me making blogs for a few ocs and then being too scared to show them.... oops

Liquid Smooth [2]

main masterlist | series masterlist

bodyguard!Gaz x fem!model!Reader

he's just doing his job

warnings: break in, cursing, mentions of guns (in a video game), fluff, slight mutual pining? gaz is a fucking gentleman and i'm sobbing. lots of inaccuracies of sorts i'm sure. half awake while editing, apologize for any mistakes.

wc: 3k

Living in a gated community made you feel pretentious, but with someone of your popularity, it was the only place that made you feel safe. With top notch security, and state of the art surveillance, you never once doubted not only your safety, but your privacy. Still, every house for sale was too big and with too many amenities. Big pools, private theaters, and large game rooms were only fun when you had someone to share them with.

And as every tabloid, social media platform, and on occasion your own manager, liked to remind you; you were utterly alone.

Which was the whole idea, wasn't it? If you came home to your large, empty house feeling completely lonely, then the gated community did its job right. You were alone, and that was good.

Until you weren't.

It happened in the dead of night. An ear aching siren sounded sometime shortly after three in the morning, and though the source of the siren was on the bottom floor of the house, you could hear it clear as day from your room on the second floor. It stirred you out of your sleep, and the moment you realized the siren was from your security system, you felt your stomach plummet through the floor.

You sat straight up in bed like the undead rising from their grave, and your hand flew to the nightstand where your phone buzzed. The app that your alarm was connected to was so kindly informing you that there was a potential intruder in your home, as if the intermittent woops of the alarm wasn't informing enough. Though, the system had already contacted the police on your behalf at least.

But that still left you with one problem. You were no longer alone. Suddenly the distance from the entrance of your home to your room felt much too close. Terrified someone would come waltzing in, you hopped out of bed and ran as quietly as you could to lock the small turn lock on your doorknob. The siren still wailed, and you noticed your heart beat with a terrible thunder in your chest.

You were alone, and you really, really, didn't want to be.

Before you knew it, your fingers were tapping away on your phone and you had it pressed against your ear while you listened to the ring as it attempted to connect you. Each ring felt longer than the last, and it wasn't until you stepped away from the door that you realized your knees were shaking.

"Hello?" It was Kyle's voice, and you had never been so happy to hear it in your entire life. There was a certain tone to it that felt like gravel that told you your phone call had just woken him up.

"Hey," you greeted, struggling to get the word out.

Hey? There was an intruder in your home and that was the only word you managed to choke out? Not a help me? But you didn't even have the mental capacity to chastise yourself with everything going on.

"What's that sound? Everything alright?" he asked. You hadn't even answered him and you could already hear some sort of shuffling on his side of the line.

"Oh, well, uhm, the alarm at my house got tripped, so that's like the siren or... yeah, but the police are on their way. I'm sorry, I just, I don't know, I got scared? I think and I just- did I mention the police are already coming?" you said, stumbling over the words.

There was a slight pause on Kyle's side of the call, as if he was contemplating something, before the shuffling on his end continued. Though, you noticed whatever sounds that bled through the speaker seemed quicker.

"Are you safe?" he asked, his voice more alert.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm in, uh, my room and I've, you know, locked the door," you said. Your eyes still glanced around the room, as if you weren't sure that the burglar, murderer, whoever they were, hadn't snuck into the room unnoticed.

"Stay put," Kyle ordered, "and stay on the phone with me, yeah? I'll be there in ten. Cops better beat me there."

Just like he had instructed, you stayed on the line with him. There wasn't much talking to be done, as you were terrified to make any noise lest you led someone undesirable straight to your bedroom door. Every now and then, Kyle would check in and ask how you were doing, to which you'd mumble something or hum just to confirm you weren't keeled over on the floor.

"Almost there, love. You're gonna be alright," he assured you.

The cops did show up before him, but only by a few minutes. You heard the siren finally silence, and the house fell into quietness. Kyle spoke with the officers on scene for a few minutes, but their conversation was much too muffled for you to hear. Either way, the adrenaline was still pooled in your system, and you had to keep wiping the sweat off of the palm of your hands.

"Where's your room?" he asked, voice cutting clearly through the speaker on your phone.

"Up the stairs. Third door on the right," you told him.

"Which stairs?" Kyle asked after a pause.

A laugh left you, and you weren't sure if it was because of his question or your nerves. "Right, uhm, the one on the left."

Not even a minute passed before there was a soft knock on your door. Hanging up the call, you fumbled with the lock on your door before swinging it open. Kyle stood in the hallway as he shoved his phone into the pocket of his sweatpants. Worry was etched deeply into his face as his eyes did a quick look over you as if worried you still might have gotten hurt.

He couldn't even get a single word out before a slight grunt left him. Your arms wrapped around his torso in a tight hug, and you buried the side of your face into his chest. He smelled warm, like something spiced and woody. That warmth only extended further as his arms enveloped you, returning your hug.

"It's alright, I got you," he muttered quietly while resting his chin on the top of your head.

After a quick inspection of your home, it was determined that the only real damage done was to the large window in your living room. The beautiful floor to ceiling glass that you liked to gaze out of in the mornings laid in a shattered mess on the floor. Someone had grabbed a rock from your garden and threw it in what was most likely an attempt to enter your home to rob you. While you didn't think anything was missing, you couldn't be sure until you did inventory. Otherwise, the intruder most likely left as soon as the alarm sounded, damaging nothing more than a window and your sleep.

"Fucking hell," you muttered.

You stood a good few feet away from the broken window, taking care not to step on any of the glass shards. A soft breeze drifted through the living room, cooling your exposed skin. Some cops mulled around as they messed with your security system and gathered any bits of evidence they could. It was a huge relief to realize things were fine, yet you still felt a little gutted. There was something dehumanizing about having your home broken into.

"Sorry you had to go through all this tonight," Kyle said as he stood next to you. "I'm glad things weren't worse."

"Me too," you agreed before you let out a strained chuckle. "To think all this commotion over a broken window. Seems a little silly."

"Well, it's a big window," he teased.

His comment got another chuckle out of you, but this time it was more real, more comfortable. You glanced up at him, but his eyes were focused on something outside. Assessing anything that the cops might have missed, no doubt.

"Do you feel safe staying here?" he suddenly asked. "I imagine it'll take them awhile to clean everything up. Might not have a window for a bit."

You bit the bottom of your lip as you glanced back to the empty void that laid just beyond your house. The shape of your garden was vague and dark in the dim moonlight, and you couldn't even make out the pool to the left. The gated community was mostly cut off from the public, which meant it wasn't like someone would come strolling by and see that you were down a window. Still...

"I'll probably get a hotel or something," you said as you waved your hand like it was no big deal.

"Seriously?" Kyle challenged.

"What, it's not like I'm a stranger to hotels with all the traveling I do for work," you brushed off.

"No, I understand that, but love, it's nearing four in the morning." He paused for a moment to wet his lips before turning his full attention to you. "Could stay at my place, if you'd like."

That was... not what you were expecting out of his mouth. For a moment, you wanted to fight him on it. Staying over at his place was certainly crossing a boundary of some sort. He was your bodyguard, you hired him. But really, he had a point. By the time you fully settled into the hotel, if they would even take you at such an odd hour, you'd be lucky if it was only six in the morning. You'd be wasting time and energy for nothing.

But still...

"Are you sure?" you said, uncertain. "I don't want to intrude, or anything. And don't offer because you feel bad for me or anything, either."

"Hey..." Kyle said while softly reaching his hand to rest on your shoulder. His touch was so warm. Everything about him was warm, from his voice to his scent. You felt your throat grow tight as that familiar feeling of endearment flooded your system. "I'm offering because you've had a shit night, and it's my job to take care of you."

Something told you to resist. It wasn't a bad idea, and you knew it was more realistic than trying to get a hotel. Yet there was something gnawing at you, telling you it wasn't a good idea. It wasn't that you couldn't trust him, but maybe you couldn't trust yourself. Not with the way you found yourself feeling about him after your wardrobe malfunction a few weeks back.

And yet, half an hour later, you found yourself in Kyle's bed. Alone, of course, because he had been nothing but a gentleman to you. Insisted that you slept in his room rather than take the couch, and you quickly found out that arguing with him was futile when it came to how he treated you. He even changed the bedding for you, and though you wouldn't admit it, you were a little bummed about that; not being able to breathe in the scent of him as you fell asleep.

God, you needed to get a grip.

Between the crazy events of that night, and the fact that you were in Kyle's bed, you couldn't sleep. You laid on your back, staring at the vague and darkened features of his bedroom. It was so clean, and not just clean but neat. He was a very organized man. Perhaps he had his military experience to thank for that.

With your restlessness eventually getting the best of you, you slowly slipped out of bed where you wrapped a blanket around your shoulders. With quiet steps, you cracked the door open before slinking off towards the living room where you surprisingly found Kyle awake.

Dull and quiet sounds of gunshots sounded from the TV, which had the volume turned so low it was nearly muted. A controller sat in his hands where he pressed various buttons. You watched him from the hallway for a moment as you took sight of his furrowed brows. Eventually, he let out a quiet sigh before mumbling, "fuckin' pixel peek."

"I thought you'd be asleep," you spoke up softly, making yourself known.

Kyle didn't seem at all surprised to see you standing in the hallway, and he greeted you with a tired smile. The yellow glow of the standing lamp bathed him in a golden light. Fuck, he could have been a model.

"I imagined you'd have a hard time falling asleep after everything. Figured I'd stay awake. Just in case," he explained.

Ignoring the way your heart fluttered at his words, you laughed instead at how predictable you were. Or maybe he was just good at reading people. Either way, he scooted over some on the couch before patting the spot next to him.

"Here. You've earned yourself front row seats to watch me get my ass kicked in this game."

You should have turned around and marched your happy ass back down the hallway and into bed, but you gave into his request (and your secret desire to be closer to him) and took the spot next to him. The TV showed what appeared to be a character selection of sorts. Multiple characters laid out in perfect squares across the screen where he danced the cursor back and forth between a few.

"Pick one," he said, leaning back into the couch.

"Your character?" you asked.

"They're called operators, actually."

You rolled your eyes. "Uhm, Jackal."

As you suggested, Kyle selected the operator, who seemed to be a man with a weird looking half helmet. You thought his chin strap made him look dorky, but judging by his icon, he seemed awfully confident in himself.

"What game is this?" you asked as he equipped his load out.

"Siege," he answered. "Straight shit at it, but it gives me something to do."

You hummed as you watched him load into the game. It was a first person shooter, and judging by all the military tactical stuff, it was certainly army related. Which seemed awfully fitting, actually.

As he waited to load in, Kyle let out a soft yawn before reaching his hands above his head in a stretch. You were about to poke fun at him for being tired, but your words quickly got caught in your throat as you caught sight of the way his shirt pulled up. The toned skin of his stomach peeked in a thin line, and you found your eyes wandering to places they shouldn't.

"What's the goal of the game?" you asked instead. He finally loaded in, and he lowered his arms, saving you from having to look at the eye catching sight of his body.

"Well, we're attacking, so our goal is to go in and diffuse the bomb that the defenders placed somewhere in this house and-"

Kyle was cut off mid sentence when several shots sounded and his operator flopped over on the ground with an over exaggerated groan. He laughed but it quickly turned into a groan as he rested the controller in his lap and rubbed his face with his hands.

"Suppose that's what I get for playing Jackal," he muttered.

"I hope you're a better soldier in real life than you are in this game," you teased.

"No, see, that's not fair," Kyle defended with a grin. "Most terrorists don't spawn peek, and I never magically spawn ten meters away from the target."

You giggled as you settled further into the couch. Your legs were curled up against your side, and you found yourself sinking low enough so that your head rested against the arm rest. You looked akin to a cat. For a couch only one person used, it sure was a comfortable one.

For the rest of the round, the two of you were stuck watching his teammates attempt to locate this bomb. Though you didn't ask for it, Kyle gave you a play by play of everything going on, which you didn't mind at all. Honestly, there was something comforting about his voice and the softness to it. Maybe you were just getting too attached.

"In real life, we'd never take an approach like this," he explained. "In a situation like this, I'd honestly take it from the roofs. Death from above, type thing. And- ouch. Glad I don't have to watch out for Kapkan traps in real life. Now we're in overtime. What operator should I...?"

Kyle's sleepy rambling fell silent as he turned to look at you. Wrapped up in the blanket he gave you, your head rested comfortably against the arm rest as you slouched to the side, eyes closed. Your soft and even breaths caused your shoulders to rise and fall, and a small smile appeared on his lips as he watched you for a short moment.

Disregarding his game, Kyle carefully stood from the couch, not wanting to wake you, and turned his console and TV off. Just in case you woke up, he kept the lamp on, but dimmed it before sitting back on his side of the couch. Even though you were fast asleep, he still refused to sleep in a bed while you were on the couch.

A heavy sigh left him as he propped the side of his head on his hand, glancing at your sleeping form one more time before his own eyes fluttered shut. You took up two thirds of the couch, but that was alright with him. He'd slept on worse. And your comfort was his priority, anyway.

It was his job, after all.

"Sweet dreams, love."

Idk if you’ve been asked before but what are your thoughts on EARLY early access Gale? The Gale that has bandages on his arm in some early promotional art? There’s an old Auntie Ethel vicious mockery line for him: “I can smell what’s under those bandages wizard! You’re all rot and ruin.” I always wondered if the orb was originally going to have nastier side effects. Like it was making Gale fall apart slowly OR maybe Gale was trying to become a Lich to better handle the orb before being abducted by the mind flayers so he’s in this half alive and undead state when Tav meets him. I feel like that last one would explain the necrotic damage he emits when he dies better. Anyways those are just two tiny details that I roll around in my mind from time to time. I might be thinking too deeply about it. Maybe the writers just wanted to figure out a way to show how much the orb was hurting Gale and the bandages were a start but for some reason they decided against it.

i loved early access gale. there were a lot of uncharitable reads / bad faith takes about him back then, ranging from him being the secret bbeg, the ultimate and guaranteed betrayer, the absolute, to being myrkul because he had a triangles on the robe he was wearing (no, i'm not joking), etc etc etc.

personally, i always loved his character, though, and found him the most interesting and intriguing out of the companions.

overall, i think that he's not that much changed - however, as with all companions and a lot of the npcs, some things have been whittled down or away entirely by larian due things like fandom feedback, but that's a discussion for another time.

i don't subscribe to the lich idea myself, because i think that's not something that gale would want for himself for a multitude of reasons. having said that, however, i always enjoyed this theory:

so, early access gale had this key art, which is still one of my favourites:

left hand wrapped in bandages, the almost stone-like texture of what little you can see of his skin.

adding to that, as you also mentioned, ethel had these vicious mockery lines for gale:

Auntie Ethel: I can smell what's under those bandages, wizard. You're all rot and ruin.

and

Auntie Ethel: Come to greet death early? You'll be a lovely spectacle.

to add to this, this was the way gale talked about the orb and what he thought it was, as well as karsus:

Player: I was wondering about that “mighty lord” you told me about in your story. Gale: Ah, yes. Karsus Karsus was perhaps the most powerful wizard that ever lived. The child-who-would-be-a-god, the elves called him. And he tried. With a spell of his own devising he endeavoured to usurp in one fell swoop the power of the goddess of magic.  Mystryl, she was called then. Imagine what it must have felt like. To be a god. To know yourself to be untouchable. To be mistaken. As Karsus aimed his spell at her she began to unravel, and with her, the entire Weave. Too late did he realize what he had unleashed. It would have been the end of everything had not Mystryl sacrificed herself.  Gale: The goddess of magic is all magic. By dying, the entire weave was lost, and the spell that challenged a god failed. It was the end of Mystryl, the end of Karsus, and the end of an entire civilization. As the child-who-would-be-a-god was turned to stone, his empire came crashing down around him. The floating cities of Netheril were no more. An event that came to be known as Karsus' folly. Player: So at that moment in time, all magic was gone?  Gale: For a spell. Mystyl was reborn as Mystra. Upon her return, the Weave returned with her.  Gale: Now, so many centuries later, I tried to follow in the footsteps of Karsus, not to destroy Mystra, but to prove my love for her. I tried to control only a fraction of the magic that was unleashed that fateful day. I merely sought to return one tiny diamond to an imperfect crown. Gale's Folly one might call it. History. Repetition. It's the way things go.

some of this is still in the game.

more lore about karsus's folly:

Unfortunately, his choice was a terrible mistake, for one of the responsibilities of the deity of magic was to regulate the flow of magic to and from all beings, spells, and magic items in the world. Lacking the ability to do so properly, magic surged and fluctuated. With her last remaining bit of power, Mystryl sacrificed herself to block Karsus's access to the Weave, causing all magic to fail. The flying cities of Netheril plummeted to the earth. The severing of the link also killed Karsus and transformed him into stone, and the last thing he saw was his entire civilization being destroyed because of his actions. This was to be known as Karsus's Folly. The stone form of Karsus eventually landed in a part of the High Forest, now called the Dire Wood.[8] The city of Karse was built around its base. Karsus was never accepted as a petitioner by any god, nor did he go to the Fugue Plane when he died. Instead, his soul was bound to the Material Plane. Those with experience in pact magic could call up his vestige, where he appeared as a giant blood-red boulder,[5] like the one found in the High Forest where his petrified form landed.[8] Blood burbles up from the top of the stone, trickling down the side facing the summoner, pooling at the base. [x]

there are also lines of gale referring to this corruption he carries within as a "taint" and a "shadow", corrupting him "within", affecting his blood as well (another thing that carried over to release).

i think what might have been originally planned (and again, some of this did carry over) is that the orb not only affected gale's magic, but also his body even more severely (it still does to an extent in the release version even though this part is very, very sadly almost entirely glossed over).

putting all of this together, i think that by absorbing a part of that magic unleashed on the day of karsus's folly - the failed magic, the severing of it, karsus turning into stone, petrifying him - might have affected gale in a similar, albeit weaker fashion.

"history. repetition. it's the way things go."

karsus's folly.

gale's folly.

perhaps as the game continued this petrification might have spread, from his hand, up his arm, to his shoulder, and on, either by leaning onto the darker aspects, or by the treatment failing (the consumption of powerful pieces of weave).

maybe that concept was then turned from petrification, to a sort of corruption/rotting that ethel referred to in her lines.

either way, it would have been interesting to see, for sure.

Bomb City: The Case of Brian Deneke

The Movie:

“Bomb City is a 2017 American crime film… based on the death of Brian Deneke, the homicide that revealed the cultural clash between the local jocks and the punk community in Amarillo, Texas, and the result from the subsequent court case sparked debate over injustice in the American judicial system.

On December 12, 1997, 19-year-old American punk musician musician Brian Theodore Deneke (March 9, 1978 – December 12, 1997) was killed in a deliberate hit and run attack in Amarillo, Texas, by 17-year-old Dustin Camp. Camp was later found guilty of voluntary vehicular manslaughter and sentenced to ten years' probation and a $10,000 fine, which was later dropped. In 2001, he was sentenced to eight years' imprisonment for a variety of parole violations. He was paroled under supervision on July 31, 2006. The homicide and the outcome of the trial against Camp galvanized the punk community and raised accusations about the social tolerance of the Texan city. This film is about the events of that night and some of what led up to it, as well as the way the police, the adults and the community re - murdered Brian Deneke, victim blaming and police terrorizing one group of children whilst looking the other way of another group of children for the same actions.

Brian Deneke is a 19 year old from Amarillo, Texas, who is into punk and the punk rock subculture. He is a local DIY promoter who books touring punk rock bands at a small run down venue. In this conservative town, there are many teenagers who actively follow punk and they routinely clashed with the jocks from one of the local high school's football team: The Tascosa Rebels.”

[Source]

History:

“Deneke was remembered by his friends as being friendly, charismatic and seen as a leader in local punk circles, helping to organize many local musical events. Nicknamed "Sunshine", Deneke had a spiked mohawk hairstyle and often wore a black leather jacket with a studded leather collar and sported homemade tattoos. He was also an enthusiastic skateboarder, and it was this interest which drew him into the punk subculture.

Like other punks in Amarillo, Deneke had suffered frequent harassment and bullying, and acquired nicknames such as "Punch" and "Fist Magnet" by tormentors. His parents were against their son's lifestyle, and warned him of possible prejudice from people in Amarillo.

Deneke was an artist for Stanley Marsh 3's art project, Dynamite Museum, which consisted of handmade mock road signs scattered across Amarillo city streets. Deneke was also the vocalist of punk rock group The White Slave Traders, and aspired to become a famous punk rock musician.

On December 12, 1997, 19-year-old American punk musician Brian Theodore Deneke (March 9, 1978 – December 12, 1997) was killed in a deliberate hit and run attack in Amarillo, Texas, by 17-year-old Dustin Camp… Camp was later found guilty of voluntary vehicular manslaughter and sentenced to ten years' probation and a $10,000 fine, which was later dropped. In 2001, he was sentenced to eight years' imprisonment for a variety of parole violations. He was paroled under supervision on July 31, 2006.

The homicide and the outcome of the trial against Camp galvanized the punk community and raised accusations about the social tolerance of the Texan city.

Pop Culture:

Numerous tribute gigs and concerts have been made for Deneke since his death. In 2000, The Unity Through Diversity festival was held in Amarillo featuring The Undead and Mike Watt, amongst other bands. The tenth anniversary of his death demonstrated the ongoing significance of his death to the punk community with 25 concerts being held on December 8, 2007 across the United States and Canada, including concerts in New York City, Chicago, Seattle and five concerts across Texas including a two-day event in Amarillo. Half of the money raised by these events went to National Organization for Parents of Murdered Children, the other half to various anti prejudice causes.

Deneke's death has been the subject of a number of songs, including:

“Brian’s Song” by Fifteen

“Brain’s Song” by The Code

“Tears on a Pillow (in Amarillo)” by The Undead

“Fortunes of War” by Dropkick Murphys

“Sunshine Fist Magnet” by Against All Authorities

“A Punk Killed” and “Murdered” by Total Chaos

“American Justice Is All A Lie” by Career Soldiers

“Sunshine” by The Swellers

“Hail” by Hammell on Trial

“Punk Song” by LambBed TW FOR FLASHING LIGHTS!!!”

[Source]

Marilyn Manson has also discussed this case before.

Case Coverage:

Skate Park:

Originally, a petition to rename a local skatepark in Amarillo was passed around. Today, the person has changed to build a new skate park and name it after Brian.

[Article 1]

[Article 2]

[Article 3]

[News Clip]

#7 or #30 the genesis (Ashton, Dorian, and Fy'ra Rai)

7 "They’re right there, don't worry, they're safe." 30 "Everything is going to be okay, I swear." How about I slip both in one. Though I didn't use either directly 😉 This is an interesting grouping, mostly because Ashton and Fy'ra Rai have never interacted before. Prompt

Fy'ra Rai has coached more than a few people through the art of meditation. It's simply a part of being further along in monastic training that one helps instruct the newer students.

Most students who are as unfocused as the earth genasi before her are half his (presumed) age.

She quietly watches as their right eye cracks open. Searching, most likely, for Orym and the undead one, who they seem to be most closely attached to. Not that they will find the duo. Fy’ra Rai specifically sat them down where the rest of the Crown Keepers' (and guests) camp is out of sight. And out of mind, one would hope.

"You know, if you actually focused on connecting with your element around you, you would have more success in assuring yourself that they are right there, safe," Fy'ra Rai idly comments a while later, hoping the chastisement will get her temporary student to focus.

Ashton grumbles, jaw clenching as they shut their eye again. They blow out a gusty breath, trying to find that elusive calm necessary for meditation. But it's fucking hard when the mess from meeting the Hierophant keeps playing through their mind, urging them to check on their people, be fucking sure they're alright.

He wants to figure out this meditation and talking to rocks thing. It's just frustratingly difficult to achieve when his go-to for making thoughts stop is violence and alcohol. To sit and be empty... it doesn't really happen for him. Stillness is where Ashton's thoughts race and gain complexity because thinking is all there is to do in that state.

"Are you even trying?" Fy'ra Rai asks in exasperation after a minute or two of continuing lack of focus. "Dorian constantly fidgets and he's more focused than you."

"Hey! I agreed to meditate with you two, not be part of a competition!" Dorian protests, his eyes snapping open.

"Well maybe you're just shit at teaching meditation," Ashton grumpily fires back. "'Cause you sure as fuck didn't give him any instructions."

"Or maybe your previous instructor was terrible at teaching!" Fy'ra Rai counters, unhappy with the insult when she is trying to help.

"Well, why don't you go on over and tell Orym that to his fucking face," Ashton challenges, never one to back down from a fight he could win.

Yup, this is exactly where Dorian didn't want to be: in the middle of a fight between two willful people who could snap him like a twig.

"Orym?!" she startles, not expecting that detail. It reroutes her anger. "What kind of parents don't even teach their child to reach for their element?"

Dorian winces. It may be genasi tradition to learn at least light meditation to connect with the element they belong to, but he highly doubts the orphanage that Ashton was raised in had another genasi at all, much less one with experience enough to teach him about their heritage. Genasi are simply that scarce on Exandria (aside from a select few communities, like the Silken Squall or the Ashari tribes).

"Geez, I don't know," Ashton sarcastically starts, and the snarl on their face promises the rest will be scathing. "Maybe the kind of parents that are part of a stupid fucking cult, get themselves fucking blown up and their kid shunted to another fucking continent. Where, oh, by the way, said kid turns into a fucking rock at the fucking shitty state home."

...And that is certainly more than what Dorian knew about Ashton's past when he left Bells Hells to deal with Cyrus's bullshit. If that was Ashton's childhood, it's easy to see how they became such a toughened cynic.

Also, it would have been nice to know that Ashton is one of the extremely rare few who was not born a genasi. He could have filled in at least a few gaps in knowledge that Ashton has. The Silken Squall may be primarily for air genasi, but as a prominent heir (even being second-in-line), Dorian had learned a fair bit about the genasi of other elements.

Fy'ra Rai finds herself completely on the backfoot.

When Orym had gently brokered her leading this genasi meditation session, he'd mentioned Ashton wasn't really familiar with meditation. She'd taken that to mean they were long out of practice with connecting to their element, not that they'd recently decided to learn at all. Trying to guide them based on that belief was a mistake on her part. One that, hopefully, it isn't too late to fix.

"My apologies. I didn't realize you'd never been taught before. Most genasi are born, and there's usually at least one person, if not the whole community, ready to teach them how to connect." Her eyes lower as she tries to imagine what it would be like to have no parental guidance, for anything. Imagine dealing with the looks and stares she encountered upon coming to the Prime Material Plane for her exotic elemental appearance, as an adult, without truly knowing what she is herself. It's too foreign to her own life for her to fully imagine, she concludes.

"If you are agreeable, I'd like to try again from the beginning. We'll start with the basics, instead of me assuming you already had some grasp of them. Is that okay?" Fy'ra Rai's eyes flick back up to meet Ashton's gaze.

Ashton is assessing Fy'ra Rai, trying to find a catch, a reason beyond fucking pity that she would offer to start over. He knows she's a "good egg" by Orym-standards, and he fucking trusts Orym and his judgements (trusts Bells Hells in general on subjects they actually know). But it's no easy thing to overturn years of waiting for the other shoe to drop, struggling to escape bad deals (both made and offered).

When their eyes flicker over to Dorian, looking for more input from a semi-trusted source (they just don't know him as well as the rest of Bells Hells, even if they've sort of missed him), the air genasi gives them an encouraging smile that seems to say, "It'll be okay, I promise." And, well... they suppose Dorian would know, having been friends with Fy'ra Rai for a while, adventuring with her and having to trust her with his life, his brother's life, and the lives of all his other little friends.

They huff out a big sigh. "Yeah, okay. Let's try this again from the fucking beginning."

Living in a Haze (Explicit)

Supernatural x Lucifer cross-over

Omega Dean/Alpha Cas

—

Episode 1: Hell is no pie (4K words)

Zombie brains have a very peculiar texture that is an absolute nightmare to clean. They also smell like something that has died, reanimated, baked in the sun, and then died again. But of course, that makes perfect sense in a world that lost all sense long ago. Dean is absolutely covered in the stuff, and with the realization that he is wearing his favorite Led Zeppelin shirt, he curses loudly like a crass old man, kicking the zombie on the ground.

It was a failed experiment; only half of the thing's head had blown off. Explosives are so unreliable, but Dean knows this from the hundreds of other attempts he's tried over the years. He just couldn't seem to help himself when he came across the pack of fireworks deep down in the bowels of the bunker.

"Dude," a ghost that looks like his deceased brother says as he joins him to look down at the corpse. "I could have told you that was going to happen.”

Dean doesn't bother to reply; he merely huffs and starts his march back to the bunker.

The thing about being a ghost is that you can just appear wherever you want. Dead Sam is already waiting when Dean approaches the standalone, art-deco styled building, aka the bunker. Dean can tell that his very dead brother is about to make another pointed remark about his obvious failure, but he doesn't give him the chance as he walks right through him to unlatch the steel door. "Hey!”

All Dean can think about is ripping off all of his clothes, dousing them in gasoline, and setting them on fire. Afterward, he mentally tells himself he will take a nice, long bath while eating some cherry pie.

Dean is poorly singing "Highway to Hell" as he dances his way to the kitchen with pie on his mind. "I'm on the highway to hell!" Dean bellows, opening the door to the oldest fridge known to mankind as he gyrates his hips with abandon.

But what greets Dean as the door opens nearly kills him on the spot. And all he knows is that the end is here, the world has truly ended. There is no pie. The pie is gone. It is all gone. He ate it all and forgot. Dean gasps and grabs his heart, falling to his knees in front of the open fridge.

"Noooooo!”

How can this be happening? Is there anything worth living for? And all the other existential questions that pertain to life without pie are running through Dean's tormented mind.

The ghost of a slain Sam appears above Dean, who is now curled up in a fetal position, sobbing uncontrollably. "You know, I don't recall you being this sad when I died?”

Dean raises his gaze to dead Sam with a maddening look of rage. "How dare you!" Dean growls and points to the ghost from his place on the floor. "You know pie is my only love left in this world. And why should I be sad for you, huh? You were the dumbass who decided that he wanted to save the world." Dean mocks as he juts his jaw out and moves it back and forth. "Na na na. It's my duty to rid humanity of this hell on earth. I'll save them all!”

"You were a fucking idiot, Sam."

Dead Sam disappears with a puff. Dean yells at the spot where he used to be before kicking the fridge shut.

"Motherfucker!"

Dean couldn't remember the last time he didn't have pie. Stock piling the best dessert on earth has been his only purpose since the apocalypse. Raiding every diner across the states, gathering pies of every kind. Dean tries to remember the last time he went pie hunting, and then he remembers his heat.

It was his only rule, his only directive for himself in this undead world: lock the fridge and hide the key before going into heat, or else it would become a pie binge time.

As an omega living in the end times, your heat could spell death as you seek anything with a dick to fuck. But for Dean, it spells eat all the goddamn pie, apparently. Then dying because you have no goddamn pie. Well now that he has no pie to satisfy he needs, if he goes into heat, he might just try to fuck a zombie.

It's a good thing Dean is too stubborn to die fucking a zombie. He psychs himself up, pumping the air with his fists and then claps his hands together. "It's pie hunt'n time!"

Dean doesn't bother to change. Zombie brains will mask his delicious scent. Grabbing the keys to his Chevy Impala and his favorite shotgun, he hits the road.

A classic guitar riff fills the air as "Back in Black" plays on the radio. Dean drives like a bat out of hell; he has to, or else he risks the fiends hidden in the shadows jumping out to force him off the road. Dean has the pedal to the floor as he speeds towards the highway that will take him to Chicago.

Chicago is the one place left on earth where there is some semblance of the old way of life. When the metaphysical gates of Hell opened, the devils took up residence in the Windy City, grabbing humans to serve them like the great pharaohs of Egypt. It seems like the ugly bastards from down under prefer their towers high, their pizza deep, and their suits snazzy. Dean even heard that the Prince of Hell took up residence there. It was a risk he had to take, and it was the most likely place he'd find the sweet, sacred staple of good ol' America.

Now you may ask why Dean would go through all this trouble. You shouldn't ask first off, it's not like Dean can fucking bake a pie. Well, he could, if he knew how to apply himself and follow directions to a simple recipe. But Dean didn't finish high school, and following directions is what got Sam butchered. Besides, it’s way more fun to hunt the pie, banish some devils, and blow off the heads of the fucking undead.

Also, Dean is a bit crazy, if you must know. He hasn't been quite the same since Sam separated his spirit from his body. It's also devastating when an omega suddenly loses their alpha and witnesses their violent and unnecessary death. So yeah, Dean lost his brother and his alpha, who died a hero because some fucking prophecy told him he had to spill his guts for all of humanity. A lot of good that did.

It's not something you can just get over. The best way Dean knows how to distract himself from the black hole consuming his heart is to fight and fill it with his favorite delight: pie. Oh, that sweet pie.

Driving across the wasteland that was once the great country of America, Dean shoots the heads off various undead with one hand on the wheel. At one point, he even gets surprised by a pack of hellhounds as he takes a piss on the side of the road. Those fuckers are impossible to kill, so he does a mad scramble back to his car, not bothering to open the door as he jumps in through the window. Dean and his sweet ride, Baby, both escape without a scratch.

Chicago emerges in the distance, and it is a sight for sore eyes to the pie-hungry omega. When he gets close, he takes care to park Baby where no one or anything can find her. The city is incredibly easy to infiltrate. In fact, it might be way too easy, but what do devils have to fear in this world? Dean can actually think of a few things, like Leviathans and nosy witches. He shivers at the thought as he walks down the street, sliding into the crowd of enslaved humanity.

There are a few Knights of Hell lurking about, but not even Lucifer's demons can keep Dean from his task. Dean searches the crowd, looking for a specific type of woman—one with a distinctly round figure, gray hair, and the leathery skin of old age. The kind of woman who memorizes recipes passed down through generations. Dean nearly squeals with childlike delight when he spots one.

She is sitting peacefully on a park bench that overlooks the bare, skeletal trees that line the boulevard. Dean glances around and palms the holy water in his jacket pocket, shifting his ankle to feel the blade in his boot. He sits down next to the elderly woman, but she doesn't pay him any attention. Dean narrows his eyes and leans over to sniff her, the air is free of sulfur.

He clears his throat and turns to the old bag, "Ahem, ma'am. Excuse me, but may I ask you a question?" She blinks and then turns in a creepy way to give Dean a kindly smile. There is a dazed look in her eyes when she takes in Dean's face.

"Oh, aren't you a cute one? They must love you." At the odd compliment, Dean gives her a shy smile, looking down as he shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

"They sure do. So, um, hey, do you know where I can get some pie?" Dean peers back at the wrinkled grandmother, filled with bubbling excitement at the anticipation of her answer. She blinks at Dean, clearing the daze from her eyes to survey him more closely. An even wider smile stretches across her face and a twinkle appears in her blue eyes.

"You're looking for pie?" The ancient matron asks, tilting her head. "There's always something baking at the Willis Tower. I hear the King of Hell loves his sweets." Suddenly, Dean feels like she's looking right through him. "Oh, does he love them sweet.”

"Ah, that's good news!" Dean beams, celebrating internally at himself for nailing it on the first try. "Where can I find the Willis Tower?”

The weathered woman remains focused on him as she lifts her arm straight to point at a building in the distance. A hopeful Dean turns to where she points. It is a tall, black building that rises well above the rest. "Oh, that tower, the Sears Tower.”

"It's called The Seat now," she says darkly, "the Seat of Power.”

A grimace spreads across Dean's face as he stares at the menacing building that screams "evil headquarters." He notes the huge winged beasts flying around the top of it. The Seat of Power is the last place he wants to go.

"Would there be a chance you'd know of another place where I can get some pie?" Dean asks the gray-haired crone as he watches what looks like a human figure being thrown off the side of the building. They don't fall long before getting scooped up by the winged-beasts and ripped apart in mid-air.

"Nope."

"Well, okay. Thanks!" Dean gets up, straightens his jacket, and heads off towards the scariest place on earth.

The old hag watches him go, her eyes are pools of black, and she shows her pointed teeth with a wide, devilish grin.

The walk to the ominous black tower is quite pleasant. Dean is nearly skipping at the thought of the kinds of pies he might find. Devils tend to have good taste, so there is likely a wide variety. He is nearly drooling as he strolls along the street, the looming building getting closer as everything grows darker.

There is a smart way to enter a place such as the Seat of Power, and then there is the questionable way. Dean just walks right in with all the confidence in the world, and goes right up to the reception desk. A pretty young woman with neatly styled hair looks up and gives Dean a friendly greeting. Dean is distracted by her very red lips; they complement her pale skin and blonde hair. She is beyond perfect.

"Hiya, I was told to come here to ask about a job, or something like that. Would you be able to help me?" Dean gives her his best smile, the kind of smile that makes all genders and dynamics weak in the knees. The woman loses her composure as she melts at Dean. "Oh, of course. That was fast. We just had an opening for an executive assistant."

"That's it, that's the one," Dean jumps at her suggestion, flashing his dazzling smile again.

The receptionist swoons, but quickly composes herself again with a cough. "Just one minute, I'll let them know that you are here. What's your name?"

"Ted Nugent," Dean states without an ounce of hesitation. The receptionist nods and makes a call. She speaks quickly in a hushed voice and then confirms his fake name. "Got it, I'll send him right up.”

When the receptionist hangs up the phone, she grabs a badge and writes his fake name on it. Handing him the badge, she gives him strict instructions: "You are to go straight back to the elevators, the furthest ones across the back wall. They'll take you directly up to floor one hundred. Someone will greet you at the elevator.”

"Perfect. Oh, say, when I'm done my interview. Is there a place where I could like grab a slice of pie?" Dean asks simply, pinning on his badge.

"Yes, there is. The cafeteria is on the tenth floor. They have the best pie," she says with an honest smile. "Especially the apple pie. It's my favorite.”

"Mine too! Thank you—" Dean leans over to read her badge, "Bethany.”

"You're welcome, Ted. Good luck on your interview. You're definitely his type, so I think you'll get it," she winks at Dean, and he gives her a nod before sauntering off towards the elevators.

Dean is buzzing with excitement as he makes a beeline straight for the elevators that will take him to the tenth floor. Of course, they're not the ones the receptionist directed him to.

He tries to control his jubilant laughter of sweet success as he steps inside the car. After the elevator doors close, he silently screams as he runs in place before breaking out into a sultry disco dance, swirling his hips like a professional. When the elevator dings and opens on the tenth floor, Dean quickly finds a placard that depicts the floor layout, and like an X on a treasure map, he locates the cafeteria.

He tries not to run, he really does, but he's not quite walking either, and he nearly bounds into the cafeteria. It's completely empty except for a janitor emptying the trash can. Dean goes right for the dessert bar, and his face lights up brighter than a kid on Christmas morning. Dean can honestly say he's found heaven on this hellish earth.

Pies of all kinds—blueberry, rhubarb, and even peach cobbler (which he hasn't had since before the gates of hell opened)—sparkle from where they sit, almost completely untouched and whole, with only a slice of apple missing. Dean rubs his hands together, trying to decide which one he'll go for first.

"I recommend the pecan," a deep and alluring voice with a British accent says from behind. Dean freezes and then turns to look over his shoulder. A tall, dark, and very handsome man stands calmly behind him, hands in the pockets of the most perfectly tailored suit Dean has ever seen. The man looks expensive and important.

Dean returns to contemplate the many pies before him and locates the pecan one. Turning back to the beautiful man, he points at it and asks, "This one?”

The man raises a thick dark eyebrow and then nods. When Dean goes to cut himself a slice, the man drags his gaze over the hunter’s very pleasing form, lingering on his delectably plump glutes. The man looks at Dean the way Dean looks at pie, with very hungry eyes.

Dean nabs a slice of the pecan, then a slice of cobbler, and for good measure a piece of the apple. His plate is stacked with pie as he moves to grab a napkin and fork, sitting down at a nearby table. Dean isn't even fully seated before his fork is digging into the sticky, sugary pecans. The man joins him, sitting across from the ravenous, pie-eating hunter. He watches Dean gorge himself on way too much sugar. Leaning back, he steeples his fingers together to study the strange and beautiful human.

"You should slow down. If you eat too fast, you'll get a stomach ache," the alluring man tells him matter-of-factly. Dean's fork stops midway to his mouth, and he takes note of the man sitting before him. An annoyed expression crosses Dean's face, and he drops his fork onto the plate, sitting up with a vexed sigh. Dean peers around at the empty tables nearby and then shifts his eyes back to the man. "Look, buddy, I might have taken your request, and boy was it a damn good one, but that doesn't mean you can just invite yourself to sit with me.”

Dean didn't know how the man could get any more handsome, but when he smiles at Dean, it's like the sun has just risen and all the birds are singing. Dean has to shake his head to pull himself out the the trance-inducing beauty the man exudes. There is a very unpleasant feeling settling into his pie-filled gut when he brings his attention back to the man.

"Ted, is it?" The man asks with a slight tilt of his head. He separates his hands and uncrosses his legs to lean forward and rest his forearms on the table. The man also glances around the room, much like Dean did, and then brings his devilishly good-looking face back to Dean. He bares his fangs, which are the fangs of an alpha, and the sight of them makes Dean gulp. "All of these tables belong to me, all of these chairs, that plate, and fork.”

The sinfully gorgeous man smiles even wider. "It all belongs to me, right down to the pie you've been devouring so gluttonously."

"Fuck" and a bunch of other bad words cross Dean's mind as he focuses more deeply on the man in front of him. His blood floods with adrenaline and fear. At Dean's distress, the man scents the air visibly, closing his eyes to smell his sickly sweet scent. "Hmm, omega, you smell absolutely divine.”

Dean regains his composure and responds with sarcasm to the taunt. "Well, I didn't think my day could get any better. I was just looking for a nice slice of pie, but hey, I also get to meet the Prince of Hell himself." Dean smiles sweetly and picks up his fork again. If he was going to die, he might as well finish his pie. You never let pie go to waste.

Lucifer chuckles at Dean's disregard for him. "Oh, I like you. Tell me, what's your real name?”

Dean doesn't bother lying. "Dean Winchester.”

Lucifer's eyes widen at his surname. Dean always did love a good name drop. There isn't a devil that doesn't know it.

"Dean Winchester," Lucifer repeats, rolling his name between his sharp teeth. "Sam's brother.”

"Mmm, hmm," Dean hums between bites of apple pie.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees Lucifer wave over some Knights. They are frightening to behold: ghastly beasts in heavy armor, tall and lean. Dean is in deep shit now. He takes his last bite of pie and leans down to his boot to slip out the Demon-killing blade. It's his best-kept secret, one touch of this motherfucker to any part of a devil and poof, demon dust.

Dean knows it won't work on Lucifer. He's not a demon, after all. No, he's the original Fallen Angel. But at least he can take a few devils out before he's torn to pieces. He's ready to meet his end; there's no better way to go than after a slice of pie.

Standing, Dean faces the Knights, and before they can pull their blades, he is on the nearest one, quickly slicing it with the Demon-killing blade. In an instant, the creature screams in agony and then combusts. Dean is already onto the next one, knife ready. But just before the blade can reach the Knight, a strong, clawed hand captures his forearm. He looks up into Lucifer's radiant red eyes.

Lucifer's grip is like a vice that squeezes Dean like a lemon. He feels his bones about to snap when he decides he’d rather let go of the knife. It falls to the tiled floor with an expected clatter. Lucifer's smile is all teeth as he steps smoothly behind him and twists Dean's arm backwards. One arm is now pinned behind his back while the other is free. His free hand is gripping the vial of holy water in his jacket pocket.

Dean is about to throw the water in the Lord of Darkness' face when Lucifer pulls him close. "I'm going to enjoy fucking you, my sweet omega hunter.”

Dean snarls at the possessive pronoun. "I sure do love a good fuck, too bad I'm not into dirtbag fallen angels.”

A clawed hand grabs Dean by the neck. Sharp nails digging into his very sensitive flesh. He is pulled back into the body behind him. Lucifer is a tall bastard, he makes Dean feel small in comparison. "But I sure do love fucking a smart mouth. Tell me Dean, do you swallow?"

Dean can't help but snicker at the question, "Every fucking time.”

A very long and snake-like tongue licks across his neck, directly over the sensitive scent gland. It makes Dean's knees shake and his dick harden at the sensation. He can't remember the last time he had a good fuck. Dean is almost tempted to let the Devil have him, but that just wouldn't do. He has to stand by his morals. After all, devils were the ones responsible for taking his brother from him. Slipping the holy water out of his pocket, Dean moves his arm to his side.

"We're going to have so much fun together, Dean," Lucifer breathes into his ear, making him shiver. Then, he twirls Dean around like a dance partner, turning him to face him. Their chests are touching, and the Devil has an arm tightly wrapped around him while he continues to hold Dean. Dean tries to lean away, but Lucifer grips the back of his head and pulls him in for a kiss.

He doesn't let their lips touch; instead, he uncaps the vial and throws the holy water right into Lucifer's face, right into his gaping mouth, open and ready to devour Dean.

Lucifer reacts violently, pushing Dean from him as he attempts to wipe the burning liquid away. Dean is absolutely thrilled that it worked. Dropping quickly, he nabs his Demon-killing blade from the floor just as the Knight goes to pounce him. He faints to the side and drags the dull blade across the devil's arm. And just like the other one, it howls itself into a dust cloud.

Dean glances at Lucifer, who is screaming, his flesh burning off his face. He shrugs and then walks back over to the display of pies. He grabs the cherry one, then turns and walks out of the cafeteria. No one tries to stop him as he waves to Bethany, the receptionist, and leaves through the front door. He rips off his name tag and tosses it away. Dean uses the shadows to slip into the night with his most precious prize.

Little does Dean know, back at the Seat of Power on the tenth floor, Lucifer is sitting at the table they shared in the cafeteria. There is a deviously smitten expression across his blistered but still beautiful features. And in front of him sits a piece of apple pie. He takes a bite, savoring the sweet taste on his forked tongue.

It tastes just like the clever little omega hunter, Lucifer silently vows, will one day be his.

—

Read the rest on AO3

Work completed - 27k words

While I'm going through these unwritten fic concept asks, shoutout to @lohikaar for reminding me about Southwestern Gothic Ghost Hitchhiker Drift My Beloved (they also have done some awesome art for the concept here and here!)

I originally tweeted thinking about some undead Drift AUs here, which then turned into this stream-of-consciousness story thread (which, with the character and tweet limit, not to mention the genre not at all being my usual fare, was actually a really fun writing exercise!), which I'll transcribe under the cut 🖤

Ratchet drives through the desert, finally on his way home from some kind of medical emergency or rescue mission. Perhaps it didn’t end well, or maybe he’s just worn out; either way he’s settled into a sort of exhausted numbness. Just focus on the road.

Around the third or fourth hour a figure manifests through the darkness. Ratchet damnnear has a heart attack, slamming the brakes (a good thing there’s no other vehicles around, middle of nowhere, ungodly hour, et cetera).

Definitely a human figure, upon closer inspection, squinting through dusty windshield glass—though they did truly seem to come out of thin air. Ratchet shakes his head, squeezing his face shut. He must have been halfway nodding off… normally he’s better than this.

Again, glad he’s alone out here—or alone save for this stranger, almost certainly looking to hitch a ride from some poor sucker. And seeing as Ratchet has stopped, and still is stopped, they seem to take that as an invitation, and begin to approach the car.

Against what might be his better judgement, Ratchet makes no move to speed off. For despite his experience, and his wits, and his skeptic cynicism, at his core Ratchet is someone who Cares.

He wants to do right by people. He wants to be there to offer a hand to anyone who might be in need of one. He wants to take the chance of saving a life wherever it might arise… and likely, he’s already failed to do that tonight.

He doesn’t believe in fate or karma or anything of the sort, but a second chance is a second chance. So he sits, and he unlocks the passenger door.

The stranger is tall and lithe and gaunt-looking, torn thin clothes, eyes rimmed red with smudged makeup and weariness. When they settle themself in the passenger seat, Ratchet stiffens, now noticing the strap across their body, bearing a sword of no unintimidating length.

Of course it crosses his mind to reconsider his choice, but he decides against it; if anything, that would be far more likely to incite violence in his direction. So instead he simply asks where they want to be dropped off, and steels his gaze back toward the horizon.

He receives nary even a thank-you as they move out. The hitchhiker stares out the window, motionless. The jewel in the hilt of the sword glints, catching Ratchet’s eye—but he’s quick to focus back forward. Can’t afford to risk another mishap. Half an hour or so passes in silence.

Then the stranger starts asking questions, eerie and philosophical in nature. Wondering aloud about such vague existential things as the meaning of life, and how to know if one’s done enough.

Ratchet can’t tell if they’re looking for a response or not, but he gives them his roughish two cents anyway, regardless of how they might take it, or whether it’s their business what he thinks.

He had spared them the lecture on how hitchhiking is dangerous, yada yada; he knew the both of them knew the risks they were taking, individually and together. But something in this topic, or tone, or choice of words, sets him off, just a little.

He argues and banters back, not harshly, but not lightly either. He’s never cared for religion, and he’s not currently feeling too happy with his present state on this physical plane either, try as he may to make something of his life and to maybe help someone else along the way.

He thought he’d known his purpose long ago. Life itself has given him enough pause to wonder if he was right; it doesn’t need any extra encouragement.

Just because it’s not always easy doesn’t mean it’s not still the right thing to do, the thing that gives him reason to keep getting up in the morning. Nights like these, though, it’s particularly Not Easy — so forgive him if he’s not too keen on aimless, empty philosophizing.

It’s not exactly a comfortable conversation—and the threat of physical attack has not abated in the least—but it’s still somehow far less unsettling than simply sitting there with all manner of existential quandaries hanging in the air around him.

The hitchhiker doesn’t cease. Their replies and follow-up inquiries grow more personal; nothing quite specific enough to be concerning in the Probably-a-Stalker direction, but still things that hit home harder than they should, and harder than they should know to ask about.

But then, there are plenty of hints as to Ratchet’s lifestyle and profession strewn about his vehicle, and the kid doesn’t have to worry about focusing on the driving, can instead judge and observe.

Can he call them “kid”? He’s taken to thinking of just about anyone his junior as a “kid”, despite barely pushing forty himself, but this person seems both younger and far older than him at once. He settles on snapping back at them a “listen, drifter—”

Before he can finish his thought, he’s cut off by a raspy, wheezing laugh. “Damn close,” the vagrant says once they catch their breath. Ratchet hasn’t the foggiest what that’s supposed to mean.

They reach the hitchhiker’s intended destination just as dawn breaks. Ratchet rubs his eyes as the door clicks open. When he turns back to his right, the mysterious figure has completely vanished. Not a glimpse, no footprints, no trace left behind. Still no thank-you, either.

Even before he finally reaches home, Ratchet is convinced he hallucinated the whole thing, conjured this haunting presence up from a cocktail of unaddressed fatigue and guilt. At least it convinces him to finally use his vacation days, give himself some long-overdue rest.

A week and a half later, he finds a sword in his trunk.

Shea Longshanks – A human drug lord who has taken control of a wing of the prison and requires rent from others in his wing. He has a group of henchmen and acts as if he is a guard/warden.

Malcer Holden – A well-dressed half-elf necromancer who will not state why he is here. In return for information, he requires spoons, which he provides to his army of undead in hopes of digging his way out.

Zenbis Axor – A yellow dragonborn who will not speak to anyone she encounters. She possesses immense magical power but chooses to spend her days solitarily in her cell. Nobody knows the story behind her.

Durgar Steely – This dwarf holds an infinitely refilling beer glass and nobody in the prison has ever seen him sober. He is very friendly and can just about speak and walk normally.

Naroxius – The source of annoyance for much of the prison, Naroxius always manages to find a way to vandalize the prison. He has made clear that he will stop at nothing to escape, however all that he has managed to do is anger other inmates and staff. His current cell now consists of a wooden slab in the corner, after he fireballed his previous one

Argus Shatterhorn – A goliath and zealous follower of a crazed war god. He’s seemingly possesses an infinite trove of energy and vitality, laughing and preaching loudly despite being literally skewered to a wall in his cell. Nothing can shut him up short of magical silence, which he doesn’t seem to notice.

The Witch of Cretchreaver – A very polite sounding woman behind a foot of concrete and a metal door. She requests that you open the tiny hole so that she can get a look at you. She’s a medusa with her eyes pressed against the other side.

Slobfoot the Eloquent – An educated, well spoke goblin who tried to incite a political revolution. He gives a very deep, loquacious philosophical speech to the party.

Thaddeus Null – A blue dragonborn and self-proclaimed God. He doesn’t seem arrogant beside that, just comfortable and quiet. His followers are magically capable, morally bankrupt people who are trying to break him out as they speak.

The Rat – A wood elf who ratted out his bandit gangmates. Can’t be trusted, would sell their own brother for half a smoke. Nonetheless, they keep their eyes and ears open and know a lot about what’s happening in the prison.

Randy Shackleford- human, assailed a government agent with sand and authorities now cannot find his name on any records.

The Smuggler – A male gnome. He is the prison supplier who can find almost anything and smuggle it in the prison in exchange for the prison’s currency (smokes, food, etc.)

Daloriz – A blind vampire who overcame his sunlight sensitivity. He has blindsense, and his power is to the point where he can overwhelm most enemies. When spoken to, he is polite and mentions he has seen the future and knows he must wait here for the right time. Why is this vampire in prison? What is he waiting for? Who is coming? Up to the DM to decide.

Takaar ‘Two shields’ Alzurini – small time dwarf mob boss locked up for extortion and racketeering. He has boys on the outside planning to break him out.

Voracious Veronica – A cannibalistic human who is soft spoken. She claims she was a knight who resorted to ‘the worst sin of all’ when her position was under siege for months. Her skin is pale, her eyes are dull, and her gaze sends shivers up your spine. You’re almost certain she’s lying.

Gregor Brutalous – An imposing half-giant with jet black braided hair, dressed in clean formal clothing. He was a psychotic and incredibly powerful warlord, but years after his arrest insists he is trying to atone for his actions. He can easily escape (or so he claims) but refuses to leave as penance.

Marros Tarmikos – A merchant who was caught up in a bar fight with some religious fanatics. He knows a few secrets about the prison and seems to be a law-abiding citizen for the most part.

Gorgeous Gnurl – An orc pit fighter that lost his champion title to *insert NPC* and in a violent rage murders him and his entire team right there in front of the entire crowd.

Mordekai – Leader of a gang of wererats, he used his rats or ‘little friends’ to spy on people, and to blackmail them, or to sell their secrets to the highest buyer.

Torun Sacanti – This ex-palace guard was thrown in prison after he gave his friend a tour of the duke’s apartments. When asked why he is in prison, he will do whatever he can to distract the party from the question.

Tharon Ash – A Tiefling man who was kidnapped for a part in an infernal ritual but was arrested along with the cult when city guards caught them all. He will do anything short of murder to prove his innocence or escape.

Resh – This culinary master in orcish cuisine can barely speak a few sentences in common. Employed in the kitchen, he is known to sometimes get rowdy and confiscate the fingers of anyone who looks at him the wrong way.

Myrca Faro – Quiet and keeps to herself. She seems capable in many skills, decent in a fight, but is distant, mumbling to herself often, though what she’s saying can’t be heard. She was caught with her crew, but one of them testified against her. She doesn’t seem keen on reuniting since she doesn’t know who.

The Painted Claw – A charismatic rakshasa who enjoys gaining followers and leading them into a suicide pact. He is sending souls back to his master in the nine hells and he has been captured for now…

Habstrek the Painter – A former cart driver turned serial killer, she’s not getting out any time soon; she was captured during a time referred to in the local lore as ‘the summer of art’, in which she killed and drained the bodies of over twenty prison guards’ family members, apparently out of revenge for their extrajudicial killing of her apparently innocent husband, Algnir Half-Tusk. She’s fed via a wand charged with Create Food and Drink, as her cell door is welded shut. Guards hate her above almost all other prisoners, knowing she’d gladly turn her targets into further ‘paintings’.

Elgin Powell – charged with a dozen counts of kidnapping, he was a local mob boss’ favorite enforcer – with no bodies ever discovered, the families of his victims were denied even the peace of knowing that they were able to be contacted via necromancy. Reportedly, he kept his charges in a deep mine and they are, one and all, still alive, just shielded from scrying and blood legacy magic. Knows more about kidnappings than anyone local is likely to have ever considered.

Jimmy ‘Lumberjack’ Jackson – Woodcutter turned assassin. He was brutal, honest, and captured by the palace guards when they asked him to start signing his work; reportedly, he’s still working from inside of the prison, except his rates are infinitely more affordable. His signature weapon remains undiscovered – which is a neat trick, considering that it’s a massive war axe.

Anna – Kept in a dark room and bound with magic sigils, Anna is a deeply motivated, highly disturbed wandering killer, captured after a five-year hunt by professional adventurers; her modus operandi was to disguise herself as an orphan human child, infiltrate colonial outposts, and then systematically destroy food, water, and medical supplies, forcing the pioneers into madness, murder, and cannibalism. Rumors say that she’s responsible for the failure of two nation-states’ failure to expand their territories. She’s boasted she’d gladly take one another job, if freed.

Rankle the Bookkeeper – A master of puppeteering and palace intrigue, he went from entertainer to information broker in under a year; his spies consist of handmade puppets, each one capable of recording sights and sounds, he extorted vast amounts of funding from select projects and missions, lining his own pocket freely until he was captured under what many consider unusual circumstances. Some say that he did so to protect himself from the palace paladins and clergy, all of whom are above harming prisoners.

Coins and Pouch – Master forgers and loan sharks, these two brothers are a regular feature in the prison yard, dealing out loans with reasonable interest rates and obtaining rarities for other prisoners; it’s said that on the day they were brought into the prison, they presented a set of keys to a well-appointed cottage to the chief guard as a token of their appreciation. Ever since, they’re under protection and weekly payments continue to provide them with many creature comforts. Every year, on the anniversary of their incarceration, the guard that treats them the best receives a key to another cottage.

Aldac – Former adventurer, expedition guide, reformed arsonist, and now a leader of a prison yard ‘exercise group’, this monk is a dangerous person; some say that she’s building an army, others that it’s a cult, and nobody wants to test her in a straight fight since she crippled her last opponent in under ten seconds. Anything that requires focus and determination, she’s happy to offer her thoughts on, free of charge – provided that she’s shown proper respect first. Her sentence is for a triple life duration – tough luck for her, as her species is a long-lived one.

Thack – A monstrous human, he was a warlord by age fifteen, a respected bandit king at twenty, and captured during his attempt to seize the capital itself, turned over by his own command structure in exchange for lenient sentencing for war crimes. Passionate, charismatic, and mysteriously possessing a keen ear for music, he’s an example of what can happen to a Bard if they decide to turn war itself into a performance art. He’s making money through the writing of strategic, tactical and logistic guidebooks, periodically singing for the lost days of his misspent youth. He turns twenty-three in a month.

Rejoice-Cried-The-Kraken – Still living her best life, RJCTK is a priestess first, bandit second, and a model prisoner third, choosing to ignore her history of piracy and looting in exchange for running a small group of like-minded believers in the church she’s built in her cell; she served as a first officer on the flagship of a vast pirate fleet, choosing who lived and who was sacrificed to her deity, often by slow drowning or something that officials referred to as ‘hook dancing’. She makes a few extra coins giving nautical theme tattoos for fellow prisoners, each one a work of art worthy of a church’s stained-glass windows.

Prisoner #644 – Captured at the frontier, whatever it is, it’s only eaten six times in ten years, each time it was an unwary guard who strayed too close to the sealed cage covered in a thick burlap sheet. It hums at night, an eerie, unsettling event taking place only just before the onset of riots, uprisings, and acts of revenge on a wide scale inside of the prison. Recently, guards have reported that it has started to sing softly. Each of the Dead prisoners killed in the previous ten years are named, one by one, and it chuckled wetly when younger guards approach it.

Kishi the Kid – A 16-year-old changeling who attempted to steal the Crown Jewels. He’s stuck in solitary after using the persona of a guard to start a riot, and is well known for the many he’s started in the few months he’s been here

Cold Turquoise – The former cult leader of a Dragonborn pirate fleet. Will only talk in Draconian, and will give advice on how to operate a ship at a cost…

Henri Schum – Halfling Mafia-don. Used his resources and cutthroat approach to fund a smuggling operation on rare animals for collectors. Has 2 fingers missing on his left hand and has his ‘buddies’ rough up any new people who mention them.

Zarakos – Super beefy winged Tiefling. Brought in for attempting to rob a local bank and fly off with the loot, not accounting for the wizards that can cast Fly. Wings are always tied for obvious reasons. Not very smart, but very loyal. If you free his wings, he will follow you and your group until the end. Will carry and fly anyone that needs it

Kimnuan Shadestalker – Black kitsune assassin. She and her bard troupe would spread rumors about people so others would order hits on them. Specifically in for burning down a village after getting caught by the local authorities. If she can get access to her hands, she can summon a lute and cast spells to become invisible/incorporeal.

Binks Falkhorn- A scribe for 2 generations of very powerful wizards. Has not shown any criminal intent but is ordered to be imprisoned in solitary indefinitely after the wizard went mad and went on a killing spree, showing horrible power. His scribe is the last shred of evidence of the wizard’s work. It would be too dangerous to let the scribe roam free, but it would be foolish to kill him in case his knowledge became useful

Sparkler- A nine-year-old bronze half dragon who just wants to go home to her older brother. She was framed for a crime that she in no way could have committed. She is kept in a dark cell and is the favorite to be abused by the head guard. No knows her actual name because she rarely talks to anyone even when she is allowed.

Xnyxyh Halfheart – Channeling Chronurgy wizard without his spell book. He looks human and is locked up for various crimes. He will help anyone who can get him his spell book. However, if he gets it, he will finish becoming a lich. He does not care for anyone but himself.

Thornbull – an experimental warforged, who committed too many war crimes.

Thragg Jadewolf – half-orc spy. He looks like an ugly human. He is in prison for high treason. He infiltrated border settlements and opened the gates at night, sabotaged the defenses, etc., so the neighboring orc kingdom could conquer the settlements easily.

The masked man – this human wears a cursed mask, which he cannot take off. His crime: He is the elder brother of the current king.

The Wyrd Sisters – Three halfling sisters each identical except for different colored eyes, the Wyrd Sisters are prohibited from accessing the kitchen and mess halls, kept in solitary confinement from each other, and fed separately. This is due to their innate toxicity, their blood, saliva, and sweat producing an extremely toxic poison which when ingested, causes a terrifying and agonizing death in even small doses. They were arrested after their entire village was found rotting the next morning after drinking from the tainted well which they had poisoned. Rumors persist that their natural lethality came from a tradeoff with a powerful Demon.

Semaj Ironscreamer – An elderly Half-Orc Druid who has spent half his life in this cell. He was jailed after being involved in multiple eco-terrorist attacks on mining towns that had been dumping their industrial waste into the nearby rivers. Seen as a kindly grandfather figure by the other inmates and even some of the guards, Semaj is often the peacekeeper between those he can hear from his cell and dispenses wisdom to those who ask. Given the nature of his magic, Semaj is kept in an underground cell with no window and any visitors he receives will be checked for wooden objects and plant matter.

Azar – A former acolyte of the church who used his talents as a thief to steal back religious artifacts from wealthy aristocrats. Until one day he was set up by the Queen dowager to make it look like he was trying to assassinate her with the same knife she had killed her husband with. Is actually completely innocent of this particular crime, but with the weight of the crown bearing down on him his trial was anything but fair.

Vulmon Longroot – A 900-year-old High Elven Bard who was the very first prisoner ever put into this place. His crime? 800 years ago, he had been caught having an affair with all 11 princesses of the area and is actually the reason every member of the royal family has any access to magic.

Tybo the Mad Monk – An incredibly dangerous and violent martial artist who was known to wear the ears of his enemies that he killed in battle like a necklace. After a failed assassination attempt by one of his party members caused Tybo to go mad and kill his party, the Human Monk returned to his roots raiding ships along the coast before he was eventually captured and placed in prison.

Irving – he was just an ordinary peasant… until adventurers showed up in his life and destroyed it. After that he has dedicated his life to destroying them.

Dean Fisher – human. Scum landlord to good upstanding goblins. forgot to bribe a local official.

Greta Howitzer- A human horizon walker ranger who was once a famed demon hunter. But while hunting members of the cult of Baphomet, she lost her mind in Baphomet’s lair. She has the madness ‘The world is my hunting ground. Others are my prey.’ She now views all humanoids as demons and will go to any length to hunt them down. She was imprisoned after spending her money building a massive maze, kidnapping people, and hunting them down in the maze.

Dominic Halfcastle – Halfling, originally in jail for tax evasion, now known for being transferred due to the murder and consumption of multiple sentients, claims the ability to kill sentients with his mind, has displayed no actual psionic or magical power

Vestlev the Mad – War criminal of the highest order, he has been moved to a normal prison as a temporary holding place until a proper area is found. He looks old and disheveled but is a mastermind when it comes to the magical arts of evocation. From his cell can be heard incoherent babbling, but do not be fooled, he has escaped before.

Minkus the Feebleminded – Everyone knows it’s a mistake that he’s in the prison. He’s a real sweetheart if a bit soft in the head. Sometimes his cell glows at night though. Oh, and don’t let him tell you about his nightmares if he says you were in one…

Sir Jim Haggins – A true gentleman at heart, he wears his ragged suit proudly. He’s perfectly polite in every way. He doesn’t look kindly on the poor however, oh no. He detests the poor. So much so that his hunting lodge was full to the brim with human trophies when the authorities finally tracked down ‘the Slum-spree Killer’

Thiggund – This hairy brute is referred to by the only word he heads ever been known to utter. When the villagers of a small farming community found him by the road, surrounded by the brutalized remains of a merchant and his horses, Thiggund was arrested on the spot.

Unburned Barty – A slight man with an unassuming smile. He survived being burned at the stake without a single scar. He was moved into isolation after his cellmates kept killing themselves

Billy Pumpernickel – A gnome who is well known and loved in the prison, but actually committed a horrible crime. Everyone just goes with it, and other than the one horrible unforgivable thing, he’s just a pretty nice dude. Like ‘Hey, there’s Billy. Yeah, he mutilated a few kids, but only once. Nice guy.’ (Edit: This would just be hilarious when the players try to come to terms on how to treat him)

The Time Master – Real name, age, sex, & race unknown. (S)he exists 5 minutes in the future. The cell was locked, and an empty plate appeared with a note. The note had an explanation and instructions. ‘Please place a full plate inside the cell each time an empty plate is discovered. Failure to do so will create a paradox and subsequently release the prisoner.’

Elwe – An elf who walks through the corridors of the prison as if he was someone free, talks to the guards and other prisoners as they were friends. Says he is in prison due to stealing, is actually hiding from the king, who wants to kill him since he killed his father

Ozob – An old looking human with hair only on sides and a fire potion (Molotov) where his nose would be. Always angry. Whenever someone looks wrong at him, he says: you are so annoying I might sneeze.

Walks-Winding-Paths – A tabaxi shadow monk, she is kept in a fully lighted cell at all times, wearing glowing enchanted clothing. She is only fed by guards under a faerie fire spell, as otherwise they would cast a shadow which she could teleport into to escape. She will attempt to convince a party member to give her a cloak, bowl, or other object to block the light with.

Garth the Radiant – A paladin of the fallen angel Zariel. His guards are ordered to hit him every time they see him meditating or praying, as that would let him regain the spells, she grants him and summon his enchanted mace, Purity, to destroy his cell. If the party can bring him his weapon, or even give him ten minutes of peace, he will consider himself honor-bound to grant them a favor upon request. If their aims align with his, he might even fight alongside them.

Nibbles – Literally just a warlock cat.

Iydis Tyger-Eye – Former Guld Leader, she is high level Fighter and also a Were-Tiger. Killed the heads of other Were families, in an attempt to seize power and take control of the protection of the city, and its criminal underworld.

Rollins – Air School Elemental Wizard. Believes in Anarchy and Equality of all races. In jail for starting a revolution and killing the Queen.

Herman – Normal human who built Mythic Bracers of Shatter that are only attuned to him. Had used the Bracers to gain access and rob several small vaults. Then he was caught by an adventurer after going for heist to rob a merchant banker when he refused to harm others to escape with the goods. He refuses to teach/sell the knowledge of how to make the Bracers as he doesn’t want others to use it to harm someone.

Roscoe Tealeaf – A well-dressed halfling who smells of saffron. He brokers deals between prison factions. It’s no secret that he is trying to escape. He claims he was framed by a noble, or maybe arrested breaking into the noble’s vault. He’ll tell anyone who asks that the noble has a dangerous artifact. Roscoe is a lore bard that specializes in counter spell silence and general magic user shutdowns.

John ‘Musical Manipulator’ Green – Half-elf, in jail for making a whole court dance for hours on end to prove a philosophical point that the upper class will just do as they say to hold up appearances and are so comfortable in their wealth, they can watch it be taken away and redistributed.

Colin Green – human. John’s half-brother who supported him and helped with a second set up hands to pull off music. Tuomas Yurke – elf. the voice and magic behind all of this. Started to talk to John about these thoughts and with a few others began to flesh them out into a more concrete thought and into a sound. Loved by the low class, anticipated and loved by the upper class even though it is all a misunderstanding. The three of them are located at different corners and different levels of the prison so the music can’t come together and convince guards to open up cages. Mail comes from them from all over. 2 members of their group are still at large.

Vaelh’noo – Githyanki sorceress who once commanded a powerful fleet in the astral sea before she was captured in a botched raid. Her secret is that she allowed herself to be captured to escape the wrath of the lich queen, whom she plots to overthrow from the safety of her cell.

Quikiliar – A doppleganger (Rogue). Thrown into prison for impersonating a person of high authority, they’re known for frequently making their way into guard chambers by pretending to be one. They can get access to a lot of things if you ask for it, but almost always ask for some odd favor or trinket, usually personal, like a lock of hair or an image of someone loved.

Locke – Once a guard themselves, this warforged fighter was sent to jail after attacking someone due to a misinterpretation of their actions. Unfortunately, this was also another guard with good standing with the warden, who had them put in. They serve their time willingly but can be interrogated or otherwise convinced to disclose explicit info about the prison and its guard shifts and similar.

Breeze – An air genasi artificer, she was thrown into jail after selling several infused items for high prices and then the infusing a different item. Since then, she’s gotten in good favor with guards and other inmates by enchanting some magic items and plans to use these favors and connections to escape at some point.

Zaurok – A Goliath Barbarian, although he acts calm and meditates. Known for the rare outbursts, during which he flies into a rage after being provoked or possibly from being disturbed while meditating. The several escape attempts that’ve happened are from him simply breaking the jail bars. Since then, he’s been relocated to a cell made out of adamantine.

Slicer – Kenku cleric. Devoted to a god of trickery, they gained their name after a particular… Prank, on part of their god. Around the jail will often prank the various inmates but is also known to make distracting sounds at the guards at night. Likely to be able to convince with shiny objects to prank someone or create a distraction.

Color-of-Blood – An insane Tabaxi woman incarcerated for eviscerating several people. Can often be found singing quietly to herself songs usually about ‘meal preparation’. Is usually docile and doesn’t react to being talked to unless threatened which she may attack while loudly singing ’50 ways to skin a human.’

Reginald Mark – A mild mannered human male incarcerated for a chain of serial killings. He claims he’s possessed by a banshee, but no one believes him. His speech has a feminine undertone and his skin is cold to the touch. Those who threaten him are usually found in the morning choked to death with a horrifying look on their face.

Tee’vah – Tiefling rogue who doesn’t seem too upset to be there. If approached he will happily show off a copy of his wanted poster, listing crimes from arson to murder. Secretly a doppelgänger who is honestly just trying to provide for his family and have some fun. Can break out any time he wants.

The Dread Pirate Azuzula, Roger, and Primten – A Tiefling, an earth genasi, and an air genasi. Azuzula seems useless but the other two are competent sorcerers. Despite this they follow her words to the letter. In for piracy. Azuzula can’t spell and keeps ranting about her ship the Doom Squid. Will challenge people to fights.

Taryon Sandstone – A half-elf paladin who used to be a slave fighting in gladiator pits. After gaining his freedom, he vowed to fight for the freedom of other and became a powerful hero. After the tragic loss of a close friend, he went on an overzealous crusade against slavers, killing them and their family as well as anyone who had in any way helped them (ship captains, harbor employees, food/clothes/rope vendors, blacksmith, etc.)

Tilby Valenois – A gnome mage of sorts who has committed zero crimes besides somehow breaking into a maximum-security prison and… staying there? The security guards have tried to get him to leave numerous times but usually get charmed or subdued out of it magically. Nobody knows why the gnome wishes to be there, but he hasn’t been messing with the order of things much.

Adelai – A rather amicable young woman. Nobody knows for sure what she’s in for, but general consensus is that it involved a basilisk head and the water supply to a small town

Vass – A large orc man that was used as a phylactery for a lich. Vass has been hearing whispers of the lich in his mind and is slowly being possessed. He has started doing horrible things under the influence of the lich. Performing Magic’s that he has no right to know.

Endeer – A being that inflicts his victims with horrible nightmares in each of these nightmares a horrifying creature appears to the dreamer and offers them the opportunity to “Loose yourself from the chains of your labored slumber” if the dreamer accepts, they never sleep again as their mind descends in to horrible madness

Cultists of the Basilisk – These cultists are attempting to create the creature they worship a terrible all-knowing basilisk they know that they will be successful and that the basilisk will destroy anyone who knew about him and didn’t help create him so they only share their beliefs with those they deem helpful or worthy of death

Arnold Long – A half orc/elf, he looks like a giant of a human and seems pleasant to be around in a group of people. While it appears, he is a big stupid sweet teddy bear of a person, his record is full of brutal killings that may or may not have happened. The last killings were not too long ago after a prison gang isolated Arnold in the showers and bribed a guard to not interfere. Long story short, the gang WAS major player in the prison, now all of its muscle IS dead, and the guard went missing. Arnold is to be handled with care and kindness.

The ‘Statue of The Maiden’ – It looks like a statue of a naked elven woman that was bought by a merchant (deceased) from an artist (deceased) who sold it to a noble (deceased) for a gift to his wife (deceased) and children (deceased). All that is known is the statue moves when not observed and will eat and clean itself. It leaves flirtatious messages for the guards it likes and death threats to the guards it hates. The artist swore on their deathbed it was a mistake for them to create it but, this is the only place it has been stored where it does not kill thought it has maimed a few people who fail to respect it. Attempts to remove, destroy, or study it has been ‘unfruitful and unwise’.

Inspector Brundt – A beardless dwarf imprisoned for the crimes of tax evasion, swindling, theft, and gross debt. He knows how to get things and bribes the guards to get luxuries and messages through the prison walls.

Tur the Kobold – He seems stupid and harmless. Everyone assumes he’s just a patsy who took the fall for a bigger criminal. Occasionally, though, he lets something slip that only someone high-level in a criminal organization would know.

Axe Hands – A warforged barbarian who found great success as a military shock trooper, but also was involved in an incident where he dismembered a commanding officer. Sees prison as an ‘extended furlough” and is convinced he’ll be let out when the next war starts.

Clara – A human paladin. Recruited into the military, she was driven mad by the trauma of war and turned oathbreaker. Jailed for the same incident as Axe Hands, having used her healing abilities to keep their victim from bleeding out after being dismembered. Lives to see people suffer but remembers enough of her pre-oathbreaker life to maintain a kind, innocent facade when it suits her.

Harald Silverfinger – An elf wizard who sees humans the same way a scientist sees a bucket full of white rats; testing fodder. They’re close enough to elves to be useful for experimentation, but short-lived enough that killing them really isn’t a big deal. It’s rumored that the local guild is secretly helping him continue his work, using his fellow prisoners as test fodder.

Verdos – A dwarven female cleric. Believes she was morally just in murdering the children of a local village. Full of righteous anger. Judges everybody according to her own warped and insane moral code. Can often barely be understood. In maximum security for obvious reasons. Can offer a range of cleric services at prison prices.

Tabitha Binks – A Tabaxi Rogue. An orphan growing up on the coast, she quickly fell in with the Revelry pirates. Tabitha learned to use her claws as lockpicks and may teach other Tabaxi how to as well. She was caught at sea after ambushing a wealthy fur trader.

James the Changeling – A male changeling known for impersonating the guides and has so far escaped every prison he’s been in. He’s a new inmate already planning his escape.

??? – the cell appears empty, save for a stool. Could be they’re just using it for storage. But, then why does that stool make the hairs on the back of your neck stand up?

Ood – A very old, frail and nearly paralyzed Illithid who sits still in solitary confinement, his blind eyes wide open, and only blinks or changes his position once or twice per year. Said to have messed something up when attempting to become an Alhoon. Nobody knows why he’s there, but he occasionally sends nearly unintelligible telepathic riddles to the other prisoners. Rumor has it he has invaded the minds of everyone in the prison and lives vicariously through their dreams at night.

I'm trying and making arts of my kids using their magic. Here's Gýro's.

Gýro mostly just dodges and avoids fighting If he can. He's more likely to run away than engage combat.

If he does fights, he'll rely much on his ghosts and secondary magic type, Necromancy .

His Magic resembles wild fire for determination, it reacts to his emotional state and can and will become dangerous to the ones around him and sometimes himself should it not be well measured. Necromancy is dangerous, if a malicious spirit answers the call and sees the caster showing any weakness... *For that reason he often just calls animals.

It manifests itself in large amounts when activated, allowing him to either create the ilusion form of ghosts he calls upon, or summon his wings to make a run for it. The wings take a few minutes to be summoned if part of his magic power Is already gone - as in most battles - so he basically says 'screw it' and launches one or more ghosts to distract the foe 'til he's ready.

He's good with the scythe too, but avoids using it other than to amplify his magic because it's sort of Reaper's thing and he doesn't want that image for himself.

Can't hold on much in long-lasting battles as his attacks take way too much magic from someone with merely half a soul to provide it. Often just skips his turn to dodge or block.

Suited for long-rate combat -since his ghosts do most of the fighting - and short battles.

- also, If he summons too many undead or abuses his power beyond what he should, he'll likely pass out later.

Okay I will use proper grammar and punctuation if only for a brief moment. 

Head cannons, I've been thinking thoughts bitches. 

First one, origins of half the 'major' characters on the SMP. 

Philza and Kristen raised their three sons Techno, Wilbur, and Tommy in a seaside town that thrived off it's unconventional ways of farming and strong government. 

I'll get to Techno first. 

Techno is a hybrid. A boar pig human hybrid. He was not born this way. 

Techno is the firstborn of the three brothers. (I know everyone thinks this- I simply thought it was worth stating anyway.) He grew up farming alongside his parents and working at his father's construction business, but took a particular interest in sword fighting after viewing a public duel at a young age. This led to a fascination and slowly turned obsession with fighting. Every day spent not busy at school, working on his parents farm, working with his father, or spending time with his little brother, was spent halfway across town learning the brutal art of sword play. He's done a lot of things Phil and Kristen have never known about to date. Trained under several retired war generals, fought his way to the top of the cities underground fighting ring, run down several cartels in the city that threatened his family's safety. 

Let me retrace to Techno being a hybrid. I will not lie, this kinda turned into more of a very small fic than just stating my headcanon. But I figure you all wouldn't mind all that much, and it still covers all the points I'd thought of. 

Phil and Kristen only know half of what their eldest has been up to. They try not to question, so long as their son comes home at the end of the day they're fine with whatever life he decides to lead. 

Until the day he doesn't come home. 

He told them he'd be gone for three days. Not a week. A week passes and they start to worry. 

He left them with a sword and axe crossed over his back and a shield covering both weapons. He had something dark in his eyes as he said goodbye on the fastest horse he'd managed to breed. 

Phil hugged his son goodbye, apprehensive at the sight of two crossbows strapped to his arm. Kristen kissed his cheek and tried not to say anything about the glistening golden apples she saw in a bag on his horse's side. Wilbur didn't quite understand why his brother was leaving, but was scared when he noticed his brother had their father's armour carefully packed away with him. 

He left with a small smile and waved over his shoulder. 

Techno was missing for five months.

He came home a haggard and horrifying sight. A boar pig's skull covered his face. Dried blood flaked off the glowing bone, it wasn't Techno's. He wore a royal robe the color of crimson and a glittering golden crown atop his head. His ears were no longer something human, instead they were long and fuzzy and a pale pink, a near perfect match to that of a boar's. Several golden hoops were pierced into one, one of the holes looked ripped rather than pierced. Two long, sharp tusks grew from his bottom lip, seemingly completing the skull tied to his head. His hands were tightly curled around his horse's reins, long and unnatural nails digging into his palms, they looked more like hooves than nails. 

His horse was no longer living, every bone in the undead animal's non-existent body shone in the sunlight. A beautiful skeleton of a magnificent creature. 

He silently rode through his family's crop fields until he came upon the reliving sight of his home framed against a gorgeous ocean, there was someone sitting on the porch overlooking the fields. 

It was Philza. His head was in his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. The picture of a defeated and grieving father. Something told him to look up. Eyes the color of the deepest oceans fell on the sight of his son ten feet from him. 

Techno's shoulders were heaving from forcing his horse to sprint the final distance to his father. 

Phil stared. 

His son was home. His son was breathing. His son looked terrifying. His son's hair was bubblegum pink. 

Techno couldn't stand the distance anymore. He scrambled off his horse then ran and hugged his dad. 

Phil immediately wrapped Techno into the tightest embrace he's ever givin his son. For all but a few seconds, Phil relives holding his firstborn for the first time. If you asked him, he'd tell you there wasn't a difference between the first time he held Techno and when he came home. 

Techno takes a shuddering breath then pushes the skull off his head, letting it clatter to the ground with his crown so he can bury his face in his father's shoulder. 

That's where Kristen finds her husband and son, one crying silent tears of relief, the other biting his lip to keep his howls of sorrow at bay. 

She doesn't say a word. Kristen rushes to them and holds them both close. 

Techno could recognize his mother's presence anywhere, and promptly let out a pitiful sob at her touch. 

She shushed him gently and smiled when Techno took an arm from around Phil so he could hug both of his parents. 

They stayed there for a long time. 

Techno tried to tell them why he went missing. Why he disappeared. Why he doesn't look like their son anymore. But he couldn't muster more than a soft 'I'm sorry' before bursting into tears again. 

And that's the end of that. Well not really. I actually got inspired by this, and by demand of my family, I will be making a fic! I've decided that it's going to be released in chapters on AO3. I'll make an announcement with the tag #Kingdom Come to state it's release. :)

Well, that's everything my brain has been fixed on! I hope it was to all your satisfaction or enjoyment. Have a wonderful day/night!

@yeeted-into-the-multiverse

Here you go my new friendo! Thank you for beta reading for me. <3

@ichornsoot

Here you are Emrys, enjoy you lovely being. <3<3

NOTABLE MINERVAE

(Gold stars around their names signifies that they were part of Karenza’s “Chosen Ones”--aka: her most trusted confidants. In other words...the ones who know about her child.)

OVERVIEW

Minervae are a type of titan nymph. All minervae were once maenads, nymphs of spirit, but were transformed into their titan forms by Karenza, the Divine of Love. As titans, these nymphs grow in size, they become stronger and more intelligent, and the glowing crescent on their forehead opens into a full circle called an “eyespot” or “third eye”.

Through this third eye they can see things that most other peoples cannot, such as ghosts, auras, or even the future. Becoming a minervae grants these nymphs extraordinary powers, and it’s not a gift Karenza gives away frivolously. However, with great power comes great responsibility, and sometimes the burden is too much for even the strongest of minervae.

Though all minervae once served Karenza in exchange for her blessing, not all of them continue to serve her forever. Many go out into the world and use their new powers as they see fit, and not all of them continue to obey Karenza’s teachings.

There are only a few hundred minervae upon Looming Gaia. Some particularly notable ones are…

Destiny – As a maenad, she was known as Jubilee. Destiny was the first maenad Karenza ever transformed into a minervae. With her eyespot she can see into the future, and the future she witnesses is what shall be no matter what action is taken. She was one of the few Karenza chose to build the Trial of Titans. She later left Karenza’s company to become a researcher at the World Athenaeum, specializing in divinity and celestials.

Patience – As a maenad, she was known as Sweet Cheeks. Patience sought Karenza’s gift so that she could help the poor and unfortunate. Today she operates in one of Karenza’s many Houses of Love and Light, where she grows food for the hungry. She specializes in botanical magic.

Hope – As a maenad, she was known as Allura. Hope is a High Priestess of Love and Light. She oversees one of Karenza’s temples in the crime-riddled city of Taybiya, where she preaches Karenza’s teachings to all who will listen. While she preaches peace and love, she specializes in hazard magic—particularly pyromancy. She uses her fearsome fire spells to ward off hooligans.

Austerity – As a maenad, he was known as Dizzy. Austerity is the only male minervae on Looming Gaia. He was once a feminine maenad like any other, but asked Karenza to transform him into a masculine form as a minervae. His wish was granted, and along with his new form he gained a third eye that could see many possible futures. Today he spends half the year travelling between Houses of Love and Light all over the world, where he counsels the troubled. They can peer into his eyespot and see what their future holds if they continue on their current path, or learn what will happen if they take a different one. Austerity is also a master of transmutation magic, able to change others into any form they wish. When he is not traveling, he’s at home with his wife Prudence, another notable minervae.

Prudence – As a maenad, she was known as Melancholy. With her third eye, Prudence can see ghosts and other metaphysical beings that others cannot. She specializes in the art of necromancy and is believed to be the most masterful exorcist alive on Looming Gaia. If Prudence can’t dispel a spirit, then no one can. She is currently married to another notable minervae named Austerity. She spends half the year at home with her husband and the other half travelling around the world to clear haunted areas and dispel rogue undead.

Courage – As a maenad, she was known as Skipper. Courage can see into different dimensions with her third eye. She is a skilled teleportationist who can not only teleport across Looming Gaia, but into other these dimensions as well. She has an insatiable wanderlust and no fear of the unknown. She is credited for discovering many celestial dimensions, which have been recorded by the World Athenaeum’s research division.

Gratitude – As a maenad, she was known as Misery. Gratitude suffered much abuse and tragedy during her life as a maenad, so she wishes to use her powers as a minervae to make the world a gentler place. She is a talented witch who knows countless blessings and curses, and she bestows them upon anyone she feels is deserving of it. She may bless the meek or curse the malicious, but her intention is always to teach a lesson.

Honesty – As a maenad, she was known as Loud Mouth. As her name suggests, Honesty has no patience for lies and deceit. With her third eye she can see the truth, whether that means exposing someone’s lies or seeing their true form behind a disguise. She has made it her life’s mission to expose corrupt priests, politicians, and other powerful leaders. However, her efforts are not appreciated by everyone. The rich and powerful have launched many slanderous campaigns against her and have even tried to have her assassinated, yet Honesty still prevails. She specializes in telepathy, able to read the thoughts and emotions of others.

Justice – As a maenad, she was known as Vicious. Justice was among Karenza’s closest friends, and even served as her finest knight for centuries. She has since been promoted to Soldier of Love, and she has been sent out into the world to hunt down the wicked. Justice has removed her own eyes to blind herself, forcing herself to perceive the world with only her third eye. She cannot see what a person looks like, and so she cannot judge them based on her own prejudices. With her third eye, she can only see the quality of their hearts, and if she senses irredeemable wickedness, she swiftly disposes of them with one of many hazard spells in her arsenal. Fire, frost, wind, and electricity—Justice masterfully wields all of these elements and more. She’s a sworn enemy of Mercy, another notable minervae.

Charity “Asha” – As a maenad, she was known as Asha, which translates to “Beautiful Music” in Galsungi. Asha sought Karenza’s blessing because she wanted to use her great power to help the sick. With her third eye, she can see a body’s aura and identify problem areas, where there may be hidden wounds or lurking illness. She once healed plague victims and wounded soldiers, but after so many centuries of this thankless work she became depressed and burned out. She decided to abandon her lofty dreams and instead live a quiet, simple life as a private physician for Uekoro’s royal family, who she is still serving today. She decided to abandon her minervae name “Charity” and go back to “Asha” at this time. Asha can heal almost any ailment with her talents in curative magic.

Curiosity “Curie” – As a maenad, she was known as Joy. Joy was the last maenad Karenza ever transformed, and so she remains the youngest minervae on Looming Gaia. Shortly after becoming a minervae, Curie saw something with her third eye that struck dread into her heart. To this day no one knows exactly what she saw, for she immediately drove an iron spike into her eyespot to stop the vision, causing herself massive brain trauma in the process. Curie survived the incident and is still alive today, though she refuses to remove the spike from her head and becomes violent when others try to remove it for her. She has since fled Karenza’s company and is occasionally seen wandering the world in a wretched state, twitching and muttering gibberish to herself. Karenza is deeply ashamed of this tragedy and has since refused to create any more minervae, fearing another may meet the same fate. Some theorize that Curie had seen her own death or perhaps the end of the world, but no one really knows for sure.

Mercy – As a maenad, she was known as Cadence. Mercy has served Karenza for a very long time, but at some point the two had a falling out and Mercy left her company to serve Looming Gaia her own way. Unlike Karenza who believes the wicked are best destroyed, Mercy believes no one is beyond redemption and refuses to kill or harm anyone, no matter how evil they may be. With her third eye, she can see the good in even the most despicable of people. She takes a pacifist approach and tries to conquer hate with love and understanding rather than violence. While she does not succeed 100% of the time, she has still disbanded many hate groups, turned terrorists towards peace, and has even stopped wars with her gift of diplomacy. She constantly butts heads with Justice, another notable minervae.

 *

Questions?

Masterpost

*

d&d questions 1, 2, and 31

answered 1 & 2 here, but i'll do em again! because there's too many dang customization options!

1. What do you think your d&d race would be? mmmmmm maybe a shifter? mostly human but also not

2. What class? rogue, sneak sneak sneak

31. Tell me about your current party!

CRACKS KNUCKLES

i got two main parties so I'm talking about both!

PARTY 1: ORDER OF THE CHEESEWHEEL

Irezumi: Drow Rogue, my character. Chaotic good, not always great at perceiving things but she found a cat once. Kept the cat, his name is Cheese Wheel. Loves being on the surface, loves greenery. Still reminisces about the Underdark.

Velria: Human Barbarian. The youngest of our party at 17, she ran away from her noble family for adventuring. Likes girls, and likes carrying around a whole armory of weapons on her back.

Reina: Halfling Sorcerer. Came from a cult, had an adventuring party before ours but whatever happened to them isn't clear. Often mistaken for a child due to her size.

Solar: Dragonborn Monk. Raised by his father, but they were attacked by worshippers of Tiamat. In the second session of the campaign he bought as many cheese wheels as he can carry, hence why our party likes cheese so much.

Haddock: Kobold Rogue/Fighter(? Teck if you're reading this correct me if I'm wrong). Was part of a criminal organization once, now adventuring. They're missing an eye, and once had a kenku alchemist fashion sunglasses for themself. Unfortunately the kenku put explosive runes on everyone's sunglasses.

Sylyras: Winged Elf Ranger. Haven't seen much of her as of late bc scheduling conflicts but she and Irezumi are homies.

Volurk: Half-Orc(?) Druid. Like Sylyras, haven't seen much of him, but he turned into a wolf once. That's cool!

Zoltai: Aasimar Warlock. They're a researcher into everything and I respect that so much. Loves books. Once flirted with a vampire to keep her distracted despite being thoroughly uninterested (by aspect of being aroace).

AAAND some out of context OotCW art:

Left: Irezumi reference. Right: Irezumi art, she has a hood up, snake tail and flowers tattoos on the top of each arm, is holding a damascene dagger of frost, and has Cheese Wheel, a black cat, on her shoulder.

Haddock destroying the last two members of a group of enemy mercenaries we fought. Haddock iconically stated, "I'm not done with you yet."

Solar catching and returning lightning from a magic javelin in the same encounter as above. He's also krumping.

Solar emoji. He is looking(tm).

PARTY 2: THE OVERGROWTH CAMPAIGN

Sybil of Hvallatr: Merfolk Bard, my character. Has a cool crown that he can talk to that definitely isn't evil. Started off pretty chill, if up for anything. Now he murdered a man in cold blood and has become a lich (the lich part isn't that big a deal, everyone in the party is trying to transcend humanity so we can go back in time).

Theran: Elf Rogue. His stealth rolls regularly roll above 30. Often sneaks past time itself. Sybil got to turn him into a Therannosaurus once. Got turned into an angel, but the god who angelified him isn't exactly a friend...

S'vatu: I don't know her actual race, but catgirl Bloodsight Cleric. Answers to the luck god Kane. Not really sure if it's worshipping though because Kane just hangs out with us. Anyway she died once but came back to life, and this was before she was in our party. Recently became a lich, got tired of being undead, and has become a fully robot catgirl.

Kal: Human Hexblade Warlock. Was sent on a suicide mission during his time in the army, where everyone but him died. Still keeps his morals, also took out a dragon summon that was at 3/4ths health in one hit. Has magical armor on his very being that protects him from divine magic, *except* for his eye. This armor should also let him time travel as long as he covers the eye with lead.

Henry Moon: Idk dude they were here once because the player switched their Owlfolk Cleric to play this guy but I haven't seen him in session since. I do know he is the Horseman of Death though, and he's helping us because the current world ending threat isn't supposed to be the apocalypse.

All my other sketches of these guys are buried in various Krita files, but I do have Sybil art:

I'M SO EXCITED FOR THE MAGICAL GIRL CAMPAIGN THAT IM IN WITH GIL AND JAY THOUGH i get to play a harengon which will be so fun!!

There's also another campaign that was ehhh. but I did play a tiefling wizard (who im repurposing for a cyberpunk oneshot) and the only other party member i remember was the ace half elf bard who liked coffee!

If These Walls Could Talk (Ch4)

Fandom: Castlevania Netflix

Summary: Vampires do not have reflections, and castles do not have hearts. But Dracula is no ordinary vampire, and Castlevania is no ordinary castle. If castles can fight, maybe they can think too.

The series, and Adrian’s childhood, told from the perspective of the castle.

Chapter Summary: “He’s gone mad. And from that, there is no recovering him…It’s a tragedy…He could’ve changed the world. I think he might have, if Mother hadn’t died. “She’d sent him out into the world. That’s why he wasn’t there when the bishops took her…She sent him to travel… “Imagine if…the religious inquisition hadn’t proved true all of his worst instincts about humans.” “And now he’s going to use her death as an excuse to destroy the world.” “Oh, the world will still be here…But you will not be here…None of you…There will only be Dracula and his war council, and the hordes of the night… “Imagine it. A world without humans, under endless invented night. And Dracula in his castle, his revenge so horribly complete that there is nothing left to do but look out over a world without art or memory or laughter and know that he did his work well. That he did it all for love.”

Notes: I decided to capitalize "Castle" and "Room" from now on (and I will go back and capitalize them in early chapters at some point), because that was an easy way to make things clear for later chapters.

Also, I don't usually like to step out from behind the curtain and ruin the magic, but I wanted to make things clear here, since I thought maybe they started to get confusing...the Castle and Room aren't actually talking, and they don't have some human form somewhere...I just wanted to describe them more human-like the more the fic goes on, the more human they're becoming, in a way.

Comments and reblogs are greatly apprecated!! Thank you for the support!!

Chapter 4: “Empty”

The Castle doesn’t like the idea of its master going away.

They have been inseparable for such a long time now; the Castle has bent and broken and been Dracula’s castle for centuries. Its master leaves every once and a while, and he visits the woman’s home. But weeks, to months, to years without him is too long for a mirror to be apart from the thing it reflects. This is a vampire’s castle and Dracula is that vampire; he must stay inside its walls, in the cold and the dark, lest he burn. This is Dracula’s castle, and Dracula must stay within its halls. If he doesn’t…what is Castlevania after all? Just an empty tomb. A shell of something that was once living. A broken toy on the playroom floor, left there to start its dust collection after the child grew up.

Dracula never has to leave, for the Castle can take him wherever he wants to go in a flash of lightning and a rumble of dust and thunder. The idea that Vlad would travel the world like a man, all alone in the light, without his Castle, his shroud of darkness, isn’t right, to both of them, at first.

Hasn’t Castlevania done enough for its master? He is not like the boy, who needs to walk in the day. All he needs are these walls, the blood, and the night.

The woman has a way with persuasion. This was part of the trade, after all, Castlevania remembers. Dracula gave Lisa undying knowledge, and she took the immortal beakers and books—a part of Castlevania—out into the world to ‘do some good.’ (The Castle wasn’t sure quite how that worked, but she did have a knack for making good out of the patchwork pieces of evil.) It is Vlad’s turn to be given a piece of her mortality to take inside.

Lisa assures them that, just as Adrian came back more alive than ever, this will be a better form of life for Vlad too. He will have to be more careful; to stay out of the sun, to ask to be invited, to wear traveling cloaks, not royal robes, to temper his thirst, and be patient with humanity—(just as she has been with him)—but in the end he will come back clothed in gold, and it will all be worth it.

Castlevania wishes it had human hands to hold onto him, but all it has are cold stones, and mechanical bones; it cannot keep him within its walls forever, without collapsing.

Dracula kisses them goodbye with hope in one hand, promises in the other, two rays of sunlight ever in his heart, saying he’ll be back.

And he doesn’t come back that night. That morning. The next.

When Adrian left, the Room understood the meaning of the words ‘I miss you.’ It realized what it was to be empty—that is, in that it was once once full, and was missing something. After all those years, Castlevania too finally understands the true meaning of all those words once used to describe it: ‘lonely,’ ‘dark,’ ‘cold,’ and ‘empty.’ It was those things, it never felt those things itself before.

Dracula may have been cold and dark and undead, but he brought life of a sort to the Castle. He made it breathe, its heart beat. Just his footsteps in the halls was a comfort, a kind of music—be it mechanical and half-dead. And finally he talked to the walls. ‘Emptiness’ for it is was an adjective, not a noun; it was an outfit it wore, not a feeling etched deep within the walls in a place no one could ever really touch.

It didn’t know what it was like to lose your purpose, what a hopeless existence it is for a mirror to be without a reflection.

The Castle doesn’t know if it ever breathed, but it thinks it understands the breathlessness the Room must have felt without Adrian. It is big, and rich, and intricate…and hollow. It’s like there’s a hole somewhere deep inside it that cries to be filled, and can never be as long as its master is away.

But we are not alone, says the Room.

It looks up and remembers this is true; Adrian remains. Their boy. The boy who belongs to its master, the woman, and the Room together. And Castlevania likes to think he belongs to it too, in some way. The boy for whom that death-defying Room exists. The boy who stole patches of sunlight when his father wasn’t looking, who cried when when no one was listening, who brought books, toys, and drawings, lonely vampire kings, and old decrepit castles to life.

It feels cold and dark, dead and empty…until Alucard opens the windows.

The Castle is thrown into a pool of gold, and the sensation is jarring; the switching of states, temperatures so fast. Such a drastic change so quickly isn’t all right with Castlevania, especially when it is so different from how its master always dressed it. It is Dracula’s castle, that piercing, dripping stain that no light enters. It shouldn’t go out in colorful garb, it just isn’t fitting. Though perhaps the jarring change is ultimately less painful than dipping each room in slowly.

It’s that same tail-pulling sensation from when he was a boy. Except this is much worse, because it’s the whole Castle—its entire form—and he never closes them. Before it was just the Room, and the Room is a part of the Castle, so the Castle could feel its burn, but it was dulled there. When he opened the door to the Room, the light slithered out, its scales doused in poison, leaving a stinging trail as it went. But its cage was always in the Room; its venom didn’t remain in the Castle’s veins forever. Now there is no barrier between the Castle and the light, no home for the sun to crawl back to. It has been let loose, and the stones are soaked in venom, like needles all over the Castle’s body.

Its existence is now drenched in sunlight. Before long it becomes like how they painted the Room so long ago, it is a fact of life—at least while Alucard reigns, and the Castle looks completely different dressed in morning sunrise.

The sting begins to fade; the Castle becoming immune to the poison. And, after the pain ebbs, the Castle can look at itself objectively, and thinks somewhere deep beneath its walls, in a place it would never share, that maybe this change is not a bad thing.

The Room breathes deeper than ever before, enough to laugh. Grinning it turns to the Castle, as if saying Feels good doesn’t it?

Castlevania looks away.

There was so much it didn’t notice about itself before. The gold on the carpets shimmers, it knows now that mirrors glitter, and how much dust was on the bookshelves—(Adrian is sure to brush it off)—it knows now why others put pictures on the walls; because the stones are so bare and uninteresting in the light, and the fires are such a aggressive light and heat compared to the soft blanket of warmth over the world, like snowfall transforming all.

It knows now why humans like to go out during the day.

It is a different kind of life. It isn’t like the science Vlad used to make it breathe and beat. This is softer, quieter, warmer. Less mechanical more…real. It doesn’t mean Vlad’s method of bringing it to life was bad or wrong, nor that Alucard’s is good, or right, it’s just different. And maybe different is okay for now.

The boy looks different too.

Adrian’s features are illuminated, his expressions dance in ray and shadow, his hair is like liquid gold draining across his shoulders, his eyes flicker and dance like candlelight.

And he doesn’t burn.

Adrian reads books in the sun, and he practices magic and sword in the sun, he drinks tea and wine—not blood—in the softly lit kitchen, polishes the shelves, makes sure everything works properly, and sits on the balconies and lets the wind brush through his hair, all in the sun, in the sun. Sometimes he leaves to go outside, into towns, to get rid of a monster or two, but mostly he leaves to visit his mother. Even when he does, the world is left in a satisfied glow.

His golden hair and eyes are no longer a bright spot on a dark canvas, but a reflection of his universe. His parents may have built his universe long ago, but he has spread his Room throughout Castlevania, conquered the multiverses around him, claiming them for his own, until the Castle doesn’t know which of them is which anymore.

The gold dripping through the halls reminds the Castle of that word from long ago, the one used to describe the baby in the painting: “happy.” It may be a pale echo of the world back then, when all three of them there, but the Castle is well versed in the world of reflections, and knows there is a world in which they don’t exist, and an echo may not be the real thing, but it will satisfy as a substitute.

Those times are quiet, with fewer raids, fewer pitchforks, shoutings and fires, because people like Alucard. They didn’t like Dracula, but Alucard is not Dracula. And Castlevania could enjoy the excitement…but the quiet is nice for a while.

Even so, the quiet does remind it of what, who, is absent. The Castle misses its master. The boy, the sun, the change, may help, but that fact will always remain at the back of its consciousness. There will always be some emptinesses that cannot be filled with substitutes. It misses its master, wants him to come back. Even so, it thinks it may be able to last a few months longer in the sun. Until Vlad returns, at least.

And he does.

Dracula does return. And when he does, he is not the same. But not in the way they were expecting; he does not arrive full of life, spreading his newfound spirit throughout the halls—as Alucard’s glowing return made them anticipate. He doesn’t come with a new name and tales of how he defeated monsters and made friends, he doesn’t return with a new perspective, and a handful of smiles. He returns, but it’s almost as if he still hasn’t. He is more dead than Castlevania has ever seen him. As if the sun burned him after all. But it burned something deep beneath his skin.

There is no joyful banquet of welcome. He does not kiss their cheeks, hug them and whisper into their ears I missed you so, my Castle, my Sunlight. He does not come bearing gifts for his son, nor decorations for his Castle, from afar. He does not sigh and say it’s good to be home and remember his purpose.

Castlevania may not have ever breathed, but there was something like it when Vlad was here. He brought it to life somehow. Castle’s cannot speak but it felt they had a way of communicating somehow. Mirrors cannot speak either, but we hear their words all the same. But Dracula doesn’t talk to the walls anymore. And he cannot hear his Castle’s reply.

He marches in all too quickly, a purpose in his stride. But it’s not a fulfilling purpose, like that of the Room, nor a reflective purpose, like that of the Castle, rather it’s the emptiness before. Emptiness, yes… but not like before. Not the adjective, the outfit from his previous reign, not the noun, the feeling from when he was gone, instead it is a verb; it is something active. It’s more than just a lack of something; something grew, came alive in and of the lack. It’s a hungry emptiness, like the humans’ fire set to swallow everything deemed unworthy. The Castle has worn emptiness before, but this is different…or maybe it is different now.

Vlad left as a man, walking on his own feet, taking the slower path, but he comes back as a vampire, teleporting in a flash of flame, forgetting that he has legs that would like to carry him to distant lands, and hands that would like to touch the world, and eyes that would like to see the scenery.

The once light-laced windows shutter at his arrival, the curtains slam shut, as if the Castle got a chill at his footsteps. As if they were doing something wrong, and had to shut it down as fast as possible. Every single one of them shivers, closes, dares not refuse their master.

All except the those in the Room. Those in the Room do not shudder or shut down. Dracula is not their master. They will not obey. They cannot do much to protest the night, but they will do what they can; they will stand open and unafraid of the dark.

Castle’s can’t get slapped in the face, but if they could, this is what it probably would feel like.

Coming home without the home in his heart…like Castlevania isn’t home for him anymore.

They were learning how to change together; its master was supposed to return full of life. Together they were meant to feel the light’s sting, together they were meant to learn to live in it. To see the true state of their world, without the darkness to cover it up. Instead he came back empty, all that life he gained while Lisa and Adrian were here used up, stolen away from him by a cruel world. The Castle wasn’t worried about the humans ransacking what little light existed in Dracula, as they feared with Alucard—surely Vlad could only gain, he did not have enough in him to lose.

Castlevania understands now what it should have done; it should have collapsed all its walls to keep him inside.

It is far worse to know the light, and have it snatched away, than to only know the dark.

The Castle would be happy to at least have its master back, regardless if the experiment succeeded…But it isn’t sure it does.

Dracula has been angry before, but anger was a thing to take outside and deal with, not bring inside. The Castle is, for the most part, a quiet, soft place for him to spend his time, to contemplate, and learn, to experiment in, not to brood in rage. Rage was for the outside world. Inside may have been cold, dark and empty but it was serenity.

The darkness and the cold and the death this Castle once transmitted are no longer a radio station to be changed with the flick of a dial. These qualities have infected Dracula’s very being, it seeps out of him with every waxing and waning footstep, it oozes out of him as he sits in his study—no longer in quiet contemplation, but an unrest that is so loud it resonates perfectly with everything Castlevania is made of. It resonates so perfectly it reminds Castlevania of everything it once was when the vampire king ruled, tuning, turning it back into something that cares not for the color gold, and the discrepancies between its existence then and now melt away into before. It resonates perfectly with everything Castlevania is made of…and it thinks it just might shatter.

—(And maybe that would be a good thing, because it would let the light in. Maybe that’s the only way to let the light in now)—

The emptiness the Castle was before, the emptiness the Castle felt when Dracula first left has swallowed its master, and Dracula is now not a thing to reflect, but a negative space on the pages, a black hole that takes in all light and life and devours it. He walks in, not as its master who brought it to life, returning that life to the emptiness, filling those places the light still couldn’t reach, those places ever missing him… but as an empty shell that cannot fill anything, and only makes them all emptier they longer they look at him.

Dracula has been undead before. But that was undead; not quite alive, not quite dead either—and he could swing to either side. This is different.

With one swipe he rips off all the gold the Castle wore just yesterday like thieves in the night, leaving it broke and naked on the highway, and such a drastic change so quickly sends it lying on the floor in shock, one question dying on open lips, tears draining down its cheeks:

Why?!

When he left so full, what could have taken all that away? What could have taken away even what little life he had before it all? Did the world chip away at him slowly, or was it one event that kidnapped his life? What, who did they need to destroy?

Then, as Dracula marches into the library with the big broken mirror, and talks to a crowd of humans with tongues of a fire, it learns:

It is the woman. The woman who knocked on the Castle door all those years ago with the pommel of her knife. The woman with the soft hands and the defiant heart. The only human who was sweet in more than taste. Lisa, who brought sunlight into the darkest reaches of the Castle.

Vlad’s wife has been taken from him.

Dracula’s life has been taken from him.

The sanguine nature of humanity. Their penchant for setting things on fire. The ravenous nature of those flames. Vampires are known for being bloodthirsty, but the Castle always knew their thirst never compared to that of humanity. Vampires are known for catching on fire but she was never turned, and did she need to burn?

The world has taken the woman, and, worse, its master’s life away, and the Castle is more than willing to go to war for it. It agrees humanity must die for such a crime.

Hating and blaming the world, the humans who once scratched at the doors and howled at the moon is better than facing the thing deep inside Castlevania that tells it it’s all its fault. All its fault for letting her take pieces of it outside.

After all, it was the parts of Castlevania—the beakers and books—which she took outside to help people, to ‘do some good,’ which got her killed. So maybe its master is right that they can’t be helped. Maybe there isn’t any good in the world after all.

But something is still here. The Room says, once again. Someone.

Yes, she brought life into this place, and much of that life would leave with her. But have you forgotten that there is a life that cannot be taken away with her? That they created life within your miserable walls and that life, well, lives? Remember that a piece of her is still here, and you don’t have to pretend death is all that’s left.

The Room sees that the boy’s father is cold, and dark, empty, and dead. But unlike the Castle as a whole, for which these words are outfits to wear, facts of life, the Room has learned these are problems, and there are solutions to them. Solutions which the boy can enact.

He is dark. Observes the Room.

It ponders what to do with dark things.

So open a window, it tells Adrian. Let the sunlight in.

The Room’s window has always been open, and it does not know the flammable nature of full-blooded vampires. But starlight is a kind of light too.

He is cold. Observes the Room.

It ponders what to do with cold things.

So hold him. It tells his son. Like he did for you, all those years ago, when you were a tiny, bawling thing.

He is dead. Observes the Room.

It ponders what to do with dead things. The Room sits and thinks and begins to despair, for it does not know how to bring the dead to life.

The Castle takes a deep breath, and finally speaks up;

You opened the windows and cast the darkness away. It tells Alucard. You let the sun in and warmed my halls.

So take that gold, form it into a cloak, and dress him in it. Teach him what your universe looks like, what I looked like, when you were here.

Take him by the arm, and walk with him out into the stars, call them by name, like he, you and your mother did, long ago.

Go to him. Hold him. And don’t let go.

Lisa brought life to this place. You are the life they created. You are their legacy. You are the one life her death cannot take away.

If you can do that for me, if you can bring this old, wretched castle to life, you can reanimate your father too. All you need to do is remind him that you are here.

The Castle hopes, somewhere in the back of its mind it dreams, he can still come back to life. It is his reflection, after all; surely what worked for the Castle can work for Dracula.

But…it is his reflection, after all. And as Alucard marches through the halls, and while the Room continues to urge the boy to go to his father, the Castle digs its nails into its palm until it bleeds, biting back against the anger bubbling inside it even so, knowing that war cries cannot be rewound so easily.

The boy answers their call, though maybe not in the way they expect. No…it is better than some loving display.

He does not open the windows, but he does open a door, and when he walks in, his face is barely visible, not because it’s dark, but because he is draped, surrounded in light, like the sun itself is behind his decree. The light has followed him from his room, slithered along the halls, and formed itself into wings on his back. His tone is firm and defiant, and as he confronts him, Lisa’s voice rings through the halls.

And the Castle understands now that light, warmth, and life, no matter how much they seem so, are not soft, not weak. They are violent, and they burn.

Alucard opposes all the war, the blood, the revenge, proving once and for all that the Room has reached him, fulfilled its purpose. And his words—while Dracula’s drip with rage, like the blood down his fingers—are filled with the same I-know-what’s-good-and-I’m-not-leaving-till-it-comes-out his mother’s words were once laced with. Echoing behind every sunstruck syllable is his mother’s I want to save people.

And they understand at last that rooms aren’t the only things with purposes.

Dracula has been undead before, but this death is different; this is more than a living death, death is a living thing in him.

Death has its strings wrapped around the vampire king’s wrists, plugged into his chest. This war, the cold, the death, and the emptiness, are all he wants, all he is now.

The Castle’s consciousness thrashes between the two sides; between Dracula’s black anger and Alucard’s golden hope.

And anger wins.

The Castle is used to being spattered with blood, but when the boy’s—

—Adrian, who laughed, who played pretend, and showed them what ‘happy’ was, Alucard, the reverse of Dracula, who let the light in—

—blood is spilled by its master, the boy’s father, the one who created him and his light-strewn world, who laughed, and played with him, and painted the walls, and walked amongst the stars, who should know more than anyone he is worth listening to—

Castlevania thinks it might not like the cold, the dark, the empty, or the blood at all anymore.

The red stain is an unbearable itch it’s hopeless to scratch. The blood burns like acid on its floors, a brand of this war, this death, this emptiness burned upon its flank, as if making it remember its original purpose and habit, and who it is meant to obey. It wants to collapse on the floor, to writhe and scream and clutch at the place where it hurts.

But castles do not cry. They do not scream. They do not ache.

It can only be a reflection, can only do what its master wants; be an instrument of war. That is all. It can only obey, and try to remember what it liked about the color black.

Alucard—still alive, thank whatever gods might be out there—cannot stay in these blackened halls anymore, and neither can the sunlight. When he leaves, he takes with him all the things he brought inside.

Dracula shuts the door to the Room; he hides the walls he painted, the toys she stitched, the stars they gazed at, the books they fell asleep to together, and the window where the boy danced in the light, like he’s playing peekaboo; if he covers his eyes, the outside world will stop existing…or in this case, the inside one. As if it lying dormant will allow the emptiness to swallow it, and it to become a part of the Castle again. As if he’s trying to forget the very life he’s going to war for. Like he can silence his own heart, tell it that it doesn’t, doesn’t, doesn’t beat anymore. He hides the only pocket of heaven that ever existed in his finely crafted hell, and tries to pretend that there was never any laughter, any light here, and they can all forget what it was to be happy.

The Castle wonders if this is what it feels like when people try to lock away the best parts of themselves because they ache.

But the Room has become something more now. It has always been different, separate. It was never just not-cold, not-dark, not-empty, not-dead. It was not a negative. It was warm, light, full, and alive. And that doesn’t just go away. Its very existence defies being swallowed. It has always protected the thing inside it against the blood and the dark and the death, and it cannot, will not, accept them now. It enjoyed playing make-believe with the boy, but this isn’t pretend, imagination, the Room knows what is real, and this is a lie, and the Room will not stand for it, will not accept the thought that it never existed, never held any sunlight, that there was never any laughter here. It is alive, and it can only sleep, not retreat back into a state of nonexistence. It is not dead, and will not just sit still; it shivers in the cold and the dark. It may be lonely without the boy, but it will not just sit there in silence, or else get down on itself, quietly mourning the boy’s departure, thinking there is nothing it can do. It knows Alucard is coming back. The Room has grown up, and it doesn’t fear its master is gone forever when he leaves for a while. Its master will return, and when he does, he will fight. He will oppose the cold, the dark, and the death again, this time stronger. So no, it is not empty, just uninhabited.

And Dracula knows this. Dracula knows he cannot let the Room have a single second to breathe, because if it does, hope might just come back. So he wraps his claw around the Room’s throat and squeezes.

And it hurts. Far more than the sting of sunlight, Castlevania knows how much the Room hurts. Because, though they are separate, the Room will always be a part of the Castle. The light’s sting may have hurt, but it was passive, the side effect of medicine. This is an active, hateful, and sick. The Castle may have winced at the light’s bite. But the Room squirms within, and grapples at his grasp, fight alight, life and rage blazing in its eyes, locked on Dracula.

The books cough until their lungs bleed, the toys whine until their voices break, the drawings beat against the walls they’re upon until their skin rips open, the stars twinkle until they can’t open their eyes, and the the painting of that child in the arms of his mother and father, ‘happy,’ hangs limp on the wall with its tongue cut out. The Room burns in the middle of the Castle.

I won’t forget. Castlevania says fervently, shaking its head. I won’t forget Lisa. I won’t forget Alucard. I won’t who they were when they were together. I won’t forget what it was to be happy. I won’t forget who I was in the light. I won’t—

But Dracula rips them apart, the door shuts, and their connection dulls. The Castle’s own heartbeat begins fading.

The Castle gets frostbite, goes numb in the cold. It starts to go blind in the dark. The emptiness starts to rot its chest. Something in it dies.

Castles do not have hearts, but Castlevania wonders if this is what it feels like when one breaks.

And the Room suffocates.

LOVE LIKE THIS | MILO & METZLI

PLACE: Metzli’s Apartment TIMING: 8:20 PM SUMMARY: Grappling with his feelings of loneliness, Milo decides to confide in Metzli WRITING PARTNER: @deathisanartmetzli CONTENT WARNINGS: Addiction tw (brief mention of an intervention)

Milo was never sure how much blood Metzli kept in their apartment. And for numerous reasons, he felt it was better not to ask. Given their history together, Metzli might think he was being controlling, or refusing to trust them when it came to maintaining a healthy diet. But he also didn’t want to give the impression that he was eager to deplete their precious stash. It was why, as he knocked on the door to their apartment, he was grateful for his own stash, and the two blood bags he had slipped into his backpack before making the journey to see his friend. He still felt strange after their conversation. Even over text, being honest, and open could be emotionally draining. It was almost as though now that he had finally, in a way, said the words out loud, it was impossible to deny them. Impossible to ignore the aching in his heart, the longing for something that was so out of his reach. Rubbing at the marks on his throat, evidence of the trauma that was causing him so much turmoil, he did his best to repress his emotions. Metzli had invited him over to comfort him, he knew that much, but that didn’t mean he needed to dwell on why. “Metzli- it’s me, I mean you already know it’s me. I don’t know why I said that. Just- open the door?” 

“Door’s unlocked!” Metzli yelled from the kitchen, finishing up making Yuca’s dinner. She was meowing in excitement, trotting around in circles as if to try and hurry their owner along. “If only you knew how spoiled you are, chiflada.” They smiled at her and led her into the living room where her food perch was. Leaping up, she completely ignored the familiar visitor walking in  to focus on her food.  

Metzli had a few movies picked out for the night, and of course, as they had mentioned, there were the signature Hispanic blankets with tigers on them. They were incredibly soft and always made them feel so comfortable and cozy. Nothing matched the impeccable designs or craftsmanship. “Pick out what movie you wanna watch first.” A finger pointed to the cases on the coffee table, knowing they’d get a great reaction from Milo.  

Milo let himself into the apartment, his gaze searching the room as he kicked off his Converse. Letting the door swing shut behind him, he pulled the two blood bags out of his backpack so that he could abandon that too, carrying them both to the kitchen where he could hear Metzli preparing Yuca’s dinner. He wrinkled his nose as the smell of cat food hit him, but he couldn’t help feeling a rush of affection at the sight. It was so nice seeing Metzli in such a warm, and domestic setting. Regardless of what they told him about how it felt to exist without a soul, it was obvious they still cared about the animal. “I brought dinner for us.” He explained, setting the blood down on the nearest counter. “Hopefully it’s far more appealing than that.” He nodded his head in the direction of the food bowl, only turning his attention away from his friends when he was instructed to decide upon a movie. He wandered back into the living room, failing to hold back a peal of laughter when the various covers jumped out at him. “Underworld, Let Me In, Vampires vs The Bronx, 30 Days of Night, and… Twilight.” He read aloud, faltering as he reached the final movie. As funny as Twilight was, Rio had been the one to make him watch it. And suddenly he was bombarded by memories of them curled up on Rio’s couch, teasing each other about the ridiculous world of the Cullens.  

And there it was again, that sense of heartache, of something missing from his life. He forced himself to ignore it, forcing it back down until it was nothing more than a minor discomfort. “I haven’t watched half of these since, y’know- since becoming a vampire.” He admitted. “Jeez, it’s so weird looking at them all…” From the quiet, ominous vampires of Let Me In, to the bloodthirsty, monstrous vampires of 30 Days of Night, every writer had their own interpretation. Their own version of what it meant to be undead. “Do you have a favourite?” He called. “Shit, you were alive when all of these came out. Like, an adult- I mean. Did you see any in the cinema?” 

“That’s so rude.” Metzli blew a raspberry at Milo and trotted over to the kitchen and heated up the blood in two mugs to prepare for the movie. They pondered on what he had just said, not seeing any of the movies since becoming the very thing the movies glamorized. The microwave beeped and Metzli grabbed both mugs before heading back to the living room and answering Milo’s question with a somber look on their face. “We didn’t really have movies, you know? All the myths were basically just left to the imagination until, well, it wasn’t just that. Got to see the real thing up close and personal while I think...maybe four or five attacked me? It’s been a long time.” A clack sounded from the table from the mug being placed down, and a soft sigh pushed past tight lips, sitting down slowly. 

With a shake of their head, they sipped and chuckled a little to alleviate some of the tension. Even though it was a little bit of a sensitive subject, it didn’t hurt nearly as much as it used to. Besides, Metzli wanted this night to be about friendship and care, not their troubles. “I really like horror, so 30 Days of Night is definitely one of my favorites. Pretty gory too. But no, I’ve never gone to the movies. Always thought the concept was weird.” 

“I meant no offence.” Milo laughed as Metzli stuck their tongue out, listening to them absentmindedly as they readied the blood. It only took a few seconds in the microwave for the smell of copper to permeate the air, and he felt a familiar thirst constrict the back of his throat. Sometimes no matter how well fed you were, the temptation was there. It was undeniable. Glancing back up from the table to offer Metzli his full attention, he gratefully accepted his mug as they brushed past him, curious to hear them speak about being raised without movies. It was something he hadn’t considered, hadn’t really dissected in his mind. The world had been a very different place when Metzli was born into it. A very, very different place. Suppressing a shudder as he thought about how terrifying it had been to be targeted by a single vampire, he couldn’t imagine the abject horror of being attacked by four, or five. He took a drink from his mug, distracting himself with the rich, comforting taste of warm blood. It was strange to consume the same substance repeatedly without growing bored, or sick of it. When he was human he would obsess over a favourite food until he could no longer enjoy it. Until his body demanded he take a break, and find a fresh new flavour to fixate on. But somehow blood tasted better each time he tried it, he knew that was never going to change.  

“I guess I didn’t really think about what genres you might like.” He shot his friend a sheepish grin. He should start paying more attention to the interests of those around him. Sometimes he got so lost in his own problems, he forgot other people were equally as complex. Everybody had shit to deal with, in the same way everybody found something different in books, and films, and other forms of artwork. “You’ve never been to the cinema? Not even once?” He asked, unable to hide his incredulity. He joined Metzli on the couch, picking up one of the blankets they had laid out ready for him. Setting his mug down so that he wouldn’t spill his drink and stain the material, he ran his fingers along the soft fabric, enjoying how gentle it felt against his skin. “You’ve not even been a little curious?” 

Metzli shrugged, not really caring if Milo had ever thought that deeply about them. To his credit, they hadn’t really delved into interests and preferences. This was one of the first times the two had been able to sit down and take a breather from all the impending doom. “No, never been interested. Why bother going out in public when I can just watch a movie here? Can’t even have the snacks there.” The television came to life and the Playstation soon followed. There was no need for a dvd player when everything could be condensed to one console. 

“All right, have you picked yet?” Mug in hand, Metzli leaned back and let an arm drape over the back of the couch casually, taking special care to make sure Milo didn’t notice. He seemed a little distant, not taking to his usual snarky personality where the two could go back and forth easily. Something was gnawing at him, but they weren’t sure if prodding was the right move. Taking the risk, they nudged their hand forward and ruffled Milo’s hair. 

“You okay, Depresso?”  

Milo laughed, shaking his head. “But it’s about the experience. There are some seriously cool cinemas out there. And even if the cinema isn’t the greatest, midnight premieres and shit can still be so much fun. It’s nice to sit in a room knowing you share a passion with everybody in there… I guess you kind of have that with your art gallery, huh?” Settling down against the cushions, picking up his mug again to cradle it in both hands, he watched the Playstation logo appear on the tv screen, chewing thoughtfully on his bottom lip. The Twilight DVD kept drawing his attention, and he couldn’t help but remember the same DVD on Rio’s coffee table. The way Rio’s face had lit up when he inserted the disc into his own Playstation. “I don’t know.” He answered, his voice far more disinterested than he had intended it to sound. He pushed his glasses up his nose, attempting to compose himself, although he knew there was no real use in making the effort. Metzli knew him, and the entire reason for him being here was his emotional state. He quite literally couldn't hide from them.  

As if to prove his point, Metzli leaned back to join him, and he avoided their gaze, staring straight ahead despite there being nothing to watch just yet. “What? No, I’m fine-” He insisted, not moving away in time to avoid his friend’s hand. Pouting like a child as he surrendered himself to the treatment, he didn’t bother brushing his hair down again. Leaving it tousled, and unkempt almost to spite them. “I’m just-” He broke off, wondering whether he should finish his sentence. “I’m missing someone- Rio. I’m missing someone called Rio.” He was suddenly grateful for his inability to blush. “We got close a while back… he actually showed me Twilight to make me feel better about all of this. But he’s gone… he left, and I don’t know if I’m ever going to see him again. He was the first person to ever make me doubt what I want… you know? And now…” He hesitantly caught Metzli’s gaze, looking away again almost immediately. “It doesn’t matter, I’m being stupid.”

Seeing that Milo didn’t bat their hand away, they attempted to just run their hand through his hair, trying their best to be comforting. Missing people was extremely hard, especially when they made such a big impact on you and when you don’t know where they went. Metzli’s voice took on a caring tone, giving as much as they could to their friend, their…“Kid, that’s not stupid. You know how hard it is to get close to people? You did it and now that connection is just gone. That would hurt the strongest of people. Hell, I—” Their hand continued to show their affection and they secretly hoped he’d let them continue. “I would be pretty devastated if you left after we built this connection. You’re one of the few people I can stand, and one of the very few people I can trust. So no, Milo, it’s not stupid.” 

Metzli looked concerned for Milo, wishing they could mend whatever wound was laying deeply and heavily on his heart. “Do you wanna say it? What he made you doubt?” The way he trailed off and seemed to dismiss his own feelings didn’t sit right with them. Though they knew what it was like to be in that position. A part of them understood the need to try to push it off, believe it wasn’t really there. Accepting the pain made it more real, and made it inescapable.  

Milo stared down into his mug, tapping his fingers against it as he listened to what Metzli had to say. He felt ridiculous for being comforted by the hand in his hair, but he was. And he made no effort to move away from his friend. “Part of it is just… we were friends before, but we became real friends like, a month after I died. It was all so overwhelming and he just wanted me to be okay. I didn’t realise until after he left that I…” He swallowed, taking a sip of his drink so that he could avoid stating the painfully obvious. “I’m just mad at myself, I guess. For not kissing him when I had the chance.” It was the first time he had admitted anything close, even to himself, but there was no weight lifted from his shoulders. He didn’t feel any better for the admission, even if acknowledging it was somehow a relief. He had been confused for so long, maybe going forward he could be a little less so. “You mean it?” He caught Metzli’s eye, a frown creasing his brow as he stared at them. “That you can trust me?” Even his own parents didn’t trust him. And he knew there were a handful of people in his life dedicated to seeing the good in him, but it still didn’t feel real sometimes. It still felt incredible to hear.  

Taking a deep breath, exhaling slowly as he considered his options, he leaned into Metzli’s touch. Not only did it give him the assurance he needed, it meant he had no choice but to move closer to them. With his cheek resting against their shoulder, they could no longer see his expression. “He made me doubt whether I really want to be alone. And for a moment I wasn’t… even Alex was someone. But when Alex kissed my neck it was like- like being back there. Like being attacked all over again, and I panicked. What if sex just isn’t a part of my life now? I don’t know what to think about that… I don’t know how to feel.” He knew sex wasn’t the only way of sharing intimacy with a partner, but it was something he had relied on for so long. The excitement, the rush, the physical pleasure… he didn’t want to lose that. And to begin to want more when he couldn’t even handle the bare minimum was so difficult. It caused his chest to ache with longing. “I never even tried… having a boyfriend, I mean. I never wanted that. And now I’m wondering whether I left it too late. What if I have? What if I wasted my opportunities and now I’m just… alone forever?” 

“I mean it.” Metzli scooted closer, letting their legs touch and draping their arm a little more over Milo. They longed to comfort him, to take his pain and just feel it for him instead. He didn’t just lose a friend, he lost more than that when he was bit. A part of his innocence was stripped away, and made him feel scared and lost. “Milo, you have forever to live. This pain is something to grow from, and there is no set time line when it comes to healing. I know that doesn’t make it less real, though.” A firm grip rested at his shoulder, gradually pulling him in, letting him know he wasn’t alone. He never had to be alone again. Not if Metzli could help it. Even though they couldn’t fill that romantic gap, they could do their best to fill in the rest, and they knew Bex would do the same.  

Milo’s hair moved around their hand as they doted on him and did what they could to appease the beast of longing and loss. “We’re kind of opposite. I think I’m gonna be alone forever, yet I fuck whatever woman will say yes. When all I really want is someone to be with in that way. It’s hard to be that vulnerable. It feels nearly impossible. Especially at the beginning, especially after you’ve been turned.” Metzli raised the mug to their lips and took a moment to pause and drink. A ball was forming in their throat, and this was the best way to push it back down and remain composed. “You’re thinking of everything in such finality when you haven’t even given yourself the chance to experience grace. Not from others, but yourself. You’re expecting to be okay, but that’s not how it works. You’re not going to be okay for a while, and that’s okay.” 

Metzli placed the empty mug on the coffee table, breaking contact completely and not returning to it when they faced Milo. “You’re a catch. You have a big heart. And you just started your forever. Let yourself begin before you settle on an ending.” 

Milo faltered, reminded suddenly of the way his mom used to wrap her arms around him. She would sit with him on the couch like this, or curl up beside him in bed just to help him feel safe. He blinked away tears, shrinking in on himself as he allowed Metzli to comfort him. They were right, of course. He did have forever, but that was an equally terrifying thought. He couldn’t imagine outliving his friends and family, he couldn’t imagine existing in a world without them. But one day he wouldn’t have to imagine, one day that would be his reality. Struck by a sudden urge to call his parents, he buried the feeling, focusing on what Metzli was telling him. “No, I know…” He murmured, a frown creasing his brow. Why did he have to heal, and grow? Why couldn’t he just be okay? It felt so unfair that he was struggling due to the actions of another person, another vampire. None of this was his fault. “We’re not opposites.” He added, still clutching his mug to his chest. He couldn’t drink from it without jostling Metzli, but the smell of the blood was enough to relax him. “I used to do that because I didn’t want anything more…  and it was so easy.” Falling silent again, surprised by his friend’s honesty, he took a deep breath, mulling over the new information.  

“You want to be with someone?” He echoed. “Really?” He wasn’t sure being vulnerable was the issue. He couldn’t let somebody near his neck without being transported back to his final moments, but that wasn’t about vulnerability. Was it? “It’s been seven months, Metzli. I should know what I’m doing by now.” As if they could hear what he was thinking, they continued, telling him he was valid in his frustrations, complimenting him in a way that he was far from used to. “Why, though? Why can’t I just work my shit out already? So many people I know aren’t struggling… I mean, I don’t think they are.” He knew everybody had parts of their life that weren’t necessarily easy to navigate. But he also knew more than a few people, supernatural people, who didn’t seem to let what they were get in the way of their lives. It was natural to them. They almost embraced it. “I’m not settling on anything.” He let out a quiet huff of breath. “I just- I don’t know what I want. I thought I did and now… everything feels so screwed up.” 

“Here’s the thing, Milo. No one knows what the fuck they’re doing. All you can do, is try.” Metzli’s voice trembled slightly, knowing all too well what Milo is going through. “Everyone sews together masks with their heartstrings, the most vulnerable and delicate things. All in hopes that trying is enough. And it is. It’s akin to success.” The words felt almost preachy, but they were exactly how Metzli felt, what they wished someone had told them when they were sitting on the highway of loneliness. Thousands of cars drove past, but somehow it still felt so empty. When all they needed was someone to sit next to them, buy them time with nothing in their wallet. The time they needed to figure it all out. And since they didn’t have that, they had to settle for scarring their heart with all the blood they had to sell to pay down the debt of loss and misery. Milo didn’t have to do that. Not while they were around.  

With a single nod, they smiled and pulled Milo into their chest to hold him tightly. “Yeah, I do. After over a fucking century, I do. And it doesn’t have to take that long for you. ‘Cause you don’t have to be alone in figuring all this shit out. I won’t let you.” Metzli chuckled for no other reason than the surprise of them uttering those words. It wasn’t one of amusement or humor, it was one of joy in being able to love a friend. “Everything is so screwed up now, and everything feels like a bandaid or wrong answer, but I can be your best guess. Bex can too. We can lay in the mess and clean it up together ‘cause doing it alone sucks. You’ll heal. Little by little. God that sounds so preachy and lame, but fuck it.” Tears fell down their face and they had to rush and wipe them. They couldn’t help but wonder when the fuck they got so sappy. 

“I knew what I was doing before somebody decided to murder me.” Milo muttered, his voice quiet, and petulant. Things had been easier, yes, but he wasn’t entirely sure his words were true. His lifestyle hadn’t been sustainable. He lived each day to the next, never knowing where he was going to sleep, or how he was going to pay for the hit he was craving. His life plan had simply been to keep going until he inevitably burned himself out. Maybe that was why he felt so lost, because he actually had a future now. A vast one that stretched out impossibly before him. A begrudging smile tugging at his lips as he registered Metzli’s words, he hummed to let them know he was still listening. “Hm… you sound like a Hallmark card.” He made no effort to hide his affection for them, sincerely hoping they might be right. If trying could be considered enough, then maybe he was enough. He was trying for quite possibly the first time in his life and that had to count for something. 

Allowing himself to be pulled closer against his friend, even if he wanted to withdraw he knew he wouldn’t be able to. He felt like a child again, transferring his worries and his pain over to an adult, somebody who could hold him and tell him everything was going to be fine. “I didn’t realise you wanted… is that why you’re so close with Macleod?” He asked, unable to stop the words from escaping him. He was curious to know, and it was a good distraction from his own thoughts. Eventually slipping out from under his friend’s arm, he missed the contact almost immediately. Vampires didn’t offer a lot of warmth, but the comfort of an embrace was still very much the same. He pulled his knees up to his chest, watching them to see if they were crying. He strongly suspected they might be, it was the only reason he had moved away from them, but they had already erased any evidence of their tears. 

“I think it sounded nice.” He left no room for them to argue, taking a long drink from his mug so that they wouldn’t be able to counter his statement. No longer preoccupied by the feeling of his fangs pressing down against his lower lip, he realised it would feel far more strange to drink without them present. Yet another way he was growing used to his life now. “I’m really glad I have you, Metzli. And Bex, and Macleod and everyone else who cares… but especially you.”

“Did you, though? If you’re lost now, you were definitely lost before. It was just simpler then.” Metzli retorted quietly, smiling wryly and letting Milo put some space between them. At first they thought they had done something wrong, pushed too far, said too much, but no. Milo was checking on them. Soft eyes clung onto him and they continued on to begrudgingly answer Milo’s question. Not even they knew the answer, but maybe they’d find it along the way. “Not sure how close Macleod feels to me. I have feelings. And god, we connect. But…not sure she’d ever feel something for me, or if anyone could. But I think—sometimes—I…” It was so difficult to say it aloud. Once it was out there, there was no taking it back. “Sometimes I feel like I want to be with Bex. I know it’ll never happen. And I won’t act on it. But I love her. More than I’d like to. I think a lot of it has to do with how similar we are and how strong our connection is.” Metzli swallowed, but continued. “And if I’m that fucking nuts to possibly be in love with—I don’t know. Maybe it’s fine. Means I’m capable of it. Of loving. But I have no idea what I am, if I’m being honest. Maybe this is just strong platonic love and I don’t know how to decipher it.” 

Knees met chest, making them so small as they uttered their truth. All Metzli could hope for is that Milo never mentioned it to Bex. “Wait what? Why especially me? Aren’t I like, the worst parent of the year or something?” 

Milo wanted to deny what Metzli was telling him, he could already feel the beginnings of defensive anger. But it wasn’t fair to fight back, not when he himself had been thinking the very same. “Maybe.” He admitted, finishing what was left of his drink. Setting the empty mug down on the coffee table, he moved to rest his chin on top of his knees, holding his friend’s gaze as they answered his question. Their expression was so gentle, it was difficult to imagine anybody reserving that look for him. Maybe it was for Macleod, even before they clarified he had been so sure they shared a connection with her. But there was a chance it wasn’t quite as strong as he first assumed. Metzli didn’t seem to be in love with her. Feelings could mean almost anything. “Are you still seeing her?” He asked, curious to know whether their adventures were a thing of the past. If that was the case, he should be glad he was no longer going to be subjected to stories about what they got up to when they were together. But the idea actually made him sad. It was fun to feign disgust, but he had secretly been enjoying the idea of the two people he looked up to becoming romantically involved.  

“Wait-” He blinked, his brain taking more than a moment to catch up with what Metzli had said. Bex? Surely they couldn’t mean Bex Bex. He could feel the illusion of a familial unit shattering, rearranging itself to fit this new piece of the puzzle, a piece that didn’t connect to any of the others. “You’re in love… with Bex?” Confusion was written across his features, and he stared at his friend, a million questions running through his head. “I thought not having a soul… can you love somebody like that?” It sounded insensitive, and that hadn’t been his intention, but his desire to know far surpassed his desire to tread lightly. Metzli certainly wasn’t treading lightly. “I mean, do you think it could be? I’ve never been in love, I only know how people talk about it… can you confuse romantic love with platonic love?”  

Noticing the shift in Metzli’s body language, the way they seemed to be making themself as small as possible, he swallowed, inching closer to where they were sitting. “It’s okay, I’m not about to tell anyone. It’s for you to figure out.” He assured them. It was the least he could do after they had listened to him. “And no, obviously not.” He added, a smile tugging at his lips. “Organise a couple of interventions and maybe you’ll be getting there. You’re actually pretty great, y’know.”

Despair filled Metzli’s eyes and they felt a pang of embarrassment as they were asked if they could even feel anything. It was a good question, one they didn’t know the answer to. For all they knew, this was just an infatuation gone incredibly wrong. “I haven’t seen Macleod since coming back. I’ve reached out, but there’s been no response. I want to see her. She’s…wonderful. She’s so fierce and aggressive, but can be so kind and sweet. There’s no one like her, but l don’t even know if she’d be interested in something more.” Their hand reached for the pendant around their neck, the one Macleod had given to them. They hadn’t even taken it off except for when they thought it might get damaged.  

“I don’t know what this is honestly, Milo. I just know that I love her. Intensely. In my own, soulless way, I love her. But of course, I need to ask you to not say anything. I’m still trying to figure it out.” Metzli sighed and shut their eyes tightly to string another sentence together. “I’ve tried researching ‘cause I’ve never felt it either. So many things point to platonic while others say romantic. I don’t know anymore. But the only thing that matters is that I let myself figure it out. Sorry.” Eyes avoided Milo’s ashamedly and they sighed again.  

Metzli grew sad at the thought of Milo thinking his parents were bad because of what they tried to do to help him. Interventions were scary, but they were ultimately for the betterment of the person receiving them. They came from a place of love. Anger bubbled but they pushed it back down. He was lost, and forcing him to find the path wasn’t going to help. “I’ll have to tell you about this werewolf and then you’ll think differently.” The mood shifted a little more positively and Metzli ran with it. “Let’s pop a movie in and just…forget shit for a while. How does that sound?”

Milo smiled when Metzli began to talk about Macleod. He felt a sense of pride that he couldn’t really understand. Macleod wasn’t any relation to him, and she was far older than he was. He had no right to feel proud of her simply because somebody else saw the same spark, and yet, he definitely did. “Huh…” He knew Macleod had accompanied Metzli to confront the vampires sent by Eloy. Had it been too much for her? Was it possible she was distancing herself? “I haven’t spoken to her in a while, actually… maybe I should message her.” Glancing down at the pendant Metzli wore, he wondered whether it had been given to them by Macleod. He couldn’t remember ever seeing it before. He thought back to the first time he had seen Metzli after their journey, the awful open wound that had been ominously wrapped around their throat. Macleod was the reason they were still alive, probably the reason their head was still attached to their body. A truly terrifying thought. “I’m not going to say anything, Metzli.” It was in his nature to stay out of other people’s drama, especially when there was potential for him to get dragged into it. He knew when to keep his mouth shut, both for somebody else’s sake, and for his own.  

“Hey…” He prompted them to look back up, hoping to dispel any of the awkward embarrassment they were obviously struggling with. It was weird, and confusing, but nothing for Metzli to be ashamed of. “Don’t apologise, okay? It’ll work out… everything will.” He knew he couldn’t promise that, but he so badly wanted his words to be true. Saying them out loud felt good, even if the statement was undeniably shallow. “Oh, Jeez-” A laugh escaped him at the sudden shift in conversation, and he shot his friend an easy grin. “I don’t want to hear it, okay?” He pretended to be horrified by the prospect. “That sounds perfect. Anything to get you to keep your mouth shut.” Climbing off of the couch, he pointedly swiped Twilight from the coffee table, making his way over to the Playstation so that he could slip the disc into the disc drive. He could hear Metzli behind him, getting more comfortable with their blankets, he could hear Yuca padding about the apartment, no doubt planning to join them the moment the movie began. And he could still smell what was left of the blood, the scent thick, and warm, and familiar. Things were complicated, he was beginning to realise they were always going to be complicated. But Metzli was right, the past wasn’t easier just because his problems were different now. He had so many things to be grateful for. As long as he had bad movies, a reliable source of blood, and Yuca, and Metzli, and every other person in his life that he cared for, then things were okay... Things were okay because he was okay. 

Chapter 10: Tricks Are For Gods (Loki x OFC Pairing)

"That right there is why guns are a dumb idea against zombies," I pointed out as we all watched one of the zombie movies Tony bought just to debunk for future reference. "Their eyes are shit but they hear just fine and if you want them to stop coming you need a firearm that causes maximum damage."

"But do they run that fast?" asked Clint on the couch adjecent from Loki and me.

"I mean if you really want them to but its like having explosive shits with them, the faster they run the more they fall apart."

A collective groan of disgust came from the other Avengers.

"Ask stupid questions, expect stupid answers. They're rotting corpses, c'mon people."

"IZombie's got a point," Tony agreed. "How was the outside world by the way?"

"I was very disappointed to find out people still royally suck and creeps still roam free unchecked and uncharged for their crimes, what the hell are you lot doing that this is still happening?"

"Dealing with bigger threats with bigger weapons obviously," Tony remarked. "Should I look on the video feed for what you were up to?"

"Nothing illegal, just fought fire with fire and creeped out the creeps of the streets."

"She's very good at it too," added Loki.

Of course that didn't stop Tony from snooping and of course he found footage of me scaring them off. "What did you say to that last guy that made him turn into an angry tomato?"

"Told him his dead mom and wife are ashamed of his existence, which isn't a lie at all, he's kind of a monster."

"What did he say to start this?"

"Told me pretty girls like me should smile more. Maybe I should sharpen my teeth."

"Please don't," Loki spoke up.

"Why not? All the better to eat you with, my dear."

"Can you not ruin my childhood stories please?" moaned Clint.

"Listen, most of them are from horror stories anyway just dumbed down for your innocent ears and eyes."

"Ring around the rosie, for starters. Grimm's fairy tales were all dark, some of the disney movies definitely," Tony agreed.

"Sleeping Beauty was raped in her sleep by the king she later married," I added on. "And girls still wanna be the next disney princess, hard pass there."

"I beg your pardon, what kind of people are you reading these kinds of tales to your children?" Loki demanded.

"Hey don't look at me, I don't even have children, I'm just a fan of horror stories and those popped up."

"What would you read to them if you did though?" asked Nat.

"Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark, all three of them, don't look at me like that, I raise the dead for a living, my kids need to have nerves of steel just to live with me."

Loki studied me curiously, probably wondering how good or bad a mother I would be if that was possible or maybe what kind of family he envisioned us having if again possible. I turned to catch his eyes with my own and arched an eyebrow.

"Something you wanna share with the class?" I challenged.

"Just pondering a what if future," was his simple response.

"Don't strain yourself." A couch pillow was his response to my quip that had everyone kind of staring in shock at his childish but very amusing reaction. "That's real cute but unfortunately for you I'm gonna have to kill you now, eat feathers you glorified smurf!"

"This better not lead to what it usually leads to when one of you pounces on the other, what if Peter walks in? His innocent eyes!" cried Tony.

"He's a teenager, he's probably seen better porn than us at some point on the interwebs," I stated while beating an amused god with a throw pillow.

"Better porn? Is there such a thing?" asked Steve.

"Rule 34 hun, if it exists there's a porn for it, if it doesn't then there will be." And with that I continued to beat my lover with a pillow to the head.

"Free porn aside, I'm actually kinda curious who would win in a fight now, you or Loki," Clint mused.

We both stopped pummeling each other and looked at him then each other curiously. "With or without magic?" Loki asked.

"Without, just close range hand to hand or with blades if you must," Nat added.

My gaze went to her with an arched eyebrow. "Ya'll thinking about this?" A collective nod from the rest of the group was my answer before I returned my gaze to Loki. "What's your vote on this?"

"I'm all for it if you are."

You would think he'd go for the knives or rather the sticks that substituted knives but nope, ever the man of mischief, he chose the bo staff.  Thor would later tell me its because while he favors knives as they're easy to hide and stash away, Loki had much better luck with staves. I found out quite quickly how right that was. While I was no Michelle Yeoh, I did take martial arts even before I became a leader of undead battles as children are merciless and if they decide you're a freak they make you a target. Just outside the training area of the compound stood the not busy Avengers and not surprisingly Tony was already placing bets on who would win, hell I knew who would win, the one that's probably been training and fighting for half a millennia at least. But as a wise cigar smoking Goth dad once said, just because it's a bad idea doesn't mean it won't be a good time. I chose a different kind of bo staff, if the weapon worked for the Buddhist monks, it would work for me, right? Loki was very much like a cat or maybe he just was with me, stalking his prey, pacing, biding his time, calculating his moves whereas after being obsessed with old timey wushu movies at one point, I opted for a simple nonthreatening stance resembling Wong Fei-Hung, a ruse as I couldn't fight off 10 men or so with a bo staff like the legend did but no one had to know that. One foot forward, one perpendicular in a short fighting stance, staff held behind me with one hand, the shaft pressed against the arm, the other arm stretched out in front of me beckoning him forward. Most people would think twirling it a bit is the typical first move but that's more to show off or intimidate the opponent and I'm not the show off type, especially if I'm not the best at what I'm showing off. Loki moved first though, lunging and thrusting one end of his staff at my head, I easily side stepped it, , my head tilting away but my eyes never leaving his. I figure if I couldn't wear him out despite him being ancient compared to me, and I couldn't outright beat him in strength, I could probably just frustrate the hell out of him by never letting him land a hit. Getting under people's skin was my specialty after all. So that's what it was like for the beginning, letting him attack first and either simply dodging his staff or blocking it with my own staff.

"This is boring, make a move, Aang!" called Tony from the sidelines.

"Hey, he was the best Avatar in the series, and he kicked ass!" I called back.

"Then why don't you?"

"Patience is a virtue, old Stark!"

"You say old like you're not sleeping with the oldest person in the building!"

I snorted and blocked Loki's staff once more. "You're only as old as you act, grandpa." I watched Loki carefully, waiting for the opportune moment when he thought he could let his guard down believing I wasn't gonna go batshit crazy on him.

He sped up his attacks, probably thinking I'd step into action if I was being rushed but I still kept my leisure defense up, he tried a few more changing tactics to try to get me to strike back first before I saw the sign I was waiting for the whole time and forced myself to keep the poker face I wore, resisting the urge to smirk wickedly as he seemed to relax and go back to simply trying to hit me anyway he thought was an opening. I blocked his staff once more as he went for my stomach then quick as a whip swung mine to strike his knee, stomach, and head and he went down. The utter look of shock on his face was more than enough to make me break my expression into one of pure wickedness, a canary eating grin cracking through. The game had begun. He quickly got back to his feet and lunged at me again with his staff, no longer holding back as he whipped the ends at me one after another, the only sounds now were that of wood hitting wood and the shuffling of our feet as we went at each other. Several times he left himself wide open when he was swinging his staff behind and around him to hit me from another side which was amusing because although kinda cool looking and showy, he was totally exposed and I took full advantage of that hitting him in the stomach and causing him to drop his staff mid-swing though he was quick enough to catch one end and come down at me with the other. I raised my staff to block it and shifted my upper strength to hold him off while pulling apart my staff which was actually a two piece one almost seamlessly held together and struck him in the ribs with the other piece. He glared at me, the god of tricks being tricked in a fight by some dead chick he only met recently.

"Clever girl," he growled at me.

I grinned wider. "Give up, or are you thirsty for more?"

"Very well, you asked for it."

Somehow it didn't click in my head that being a god and all, he not only had enhanced strength but apparently speed too as me verbally challenging him and getting extra sneaky had me suddenly and swiftly struck several times in the stomach and side, my feet swept out from under me, and I was on back with one end of a bo staff pointed at my head.

"Isn't this a familiar position?" he purred above me, his eyes glittering.

I held back a retort in order to roll over to avoid his staff and then lock my legs on either side of one of his then roll again, knocking him to the ground as well and making him drop his staff again. I wasted no time in getting on top of him and still holding onto my two pieces of my staff the entire time, i crossed them against his throat. "Prefer this position myself."

"I'll have to remember that later." He raised his arms to his head while still on the ground in what I thought was him surrendering but quicker than a cheetah, snatched back his bo staff and swung, knocking me off him and making me drop both pieces he was just as quick to kick away from me before pinning me to the floor, a knee against each of my arms and the shaft of his staff against my throat. "The things I could do to you in this position."

"Pretty sure you've already done them and I recall you not wanting others to see us doing them."

He smirked but made no move whatsoever from where he knelt on top of me. "Don't act like you're not thinking what I'm thinking."

"Oh that's no secret here but I'd prefer it in the bedroom where there's soundproof walls and there's other options to keep me in place the whole time."

Both his eyebrows shot up at what was implied there. "I can arrange that. For now though, I'm not moving till you say the words."

I rolled my eyes but sighed in defeat. "I yield."

"Good girl." He got off me and offered me his hand to help me up which I took easily and was yanked up and flush against him, a hungry, hot kiss stolen from me. "We should do this again sometime," he breathed in my ear.

"We'll see." I nipped his earlobe teasingly before shoving him away and walking out of the training arena.

"Does everything have to be sexual between you two?" asked Tony.

"Listen, if you were cut off from all forms of pleasure for as long as I have and suddenly are given the ultimate form of it after, you'd take it with a smile too, as many times as you can."

"I'm the ultimate form, am I?" teased Loki behind me.

"Don't let that get to your head or your excessively ornate helmet won't fit on you anymore," I retorted. "And it really brings the whole outfit together."

"I was under the impression you liked me more without an outfit."

I shrugged innocently. "A woman can change her mind."

"Am I going to have to separate you two or something?" Tony interrupted.

"I mean you could just let me go home..."

"Tempting but till our mutual enemies are out of the equation, I don't see that happening."

"Well then, I'll have to refer you to the three T's."

"The three T's?"

"Tough titties, Tony." I grabbed Loki's hand and poof we were gone.

@sammysdewysensitiveeyes - And finally, Shinobi for World of Darkness, three different versions/games! Under cut because like always, it’s long!

For a vampire, he’d be a Toreador. They’re the type who will turn someone just because they’re pretty, then get tired of them within the week, and that’s how their ranks get flooded with dilettantes who don’t posses any artistic talent, like Shinobi. Toreador are famous for being the most emotional and passionate and in touch with humanity, but in truth, many are emotionally hollow, chasing fleeting highs of false feelings that are shallow and brief despite their deceptive intensity. This leads them to become callow and callous, trying forever to breath life into themselves through new experiences that become banal all too soon, leaving a trail of broken mortal hearts and lives behind them, to say nothing of fledglings that, like, Shinobi, are pulled into this world they’re not ready for and typically destroyed by soon enough. While many people deride them as romance novel vampires, I think they’re actually a very clever subversion of that, and in their own way as horrifying as more famously frightening ones. Shinobi, bitter and wounded over being rejected and abandoned by his sire, has become exactly that kind of Toreador himself. He also strives to be as seductive and glamorous as other members of the clan, and he has the image down, but it falls apart quickly when others question or reject him. He’s also a very young and weak vampire, so he has no political strings to pull, and since he has no art, is looked down by his clanmates as a poseur. All this just makes him more pathologically driven to prove himself and gather allies who will love and respect him, even as he fails at it every night. Also, the Tories are often called divas and “Degenerates” is literally a nickname for the whole clan, it’s perf. I also think he’d make a good Ghoul. When someone---be it a human, animal, even a fellow vampire---drinks the blood of a vampire three times, they become Blood Bound to them. In the case of animals and humans, this makes them the vampire’s ghoul, and the vampire their domitor or regnant. The blood bond is one of the most powerful tools of vampirekind, as the victim is completely enthralled to them, forced to obey. The ghoul is obsessed with them, usually in love, and will do anything asked of them. Continual drinks reinforce it, and the ghouls WANT this, for vitae---vampire blood--is addictive. And the longer they serve a vampire, the more they’ll need it not just out of addiction, but to survive. Ghouling a human (or animal) will freeze them at their current age, just like a vampire, and even grant them some vampiric powers...but when the blood stops coming, all those years catch up with them...all at once. It’s not pretty. Some ghouls who manage to escape their masters---usually by the latter’s death--become vampire hunters in order to get their vitae fix, drinking from different ones in order to avoid the “three strikes and you’re out” Blood Bond. As for what vampires get from this, ghouls have any number of uses, from daytime bodyguards to managers of mortal affairs, messengers, servants, it goes on. The sad, cursed existence of a Ghoul is in many ways worse than that of a vampire, and with none of the benefits. I could see him either as a group ghoul, perhaps, serving a coterie (small group) of powerful female vampires...but I feel like that’s more his fantasy than anything. The reality is probably that he went looking for his birth father, tracked him down successfully, and got a lot more than he bargained for...but hasn’t aged a day since either. Much like Ghouls serve vampires, Kinfolk serve werebeasts, and out of a very different sense of being bound by blood. Kinfolk are the human and animal relations of a werewolf or other werecreature, and breeding with them yields a higher chance of a Garou offspring (since, remember, the offspring of two Garou is a sterile, deformed metis) A Garou birth will still be rare, and most or all of their children will just be Kinfolk, but maybe the next gen will have a Garou, or the next. Because of this, the Garou (or Bastet, or whatever they may be) maintain close ties with their Kinfolk, watching them like shepherds over their flocks. There’s a dark side though. Their primary role ultimately is breeding stock, and many tribes treat them exactly like that. They’re automatically seen as part of the Garou tribe to which they’re related (or worse, its property) and are thus beholden to its regulations, owing them their loyalty, but get none of the respect and glory that the Garou do in return. They’re "valuable second class citizens" at best. Besides breeding, other roles they take includes childcare (since the werewolves are off battling the Wyrm), financing, politicking, and bureaucratic maneuvering on behalf of the Garou, directly or in their interests, are all examples, but there are dozens more things an individual Kinfolk might to do serve their family. Sebastian would definitely be a Shadow Lord werewolf as described in Fabian’s section, and Shinobi his unfortunate Kinfolk pup. A disappointment twice over, firstly for not being Garou, secondly for not even being the USEFUL kind of Kinfolk. All the tribes have an individual approach to their kin beyond the general basics I just described, and Shadow Lords tend towards the abusive. To quote the canon,  “[Shadow Lord] Kinfolk don't receive much coddling, however. Weaklings and victims don't deserve to breed.” So not only is Shinobi not supposed to be sticking his dick in anything that can get pregnant, he’s supposed to purely serve his father’s interests while also growing up a society where he will NEVER be good enough. Which...look it’s horrible, but you can’t deny it FITS! (Also: While Sebastian def would be a Shadow Lord himself as a werewolf, he also could easily just be a human "target" of one as a mate. To quote canon: "Female Shadow Lords are sometimes drawn away from the flock toward men with power. A ruthless businessman, a brilliant crime lord or even a military dictator may find himself overpowered by a stalking suitor.") Since Shinobi is half-Japanese, he could be a kuei-jin if he was born/raised/died in Japan or a place with a strong Japanese (or other Asian) culture. Now, the kuei-jin are very problematic, White Wolf (the game company that does all this) mashed together a bunch of different Asian cultures together (even “kuei-jin” is a combination of Japanese and Chinese) and appropriated a bunch of terms they used incorrectly (ex: dharma) but I really like them and I’d like it if one day they could go back and fix them like they have with other creations they made that were really problematic at their conception (most all of this shit was made up by white nerds in the 90s) So, kuei-jin are vampires of a sort, but an entirely different sort than the Kindred are, despite some calling them ‘the Kindred of the East’. Firstly, their range has more to do with culture than geography. They populate Asia, but have begun emerging in the West in places like Chinatowns where Asian cultures are prevalent. Which brings us to the second difference---they are not Embraced like Western vampires, they rise from the grave on their own. Something drove them so hard that their souls clawed their way out of Yomi World and back into their bodies...well, usually their bodies, there have been cases where they came back in a DIFFERENT body. The goal of the kuei-jin is to remember what this something was, for they believe it is their purpose, and they must then accomplish it. In order to discover their purpose and fulfill it, they will choose different paths that they think will be best for this. These paths, called Dharmas, are liked clans, but, as I said, can be chosen, and even changed. Shinobi’s Dharma would be the The Dance of the Thrashing Dragon, also known as the Laughing Rainbows. Yes, they all have names like that. Again, white nerds in the 90s. The Thrashing Dragons are the Yang-Aspected paths, they  seek to defy their undead state through frenzied revelry and acts meant to celebrate life (in all its beauty and bloodcurdling savagery both).  These Kuei-jin are as alive as the undead can be, believing  creation is a rainbow – illusory, but too colourful to ignore-- and their ideal is to experience each of those colours as vividly as possible. As a result, Laughing Rainbows shun society's restrictions, are often messy and vulgar, indulging themselves with wild feasts and drunken orgies - celebrations that usually feature living "entertainment," too. In their calmer moments, a Thrashing Dragon can be gentle and compassionate, nurturing life even though they consume it---the kuei-jin are still a type of vampires, and they feed on chi. They can get it from flesh and blood, but, as they get older and more powerful, can suck the pure chi out of the air from a person. But the Thrashing Dragons like to eat their prey raw, and often alive. They’re violent and combative, in addition to  shameless, impulsive, lusty, and having a tendency towards nudity. What’s interesting is that in life, many Thrashing Dragons denied the flesh, and believe they came back due to their repression during life. Some ferociously carnal people do return to finish what they started in life, but most Laughing Rainbows learned to laugh only after they died. So perhaps Shinobi had a sad life that ended prematurely (COUGH DAD COUGH) and now that he’s come back, he’s “living” large at last. Or perhaps he’s one of the ones that was ALWAYS a hedonistic idiot and he was actually brought back as a lesson to live a better life, but he hasn’t learned it yet. Kuei-jin have two souls, the Hun and P’o, and they struggle against the latter. The Hun is  higher, rational half of the soul, akin to  morality, conscience, honor and devotion to duty. The P’o is the evil bestial half of the soul, akin to “the Beast” that Western vampires struggle against. Each person’s P’o takes one of several archetypes, based on which is most likely to tempt a kuei-jin off their path, and Shinobi’s would be The Monkey. The Monkey is  a creature of the moment, its each new pleasure or distraction being the most important thing in the world. The Monkey is capable of concocting elaborate plans to achieve small or momentary goals, but it’s in no way concerned with any overarching mission that the Kuei-jin might have. Indeed, the Monkey seeks, at every turn, to waylay Shinobi from his appointed goal, to divert all of the his attention and energy to lesser, transitory things. So basically it tempts him to be HIMSELF. (As a note, I think the Adversary would translate REALLY well as a P’o for a kuei-jin Haven; India is part of Asia too!) Finally...I might be typecasting him too much by race, but there’s also the kitsune. The kitsune, as one would expect, are the werefoxes of East Asia, mostly found in Japan and China. They are the youngest of the Changing Breeds, and the story goes that when a fox named Bai Mianxi was brought before Gaia (who created all the werecreatures) by Luna (the moon) for playing tricks that created havoc in the world, Gaia’s punishment was that Bai Mianxi be given a duty. Bai Mianxi tried to trick her way out of it, claiming that  Gaia's other children were all adequate enough in their duties and she was not needed. Gaia's wrath at Bai Mianxi's impudence shook her residence, but after soothing words from Luna, Gaia promised the fox that in return for their service, the fox-people would one day become the BEST at something, better than all the other werecreatures were at it, whatever it is. Like all other were-types, the kitsune are born in animal or human form, and the offspring of two Kitsune will be born in hybrid form and be stuck that way until their First Change. Unlike the Western metis of the Garou and many other fera though, these “shinju” as they are called, are NOT sterile or deformed, nor are they looked down upon by other kitsune. But all kitsune, no matter what form they were born in, carry a curse, and that is that when a kitstune is born, at least one of its parents will die. Usually, it is the non-kitsune parent, and there is also a one-in-ten chance that the Kitsune parent may die, either instead of, or along with, their mate. So my thinking is kitsune Shinobi was born in human form in Japan to a kitsune mother, but has a human white dad in America (Sebastian obvy) who despite the great distance still passed away mysteriously at the moment Shinobi drew his first breath. And so Shinobi grew up raised by his mother and her Kinfolk, and he never saw his father and he grew up feeling loved and wanted, and now he is a happy healthy adult werefox who will indeed be the best at something one day! You can see why I wanted this for him ^^