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secret-engima · 3 years

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In your LC Birbs verse, what would have happened if Ardyn had found Ozpin before Ramuh had intervened?

hgfgf forgive how long I’ve been perching on this ask but it’s just- has many possible answers and so I was hoarding it a little. Also I shall proceed to meet timeline for the sake of Prompto’s existence, just be aware XD.

-If Ardyn had found Ozpin before Ramuh had, he would have likely been in denial at first. He would have likely just been skulking around during a bout of restlessness, since as the Accursed sleep isn’t really an option very often, and found this isolated clone tank. Because the clone in that tank is dark skinned, at first he wouldn’t even have suspected the child was his. But then Ozpin, dimly sensing magic outside his tank and desperate to be free of this constant sedated haze, reaches out and Ardyn.

-Freezes.

-He knows that magic.

-He presses close to the tank, hands rising up to shakily touch the cold glass as the little one inside (probably only about half a year old in this AU? If that) stirs faintly. Gold eyes fight open to half-lidded cracks, and little fingers struggle through the haze of sedation to reach for Ardyn on an almost subconscious need-help-please-please. Ardyn feels his breath stutter as he looks at those gold, gold eyes and feels magic that burns slightly at his Scourge in a mix of LC-Oracle-Ardyn-Aera and feels the pieces collide.

-He yanks himself away from the tank and stalks away. It can’t be. It can’t be. The Scourge is toying with his mind again, making him see things, feel things.

-He mentally slaps at the magic that desperately reaches for him, and tells himself he feels no regret when it turns from hopeful-pleading to terrified and shrinks away.

-Ardyn tells himself he was imagining things for a month. Maybe two. Maybe far more than that, time is so hard for him to grasp. He tries to forget. But he can’t. He obsesses. The sight of the child in the tank haunts him whenever his eyelids shut, burns at him whenever he visits the lab after and catches a flicker of magic before it vanishes again.

-Finally, the need to know is too great. He returns and breaks into Besithia’s private office. He sorts through the papers about the MT project with growing frustration, yanks open locked drawers with raw strength of the desperate and paws through files of words that make little sense until he finds it.

-Project: Remnant stares back at him, a collection of photos of the tank child, of reports of various infant experiments that he cannot fully understand but sound like they would hurt (for doesn’t even the mildest strike of electricity hurt no matter how ultimately harmless it is?) and ... his origins. A project to clone the Accursed (to clone ARDYN) and while he doesn’t understand all the fancy words and self boasting littered in the reports, he understands the gist. That the initial clones all failed, daemonified within days. That Besithia had to eventually combine two extra strands of DNA in order to stabilize the child now in the tank. One of those strands was just a placeholder, a sample he had on hand that is at fault for the subject’s dark skin. The other strand-

-Tombs of the Oracles. The First Oracle.

-Aera.

-Aera-Aera-her-child-his-child-AERA’SCHILD

-Things get hazy. He remembers standing in Besithia’s quarters while the man writhed and screamed and paid for daring to desecrate Aera’s grave. He remembers setting ... a lot of things on fire, his armiger tearing open the walls as he raged.

-He remembers the crash of glass and black blood pouring from his arms before they healed as he pulled Aera’s drugged child free of the tank. The little one was so small, so alone, and somewhere with that thought in his head he thinks he snatched up another child on the way even though it was of Besithia’s blood, because there’s a screaming in his head that isn’t human but isn’t entirely the insanity of daemons insisting that hatchlings need playmates to grow up properly.

-He comes back to himself far away from the ruins of the laboratory, trekking through the wilderness with not one, but two children in his arms, one of them an infant barely a few months old. The other is his- is Aera’s- is their son. The infant is shivering and he takes a moment to securely wrap it in a spare coat (he didn’t intend to steal one of Besithia’s little MTs but he did and so this child is HIS now) before inspecting his blood child. The little boy is still drugged into sleep, unresponsive to Ardyn’s careful prodding, and Ardyn feels something inside him crack in pain as he inspects and realizes that the boy is no longer an infant, but a toddler. Perhaps two years old, bordering on three even.

-How long had he spent running away in denial while Aera’s child floated in that tank at Besithia’s mercy? Too long. Unforgivably long.

-“Oh my little one,” he breathes hoarsely, “Oh Aera. I abandoned our son. I would strike myself down were he not in need of me.”

-He carts both children through the wilds, slinking into the nearest town only to steal as many supplies as he can before flitting away again. The blond infant he’s stolen is not drugged and so wake up periodically. Ardyn had no real intention of getting attached, but his own son has reawakened things inside him, and the realization that this tiny infant is already well trained to not cry even when hungry or in discomfort makes his stomach churn and his armiger flicker briefly into being. He tries to distract himself from his worries over his sleeping son by fussing over the infant, making silly faces and cooing as he tends the infant who will be his own child’s playmate and little foster sibling. The little one needs a name.

-He will decide later. He must name Aera’s child first.

-He must ensure Aera’s child is alright first.

-The toddler finally wakes up on the second day of their travels, sluggish and confused. Ardyn feels precious, precious magic unfurl sleepily, tentatively little fingers of energy trying to pinpoint his new surroundings. Ardyn reaches back, eagerly, instinctively.

-The flinch from his son as gold eyes snap awake in fear, the way too-young magic all but recoils from him, hurts worse than Somnus’s blade through his heart all those centuries ago. The toddler in his arms gasps faintly, looking around, wide awake and confused-afraid. Ardyn shakes free of his shock and tries to hum a soothing note, but all it gets him is his child clumsily trying to raise his arms over his head like he expects a blow.

-Ardyn remembers that first meeting, that first sighting in the tank, the way magic had reached for him half asleep and needy and so vulnerable.

-He remembers how he had lashed out and slapped it away.

-It’s painfully, achingly, burningly clear that his son remembers it too, even though he shouldn’t, even though he should be too young to recall that horrible mistake, and Ardyn has to fight to breathe past the guilt screaming in his skull even louder than the Scourge. He can’t lose his mind, not yet, not again. He can’t lose his mind or run away or try fruitlessly to execute himself for the crime of hurting Aera’s child, because the little one (little ones, he hasn’t forgotten the burbling infant) need a caretaker and Ardyn is the only one (the only one who knows, who can be trusted, a magic child will suffer if given to non magical parents and he wouldn’t trust Somnus’s bloodline as far as he could throw Ifrit).

-He talks soothingly, mindlessly, trying to get the toddler in his arms to uncurl. He does eventually, looking around in fear-confusion, but his magic stays coiled tight inside him, and Ardyn’s tentative poke at it is met with another flinch and a wild-eyed gasp of terror.

...

-Ozpin wakes up and doesn’t know what’s going on or where he is. At first he reaches out, but the moment he brushes up against another, larger, magic, memories of Salem and half-formed impressions of this same magic striking him in anger that might be a dream or might be truth make him retreat and curl in on himself. He feels small, helpless, there is an eerie silence in his head where only faded memories lie instead of a new voice and a new host and he doesn’t understand.

-Talking draws him out of the haze of half-panic, but when large, dangerous magic pokes at his core again he recoils, expecting it to turn into fangs and the burning agony Salem was so very good at unleashing. It’s been so, so long since he felt any other magic than Salem’s or his own that he cannot stop himself from assuming pain will follow. That all magic not his own is intended for pain.

-The man holding him falters in his speech, like he’s in physical pain, and Ozpin uncurls again to peer at him. Is he injured? Who even is he?

-Ardyn, Ozpin learns as they travel. The man’s name is Ardyn, and Ozpin is in a toddler’s body that seems to belong to no one but him, there is another child, a blond infant who doesn’t look like he’s related to Ardyn or Ozpin but is with them anyway, who gurgles too-quiet in the way abused children do. Ozpin thinks, hazily, that this man might have rescued the pair of them from somewhere horrible. Or he might be at fault for that horrible place.

-Ardyn names the infant Prompto, and calls Ozpin “Zagreus” and Ozpin is too wary to tell him he already has a name. They’re traveling through the wilderness, one that Ozpin doesn’t know, and the moon above their heads is strange and unbroken.

-Ardyn has magic. Ozpin is too wary still to do more than flinch and hold painfully, obediently still whenever the man cautiously brushes it against Ozpin’s senses, even though he knows it hurts Ardyn to be rejected so, even though he knows he should be brave and reach out in return, because he doesn’t think this man has ever hurt him. Not yet at least. Not intentionally. The man is terrible at self care, so Ozpin thinks those repeated stretches of forgetting to feet him and Prompto are unintentional. Ozpin works up the nerve to keep track of time himself and repeatedly (hesitantly) tug on Ardyn’s coat when he thinks it’s time to feed Prompto and himself.

-Ardyn calls Ozpin his son. Ozpin has yet to figure out if that’s true or not. If he mingled magic, he’d be able to tell he thinks, because there is a strange new magic woven into his core, bolstering and healing his long-faded green and mingling into it with strands of blue and gold he can see behind his eyelids, but- he can’t.

-Every time he thinks of trying, all he can think of is Salem. And all the ways she killed him. All the times she forced their magics to mingle so he could feel her rage and hate and possessive, poisonous love as she carved him open and ended yet another lifetime.

-It doesn't help that Ardyn is ill. It’s not Grimm Darkness, he thinks after the first three panic attacks that trigger when he glimpses the man’s sickness. But it is very similar. Too similar. A part of Ozpin, his gold magic, itches to reach out and fix it, but after seen Ardyn look more Grimm than man when tearing apart the strange night monsters that sometimes hunt them, it’s all the self control he has not to grab Prompto and run into the wilderness. To let Ardyn pick them up and continue on their way. They will die without Ardyn, he knows that.

-It doesn’t make him any less afraid.

-It takes a long, long time to be able to fight down that fear even a little, to not stiffen in preparation for a strike when shaking hands pet his hair, to not duck his head and breath slow when Ardyn looks at him and speaks to him, trying to coax out a response that remains frozen silent on Ozpin’s tongue. He knows he’s acting poorly. But despite his infection, despite being so very hauntingly like Salem in some ways, Ardyn never loses his temper at either of them. He never turns violent or raises a hand against them, or withholds food or clothes or stuffed toys when Prompto misbehaves or Ozpin once again recoils from the touch of Ardyn’s magic.

-They’re wandering another continent entirely, and Prompto has already started babbling his first choppy words (Ze and Dyn respectively), by the time Ozpin works up the nerve to let his magic out into the air again. To probe at the air around them while Ardyn goes desperately, fragilely still and watches him without daring to reach out for fear of scaring Ozpin. It takes a lot of nerve, but he manages to brush his magic against Ardyn’s in gratitude-trust before retreating again, exhausted from pushing past so many lifetimes of Salem’s pain to do even that. He’ll try actually speaking aloud another day. Maybe.

-A few days later though, Ozpin hears two birds cawing hoarsely in the air and feels something familiar, and suddenly he’s racing away from Ardyn as fast as his tiny legs can carry him, chasing those birds in the sky and reaching for them with magic and need because that feels like-

-The birds plummet from the sky, and a moment later, two scraggly, wild eyed children with black hair and bright red eyes burst out of the underbrush to tackle him with gleeful cries.

-He’s found Raven and Qrow.

#SE asks #shiki-inori asks #Secret Engima Rambles #LC Birds verse #Shadowed Wings verse #oh look spin off au #Hmmmm #Ardynson verse

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thanzag · 4 years

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a visitor

takes place after part one, part two, and part three fic masterlist here

also, find this now on ao3! here

zagreus catches a break.

When the sun takes its place behind the horizon, Zagreus finds himself a place off the beaten path to settle in for the night. Can Nyx feel him when he’s swathed in darkness here? It feels like she can, but that might be a symptom of missing her terribly.

Seeing Meg was good for him. Even if he’s still sore and aching and very slowly healing — he hasn’t made even half the progress he normally does, after the fight with the other Furies — it was some comfort to hear her voice. And he is healing. It’s difficult to walk, some, but he’s not bleeding any longer, and that’s a small blessing.

Speaking of blessings...

He’s never prayed to anyone before. But he’s going to follow Meg’s advice, because she knows things he doesn’t, and he does not want to fight her sisters again. Doesn’t want to chance it.

He finds an outcropping of rocks that block the wind and clears away the snow in a half-circle so that he has somewhere mostly dry to sit. He’s finding that he has all sorts of opinions about things he likes and doesn’t like about the surface. Cold, wet pants are at the top of the ‘no’ list, so far.

(The top of the ‘yes’ list is, currently, the smell of the air in the morning.)

He takes a seat, leaning Stygius against the rock at his back, and he starts… trying to pray.

Goddess Athena, please grant me your aid. Or — your time? I’ve made it to the surface but my father has sent the Furies after me. I am on my way to Athens, but —

He loses his train of thought at the sound of something making noise in the trees — some kind of animal.

Ugh. Try again.

Lady Athena, please hear my prayer. I seek your guidance and assistance in freeing myself from the torment of the Furies. Hades has sent them after me now that I have made my way out of the Underworld. I hurry to Athens, but I hope that you might be able to lend me your assistance once more.

Maybe that will do? The wind is all he can hear, now, and there is no sign that she has heard his plea. Maybe he needs to find a temple, and pray to her there. Or contact one of her priestesses?

Gods, this is more difficult than he expected. But he can’t fight off the Furies again, so he’s going to have to figure it out.

He tilts his head back and opens his eyes, looking up at the stars. The night sky brings him peace, and he could use something to battle the frustration in his chest.

There’s a rustling sound, close, and even as he turns his head to look he is reaching for his sword.

It’s —

“Thanatos?!” He’s mirroring Zagreus’ position on the ground, legs folded beneath him. His hood is down, his scythe is nowhere to be seen, and he is just… staring.

“Zagreus,” he answers, nodding his head minutely, and every tightly-wound nerve in Zagreus’ chest loosens, instantly.

Zagreus leaps for the him without thinking, wrapping his arms around Than’s neck and holding back only so they don’t both hit the ground. Than makes a grunting noise but catches him all the same. Zagreus has never felt so free.

“I won’t ask you if you’ve missed me,” Than dryly says next to his ear, cool hands pressing against his back, his bare shoulder. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to come when you called.”

“Of course I missed you!” Zagreus disentangles himself reluctantly, but he wants to be able to see his friend’s face. “Being out… having made it out — it’s great. But I missed you, and everyone else, a lot.” He sighs. “I didn’t expect to.”

“Well, I’m here now,” Than offers, shrugging one shoulder. He shifts, a little, on the bare ground.

“How — how long are you able to be here?” Zagreus feels energized, too big for his skin. His blood is thrumming.

“Don’t worry about it,” is all that Than says, which… Zagreus should have expected that response. “What is your plan?”

From anyone else it would be a non-sequitur, but Thanatos has always been picky about details. He’s brilliant, that way. It’s not a surprise, at least, for him to ask.

The wind is blowing through Than’s hair, and maybe it doesn’t bother him, but it’s bothering Zagreus to see it — to know the cold bite of it — and he shifts over some to make space.

“Come sit next to me, and I’ll tell you?” he suggests, patting the empty patch of ground, and Than just… does. It’s gratifying.

“I’m on my way to Athens, hopefully,” he starts, looking over in the direction he’s pretty sure is East. Without the sun in the sky, he struggles to tell. “And then, after that, Olympus.”

Than hums. “Why Athens first?”

“I — had a run in with the Furies today,” he admits. Rolls his shoulder. “Meg let me get away — don’t tell anyone else that — and she told me to… go to Athens. To find something called an Areopagus?” Sharing it makes it feel more and less real, all at once. He doesn’t think she would lie to him, but there is no way it will be easy.

Then again, it’s not like anything thus far has been easy, either, and that hasn’t stopped him yet.

“She wants you to have a trial?”

“I — I guess? She didn’t give me a lot of details.”

“It’s happened once before,” Than offers. Zagreus is having a very hard time not staring at him, and presses their shoulders together instead. In camaraderie. “The Goddess Athena presided over a trial and ultimately pardoned the mortal Orestes for the crime of killing his mother. Prior to that, the Furies spent a long while tormenting him. I believe it was a complicated trial, though I only know that from Megaera complaining about it at the time.”

“Do you think…” He glances at Than’s face and finds that the other man is looking at him already, yellow eyes luminescent in the mostly-darkness. The half moon is the only source of light overhead. “Do you think that they will pardon me?”

“I would hope so. You deserve it, anyway.” He looks away, and Zagreus watches his hand clench on empty air. “It goes against most of the rules, for you to leave the Underworld, yes, but that is not why the Furies have been sent after you.”

“Right. Filial betrayal.” Zagreus snorts.

“Either way, if Athena presides over your trial, it will be fair.”

“Right…” Talking about it is a big reminder that he still hasn’t heard back from her, that his prayer probably didn’t work. Would Than know anything about praying to the Olympic gods?

Before he can ask, Than shifts, stands. “I have to go,” he says, and something twinges in Zagreus’ chest. It feels like it has been no time at all that they have been here talking together.

But Zagreus knows, too, of Than’s dedication to his work.

He expects the other man to — to disappear immediately, like he always does, but Thanatos subverts that expectation. Instead, he continues to stand there at Zagreus’ side, looking down at him.

“Aren’t you going to give me a proper farewell?” Thanatos asks dryly, still watching him, and Zagreus scrambles to his feet. He feels off-kilter. Their normal goodbyes are just Than, disappearing into thin air.

“Proper farewell?” he asks, thinking back on the manners that Nyx taught him, an eternity ago. If Thanatos wants him to be polite, he will. He can do that, probably.

“Tch,” Than tuts, and then —

He reaches out and pulls Zagreus into a hug.

It’s more even than their last one, and Zagreus feels soothed all over by Than’s touch. It’s a reassurance, a comfort. Than always seems to know what he needs.

It takes real effort not to hold on too tightly, to cling. He doesn’t want to be alone again when Than leaves, but — this is the consequence, a consequence, of his actions. He knew it was going to be difficult when he decided to leave, even though he maybe hadn’t expected this.

He’s got to be strong.

“Fare well, Than,” he says, pressed nearly cheek-to-cheek with the other man. When he finally gives up and pulls away, he finds him to be wearing an unreadable expression.

“I will come back when I can,” he says, eyes on Zagreus’ face. “Be safe, Zagreus.”

He disappears, then, somewhere in the middle of “I will.”

Alone again, Zagreus sinks back to the ground.

It takes a long time for his mind to stop whirling away, but eventually he does find rest.

#zagreus #hades game #thanatos #*mine #/#i have so many feelings and i can not stop #to the commenter on ao3 - here's best boy i hope you love him #never in my life have i posted a wip and it is gratifying #also seriously i've been chomping at the bit for than to be 'on screen' since I STARTED

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deusexrp · 3 years

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Introducing: Moros

about

name: Moros

gender / pronouns: agender ( they / he / she )

occupation / title: God of Destiny, Impending Doom, & Depression

face claim: Moros, as depicted by me via Picrew ( 1 ) ( 2 )

personality

positive: disciplined, empathic, humble, modest

negative: anxious, fearful, indecisive, weak-willed

biography

Despite their designation as the God of Destiny, Moros is seldom spoken about among mortals; however, this is not to say that they are not well known. They are a force at the back of mortal minds, ever-present as a reminder of impending demise; and as they do not appear before humans on their day of reckoning, the depictions of Doom are wide and varied — though the effigy is usually presented as a devil, bearing horns and bat wings, with eyes usually bandaged, or slit down the middle to represent the blindness mortals face to their own destiny.

They are seen as a heartless figure, punishing their victims with misfortune, both in life, and in the afterlife. For the suffering they cause, they are known as “the All-Destroying God,” whom even Zeus fears and respects, for not even the King of Olympians can destroy destiny.

The eldest of the Fates and of Nyx’s offspring, Moros operates outside their sisters’ domain, with the omnipotence to traverse among the mortal realm, the Underworld, Olympus, and even to the far reaches of Chaos’s endless domain.

What would Moros say to their stature and position? They would probably stutter and flush at the thought. For despite their omniscience, Moros is a rather shy individual; they bear an anxiety unlike any portrayal mortals may have of them, as the fact that their existence keeps all in balance puts a lot of pressure on them, indeed. For this, they are usually one to keep to themselves, lest they startle easily.

Though many believe they would revel in the thought of others’ demises, they are actually a pacifist, making the notion of suffering all the more upsetting for them; and despite being the God of Doom, they are not an active participant in the process of death; instead, they act as an arbiter, whose influence drives mortals to their eventual demise. Though considered by some to be the leader of the Moirai, lately they are generally not included when speaking of the Fates, and frankly they’d rather keep it that way.

With their penchant for solitude, Moros can usually be found where nobody else would be. As they are able to survive in any domain, they’ve come to take up farming upon the mortal realm, to keep a more grounded approach to the mortals their destiny takes hold of — that, and it’s usually a place where they will be left well alone.

And even though their mother has extended the invitation multiple times, Moros fears the sociability of the House of Hades may be too much for them to bear; however, having recently heard of Zagreus’s escape attempts, they’ve dared to make their presence known to him. Whether Zagreus will tell the others of their appearance… only fate can decide.

Their voice claim is Dylan Marron.

They bear a staff as their weapon, pronged at the end, filled with a ball of endless darkness in the middle, as well as a short dagger with a blood-red blade. They are Moira & Epithya.

They keep in close touch with Master Chaos, as their duties ultimately keep the world in order. They like to check up with them to make sure they’re doing a good job.

They have an impressive height, slightly taller than that of their Mother Night.

Due to their elusiveness, many wonder if they exist at all, or if their denomination was simply split up between the Moirai and Thanatos.

Their keepsake is the Fated Wish, which allows your Fated Authority / Fated Persuasion not to increment 1-3 times when rerolling for the same reward.

Familial OCs: Outside of the canon Nyx, Thanatos, Hypnos, and Charon, I’m totally down for people to play Moros’s other siblings ( especially the Fates! ); however, they don’t have a father, nor do I think they have any kids, so keep that in mind!

Played by Ji-Ji

#bio

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