xiv.  THE WEB. undecipherable code. a puppeteer holding the strings.  power over the weak—willed.  strings of fate.  manipulation.   an arranged accident.  a hundred minions doing your bidding.*  cobwebs.  spiders.  a laid trap. never voicing discomfort.  outwitting a cheater.  doing things without realizing it.  red string across a corkboard.  finding something lost where you were sure you checked.  power over the unreliability of chance.  watching others dance for you.*  an entangled death.  a thousand tiny legs & fangs.  shady forum threads.*  something important gone missing.  suspiciously disregarded case.*  a missing witness.*  connections.  the world wide web.*  power of victimhood.*  gullibility.  no control over your own decisions.  an invisible leash.  mass psychology.  a horror film in the making.  scapegoat.  never remembering to ask for a name.
*america’s sweetheart verse
+  THE EXTINCTION. the end of an era.  apocalypse movies.  the alarms of warning systems.   a desolate landscape.  end of the world cults.  nihilism.  the last written history. a changed world.  no survivors.  old prophecies.  a thousand predicted ends.  a new chapter.  an end with no escape.  catastrophes.  a calendar counting down.  breaking point. overindulgence.
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corvosattano · 6 months
Text
— OCS AS AESTHETICS FOR THE ENTITIES
i was tagged by @deputy-morgan-malone to do this spooky little tag game for october! thank you. i did this for witb!lil so as to lean into the horror aesthetics a bit better. 💜
tagging @jackiesarch @florbelles @unholymilf @shallow-gravy @blissfulalchemist @adelaidedrubman @belorage @roofgeese @confidentandgood @chuckhansen @queennymeria @nightbloodbix @faarkas @teamhawkeye @moonmothers @gwynbleidd @firstaidspray @simonxriley @henbased @ghostfvcker @socially-awkward-skeleton @kyber-infinitygems @cptcassian @thedeadthree @risingsh0t @shellibisshe @devil-kindred @inafieldofdaisies @bloodofvalyria @marivenah @leviiackrman and @cassietrn
aesthetics for the entities, part i. bold what applies to your muse, italics what applies situationally or only in certain verses. this is based on a horror podcast; potentially triggering and / or upsetting content ahead!
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i. THE BURIED. weighted blankets. drowning. the comfort of a loved one’s weight. soil & sand piling on top of you. hugging so hard it hurts a little. cramped hiding spots. letting out air underwater to sink to the bottom of the pool. walls pressing in on you. not moving from a position even though you’re cramping a little. dragging the last second before you have to inhale. lonely subways. feeling like one with the earth. a layer of dirt on you. looking for something below. cardboard boxes & tiny pillow forts. hands calloused from digging. knowing that your purpose is just below the surface. entering your final resting place before it kills you. a storm drowning you out. dust & sand speaking to you.
ii. THE CORRUPTION. insects. a close imitation of the natural course of life. an illness in a community. a rag that dirties more than it cleans. an untreated wound. containment. breaching containment. unbreathable air. fungi. one with that you love. one with what loves you. a corpse unfit for a glass case. hearing a song in the sound of tiny wings & legs. honeycomb patterns. an ecosystem within a person. a curse passed on. the hubris of a scientist. an ugly death where a glorious one is owed. blood on a handkerchief. parasites. something pushing up the sewer. a mask to keep something out. trypophobia. knowing you belong. death weeks after impact. fever. food that’s gone off. pandora’s box. death behind a glass.
iii. THE DARK. shadows. lights that turn off by themselves. the feel of cold marble. a beaked creature in the night. the difference between seeing darkness & seeing nothing. touch of something you can’t see. hiding under a blanket. white, clouded eyes. months without going outside during sunlight. pouring dark. unscrewing lightbulbs. black matter. light sensitivity. a starless night. time before light was created. a shadow on the wall without a body to attach to. withering plants. a world without a sun. footfalls in an empty house in the night. a light that doesn’t reach as far as it should. desperate reach for a flashlight. clothes that hide your shape. staying unperceivable. winter months in the north. an empty church.
iv. THE DESOLATION. senseless pain. warmth of faith. wax where skin should be. a blazing fire. heat without a source. the third or fourth tragedy in the family. losing everything you’ve ever held dear. so much to live for, gone so soon. the smell of gasoline. touch that scars. coffee cup that never goes cold. scorch marks on wood. inescapably warm air. a child born in fire. death of a loved one. a candle without a flame. an altar in the middle of the woods. animals with burnt fur. plastic explosives. burning hot metal. sweating in an interrogation room. never touching a loved one. disfigurement. kiss that ruins you. the scent of burning fat. a tattoo that terrifies its viewer. the agony of hellfire displayed as art. auburn hair. little clothing in cold weather. a ripple in the air. trying to cool down in vain.
v. THE FLESH. body horror. factories. a hunger for something more filling. never quite happy with how you look. the terror of an animal waiting for slaughter. a very good meal. the liquid of a perfect steak. fighting your worst survival instincts. a twisted bone. long nights working out. more than one heart. appearance that shapes like clay. a bag of bones. bone broth in a pot. knowing to fear pigs. the butcher’s shop. plastic surgery. something alien inside your body. a hunger in the gaze laid upon you. unwitting cannibalism. forgetting what you used to look like. being admired for your appearance & appearance only. teeth marks on skin. scars from wounds that should’ve killed you. cooking in scarcity. fenced in with one way to go.
vi. THE END. the last page of a book. nightmares that don’t feel like nightmares. a skeletal hand. the grip of the grim reaper around your throat. existential pain. ivory dice. flatlining in a hospital. gambling with death. as old as the universe. soul & spirit tied to an object. a dream where you die. closing your eyes for the last time. the pleas of a dying one. knowing the fate of someone you know & being unable to prevent it. a thousand cords tugging you towards your end. skin that’s freezing to the touch. an act of desperation. someone’s life for yours. an eternity spent alive. the cost of your selfishness. watching your own burial. causing your own burial. the smell of death. numbness to fear. words from someone gone. meaninglessness of the actions or lives of single people in the universe. multiple near-death experiences you refuse to die from.
vii. THE EYE. googling something you shouldn’t have. eureka moments. the unforgiving lens of a camera. witness reports. hidden libraries. eyes of different colors. feeling of being watched. a death recorded in tape. a tragedy you can’t look away from. endangering yourself for knowledge. truth. analog records. a symbol of an eye. a watch tower. compulsion to document. turning on recording devices without thinking about it. saving the evidence before the person. extracting information. truth or dare, without the dare. a thirst for knowledge. books that speak to you. coordinated shelves. cataloguing systems. voyeurism. police report you can’t put down. reasoning your way out. smell of old papers. books that read you back.
viii. THE HUNT. sharp canines. sore calves after a run. the scent of blood. an adventure for the journey’s sake. the adrenaline right before the kill. a whistle’s echo. the woods. the doe eyes of a prey animal. your own breath in the air. sharpened claws. being tracked. fear of someone knowing your every movement. hunting down monsters. hide & seek. running away only to end up where you started. staying alive purely because the enemy enjoys seeing you run. a set of footsteps behind you. blood dripping from bare hands. barks & growls. focused eyes. a victim going limp under your hands. a mouth full of fresh blood. catching the scent of something monstrous. perfecting your craft. peering into the dark & running after it.
ix. THE LONELY. an apartment too small for a double bed. completely vacant streets. waking up to see everyone gone. fog. point nemo. a house too big to hear your family members in. alone in a faceless crowd. a mask with nothing behind it. separated cubicles. a deafening silence where joy should be. a blinding spotlight. the least missed in your friend group. streets without lights in the windows. isolation. not truly knowing your friends. your friends not truly knowing you. need for silence. fear of crowds. staring into space knowing nothing is looking back at you. a ship alone at sea. depression. knowing your friends are better off without you. talking to someone only to realise they’re gone. a family too large to notice you there. safety in being alone.
x. THE SLAUGHTER. a game of tag. senseless violence. a true crime hobby. improvised weapons. blinding rage. intent to kill. a horrific day in a quiet community. a medal of bravery. holding on to what validates your anger. history books that spare no details. an injury you want revenge for. war. counting kills. songs of soldiers. a knifeblock on the counter. a pool of blood. shellshock. unspeakable horrors. anger pushing you forward. unimaginable pain. not seeing who will hurt you but knowing the pain is coming. a fully human monster. an authority sending its lessers to their deaths. kill or be killed. unedited wartime memoirs. a weapons collection. not knowing the names of who you kill. too many to remember. loss of hope. there’s no heroes in war.
xi. THE SPIRAL. sleep deprivation. corridors you can get lost in. maze puzzles that loop back on themselves. losing possessions. losing people. losing your sanity. corkscew curls. rows of funhouse mirrors. optical illusions. a separate reality. walking through the wrong door. delusions. not knowing what your hands are doing. blank spaces in documents. hallucinations. wrong proportions. a nameless thing. a place that has never existed. doubting your own mind. blind faith. losing track of names, labels, categories. distorted sound. an imperfection in a glass that twists the view. loss of time. a garish colour. doors that open to nowhere. lies. an unnatural laugh. jokes & tricks. illusions. a doorway. a sculptor with a wild imagination. limbs in impossible angles. doing what’s fun, not what’s sensible. fractals you can get lost in.
xii. THE STRANGER wax figures. a close approximation of a human face. a borrowed appearance. a strange smell. glass eyes. furs & pelts. a dance. a song of a choir. the uncanny valley. stitching yourself together. the colours of a circus. a puppet with no strings. mannequins. glitter & sequin. a stranger you’ve always known. someone strange in the place of someone you knew. stolen identities. stolen skins. a machine imitating humanity. the anonymity of a service worker. hiding in plain sight. uncomfortable to look at. a faked accent. concealing. forgetting who you are. forgetting who others are. a replacement no one notices. images that look posed. the only one seeing the false face of someone.
xiii. THE VAST. open spaces. carnival rides going up & down. fear of heights. endless infinity around you. your insignificance in an universe. stomach turning at a drop. fear of not the crash down but the moment you slip. the sway of a cable car. an adventure holiday. losing track of where the surface is. miles & miles of nothing around you. staring at the sky & feeling like you may fall into it. loss of control. a fall that doesn’t end in death. glass floor to the view below. terminal velocity. the sound of wind in your ears. a reach over the railing. a jump from the top of the building. falling into nothing. feeling your feet let go of the ground. a leap of faith. motion sickness.
xiv. THE WEB. undecipherable code. a puppeteer holding the strings. power over the weak—willed. strings of fate. manipulation. an arranged accident. a hundred minions doing your bidding. cobwebs. spiders. a laid trap. never voicing discomfort. outwitting a cheater. doing things without realising it. red string across a corkboard. finding something lost where you were sure you checked. power over the unrealiability of chance. watching others dance for you. an entangled death. a thousand tiny legs & fangs. shady forum threads. something important gone missing. suspiciously disregarded case. a missing witness. connections. the world wide web. power of victimhood. gullibility. no control over your own decisions. an invisible leash. mass psychology. a horror film in the making. scapegoat. never remembering to ask for a name.
+ THE EXTINCTION. the end of an era. apocalypse movies. the alarms of warning systems. a desolate landscape. end of the world cults. nihilism. the last written history. a changed world. no survivours. old prophecies. a thousand predicted ends. a new chapter. an end with no escape. catastrophes. a calendar counting down. breaking point. overindulgence.
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tavina-writes · 5 months
Note
Trick or Treat?
Sangyao + Ghost In Wedding Clothes?
I had a BLAST with this one Biscuit. Spooky SangYao! :D
It was, in fact, not a good day for a wedding. It wasn't even day at all. But at this point in his life, Nie Huaisang really didn't care. It wasn't a good idea to marry a corpse, especially when the corpse had died unjustly and likely violently, especially in a world where it was easy to raise them, but he'd always been blasphemous too.
Which is of course, why he's here in Lanling in the middle of the night to exhume a dead body and bring it to the temple so that he could marry the corpse. He'd brought the wedding robes and red wax candles, even though the pretense at happiness was starting to feel forced, even for him. 
If he'd been a different type of person -- one who could use force instead of someone who couldn't -- he would've stolen San-ge before his father put him in the dirt.
But Nie Huaisang is not that sort of person, so he digs Jin Guangyao up from the earth in the dead of night and transports his body instead. 
He supposes that he should at least be grateful that Jin Guangshan had seen fit to bury Jin Guangyao in the Jin Family Cemetery after San-ge had died under mysterious circumstances, but he refuses to be grateful to Jin Guangshan for much of anything. If Da-ge were here he'd say something, but Da-ge is dead and there are no answers he can pry from the dead mouth there either. 
If he'd been in his right mind, he would've had something to say about grief. But a man who is willing to marry a corpse to raise it from the dead isn't fully in his right mind either. 
********
Nie Huaisang redresses San-ge's body in more appropriate wedding attire in the deserted Buddhist temple, working quickly though the mud clinging to his wide red sleeves makes it hard. "San-ge," he says, lighting the incense, casting a look back at the corpse with an inappropriate amount of fondness that was edged with a certain amount of--
Something. 
He makes the three bows. 
The corpse doesn't, but the corpse doesn't need to. 
Nie Huaisang bites his finger, letting the blood drip down into the lit incense, and then onto the candles. The candle flame jumps, bright and wild in the darkness of night, throwing up eerie red light. 
Someone else is here now, with him. Then again, he does have San-ge's corpse. That would do it.  
"You know, if you really wanted to avoid being punished, you should've apologized for leaving me before you died." He turns to find San-ge's ghost there, on the other side of the temple, standing between the open doors, dressed in an odd mix of funerary and wedding robes. 
Nie Huaisang didn't really have time to get a whole set assembled. No matter. It does what he wants.
"How did your killing of Da-ge go?" he asks, conversationally. "Your father still threw you out didn't he?" 
All he'd ever wanted was for San-ge to come home and stop fighting with Da-ge. All San-ge had ever wanted was Jin Guangshan's approval. 
They both don't get what they want, but that's the way of things when you lived in the world, now isn't it? 
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deputy-morgan-malone · 6 months
Text
OC Aesthetics for the Entities (Magnus Archives)
I'm not sure how much new Spooky Month content I'll be doing this year, I'm pretty tapped out at the moment, but I have had this for a while (created by @sagamemes) and it's pretty spooky, so I figured I'd do it for the start of the spooky season \o/
Tagging @inafieldofdaisies, @turbo-virgins, @socially-awkward-skeleton, @direwombat, @adelaidedrubman, @florbelles, @cassietrn, @unholymilf, @strafethesesinners, @paganminiskirt, @henbased, @deputyash, @roofgeese, @fourlittleseedlings, @josephslittledeputy, @jillvalentinesday, @corvosattano and @voidika to do it too - ONLY if you want to <3
aesthetics for the entities.      bold what applies to your muse, italics what applies situationally or only in certain verses. rest of the fears here.  this is based on a horror podcast;  potentially triggering and / or upsetting content ahead!
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Deputy Morgan Malone (FC5 OC)
i.  THE BURIED.          weighted blankets.   drowning.   the comfort of a loved one’s weight. soil & sand piling on top of you. hugging so hard it hurts a little. cramped hiding spots.   letting out air underwater to sink to the bottom of the pool.   walls pressing in on you. not moving from a position even though you’re cramping a little.   dragging the last second before you have to inhale.   lonely subways.   feeling like one with the earth.   a layer of dirt on you.   looking for something below.  cardboard boxes & tiny pillow forts.   hands calloused from digging.  knowing that your purpose is just below the surface. entering your final resting place before it kills you.   a storm drowning you out.  dust & sand speaking to you.
ii.  THE CORRUPTION.          insects.  a close imitation of the natural course of life. an illness in a community. a rag that dirties more than it cleans.   an untreated wound.  containment.   breaching containment.   unbreathable air.   fungi.   one with that you love.   one with what loves you.   a corpse unfit for a glass case.  hearing a song in the sound of tiny wings & legs.  honeycomb patterns.   an ecosystem within a person.  a curse passed on.  the hubris of a scientist.  an ugly death where a glorious one is owed. blood on a handkerchief.  parasites.  something pushing up the sewer.  a mask to keep something out.   trypophobia.  knowing you belong.  death weeks after impact.  fever. food that’s gone off.   pandora’s box.   death behind a glass.
iii.  THE DARK. shadows. lights that turn off by themselves.   the feel of cold marble.   a beaked creature in the night. the difference between seeing darkness & seeing nothing. touch of something you can’t see.  hiding under a blanket.  white,  clouded eyes. months without going outside during sunlight. pouring dark. unscrewing lightbulbs. black matter. light sensitivity. a starless night.  time before light was created.   a shadow on the wall without a body to attach to.  withering plants.  a world without a sun.  footfalls in an empty house in the night.  a light that doesn’t reach as far as it should.  desperate reach for a flashlight.  clothes that hide your shape.   staying unperceivable.   winter months in the north.   an empty church.
iv.  THE DESOLATION. senseless pain.  warmth of faith. wax where skin should be.   a blazing fire.   heat without a source.   the third or fourth tragedy in the family. losing everything you’ve ever held dear. so much to live for,  gone so soon.  the smell of gasoline.   touch that scars. coffee cup that never goes cold. scorch marks on wood.  inescapably warm air.  a child born in fire.  death of a loved one.  a candle without a flame.  an altar in the middle of the woods.  animals with burnt fur.   plastic explosives. burning hot metal.  sweating in an interrogation room.  never touching a loved one. disfigurement. kiss that ruins you.  the scent of burning fat. a tattoo that terrifies its viewer.  the agony of hellfire displayed as art.  auburn hair.  little clothing in cold weather.  a ripple in the air.  trying to cool down in vain.
v.  THE FLESH. body horror.   factories.   a hunger for something more filling. never quite happy with how you look. the terror of an animal waiting for slaughter. a very good meal. the liquid of a perfect steak. fighting your worst survival instincts. a twisted bone.   long nights working out.   more than one heart.   appearance that shapes like clay.   a bag of bones.   bone broth in a pot.   knowing to fear pigs.   the butcher’s shop.   plastic surgery.  something alien inside your body. a hunger in the gaze laid upon you. unwitting cannibalism. forgetting what you used to look like. being admired for your appearance & appearance only.  teeth marks on skin. scars from wounds that should’ve killed you.   cooking in scarcity. fenced in with one way to go.
vi.  THE END.          the last page of a book.  nightmares that don’t feel like nightmares.   a skeletal hand.   the grip of the grim reaper around your throat.   existential pain.   ivory dice.  flatlining in a hospital.  gambling with death.  as old as the universe.  soul & spirit tied to an object.  a dream where you die. closing your eyes for the last time. the pleas of a dying one.  knowing the fate of someone you know & being unable to prevent it.   a thousand cords tugging you towards your end.  skin that’s freezing to the touch.   an act of desperation. someone’s life for yours. an eternity spent alive. the cost of your selfishness.  watching your own burial.   causing your own burial.  the smell of death.  numbness to fear.  words from someone gone. meaninglessness of the actions or lives of single people in the universe.  multiple near-death experiences you refuse to die from.
vii.  THE EYE.          googling something you shouldn’t have. eureka moments.  the unforgiving lens of a camera.   witness reports.   hidden libraries.   eyes of different colors.   feeling of being watched.  a death recorded in tape.   a tragedy you can’t look away from.   endangering yourself for knowledge.   truth.   analog records.   a symbol of an eye.   a watch tower.   compulsion to document.   turning on recording devices without thinking about it.   saving the evidence before the person. extracting information.   truth or dare,  without the dare.  a thirst for knowledge. books that speak to you.   coordinated shelves.   cataloguing systems.   voyeurism.   police report you can’t put down.  reasoning your way out.  smell of old papers.  books that read you back.
viii.  THE HUNT.          sharp canines.   sore calves after a run.   the scent of blood.   an adventure for the journey’s sake.   the adrenaline right before the kill.   a whistle’s echo.   the woods.   the doe eyes of a prey animal.  your own breath in the air.  sharpened claws.   being tracked.   fear of someone knowing your every movement.   hunting down monsters.   hide & seek.   running away only to end up where you started.   staying alive purely because the enemy enjoys seeing you run.   a set of footsteps behind you.   blood dripping from bare hands.   barks & growls.   focused eyes.   a victim going limp under your hands.   a mouth full of fresh blood.   catching the scent of something monstrous.   perfecting your craft.   peering into the dark & running after it.
ix.  THE LONELY.          an apartment too small for a double bed.   completely vacant streets.   waking up to see everyone gone.  fog.  point nemo.  a house too big to hear your family members in.  alone in a faceless crowd.  a mask with nothing behind it.  separated cubicles.  a deafening silence where joy should be.  a blinding spotlight.  the least missed in your friend group.  streets without lights in the windows.  isolation.  not truly knowing your friends.   your friends not truly knowing you.  need for silence.  fear of crowds.  staring into space knowing nothing is looking back at you.  a ship alone at sea.  depression.  knowing your friends are better off without you.  talking to someone only to realise they’re gone.  a family too large to notice you there.  safety in being alone.
x.  THE SLAUGHTER          a game of tag.   senseless violence.   a true crime hobby.   improvised weapons.   blinding rage.   intent to kill.   a horrific day in a quiet community.   a medal of bravery.  holding on to what validates your anger.   history books that spare no details.   an injury you want revenge for.   war.   counting kills.   songs of soldiers.   a knifeblock on the counter.   a pool of blood.   shellshock.   unspeakable horrors.   anger pushing you forward.   unimaginable pain.   not seeing who will hurt you but knowing the pain is coming.   a fully human monster.   an authority sending its lessers to their deaths.   kill or be killed.   unedited wartime memoirs.   a weapons collection.   not knowing the names of who you kill.   too many to remember.   loss of hope.   there’s no heroes in war.
xi.  THE SPIRAL          sleep deprivation.   corridors you can get lost in.   maze puzzles that loop back on themselves.   losing possessions.   losing people.   losing your sanity.   corkscew curls.   rows of funhouse mirrors.   optical illusions.   a separate reality.   walking through the wrong door.   delusions.   not knowing what your hands are doing.   blank spaces in documents.   hallucinations.   wrong proportions.   a nameless thing.   a place that has never existed.   doubting your own mind.   blind faith.   losing track of names,  labels,  categories.   distorted sound.   an imperfection in a glass that twists the view.   loss of time.   a garish colour.   doors that open to nowhere.   lies.   an unnatural laugh.   jokes & tricks.   illusions.   a doorway.   a sculptor with a wild imagination.   limbs in impossible angles.   doing what’s fun,  not what’s sensible.   fractals you can get lost in.
xii.  THE STRANGER          wax figures.   a close approximation of a human face.   a borrowed appearance.   a strange smell.   glass eyes.   furs & pelts.   a dance.   a song of a choir.   the uncanny valley.   stitching yourself together.   the colours of a circus.   a puppet with no strings.   mannequins.   glitter & sequin.   a stranger you’ve always known.   someone strange in the place of someone you knew.   stolen identities.   stolen skins.   a machine imitating humanity.   the anonymity of a service worker.   hiding in plain sight.   uncomfortable to look at.   a faked accent.   concealing.   forgetting who you are.   forgetting who others are.   a replacement no one notices.   images that look posed.   the only one seeing the false face of someone.
xiii.  THE VAST.          open spaces.   carnival rides going up & down.   fear of heights.   endless infinity around you.   your insignificance in an universe.   stomach turning at a drop.   fear of not the crash down but the moment you slip.   the sway of a cable car.   an adventure holiday.   losing track of where the surface is.   miles & miles of nothing around you.   staring at the sky & feeling like you may fall into it.   loss of control.   a fall that doesn’t end in death.   glass floor to the view below.   terminal velocity.   the sound of wind in your ears.   a reach over the railing.   a jump from the top of the building.   falling into nothing.   feeling your feet let go of the ground.   a leap of faith.   motion sickness.
xiv.  THE WEB.          undecipherable code.   a puppeteer holding the strings.   power over the weak—willed.    strings of fate.   manipulation.   an arranged accident.   a hundred minions doing your bidding.   cobwebs.   spiders.   a laid trap.   never voicing discomfort.   outwitting a cheater.   doing things without realising it.   red string across a corkboard.   finding something lost where you were sure you checked.   power over the unrealiability of chance.   watching others dance for you.   an entangled death.   a thousand tiny legs & fangs.   shady forum threads.   something important gone missing.   suspiciously disregarded case.   a missing witness.   connections.   the world wide web.   power of victimhood.   gullibility.   no control over your own decisions.   an invisible leash.   mass psychology.   a horror film in the making.   scapegoat.   never remembering to ask for a name.
+  THE EXTINCTION.          the end of an era.   apocalypse movies.   the alarms of warning systems.   a desolate landscape.   end of the world cults.   nihilism.   the last written history.   a changed world.   no survivours.   old prophecies.   a thousand predicted ends.   a new chapter.   an end with no escape.   catastrophes.   a calendar counting down.   breaking point.   overindulgence.
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fanficgirly18 · 6 months
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Jason the Toymaker x Female Chubby Reader| Part 1
___________
You are laying on a stiff mattress. Your head was pressed on a fluffy pillow. You were looking up at a blank ceiling. You shifted, causing flakes of something to fall to your lap. White flakes and you smelled something familiar to candles. Then you saw. Your hands were coated in wax down to your wrists.
You couldn't move your fingers. You tried to break your hands free but it was creatively constraining your wrists. Maybe it took you a while to give up getting rid of them or maybe you decided to quit wasting time, focus on that later and figure out what was going on.
You fully forced yourself to sit up. You could now see the red laced sheets of this bed. You were in a dress that looked like a doll's outfit and it was your favorite color but it was itchy against your skin and tight on your hips. Clothes always felt sorta tight but not this tight. 
Your eyes trailed down to the laced socks to your feet and then to the figure across the room. 
A tall figure. 
A man in a hat stood on the darker end of the room. 
"My doll!"
He gave a grin. 
"My precious doll is awake!" he said.
It took you a moment to realize he was talking about you. Doll? Well, you did have a doll dress on. You looked down at yourself and then back at him. 
He was wearing a fluffy collared shirt and a hat with white buckles. Your theory of him being a man was questioned since you noticed his arms were smeared in black with black veins, he had the sharpest nails, and he had razor sharp smile.
His green eyes were glowing. 
Then you saw the bodies. Right by his boots. Cut up, with the work of a saw and coated in wax. Female body parts. Even a few heads that had lifeless eyes. 
Maybe you screamed in terror or maybe you felt frozen in fear. 
"What?" said the humanoid, seeming generally confused, but then his eyes looked down to the corpses and he gave a look of disdain, "Oh, those girls."
The way he scoffed at dead people right before him was so surreal. 
"All of these other girls were skinny barbies," he continued, "You can get barbies anywhere. In stores, a show, books. They were so unoriginal. But you. You're no barbie. You're bigger, curvier. Exotic."
He stepped over the bodies and towards your bed. You tried to stand up to run but he was already before you and gave you a gently push back onto the mattress. 
"However I will admit, Mr. Glutton should of cleaned up their bodies," he said with a guilty smile, "But you don't mind do you?"
You couldn't speak. 
The vision of the seeping blood stuck to the wax, dismantled arms, legs. The humanoid's now looming figure brought you back to the present again.
"You don't mind do you?," he repeated again but this time his tone was coated with twice more venom. His smile was gone.
You felt like a deer in headlights. 
"YOU DON'T MIND DO YOU!?"
You tried not to scream as he suddenly lunged forward, shoving you flat on the mattress and trapping you underneath his arms. 
"ANSWER ME, YOU USELESS TOY!"
It was amazing he didn't spit on you once. 
"You-"
He grabbed ahold of your face, with his sharp nails, lifting your chin, forcing you to look right at him. 
"ARE YOU BROKEN? YOU DO KNOW, BROKEN TOYS GET THROWN AWAY-"
Maybe you screamed 'YES' to answer his previous question, your lips quivering wanting to say more- to get him to stop. Or maybe you whispered a soft 'yes' as an answer unable to speak any louder. 
He glared at you still. 
He causally released you causing the back of your head to collide and slam into the top bed frame. You saw spots and stars. Pain crept into your skull. 
Maybe you let out a loud sob, tears escaping your now watery eyes. Or maybe you were silent, taking in the pain, a absolute fury building within you. 
He was still over you. The rage in his eyes died down and was replaced with complete sympathy. He reached over, causing you to instantly flinch. You couldn't avoid him and his fingers caressed your cheek. 
It was a comforting touch but you couldn't make the throbbing in the back of your head go away. 
"Why did you make me do that?" he whispered, "You could of just answered me, you know."
His eyes gave you a half angry half pitying look and then they moved down to your figure. A smile came over his face. It was an almost sweet look but you could catch his lecherous aura.
You felt his fabric fingers touch the side of your thigh and move across in a circle against the jiggling skin. He leaned close and his cold lips brushed against your own. He clutched your leg and moved his face down to your neck. His sharp teeth nearly pierced the skin but he did it so delicately that you only felt their sharp edges. He angled his head back so he was face to face with you and managed to force his tongue in between your tightly closed lips. 
His tongue pushed and prodded against yours until yours felt too numb to feel. You could still see the dead girls in the corner of your eye, as the one responsible for their murder pressed against you.
You slowly lost consciousness. 
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inafieldofdaisies · 6 months
Text
OCs as aesthetics for the entities | Tagged by @deputy-morgan-malone and @corvosattano
Instead of doing every category for multiple OCs, I decided to focus on dividing them between OCs, so you can get some lore/story hints on each one (Sabrina, Mercedes, Calahan and Leslie) without the post becoming miles long. :D
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i. THE BURIED. weighted blankets. drowning. the comfort of a loved one’s weight. soil & sand piling on top of you. hugging so hard it hurts a little. cramped hiding spots. letting out air underwater to sink to the bottom of the pool. walls pressing in on you. not moving from a position even though you’re cramping a little. dragging the last second before you have to inhale. lonely subways. feeling like one with the earth. a layer of dirt on you. looking for something below. cardboard boxes & tiny pillow forts. hands calloused from digging. knowing that your purpose is just below the surface. entering your final resting place before it kills you. a storm drowning you out. dust & sand speaking to you.
ii. THE CORRUPTION. insects. a close imitation of the natural course of life. an illness in a community. a rag that dirties more than it cleans. an untreated wound. containment. breaching containment. unbreathable air. fungi. one with that you love. one with what loves you. a corpse unfit for a glass case. hearing a song in the sound of tiny wings & legs. honeycomb patterns. an ecosystem within a person. a curse passed on. the hubris of a scientist. an ugly death where a glorious one is owed. blood on a handkerchief. parasites. something pushing up the sewer. a mask to keep something out. trypophobia. knowing you belong. death weeks after impact. fever. food that’s gone off. pandora’s box. death behind a glass.
iii. THE DARK. shadows. lights that turn off by themselves. the feel of cold marble. a beaked creature in the night. the difference between seeing darkness & seeing nothing. touch of something you can’t see. hiding under a blanket. white, clouded eyes. months without going outside during sunlight. pouring dark. unscrewing lightbulbs. black matter. light sensitivity. a starless night. time before light was created. a shadow on the wall without a body to attach to. withering plants. a world without a sun. footfalls in an empty house in the night. a light that doesn’t reach as far as it should. desperate reach for a flashlight. clothes that hide your shape. staying unperceivable. winter months in the north. an empty church.
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iv. THE DESOLATION. senseless pain. warmth of faith. wax where skin should be. a blazing fire. heat without a source. the third or fourth tragedy in the family. losing everything you’ve ever held dear. so much to live for, gone so soon. the smell of gasoline. touch that scars. coffee cup that never goes cold. scorch marks on wood. inescapably warm air. a child born in fire. death of a loved one. a candle without a flame. an altar in the middle of the woods. animals with burnt fur. plastic explosives. burning hot metal. sweating in an interrogation room. never touching a loved one. disfigurement. kiss that ruins you. the scent of burning fat. a tattoo that terrifies its viewer. the agony of hellfire displayed as art. auburn hair. little clothing in cold weather. a ripple in the air. trying to cool down in vain.
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v. THE FLESH. body horror. factories. a hunger for something more filling. never quite happy with how you look. the terror of an animal waiting for slaughter. a very good meal. the liquid of a perfect steak. fighting your worst survival instincts. a twisted bone. long nights working out. more than one heart. appearance that shapes like clay. a bag of bones. bone broth in a pot. knowing to fear pigs. the butcher’s shop. plastic surgery. something alien inside your body. a hunger in the gaze laid upon you. unwitting cannibalism. forgetting what you used to look like. being admired for your appearance & appearance only. teeth marks on skin. scars from wounds that should’ve killed you. cooking in scarcity. fenced in with one way to go.
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vi. THE END. the last page of a book. nightmares that don’t feel like nightmares. a skeletal hand. the grip of the grim reaper around your throat. existential pain. ivory dice. flatlining in a hospital. gambling with death. as old as the universe. soul & spirit tied to an object. a dream where you die. closing your eyes for the last time. the pleas of a dying one. knowing the fate of someone you know & being unable to prevent it. a thousand cords tugging you towards your end. skin that’s freezing to the touch. an act of desperation. someone’s life for yours. an eternity spent alive. the cost of your selfishness. watching your own burial. causing your own burial. the smell of death. numbness to fear. words from someone gone. meaninglessness of the actions or lives of single people in the universe. multiple near-death experiences you refuse to die from.
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vii. THE EYE. googling something you shouldn’t have. eureka moments. the unforgiving lens of a camera. witness reports. hidden libraries. eyes of different colors. feeling of being watched. a death recorded in tape. a tragedy you can’t look away from. endangering yourself for knowledge. truth. analog records. a symbol of an eye. a watch tower. compulsion to document. turning on recording devices without thinking about it. saving the evidence before the person. extracting information. truth or dare, without the dare. a thirst for knowledge. books that speak to you. coordinated shelves. cataloguing systems. voyeurism. police report you can’t put down. reasoning your way out. smell of old papers. books that read you back.
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viii. THE HUNT. sharp canines. sore calves after a run. the scent of blood. an adventure for the journey’s sake. the adrenaline right before the kill. a whistle’s echo. the woods. the doe eyes of a prey animal. your own breath in the air. sharpened claws. being tracked. fear of someone knowing your every movement. hunting down monsters. hide & seek. running away only to end up where you started. staying alive purely because the enemy enjoys seeing you run. a set of footsteps behind you. blood dripping from bare hands. barks & growls. focused eyes. a victim going limp under your hands. a mouth full of fresh blood. catching the scent of something monstrous. perfecting your craft. peering into the dark & running after it.
ix. THE LONELY. an apartment too small for a double bed. completely vacant streets. waking up to see everyone gone. fog. point nemo. a house too big to hear your family members in. alone in a faceless crowd. a mask with nothing behind it. separated cubicles. a deafening silence where joy should be. a blinding spotlight. the least missed in your friend group. streets without lights in the windows. isolation. not truly knowing your friends. your friends not truly knowing you. need for silence. fear of crowds. staring into space knowing nothing is looking back at you. a ship alone at sea. depression. knowing your friends are better off without you. talking to someone only to realise they’re gone. a family too large to notice you there. safety in being alone.
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x. THE SLAUGHTER. a game of tag. senseless violence. a true crime hobby. improvised weapons. blinding rage. intent to kill. a horrific day in a quiet community. a medal of bravery. holding on to what validates your anger. history books that spare no details. an injury you want revenge for. war. counting kills. songs of soldiers. a knifeblock on the counter. a pool of blood. shellshock. unspeakable horrors. anger pushing you forward. unimaginable pain. not seeing who will hurt you but knowing the pain is coming. a fully human monster. an authority sending its lessers to their deaths. kill or be killed. unedited wartime memoirs. a weapons collection. not knowing the names of who you kill. too many to remember. loss of hope. there’s no heroes in war.
xi. THE SPIRAL. sleep deprivation. corridors you can get lost in. maze puzzles that loop back on themselves. losing possessions. losing people. losing your sanity. corkscew curls. rows of funhouse mirrors. optical illusions. a separate reality. walking through the wrong door. delusions. not knowing what your hands are doing. blank spaces in documents. hallucinations. wrong proportions. a nameless thing. a place that has never existed. doubting your own mind. blind faith. losing track of names, labels, categories. distorted sound. an imperfection in a glass that twists the view. loss of time. a garish colour. doors that open to nowhere. lies. an unnatural laugh. jokes & tricks. illusions. a doorway. a sculptor with a wild imagination. limbs in impossible angles. doing what’s fun, not what’s sensible. fractals you can get lost in.
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xii. THE STRANGER. wax figures. a close approximation of a human face. a borrowed appearance. a strange smell. glass eyes. furs & pelts. a dance. a song of a choir. the uncanny valley. stitching yourself together. the colours of a circus. a puppet with no strings. mannequins. glitter & sequin. a stranger you’ve always known. someone strange in the place of someone you knew. stolen identities. stolen skins. a machine imitating humanity. the anonymity of a service worker. hiding in plain sight. uncomfortable to look at. a faked accent. concealing. forgetting who you are. forgetting who others are. a replacement no one notices. images that look posed. the only one seeing the false face of someone.
xiii. THE VAST. open spaces. carnival rides going up & down. fear of heights. endless infinity around you. your insignificance in an universe. stomach turning at a drop. fear of not the crash down but the moment you slip. the sway of a cable car. an adventure holiday. losing track of where the surface is. miles & miles of nothing around you. staring at the sky & feeling like you may fall into it. loss of control. a fall that doesn’t end in death. glass floor to the view below. terminal velocity. the sound of wind in your ears. a reach over the railing. a jump from the top of the building. falling into nothing. feeling your feet let go of the ground. a leap of faith. motion sickness.
xiv. THE WEB. undecipherable code. a puppeteer holding the strings. power over the weak—willed. strings of fate. manipulation. an arranged accident. a hundred minions doing your bidding. cobwebs. spiders. a laid trap. never voicing discomfort. outwitting a cheater. doing things without realising it. red string across a corkboard. finding something lost where you were sure you checked. power over the unrealiability of chance. watching others dance for you. an entangled death. a thousand tiny legs & fangs. shady forum threads. something important gone missing. suspiciously disregarded case. a missing witness. connections. the world wide web. power of victimhood. gullibility. no control over your own decisions. an invisible leash. mass psychology. a horror film in the making. scapegoat. never remembering to ask for a name.
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+ THE EXTINCTION. the end of an era. apocalypse movies. the alarms of warning systems. a desolate landscape. end of the world cults. nihilism. the last written history. a changed world. no survivours. old prophecies. a thousand predicted ends. a new chapter. an end with no escape. catastrophes. a calendar counting down. breaking point. overindulgence.
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Tagging, @socially-awkward-skeleton @direwombat @cassietrn @madparadoxum @dumbassdep @adelaidedrubman @strangefable @florbelles @aceghosts @wrathfulrook @clicheantagonist @josephslittledeputy @josephseedismyfather @trench-rot @thesingularityseries @simplegenius042 @voidika @theelderhazelnut @poisonedtruth @jillvalentinesday @shegetsburned @sstewyhosseini and anyone that would like to do the tag <3
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goth-iqqa · 1 year
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BLAME THE ROSES
Prologue— Death To The Green Queen
18+ MDI
Life can only be paid with death. After the demise of Princess Alysanne, a cursed couple brings forth a new life across the Narrow Sea, unbeknownst to the war approaching.
Daemon × Fem!reader, Aegon II × reader
Warnings: angst, cheating, smut, neglect, violence, death/gore. mentions of suicide. kidnapping. dub con, non con, (Targ)incest, pregnancy, miscarriage.
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AFTER IT ALL HAPPENED, Alysanne Targaryen declared an apology to the ashes of the fallen soldiers. On both sides, the black roots and the green stems of the bloodied garden her once home turned. There was nothing left, the lords had whispered, nothing but war in the wake of her husband’s name. Thorns of gore that would pierce into cadavers and shells of empty lives and unnamed graves.
“Prince Aegon The Younger must be crowned.”
It was not a tragedy when King Aegon was found, deathly still, and sweet Arbor red on his lips. His skin was strangely yellow, swelling and decaying under the delicate touch of his beloved wife. Alysanne, the Saddened Queen, cried and called for The Stranger, pleading a moment for a woman and a dying lover.
There had been quietness, maesters often said to their pupils. The room was made up of only a pitiful queen, a grasping king, and the claws of a growing shadow tempting the soul from its twisted body. At exactly midnight, when the Dire Wolves in Winterfell howled and the giant cats of striped colors roared, and the grounds of the castle shook, it was confirmed King Aegon II had made touch with death and what lurked beneath the veil.
By morning the candles had blazed to mere specs of wax, yet Queen Alysanne remained unburnt. When the sun peeked through the windows and the empty body of the late King began to blister, she remained. Hand in hand, she cried, mourned like the deaths before of all her line, innocent and guilty alike. Seven nights and seven risings did she stay, the books and medical servant knew the dating was far from precise, Alysanne rose from her bruised knees, and along she took the last touch of the usurper king.
While servants whispered of the things that happened during the secret decay of the king, it was only true that bare parts could be used for a proper burial. The Queen had not truly cried for his death, nor had she turned to black magic to keep her lover alive and hidden in her chambers, or the constant presence of a certain yellow tint of the Manmo Island princess. It was foolery. In truth, as Maesters came to know, after the beheading of the Grand Maester, King Aegon’s body decomposed and exploded in a series of fluids and flesh, finally fusing into the mattress they had burned, all while his wife watched.
A death, unpeaceful and macabre, worthy of the man Aegon II Targaryen was at the end.
When the news of the king’s passing spread, ships of high houses and low-borns of the city all stormed the gates of King’s Landing, bending the knee and hailing their new King. Alysanne, a widow, was not to be seen for another seven nights, her chambers remained empty and untouched, and her dragon no longer roared and shook the sky with his wings. She was a walking corpse, hiding in the shadows, expecting her punishment when a raven from Winterfell arrived at her window.
“Do not ill yourself with sorrow. I was pardoned from death,”
The golden piece of a horse was moved across the checkerboard, just like it had in real life with dragons and ships, outside the room now meant to imprison one of the former queens. Alysanne, dressed in green, like the title had once again sowed and the green stone tethered to her finger with the voice of her husband’s last wishes, sat across Alicent Hightower, somber features of tiredness glinted across her eyes and her mouth continued to move. “I was not pardoned from punishment, however. I am to return to Manmo, and face the consequences of my past actions.”
“As Y/N Endo or Princess Alysanne?”
It was often that their relationship was mistaken. Had the first season come, cool and colorful with blooms in the garden King Viserys sent to be made for her, both widowed queens found themselves under the weak streams of light. Cordial and pacific as they played a humble game of chess, learned by the glued words of their fathers. When the unbearable heat came, and all the summer colors adorned the streets as they did in Dornish lands, they enjoyed a cool tea prepared by the shaky hands of servants, and they spoke, cruelly to each other, of their husbands and their poor jobs as wives to satisfy them.
When the leaves of the giant trees fell, and their sons trained with sand dummies, they did not speak to each other. Servants assumed they fought again, their screams and shouts shushed by the pit-and-patter of soothing rain. Only to be lulled away when the cold wind came and their dresses exploded with rows of skirts for the short-lived winter. They ate and laughed together, dressed in the same shade, for a day, when the lords of their husbands’ council met.
A black root and a green stem, united by the complicated world painted by the men who cared for nothing but titles and wealth.
“Will they…kill you?”
“I am sure of it.”
A white knight moved this time. “They cannot harm the aunt of the King—a queen, you were a queen. They cannot, they cannot do this, they cannot kill you. You must speak to Lord Cregan, you cannot leave.”
Alicent’s face had grown mournful through the years, witnessing death after death of the children she squeezed out of duty, caged in the castle like a simple servant of no name. But now, even after all the slaughter the color green brought, her eyes brimmed red and the whites glossed with tears for a girl she’d grown to like in her days of confinement. The only face that held a smile when she stepped forward, brushing servants off, and keeping the ailing widow company.
“We are cursed. The moment we were born,”
A black knight neared close to the white queen.
“We were granted suffering and despair. Arranged to be bred like cattle for a title that will not follow after death. I was happy, for a few moments at least. I was given a life that veiled the bad with the sweet scent of roses.”
Alicent smiled, for the first time. “Red roses have always been your favorite. Even when you hurt yourself with the thorns, you called them beautiful.”
“I have to thank you, Alicent. It was because of you—everything you have done under another’s tame—that I am here. All the bad things that happened, all the deaths a simple crown and a throne of swords have caused. Everything has led me to this point, my own punishment, in a way.”
When the black queen moved toward the cornered white king, Alicent shivered as she knew she lost. “Your punishment? Was betraying your husband not enough?”
“I loved the man you birthed, not the king he became. He made me bloom, even when I thought I’d died. When a smile never came, he made me laugh like no other. Even when he drank past his limits and crawled with apologies, and fell in love with princess Alysanne instead of Y/N, I kept my promise till his last breath.”
Alysanne removed the ring from her finger. The Green Jewel of the Sad Queen, maesters would come to name it, was given to the new mother as a present for the pair of healthy heirs. It was now soiled, tainted by the rusty smell of blood that soaked into the creases of her hands.
It was a reminder. Nobody but her and the dead uncle she once loved knew of the painful ropes that tightened around Y/N Endo’s neck, only to be shielded by the golden rows of pearls that decorated princess Alysanne's own. The voice of the woman she once knew, dancing in her head, trapped like a curse meant to claim the lives of the ones she loved. She would break the chains, once and for all.
“I’ve died nine times. Princess Alysanne died many years ago. Y/N Endo was killed by the people she loved. Now, my final death has come, at last.” She pushed the ring into the waiting hand of the eldest, “I am not allowed to see my daughter before my leave. She will come to see you, I’m sure of it. When she does, give it to her. She must know I will always love her. She must, Alicent.”
Alicent nodded with a silent promise.
After a checkmate, princess Alysanne exposed her left arm, yellow and swelling. Alicent gasped, she rose from her seat and jerked away from her dying stepdaughter.
“I won’t let any of them have my glory.”
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evolutionsvoid · 4 months
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The precious golden miren that is produced by the eintykara is prized by many in this land. Since these insects create this wondrous substance from a mixture of gathered flesh and fluid, it is claimed that it is the closest thing to Ichor that mortals can make. Their constant chewing, digesting and regurgitating allows this miren to be created, and it is stored in vast hives. These huge colonies also produce a variation of corpse wax, born from the bodies they collect and process. With these insects producing two valuable substances, their hives are treasured and fiercely guarded. The Church of Divine Wealth has wings of churches and temples devoted to their own eintykara hive, where bodies of the holy and faithful are offered to be turned into these sacred products. Most of what comes from these official hives are reserved for the church, with the miren being used in making ambrosia, anointing followers, feeding the divine and cleansing bezoars. The corpse wax is used for candles, seals, tablets and paintings. What remains in the church is spread to other sacred sites that don't have their own hives, while the small portion remaining is "gifted" to wealthy patrons. With this, few who are not affiliated or bound to the church can get this valuable substance, despite demand being high. This has led to a slew of personal hive keepers and miren producers, some more legitimate than others, who have rushed to churn out their own product to make easy profit. Some make real miren and corpse wax, while others shill gold colored goop to desperate buyers. Many of these profiteers would be crushed by the church, or have their hives absorbed, but some still persist, even as the world falls to ruin. The most infamous of these profiteers, and the most feared, are the Grave Harvesters.  
No doubt this unsavory group began with the intent of making profit off of their own miren and corpse wax, with some theories suggesting they were a people who had been denied this wondrous substance by the Church of Divine Wealth. Their diminutive size amongst all members has led folk to think they are all of the same race or of the same people, rather than a hodge podge of disgruntled strangers. A woven tale of their origin guesses that they were an outsider settlement of short beings, who had asked the church for miraculous miren during a plague to save their sick. Be it their short stature, their non-affiliation to the church, or just plain greed, the church refused to give a drop and left them to suffer. To save their own skin, these people cobbled together their own crude miren for a cure, a type so far from the golden touch of blessed church miren, that some suggest their consumption of it tainted their very souls. Be it corruption from poorly made miren or straight up hatred for those who abandoned them, Grave Harvesters now build and maintain their own illegal hives, in the nastiest ways possible. Like bandits, they set up their operations in caves, abandoned towns and other out of the way places, where their bloody nests can fester and grow. To keep themselves hidden from the church and wretched do gooders, the Grave Harvesters have bred a type of eintykara that does not fly out to gather their own resources, as one of these insects could lead guardsmen right back to the hive. These eintykara are bulky, swollen and flightless, their tiny wings more for temperature control than flight. They spend their lives churning out miren and corpse wax, in horrid half formed hives. The Grave Harvesters themselves are the ones who go out to fetch the resources these colonies need, and they do so ruthlessly. 
While the church gets their corpses and fluids from followers and holy figures offering their own flesh, the Grave Harvesters don't care about volunteers and get it from wherever they can. As their name suggests, most of their material comes from them robbing graves and catacombs, stealing away the bodies of those who wish to return to the earth and be reborn. Their activity alone has increased the desire for guarded catacombs and the ceremonial melting of the deceased, to ensure their remains are returned and aren't being dumped into an illegal eintykara hive. Of course this has just led to them becoming more bold and armed in their efforts, with some instances of them intercepting bodies on the way to burial. After a major battle has ended, Grave Harvesters are neck and neck with the vultures in showing up for the dead. However, unlike these holy birds, the Harvesters are not returning them to the cycle and also don't care about hauling away those still moving. 
Confronting these small thieves is almost inevitable when trying to keep them away from deceased loved ones, but fighting them is no easy task. They are armored and armed, always ready to fight and willing to make their own corpses to add to the hive. They carry weaponry of stingers and horrible barbs, as well as tools dipped in their bloody miren. Due to the nature of their eintykara churning out this stuff as fast as possible, it is half-digested and not properly formed, often with fluids still potent and corpse pieces strewn within. It comes out bloody, thus leading to their version being called "red miren." It has weaker properties of divine golden miren, and is said to have a burn to it when consumed. Those who partake in it say it is not a pleasant process, but it does appear to burn away a fair share of maladies and parasites, as well as giving a boost to the sick (at a much cheaper price too). However, many claim it is a corrupt substances, and those who eat too much wind up gaining a savage, bloodthirsty side to them, craving more and lashing out at those who get in their way. Some warriors use this to their advantage, partaking red miren right before a battle, to put them into a berserker rage, this corrupt substance lighting a fire in their soul. The red miren they anoint their weapons in appears to be heavily concentrated and highly accursed, said to be instilled with the suffering and anguish of souls who are being denied rebirth. The bite of this vile red miren is compared to a burning rot, eating through flesh and causing a ton of agony the whole time. For those who try to break up their illegal hives, they will be faced with Grave Harvesters using chunks of hive as weapons. Steeped in horror, these fragments spew burning red miren and seem to unleash strange accursed wraiths that hunt down foes. It is believed that these wraiths and screaming spells are the remains of those stolen from their graves, desperately trying to return to rebirth by infesting and killing the bodies of others. 
Grave Harvesters also don't fight alone, as some individuals have formed bonds with gargoyle wasps. These wasps are typically protectors of the hives, cleaning out parasites and intruders that the sluggish eintykara cannot handle. Sometimes, these wasps will accompany the Harvesters when they are on the hunt, using them to pick off opponents or distract them. The venom from these wasps is a powerful paralytic, freezing the muscles and reducing people to rigid statues of flesh. This is the fate of many guards who protect catacombs, rendered useless so this wretched band of looters can rush in and plunder it. If battle breaks out, these wasps will seek to use their venom on foes as well, leading to a horrible fate. When the living are frozen and cannot move, they are much like a corpse, and the Grave Harvesters will use any flesh for their hives. Who knows how many bodies in their precious hives weren't corpses when the eintykara started chewing on them?
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Weird little beekeepers! I love em!   
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hellboundwrites · 7 months
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Can we have more info on the yearly ritual you mentioned in the Halloween post?
Of course ! Keep in mind that I'm going to improvise a bit for this one though ;)
TW : mentions of death and grieving
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The Halloween ritual is not mandatory, or else the presence of every ghoul would be demanded.
Since the Clergy has Papa IV at its head, traditions have been a bit swept under the rug. Copia only cares about having fun, and the Clergy doesn't mind opening the church to new events. Old traditions, like the Halloween ritual, don't actually promote the Clergy. They're only destined to a close audience of members and are quite secretive. Therefore, they aren't an effective way to welcome new believers in the ranks.
The ritual being only one of many, it doesn't have to be lead by the Papa, who only directs the major events of the year - much to Copia's relief. He delegates to another, lower representative. Years ago, when he was still a Cardinal, the Halloween rituals were his responsibility, therefore he considers that he has done enough. If you ask Imperator about her son's lack of interest in traditions, she'll tell you that Terzo started it, and well, she's not entirely wrong. Terzo still had his old-fuck of a father and his devoted ghouls to keep him in line, though.
Anyways, the most faithful members of the Clergy, like older ghouls and Siblings of Sin, choose this ritual over what they consider is a futile celebration. Dressing up for Halloween might be a good public stunt to preach the Infernal Gospel, but it doesn't serve a religious purpose and doesn't honor the Lord in respectful ways.
It is believed that it is during Halloween that the walls between realms are the thinnest. But that is not entirely true. It actually extends to the entire day of November 1st to the following night on November 2nd, when the ritual ends. November 2nd is the Day of the Dead in many cultures, and the day during which a lot of people around the world pray, mourn and celebrate the deceased. What better opportunity to recharge your magic ? The high members of the Clergy, the ghouls and everyone who's able to manipulate magic will feed off this solemn and sometimes negative energy. So much pain, some much grief, so many voices calling for a God that won't respond...
In some cases, they find souls wondering the earth. Ghosts, spirits, entities that have escaped the attention of the Lord. Like magnets, they are attracted by the whirlwind of energy that floats above the abbey. They wander here by themselves, never knowing what awaits for them : eternal damnation. Some ghouls, because they have a foot in both realms, are expected to be here to catch these creatures and send them where they belong in Hell.
From the night of Halloween to the night of November 2nd, the chapel stays lit and open, with hundreds of candles decorating the walls and illuminating the dark stained glasses.
The priest or cardinal in charge will conduct a mass in the morning. You are free to come and go whenever you please during these two days, light a candle, say a prayer. But the most devoted members of the Clergy will eat, sleep and pray at the chapel without ever leaving, guarding it and welcoming others. Some are in charge of cleaning off the wax, replacing the unholy water, offering meals and warm clothes...
It is at most, a quiet and peaceful event, in opposition to some more gore or explicit rituals they're used to do. Most people find it quite boring. But some will visit for the warmth and the feeling of belonging that being around so many other believers can offer. Some others, like Omega, by duty. Alpha for example, will stay the entire ritual, both to regenerate his elements and show gratitude to the Lord.
On November 2nd, just before midnight, they'll roll Nihil's old-fuck corpse at the altar and pray for him while he watches. Unfortunately for everyone, the ritual also makes his ghost stronger and more attached to the abbey.
Of course, that's when you can find the least amount of people in the chapel.
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I'll write more about my headcanons for rituals and other religious acts in future projects. Hope that my poor english wasn't too bad here.
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