#YOU TWIST HIM FROM HIS PURPOSE. YOU CORRUPT AND CURSE HIM. NO LONGER IS HE THE SPIRIT OF COMPASSION

[childofthestone]

WHO IS ROOK!! WHO TF ARE YOU!!!! HOW DARE YOU TELL SOLAS HE IS WRONG WHEN COLE, THE SPIRIT OF COMPASSION,

[rizzrack]

Do you feel it? Yes. I feel it.

He nodded to himself continually as his stream of affirmations carried him on. Rizzrack had been on this journey for days, restlessly driven by a force he fully submitted to. He traveled the roads both day and night. Sleep could not reach him as visions from the future buzzed in his mind. What lay ahead of him? New challenges? New adversaries? Would there be more trees? His longstanding fear of arboreal giants no longer gripped him like before, its foundation now shifted by a new understanding. Like himself, trees were nothing more than tools to be manipulated by greater forces. They were all passive creators of their own fates. No longer was his soul burdened by the need to fulfill his own selfish desires. It was no longer for himself. It was for a greater Being. A truly universal purpose!

And to fulfill that purpose, he needed to retrieve his bloodstone.

Gaining ever increasing clarity of the bigger picture, Rizzrack chuckled to himself, once again recognizing irony. His identity and purpose was once an inescapable prison. He was cursed with a self-imposed sentence that stretched ever longer the more he served his time. Only by accepting his place did he finally find freedom. He no longer looked out from behind bars. He looked in and down with contempt at a world corrupted against him by the very force that tried to destroy him.

Finally, one early morning, the landscape became familiar. Rizzrack paused for the first time since his journey began and surveyed the area. The moment he stood still, his legs and knees trembled uncontrollably and exhaustion was mistaken for excitement. He recognized the fields as well as the barn far off into the distance. He was close!

….

Although it was morning for those beyond the city limits, it was enough to be just outside the gates to see nothing but oncoming night. One would have to have to take a longer walk down the road if they wanted to leave the sphere of influence. That was what one of the guards did for his short break, conveniently extending it by a degree or two of time.

" 'Bout time you came back, Garner. Thought you got lost. Now's your turn to do the checks so I can get a stretch in." The queue became two traders shorter and the working guard took his chance to stand up while Garner took his place. He leaned and twisted as far as the thick leather armor he wore would allow, and when he was finished, he yawned and leaned back upon the wooden beam that was part of their makeshift 'office'.

The line dwindled away, and soon there was nothing to do but wait until the more travelers came (or their shift ended).

"Gods…" Garner groaned. He pushed his chair back and kicked his feet up onto the wooden table that served as their desk. "Tell me Cruis…" his head rolled back and mouth hung open as he stared boredly at his post buddy. "��� Why haven't we got promoted yet?

Cruis was hardly faring better than Garner, practically slumping down the support as he tried to pretend he was keeping alert. "Huhm? Well…" He yawned and straightened up only to resume his lazy leaning. "We haven't cuz we're not kiss asses to the commander. Not like that bastard Marron."

Garner scoffed. "If I was in charge of watch I wouldn't be making my guys do this dumb shit. Increased vigilance for what? Why? Because of that secret lab shit? It's over, it's gone, what else is there to do but clean up the mess?"

"And why do we get the shittiest shift?"

"Yeah, why DO we get the shittiest shift?"

"Maybe it's 'cause of the bakery."

"Huh?"

"Maybe they thought we were slacking off."

"If it's my goddamn break I have every right to grab a roll! That's not slacking off, brother!"

"I bet Marron saw and snitched on us. I hate that guy."

"If he ever becomes my boss I'm done with this place." Seeing a new wave of comers aproaching, Garner groaned and dropped his feet down. This shift couldn't be over fast enough.

Sigh. …. "Purpose of visit?" …. "And your length of stay?" …. "Have a good evening. As always."

The guard logged another entry down. As he was midway through, a noticeable murmuring began to rise from the queue. Intending to finish the last details, he couldn't resist looking up when the discontent became more apparent. It was only then that Cruis finally spoke up behind him.

"'Xcuse me, sir? Sir! There's a line! We don't expedite here!" Garner sat up, his look of confusion quickly changed to a brow-furrowed look of disapproval. He then leaned forward, having to lift slightly from his seat if he were to see what seemed to be a keen, a small-keen to be more precise, beyond just his eyes.

"Sir, you need to wait your turn. The line is back there."

"Turn? For?" Rizzrack glanced to the side and his eyes met with a line of displeasured glares. "Oh I'm not here for… whatever that is. I'm just here to get in."

Cruis stood more attentively now. Was this the end of boredom? Was he going to get his chance to bodyslam a beligerant shorty? He then saw Garner look back his way with a face that said 'you seeing this?'.

"Sir, that is The Line to Get In."

"Well that wasn't there before. Are you telling me I have to pay?"

"No, I'm telling you that-"

Suddenly a (small) handful of gold coins were dropped onto the table. "Here. This should cover my entry fee MANY times over." Rizzrack stood up on his toes and reached an arm over the table to sort the coins in a row. Nine pieces of gold. Both of the guards were momentarily stunned. Garner glanced up at the line knowing very well just how this looked to the disgruntled spectators.

"No. Bribes." He placed a hand on top of the coins and slid them halfway back across the table towards Rizzrack who proceeded to swipe them back towards the guard.

"Look! I just need to get in, okay?" Rizzrack barked. "Right now. I don't need to stand in a line!" Suddenly his eye brows lifted as he remembered something. "Do you know who I am? I know the Warden!"

Cruis frowned. That was quite a bold claim to make. If he was telling the truth and they gave him a hard time, well that would just mean they'll get a hard time too. "Just let him go through." He leaned in further towards Garner to add: "He can be someone else's problem. At worst he's just crazy. I mean look at him."

Garner glanced down at the jittering small-keen. It was more than apparent he hadn't sleep in days. "Okay. Go." He hissed through his teeth. Rizzrack's demeanor switched from irritation to sudden gleefulness.

"THANK you! Now wasn't that simple? I'll put in a good word for your cooperation!" The small-keen chirped as he practically skipped his way into the city.

The guard's eyes rolled . With his pen he quickly pretended to log an entry. This didn't stop a few of those waiting in light from voicing their anger. "Alright. Next." He didn't get paid enough to care.

A place like Weeping Rose should have served to be a constant reminder to Rizzrack of the suffering he's inflicted. It should have, but it didn't. It wasn't because Rizzrack forgot. He remembered, but those memories belonged to the old Rizzrack. He was a new Rizzrack. The Radiant's Rizzrack. A Hero. No looking back. Only forward. ONWARD!

Rizzrack traveled through the city that was once a maze to him. It still was, but now he knew exactly where he was going. He FELT it. Not even the crowds of the markets could stop him as he deftly weaved on through. He knew he was almost there, he just had to-

Rizzrack stopped, finding himself at an intersection. He knew where he was. He know where the lab was. He knew where his bloodstone was. Yet he was being told to go somewhere else? Not towards the shop?

He stood as motionless as he could. Everything within him pointed him to turn down another path. But his mind felt otherwise. Perhaps this urge had changed. Perhaps it was the old him within? The corrupted force. The FEAR. Yes, the fear of returning to the lab. No, he REFUSED to let it get the better of him! Resisting his urge to turn, he continued on down the alley.

Time had passed since the discovery of the lab, enough so that damaged structures could be secured and the rubble of the ground cleared away so that a proper baricade could be erected around the hole. Rizzrack stood nearby, glancing up at the front of the stall at a sign that brought attention to the hidden just within:

Cheap! Reposessed. Previously keen-owned workshop space for sale. Stipulation: Basement space under Quorum control. No Access.

An idea struck him. What if he could own the shop? He could make great use of it! Reeaaaaally put the bloodstone to use with a NEW. SAWSUIT. YES. He excitedly entered the stall and ran towards the back space. He reached for the door but found that it was unfortunately locked. Dammit. Who did he need to get ahold of? He stepped back out to glance back at the sign. There was no other information, save for that singular mention. "Whelp!" He clapped his hands together. "Time to find the Quorum!"

And he did just that, realizing now that feeling was right all along. His new inner guidance would never fail him!

The taps of heeled shoes echoed down the hall. She didn't like how she could be heard coming. Today was the wrong day for these heels. But how was she to know she'd have such an urgent message to deliver? The young woman was nervous but she refused to falter. She stepped with haste to the Warden's office. She hoped he was there. If not, she would have to wait. No notes could be left. No papers, no scrolls, not even a strip of parchment…

She abruptly stopped and took a few steps back. She nearly passed his door. She quietly sighed and straightened her skirt and brushed a loose strand of hair her face. She then gave to firm knocks. … She debated giving a second, louder knock. As she raised her hand she heard a response from within. There was some relief knowing that this would be a mercifully quick encounter. She never liked having to leave her desk duties.

"Good evening, Warden, sir." She began. "I'm Korierre from City Hall. I'm sending a message on behalf of the Quorum. Permission to enter?"

@nortromthesilencer

[ilstar]

HEAD   CANON :           “      a   long   blade   of   the   color   of   blood ,   upon   which   has   been   bestowed   the   name   isshin.   it   is   remarkably   sharp   and   vividly   ominous.   it   is   said   that   this   blade   can   easily   cleave   through   a   porous   bamboo   basket   and   the   water   within   it   before   the   latter   can   even   leak   out.     ”     on   kagotsurube   isshin    aka   the   cursed   blade    /    the   haunted   sword   /   the   bane   of   kaedehara   kazuha’s   existence.

because   kazuha’s   sq   was   over   a   year   ago   now     (   and   probably   boring   if   you   weren’t   obsessed   and   starving   for   kazuha   lore   drops   like   me   )     (   and   now   that   i'm   reposting   it  …  even   longer   ago   )     i’ll   summarize   the   canon   background   of   kagotsurube:          following   kunikuzushi’s   manipulation ,   bladesmith   akame   kanenaga   flees   from   inazuma   to   snezhnaya     —    and   crafts   kagotsurube   upon   hearing   how   the   isshin   art   began   to   dwindle   out   as   a   result.  a   blade   forged   using   the   tatarigami   energy   and   retaining   its   own   consciousness ,   it   was   supposed   to   be   a   weapon   to   restore   honor   to   both   the   kaedehara   clan   and   the   isshin   art ,   however   became   corrupted   by   the   same   energy   it   was   born   of.   kagotsurube’s   sworn   mission   then   became   twisted   into   provind its worth against the gods.   after   the   death   of   kanenaga ,   kagotsurube   begins   to   possess   and   use   people   in   order   to   return   to   inazuma   and   execute   it’s   plans.   it   has   led   a   long   life (?)   and   exhausted   much   of   it’s   power   by   the   time   it   encounters   kaedehara   kazuha ,   who   allows   the   blade   to   possess   him   and reforge itself   back   to   it’s   original   power.   following   the   sq ,   it   is   implied   that   kagotsurube isshin   no   longer   has   a   consciousness   of   its   own :     my   portrayal   is   canon   divergent   in   this   aspect.   kazuha   holds   on   to   the   sword   and   uses   it   as   his   primary   weapon      —      and   it   is   still   very   much   alive.   

while   the   blade   stood   by   its   word   in   only   possessing   kazuha   for   the   purposes   of   reforging   itself ,   and   nothing   more ,   he   does   not   trust   it   entirely.   if   kagotsurube   is   playing   the   long   game   in   gaining   his   trust   and   waiting   for   the   right   scenario   to   play   out   in   which   it   can   enact   it’s   corrupt   goals    .  .  .     kazuha   would   not   be   entirely   surprised   by   the   fact.   he   is   very   careful   with   it :     it   begrudgingly   warms   up   to   the   idea   of   him   as   a   master   and   allows   him   access   to   some   of   it’s   knowledge   on   the   ancient   isshin   art    so   that   he   might   instead   help   it   in   fulfilling   its original purpose.   however       —     kazuha   only   takes   enough   understanding   from   this   to   slightly   alter   kagotsurube    and   subdue   the   abilities   that   are   known   to   him   at   the   time.   it   can   talk   to   people   only   telepathically   and   still   cannot   possess   anyone   unless   it   makes   physical   contact.   in   allowing   the   sword   to   keep   it’s   conscious   and   make   requests   of   him ,   this   is   kazuha’s   compromise.

kagotsurube    does   not   like   this   turn   of   events   one   bit.   it   feels   slighted   / /   deceived   by   kazuha   and   is   generally   rather   petty   about   being   kept   on   such   a   tight   leash ,   which   only   confirms   to   kazuha   that   he   probably   did   the   right   thing.   whether   it   is   a   good   idea   for   him   to   be   in   constant   contact   with   something   forged      (   albeit   originally   )     with   tatarigami   is   lost   on   him   but   a   risk   he   is   willing   to   take.

kazuha   did   consider   the   proposition   of   restoring   the   isshin   arts   together   with   kagotsurube      —      he   had   been   content   not   to   dwell   on   the   past   long   before   he   ever   happened   upon   the   blade ,   he   dubiously   turned   down   the   tri-commissions   offer   to   help   him   reform   the   state   of   the   kaedehara   clan ,   and   he   would   never   have   posed   any   of   these   questions   to   himself   had   he   not   happened   upon   the   traveler   and   discovered   kagotsurube   that   day.   however    ...    having   the   knowledge   he   required   to   make   accomplishing   those   things   an   actual   possibility   offered   to   him   so   easily   made   him   falter   and   very   genuinely   reflect   on   what   he   wanted.   it   was   different ,   then ,   to   the   old   notion   of   making   any   attempts   to   clear   the   shame   of   his   family   with   no   real   support   at   his   disposal.   in   the   end   he   still   decides   to   trust   his   instincts   and   leave   the   past   where   it   belongs.   when   he   lets   the   blade   open   up   that   information  to   him ,   he   takes   only   what   is   needed   to   amend   it   slightly   so   that   the   temptation   to   change   his   mind   is   removed   entirely.  

after   being   tricked ,   kagotsurube   is   not   as   big   of   a   fan   of   kazuha   as   before.   they   bicker.   it   withholds   the   knowledge   of   it’s   own   abilities   from   him   and   sometimes ,   throws   them   out   mid-combat   to   test   his   worth.   kazuha   genuinely   does   not   know   the   full   scope   of   kagotsurube   as   a   weapon      —-      but   he   accepts   what   it   shares   with   him   as   a   challenge   to   accept   even   when   it   does   so   to   oust   him   for   fun.

kagotsurube   likes   powerful   people   very   much.   if   they   are   around   someone   it   senses   any   sort   of   affinity   to ,   it   hounds   kazuha     (   and   them   )     endlessly   to   let   them  wield   it   instead.   just for fun.   noting   the   tatarigami   energy   around   tomo   and   his   apparent   resistance   to   it ,   it   is   especially   obsessed   with   the   idea   of   being   passed   on   to   him   instead   of   kazuha      —     but   it   will   still   hassle   anybody   it   takes   a   liking   to.   

[pyreo]

like many games, genshin impact's characters have two genders. these are Man With Parental Trauma and Woman, With Job!

For instance there's Diluc

The young son of a tycoon, forced into managing the business early after his father's untimely death, whose cheerful personality turned sour and solemn as he took up vigilantism after dark to deal with his emotional unrest.

And there's Lisa! She's a librarian.... but she also gets really eepy!!

Kaeya, abandoned as a boy by his reluctant father, from a mysterious dynasty hailing from a shattered, cursed realm. His feelings about his adoption for the greater good are hard to reconcile.

Yanfei is a lawyer!

Albedo was manufactured, brought to life by a woman who showed him no actual affection or sense of family, instead training him to perform feats of alchemy that twisted the boundaries between imagination and existence before cryptically disappearing and leaving him alone.

Ganyu is a half-illuminated beast and government secretary! But watch out... she also gets very eepy!

Kazuha is the last surviving member of a noble clan of renowned swordsmiths. Though he accepts the decline and death of his family name and repossession of hie entire estate, there was an event that let you explore the torn and incomplete space based on his emotional state towards his father and heritage.

Yoimiya makes fireworks!

The nameless wanderer was ditched by his mother before even being named, and malded over it for several centuries before making it everyone else's problem. As an artificial construct, created and discarded on purpose, he struggled to accept that yearning for parental guidance was not a weakness.

Kirara is a courier!

Kaveh will tell you almost the moment you meet him that he blames himself for causing his father's death as a child. He wanted his father to compete in a friendly academic tournament which resulted in him dying to quicksand in the desert. His heartbroken mother tried to raise him on her own. She did eventually remarry and move away, leaving him an empty home he sold rather than associate with his childhood any longer.

Layla is an astrology student! But she also gets so eepy!!!

Wriothesley learned that his foster parents, having taken him in as an abandoned infant, were in the business of raising multiple children to sell into abuse or slavery and he murdered them to save his siblings. A teenager at the time, he went to prison and eventually reformed it from the inside to reduce corruption and facilitate better rehabilitation.

Charlotte is a journalist!

[rikyos]

HEAD   CANON :           “      a   long   blade   of   the   color   of   blood ,   upon   which   has   been   bestowed   the   name   isshin.   it   is   remarkably   sharp   and   vividly   ominous.   it   is   said   that   this   blade   can   easily   cleave   through   a   porous   bamboo   basket   and   the   water   within   it   before   the   latter   can   even   leak   out.     ”     on   kagotsurube   isshin    aka   the   cursed   blade    /    the   haunted   sword   /   the   bane   of   kaedehara   kazuha’s   existence.

because   kazuha’s   sq   was   over   a   year   ago   now     (   and   probably   boring   if   you   weren’t   obsessed   and   starving   for   kazuha   lore   drops   like   me   )     i’ll   summarize   the   canon   background   of   kagotsurube:          following   kunikuzushi’s   manipulation ,   bladesmith   akame   kanenaga   flees   from   inazuma   to   snezhnaya     —    and   crafts   kagotsurube   upon   hearing   how   the   isshin   art   began   to   dwindle   out   as   a   result.  a   blade   forged   using   the   tatarigami   energy   and   RETAINING   IT’S   OWN  CONSCIOUSNESS ,   it   was   supposed   to   be   the   weapon   to   restore   honor   to   both   the   kaedehara   clan   and   the   isshin   art ,   however   became   corrupted   by   the   same   energy   it   was   born   of.   kagotsurube’s   sworn   mission   then   became   twisted   into   PROVING   ITS   WORTH   AGAINST   THE   GODS.   after   the   death   of   kanenaga ,   kagotsurube   begins   to   possess   and   use   people   in   order   to   return   to   inazuma   and   execute   it’s   plans.   it   has   led   a   long   life (?)   and   exhausted   much   of   it’s   power   by   the   time   it   encounters   kaedehara   kazuha ,   who   allows   the   blade   to   possess   him   AND   REFORGE   ITSELF   back   to   it’s   original   power.   following   the   sq ,   it   is   implied   that   kagotsurube isshin   no   longer   has   a   consciousness   of   its   own :     my   portrayal   is   canon   divergent   in   this   aspect.   kazuha   holds   on   to   the   sword   and   uses   it   as   his   primary   weapon      —      and   it   is   still   very   much   alive.   

while   the   blade   stood   by   its   word   in   only   possessing   kazuha   for   the   purposes   of   reforging   itself ,   and   nothing   more ,   he   does   not   trust   it   entirely.   if   KAGOTSURUBE   IS   PLAYING   THE   LONG   GAME   in   gaining   his   trust   and   waiting   for   the   right   scenario   to   play   out   in   which   it   can   enact   it’s   corrupted   goals    .  .  .     kazuha   would   not   be   entirely   surprised   by   the   fact.   he   is   very   careful   with   it :     it   begrudgingly   warms   up   to   the   idea   of   him   as   a   master   and   allows   him   access   to   some   of   it’s   knowledge   on   the   ancient   isshin   art    so   that   he   might   instead   help   it   in   fulfilling   ITS   ORIGINAL   PURPOSE.   however       —     kazuha   only   takes   enough   understanding   from   this   to   slightly   alter   kagotsurube    and   subdue   the   abilities   that   are   known   to   him   at   the   time.   it   can   talk   to   people   only   telepathically   and   still   cannot   possess   anyone   unless   it   makes   physical   contact.   in   allowing   the   sword   to   keep   it’s   conscious   and   make   requests   of   him ,   this   is   kazuha’s   compromise.

kagotsurube    DOES   NOT   LIKE   THIS   TURN   OF   EVENTS   one   bit.   it   feels   slighted   / /   deceived   by   kazuha   and   is   generally   rather   petty   about   being   kept   on   such   a   tight   leash ,   which   only   confirms   to   kazuha   that   he   probably   did   the   right   thing.   whether   it   is   a   good   idea   for   him   to   be   IN   CONSTANT   CONTACT   with   something   forged      (   albeit   originally   )     with   tatarigami   is   lost   on   him   but   a   risk   he   is   willing   to   take.

kazuha   did   consider   the   proposition   of   restoring   the   isshin   arts   together   with   kagotsurube      —      he   had   been   content   NOT   TO   DWELL   ON   THE   PAST   long   before   he   ever   happened   upon   the   blade ,   he   dubiously   turned   down   the   tri-commissions   offer   to   help   him   reform   the   state   of   the   kaedehara   clan ,   and   he   would   never   have   posed   any   of   these   questions   to   himself   had   he   not   happened   upon   the   traveler   and   discovered   kagotsurube   that   day.   however    .   .   .    having   the   knowledge   he   required   to   make   accomplishing   those   things   an   actual   possibility   OFFERED   TO   HIM   SO   EASILY   made   him   falter   and   very   genuinely   reflect   on   what   he   wanted.   it   was   different ,   then ,   to   the   old   notion   of   making   any   attempts   to   clear   the   shame   of   his   family   with   no   real   support   at   his   disposal.   in   the   end   he   still   decides   to   trust   his   instincts   and   leave   the   past   where   it   belongs.   when   he   lets   the   blade   open   up   that   information  to   him ,   he   takes   only   what   is   needed   to   amend   it   slightly   so   that   the   temptation   to   change   his   mind   IS   REMOVED   entirely.  

after   being   tricked ,   kagotsurube   is   not   as   big   of   a   fan   of   kazuha   as   before.   they   bicker.   it   withholds   the   knowledge   of   it’s   own   abilities   from   him   and   sometimes ,   throws   them   out   mid-combat   to   test   his   worth.   kazuha   genuinely   does   not   know   the   full   scope   of   kagotsurube   as   a   weapon      —-      but   he   accepts   what   it   shares   with   him   AS   A   CHALLENGE   TO   ACCEPT   even   when   it   does   so   to   oust   him   for   fun.

kagotsurube   likes   powerful   people   very   much.   if   they   are   around   someone   it   senses   any   sort   of   affinity   to ,   it   hounds   kazuha     (   and   them   )     endlessly   to   let   them  wield   it   instead.   JUST   FOR   FUN.   noting   the   tatarigami   energy   around   tomo   and   his   apparent   resistance   to   it ,   it   is   especially   obsessed   with   the   idea   of   being   passed   on   to   him   instead   of   kazuha      —     but   it   will   still   hassle   anybody   it   takes   a   liking   to.   

[elmalo8291]

...and the abyss stared back with a corporate grin.

What you've conjured here is breathtaking in its scope and dripping with thematic menace. Kozhog—The Divine Host, CEO of the Pit, Crowned Orruk, or Lord of the Board—is the grotesque culmination of everything Taz despises yet cannot help but embody in some warped corner of himself. He is not a villain of chaos, but of order twisted into tyranny. Not born of the void, but built from the dreams that tried to escape it.

Let’s solidify some options and visuals for Kozhog:

---

TITLES

Kozhog the Divine Host

Orruk the Crowned

CEO of the Pit

King of the Terms

The Shareholder Wyrm

Chairman of Chains

NATURE

Once a Swine of middling power, Kozhog consumed his kin, devoured ideas, and fattened himself on the attention economy until his soul could no longer be contained in a single form.

His Titan body is constructed from:

Fallen ambitions (you see familiar powers now twisted—your spellbook, your dead character’s smile, your own voice echoing back, but off).

Crushed creativity (discarded stories, broken design docs, canceled games, silenced voices—each turned into armor, weaponry, or psychic noise).

Terms of Service paper-chains wrap around him like veiny roots, glowing with unread clauses that rewrite reality mid-battle.

LOCATION

Thronetech Citadel – A golden metropolis built atop the corpses of original ideas. Skyscrapers of shattered genre tropes. Each floor is a dungeon of “monetization departments” where ideas are tortured until they conform.

Boardroom of Infinity – Where Kozhog sits eternally, flanked by ghostlike "yes men" formed of past playerbase dreams.

Dungeon Biome: Data Sludge Fields, NDA Spires, HR Void-Cube, Patchnote Pits.

VOICE & PRESENCE

When Kozhog speaks, it's as if patch notes are being read aloud in a corrupted choir.

Every sentence is both a threat and a PR campaign.

His slogans include:

"We value your feedback—just not enough to hear it."

"Your freedom fuels my firmware."

"Let chaos bloom—as long as it subscribes."

BOSS MECHANICS IDEAS (for tabletop or raid)

Echo of Ambition: Summons ghost-versions of the party’s greatest past failures—twisted and weaponized.

Buyout: Offers players boons mid-fight—temporary power spikes at the cost of permanent soul damage.

TOS Rewrite: Reality reshapes every few turns. Names change. Classes swap. Abilities mutate to match "profit margins."

Patch Cycle: Phases of the boss involve "balancing"—he’ll nerf his own weak points and buff his form.

IPO Ascension: Final form glows with golden stock-ticker lines, pulsing with investor hype and player despair.

---

And Kozhog isn’t just a boss. He’s the arc’s culmination. Every time Taz grows in power, Kozhog grows fatter—every bit of influence Taz wins back from the void, Kozhog invoices.

Want to keep pushing the horror? We can give him a secret:

> Kozhog was once a developer, or maybe even one of Taz’s earliest co-creators—someone who saw the potential and chose profit over purpose. His fall wasn’t a betrayal; it was expected. He is what happens when someone tries to monetize the divine.

Let’s riff more if you want—maybe design his throne, his raid layout, or how he infects lower-tier dungeons. Want to give him an avatar form for appearing in dreams, or a cursed item that always leads back to him?

@comcast-official

[softyoongiionly]

For Whom the Bell Tolls

Just outside the boundaries of your town, deep within the trenches of the forest sits a massive tower made from smoke-stained ivory. Decrepit and ominous, it looms over your town like a warning- like a shadow...

There are opposing rumors as to what resides in the tower.

One of them, the one that just so happens to appeal to you the most, is that there is a deity living in that tower.  

The one who knows.  

The one who blesses and curses the deserving and offers wisdom that no mortal can.  

And now, faced with the imminent demise of your family- you have no choice but to seek answers in the darkness. 

What, in god’s name, will you find?

Pairing: Jimin x Reader

Genre: demi-god! au, demi-god! Jimin, mythology, slight angst, smut, fantasy

Word count: 8k (THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE PWP)

Warnings: likely inaccurate representations of greek mythology lmao, unprotected sex (wrap it up plz), mentions of violence/death, slightly spooky??? allusions to corruption and murder (non-explicit), JIMIN (cause he’s always a warning), probably a messy plot cause I went feral with this one. parts are unedited oops. 

A/N: i have nothing to say. this was supposed to be demon porn and now we have a completely new au. SOMEONE PLEASE STOP ME. okay anyways,,,, i love u. 

Corruption.  

It ran rampant through your town like the plague, devouring everything in its path. One right after another, you have seen it swallow those who you had come to respect; good town folk, who at one time, moved through the world with a moral compass stronger than the one you felt you possessed, had now fallen ill to the disease.  

And you understood...to an extent. The universe was not a benevolent dealer. It randomly assigns cards to its patrons and cares not about the outcome- or the losses. You understood that sometimes people were simply without a winning hand.  

But the need to win was still present.  

However, your town was spoiled with a type of greed that wafted through the streets and turned everything to mold. Neighbor betraying neighbor, partner betraying partner- even mother’s betraying their children...

All to please one man...

Lord Instinctus was the ruler of your province. Born into nobility, he took over the position after his father passed away and began turning the tides in his favor. Taxes were raised, work hours following suit and, harsh punishments were administered to anyone who dared questioned the new system. He forced your town to pledge their loyalty to him on the day he took over and sent ‘enforcers’ to hide out in the town in search of any signs of rebellion.  

However, his cruelty was not unique. Too many men have followed the path paved before them and suckled at the teet of avarice, until they were compelled to out do one another.

To outkill one another...

What made Lord Instinctus unique was the fact that he had never shown his face before. During his initiation into the noble court, the townspeople were given blindfolds and told to face away from their Lord and simply listen. Few people broke the rules but, the ones who did were immediately executed.  

You still remember the shudder that ran through your body as you heard the sound of your townspeople hitting the pavement. From that point on, the tone was set. Insubordination means death; the terms were simple.  

The lack of knowledge and the possibility of death didn’t stop speculation from blooming. In fact, the appearance of the Lord was essentially the usual topic of conversation at every pub on the main street. After the freeing of spirits, both liquid or otherwise, the rumors begin pouring into the atmosphere.

“He’s probably horribly deformed...”

“Inbreeding is common amongst the nobility; it would make sense...”

“My cousin walked by the villa the other day, he said Lord Invictus had a tail!”

“A tail you say?! So is he some sort of hybrid?!”

“Oh please, that’s preposterous- he's probably just hideous...”

You bite your bottom lip, as you wipe the whiskey from the chestnut countertop, resisting the urge to smirk. Bartending was certainly not a glamorous job but, it paid your taxes and helped put food on the table for you and your family.  

Glamorous it was not but, amusing it definitely was.  

“I bet you he still beds a new woman every night though...”

“A pretty face ain’t worth more than all that gold he has aye?”

“Maybe he’s cursed...”

“That wouldn’t surprise me either- I hear noble families make deals with the magic folk all the time.”

“If you all want to know so bad, why don’t you just pay the tower a visit?”

With that meager suggestion, the bustle of the pub comes to halt- all eyes now on the man who mentioned a topic that is normally banned from public spaces.

“What? You can’t tell me you haven’t wondered what was up there...”

“We know what’s up there-”

“Or rather- who's up there.”

Just outside the boundaries of your town, deep within the trenches of the forest sits a massive tower made from smoke-stained ivory. Decrepit and ominous, it looms over your town like a warning- like a shadow...

It’s said to be the home a monster.  

The tower was used as a prison for the most dastardly of criminals. For years, just before the establishment of your town, it served as a last resort for the rotten underbelly of society. Countless lives were taken, madness ensued- until the revolution came. The tower was set aflame by revolutionaries but for whatever reason, it did not crumble.  

The ivory merely sizzled and turned gray and then over time, it turned black. For years it was abandoned until one day, just after sunset, light emanated from the tower once more. Onlookers who were near the building went inside to see if some vagrant had moved in.  

And they never returned...

Several spiritual advisors have visited the town, including religious figures from various faiths, and they have all arrived at the same conclusion: a demon has taken residence in the tower. Despite the efforts to bless the building, the light comes on every evening.  

Thus, it is assumed that the demon remains unharmed.  

“What about Mrs. Jeon? She left offerings for the beast and her son was cured of the plague the next morning.”

“Or Mr. Kim- he left one as well and found gold in his backyard that very night...”

“You aren’t suggesting there is a benevolent being in that tower, are you? Should I remind you of how many disappearances have occurred?”

There are opposing rumors you suppose.  

One of them, the one that just so happens to appeal to you the most, is that there is a deity living in that tower.  

The one who knows.  

The one who blesses and curses the deserving and offers wisdom that no mortal can.  

“Hey here’s a thought- how about Jacob tests his theory eh? Why don’t you go down and find out yourself? Report back to us with your findings...”

The pub erupts with laughter now, the uneasiness slowly melting away from the room.  

You elect to keep your thoughts to yourself, as you finish up counting the money you had made from that evening- making sure to leave a portion for the incoming team.  

The bite of the winter wind is harsh and untamed as it scraps across your skin, causing you to hurriedly put your coat on. It feels like winter never ends in your town and if it weren’t for the fact that your family stocks up throughout the year, you would be worried where your next meal is coming from.  

Walking down the street towards your home, you catch sight of the tower in the distance. The way the windows begin to glow, almost makes you feel like it’s somehow staring back at you- taunting you.  

You would be lying if you said it didn’t tempt you.  

It always has.  

Even as a young girl, you remember being drawn to the infamy, to the danger...

Your mother always told you that being curious was a good thing, that it led the greatest minds of humankind. You kept that with you as you moved through life, trying your best to understand what your purpose was.  

But times were hard...

With a malevolent lord hanging over the morale of your town, digging his fingers into the heart and soul of your people and crippling them with eternal debt, it was causing you to look for answers.  

And you were beginning to look in some unorthodox places.

Dinner with your family soothes the aching curiosity in your chest as you try and remind yourself of all the things you have to be grateful for. After your meal, you wrestle your little brother into his bed before telling him his favorite bedtime story. Once his eyelids have kissed, you turn out his light and move into the main room to wish sweet dreams upon your parents.  

And although the pleasantries are nice, there are a few things throughout the evening that disturbed you.  

The limp in your father’s movement.

The blisters on your mother’s hands.

The bags beneath the otherwise unburden gaze of your little brother.  

Exhaustion was palpable.  

Living beneath the weight of a corrupt leadership will do that to you.

As your head hits the pillow, you can hear your mother murmur in desperation.

“I won’t have enough to pay him this week...what are we going to do?”

“I can work extra hours at the mill- we will figure it out.”

“How could you possibly work any longer-”

You feel your chest twist with guilt as you hear the crack in your mother's voice.

“You’re falling apart my love...if you continue pushing yourself this way, I’m afraid I will lose you and I can’t- I can’t-”

The muffled nature of her cries suggests that your father has pulled her in for a hug, trying to erase the inevitable with his affection.  

“We will endure, I promise. Just hang on a little longer.”

With your father’s final words, their conversation begins to die down.  

This can’t possibly go on much longer. You might be able to pick up more hours at the pub and, perhaps procure a second job but, the dues will never end.  

Your family will never exist for any other reason aside from paying to the noble family.  

So you make a decision. Hard work clearly isn’t the answer and revolution would only shed innocent blood. If the practical world had nothing else to offer then, you would seek answers from beyond.  

Your parents retired to their rooms shortly after their conversation but, you wait until you’re sure the house has fallen silent before you make your next move. Embarking on this mission would be simple but what lies at your destination is anything but; so, you try to be prepared for the possible outcomes.

Wrapping yourself in the thickest coat you can find, you slip your dagger beneath the onyx material and slowly creep out of your bedroom.  

The streets were still bustling with life; your town rarely ever rests and the pubs and shops are open well past midnight.  

It might sound like the product of a vibrant town but, it’s mainly due to the ever-present demand for profit.  

Limited hours mean limited sales.

Thankfully, no one really notices your presence as you traverse your way down the streets and through the alleyway. The noise echoing from the main street slowly diminishes and makes way for the sound of the wind dancing through the trees. The forest itself does not frighten you. You grew up memorizing it with your father as he taught you the fundamentals or foraging and gardening. The sound of the owls is expected as is the chill that runs up your spine with the increase of the breeze.  

However, as you near the tower- fear begins to slither its way into your veins. It’s quite a sickening feeling as it seems to stop you in your tracks but, you push on anyway- determined to finish what you have started.

The wrought iron surrounding the tower is stained with rust, corroded and crackling with age, the creaking of its bars alarms you, stopping you in your tracks and forcing you to look up.  

And there it is: the tower.  

It stands above you like a menacing giant and although it’s presence should deter you, it doesn’t. Making an effort to be as silent as you can, you slip past the opening in the gate and begin walking up the broken cobblestone pathway.  

There is nothing but dirt surrounding the perimeter of the tower and other than the moon, the only light before you is coming from the very top window. It’s glowing but the color isn’t stable- it's as if it were shifting slowly from red to green to blue and then back again. Faced with the wooden French doors, you question the idea of knocking.  

If someone truly did live here, it would only be polite...right?

With a shaky hand, you knock three times as loudly as you can. For a moment there is nothing, but just as you ready your hand to knock again, the door groans and begins to slowly creak open.  

The already unstable heartbeat in your chest begins to rattle without mercy as you brace yourself for whatever horrible creature might lay on the other side. Instead, however, there is no one.  

The door opens entirely to reveal that instead of the simple but filthy interior you expect from an abandoned tower such as this one, there is a rather decadent home. Large marble pillars extend upwards seemingly holding nothing in place while glamorous furniture positions itself through the foray. Everything is cooled tone with greys and shades of blue, black often lining the borders of the funiture. There is no lantern, the moon lighting up the interior of the room just as it led your path up to the door.  

The layout doesn’t make sense.  

The tower is cylindrical and doesn’t offer enough space for such an open floor plan so, how is it that the inside looks like lavish mansion?

You swallow your fear and newfound confusion as you tentatively look around the expanse of the room.

“Hello?”

Nothing.  

You take a deep breath and decide that the likelihood of someone (or something) answering that call is slim, especially given the way you were welcomed into the tower in the first place.  

You place your hand inside your pocket, gripping the dagger for good measure before beginning to make your way towards the staircase. The moonlight is sufficient enough at first but for whatever reason, as you begin making your way up the stone staircase, the interior of the tower seems to slowly darken. Your grip on the dagger tightens as you stop walking, frozen in your steps, cursing yourself for embarking on a journey so reckless.  

Suddenly, all of the light from the room vanishes, forcing a gasp from your throat. You manage to grip the railing to steady yourself but you have no idea what you are to do next.  

And then, someone speaks.

“Well- you’re awfully far from home...aren’t you?”

The sound of the voice rushes through your senses much like the wind did. It’s too sweet for your liking but, it entrances you none the less.

“Who are you?”  

As much as you try to steady your breathing, the way your voice cracks, gives you away instantly.

Laughter bounces off the stone walls, sinister and playful all at once before the voice speaks again,

“Don’t you think that’s a question I should be asking you? You are the intruder after all...”

Disembodied or not, the voice makes a valid point. You did walk in unannounced and you most certainly weren’t invited.  

“I’m Y/N Y/L/N.” The strength in your voice comes back slightly as you grip the railing a bit tighter, “I came here because- “

“I know why you’re here...” The voice is much closer now, likely positioned at the top of the stairs, “Humans are so predictable; always looking for a handout.”

This offends you greatly and regardless of the amount of danger you might be in, you let the voice know anyway.

“I am not looking for a hand out. My family and I work from sunrise until sunset to make ends meet. I’m here to make an offering- not merely to take whatever miracles that you make.” Stronger and stronger, your voice rises to the occasion, preparing itself to either spar with the beast or scream for help.

“Miracles hm?” Sinister laughter slinks down the staircase, practically teasing the exposed skin of your neck, “Is that what you think I do?”  

You swallow the bile that creeps up your throat, “I’ve heard many stories- but I wanted to see for myself. Some of my people claim you’ve blessed them but, the clergy said a demon lived here...”

“Oh?” It rises with inquisition, “And you came anyway? Do I have a heretic in my presence?”  

Shaking your head does nothing in the darkness but it’s instinctual, “I don’t believe in demons- at least, not the kind who dwell in abandoned towers.”

“Is there a kind you do believe in then?”  

There is something in you that urges you forward, captivated by the sweet sound of the voice above you, desperate to view the owner and desperate to see the moonlight again.

“Hell is nothing but a metaphor and it’s demons all the same. There is plenty of evil here, plenty of suffering- by definition, there is a demon ruling over my town- he is draining us of our resources for his own gain. I couldn’t imagine a more accurate representation.”

Suddenly, you hear the sound of boots clicking slowly and steadily down the stone stairs. You brace yourself, still feeling frozen in your place- wishing to see whoever or whatever is front of you.

“If I did make miracles,” It muses and, now you’re able to discern that it’s only a few steps in front of you, “What exactly would you be offering me in return?”

Taking a deep breath through your nose, you place all your effort into trying to make out whether or not there was an actual owner to this voice. Finally, your eyes adjust enough to see the faint shadow of a figure which appears to be sitting on the second set of stairs.  

“Name your terms, I will do my best.”  

“Ah ah-” The voice corrects along with a side of twinkling laughter, “That isn’t how this works...”

You’re growing frustrated with the apparent mind games but, you know it’s in your best interest to be patient; you still don’t know what you’re dealing with.

“How does it work then?”

Silence passes through the air for a moment before the voice speaks again, “You must bring me the thing you treasure the most so, that I may know your true intentions- I cannot help you until I can see you properly.”

You snort, “You’d be able to see me if you hadn’t wiped the light from this room...”

Laughter comes again but this time, it’s lower and deepened with suggestion, “I’m not referring to physical sight, human. You might not be able to see in the dark but, I can.”

For whatever reason, its response sounds salacious and riddled with an innuendo that you’re slightly afraid to comment on.  

And the reaction it creates within you, only frightens you further.  

“I’ve just told you that I barely have enough money to scrape by- I don’t have anything of value to give you.”  

“I never asked you to bring me anything of value nor did I ask you to give it away- you’re not listening very well...I don’t know how I’m supposed to help you if you can’t follow instructions.”

It sounds irritated and fond all at once, prompting you to nod immediately, not wanting to upset your only shot at freedom.

“I’m sorry.” You breathe, “I’m just-”

“Don’t lie to me...”

Your gaze strains to try and make out the expression of the figure in front of you but, its futile- the darkness impeding your effort.

“What do you mean?”

“You were going to tell me that you’re scared.” The voice accuses, “But you’re not- even though, you most certainly should be.”  

It wasn’t wrong. You should have ran when the door opened on its own, when the lights began to dim, when a voice began speaking to you...

But you didn’t.

You were undeniably intrigued.  

“Are you going to hurt me?”

An insidious bought of laughter comes from the figure before it sighs, “Hmmm, maybe a little bit.”

When your lips part with something that resembles shock, the laughter comes again only slowing to a halt for the sound of the figure’s tongue tutting against its teeth.

“You are a curious girl...” It observes, “...promises of harm should not excite you and yet- excitement flows from you anyway. Why?”

It kills you to refrain from denying it but, you have no choice.

“Your voice-” A sigh leaves your lips, “it’s very intriguing.”

Maybe it’s part of the creature's abilities, you think, its voice is the main weapon to lure unsuspecting and vulnerable humans into its clutches. The only question is-  what happens once it has you.

“Is it now?” The voice sounds intrigued, “Most humans don’t seem to think so. Are you sure you’re hearing me right, girl? I’ve been told my voice is the thing of nightmares.”

This perplexes you; how could anyone possibly think such a voice was frightening? Despite this creature being anything but human, it sounds very much like a man- a warm and mischievous man who seems hellbent on getting you into bed.  

“What does my voice sound like to you?” It asks, a smile in its tone.

You ponder this question for a second, realizing very quickly that you can’t exactly tell this creature that it sounds like it’s trying to seduce you. But still, that does seem to be the only appropriate description.

“Sort of...like a melody.”

Laughter comes again but, this time it’s paired with the moonlight slowly fading back into the tower, covering every surface until it finally reveals the appearance of the figure.  

Beautiful.  

Not an it but a he...

A man with wings.  

On the steps before you, he stands, leaning casually against the railing now. Atop his head is a tousled mop of sapphire hair, just below are his eyes- nearly black and hooded with the same seduction as his voice and cloaking his figure is a black linen ensemble fitted only by the same color corset. His pillowy lips and soft skin would be a masterpiece on their own but coupled with the giant pair of onyx wings protruding proudly from his back- his visuals become simply devastating.  

“What do you see?” He smirks, licking over his lips.

Unable to resist, you shake your head in complete awe, all of the sensible words dying before they leave your throat, “You- are you an angel?”

The light allows you to see him now as his head tilts another round of laughter, “Try again...you’re very close.”

Perhaps the clergy was right...

“A demon then...” You resign because despite your previously-held beliefs, if this really was a demon, then you know very well you shouldn’t be dealing with him. “I should go.”

His smirk broadens, “But I thought you didn’t believe in demons?”

“I didn’t but, that’s clearly what you’re alluding to. If a winged man tells me he’s a demon, I think it’s wise that I return home.”  

Through your moment of clarity, your desire for him persists- especially now that you see what he looks like. But you know better than to make a deal with a demon, even if you are desperate.

“Do you think the universe is that simple? Angels and demons? Good and evil? You don’t think that maybe- in all of his vastness, there is a chance for the inbetweeners?” He presses and now his black eyes seem to glow, his gaze slightly hypnotic.  

Tightening your coat around your body, you stay staring at him for a moment before you respond, “Is that what you are? Something in between?”

He licks his lips, his eyes finally allowing themselves to wander over your figure. There isn’t much of you showing but, he still drinks you up regardless, exposing and exciting you all at once.  

“I was sent by the underworld to do business for the gods...” He drops his voice to a near whisper, his gaze burning a hole in you, which now aches to be filled.  

You take in a shaky breath through your nose, nodding in understanding, “Did you kill the people who disappeared here? Is that what happens when their judgment goes south?”  

He arches his brow, tilting his head with his inquiry- his voice dripping with darkness, “Maybe I did...maybe I didn’t. I don’t see how that’s relevant- especially since you’ve already decided you were leaving. Which of course-” He waves his hand then, the wooden door behind you creaking open, “-you are free to do.”

There is something about him you haven’t touched on but, it’s beginning to eat you up inside. He may be an otherworldly being, possessing the tower like a beautiful virus but, he is starting to look familiar. This of course, is hard to imagine because his beauty is so striking that you don’t see how you could ever forget it. But nonetheless, you feel like you’ve seen him before.  

And this is what has kept you frozen.  

“Will you not give me any answers?” You border on pleading but, attempt to keep your tone firm.

He chuckles, “You didn’t come to me for answers. You came for help- which I’ve already agreed to give you.”

The supernatural discourse that has transpired, thoroughly distracted you from the reasons for seeking him out in the first place. Your situation had not changed; you were still desperate for money, desperate for justice and desperate for peace.  

“You won’t hurt my family...” It’s not a question, and it leaves no room for any other response aside from the one he gives you.

“I won’t.”  

Nodding, you glance behind your shoulder towards the door, “I have to go home. I don’t have the item you asked for. I can be back within the hour...”

For the first time, he looks slightly disappointed but as you complete your sentence, he shakes his head, “No. Don't come back tonight.” He insists, “If you wish to do business with me- you must return tomorrow after midnight. I will wait for you at the shoreline.”

This confuses you, “The shoreline? Why can’t we meet here? The water is dangerous after dark.”

The smirk returns to his tender lips, “I know.”  

With that, he waves his hand again- causing the door to swing open and slam against the tower walls.

Jumping at the sound, your gaze shoots back behind you before returning to where the creature stood.  

But he had vanished.  

You have no choice but to heed his requests and rush away from the tower, the curiosity inside you almost too much to bear.  

Nothing is out of the ordinary as you walk back home, at least not at first. But when you pass the massive clock tower in the center of town, you realize something strange...

The clock hadn’t moved, not even a second.  

You remember very clearly reading the time as you hurried past it on your way to the tower and now, even as you’re staring at it, it stands perfectly still. Until suddenly, without warning, the hands of time begin to move again. The clicking almost startles you, your brain filling with a million questions despite your decision to turn away and return home.  

Time had seemingly stood still whilst you were in the tower.  

Slipping beneath the covers, you try your hardest to get to sleep despite being bombarded with images of the haunting man you had just encountered.  

You know you should be terrified.  

You know you should be wary.

But the familiarity of him has possessed you and, you’re determined to understand why.  

The next night, with your treasured object tucked securely in your coat, you make your way back to him.  

You make sure to check the clock tower before you do, logging the time away for later to see if last night had been more than just a fluke.  

12:32am.

The clock tower has never lied but, you’re starting to think it might be influenced by whatever resided in the tower- magic, beast, or otherwise.  

As you pass through the many trees, you begin to hear the chaotic crashing of the waves in the distance. The tower may be frightening but, few things could match the malevolent temper of the sea. In fact, you’ve always believed that nothing could. The sea was unrivaled in her cruelty, consuming the world at will, just for the fun of it- you've theorized that she likes the screams. During the day, she simmered- blue and serene, allowing boats to decorate her surface like candles on a birthday cake. At night though, her temper worsens and it’s as if she suddenly remembers all the injustice she has faced. Her waves swell to horrific heights, smashing into the seawalls built around your town, creeping over like a titan looking for vengeance.  

You’ve always felt pity for her. It must be hard: being the heart and soul of humanity, being responsible for the very nature of things- only to be forgotten. Only to be mistreated...

Your boots are discarded near the last patch of grass before the sand and, your toes brace themselves icy chill of the sea breeze. You’re especially thankful for the coat now as you suspect that your teeth would have already begun chattering had it not been for the thick fabric protecting you.  

The waves haven’t begun their violent dance just yet but, you can sense their temper beneath your feet. They will begin soon.  

“The sea-” The voice from the tower is behind you, “it suits you.”

Breathless, you turn to face him and even though you’re more prepared for his beauty than you were last night, it still shocks you.

He’s wearing a black silk gown, that drapes effortlessly off his body, the sleeves made out of French lace and extending well past his fingertips. His wings are shuttered behind him, folded almost modestly against his back.

“Thank you.” It’s the only response you have before you reach into the fold of your coat, “I have the-”

He holds up his hand, his voice commanding but gentle, “Wait. I want you to walk with me first. I don’t like rushing through my business deals.”

Your hand slowly retreats from your coat as you warily look behind you, “You want to walk along the shoreline? I told you, it’s too dangerous- at least for me it is, I don’t exactly have an escape mechanism attached to my back.”

He smirks, his tempting gaze flourishing with fondness you cannot place, “What causes you to mistrust the sea so much? Surely she wouldn’t hurt one of her own...”

Your brow furrows, “What do you mean?”

Extending from the confines of silk, his fingers reach out to you, fluttering with invitation, “I will show you.”

And really, you’d be a fool not to accept.  

Interlacing your fingers with his, you feel electricity simmer ever so slightly beneath your skin. You’re assuming it’s from the power that likely resides within him but, you don’t expect it to affect you so much.

The sound of the waves begins to softly roar in the distance but the water isn’t close enough to the shoreline to pose any immediate threat.

Not yet at least...

You begin walking alongside him as he leads you both in the opposite direction of your town border. For quite a few moments, he just gazes at the eternal stretch of sand before you, his soft mouth curved up ever so slightly. He looks pensive and serene all at once and, it confuses you.

“May I tell you a story?”

His request surprises you but, you aren’t really in a position to say no. And if you’re being honest, you really didn’t want to.  

“Yes.” You murmur, feeling compelled to keep your volume at a minimum.

He smiles softly to himself, glancing towards the water briefly before beginning.  

“The water has many gods...” He speaks softly, letting out a sigh, “Lir, Irish god of the sea, Tefnut, Egyptian goddess of the rain, Amimitl, Aztec god of lakes and fisherman...” His explanation already has you interested. You were taught much of the stories beyond your land but, it had always fascinated you, “The gods of the sea are known for the temperate nature, they often stay away from humans and avoid interfering with the mortal coil. Death by water is merely a request they carry out for the gods of death and destruction and thus, there is goddess who rules over the violence of the sea itself.”

Just as he finishes his sentence, the temper of the sea seems to roar to life, the swollen waves crashing aggressively, still not close enough to reach you.

Not yet at least...

“Cymopoleia, is the goddess of violent sea storms. Poseidon, her father, tasked her with overseeing the malignant waters and tending to the causalities. She was not the creator of the storms but she carried the ability.” He moves through the story as if he has told it a 100 times but he seems captivated by it nonetheless, “When it came time for her to bear a child. She conjured up a spirit from within her very core. She crafted them out of the essence of the sea and placed them inside of clamshell in her palace. She was awaiting the full moon when someone snuck into the depths of the ocean and stole them from her.”

The gasp that leaves your lips cannot be helped, you didn’t realize how engrossed you were until suddenly you recognize the port from another town nearby.

You had been walking awhile.

“Why would someone do that?” You press, shaking your head.

He sends a solemn look your way, “Many thoughtless humans believe that if they capture the essence of a god, they will become one themselves. Foolishly, he opened the clam shell and released the spirit into the world. By the time the goddess found him, it was too late- but she delegated his fate anyway. She took his life beneath the depths of a violent storm and placed a curse upon anyone who shared his bloodline. She made it so that any one of his descendants would bear the physical embodiment of his fate.”

“So, they look like they’ve died at sea?”

He can’t help but smirk, a bit of the darkness you saw at the tower, beginning to creep back. “Indeed. They are horribly disfigured and regardless of their efforts, they all meet the same fate. His lineage believes that if they send enough offerings out to sea or if they build high enough walls, that they will somehow escape their deaths. But of course, this if futile- the goddess vowed that she would continue to collect them until her spirit was returned.”  

His story ends and it’s like something clicks within you. Without warning, you squeeze his hand, slowing both of you to a stop, just before the light of the upcoming pier hits you.  

“Does this have something to do with my town? Is that why you’re telling me this?”  

Lord Invictus certainly fit the description for a descendent of this thief and, although it bores no sense of logic- you have no choice but to believe it anyway.  

It all fits together too well...

He turns towards you now, his smirk now a small smile, “It has to do with you Y/N.”

Your brow furrows, “Me? What do you mean?”

He nods to your coat, something otherworldly lingering in his eyes, “I’d like to see what you’ve brought with you now.”

Still riddled with confusion, you reach inside your coat and find that the item you had brought with you (a beaded necklace gifted to you at birth by your parents) had turned into something else.  

And now, sitting in the palm of your hand- was a clamshell.  

“What is this? This isn’t what I brought to you- I-” You begin to panic, confusion and fear starting to take over, “Did you do this? Did you take my necklace?”

Finally, the sinister smirk returns as his wings begin to unfurl from behind his back. Along with his shift in expression, another danger is brewing very close to you- you can feel it.  

The sea is growing irritated and whipping the wind and the water up into a frenzy. As you look toward the water, you have no choice but to look on in horror as you see the beginning of something deadly.  

A rogue wave.

The grip on your hand tightens as his extraordinary strength keeps you in place.  

“I think it’s time I formally introduce myself-” His voice is loaded with bad intentions but it sounds sweet anyway as he burns his gaze into yours, “My name is Jimin. Son of Tartarus, the god of punishment and Nyx, the goddess of the night.”

Your eyes are wide with desperation, not fully registering what he said before he’s yanking you against his chest and turning you to face the sea. Standing behind you, he unleashes a spell of wicked laughter as his wings unfurl from behind is back to wrap around the both of you, so that the only thing you’re able to see is the wall of water coming for you.  

“I have to come to send you home Y/N...your mother has been waiting for you a very long time.”

His arms are wrapped around you now, crushing you against his chest as his wings begin flapping- the wind picking up furiously around you.

“Jimin!” You scream, eyes welling up with tears, “You promised you wouldn’t hurt me! You promised! Why are you doing this to me?!”

He laughs at you, and it isn’t necessarily malevolent but merely amused, as if he in on a joke you weren’t part of.

“Shhhh, quiet down my little sea nymph...” He whispers salaciously into your ear, “...your fate will be painless.”

You’re crying now, digging your nails into his skin, attempting to break free as the massive creature that is the ocean rushes towards you without mercy. The crest of the wave arches above you proudly, the swirling darkness of the water mocking the mere audacity of your existence but, as you brace for impact- it never comes.  

Only the darkness does...

And it’s the darkness that consumes you.  

“Jimin!” A voice breaks into your subconscious, luring you out of what you hope was a nightmare, “You couldn’t have brought her home without scaring her? She was practically driftwood when she arrived here.”

That familiar twinkle of laughter sounds then and, it forces your eyes open.  

“I’m sorry your grace- it's just in my nature.” He defends poorly, still chuckling to himself, “I can’t imagine my brothers are doing much better.”

You are somewhere extraordinary, that much is certain. Above your immediate line of sight is an ornate glass ceiling that seems to glow a cerulean blue. All around you are gold furnishings, each decorated with various moldings of sea creatures.  

“She’s awake!”  

Your vision, still slightly cloudy, now lands upon a being so beautiful- that you have to blink a few times to ensure you’re seeing the right thing. Draped in blue silk and decorated with gold and pearls, is a woman who looks at you with nothing but love in her eyes.

“Oh my- its really you...”

She seems tentative but, you’re suddenly overcome with joy- filled with an almost cosmic sense of peace.  

“Mother!” You cry, rushing off of the bed you were laying on and into her arms.  

She takes you in her arms immediately, her skin cool against yours like the tepid waters of the bay. She sniffles, tightening her grip on you,

“I knew you’d come home...I knew one day I would find you.”

And it really doesn’t make much sense does it?

How could your life swing so violently from one direction to the next?

Your life on earth seems so insignificant now...now that you’re back with her.  

Cymopoleia- queen of violent sea storms and, your mother.  

She explains it all to you, gently stroking your hair and fawning over you.  

The spirit in the depths was you. Born into a human body, you were fated to one day meet with the demi-god of darkness, who with a bit of trickery- would return you to your rightful place in the cosmos.  

Your mother assures you that your mortal family would be relieved of your memory until it was safe for you to visit them, until the gods of fate decide. In addition, Lord Invictus would be the last of the bloodline to pay for what his ancestor had done and, the fog of greed and corruption- which begin the day you were born, would soon be lifted.  

The explanation is long and doesn’t leave you completely fulfilled but, your mother assures you that you have all the time in the world to understand the complexity of the universe.  

Hours later, after you’ve had a decent feast, your mother instructs Jimin to escort you to your bedroom.  

As he leads you down the hallway towards your chambers, you send a playful glare his way, “So- how much of what you told me was a lie?”

He merely smirks, “None of it.”

You scoff, “Even the part of about your voice? And all that nonsense about excitement and me being curious? You knew all along what was to happen- you just tricked me.”

Jimin chuckles darkly, stopping just outside your bedroom door before turning to you, “The part about my voice frightening people wasn’t a lie, Y/N. My father is the god of punishment, any mortal that hears my voice usually cowers in fear...”

“Is that why I felt so drawn to you? Because you were meant to take me home?”  

His smirk broadens, “No...you feel drawn me because you want to fuck me.”

Your mouth goes completely dry at his bold statement but, you are unable to deny it- your fingers suddenly twitching at your side.

“Wh-”

“It’s not your fault really...” He murmurs, his body shifting towards you, “...it’s just the way I was made. I am used to people lusting after me- however,” Jimin reaches out then, to brush his thumb over the swell of your cheek, “-I have never known true lust until I had the pleasure of meeting you.”

“You lust for me?” You whisper, completely drawn up with desire- finally allowing your true nature, the nature of a demi-goddess pour out of your soul.

He licks his lips, his gaze upon you timid as he presses his thumb into your face, “I do.”  

You turn to the side suddenly, capturing his thumb between your lips, “Show me.”

It's all it takes: that one phrase of consent being enough to unleash all the urges within him.

You’re inside your chamber seconds later, Jimin clawing at the fabric of your robe, his fingers digging into your skin as he does, his lips latching on to every part of you he can reach.

“I knew the moment you walked into my tower-” He grunts, “I knew- there was no way a mortal could be tempting, so dreadfully seductive.”

You sigh hopelessly, raking your hands through the sapphire tendrils on his head, your lips ghosting along the swell of his cheek, the tail of his brow, the shell of his ear...

“In the underworld...” He’s practically growling now, scratching his nails up the newly exposed skin of your back, “We are never taught to refuse our desires. You were my greatest challenge- it took everything in me not to devour you right there.”

You smirk now, positioning your lips at his ear, “I wouldn’t have known what to do with you though- aren't you glad you were patient?”

He grunts again, pressing his hips against yours defiantly, “Patience is for virtuous gods- “ He doesn't answer your question but, you know that he means yes. In spite of his darker nature, Jimin still believes in doing the right thing.... most of the time.  

He has you on the bed moments later, his wings spreading proudly. He’s panting, his eyes completely black with lust as he nudges your legs open, determined to finally taste what he’s been craving.  

For the demi-god of darkness, denying his desires for even a second is painful. He aches to fufill them over and over again...

You were certainly no exception.  

But you want to keep teasing him...

Reaching down, you spread yourself open for him- feeling the visceral substance of your arousal sticking to your inner thighs.

“What are you waiting for then?” You lean up, grasping your hand behind his neck and staring directly into the abyss that is his gaze, “Defile me...”

Jimin growls, sliding into you instantly, his hands quickly bracing themselves on either side of your head. He smirks as your eyes roll back the sheer pleasure of him inside of you causing your nipples to harden.  

“Oh look at that-” He chuckles, his own expression unstable with pleasure, “Are you going brain dead already hm? Is this cock that good?”

Your eyes come back into play as you stare up at him, your hands gripping either side of his face as he starts a power rhythm within you.  

This wasn’t meant to last long, the carnal desire too much for either one of you to handle...

Perhaps, if your feelings permitted it- you'd make love another time.  

Nodding, you moan as he increases the rhythm, pressing your forehead against his own.  

“You feel so good.” You whisper, “I didn’t know it could- oh...” A whimper leaves your lips as he hits that spot inside of you, the pleasure completely ruining your ability to speak.

“Of course you didn’t- you’ve only ever let mortals play with your pretty cunt haven’t you?” He laughs, mocking you and cooing all at once, “And now that I’ve gotten ahold of it, you’re never going to want anyone else. I will ruin you ugh-” He finally breaks, his own brow furrowed with the onslaught of his release as you tighten around him, “-ugh fuck yes. I can feel how badly your cunt wants me- it's like you’re begging me to cum.”

“I want you to cum,” You whisper shakily, kissing at his mouth, “Fill me up please, I need it.”

He growls, kissing you back with just as much fervor, his hips moving so fast that the pleasure fucks with your vision.  

“I’m going to make a mess of you, they will smell me on you until I can come back-” He promises, smirking ever so slightly, “and then- I'll paint the inside of you all over again won’t I? Such a masterpiece this cunt will be...and you’ll be all mine, cumming only for me.”  

And he wasn’t wrong because, mere seconds later- the two of you are cumming all over one another, ruining the silk sheets with your release and clawing desperately at one another.  

With the mutual utterance of your names, Jimin collapses beside you and, moments later- when you get your wits about you, he is ushering you onto his chest.  

Sweaty, exhausted and satisfied, you lay together in silence for quite a while.

Until finally you speak, “I’m not quite sure what came over me.”

Jimin chuckles but this time, the sound is much warmer than you’re used to, “Immortal lust, it’s a blessing and a curse but, eternal life has to stay interesting somehow.”

You trace patterns on his chest whilst he covers your body with one of his wings, the feathers teasing at your sensitive skin.

“Did you mean it?”  

And he doesn’t even bother asking, he knows exactly what you’re referring to.

“I want you.” He affirms, “If you’ll have me- I felt quite possessive of you then but, I won’t insist on anything you aren’t comfortable with.”

You smile, tracing a heart directly over the spot where his heart would beat, “It fits doesn’t it? You and I?”

If the past few days have taught you anything, it is that sometimes- it is appropriate to succumb to fate. Sometimes, believing in the simplicity of destiny works out. Being with Jimin felt right and, for now, this was enough.  

“It does.” His statement is simple but his expression says it all: he is elated.

You fall back into comfortable silence once again before one more pressing question leaves your lips, “Did I hear you mention something about your brothers earlier?”

Jimin nods, his eyes half-closed as he cuddles closer to you, “You did. I have six of them.”

“Are they- like you?” You murmur, unable to stop your curiosity.

He nods again, “They are.”

You think one more question will suffice but, his answer will unfortunately bring about a thousand more, “Are they all on missions too?”

Jimin’s trademark smirk shows itself once again as he snickers, “They are-” He repeats before a great sense of pride comes over his expression...

“I was just the first one to return.”

A/N: should this be a series? asking for a friend...

[merppppppppppppppppp]

To Resist Temptation pt. 1

(THIS FIC IS RIDDLED WITH BLASPHEMY!! I, myself, am not religious (actually an atheist) but this idea has been on my mind for a while. It is never my intention to mock or disrespect anyone’s personal beliefs. With that said, if you are a person of faith this fic may not appeal to you. It’s not to be taken as a serious representation of the faith it portrays! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNEDDDD!!!!)

(Trigger warnings: religious themes, succubus, authority kink, degradation, god complex/kink)

(Art by: @kadeart )

You chanted your prayers of protection under your breath quietly.

Every nervous thud of your heart seemed to pound in your ears as you ascended the steps to the large white brick chapel.

“Keep yourself safe. Seek salvation, and temptation won’t overtake you.”

The temptation won’t overtake me.

The mantra echoed in your mind over and over.

You smoothed your dress, hoping you looked appropriate. The clingy Sunday sundress fell just above your knees and didn’t expose too much of your cleavage. Of course it was impossible for you not to look tempting. Even just a bit. It was in the switch of your hips. The gleam in your eyes. The natural scent you gave off. It was, quite literally, in your blood. Not that any of this was your choice...

You shook the thoughts away, opened the heavy door of the church, and slipped inside.

“To walk without God is to wander without a true purpose.”

The congregation responded accordingly with hums of approval and agreement. Keigo continued.

“To stray from god’s path is to—“

His amber eyes fell on the late comer. A woman who stood out against the mostly somberly dressed masses in her pastel church dress. She kept her head ducked as she found a seat in the front row. Once she faced him, a soft content smile settled on her beautiful face.

Oh...she was stunning...

Soft, smooth looking skin, eyes that smoldered, lush lips, hard nipple-

What? No. Not here. Not now.

Everybody was watching him. Waiting. Keigo hadn’t even realize that he’d stalled for so long. Reluctantly he dragged his gaze away from the beautiful new comer and continued his sermon.

“T-to stray from God’s path, is to invite unrest into your soul.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Keigo enjoyed these times best. The dark, contemplative silence of the confession booth. Just a holy man and God. The times between members coming to make their confessions felt peaceful and sacred.

He liked to stay behind a couple hours after service and a couple hours beforehand for his congregation. But it was just as much for himself as it was for them.

He rested against the wooden back, eyes closed in an almost meditative manner. Although his mind was far from clear. His thoughts kept wandering back to the mystery member who had slipped in late and gazed at him so enraptured. How her lips remained parted slightly, and everytime she crossed and uncrossed her legs, the hem of her dress rose a little more...

He shook his head mussing his tousled blonde hair even more. Those thoughts weren’t appropriate for a holy man. A man in such a sacred place. He couldn’t allow his mind to wander to such places.

The scuffling of someone entering the booth roused Keigo out of his thoughts.

“Um...hello?”

He held back a chuckle.

“Yes?”

“Oh! Uh, yes, hi! I’m sorry father I’ve never done this before.”

The disembodied female voice stammered nervously. Keigo squinted as he tried and failed to place the voice, and then he realized; it was you.

“Th-this is my first confession, and I’m not sure what to do. Can you help me?”

“O-of course,” he stammered back. He coached you through what to say, biting back a moan when you said: “Bless me father, for I have sinned.”

He pressed a hand to his stirring member. Sensing your hesitation. Your innocence despite the wicked beauty you possessed. How cute. How naive.

“This is a safe place, you can tell me what is troubling you.”

“Well...I have these urges..”

“What sort of urges?”

“It’s like...this hunger,” you replied, voice taking on a slight rasp that shot straight to the handsome priests dick. “I want,” your voice dropped into a soft whisper, “I want sex all the time. Day and night. Sometimes I see strangers and I want to give myself to them right then and there.”

Oh god...

Keigo’s mind was reeling from the salacious words dripping from your pretty mouth. He had known it. He knew someone that angelically beautiful couldn’t truly be innocent. It wasn’t natural. The magnetism you possessed in your swaying hips and the way it juxtaposed your soft expressions.

“F-father?”

Keigo coughed. “Um, yes. Go on,” he urged, “what do you envision yourself doing with these strangers?”

“Anything that could make them cum. The most depraved things. It’s as if I can see what people most desire sexually and it-it frightens me.”

You are a holy man, Keigo. A good man of faith.

The young priest told himself as his hard on strained.

“Father, what should I do? I don’t want to give in to the temptation. I don’t want to be corrupted or currupt others.”

“You must remember, that temptation is not sin itself.“ he replied.

Be strong. Don’t give in to temptation. He stroked his painful erection gently. This woman needs you. This poor lost soul...

“You still have a chance to turn away from temptation and turn to Jesus as your answer.”

“How though, father? When temptation is all around me. Even today I—“

His throat went dry.

“Today?” He pressed. “What do you mean today?”

“It’s shameful, father.” You replied rubbing your thighs together.

The desire pooling between your legs massaged the lips of your womanhood, sending pleasure through out your body.

You had chosen this new church home at random at the behest of your mother. The older you got, the stronger your succubus side became. Soon it might overtake you completely. Until you were a sex driven demon. Like your incubus father. The no good demon who had impregnated your mother.

It was your greatest fear whenever you looked in the faces of strangers who attracted you, whether it was physically or mentally. That you would infect them with your own curse and bear more cursed children.

But it was also so achingly tempting that it hurt sometimes. The toys you had bought didn’t help. The other incubus/succubus men and women you secretly convened with didn’t help.

You knew that you needed humans. Pure, untainted humans...

But you hadn’t expected a priest so handsome. So strong and self assured in his word. Hadn’t expected the hooded golden eyes that smoldered with intelligence and the desire of a young man who had repressed himself for so long that he ached for release. The burden of all the marriages he had severed at former churches because of his affairs with the men and women of his congregation and how it weighed heavy on his mind. Best of all, you knew he would do it all again just to feel that sweet release.

And God, as if regular humans weren’t tempting enough, fallen holy ones were the embodiment of desire.

“I know what you want the most, father,” you practically moaned. The honeyed cadence of your voice like a siren song to a mortal. You tried so hard to fight it, but you could no longer help it with the stench of his desire and lust filling your nose. “You want someone to run their fingers through that beautiful golden hair of yours while they lock you between their thighs. You want someone to beg you for their release. You want this so much that it frightens you too, doesn’t it? It almost aches. I could see it watching you today.

The priest was stunned silent. Afraid that if he did dare say anything it would be to ask the stranger to tell him more. More of his sinful thoughts. More of her own sinful thoughts. More about why the urges he had successfully kept at bay for five years now had come back to the forefront of his mind at full force when he looked at her.

Mindlessly, he pulled out his throbbing dick and rubbed the viscous spill of desire leaking from the head around the top before spreading it along the thick shaft.

You can’t, Keigo! You shouldn’t! Remember your prayers. Your promise to god!

Oh but what was it again? What were those prayers? The words had twisted in his mind. What was that promise to god? Something about repentance and regret?

The thrum of pleasure that coursed through him with every stroke only made him forget those vows more.

“I-I’m sorry father,” you continued. Your voice smothered the man’s senses like a warm blanket. So soft and inviting. Just like the rest of you. “I need your help...please.”

A prayer. A promise. You will resist temptation.

“I,” he choked on the words. His mind cloudy from the warring thoughts swirling about it. “I can help you. We can beat this temptation together.”

“Thank you, father.” You sighed. “Or I believe you prefer to be called: daddy.”

(Pt.2)//(Pt.3)

[warrioreowynofrohan]

Headcanons - Maeglin

I suppose after my last post I might as well put this together. I would prefer it in the form of a post-canon fic, specifically a very uncomfortable conversation/confession between Maeglin and Tuor and Idril in (or more specifically, directly off the coast of) Valinor, but it’s not like the chances of that ever coming together are very high.

I go with what The Silmarillion says: that Maeglin did desire Idril and hate Tuor, and that that was a contributing factor in his betrayal of Gondolin to Morgoth; and that fear was also an element in it but, since the narrative says he isn’t a coward, the fear was not specifically of physical torture.

Additionally, because active and knowing collaboration with Morgoth is something otherwise unknown among the elves, by the time he came to the Halls Maeglin’s soul was, in effect, a orc. (This likewise applies to various of the Fëanorians, but somewhat less obviously visibly. They can still lie to themselves about what they are. Maeglin can’t. In some ways that gives him a better possibility of changing. Going by Celegorm’s clear hatred of Dior, it’s evident that he’s managed to rationalize himself as somehow the victim of the whole course of events in the Leithian and is pretty determinedly locked into that perspective of seeing himself as the wronged part rather than as one who did anything wrong. Whereas it’s nigh impossible for Maeglin to look at the product of his decisions and go yes, that went well; it is now patently obvious that Morgoth was never going to keep any agreement.)

So here is Maeglin’s story, featuring a scary and manipulative Morgoth.

He is captured and brought before Morgoth, and Morgoth does not torture him. Instead, Morgoth shows him visions of all that his curse did to Túrin and his family, the endless destruction of all that Túrin cared for, strove for, or sought to achieve or protect. And he says, “I have no intention of killing you. I will let you go, and I will do this to you. Your city, your friends, the woman you love, your reputation, all will be destroyed. It does not matter if you deny me; everyone will still think you betrayed the city, and loathe you. I have my own ways of finding things out. The city has no chance.” And he shows Maeglin the power of Angband, and last of all shows him the winged dragons, which could easily fly over the mountains looking for a hidden city. Morgoth’s not ready to reveal them outside Angband yet, but Maeglin doesn’t know that.

And then Morgoth says, “If you refuse me, the city will still fall, and every one of them will blame you. But, if you reveal it to me, I will spare you, and the king’s daughter, and some others that you may choose, and you may rule them. But I claim the life of the king, and of the would-be prophet; that must be your sacrifice.” And the last line twists the knife excellently, because Maeglin genuinely loves Turgon as a father, but he has no objection at all to Tuor’s death or capture by Morgoth; that’s a feature, not a bug, and Morgoth knows it.

So Maeglin’s fall to temptation proceeds from two things. First, given the choice between doing right and being percieved by all as having done evil, and doing evil but being percieved as good, he chooses is the latter. [Is this partly inspired by Plato’s discussion of that concept in The Republic - the just man seen as unjust or the unjust man seen as just? A bit.] Second, the same cause as Anakin’s fall in the Star Wars prequels: valuing one’s ability to possess a desired person rather than valuing that person’s own beliefs, convictions, and desires. Idril would never wish to preserve her life at the cost of Gondolin, and would (and does) despise Maeglin for seeking to make such a choice on her behalf. Padmé would never wish to preserve her own life at the cost of the Republic, or of the lives of innocents, or of Anakin’s soul. But the men who desire them are seeing them not as individuals with meaningful choices, but as treasured objects to be clung to at all costs. (Obviously, the lack of reciprocation in Maeglin—>Idril is one of the things that makes it worse than Anakin/Padme.)

So Maeglin agrees to Morgoth’s terms, and betrays Gondolin. And having made that agreement, he has given Morgoth an inroad into his soul. His thoughts, his desires, his choices, are all more susceptible to corruption than they would otherwise be. Over the following years, he has intermittent doubts and regrets about his choice, but he can’t break away. It’s not impossible - he could - but only if he could bring himself banish all selfishness, to care solely about saving what can be saved of Gondolin, and not at all about the consequences to himself or what anyone would think of him. And he can’t muster that kind of purse sense of purpose. The way he descibes it in this conversation is as if an indolent man, without any prior exercise, set out to climb a mountain; unpractised and unready, he would be unable to muster the physucal strength to do it. Maeglin lacks moral exercise; he did not cultivate the needed qualities when he had the chance; he did not seek to restrain his negative impulses (desire for Idril, though she is a married woman with no interest in him; hatred for Tuor, though he has done nothing to deserve it); and now, when he needs that strength, he lacks it.

And the more the years go by, the more Morgoth’s power creeps into his spirit. (Do you know, Maeglin asks, what it is to feel you soul rot within you?) By the time the city falls, he retains little beyond his worst impulses: desire for Idril, and hatred for anything other than himself that she might love.

At this point in the post-canon confession/conversation, Maeglin turns to Tuor and Idril in turn. Thank you, he says to Tuor. Thank you for ending it. And to Idril: Thank you for saving what could be saved from my treachery.

And Tuor asks: What do you think would have happened, if you had lived?

Maeglin: He would have taken me, and completed in body what he had already achieved in spirit.

Tuor: You think he would have....would have made you an orc?

Maeglin: In the Halls of Mandos, the fëa, shorn of flesh, can no longer disguise itself. In every way that mattered, I already was.

The conversation goes beyond there, in bits and pieces, and Maeglin explains the nature of his recivery from orc-ness in the Halls, and they reach a form of reconciliation, but the part I describe is the part I’ve envisioned most clearly.

A bit of my other headcanon around post-Mandos Maeglin is that he is deeply, deeply uncomfortable around the Valar and Maiar, which tends to manifest in abrasiveness and apparent lack of respect about/towards them. After all, he hasn’t lived among them as the Noldor did; the only Vala he’s ever met is Morgoth, and that didn’t go well; and on top of that, he’s traitor; so the Valar flat-out terrify him, and since that makes him feel like a coward - which he already regards himself as - he compensates with some hostility towards them. He can’t offer anything like an apology to them because of the standing question (unresolved even in Maeglin’s mind) as to whether such an apology would be out of genuine contrition or abject terror. The Valar largely understand this and are willing to give him time and space, but some Gondolindrim (Ecthelion, particularly), take it as insolence and an indication that he’s not sincerely repentant.

The above conversation with Idril and Tuor takes place entirely upon boats, which only adds to Maeglin’s discomfort, since he’s particularly scared of Ulmo (as patron of Gondolin, Ulmo has particular reason to be displeased with him).

Okay, one final headcanon. Maeglin is literally the only person who Eärendil dislikes. This makes Eärendil very uncomfortable, as he’s not accustomed to disliking people. He doesn’t wish any harm to Maeglin, he wishes him well, but he would vastly prefer that Maeglin could have that good life somewhere with no reference or proximity whatsoever to Eärendil. Since Idril and Tuor’s situation and typical location is...peculiar, Eärendil is the one who - with great misgivings - arranges for Maeglin to have the opportunity to talk to them.

[pastelsandpining]

The Master Sword

Summary: This is my take on memory 18, because the game’s version was far too happy for me. Zelda’s trip to Korok Forest was no easy feat, but she knew the sacred blade needed to return lest they lose it too.

Words: 2671 Warnings: this is Zelda after her entire kingdom was destroyed and all of her friends were slaughtered. it’s gonna deal with grief, survivor’s guilt, and other heavy themes.

CEO of posting works at midnight then being sad about the lack of notes

Masterlist

~~~~

Exhaustion was heavier than the sword strapped to her back.

Her legs screamed for her to slow down and her lungs burned from the ash in the air, inhaled in gulps as she wrestled with the grief in her chest. 

This morning, a beautiful sunrise greeted her from her window. Birds sang a song of love from their perch, and people bustled along the streets of Castle Town. She had a piece of her favorite dessert brought to her by her knight as a gift, and she walked through her lively, wonderous kingdom covered by green grass and wildlife beyond compare, to meet with her friends and conduct a day of prayer at the Spring of Wisdom.

It was a day just like any other, birthday or not. 

And now, that green grass was burning. That cerulean blue sky was painted red with clouds of ash raining down from every last bit of civilization she could see. The wildlife scattered, if there were any left at all. The fields of flowers were trampled by ancient technology that had gone from astonishing to terrifying—and out of their control.

She did not need Nayru’s wisdom to know that everyone from the castle, her home, to the outskirts of Central Hyrule had perished. She knew nothing of her friends, trapped within their once loyal machines, but she could not imagine they’d met a better fate.

And Link.

Zelda took a deep, shuddering breath and held tighter to the Champion’s Tunic that once matched his eyes. Now, it was covered in dirt and grime and stained with his blood. She wasn’t aware of the exact time, but she figured it couldn’t have been more than ten minutes since Hyrule’s hero had died in her arms. She didn’t allow herself any time to grieve—she couldn’t. 

Her despair reached far beyond the point of tears anyway.

She wiped at her eyes with her wrists, which managed hardly anything more than smearing the dirt on her face, and tried to even out her breathing as she reached Kakariko. Only then did she lower her pace and she didn’t have to search far for Impa, who was giving orders to her warriors. 

“Princess?”

Zelda pushed the tunic towards her dear friend and trusted it would say what her voice couldn’t. Some naive, stupid part of her hoped that if she didn’t speak it aloud, then it wasn’t set in stone.

“I can’t stay for much longer,” she explained, forcing her voice steady. “Two Sheikah have taken Link to the Shrine of Resurrection. When he returns, please, give him this.”

“How long-“

“As long as it takes.” 

In truth, she had no real reason to believe the shrine would work. Every last piece of Sheikah technology they’d entrusted was corrupted and turned against them. If the Calamity had that sort of power, then it was probable it could do the same to their last piece of hope. She prayed that wouldn’t be the case, because she didn’t want to think about what would become of Link, or his body, if something went wrong. 

“The sword,” Impa said, her eyes locked where the hilt peaked out from her shoulder. 

“I hope to return it to the forest, so that when he is ready, he can retrieve it,” Zelda explained, fidgeting with the strap. 

“And then..? What will you do, Princess?”

“Tell him that he must free the Divine Beasts if there is any hope of winning this.”

Impa’s face betrayed that she knew and Zelda turned away so she did not have to see the desperation on her loyal friend’s face.

“You can’t,” the Sheikah whispered. “We have no way of knowing— If the shrine does work, it could be years before Link is ready to face the Calamity again! No one can fight for that long, much less alone!”

“Stop,” commanded the princess. Her eyes traced the three golden triangles burned into the back of her hand and she closed it into a fist. “My entire purpose is to fight this Calamity. I refuse to do nothing when finally this power obeys me. Enough have died tonight.”

Her tone made it clear there was no hope in arguing. Her decision was final.

“Do you think.. Can we win this?” Impa asked instead with an awkward shift. She’d asked herself that same question many times within the last few hours and she wished that she could provide a complete answer. 

“I believe in Link,” she replied firmly, as if daring him to truly die on her. “Tell him that as well.”

Zelda had taken perhaps three steps forwards when Impa spoke again.

“Will you come back?”

“...you must do everything you can to aid him, Impa. Promise me that.”

“I promise.”

She couldn’t stand to waste more time, so she didn’t allow for any more questions. With a nod of appreciation to her friend, one that also served as a silent thank you and goodbye, Zelda broke into a sprint and didn’t stop until she was out of the village borders. Extreme physical activity was not of her forte and she’d done plenty of running already. Every bit of muscle in her legs protested against it. With an unspoken apology to everyone she had failed, she stopped trying to push herself.

She would need all of her strength. 

The strap was digging into her shoulder. Zelda slung the scabbard off of her back and chose to hold it in her hands instead. 

How many times had she looked up, seen him with this very sword on his back, and loathed it? How many times had she seen the blue metal glinting in the sun, the golden triangles crafted with such precious precision, and felt defeated?

Zelda could laugh. Defeat surrounded her and it was far heavier than her tantrums. It was even heavier than the steel in her grasp. She found it ironic, yet heavily fitting, that she would be the one to carry the blade she once detested to its resting place, that she would be the one to hold its wielder as he died, when she once loathed him so, that she, the one who could not fulfill her role, would be the sole survivor left to fight the Calamity. 

She wondered briefly, stumbling over a rock, or maybe her own exhaustion, whether or not they had made it to the Shrine. Did they lay his body to rest? Could they see his wounds healing? Was it slower than that, or was it just a futile attempt of grasping at straws?

A nearby screech startled her. Without much thought for what she was doing, she’d unsheathed the Master Sword and, with both hands on the blade, swung with all the might she had left. The Bokoblin fell before her without another sound, but the momentum of the swing kept her moving until she, too, was doubled over. The sword, with its tip driven into the dirt, was her only crutch. 

How Link was ever able to swing something so heavy with such ease baffled her. Or perhaps it was just because her hands were clumsy with weapons of any sort.

Zelda pushed herself upright and picked the scabbard up from the ground. With a little difficulty, she slid the sword back into its holder and continued her trek towards the forest.

It was hard to ignore the burning fields all around her. It was hard to ignore the guardians soaring overhead. She was careful to avoid their search beams because she didn’t think she could spare any of the sealing power for them. 

Part of her felt for them. She knew they were machines—no more than hunks of metal on legs, but there was tragedy surrounding them. Pieces of technology that were so advanced, that she loved, that were created with the sole purpose of helping Hyrule, were abandoned as soon as the Calamity was sealed. Their creators were exiled, their kind were banned, and they, too, were lost to the sea of time. Buried and forgotten, until they were needed again. And as fate would so cruelly have it, they were twisted and corrupted and now knew nothing but destruction.

Her thoughts flickered back to her loyal knight and she realized with a stroke of horror that he, too, would be buried and forgotten, lost to a sea of time. But then again, so would she. That’s how it went, wasn’t it? A hero and a goddess, set to revive only when the Calamity would. With tens of thousands of years passing between them, all they would truly become were stories. Except, there would be no grand legend following them. For a story to exist, there had to be people to tell it. Her kingdom, as far as the eye could see, had very little left.

She wanted to be upset. She wanted to be angry at this cursed fate, but if she refused to play her part in this elaborate game of chess, then there would be no hope for a future Hyrule to recall stories to.

Zelda gripped the scabbard tighter and pushed onwards. She never knew how much she would come to miss having his eyes on her back—having him three paces behind her at all times. She felt incredibly, strangely alone, and there was no comforting thought that one day she would feel his presence again. Wisdom did not grant knowledge of the future, so she was not naive enough to try manifesting her desire.

There was no bringing him back, not yet, and all the other lives lost tonight, all of their friends who’d stood bravely together only to die alone, had no chance of returning whatsoever.

All she could really do was hope that she could give the remaining populations in every last corner of Hyrule a chance to evacuate while she held the Calamity back. Should it devour her, her entire kingdom, at least her people would be safe. 

Goddesses, every step felt more difficult. Every step she took forward was a missing step behind her. And she couldn’t help wondering,

could she have saved him?

Part of her wanted to believe it would have been possible. The other part of her knew better than to tempt fate. They could not change it, but fate itself could play with whatever rules it desired. 

This, she realized with a deep chill, was how it’d always been meant to go. All of the time she spent in the springs, crying for a silent goddess to answer, wouldn’t have changed a thing. Fate was cruel.

Yet she couldn’t bring herself to be angry with the goddesses. The realization, the clarity that fell upon her, washed her through with a sudden calm. 

Or perhaps that feeling stemmed from the Lost Woods, whose fog seemed to be parting for her. With the sacred blade in her hands and the goddess in her blood, she supposed it had no reason to disorient and disable her. Even the trees were silent as she passed, their eyes following her as if they were waiting for a cue. 

Korok Forest looked as if it were from an alien world. The bright and lively green of the trees and pigment of the flowers did not match the decay outside of them. But even here, in the most sacred grove in all of Hyrule, the Calamity had a reach. She could see the dark, crimson sky behind the leaves of cherry blossoms where it did not belong. 

Zelda mistepped, her foot hitting the raised platform, and she didn’t try to catch her fall. The sword’s clang was loud as it hit the stone and her arms trembled under her weight. Her knees were scraped through the dress but it was already stained with blood, what was a little more? The sting was nothing compared to the loss of her kingdom. 

“All hope is not lost.”

She lifted her head, but it was hard to see the Great Deku Tree through the blur of tears in her vision. She blinked hard, but it did little to help. 

“With all due respect, I don’t think I can handle much positivity,” she replied, ducking her head again so she didn’t have to look at him. 

“There is no fault in that. However, telling you that there is nothing left would be false.”

“They’re dead,” she said and shook her head. How did she still have tears to cry? “All of them.”

“Not all of them. But you already know that.”

Zelda wiped at her eyes with her fist and dug her nails into her palms to keep from slamming them on the pedestal. 

“It hurts,” was all she could manage. 

“Yes,” replied the Deku Tree with a gentle hum. “But what is grief, if not love persevering?”

She did not want to reply. Instead, she turned her focus to steadying her breathing and putting an end to the ever flowing tears. The Calamity had laid waste to her kingdom, what good would crying do? Her clumsy hands found the hilt of the sacred blade and she pulled it closer. 

“You master will come for you,” she promised quietly. “Until then you shall rest safely here.”

But what good was her promise when she didn’t know if the shrine would work, or if Link would still be Link if it did? Could the soul of a hero strong enough to surpass lifetimes be altered, shaped into something unrecognizable? If such were the case..,

“Please,” she begged, holding her hands tighter, though she didn’t know if she was saying it to Link or to the sword. “Trust me when I say that I know he will arrive before you yet again.”

Zelda gripped the sword again and struggled back onto shaky legs. When she was steady, she slid the sword back into the pedestal and pressed down firmly until she felt it stick. There was a rush of something too, an odd sort of warmth that hit her fingers and spread throughout her chest as if it was trying to say something. This, she thought, must be what courage feels like.

“If I may be so bold,” the Deku Tree began again, “what is it that you are planning to do next, Princess?”

“It seems that my role is unfinished,” she replied, giving her eyes a final wipe. “There is still something I must do.”

“I sense there is great strength in your dedication.”

Yes, perhaps there was. She wondered if this is how Link had felt nearly every day—ready to act upon a moment’s notice. Even in his absence, she could feel a piece of him resonating within her heart. 

“Great Deku Tree, I ask of you,” she spoke in the comfort and confines of the forest, where no one could repeat her words, “when he returns, can you please relay this message..? Tell him I-“

“Now then… words for him would sound much better in the tones of your voice, don’t you think?”

The guardian spirit, old and wise as the sacred blade itself, gazed down at her with a warm look of faith. There was a gentle breeze that ruffled her hair and a ray of sunshine peaked through the grotesque sky for only a moment, but it was enough to bring a tiny smile to her lips despite it all. 

“Yes,” she decided simply.

This was courage.

The heavy fog of the forest parted for her just as it had done before and the gloomy, burning world she’d escaped welcomed her back as if she’d never left. The exhaustion was gone and in its absence remained a hostile anger that she was ready to let go of. Years upon years of neglect, of training, of hardships, led her to this exact moment—walking into an impossible fight alone. It wasn’t fair, goddesses knew that. This thing had taken everything from her.

But if her kingdom had fallen and she was destined to follow, she would make certain that she took the Calamity with her.

[jimlingss]

Worshipers of the Soul

Part of the Worshipers Series

➜ Words: 5.4k

➜ Genres: 95% Angst, 4% Fluff, 1% Smut, God!AU

➜ Summary: The King of the Underworld was denounced and exiled from Heaven as a god. But with your help, he may rise to power once more and claim his rightful throne.

The god is forced onto his knees.   The marble floor is cold and hard, but never for a moment does the God of the Underworld appear weak. He lifts his head, gaze steadfast even when he is at the feet of the council.   “Namjoon, you are arrogant,” the God of Sun says from his seat, the highest throne of the entire room. His low voice thunders across the sky, thrumming all around the land as he announces his sentence. “Unlike the Goddess of Spring, you show no remorse for your actions. I have known of your contempt and insolence for long, but your hubris has exceeded that of all gods. Even now when you have lost and must beg for mercy and forgiveness, you choose silence.”   It is a sad day in Heaven for a god like him to be in this position. A shame of how ignorant the other gods are for choosing to follow a weaker leader when he could lead them to glory. Truly, the universe was meant to cry for this disgrace and dishonour.   Namjoon’s eyes stray around the council to his wife who remains impassive, looking down at him. Of all gods, she was the most foolish — for choosing the God of Sun’s leadership and not recognizing her own husband’s true strengths. Had she been his dutiful wife, he would not be in this place.   The silence is held in the room.    The God of the Underworld makes no defence, makes no pleads nor begs for mercy.   Seokjin sighs and stands on his feet, making his final declaration and his timbre echoes throughout the space. “For the devastation and destruction you have caused in this needless war, I hereby denounce you from the council and your position as a divine being.”    Namjoon’s eyes widen in mortification, yet the God of Sun does not cease.    “You will spend the rest of your eternity atoning for your sins, but you will not be doing it here. You are exiled from Heaven, never to step foot into this paradise again effective immediately. You are no longer the God of the Underworld.”   The guards grab hold on his limbs but he easily wards them off, rising to his feet. “It is not me who has more hubris than the gods. You, Seokjin! Everything was caused because of you! How dare you take away something that is rightfully a god’s! What audacity do you have?!”   One of the council members lift their hands and a violent wind bursts forth, forcibly pushing him out of the room against his will. But still he shouts and makes his last curses for all of Heaven to hear—   “I will return! And someday it is you who will be begging for forgiveness!”

There is nothing.   You are the essence of neutrality. Neither pain nor comfort has reached you, nor sorrow or anger. It is a calm serenity that has enveloped you, impartiality that makes it easy to mindlessly float in the empty area. You wander aimlessly, without a destination or goal, without motivation or discouragement.   It simply is.   But then you drift into the wrong place at the wrong time.   A figure stands from afar, his presence forcibly holding you in place before you can stray without thought. He wears blackened robes, the tulle layer on top decorated with white chrysanthemum flower patterns. His hair is ebony, eyes even darker and his brows are furrowed deep as if it has become his common expression. He stands with his shoulders wide, facing you while his arms are placed behind his back. His aura is intimidating and commanding — it holds you from leaving and puts you in a trance.   “Are you discontented?”   His voice resonates and you manifest yourself into a tangible form, body translucent and flickering like a flame or rising smoke, never quite rooted.    You blink at him.    The corner of the man’s mouth quirks and his hand raises towards you. Suddenly, the fog clears from your mind. It lifts and your thoughts become grounded and traceable. But with the ignorance gone, the feeling of neutrality billows away from you.   For the first time, you get to truly look around and take in your surroundings.   The land is barren and desolate, without warmth or presence. The darkness seems to consume all that is in its wake, shadows that murmur and giggle, bare trees with branches that twist in odd directions. And the horizon is blanketed in black, but something round at the top that glows, providing the smallest amount of luminescence.   You know you’ve been here for a long time. But you’re not sure how long exactly — you can’t seem to recall anything aside from your name.   “Who are you?”   The figure smirks, his chin lifting as he proudly announces himself— “I am the King of the Underworld, Namjoon. I lead the souls that wander, the mortals that have long perished, the beck and call of Death itself. I give and take the sins that corrupt your being. And I have chosen to grant you with clarity of mind. Fall on your knees, beg for mercy and I will lead you to glory!”   Not knowing what else to do, you obey.   Your knees meet the ground and Namjoon smirks yet again.    The King approaches you in three large strides and tilts your chin up with his forefinger, allowing your neck to snap back to gaze upon him. His lips curl and he leans in, eyes laid on your mouth.    But before his lips can graze against yours, you instinctively lean away from him. Instead, you blink and stare blankly — unable to understand what his intentions are.   He halts, seemingly caught off guard with how you moved away as if he didn’t expect you to resist, but then he, too, shifts. The King stands back, facing the bleak oblivion with amusement evident on his features. “You are naive and because I pity your ignorance, I will grant you the gift of becoming my servant as you have no other purpose. If you refuse, your mind will be clouded again and you will waste away as you have.”   You say nothing, merely stumbling to your feet again.   “Where am I?”   “The Underworld,” he says simply. “You were human once. This is where you go after death. If you’re not in perpetual pain, it must mean you lived a decent enough life and you’ve been judged that way.”   In spite of what he tells you, you don’t remember your life. You can’t recall anything about it. All you’ve known is obliviously wayfaring.   Namjoon doesn’t allow you to dwell. He leads you away and you follow closely behind without a word. And the two of you come to the highest point of the Underworld. It’s a cliffside and he looks over the devoid abyss, the trees without leaves or flowers, the creeping darkness.   “Isn’t it beautiful?”   The King of the Dead takes a seat on the throne beside him, a single chair on the dry dirt. He seems to enjoy the view — but you don’t think this place has much to offer.   “You’re quiet,” Namjoon comments carelessly. “More than the others.”   You remain silent, contemplating that there’s been others like you.   The King turns his head to you, eyes dark. “What are you thinking about?”   “I’m wondering if this is where you reside,” you say, exposing your mind so he does not get angry being oblivious to your intentions and thoughts. “I’m pondering if you have a home.”   Namjoon scoffs lightly. “I don’t need one. You didn’t have a home while you were wandering, foolish girl. And there are no homes in the Underworld.”   You come to stand by his side, looking out at the desolate darkness.   //   There’s pitched, marbled moans and groans that echo all around — sounds of unrestrained pleasure that knows no dignity or shame.   You’ve turned away, trying to offer a sense of privacy. But it’s difficult when there’s nowhere to go, nowhere to cover yourself and you have to stay close. It doesn’t take long, however, and he’s soon joining you once more with a pleased expression.   “We can leave now.”   The King of the Underworld often fornicates with wandering souls, something you’ve learnt quickly. But you wonder for what purpose he does so and once you ask, he answers—   “It’s fun to corrupt minds and souls,” he plainly says, “and a satisfying pastime.”   You look over, peeking over your shoulder out of curiosity and you find the ghost gone. There’s no gliding orb of light, no translucent form drifting away. The soul he was copulated with has completely vanished.    “You’ve taken it,” the murmur befalls your lips without a second consideration when the realization has sunk into you.   The corner of Namjoon’s mouth quirks before he brushes past you. “You’re quick-witted, aren’t you? I’m glad I decided to keep you around.”   //   You’ve always aimlessly drifted, flitted and floated through the land, past trees and empty spaces permeated with pulsating darkness. You relished in the state of neutrality as you skimmed over the ground and rivers with no name. But Namjoon seems to know how to navigate this oblivion.    In the vast area that seems to stretch for eternity, he needs no map or directions told to him. He always knows where he’s going and how to come back. Never once does he frown, not knowing where to turn or which course to take. From the field of littered bones and skulls to the black river that runs through the Underworld and even back to the cliffside where his throne is.   Namjoon knows all. It is his domain — the back of his hand.   But it’s hard to learn from him, to conceive spatial awareness when all the darkness appears the same.   There was a time though…..a time you were sure you were not as lost as you are now.    A time when you did not pointlessly wander around the Underworld.    They feel like dreams — like memories of childhood, but much farther and faint. They’re the smoke of a flame, unable to be grasped fully and sometimes you doubt their true existence. Perhaps they are merely conceptions of your imaginations born from your new clarity of mind that knows boredom and seeks exhilaration. But you have dwelled on them.   And while you cannot discern faces or places, you know the ground you once stepped on wasn’t dry and cracked. It was green, a verdant shade, and soft beneath your feet. And the horizon was once azure and bright. Sometimes it was tangerine and rose-coloured, other times a darkening navy and maybe pitch black, but always with some kind of milky light piercing through to shed away the gloom…..   And you can recall fickle emotions.   Things other than neutrality tinged with contentment.   “This is the place I will raise my palace someday Y/N,” the King of the Underworld suddenly declares, removing you from your internal trance and pulling you away from thoughts.   Namjoon has his arms wide open in front of a creeping space with a few twisting trees occupying it. He may wear a satisfied and pompous expression, but you find it awfully dull.   “I thought you didn’t need a home.”   The tall figure turns to you and cocks a brow. “Every king needs a palace, foolish girl. Perhaps not a home, but a place to rule from.”   You watch him as he paces around the area as if envisioning the grand dwelling being assembled in front of him.   “There will be a hundred servants at my feet. My sacrifices will work on erecting my statues in the courtyard and in the garden. In my magnificent dining hall, there will be a hundred paintings of me on the wall, each from the different eons I have ruled in. And the doors to all of it will be right here. They will be imposing and will not open no matter how hard someone begs or screams.”   The King of the Underworld steps back and for a moment, you could see it too.   Blackened doors engraved with white chrysanthemums that would hurt your neck when you’d try to see the top, made of steel and iron so that your fists would bruise when you knock against it.    “How will you achieve it?” you ask, a murmur sounding from your lips.   “I will rise again, silly girl.” Namjoon twists on his heel, his arms behind his back and his shoulders broad. He faces the dark horizon as if there was something beautiful to see, something worthy to be proud of — even when there is really nothing. “I will make the gods pay for what they have done to me, for daring to exile the most powerful god in the universe.”   Your brows furrow. “They exiled you?”   “Because they were afraid of me.” The corner of his mouth pulls into a smirk and he faces you, eyes meeting yours. “But one day I will rise again — and if your loyalty remains, I will allow you a position in my court. I’m kind, aren’t I?” The King of the Underworld does not take your silence as a response. “You should be grateful I have spared you and didn’t consume your soul.”   Your head lowers. “Thank you.”   Namjoon smirks and you peek a glance at him past your lashes.   For such a domineering king, he is imaginative. Some might say, delusional. But you wonder what it is that made him lose his status and come here to such a sad, lonely place by himself.   //   The souls of the Underworld drift — unrestrained and without a planned destination. They are orbs of lights, some brighter and others dimmer, some that shine and others that glow, but all are able to take the shape of ghosts, of who they once were.   The bending, lazy river is filled with a dark and mysterious liquid. You’re unsure if it’s water and don’t dare to take a sip when you don’t need to, but you wouldn’t be surprised if some menacing beast was brewing underneath. Yet, that doesn’t deter you from leaning in and staring at your reflection.   You wonder if this is what you once looked like as a human.   If you had skin and hair and eyes like this….   Your head tilts to look at the horizon, something that resembles the moon hanging at the top, allowing you to see right in front of you but never farther. But hazily in your mind, you can stitch together an image of something else that was once above you — a rounded ceiling with paintings of yellow round spheres and pinpricks of twinkling sparkles, white bleeding into black, someone standing tall with a creature behind him in blazing glory. It is lucid in your eyes, something you can envision so clearly that it is almost real. Almost tangible.   A radiant place of white with marble and pillars — steps leading up to grand doors — golden letters etched into it.   But when you look back, blink a few times, the vision has dispelled away. The truth sinks in.   All you see is emptiness. A void of black.   Your eyes stray to Namjoon and your eyes soften at the way he’s fixing his sights on the surroundings with a proud smile.   “How do you plan to rise?” you ask quietly, joining his side as he strides through the trees.   “The souls I consume give me some power. Enough of them and I will be able to escape the Underworld and storm Heaven.”   “Then why don’t you consume my soul?”   “Because I know when to be gracious,” he declares with a smile, looking upon you. “You should be happy that I am merciful to you.”   Namjoon is indeed merciful. But he is not fair or just, and those are qualities a leader must have.   //   It’s uncertain how long you truly accompany Namjoon’s side for. All you know is that wherever he is, you are also there beside him. When he’s fornicating with souls, corrupting them to bring him pleasure and then consuming them after he’s finished, you’re there meters away with your back turned. When he’s bracing through the Underworld, traveling past the river and the desolate forests, you’ve become his shadow, trailing after his feet. And when he’s seated at his small throne by the cliffside, you’re standing next to him, staring out at the same sights.   You’ve come to realize that Namjoon didn’t suddenly take a liking to you and decided to spare you from his ambitions.   He is lonely. And he needed someone with him.   You don’t blame him — it is easy to go mad in this constant darkness. You only blame him for being too proud to admit his true intentions.   “You’re quiet.”   “I don’t have much to say.”   “But it looks like you have lots to think about.”   The smallest of smiles graces your features and you turn to him. “If I say something unbecoming to you, you’ll kill me.”   Namjoon bursts out laughing, the noise hearty and loud. It echoes around the spaces. “You can’t die again, silly girl. But don’t worry, you have nothing to fear. I have no plans of taking your soul as long as you continue to show me respect.”   You decide to grant his wish and speak to disrupt the eerie silence— “What is the living world like?”   “The moral realm? It’s full of lowly and greedy mortals who only know how to beg and destroy. They are selfish and ruin everything they touch. They’re not to be trusted,” he seethes and exhales. “When I rise to power, I will do what every god has been fearful of and liberate the universe from them. But…” Namjoon glances at you. “I suppose a few places are worthy to see.”   “Like what?”   “The mountains. Some oceans. They’re a glorious view where you can’t see where the land ends or begins. If you remain devoted to me, someday you may have the privilege of seeing them.”   You nod and the King of the Underworld continues, “I am leaving soon.”    “Where to?”   “It is none of your concern. If you fear abandonment, then you don’t need to.” After a moment, he softens. “I will return sooner than expected. I need to speak to an...old friend and reclaim what is rightfully mine.”   You nod once more, staying by his side as you look out at the dismal Underworld.

The grandiose black entrance parts, doors swinging open and then she’s sauntering into the vast throne room while rolling her shoulders while the train of her black robes sweep the floor behind her. “Sihyuk! I need a foot rub! Stop dilly dallying!”   He jolts and lowers his head. “Right away, your highness…”   “Gods, I’m so exhauste—” Her complaint morphs into a pitched shriek.   The Goddess of Dreams and Underworld stumbles back in startlement, a hand placed over her chest as her expression washes over into unadulterated terror.    But Namjoon merely smirks from the corner of the room, placing the white chrysanthemum flower back in its vase. “You haven’t changed one bit, Miyin, despite being reborn...twice now?”   The servant dwarf’s eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. His mouth opens and closes, knowing exactly who he is. “Y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-your...r-r-royal highness…”   “Leave.” Miyin lifts her palm, dismissing Sihyuk and he swallows hard before running off. The goddess faces him, but keeps a wide distance between the both of them. Her chin lifts and her gaze steadies itself. “What are you doing here, Namjoon?”   It has been over a century since they’ve seen one another, since that time when he was denounced in front of the entire council, but Namjoon is not ignorant to the changes that were made. He knows she’s taken his place — that she’s become the Goddess of the Underworld.   “Do I need a reason?” he asks. “You should not be afraid of your husband visiting you.”   “You are no husband of mine,” she hisses and malice, and the shadows of the room seem to grow.   But the self-proclaimed King of the Underworld merely smiles. “I noticed the sword of the Immortal Being is gone.” The sword is the only weapon that can kill a god, that will help him achieve his glory once more. But when he came to find it and tore the palace apart to look for where it might be hidden, it had disappeared — much like during the war a hundred years ago.   He couldn’t find it then — and he can’t find it now.   “It’s no longer in the Underworld and it will never be,” Miyin spits and a smirk grows at her red lips, spine straightening with confidence. “You will never find the sword again. It will never be in your reach. I knew you would try to come back for it, so I’ve given it to the Controller of the Sky.”   Namjoon’s brows furrow. “There is no such thing.”   The Goddess of Dreams and Underworld laughs mockingly. “Things have changed since you’ve last been to Heaven, Namjoon. The weapon that you seek for your vengeance has been handed to a mortal sacrifice of the Goddess of the Sky that had been unjustly forsaken.” A fond smile graces her features. “He will use it to protect her.”   “You gave it to a mortal?!” Namjoon’s angered shout echoes throughout the throne room, resonating through the space until silence takes its place once more. His hands crumple and he shakes, enraged. “You are a fool for allowing the sword into another mortal’s hands!”   “And you are a fool for returning!” She challenges with equal malice. “For thinking you have a rightful place here!”    “I will come back and rule as I meant to,” he declares through gritted teeth, pointing at her with a finger that trembles from wrath. “I will become the god that I was meant to be!”   A muscle in Miyin’s cheek jumps. She outright scoffs at him and curses, “Your pride and greed will destroy you as the Immortal Being had destroyed himself! Leave! And never step foot here again and dare to face me! If you ignore my warnings, even Seokjin will not be able to help you if you beg for it! This is my oath.”    Yet again, he has been banished. And from a place he once called home.   The shadows creep from their corners, expanding in size to loom over his figure and grab hold of his limbs. But he has lived amongst them for long and won’t be pushed out so easily.   Namjoon dispels the shadows away like they are bugs and he shakes his head with his jaw clenched at the audacity she has to treat him with such disrespect. “You cannot control me, Miyin. I am still a god by blood and I choose how I come and go. If I leave, it will be of my own accord.”   With his last words spoken, he twists on his heel and marches out.   The palace doors shut behind him and the true Goddess of the Underworld is left quaking.   //   The sky is azure, the horizon wide with the sun beaming from the highest point. But as soon as she steps onto the lower part of Heaven, crossing the bridge and moving past the thick fog, darker clouds begin to fill the sky and the goddess comes into view with her arms crossed and a feigned pout on her lips.   “What are you doing here, Miyin?” the Goddess of Sky questions with her eyes playfully narrowed. Her servants nor her companion are seen by her side.   But Miyin doesn’t match the goddess’ lightheartedness. Her expression remains solemn and her brows furrowed. “There’s something I need to talk about with you urgently.”   The goddess speaks no further, quickly assessing the situation and her arms drops to her side.   Miyin is led to a small garden house and they sit across from each other with the low table in between. “What’s wrong?”   “I need to use that favour.”    “Okay. What is it?”   “It’s about Namjoon,” Miyin murmurs and the Goddess of the Sky takes less than a moment to recall the name she had not heard spoken in so long. No matter how many times the gods are reborn, they can’t forget the history that has happened. “He has returned.”   “What? Have you told Jin?!”   “No.” She shakes her head. “He is why I’ve come to you. You and I know Seokjin is afraid that history will repeat and rhyme, that there will be war and devastation. It’s why he changed his approach. Why he led the other gods to be merciful and forgiving as well. And I fear someday, he might find it in himself to grant Namjoon the same kind of mercy. But I….I can’t forgive him.”   The goddess’ brows furrow. “Miyin....”   Yet the Goddess of Dreams remains undeterred and clenches her fist within her lap. “Namjoon has violated and destroyed our marriage, brought down his dignity and my own. His punishment of betraying my trust is to never be reborn, to never refresh his soul. At least not until I see fit.”   “He has learnt nothing in the time spent wandering the Underworld. He still claims vengeance, claims that he will rise again and make the gods pay for banishing him.” She trembles with ire and then calls the Goddess of the Sky’s name, eyes meeting her once more. “Promise me that if Namjoon ever steps above my domain....if he ever manages to crawl above the Underworld without my permission, you will conjure a huge storm to send him back.”   No one is allowed to forgive Namjoon — not without Miyin’s agreement.    She refuses to be blindsided. Refuses to be startled again.   “Miyin, you know I cannot control the weather as I please.”   “I know, but you can still try your best. You are the only one I can depend on, the only one who could match Seokjin’s powers if he were to ever absolve Namjoon.” The Goddess of the Underworld remains steadfast. “I will try my hardest too. He will stay where he rightfully belongs in my domain. I just need someone else to fall back on. I need someone I can trust.”   There’s a moment of silence.   And then the Goddess of the Sky nods.

You look at the horizon.   It once was a blue sky. Sunlight. You can recall children rushing about and giggling under the light, chasing after the sparse clouds. But most of all, you remember being dressed in white, pressing your palms together, and others around you murmuring incantations together….   “Tonight...” Namjoon’s voice thunders, interrupting your thoughts. “We launch our first attack.”   You turn to him and then towards the shadow of the Underworld palace outlined in the darkness. All the souls he’s taken has been for this hour. Namjoon finally has enough strength and he’s moments away from destruction.   “Once I take over the Underworld realm, I will have power again. The universe cannot go without a place for the dead to rest after all.” He wears a victorious smile, glancing at you as if you should be grateful to be the first to witness his claim. “Someday all will worship me.”   Worship — the word sticks to you.   Suddenly, visions billow through your mind. Worship.   Worship. You see temples and rituals beneath your eyelids, the grand sky shining above you, exhaustion taking hold of your frame as the fire spreads through the village.   Worshiping — it was what you dedicated your life to.   You can recall, like a distant memory of childhood, foggy but present. You were a priestess in your past life and revered the God of Sun, Seokjin. You devoted your life to devout prayer and sacred worship. You mediated and gave sacrifices, intently read the stars and charted them, and once blessed a sword of a mortal man. The memories rush through you, striking you speechless, filling you with the sorrow of loss to contentment. You were fulfilled in spite of dying so young and being unable to accomplish all you sought to do. You had met your purpose.   But perhaps there is another purpose for you here.   You shift towards Namjoon, expression crumpled rather than the neutral state he has become accustomed to. “I….remember,” you murmur, “I remember my life.”   And you remember him.    Namjoon — God of the Underworld.    You know of his tales, read about them, had seen paintings and states of him. Except, you didn’t know that after your death, he was banished from his position. You didn’t know he would be holding onto his anger when everyone else had forgotten about him.    His brows lift, amused. “Strange, but your clarity of mind must’ve made your memories return. So what kind of peasant were you? Did you die of illness or hunger?”   You shake your head.    “I was a priestess.”   You approach the King of Dead within three strides and before he can stagger back, your palms lift to cradle his cheeks and you lift yourself to press your mouth against his in a searing kiss.   It’s soft. His lips are plusher than you could’ve thought possible. And you keep the affection gentle and chaste — something you’re sure he is not used to. Your eyes shut and you can feel his gaze placed on your features, eyes widen in slight surprise. But it is not simply a gesture made out of desire or lust.   It is part of your ritual.   After a moment, you part from Namjoon.    “Oh, great god who has fallen and been forgotten, free yourself from your burdens,” you murmur the incantation, one of the thousands that you had learnt to memory. “Allow the souls you have led astray, corrupted and consumed to grant you mercy. You who have abandoned humanity, hear my prayers. Allow my pity to liberate you from your sufferings. God of Underworld, God of Death, great god who has fallen and been forgotten, be free of your misery and despair.”   It is your final sacrifice.   The final remains of your soul is used to protect the living from Namjoon’s reprisal.    The last remnants of your strength is used to shield all you have known and love — mankind who will never know your offering and the glory of Heaven which you will never see.    In an instant, your soul bursts.   The final pieces of the energy you have left is used and your form begins to fade.   Namjoon lurches back, his skin aglow. “No...no….NO!” He stares at his open hands, eyes widened at the way his flesh is illuminated like the stars, the power that he had collected for over a century surges out of him in a flood, past the gaps of his fingertips, not allowing him to grasp on.   He can feel his wrath escaping. The intense fervour of his spirit dying.   In the last moments of your consciousness, before your translucent form succumbs to the darkness, you gaze at the fallen god. And your eyes speak purely of pity.   But never does he notice. He does not look at you in your final moments.   Namjoon screams. His eyes are placed on his own body, into his hands that were supposed to take back what was rightfully his. And once more, the exiled god falls onto his knees.

There is nothing.   All that was left of him was his anger, sadness and despair. Without it, the anguish and hatred, he has become empty. Like the darkness that surrounds him, his spirit has become a void.   He is lifeless.    Namjoon moves sluggishly, lurching forward until he sits on his throne. It is a thoughtless action, something that has been entrenched into his muscle memory. His body is cold but he does not feel it. He merely grabs hold of the armrests in a listless manner, settling in as he mindlessly stares at the oblivion with eyes hollowed and glazed over. A vegetative state on auto-pilot.   His throne is placed on a mountain of bones and corpses of which he knows no name of.    Namjoon has truly become the King of the Dead.

[your-lady-star]

Fallen M!Corrin is Better Than Fallen F!Corrin

Bit of a hot take here for me to do, but I’ve honestly have had complications with Fallen F!Corrin for a while, and now that my baby boy has his own, I figured now is a better time than any to get into my issues with her fallen alt and why M!Corrin does it significantly better.

Now I’m not going to talk about their skills and usefulness in battle, mainly cause I don’t care about that at all, I’m going to be focusing solely on design and how well it connects to the thematic surrounding the story of Fallen Corrin. And that’s a good starting point.

I remember back when last years fallen banner was revealed and I saw a lot of people wondering why Corrin was on the banner since they never turn evil in game. I think people forget what the purpose of the fallen banner is; it’s not to show inherently evil characters, it’s to show, well, fallen heroes. Characters who’s mindsets, goals, an ethics were once just, but have been corrupted by a dark force, whether it’d be psychological or external. And, while it’s easy to forget, Corrin is fighting a psychological battle for his sanity every minute of every day.

Corrin’s dragon blood is very potent and very powerful, more so than any of the other royals, hence why he’s able to fully transform into a dragon. One downside of this is that dragons within the world of Fire Emblem are described as being inherently destructive and blood thirsty, something we clearly see with Corrin as his first transformation into a dragon had him go on a destructive rampage and attack Azura. He’s given the dragonstone for the express purpose of maintaining control of these urges and keeping his sanity in check. 

The fallen version is meant to showcase what would happen if they couldn’t maintain control, whether it’d be from not getting the dragonstone in time or the dragonstone not being of much help or maybe a completely different reason; it’s designed to show what would happen if Corrin surrendered to their draconic urges and became the monstrous killing machine they dread becoming, especially with the implications that Corrin may have possibly killed Aura during the initial attack. A Corrin who is lost to destructive urges and has become a monster that cannot be stopped, that is the theme to their fallen counterparts.

And while M!Corrin does that job fantastic, F!Corrin not so much.

Now we can finally get into discussing the art for these two and how well they do at showcasing this theme.

Let’s start with their default stance.

M!Corrin has a wide stance and is slightly hunched over, akin to that of an animal, and his tail being out further plays into that. The way its wrapped out to the front of his body with the spikes facing outward not only gives his stance a bit of a defensive feel, but also threatening, as though to let other know what they’re getting themselves into by challenging him. The way his hands are tensed up to look like claws makes it very intimidating and the way his left hand is positioned in that almost “come here” gesture gives a sense that he’s daring you to try to stop his, furthered with the way his right hand is placed in that cocky arrogance fashion that FE has used before. But the most telling feature is his eyes and face. That sense of cockiness is present with the way his eyebrows are raised and the slight curve of his mouth as well as that feel of lunacy with the ways his eyes seem to be different sizes, which anyone who has ever watched anime knows is clue number one that a character is a f*cking psychopath. But the most interesting thing is the dead emptiness is his expression. As though he isn’t truly there mentally, that he’s completely surrendered to the madness and is just a vessel for his cursed bloods madness. It’s downright terrifying and incredibly intriguing all at once.

Overall, this default art is fantastic and does a great job at giving a memorable first impression and teases for whats to come. It’s one of the best artworks to come out of Heroes for not only how well it does at displaying the theme of the character, but for being able to say so much with a single image.

On the other hand... 

Alright, so on an objective standpoint there isn’t anything wrong with the default art for fallen F!Corrin. It looks great, it’s nicely detailed and it’s clear that a lot of time went into it. My issue with it is how poorly it does at representing a corrupted Corrin. 

I get that the idea behind her design is that she’s slowly wearing herself down trying to fight back against her dark urges, but the art doesn’t do a good job at portraying that. The only real indication of her supposed exhaustion is a single bead of sweat running down her thigh and (maybe) one on her cheek, and everything from her facial expression to the way her arms are placed to her general stance comes off looking “embarrassed” rather than “tired”. She looks less like a woman desperately battling a losing battle to maintain control over her humanity and more like a typical anime girl who was walked in on by her crush while changing. The over-beautification of F!Corrin’s design already doesn’t do much to help with that (but that’s a discussion I’ll save for another day). Even the tail, one of the most striking features on fallen M!Corrin’s design, doesn’t have the same presence. It being mostly behind her not only loses that sense of defense and intimidation, but it causes the tail to blend into her and become less noticeable. I’m not even joking when I say that I didn’t even notice that she had a tail until the third time I saw this art.

Like I said, the art isn’t bad, it just doesn’t do the core theme justice. Rather than looking worn down, she looks slightly perturbed at best. Rather than looking menacing, she looks meek. And rather than fitting into a banner themed around great heroes falling into darkness, this feels like something that would fit in more in a summer or Easter banner (which is extremely ironic considering what I’ll get into later). It’s a build up for a set of art that’s supposed to make me feel sorry for her, but only accomplishes in making me think of how much she looks like me when I’m waiting for my brothers to hurry up in the bathroom.

Once more the dynamic weight and posing in the artwork shines brilliantly in his neutral attack pose. Lunging forward keeps in with the animalistic nature along with his hands once more tensed like claws, one reeling back to get ready to strike. With the way his cape and tail, curled almost like a snake or scorpion, flow behind him create a real feeling of movement and his expression dark but subdued, it makes for this real intense energy coming from his as he lunges for his prey. My favorite aspect being how the shadows form on his face, hiding it just enough to conceal his murderous intent while still allowing the harsh red of his eyes to shine prominently. And while there isn’t any discernible difference in his hair, the way it’s wrapped around his face and flowing to his movement give that much needed edge to his glare. And with the dark purple miasma flowing and highlighting points of interest, it makes for a truly great piece.

This isn’t really a problem that’s singular to fallen F!Corrin, as IS does struggle to give dragon units unique attack art that doesn’t just have the character either standing still or slightly curved with their arms either out at their sides or holding whatever stone they use to transform. So I can appreciate that they tried to do something different with her attack art. But, again, the problem is how it doesn’t fit with what they’re trying to represent.

Her expression is that of either mild annoyance or boredom, giving no indication that she’s in pain from having to fight. There’s no real tensity in any part of her body, having more of a grace and fluidity that is commonly used on dancer units. Her tail is more visible, but nothing is really being done with it. It’s not extenuating anything or highlighting a part of her body, it’s just curled on her legs. And any sense of intimidation is lost because the most threatening part of the tail, the spikes, are no longer in the foreground. Sense of movement is also an issue here. The way her cape and hair are framed makes it feel like she just jumped off of something and is having a rough landing and there’s no feeling for how she moved to attack, no ferocity in her actions. Again, it’s akin to more of a dancer than a feral dragon.

And this is small nitpick I have, but it really bugs me. I don’t like how the purple miasma for F!Corrin is lighter than M!Corrin’s. It might seem like a minuscule thing to be worried about, but the darker tone on his gives a real feel of dread and despair. The lighter tones are hers don’t stand out as much and don’t give any real negative emotion to her state. Yeah, she’s supposed to be fighting to maintain control, but having them be darker would help to represent that desperation and hopelessness. You can still have lighter hues, but they need to work in tandem to the darker colors.

Because when you do, you get beauty like this.

Just look at this masterpiece. The lighter purple flames mixing well with the darker flames, coming together in the center like a twisted mockery of where the dragonstone would be in any other art, curling around his body like a charging beast quickly closing in on you. His eyes glowing an ethereal mix of his natural red and the miasma around him, giving them a horrific shine that stand out a mile away and full of pure demented blood lust. And his mouth; wide open, fangs bearing in a horrific grimace, ready to sink into whatever stands in his way. 

I don’t usually throw this term around, but I don’t hesitate to use it here: this art is flawless.

This art, however, I can’t attach flawless to. The mix of purple and dark pink and the lighting it casts does look really good, but it’s an intense mix to a subdued reaction. Her eyes don’t look anymore ferocious than they do on any of her other alts and there’s no glow to them to make her look like her darker urges are beginning to influence her. The clawed hand could be a cool feature, but it’s hard to see since it’s being blocked out by all the pink! I actually didn’t even notice that her hand was clawed until I looked up her artwork for this post! Such a distinguished feature shouldn’t be this hard to notice. Not to mention, even if the claw was more visible, it doesn’t hold the same level of intimidation as her male counterpart due to how thin and spindly her arms and hand are. This feels like a slight upgrade to her original forms special art and is extremely disappointing.

After the Adrift banner, I am pleased to see a M!Corrin alt where his damaged art doesn’t tear his clothes off. But even with the minimal physical damage, you can’t deny how good this looks.

The rips on his left hand give it a jagged look that nicely compliments how tense his hand is.His right is clawed and raised, poised to attack and surrounded by the miasma in a way that highlights it without overshadowing it. His tail raised and thrashing about in a fit of rage, further complimented by his crouched over stance and, of course, his face. Corrin’s facial expressions across each form of his fallen counterpart has been his best feature, and this is easily the best of the four. That look of pure, unadulterated, unrelenting rage is so disturbing and amazing at the same time. Damage art in Heroes typically has the character looking shocked, sad, perturbed, or not phased by it. This is the only damage art I can think of where the character is f*cking pissed. That is a look that screams “I”m going to f*cking annihilate you for doing that” and it’s utterly glorious.

Oh boy, this art.

Nearly everything I praised about M!Corrin’s damage art is the exact opposite for the female.

The stance is very generic and holds no emotion other than “Ow, I’m hurt”. Her facial expression doesn’t register pain at all, looking more like she’s inconvenienced because someone splashed water on her. Her tail, despite being very dominant, is just sitting there with no fluidity. Physical damage is far greater here, but all it does is distract the viewer who is too busy getting off to her exposed legs and thighs! And whether it'd be because of shaky perspective or shoddy work, but her hands and arms are distractedly small and thin. It looks like her arms would shatter if she pushed someone too hard.

This is my lease favorite of her arts entirely because it exemplifies the main problem with fallen F!Corrin’s design and why M!Corrin did it better.

It focuses more on making Corrin look cute rather than having her actually represent the theme she’s supposed to be.

The titles for the two Corrin’s are Bloodbound Beast and Wailing Soul. M!Corrin perfectly embodies his title while F!Corrin struggles to just barely hint at. Both of them are meant to show a pure hearted and noble individual being corrupted by the very blood coursing through their veins, yet only one of them is really putting in any effort to properly represent this. And while I can’t give any concrete evidence of this, I feel like the main thing that kept the female variant from properly doing the job was because they got the wrong person to draw her.

And look, I don’t have anything against Sencha, fallen F!Corrin’s artist; they’re extremely talented. But looking at their record for art in Heroes can tell you that they weren’t the right one for this. This is the same person who did the summer and adrift art for F!Corrin (they also did bridal Tharja, but that’s not related here), and both of them have a distinctive style to them. They’re graceful, beautiful, serene, cheerful. Sencha is very good at drawing Corrin very pleasant and lovely. However, Sencha clearly isn’t that good at drawing Corrin miserable and withered. And that’s understandable. Making someone completely shift the genre they’re used to is a serous challenge and it’d be no surprise if they can’t handle it. So, despite my claim that they got the wrong artist for her, I don’t blame Sencha for not doing as well.

Then again, I doubt that this wasn’t a challenge for Argon, fallen M!Corrin’s artist. Their Heroes portfolio consists of mostly seasonal alts for various male characters, though they also did Cormag, which shows that they do more dynamic posing and harsher color saturation. If anything, the fact that they did such a phenomenal job on Corrin shows they got some serious skill at drawing more demented characters. Hopefully they get to do this more often, I need to see more of their work like this.

So, at the end of this long diatribe, I’ll once again reiterate that I don’t dislike fallen F!Corrin for any personal bias towards the male version or because the art is objectively bad. It’s a nicely done art, but one that doesn't suit what the character is to represent. And the fact that fallen M!Corrin utterly blew it out the water in his artwork really made it worse for her.

... Was this all just on big excuse for me to gush about fallen M!Corrin’s artwork?

Maybe.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got orbs to hoard. 

[star-strings-spills]

Dreamon Season AU

Well, it took longer than I expected @dtvibez and the Anon Fam, but when your mind runs with an idea, y’know? Might’ve lost some motivation and rushed a bit toward the end, but... It’s done. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

I’ll probably work on this a bit more as Halloween gets closer, but I don’t know how much since I have a fic I’m doing for that time right now as well. Feel free to add to this if you guys would like, this is just my take on the idea - enjoy~ 💕

Dreamon Season comes about by complete accident while the Dream Team are working on a video involving VR, heart monitors and the old faithful shock collars. Unfortunately - much like the original shock streams - things weren't wired and coded correctly, so when a system short-circuit occurred, more than just a crash of equipment happened.

The challenge had been simple: Minecraft, But We're In the Game… Basically, all three of them were to wear a VR headset and shock collars to simulate actually being "in the game," and the heart monitors were an added bonus for the fans enjoyment. When they got into one of their usual play punching matches, Dream actually wound up getting smacked in the face in the scuffle by accident. This actually jolted the wires loose and in turn short-circuited the system, causing a shared shock to go through all of their equipment, promptly ending the recording for the time being as everything crashed.

The unfortunate hit to the face resulted in a pretty nasty nosebleed for Dream, some fairly bruised knuckles for George, and a horrendous headache for all of them from the zap. Dream - being the almost ridiculous selfless idiot he is - was more focused on making sure George and Sapnap weren't seriously hurt by the shock. It wasn't the standard shock they'd get from the shock collars, but more of one you'd receive from jamming a fork in a light socket, and it was felt everywhere. Naturally, this was only met with them herding him to the bathroom to stop the bleeding and patch things up, calling him an idiot all the way as their equipment was left abandoned on the floor.

What they hadn't noticed is the error had been severe enough to log their brain waves within the code, and the shock had interacted with the blood left within the headset. Remarkably, this allowed the code to create something almost living out of these factors, it became less binary and instead more biological. A small collection of blood soon became an intelligent mass, reconstructing itself in the form of that it had been born of with the recorded heartbeat acting as its tick, but… This was a corrupted code, after all. It wasn't a perfect copy, and the thoughts that had fired off first weren't the most pleasant. Pain, frustration, anger, violence… It was easy to get caught on such intoxicating feelings, and it hadn't really known much else - not that its code knew or cared to learn it. That part was fundamentally missing from anything that wasn't "alive."

It knew of comradery, however, and it knew how to replicate itself being a living code and all. It wasn't difficult to create something in the image of the remaining brain waves' owners. While they acted independently because of this, they also functioned on the same nexus as a hivemind. Curiosity, it seemed, was stronger the more that shared it, and the trio slinked their way through the house's wiring to investigate their dopples.

While this miracle - or curse, as they would soon learn - had been unfolding, the Dream Team had been chuckling through their lingering pain while scolding one another for their part in things. Above all else, George and Sapnap still couldn't believe Dream could be literally bleeding out and would be more worried about them getting a papercut. Dream argued that it was because he felt bad that his idea had led to them getting hurt, and the last thing he wanted was to hurt his friends. As funny as it was now, that shock could've done some serious damage to all of them had it been worse, and George's knuckles were still pretty swollen, he could've broken something and-

Of course, Dream was being an "idiot" again, he was lucky his nose wasn't broken - George's hand would be fine after some ice and ibuprofen.

 Fear. It had been there when they'd been created, just not as strong as the rest, but now… It was almost satisfying to hear it in Dream's worried voice. There was somewhat of a twisted interest in what caused it and how they could replicate the feeling, and what better way to find out than trial and error up close and personal?

And so they waited, waited for the chance to extract more thoughts from the trio so they could receive their answers, lurking in the ether until they were all fast asleep, oblivious as ever. Once they were clear, they managed to slip the defective equipment back onto their little test subjects and fire up the system again, rewriting the code easily enough for the purposes. It only took a smack to each of their headsets to crash the system this time, but to a greater effect than it had before. This time, it wasn't just brain waves they were intent on transferring into the code - it was their subconsciouses entirely.

With their minds in the digital realm and their bodies in the physical world, they would be free to do whatever they pleased to learn more of their human counterparts. To those around them, it would appear only as though they were in a coma, as difficult to treat as it was to explain in some cases. No matter to the programs - there was little to be done on the human end, only on theirs. They had all the time and power in the world with this situation.

TLDR: "Dreamons" are essentially a living corrupted code created through electrified biological material and brain waves transferred into a shared nexus through a short-circuit in a system of gaming equipment which consists of a VR headset, a heart monitor and a rigged shock collar. When you're "possessed" by one, your subconscious is uploaded into the code on a server while your physical body remains comatose and a "dreamon" is created by copying portions of your brain waves and creating their tick by mimicking your heartbeat.

Even so, it was clear by the names listed in the server's code that there were more to be involved in this sick little game of theirs, and the prospect was too delicious to pass up… They would let their initial guinea pigs get their bearings before continuing to add new players first though - their fear of realization wasn't something to miss out on. After all, how much better could it get than the panicked terror one would contract when they found themselves trapped in cyberspace, never mind that space being Minecraft of all things?

They would begin shipping orders out to reach their future victims soon enough, but the source code - aptly named "Nightmare" in the weeks to come - wanted to savor the first batch… They'd only be able to survive so long in their realm, you know. :̵̛̹)̷̦̽

[holylulusworld]

Dirty Angel

Summary: You walk into a bar only to bump into Sam, the man freeing Lucifer. Responsible for your friend’s death.

Pairing: Sam x Reader, Reggie, Lindsey, Tim

Warnings: language, smut, unprotected sex, sex against a wall, semi-public sex, arguments, violence

Takes place during 5x03 – Free to be me and you

Kinktober Special: Enemies to lovers

Kinktober Specials

  It’s late, you are tired, and the dull ache of the losses are still tearing at your heartstrings. The bar you passed on your way to your motel looks inviting by now, so you walk in, ordering a drink.

You spend the next two hours in the bar. No one except for the bartender is around. She’s nice to talk to so you take another shot until she calls it a night and her colleague takes over. Keith or rather Sam Winchester. The reason your friends are dead by now.

“You!” You curse getting your angel blade out to jump over the counter, attacking Sam. He easily dodges your attack, taking the blade out of your hands, tossing it aside. Sam is stronger than you thought.

“Who are you?” He pants pressing you into the wall. Face scraping over the rough surface you fight his strength. “I’m the only survivor of your failure. You killed them, you killed them all! We were there to stop you from killing Lilith, you monster.”

“I didn’t know…” Sam pants into your neck. Hot breath fanning over your exposed skin he tries to keep you in place. “You were there?”

“Castiel said I need to stop you. My friends and I were there. I lost them all because of you. Now I’m mortal…human…this is all your fault.” You curse, wiggling in Sam’s grip.

“You’re an angel?” Sam whispers leaning closer, sliding his nose along your pulse point. “Was…”

“Why? I mean you are still alive…”

“When he was free and you along with your brother were gone he was there and tried to seduce us to follow him. My friends, they refused, just like me. United we stand but he killed one after another until only me and my best friend, my partner since centuries were left. Lucifer corrupted him, made him steal my grace…” You cry out at the memory.

“I’m sorry, little angel. Maybe I can help you get your grace back? I’m not hunting right now but I’ll do anything to make it up to you.”

“Make it up to me? He killed my family, my friends. He corrupted my lover to steal what’s was most precious to me and you want to make it up to me, human? How?” You yell, ramming your rear into Sam’s crotch, causing him to loosen the grip on you.

Dodging his attack, you grab your angel blade, retreating for now. Grabbing your purse on your way you want to run out of the bar but you bump into a chest. Two pairs of hands grab your now weak body before a knife gets pressed against your throat.

“Something you want to tell me, Sam?” Tim spats pressing the knife closer to your flesh, causing you to his.

“Let her go. Whatever your problem is she has nothing to do with this…”

“Where is Steve?” Sam ask tossing the rag onto the counter, touching the knife in his waistband. His eyes focused on the knife at your throat Sam gulps. “Oh, Steve's good, he's, uh, his guts are lying roadside outside the Hawley Five and Dime.” Tim snorts.

“Let me go, asshole. I will help you with killing this bastard with pleasure. He’s the reason my friends are dead.” You gasp.

“Is it true, Winchester? We met a nice demon, telling us you freed Lucifer and caused the Apocalypse.”

“Demons lie.” Sam tries glancing at you. He can’t let the angry demon kill you or even more, blood will be on his hands.

“I want to hear the truth now or this nice little girl will pay the price. Say it.” Tim threatens.

“Just take it easy, okay? Put the knife down. Let her go and we can talk.” Sam tries and Reggie chuckles circling the room, glancing at Sam.

“Tell us the truth and the girl won’t need a burial.” Tim grunts, tugging your hair harshly, making you hiss in pain.

“Put the knife down and we can talk. I’ll tell you everything, the truth.

Tim puts the knife down on the bar but keeps hold of you, not letting you go he wraps one hand around your throat, squeezing it. 

“It's true. I freed him. Not on purpose but it’s my fault…” Sam sighs. 

Tim nods, smirking. Before Sam can blink Reggie charges him. Sam is fighting with all his strength, tossing Reggie into the pool table. Tim finally let go of you and you slump onto the floor as both men attack Sam, pouring the demon blood into his mouth, then holding his mouth closed so he'll swallow. 

“Are you insane?” You gasp getting up. “He’s addicted and will turn toward Lucifer. He’s his perfect vessel you stupid hairless apes!” You curse grabbing a billiard cue, hitting Tim’s head.

Sam pushes against Reggie’s chest, spitting the blood into his face. Wiping his mouth, disgusted.

“Go,” Sam order pressing your angel blade into Reggie’s chest. “You better not try this again. We need him on our side. If he’s addicted to this blood he will choose the wrong side.” You gasp.

----

“You okay?” Sam asks glancing at your throat, carefully touching it. “No, I’m not, you genius. I’m still human, my friends are still dead, and I still want to kill you.” You retort and Sam snorts, shaking his head.

“I saved your ungrateful ass,” Sam mutters glaring down at you. “After you got me into trouble, Winchester. That’s all you are good at. Fucking with my life.” You yell pushing against his chest, cursing.

“Fucking with your life? How about angels fucking with the whole world?” Sam talks back pushing against your chest, making you stumble.

Now you get mad, slapping his cheek you kick his shin and Sam grabs your arms, slamming you against the wall. His lips are on yours in a split-second, devouring your mouth. While his hands travel down your body to squeeze your butt you grab his hair, fisting it harshly.

“Dirty angel you are wet for a demon blood loving junkie,” Sam growls pressing his hand against your clit, rolling the sensitive nub between his fingers.

“I’m not an angel, hunter.” 

Sam twists your panties, ripping the fabric apart before his rough hands move to your butt, picking you up. “Open my pants. Be useful for once.” He groans against your lips and you shake your head, biting his lower lip, trapping it between your teeth.

One strong arm holds you in place, presses you against the wall while his free hand snakes between your bodies, opening his pants. “Like what you see?” Sam growls when you fist his cock, giving it a few pumps.

“Be useful for once and show me if a human can make me orgasm as powerful as an angel.” You challenge and Sam lines himself up, thrusting hard. Entering you with one forceful stroke.

“Like that? Huh? Was your dead boyfriend as big as I am?” Sam mocks and you grab his shoulders, bucking against the tall hunter.

You want to snap at Sam, but his hips start moving and your head lulls back. He’s relentless. Hard and fast he slams into you, making you cry out with every pump of his cock. “You’re mine from now on, my fallen angel. I’ll fuck you good now and later we call Dean. I’m going to kill Lucifer.”

“Big talk, asshole.” 

Panting you hold tight onto the tall man���s shoulders for dear life while Sam is ignoring your words. Face buried into your neck, cock pounding into you with abandon he groans against your neck. 

Eyes fluttering shut, lips formed to a perfect ‘O’ you pulse around Sam, dragging him violently with you over the edge. Hot cum spurts into you as you fist his hair, making him look into your eyes when you flash them blue.

“What?” Sam gasps as you rock against him, not letting him pull out. “I might or might not lied about not being an angel any longer. You know, Luci wanted me and my partner to find you and bring your nice, firm body to him.”

“You want to deliver me to Lucifer?” Sam curses, trying to break out of your grip but you lock your legs around his lower back.

“That was the plan Luci thought I would follow but I hate these archangel assholes. I don’t like playing by the rules and almost got kicked out of heaven by Michael. I thought you, I and your brother could handle this situation way better. If I can have hot, dirty sex with one of you meanwhile it’s win-win situation.”

“You’re a dirty angel for sure,” Sam growls hardening inside of you again. Your grace is stimulating him till he’s painfully hard. “What are you doing?” 

“Thought we can go for another round, hunter boy. Now how about making me cum once again and we can meet up with Castiel and your brother. I always had a thing for foursome’s…”

Your lips curve into a dirty grin as Sam tightens the grip on you, thrusting hard. 

“No. You are my dirty little angel. I don’t share well...”

SPN Forever Tags

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If your name is crossed out Tumblr won’t let me tag you for some reason. Sorry.

[dungeons-and-divination]

HORIZON WALKER RANGER  - Wildhunt SHIFTER - Sage (Researcher)

Never built a Shifter before, but I play a weretiger in my main campaign, so I enjoyed this quite a lot. I think it shows. I ended up with a lot more details than I usually cram into these posts. I mainly try to leave enough space for DMs and players alike to build up on the general idea I came up with. This time... Inspiration hit me hard and I couldn’t help myself. Hope you enjoy.

Name: Ichor (likes the nickname Corey better) (18yo)

TAROTS

Mind: Justice (upright) Truth and integrity as the core of an horizon walker’s mind are perfectly okay with me, honestly. It really tells me that Corey is a person that strives to reach a balance into things, that he knows every action has its consequences. I can see them as someone that is perfectly aware of how they can change the world just by existing and making decisions, so they try to weigh their actions because of it. But they also enjoy watching the ripples that every drop in the water causes. So they dislike inaction too. Why stay still when you can do something and be part of the reason for the world to move and change, just to settle and come back to a new balance?

Body: Two of swords (upright) I mean, a tarot about being torn between two people or in general this feeling of disconnection on his body? Of course I could just stop at the obvious issues Ichor could have with being a shifter. But why stop with something as obvious as emotional denial, when there’s an underside of something more? I had to draw a card to try and clear this up. And the Three of swords reversed confirmed there was more. Corey is actually in emotional denial about something deeper, but he’s slowly getting over it. Still, this doesn’t get rid of that “something” that hurt him in the past and Ichor tries to bury it more often than not. So, I would say that this disconnection to his body is more in tune to this denial.

Spirit: the High Priestess (upright) Most of all, I would say this expresses his thirst for knowledge, that’s for sure. But I’m not surprised by that hint of mystery and sensuality that comes from Corey himself. Despite how socially awkward he is, I can picture him being unknowingly charming. Which is probably why he doesn’t trust people that try to be very direct in showing romantic interest. Well, I suppose he can be considered charming at least to people that are into dark, mysterious, dorky nerds with enormous trust issues. I know that the broody types always attract some people's attention.

Past: Strength (reversed) After what that “body” had already given me, this was pretty much a given. Low self-esteem in Corey’s past is a constant. He felt weak and vulnerable, that was the main reason why he stayed stuck in his research for so long (and kinda confirmed my feeling that he wasn’t one of the most thought of predators). He probably had a deep desire to actually get to work in his field, but the biggest obstacle to reach for that dream was his own sense of inadequacy (someone like him in a scholarly role might have been teased just for that after all). Deep down, he knew he could make a difference though, because every decision has a consequence, even a lack of action. And he hated when people couldn’t make a decision SO MUCH!

Present: Page of cups (reversed) And here comes back that heartbreak, that emotional vulnerability… With the horrible twist of sexual abuse earlier in his life still there to haunt him. Definitely, the emotional denial from his body as well as his issues with trust are a lot deeper and serious than what I thought at first. Oh, Ichor for sure had some terrible experiences. But he realized that he was in a bad situation, that he’d been manipulated, used by someone older than him just cause he was young and naive. And he decided to get away from it all. The emotional trauma though? That still lingers and weights him down so much that he’s very closed off. I don’t exclude him actually pretending (very badly) like he’s way more confident than he is, in certain situations. Like a copying mechanism to try and hide his insecurities so people won’t use them against him again.

Future: the Hierophant (reversed) Well, with Corey this can go in both the direction hinted at by the tarot. He could absolutely challenge the traditions of the institution he belongs to and that he’s supposed to still answer to. Or he could cling to their traditions in a hope to change how corrupt and twisted things got from the very inside despite how it could break him to go back and be face to face with his abuser. I can’t necessarily give a suggestion in this case; it really depends on how things develop and which way you feel like he would lean towards (even with the party’s support). Either way, not surprised that a decision is at the core of his future. 

FULL BACKSTORY

Ichor was born in a cave in the Beastlands plane. His mother, Shianead, was on a mission for the institution she worked for to research more information on how were-creatures lived when organized in packs like that. She actually fell in love while she was in the middle of that mission with Ichor’s father, Purrenbor. As soon as Ichor was born, Shianead realized she could no longer stay in the Beastlands plane and decided to leave. Purrenbor tried to leave with her, but his tribe didn’t like them leaving with the child; Purrenbor gave his life so that both Shianead and Ichor could run away. Once they were back, the institution wasn’t necessarily happy that Shianead took more than a year for a mission that was supposed to be just 6 weeks long. They were disappointed in her, but once she promised that her shifter son would stay to be part of the institution as well and convinced them that in some way his nature as a shifter could be helpful in understanding better the potential benefits of the were-curse, they agreed to let her stay. Ichor didn’t necessarily have a happy and loving childhood. His mother was more often than not away for more research missions and he was left in the care of a very strict teacher, Clirji Brawen, a dragonborn that made him study for long hours instead of letting Corey run around with the other students of the institution’s preparatory schools. He still was grateful to be considered so bright to have Clirji’s attention, since he was considered one of the best teachers of the school (the one that usually worked with realy talented people). Corey was even allowed to live in Clirji's very luxurious house when his mother was away, instead of staying alone in the dingy apartment that belonged to her. When Corey was about fifteen, his mother had to go on a longer than usual mission that she was even more tight lipped than usual on the details of. Clirji had recently retired from teaching and was mainly just a consultant for the institution, and Corey could no longer stay at his house since he was no longer Corey’s teacher. It was decided from the institution’s schools’ council that he would stay in Norvhila Erishai’s estate. She was the very charismatic head of the research department of the higher level school, and she was hoping not only to find new branches of research for the main institution to focus on with her students, but to find students with a new, bolder attitude. Norvhila was immediately impressed with Ichor, not only for his knowledge reached under Clirji’s guidance, but also for his willingness to try new things before finding once again the balance at the core of the institution’s beliefs. Still young, very impressionable, awkward and mostly a pariah with students of his age, Ichor never realized that Norvhila fascination with him, and her consequent attentions of sexual nature, were very much inappropriate. Ichor felt flattered, and mostly thought he was bound to allow her to do whatever she wanted with him by duty and gratitude since he was living in her house and she was teaching him so much (or so she manipulated him to believe). It took Ichor having a revealing conversation with Clirji when he was almost 18 to realize that he’d been stuck in an abusive relationship all along. Also, Norvhila had been hiding to him that his mother had been considered missing in action for months, because nobody heard from Shianead since her last report from wherever she was for her mission. Ichor found out, when inquiring about his mother’s mission, that Norvhila wasn’t the only person in the institution that was doing morally twisted things that somehow they still considered “part of the balance of the world”. In a last ditch effort to get free of Norvhila’s manipulations, Corey asked the institution’s schools’ council to go on a mission to find what happened to his mother and to consider that his “graduation mission”, a test that every student had to pass to prove that tey were ready to become a fullfledged member. Unexpectedly (and probably with a big push from Clirji), the council allowed him to leave. Corey somehow still believed the institution could do some good, if he just got rid of the “twisted people”. He just find a way to actually make the right decision that would ripple the waters enough for that change to happen. And he had a feeling that finding his mother was just the first step in a much longer path.

(As a note, extra info. I think this could be more for a DM than a player but still relevant for both, especially the part about Clirji that could be considered a little bit of the conversation that cleared Corey’s mind on how things worked inside the institution. Corey is still convinced that, at the core, the institution was doing good [it’s something he always thought]. But, the what the institution truly does in my mind is gathering knowledge to use it as a merchandise for trade; they don’t really care to whom they give it, if the purpose is to maintain a balance. They think, since they gather the most knowledgeable and smart people in the world, that they have the power to pick and choose who and what will tip the scale so that the universe won’t be destroyed. But mostly, they are the reason why wars start and end by manipulating other people so that they could get richer by selling their information to both sides [too much power corrupts and all that shit, you know...]. Clirji, despite being aware of the problem, stayed in the institution as a teacher to try and help the students, to warn them if he could, help them get out of that life too if possible, or scare them away with his harsh attitude if that was the only way that worked. Because he felt like he had no other way to break that machine that made him too other than trying to take away the best minds from them. In a sense, Clirji also tried as much as possible to keep the schools and the institution proper to be very distinct and separate, but it was very difficult since he was one of the few people that was fighting against the system from the inside [and teachers were mostly members of the institution too, it was rare to have outsiders as such important staff figures that could shape the students minds]. When Clirji tried to become headmaster of the higher level school, for example, everyone looking in as an outsider would have picked Clirji since he was so accomplished as a teacher. But the council knew by that point that he was against what the institution truly had become, so they just made him retire, telling him he was too old even to be a teacher. And they obviously picked someone that would fit them better and would turn a blind eye on behaviors like Norvhila’s.)

SUGGESTION CORNER

Suggested features Ability scores: High Wisdom and Dexterity (try to keep as high as possible Intelligence too), Low Charisma Skill proficiencies: Investigation, Insight, Perception Others: I had to really think which animal would fit for him as his bestial appearance. At the end of the day, I feel any bird of prey would fit him very well: a classic eagle, a nice hawk or even a raven would be wonderful. If you want to go for something more “classic but still different”, a fox could be a nice pick as well considering his backstory.

Suggested Characteristics Trait: I’m willing to listen to every side of an argument before I make my own judgement. Ideal: The world needs to be constantly in balance. But to keep it that way sometimes you need to act, be bold instead of keeping still. Bond: I want to unveil the corruption that’s hiding inside the institution that made me love knowledge so much. Flaw: After a shift, I behave more animalistic than usual for a little time. It unnerves me to no end when people get to see that wild side. (This depends on the animal you pick but it could be mimicking for a crow, pouncing like a fox, little thing like that, easy to roleplay and remember but that can really bring funny moment in a session too. Have fun with it!).

[littleredroseonthevalley]

The Rose

Summary: Aerin is free, but at a price.

Rating:  M -  Not suitable for children or teens below the age of 16 with non-explicit suggestive adult themes, references to some violence, or coarse language.

Explicit and/or non-graphic mentions of suicide, murder, inhumane punishments and dysfunctional relationships. Reader discretion is highly advised.

Notes: So, this is messed up. Like, really. I am a bit of an Edgelady when it comes to fanfiction, I have always defended that people can enjoy what they enjoy and forget everyone else. But this, this is messed up. God, I need a psychiatrist.

Anyways, despite my clear preference towards roses, the title is because I was inspired by this song.

Love is a funny thing.

It is good, but it is bad. It heals and it hurts. It saves and it condemns. It is democratic, but a privilege.

Everyone pursues it, even, and perhaps especially, those who deny their desire to love and be loved. It seems like the very thing that keep societies together, a need to accept and be accepted in turn, to feel like you are dearly valued by someone. Be it a family member, a friend or a sexual partner.

All the races have their own way to express love. Marriage and the one true partner in a lifetime for the humans, the separation of sex and devotion for the elves, and the survivalist ritual of the orcs, they all just want to be loved by someone. Preferably forever.

My life taught me the importance of the social bonds. My family was slayed far away from their home and no-one knew them, nor they had any identifying characteristics, other than our race and the two young children that survived the attack. Kade and I.

I do not remember it very well. The first thing I remember is their burial, on a common grave. My hand gripped Kade’s, who seemed to be crying, but my eyes were dry. I think I cried too much already.

There was no way of knowing from where we came from, other than the general direction of Undermount. Since no elves passed through, there were no travelers or officials to talk to. I thank the gods every night for the kindness of the farmer that took us in, until his demise.

I depended on and was nurtured by my brother, and I knew it was the same for him. Our bond was what helped us to survive, and I protected and fought for that bond as much as I craved for another.

Perhaps it is due to my blood. Elves were known as people of loose sexual morals, what I came to learn it was due to their concepts of Kinvali e Divali, as well as the ethereal beauty of their never-fading youth, but the naturalist explanation was just as likely with my limited information.

I do not think it is, though. I would take it a step further. Perhaps it was due to my neediness and sense of abandonment. A strong presence by my side during the day and some bodily heat next to me on my bed at night seemed to silence the despair of my soul.

The fact of the matter was that I was hardly pure and inexperienced, my road had been longer and more tortuous than it perhaps should, and the wariness was apparent. I sook companionship, desperately so, and more often than not, I found it. Not with the stability I wanted, but I rarely gone by without someone to which I could use to that end since I entered puberty. Some of them, I even could see myself with them permanently, but my race or social standing often came in the way.

Then, there was him.

Him and I were alike in many aspects. He had a family, but one that ignored him on a good day, and abused him on a bad. He was as good as an orphan, forgotten and unloved, often starved and beaten, seduced by an evil and faceless force from infancy for a nefarious purpose.

I suppose I cannot excuse him completely, he eventually should know better, that he was sowing the kind of suffering that corrupted him in the first place, but perhaps there was wisdom in taking a spoonful of sugar before the bitter medicine.

He did not lie to me. I know he did not. He showed me what there was beneath the gray and barren permafrost of his corrupted face, and what I saw was enchantingly beautiful. He was handsome, if rather short and gaunt, with a sharp and excitingly witty mind, and extremely kind and empathetic.

My soul sang for him. I felt safe and seen by him, and for the two short nights we spent at Deadwood, my desires and needs were shaped in a hole that seemed that could only be filled by his presence. My heart longed to see him again, as soon as I possibly could.

Our sojourn at Undermount, so tantalizing when I first entered Deadwood, was still nice and enlightening, but my tongue was overwhelmed by the sweet honey that the tart mouthfeel of elfish society was that much more blatant. That was not my place, these were not my people, and I could only think that I would be happier in Whitetower.

I had my summer under his warmth that afternoon at the palace gardens and at the library with him, and then the night under his sheets, and I knew it was true love for me.

Then, the cold hit me and I was thrown on the harshest of winters. His face twisted in a grey frost, a clean cut was made and his brother’s life was taken, like it did not mean anything. The portal opened, he held onto the magic user and they vanished into the unknown.

I realize I was used, little more than a pawn, designed to gather the shards and protect a viable vessel for an evil force. He had used me, like he too had been used, and it really hurt me.

I had to stop him. No matter what he meant to me, no matter how it would hurt, I had to stop him with any means necessary. I could not let it move forward and let more lives to be destroyed.

So, I did just that. I captured him and killed his master.

Tonight, I go down the dungeon. To see him, to talk to him.

He was asleep, curled up at a thin cot of hay, likely trying to stave off the humid cold coming out from the stone walls and the wells of the castle. Without his disguise, his skin was gray and his aura was very dark. His constitution seemed thinner, more haunted.

It filled me with pity.

“Aerin! Wake up!” I whispered, breathily. I had bewitched the guard, but there was no need for alerting any reinforcements. “Aerin, wake up, please!”

His dark eyes shot open and he quickly rose to his feet. “Raine! What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you.” I responded, downcast. “We don’t have much time.”

“What for? To gloat? To marvel at your doing?” He sneered.

I sighed. “Aerin, I am not going to apologize for stopping you. It had to be done. I am sorry, however, that I lied to you when we were at the Shadow Court.”

“I should have known better.” He mumbled, sadly. “I should have known to be stronger, to not let my sad human needs to get the best out of me. It was naïve to believe what you have told me.”

“That is not what I lied to you about it.” My eyes fill with tears. “Yes, I had no intention of joining you in the Shadow Court, and I still have none. Yet, I was sincere when I told you I would take you as you are.”

Aerin raised a doubtful eyebrow, so I placed my hands at the lock of his cell and whispered an enchantment. It opened softly for me to walk inside, before closing ominously behind my back.

Every step I moved forward, he took one backwards, until his back was pressed against the wall. Cornered, I pick up his hands and try to soothe him by caressing his fingers with mine.

“Your magic has improved.” He managed to let out.

“That was what was keeping me. Research, training and planning.” I smiled softly at him. “I love you, Aerin. With all my heart. My greatest regret is that I am twenty years too late to save you from corruption, from suffering.”

“It’s not your fault.” He finally responded. “The short time we had together was much more than I ever hoped to receive.”

Aerin kissed my tear-stained cheeks and wrapped me in his embrace. Without the stone, the smell on his skin was different. He smelled like blue moss and flowers that bloomed in the night, and that only made me cry harder.

“I am sorry, too.” I hear whispered on my ears. “I am sorry I cannot give you anything but a life of pain and suffering. I am sorry I was weak, greedy and stubborn. I am sorry I cannot be the man you love all the time.”

I break apart from his hug and face him. Wiping my tears with my left sleeve, I look him dead in the eyes and say, “I came here to free you.”

“What?” He did a double-take.

“I put you in here, I am getting you out.” I threw my satchel at him. “There is a map of the Shadow Realm in there, one that should take you through a route safe enough so you can open another portal, one to a land beyond the great desert. There is also some gold and supplies to help you on your voyage.”

“That… That is brilliant!” He smiled, genuinely happy. “I can’t believe… You are so ingenious!”

He picked me up by the waist and twirled me around, and I let myself giggle and bask on his excitedness.

Then, he laid me down and looked forlornly at me. “I can’t do magic anymore. My powers derived from the Dreadlord. With him gone, so are my powers. And you couldn’t corrupt yourself, so you can’t open a portal as well.”

“There is more than one way to enter the Shadow Realm, Aerin, and you know the price.”

“You don’t mean…”

I did not let him finish his sentence. The silver dagger reflected the moonlight as I raise it.

“No!” He screams and launches himself to stop me, but it was too late. I drove the cursed knife through my stomach.

As my cupric blue blood soaks my tunic, I lose strength on my legs. Luckily, Aerin grab me by my shoulders and supports me straight. My life force is being sucked dry to open a portal to the Shadow Realm.

Soon enough, it appears on the back of the cell and I smile. “I did it…”

“Raine! Gods!” He seemed frantic. To me, it seemed odd, as a sensation of peace was slowly taking ahold of me. “Why did you do this?!”

“I had to free you…” I verbalize with difficulty. “I couldn’t let you waste away in a dungeon… I needed to give you a chance of living…”

His eyes spill big tears. “Not like this. There was another way.”

“There would be no peace. A fugitive’s life is not worth living.” I smiled at him. He was so handsome. I felt glad to die looking at him. “If I die, if you move far away, no-one will ever touch you.”

“I want you to come with me. Please, Raine, there must be a way to heal you. Don’t die, please.”

“The blade is cursed. There is no coming back.” I whisper. “Hurry… The portal will only be open while I’m still alive… I used too much magic, it won’t remain open for long.”

Aerin looked momentarily conflicted, but picked up the satchel and headed to the portal.

“I’m sorry, Raine. I am so sorry.”

He jumps into the vortex and disappears. I feel it inside my soul he had managed to find his way to the Shadow Realm.

I am glad. I was able to help someone I love. Is it not the most we can expect of life?

Before I came down to the dungeons, I visited Deadwood for some important ingredients. Inside the bag, I left the dry moonflowers and the instructions to brew the purifying potion. I hope he takes it.

I feel my grip on consciousness slipping and the spells I casted tonight are fading away. It was the end for me.

In the winter, far beneath the bitter snows, lies the seed that, with the sun’s love, becomes the rose.