The Nightmare before Endwalker - Live Update #4

As the Star grows ever-brighter in the night sky, now holding the same level of luminosity as Menphina herself, Hydaelyn seems to stir in its presence. Throughout her lands, reality has begun to distort in key locations.

Lost time, spatial displacement, strange lights and noises, and even 'impossible chimeras' have been reported — local creatures and animals seemingly spliced together in random yet perfect amalgamations. As if they were both trying to exist in the same spot simultaneously, with bits and pieces of each showing in different areas.

The closer to the sources of these sites one reaches, the stronger these anomalies become — eventually displacing those too curious for their own good back at the edge of the anomaly's radius as if they had been there all along. As if reality itself wished to keep whatever was causing them to remain hidden.

The Nightmare before Endwalker - Live Update #3

Missionaries from the Church of the Waking Dream can now be found wandering the streets of Limsa Lominsa, upon the roads of La Noscea, and even beginning to spread their way outward among the mainlands of Eorzea. Clad in robes of purest white, with golden embroideries, and offering counsel to those in need who others simply deem as 'crazy' about the horrible happenings.

They direct those seeking answers to Westmoore Proper, to visit their Church nestled in the heart of the city. And and all are welcome, even if it's just for a roof over one's head for the night.

This Was A Dream

It had to be. Sure, you had heard Westmoore was a strange place, but this? This was borderline insanity. Ever since your “return”, as Rodarin had so playfully put it, everything was wrong — as if it needed to be any more wrong than it already was. It had been weeks of perpetual night. The gentle patter of rain continued to fall, even when there were no clouds in sight. A thin veil of fog hung in the air, refusing to fade — even on the windiest nights. Candlelight Cove was completely empty of the bustling tourists and merchants you had seen upon arrival. The only people you could find, seemed.. off. They dressed in ragged robes and clothes, often with their hoods pulled up. Most seemed awfully thin, as if they were on the verge of starvation. And any time you called to them, or tried to get close, they shuffled away like you were diseased. The only one who would tolerate your presence was the pale woman tending the Weary Ember–the local tavern travelers spent their nights in for warm food and entertainment. At least, they should have been. She brought your meals, laundered your sheets and linens — but otherwise avoided you like the rest.

“This is a dream”, you gasped to yourself again as your hand pressed to your chest. You heaved violently to catch your breath, sweat beading over your forehead as you glanced around your room at the Ember. You had the dream again. Back in the forest. Back with that Wax Golem. Back to staring at your own mutilated corpse, as it grinned back at you. Dead eyes, caved in skull, watching you die again. An infinite loop of watching your own death — every night since you awoke in this Inn. As you sat up properly, your hands slowly brushed through your hair to wipe away the sweat — and remained there, your forehead resting in your palms as ‘reality’ set back in. As it always did, every morning. How long would you be here? Forever, you thought. You didn’t want to think it, but what evidence was there to the contrary? This was your ‘life’ now. You could feel your throat constricting into an uncomfortable knot, the fiery sting of moisture glazing over your eyes. How much longer until you looked like the others? Mere husks of former life.

Is this a dream?, you thought to yourself as your gaze held up to the starry sky — the unnatural rain still pattering against your face despite this cloudless night. Or was it day? Or did time even exist here? Ah — it pulsed again. Your train of thought was snapped back to the sight above you — the writhing, coiling mass of.. something, in the sky. It was dark purple. No — blue? Maybe some violet. It was hard to tell with how blurry it seemed, as it kept pulsating and writhing around on itself — there was no way to define it if it wouldn’t hold still. Yeah — you were going insane. It had been almost four days since the last time you had that dream. The one of the Woods. You couldn’t take it anymore, so you just…stopped. You refused to sleep. You did everything you could to stay awake. Eating for energy, ice down your pants to shock yourself awake — when they stopped being as effective, that blade you found in the Inn’s kitchen sure did the trick. You had a tally now — one mark, every 2 hours. What was the count? Fifteen — had to start using your other arm. Haah — I win, you thought to yourself with a chuckle. Oh — it moved ag̢̰a̜̗̟̜͘i̶̟ͅͅn̕.̵͈̥͎ .

“This has to be a dream”, you thought aloud as you rushed to the window of your room, tossing aside the tattered curtains to look outside. It was a habit now, talking to yourself. Less lonely. Your teeth clenched tightly with a soft hiss of pain as your haste to open the windows had punched your knuckle into the glass — but after a short fumble, the ever-chilled air of Westmoore soon breezed through the room as you stared off towards the main road. Bells. Church bells, to be precise. They rang out loudly, reverberating along the mountain ridge to the south of the Cove. This was the first time.. well, anything has happened in…there was no way to tell how long. Your heart drummed wildly in your chest at the prospect of anything to do — your weakened, sleep deprived body actually sore from the sensation as your functions were on the verge of beginning to shut down. Unfortunately, you were too excited to care. Down the stairs of the Inn you raced, nearly forgetting to actually open the door before you left into the streets. In the distance, you could see them — three robed individuals, making their way into Candlelight from Westmoore’s main road. Their robes were downright divine. Solid, pure white that somehow managed to resist turning greyer against the pattering rain — adorned with golden embroideries. The two in the rear seemed to be wearing the same type of robe, though the one leading them was far more extravagant and detailed — it even seemed to glow a soft white, though that was likely thanks to your four days of no sleep. You wasted no time, and sprinted.

The rear two robed figures froze in place, almost seeming panicked as they glanced from one another, to you, to the one leading them. The leader pulled back his hood, revealing a gentle face and long, well-kept blond hair — complete with heavy, darkened bags beneath his eyes. “Whoa — easy, my child. There’s no need to rush, you’ll trip on the wet stone!” He called out, his expression that of legitimate worry. You almost tackled him into a hug then and there — but with a slight panic you might scare off the only seemingly human contact you’d had in ages, you did as he said. “W…Who are you?” You managed to croak out through your weakened lungs. One of the kindest smiles you had ever seen — or at least, what you could remember seeing — spread across the man’s lips as he stepped closer. “I’m Father Darren — and you?” You fell to your knees, practically sobbing at the sight of this angelic figure before you. You told him your name, your story of how you arrived in Westmoore. Of the Woods, the Wax Golem, Rodarin — your corpse. You told him everything as your body and mind tried to decide if it was happy, sad, relieved, scared, angry, or just ready to give up. With a light nod towards the Father’s two followers, they moved to each of your sides to help you stand. Father Darren’s hand gave your head a gentle ruffle, like a true father figure — almost laughable, given how young the man looked, as if he couldn’t possibly be any older than nineteen or twenty. His gaze locked with yours, giving you a clear view of his white, glazed-over eyes — and the contrastingly dark bags of utter exhaustion beneath them. That wonderfully kind smile continued to persist over his lips, and his voice was a warm, caring hum of promise and safety. “You poor, weary soul — you have been Dreaming your entire life. You’re only just now beginning to wake up.”                            .

I̬̝͙̭̯̦̠ͫ̍t̮̗̖̤̣ͅ'̡̹s͉͓͕̝ͫ ̙̰͎̣̯t̜̣͔͖̋ͬ̊̀͝ͅiͣ̾̄͘m̦̙̻̏͑ē̶ͬ̐̎͂̎ ̣̩͔̘̯͝t̠̺̠̰́͋ͅo̪̝͟ ̼̣̯́w̞̱̤̠̆̆̈́͞ͅâ̗ͅk͙ȇ̐̉͛͌ ̈́ͭ̓ͣ͆ṵ̤̿ͥ̓ͮ̋͑͟p̨͈̥͓̯͛.̶͉̭ͮ̂ͬ̄͒ .

Ser Mayor, if it does please, would you tell us of the people you lead? How did you come about your post, and does the work tire you?

"Well that is an interesting question, stranger. One with a very long answer. Let's see, how to simplify... How to shorten..."

With a soft grunt, he pushed himself up from his chair — muscular frame bending a bit to stretch and limber up, as he stifled a yawn while moving off towards his cabinet stocked with all manner of drink. His choice this time? A vintage scotch, as the glass stopper rumbled with a firm twist to unscrew it.

"To spare your mind the weight of understanding the Cycles, I'll simply say a longggg time ago, Westmoore was on the ass-end of a shitty deal. You know, kinda like you lot are in now."

Pouring his rocks glass about three quarters full, he spun the stopper back in place before moving to settle back into his seat with laxed posture, as his left foot lifted to prop upon the corner of his desk.

"Horrible times. Real 'End-of-the-World' kind of shit. But we fought back, and won. I don't want to be credited, but the people insisted I was a key force behind rallying the people. They all but demanded I lead them, so...here I am. Ta-da?"

There was a somewhat bitter note to his sarcasm — one he quickly drowned behind the tip of his glass to down a few gulps of his scotch, as a rumbling sigh escaped him on the exhale.

"Little did we know that was only a single try. We've held up ever since, but...we're tired. Sometimes we wonder if forgetting like you lot would be easier, but...that would make everything up 'till then completely fuckin' pointless. And I absolutely fuckin' refuse to accept that. So forgive us, if we seem a bit lacking in patience for your people to get their shit together and actually do somethin' for once. It's nothin' personal."

Another tip of his glass downed the rest of his scotch rather quickly, his tone a bit more somber as he gestured towards the door.

"Now fuck off, I've got paperwork."

What are the Omens? Can you give us clues? Anything?

"What is Known is offered freely as Answers. Secrets, have their price. But the Wall rebels against the Star. Clues, I will show you. Snippets of lives long forgotten. Iterations passed."

[OOC Post] - AMA for Rodarin Calrise

It’s time for another AMA, this time focused on the ‘Good Mayor’, Rodarin Calrise, or otherwise general OOC questions!

"̡̹̭̭ͅF͇̰͖͉o̸̭̯͉̘̦̗̫r͍ ̫̗̳̤͞n̛̰̝̬̹̦̠̗o͏̦͉̫̱̤w̥̥̩.̠͡"͈͇̜̫        .

I͘t's ̴be͘e̛n fa̧r ̢t͞oo ͡l̴ong͡, '̸Go͝od͠ ̴Mayo̵r'̀. Dơn̨'t ̛you ̢mis͞s t͠he ͝go͠od ̶times we͞ ̴sḩa̢ŗe͜?͞

"Fuck off. You have no power here anymore."

It Was An Accident

You didn’t mean to bump into the man — an older fellow, only managing to keep from toppling over thanks to his well-planted cane. He scuffled along at a faster pace, obscenities most likely what was muttered under his breath as he passed you by. While you may have been at least somewhat sorry for burdening the elderly man’s day, you were far too focused on the journey ahead. Candlelight Cove, the main port town of the Westmoore Province. You had heard tales, from strange to downright cautionary, of Westmoore and its surrounding locales. But from where you heard them seemed to constantly elude your memory. While Candlelight seemed to be the most tame, it carried most of the warnings being the entryway to most’s adventures into Westmoore — mainly being, don’t go. It was the first stop — and therefore, it was the first mistake. Stay away from Westmoore. Turn back. L̻͖̮͈ͅe̳̬̤̙̫̹a̡͕v̶͈e̸̤͉̥͓̣.͈̺̝̭͔̭̘.

It was an accident — the sudden lurch of the boat tugging against its anchor as it docked caused your hand to catch at some loosened wood on the deck’s railing. A long, albeit shallow scrape now stung at your palm — but ignoring the light throb of freshly broken skin, you stepped foot onto the dock. It was just as dreary as the stories foretold. A light, gentle patter of sprinkling rain kept the stone roads slick and shiny enough to reflect the grey, cloudy overcast. As you and the remaining fresh arrivals stepped into town, others hurried to leave — plenty seeming far too eager to return to La Noscea. Casting your doubts aside, you gave the small town a quick glance — and true to its name, ever-burning candles decorated anywhere the rain couldn’t reach. Windowsills, lamp posts, the crooks of sheltered alleyways. It was ominous, in an eerie sort of way.

It was an accident — you must have spaced out while you were fixated upon the fountain of liquid pearl. How was that possible? Could pearls even be perfectly liquefied like this? It was a smooth, ever-flowing cascade of pearlescence — rainbows shimmering within the milky whites and shimmering silvers as the flowing substance caught the flickering candlelights. It didn’t even seem like water. It was dense and viscous, like some sort of runny syrup — and for some reason, images of blood beginning to coagulate and clot were filling your mind as you studied the fluid. Your fingers were so close to dipping within the fountain’s falls, but the sudden hand on your shoulder startled you away. A few splatters of your blood speckled against the hypnotic substance, quickly mingling into the pool below as the falls continued. “Welcome to Westmoore~” chimed a rather mountainous man. He was dressed in a finely pressed suit — but although it was clean and wrinkle free, he seemed to have clothed himself in a hurry. The buttons were loose, his inner shirt askew. The collar was half unfolded, and his tie was loose and lopsided. Dark hazelnut-brown hair was swept back in messy curls, while golden eyes stared into your own. They were empty, vacant, as if staring straight through you to the ground below — accompanied by an equally emotionless smile, as if his lips were simply plastered that way. His voice was low, rich and smooth — flowing effortlessly like honeyed whiskey as he introduced himself. “I’m Rodarin Calrise, the Mayor of Westmoore. Come — let’s get you settled in.”

It was an accident — before you knew it, you were already leaving the faint glow of Candlelight Cove in the horizon, coming upon a signpost that waited at the T-shaped ending of the road. To the left, Westmoore. The right, Devil’s Edge. And right you turned, following the self-proclaimed Mayor the opposite direction of your intended destination. “We.. aren’t going to Westmoore?” You finally managed to ask, fighting the sudden wave of nausea that tried to prevent the question from being asked. “Oh no, no–we need to get you settled in first.” Rodarin replied — his stare and smile as glazed and absent as ever, as if in a haze. A haze you soon felt buzzing over the back of your mind as the road descended towards the thick treeline of the woods by the side of the road. Everything became.. calm. Numb, even. All you could focus on was the smell of moist bark and the crunch of the stone road you absently followed.

It was an accident — at least, you think it was. When did you arrive in the woods? You think back, brows physically straining as they knitted together in struggled contemplation. You.. couldn’t remember anything. All you could recall was walking on the road — Rodarin saying ‘you needed to get settled in first’. You can’t remember how you got here, when you got here, how much time had passed, where Rodarin was, where you were — nothing. The canopy of pine made it impossible to tell if it was night or day within these woo — wait.. canopy? You recall the woods by the road you had walked upon earlier — their branches were barren. This.. wasn’t right. None of this was right. And the more you thought on your situation, the stronger your stomach knotted and shakier your hands became. The air was somehow chilled, yet humid at the same time — and it was taking its toll quickly. You could already feel your skin prickling in defense against the cold, your teeth quietly chattering to prevent from locking. But a shimmer of hope soon sent you running towards it — the gentle glow of light flickering against the trunks.

It was an accident — surely, this had to be an accident. A mistake. A prank — anything to explain what you were seeing here. It was you, slumped against the trunk of a pine on the cold, damp ground. Motionless. Pale-blue. The left side of your skull was caved in, while a large gaping hole was missing from the right side of your torso — a few pieces of meat still clinging desperately to the blood-stained tips of what ribs remained. A single lit candle was held in your hand, your knuckles whitened and blood dripping from the base as if you had held onto it for dear life. The light danced upon a white creature crouched by your corpse. It held no features, its figure resembling the basic shape of a humanoid structure — like a cheap doll that sat in the children’s stores in Limsa Lominsa. Stumpy arms and legs, and a large rounded head — where blood stained and dripped over the area a mouth should be. Your blood, no doubt. Its ‘skin’ was constantly rippling, like waves upon a disturbed lake — ending in thick streams and globules of its white composition to fall and spill over the ground. The scent of a charred candlewick filled your lungs — and that’s what it was. It was wax. A golem, perhaps? Some sort of animated waxen puppet? 

Your guesswork was interrupted as it seemed to look back towards you — it was hard to tell with the absence of eyes. Rodarin appeared from behind the tree your body rest against, his vacant smile now replaced by a grin of absolute pleasure — his teeth all sharpened into fine points. “Welcome back to Westmoore. I hope you enjoy your stay. Try to avoid the Woods next time, won’t you?” he said before bursting out into laughter–though whether it was out of amusement or malice, it was hard to tell. And then, pain. Your hands clawed at your chest, desperate to remove whatever white-hot dagger was digging itself into your heart — only to claw at your own flesh. You gasped for air, falling to the ground and curling involuntarily in defense against the crippling pain — its intensity so powerful it caused you to gag. Your eyelids fluttered as your eyes rolled back, staining your mind with the last image they saw. Your corpse, staring back at you — grinning so widely and gleefully that the corners of its lips were beginning to tear and bleed. And then, the world went dark.

              .

I̡̹̼̳̞̭t̞̬̗̱͚͙̩ ̯͈̻̗̾̋ͫ͐̑̽w̭̤͖ͯͣa̡̹̞̥̬͑̑ͨs̤̗͔͗̆̿̽̅ͯ̀ͅn̷̖̖̙̼̰̱'͏ṭ̶̓ ̸̦͐͐̐̎̅ͅȃ̠̥͗̐n͖͍̞̥͚̋͊̌ͅ ̶̘͎͍̤̤a̵̞͖ͨͭ̾͌̚c̳ͯ̐͂c̀̋̄ͮi͛̽ͣ̑̃d̼̐͆̚͠e̝͚̼̮̟͈̙͊̀̑͑ͧ̚n̪̪̯t̲̞͟ͅ.ͬ̀  .

The Nightmare before Endwalker - Live Update #2

[ Following the first update here.]

The 'Storm' lifts, revealing a new landmass in its wake. A new isle, seeming to mock La Noscea in its general form, now sitting firm upon the Indigo Deep, as if it had been there all along. Soon, ships will begin sailing out, seeking trade and ferrying passengers both leaving from and heading toward. 'Westmoore', some unknown Place, now ready to integrate with the rest of Eorzea at the behest of their 'Good Mayor', Rodarin Calrise.

We are happy to see more large scale horror plots popping up and are excited to see something new emerge and something old return. We watch on in rapture and delight. We wish you all the best in your story telling and many happy terrors along the way.

All of Our Love,

The Faceless

[ So many people have wondered if I was you! I'm still curious as to who you are, but I thank you for the well-wishing all the same. Thank you for the support~ ]

Oh this is fantastic. I love the horror angle! (Even if I'm not scrolling through your blog again because that clip from the "Lights Out" short very nearly sent me screaming across the house :D)

[ Thank you so much for this, I'm glad you're enjoying your time following along~ ]

Piecing It Together

She must have drawn a hundred of them. No, more than that. Cadence could barely see the apartment floor beneath scattered sheets of drawing parchment. That wasn’t important though. It had been days since that monstrous encounter with.. whatever they were. Children? That wasn’t right. The keeper squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed the bridge of her nose.

Focus, Cadence.

It had been days since that monstrous encounter with those creatures, in the late evening. It had been longer since she’d had a decent night’s rest. Her sleep had been riddled with hellish visions and portents. Not that she wasn’t used to such things, but in these visions, she could feel. It seemed like every time she closed her eyes, it was that same bitter cold, those same glowing eyes, that same tide of gnashing teeth and grasping little hands.

So she did as she’d always done with visions. Drew them until they were out of her mind. Drew them until her fingers were stained with charcoal, until her anxiety wracked nerves wouldn’t allow her to draw anymore. Only this time it wouldn’t stop. Fingertips had cracked and her eyes were stinging red as she looked out over her work, fanned out in every direction to resemble a star.

Images of alien landscapes, streaks of light in a void, faces. Hundreds of faces, blurred, but all of them staring at her with wide, bright eyes and smiles so wide they eluded all sense. Scattered among the imagery were frantically scribbled words and phrases–anything she could make out.

The Star is Falling.

So many of our children counted on you.

We can play?

Don’t disappoint us.

We’re going to play with you.

Cadence swallowed the urge to vomit for the third time since her last dive into dreamland, focusing the best she could on her first drawing for a few moments before standing to go check on her wards. Replenish them if she needed to. She wasn’t about to take an attack like that lying down again. So her nightly ritual continued. Check the wards, look over the papers, and brew more tea to drink in her vain attempt at keeping her eyes open until she’d inevitably fall back to sleep. This night with the aid of some strong fogweed. She needed her rest, and those gods forsaken eyes weren’t going to stop her.

@the-children

The Children’s Abattoir

This is a piece of horror fiction, and will contain scenes of gore, implied cannibalism, the act of vomiting and suicide. Please browse safely.

@the-children

Keep reading

A̧h̛, ͢the ̵o̸n̨e ͘w̧h͠o Dr͜e̡ams͢.͝ ̵W̛e ́remem͘be̢ŗ you̸.̴ J̶us͠t ͘a͘s͢ the͘ ͜S̸hro̡u͠d ŗeme̶m͢bers yo̡ư. B̶ut̸ t͟he͏ ͜qu̴es҉t͏ìo͝n is,̡ d͟o̵ ̕you ̢r͟e̸me͝m̛be̸r̀ u͜s͝? Y̢o̡u ͡we̛r̴e a wondęr͟f҉ul toy.̢ ̛S͢o ̧mu͜ch͝ blo̧o̵d͡,͏ ̷w͠e͡ ̢n͠a͢med ͡a̶ ̛R͘iver͟ a͟f҉t̀ęr ͘you͜!́ D͡òn͟'́t ͢y͠ou ̕r̶e͜membér͢? Yo͏ur͏ ͠'̵si͞ster͞'́ w͏às͠ ̴th̀e f̶ír̛s͡t ͠we͞ ͏p͏la̶ye̕d ̀w̡it͘h̸. N̴ò ̸m͏a͘t͠te̶ŕ—we̸ ͝wil͞l ̨p͢lay a҉ga̕i͝n̕ ͝so͝on.̨

(tw: drug use and addiction, as well as mentions of violence)The Dimwold remains quiet, as always, and Frey sits with their back to one of the trees, overlooking the still, fetid waters. The fog lays heavily over the area, and Frey's dilated silver eyes watch one of the nearby water sprites with idle fascination, transfixed by the gentle movement as a light breeze rolls through the area. Resting their head against the rough bark behind them, they lose themself to the haze of their newest high, the little white pill melting under their tongue, the taste still a bit strange in their mouth. Euphoric, relaxing, and sure to be their new staple until their tolerance builds once again and they need to seek another, and another, and another, the pleasant buzz leaves them relaxed and content as it settles in fully, drowning their usual edge of sharp anxiety and torrent of thoughts. This strange forest a sanctuary to them, one of the few places they let their guard down, they curl up and begin to doze peacefully beneath the barren boughs.

A̧h̛, ͢the ̵o̸n̨e ͘w̧h͠o Dr͜e̡ams͢.͝ ̵W̛e ́remem͘be̢ŗ you̸.̴

Black ears perk and flick, and their eyes snap open, even the lull of the chemicals clouding their mind not enough to dull the surprise. This never happens here. Voices never reach them here. The Dimwold is quiet, always quiet, and such is the appeal to the small Keeper: the stillness and silence. The one who dreams... A fitting title, they suppose, though Frey's dark painted lips curl into a bitter little smile at the next words. Voice lazy, languid, they hum, "I do strive to be memorable..." Straightening a bit, they pull their arms into a stretch over their head, curiously searching for the source of this new voice. Or, have they heard this one before? Would they even properly remember? Uncertain, Frey yawns and tries to rouse their mind to its usual sharpness.

J̶us͠t ͘a͘s͢ the͘ ͜S̸hro̡u͠d ŗeme̶m͢bers yo̡ư. B̶ut̸ t͟he͏ ͜qu̴es҉t͏ìo͝n is,̡ d͟o̵ ̕you ̢r͟e̸me͝m̛be̸r̀ u͜s͝?

The Shroud. Always the Shroud. Releasing a sigh, they settle back against the tree again, spine pressed against the trunk. "Mhm. Ever memorable, as I said, darling... Darlings?" It sounds like multitudes speaking, rather than just one, so they settle and repeat, with an affected, melodramatic sigh, "Darlings, then. Oh, would if I could recall the Shroud and all my little friends there." Lying, as they so often do, when it comes to the Twelveswood. Never admitting, never confronting. They remember more than they pretend to, but not quite everything, not the 'how' or the 'why' to the carnage committed at their hands, the explanation for the bodies in the cairns. They know enough to know that this voice differs from the one in their dreams, the one that whispers and claws at the back of their mind even to this day. It's curious, but not alarming, though some of that placid calm may be artificial.

Y̢o̡u ͡we̛r̴e a wondęr͟f҉ul toy.̢ ̛S͢o ̧mu͜ch͝ blo̧o̵d͡,͏ ̷w͠e͡ ̢n͠a͢med ͡a̶ ̛R͘iver͟ a͟f҉t̀ęr ͘you͜!́ D͡òn͟'́t ͢y͠ou ̕r̶e͜membér͢?

Frey releases a long sigh, as the voices continue, though their ears continue to swivel and try to discern a direction. Odd, how it feels like the sounds come from somewhere and nowhere, all at once. Slowly, they look down at their hands, the white spiral of marks that line their forearms. They've seen those rivers of blood, running from their fingertips, down their claws, and into the rich, black earth. "What, oh what was the river's name, I wonder? A toy, hm?" That title new, too. A champion, a tool, a weapon, they've heard all of that before, but a toy? Perhaps a toy is more fitting now, for the person they've become, the self fashioned 'entertainer' with all their theatricality and drive to play games.

Yo͏ur͏ ͠'̵si͞ster͞'́ w͏às͠ ̴th̀e f̶ír̛s͡t ͠we͞ ͏p͏la̶ye̕d ̀w̡it͘h̸.

Their sister? What does she have to do with this? At that, Frey pushes to their feet, their ears lowering a bit. How long had it even been since they'd seen Rain? Moons, now, since they last ran into her and her darling at a bar, only a pleasant conversation exchanged before the crowd and excitement swept Frey away from the quiet corner where she'd settled. For a moment, they wonder if she might be in danger, but they know her husband and their friends would never allow such, or that Frey would have been informed. A shadow of melancholy passes over them, as they wonder silently at their reasons for staying so far from her. For her little ones, Frey tells themself. For her sake, so they don't bring their messes and trouble to her doorstep. Lying, as always. They just don't want to face her when they've fallen back to every vice she once encouraged them to escape. Aside from the somnus, but really, are these new drugs any different? For now, they don't answer the voice, wanting to give nothing at all, no insight into Rain's life. This time, it is actually to protect her.

N̴ò ̸m͏a͘t͠te̶ŕ—we̸ ͝wil͞l ̨p͢lay a҉ga̕i͝n̕ ͝so͝on.̨

Again, they relax, the slight tension in their shoulders melting away while they balance on one heel and lean back against the tree. "Do as you will, darlings. I'll be here, as always." They'll survive it, as always, whatever this is, whatever it may bring. Curiosity burns brighter than any trepidation, and a smile crosses their face, cavalier and inviting. "A game might be interesting, no? Particularly if you mean to bring such fascinating pieces into the play. We'll see.~" Quiet, sonorous, they sing those last words in a playful taunt, and Frey turns their face skyward, watching the fog-muted sunbeams that filter through the trees.

They keep listening, for a time, but once again: the Dimwold is quiet.

Invitation.

The darkness that veiled the steps leading to the dining area seemed to thicken, as if some unseen presence was blocking the way just beyond the reach of dim light. Frosted breath soon escaped her lips as the air began to chill quite rapidly — enough so for a thin layer of frost to glaze the faces of her knives. The heat of her own body was rapidly beginning to siphon into the air, as that unnatural chill sank deeper into flesh and bone to lightly rattle at her core.

And only once the chill was strong enough to actively hinder movement, did the thick veil of shadows upon the stairs start to roll forward — spilling out into the restaurant in wave-like undulations. The space she could actually see in was growing smaller by the second, until a radius of about five yalms around her was all that was left between herself and the all-consuming abyss.

D̕e̕a͟l͝s̡? Thr̡éa̕ts͏? We ͜o͠f͜f̨er̨ ͠ne͝íthe̵r͠ ͝ơf͟ ̵thȩsȩ ͏t̸o ͟y͡o͢u.

The infinite voices of infinite Children, a cacophony of varying tones that ranged from elated glee, to mindless rage. Calling physically and mentally at once, to taunt her as the sound of countless tiny feet stomped and clamored beyond the shadows unseen.

W̧e̶ ̸wańt ev̵ȩryt͏hi̕n̵g͡ you ͜d͏on't ẃant̵ u͟s t͝o͠ hav̶e!

As if on queue, the terrified voices of those lost friends and family that should have long found rest within the Lifestream now crying out for help. Horrid laughter mixed and melded with ungodly roars, as the carnage could be heard from the shadows. Spilling blood and ripping meat, gnashing teeth and crunching bone. And the dying breaths of lost loved ones.

W̛e ͘w̸a̵nt͟ Th̵eḿ! ͟We͢ ͢w̷án͜t th͡is S͡ta͝r͡!̶ We̢ w̕ant̕ yoų!̨

From the veil of darkness, pale-white bodies began to scurry forward like insects — ghostly Children crawling along the floors, walls, and ceiling to clamor their way towards her with ravenous smiles. Their bodies still decorated fresh with the blood and viscera of her family smeared upon them.

A͠ rat͠ ͏r͢um̕m̶a̢ging̵ t̢h͡r͜o̢u͟gh͝ tr͢ash̴,̡ ̶r͡ębo͘rn͟ ̛as̸ a͡ ̀d͠rag͝on͝ w̶i̡t̴h̨ a f̢ier̵y͡ tong͘u͟e̛.̀ Y̡o͞u̴ ̛h͝a͞ve̸ al̵ẃays͡ be̸en͏ ̵on̵e ͏of ̶o̵u͞r͘ fa͢vor͝i͠t̛es.̕ Bl̕o͜ods̵ta̧ine̷d̡ ̸haǹds̨ this t͘i͞ḿe ̛t̛oo̕?͏ W҉e̸ ̛won̛de̵r͞ ̛ẁhic͞h ͘s̵i͞de͜ ̴ẃìll̕ h̵o͜l͘d ̀yo͢ur̢ self͢-͞int̢e̶r҉est̛ ̨this time.̀ N͢o̴ ͠ma͡tt͟ȩr—t͏he re͘st ͢o͡f̴ y̷o͝u͞r ͞b́l̡o̕odl͝ine҉ c̶an͞ s̢uffi̸ce̶,̶ ͝i͞f ńee͜de̷d.̧ Ev̴e͞n̢ th͠e ̢de͟ad e͡a̴rn͝ ̴no̶ ͠re͜s̸t͢.

(( I've been denoting Jak's 'Beast' - her Dark Knight 'Fray' using bold and italics, and her inner thoughts with italics, but I'm going to start trying to use parentheses for the Beast as well, to make it more clear who's speaking/thinking. Also, unless it's physically manifesting, the Beast is bothering her speaking in her head! ))

The Wakagashira of Bluesky sat, this eve, in her restaurant: Indulgence - hers, what a thought - mostly, at any rate. She still answered to the Oyabun, and wouldn't have this place without his patronage...and so, it served both their purposes.

Tonight, the warm, yellow glow of the lights burned low - though the gilded walls reflect it back softly - the gilt glow stretching down the plush, black and white leather booths, lightly illuminating the sepia-tinted paintings of Kugane that drew the eye upward, past the buttery leather seats.

Not her jewel tones, however - the little calico Miqo'te sits at one of those booths, a small lantern sending a halo of its own soft, yellow glow across the dark wood of the table...and the ledgers she's doctoring for the Oyabun. Thick-framed, dark-rimmed glasses have slipped to the end of a pert nose, and orange bangs drag on the paper...reading and writing still a slow process, for her.

A͠ rat͠ ͏r͢um̕m̶a̢ging̵ t̢h͡r͜o̢u͟gh͝ tr͢ash̴,̡ ̶r͡ębo͘rn͟ ̛as̸ a͡ ̀d͠rag͝on͝ w̶i̡t̴h̨ a f̢ier̵y͡ tong͘u͟e̛.̀ Y̡o͞u̴ ̛h͝a͞ve̸ al̵ẃays͡ be̸en͏ ̵on̵e ͏of ̶o̵u͞r͘ fa͢vor͝i͠t̛es.̕

The diminutive 'dark knight', if she could truly be called such - even with the stone she bore - takes to her feet in remarkable haste; behind her, that overlong tail tipped in another splash of orange lashes, little hands quick to sprout knives from...where, really, is hard to tell - she's got a myriad on her at any given time, after all; however, the glasses and studious expression are both long forgotten.

No one should have been there, besides security; no one should be able to get in - and there was only one way to enter: right up the stairs. Few were stealthy enough to evade her ears, but...it was possible.

"It's a bit rude to invite yourself in - and then not even introduce yourself...especially if I'm a favorite, after all." They'd not been wrong about her fiery tongue, it seems - perhaps only Jak would be bold enough to demand courtesy from disembodied voices; but she'd spent enough time around men with voidsent problems to expect the strange, and in truth, the thought that it was tied to one of the men who'd left her life shook her...but no point in dwelling on as much, when potentially imperiled.

Keep reading

Invitation.

For a long, long while, it seemed as if the invitation would go unanswered — or perhaps even ignored. But just as the thought of giving up would rise at the back of her mind, the shadows that hugged the corners of her room began to roil in place, growing thicker by the second. Frost trickled along any glass present, as milky plumes of breath escaped with her every exhale.

Within the growing tapestry of darkness that was steadily consuming the edges of her room, glowing white spheres began to form. Along the floor, upon the walls — even looming high upon the ceiling. Every one of them growing a matching grin as they stared upon her.

A̵re you ̷tru̸ly͟ ͢t̵h̵a͏t ̛ea͟g͘er ̢t̕o ͠p͟lay? 

But ̧wh͠i͘c̕h ͢wo͘u͘l̷d̨ ̵you be̛ this͞ ̛timé?͢ ͡A T̕o̶y? ͝Or a ̧feast?

Suffer the little ones

With the recent unease of an intrusive voice that had rattled her to the core still lingering heavy on her mind, Roka sought to find some normalcy. Some sense of ease. The Gin Mill had been a nice distraction and despite her original intent of hovering in the shadows to guard against any dangers that might be lurking she had found herself tucked into Ren’s side, where temporary ease had swept away her fear and replaced it with familial comfort. An evening of drinking on a comfy couch, cozy beneath a thick blanket, and reading could have almost fooled her into thinking she had imagined the entire thing.

There was no sensible reason that some foreign voice could have known about that spoon, tucked away and preserved in a tome. It was just a new fragment of her mind, most likely. Or maybe even an echo of the original source of it, played back just to set her nerves on fire. To keep her wary.

There was a chance though, and she couldn’t let even that small slip of a chance be ignored.

Rising before dawn she slunk away from where she’d eventually found sleep, making sure to tuck her friend back in so not to disturb warm slumber which she was certain he needed as much as she did, Roka found herself in the kitchens once more, eyeing the ovens.

Get ̢t̨he ̢ov̸e̶n̨ réady for͟ ̨u͘s.͞

She shuddered, pushing the reminder away as she started the oven preheating and set about making cookies. She dared not try anything fancy still, especially as rattled as she was, but it would help ease her mind to busy herself with a familiar kindness. She could take treats to the orphanage and enjoy listening to the children there play for a spell.

A few bells later she left, burdened with a basket brimming with cookies. Chocolate chunk, sugar cookies, and gooey peanut butter ones made the bulk, but she also made a small batch of soft oatmeal raisin cookies, for the caretakers and the few children who preferred them. Stepped from the aether at her destination, the hair on the back of her neck prickled at the lack of sound she was greeted with. Acrid burn of aether from a teleport mingled with the warm scents of the cookies, announcing her presence, but there was something sinister in the air beneath what she brought with her. Nostrils flared, scenting the air like an animal as her ears fanned, pivoting like satellites as she sought any hint of where people were.

Silence.

The yard was not merely muted and quiet, where one might hear birdsong or distant chatter, but utter silence.

The hair at the back of her neck rose, a chill creeping down her spine and causing a long ridge of fur along the top of her tail to stand on end.

“Hello? I know I have not been by for a bit, but ah… It is Roka, yes! I thought I would come visit, bring some treats?”

Chewing her lip she listened again, slowly moving to rap her knuckles sharply on the door.

With still no answer, she sucked a breath in and opened the door, marching forward and toward the common area, where visitors normally waited. The smell, that lurking thing which she hadn’t registered immediately, was stronger here, odd eyes growing glassy as she walked. It wasn’t until she’d placed the basket on a table in the middle of the room, standing there for a long moment with eyes half-lidded and saliva welling in her jaws, that the sight that surrounded her sank in.

Blood.

Muddy brown splatters painted the walls, a maddened artist’s masterpiece.

Pieces of what once were caretakers or children littered the room, strewn about in garish décor.

Something terrible had happened here, that was clear, and that gnawing worry clawed back into her mind. There was nothing she could do though, not here at least, and lingering in the massacre was only calling to the inky thing that swam in her breast. The basket was collected again, boots carrying her soundlessly into a rip of aether as she whisked herself home once more.

Her baked offerings found a new home on the Elysium counter, and the waif stalked back to her own room, perching herself on a chair again and dwelling on that voice.

Y͏o̴u'll ̨m͝ak̛e̷ a̧ ̵f͡i͞n͏ę ̸f̢e͘ast.

Pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers, Roka cleared her mind as best she could, driving away all thoughts save those of the voice that had barged into her mind uninvited, reaching out and seeking it. Inviting it. She needed to know if it was them again, or if something else was lurking out there.

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