#fall of ichor

[evolutionsvoid]

Another strange beast found within the sea and on its shores is the Sea Oliphant or the "Sea Snouter." Obviously a relative of the oliphants we have on the land, but this member of the family decided for a more aquatic lifestyle. Instead of the usual four hooved feet, the front pair of appendages have been modified into flippers for swimming. Its whole body is narrow and somewhat flattened, giving it a more streamlined form that cuts down on water drag. These adaptations make it more suitable for living in fluid environments, but with the cost of them being more awkward on land. While the back legs do work and can walk, their body shape and weight distribution is a little odd, causing them to have a wobbly look as they trod along the shores, almost as if they are going to tip over at any moment. Thankfully, their curled tail can help as a counterweight, and their prehensile trunk as an extra limb.

Like all oliphants, the sea one snorts up their food with this sucking orifice. Their idea of dinner is diving into the ocean and slurping up all the tiny fish and critters that can be found in the fluids. They swim about while their nasal mouth practically leads them around, sniffing out food and sucking it up at the same time. What they eat is ground up in their locked jaws and crude gizzard, before the water is jettisoned out from their simple "gills." Sea Snouters may have these orifices behind their head that look like fish gills, but they don't really act like them. Their dives involve sucking in a whole lot of air and then holding their breath as the rest gets diverted to their stomach. The nose helps reach up to the surface to breath, that way they don't need to go far for air. The release of water from these crude gills also helps propel them especially if a predator attacks. When in danger, they start rapid pumping water through their system, blasting it out to speed up their flight.

Sea oliphants are not a common target for whalers, fishers or hunters, as they provide only meat, fur and tusk. It is a species that is only destined for the dinner table when little else is around. However, their nose may be useful in leading ships to bountiful waters, so fishermen will watch these swimming beasts to see where the feast is located. This extends to their tusks, which are often scrimshawed into blessed trinkets or baubles that are said to help guide sailors to a promising harvest.

--------------------------

Just a short little one here! I think this one was originally supposed to be a hippo? But ah well...

[doostyaudi]

Twisted berry boy redesign

[bovinaeblogs]

lamb doodles for the day cuz i cant stop thinkin abt them being able to rotate their head like an owl

[bleedingichorhearts]

Warhammer and bioshock crossover where a custodes found themself down there which after a bit of wandering comes across big daddy reader who is mauling another big daddy so the sisters can more easily leave the quickly flooding city and reader is probably dying from obtaining less and less adom.

"Wow, let me see what I can mix with this one. The Custodies is not named, and Big Daddy’s (from what I read) do not necessarily need ADAM to survive, could be the Little Sisters job however." - Ichor

Summary - "A Custodies finds himself in a... city underwater with creatures that seem to be of chaos..."

TW// Violence?

|°𝕄𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕃𝕚𝕤𝕥°|

The Custodes has cut his way through this... abandoned, broken underwater city for a bit now. Staining his glaive with the blood of these chaos tainted baselines that speak a bit weirdly, and have the balls to charge him with little, heated fishhooks in their hands. Earning a very quick thrust of his weapon into the stomach. Which, his show of power has scared the rest off them... Not that he would let them go away that easily. The Emperor must have sent him down here for a reason, right?

He grunts beneath his helmet as he pulls out his glaive from the mutated baseline. The pure weight of him and his armor crushing the already dead baseline below him; cracking the cement below before he looks around once more. Looking for anything else that might have the Emperors' wrath upon them.

Groans sounds out, vibrating the walls of the glass keeping this city from being overflowed with water of the deep. The Custodes recognize these sounds. Something old that's barely in the books anymore, depending on which planets you go to. Whales, it sounds like, or what he imagines what they sound like. He wasn't one in the libraries too much like his other golden brethren.

The same, low sound comes out again and the Custodes looks around for it in the seas, but nothing pops up against the flickering neon signs of the city. That is if you count just the tiny schools of fish that dwell this far down under the water levels: 2,000 meters from the surface. (The true depth of Rapture varies.)

His helmet snaps to the side of him once he hears a clash of metals and thuds however. His eyes searching for the source while he moves forward at a regular pace. Glaive at his side, ready to serve him once more. No hesitation to move off needed.

The clash and groans happen again; louder as he gets closer. His ears picking up something different: A girlish scream…? More childish? What were children doing do here? Unless they affected by chaos themselves. Truly unfortunate if they were, but if the Emperor wants to lay them down to rest, deep beneath the sea… he isn’t going to be below it.

He paused when he sees a girl, clearly scared scrambling back from a glass tunnel. Holding some sort of stuffed animal from their times, but… she was clearly mutated. Nothing was right about how she looked: her skin color was different, and her eyes glowed yellowish. Not to mention she was holding a syringe. Did she survive the mind of chaos?

His eyes follow as she runs and hides in those circular vent things he’s seen about since his time wandering. Thinking, as he had no urge to pursue that child. She didn’t exactly feel chaos tainted, but something weird was going on. Despite that, he’s more worried with the clashing. He doesn’t want to be in this strange city when it cracks and falls to the effects of the sea.

Turning his attention back-to the clashing and groans turned growls, he moves forward again. Rounding the corner and into the tunnel when that child had scrambled from and stepped into it. His eyes observing the situation at hand: Two unlikely, unidentified being fighting. Drills in their hands and smacking each other with them. It would be amusing if they were some twinks, but that was not the case.

The Custodes thinks it was Nurgles creations at first, but the more he studies his potential enemy in front of him? The more he understands they were test subjects underneath all that animosity. It was clear with how they smell, but not so much of his they look. Smelling like dimethyl sulfide, phaeocystis, a hint of copper and something else he has yet to identify in this underwater world.

He watches as the victor roars out in succession, but seems… wounded. Though, that doesn’t stop the creature from observing and spotting him in the process. Their once green portholes shifting to a yellow. Something he gauges that it was to show if they were aggressive or not considering they both fought in a red light.

“Daddy! Daddy!” The girls voice comes back, her bare feet padding against the floor with the stuffed animal in hand. Calling out to the being in some weird armor. “You’re okay!”

The being turns, flashing from yellow to green again. Trying to decide what its instincts tell them to do: should they fight the other Big Daddy in gold? Or protect the Little Sister? It doesn’t seem like the golden being isn’t a Big Daddy like their self however…

The little girl paused before both the beings, snuggling her stuffy close and swing it side to side. Suddenly having a bit of self-aware of the being in gold. Her eyes looking him up and down. “Are… are you a friendly Big Daddy?”

“…I’m not a… Big Daddy…” The Custodes informs deeply, shifting. Using his Glaive more like a staff. His answer surprising the little girl as her eyes widen.

“Daddy! This Daddy speaks!” The small child exclaims, jumping up and down to the… true Big Daddy, ecstatic. Their stuffy bouncing with them before they rush forward into the hands of the offered hand of the Big Daddy and crawling up to his back.

Hmm, at least they don’t seem affected by chaos… so far.

“Let’s get some ADAM, daddy!”

“@kit-williams, @egrets-not-regrets, @bispecsual, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @sleepyfan-blog.”

“+@c-u-c-koo-4-40k, @marcela2000, @passionofthesith, @insanity6666, @ilovewolvezz.” - Tagged

[ichorrehabilitationproject]

“Are you okay…?”

“Are you okay?”

“Oh, Sprout, c’mon, I asked first!”

“Well I asked louder! C’mon! You say first!”

“…I’m okay.”

“Good! Then I’m okay too!”

[cconfusedkat]

Goob (your version) ends up in Allure's realm. What wacky things might occur?

Well,, it IS a cult after all,, nothing fun would occur other than potential goob sacrifice or if allure is involved and manages to spare goob (if theyre feeling nice) then. Idk! Hug epidemic i guess /silly

The ahem ahem the. The alluring lamb cult isnt Exactly too friendly to outsiders to begin with 😭 oh well saying goodbye to the puppy man <3

[spotaus]

Coda and Ichor! (Catacombtale Style!)

These two don't have a *ton* of interaction in the Main story, but since Ichor and Balance are the only two characters I've fully designed, Coda gets stuck next to him, haha!

BONUS art jumpscare:

These two actually exist in another project I'm working on too called Codex, which is basically just removing the UT aspects of Catacombtale and doing a lot more worldbuilding and character design!

Coda is older in Codex and is marked by an old God (which should get him jailed or killed, as it means for everyone else) but he hides it for years and years before he finally flees the complex he's living in to go confront the gods and stop their destructive path. Meanwhile Ichor is much the same, only he's much more ready and willing to help Coda without much prompting. Here he's also sort of a Koi Fish! (His brother is a Betta Fish)

[sanctus-ingenium]

would it be at all possible to live inside one of the holy beasts? like, as a stowaway?

oh good question... i say yeah absolutely, if you're smart about it. now - there's no way you WOULDN'T be noticed. they are not spacious on the inside, in fact they are horribly cramped and claustrophobic. but here's the thing... every single person in there is wearing a mask and they're all named either mercury or mars. replacing one of them would be easy, you just need to make sure it's someone whose job isn't so specialised that you'd be found out by not being able to do it. so this relies on you being able to trick your way in.

if you just grabbed onto the leg of one and climbed up onto the back, you would not be able to stand on most of it due to the heat. up by the neck is a good shot at a safe place, but the people on the navigation platform might see you

it is not recommended to crawl into inlets or exhausts

[automatonwithautonomy]

you ever wish you could fall in love just to feel all the ways about someone

[evolutionsvoid]

The starspawn are a fascinating, yet unsettling, development for Pwdre Ser, as these are the first recordings of the star jelly creating life. Their sheer existence proves the power within this liquid, and its strange nature undoubtedly makes it Godly Fluid caliber. For the Astrologers, the presence of starfields and the birthing of starspawn is a great boon to their research, as they provide more stable study material as well as show the potential Pwdre Ser has. However, many others are not fans of their creation, seeing these creatures more as invaders than anything else. What doesn't help the public image of these entities are their abnormal powers and inexplicable nature. The tales of horror that come from ventures into the starfields, the encounters that end with baffling deaths and disturbing visions. Even the Astrologers are still working on how to properly deal and contain the starspawn, as these beings defy usual procedures and materials. Attempts to contain them often fail, efforts to tame them result in nothing. It doesn't exactly fill people with hope, when they hear that the Academy, the place that conquers dragons and wields Alkahest, struggles to understand even these creatures. Because, one must remember, these are the earliest forms of life from the star jelly. The simplest creatures born from the rot of stars. If these primordial beings are already this much of a trouble, what will happen when its presence begins to grow?

Here are some more starspawn that have been witnessed in the starfields:

Starspawn Lem (bottom left) - A creature that seems placid and immobile as a plant, as most observations have it standing in one spot with its four stiff legs. The long appendages do not bend or move, making them impossible for walking. Four tiny arms undulate around its bottom orifice, yet they don't seem to do much. However, when disturbed it shows its true abilities. The yawning opening on its underside suddenly unleashes a blast of purple flame, propelling it upwards. The Lem is actually capable of moving its position, and it is through the release of this energy that lets it lift off from the ground and fly through the air. During flight, the fiery discharge alters its strength to control its speed, while its four small arms use a form of distortion to bend and direct the energy. The glowing purple nodules on its body also seem to flash and emit some kind of influence, helping it keep steady despite its crude form of flight. Eventually, it will settle upon a new place to rest, slowly and gently setting itself back down onto the earth.

The Lem seems rather harmless, as it does not target other creatures and tends to flee whenever a threat approaches. However, it can do still damage with its flight. The blast of flame beneath its body is incredibly hot and powerful. The initial ignition releases a powerful sound wave, that can knock foes off their feet, which aids in keeping away threats as it lifts off. Then the resulting flame produces potent heat that burns and fries those caught in its radius. Whats more is that it may feel a foe is too dangerous to ignore and thus it will use its fire bending arms to redirect slivers of flame towards the threat. Thin beams of purple flame lance out, searing holes through armor and flesh. They can do this midflight too, if they feel an enemy is giving chase or is getting too close to their preferred landing spot.

The current theory on its behavior is that it hops from spot to spot to plant its eggs, which can be seen floating in its top pod. When it is settled in a prime location, one of these eggs will break off from the cluster and flow through the body into the legs. These stiff legs function like ovipositers, injecting them into the soil. Eventually, a new Lem will hatch from the dirt, its growth shown by the top point of its pod peeking out from the earth. Their birth is a fiery one, as they unleash their first blast of flame to tear free of the ground and launch themselves into the sky. Young ones are considered the most dangerous, due to their erratic flight and messy control of their flame. Some have even been known to spiral out of control and explode spectacularly when they strike the earth, turning their bodies into bombs.

Starspawn Larubia (bottom center-ish) - A humanoid starspawn with a gelatinous body and linked plates. By the public, they are considered one of the more unsettling of these entities, purely because their form has slightly wrong human proportions and its movements are poor imitations of ours. They walk on jointless legs in a slow yet over exaggerated way, arm tendrils swinging in a similar fashion. Folks say it is similar to one trying to walk underwater, fighting against the resistance of the fluid, yet the Larubia does this on dry land. It strolls about in bizarre fashion, its arm tentacles occasionally prodding the ground or points of interest. The way it interacts with corpses or other living creatures suggest it is a predator that wishes to feed, yet no mouth has been found or method of actually consuming food.

When it detects prey, the Larubia attacks with its arm tendrils. These appendages have heavy plating on them, which gives them a solid strike. However, they can do more than just that. The entity is capable of distorting and flattening the shape of its limbs, letting jelly and chitin swell or compress. It can alter its tentacles to be as thin and sharp as a blade, changing its swings to savage slashes. During fights, it can quickly alter its limbs to either cut or crush, even piercing with a deadly thrust. A fierce opponent on land, the Larubia also has the startling ability to take to the skies. It will stretch out its arms and reshape them into stiff wings, and with a jump from its legs, launch itself into the sky. Its body alters into that of some gliding creature, legs turning into rudders and head shifting into a forward facing eye. It takes this form to flee, travel long distances or pursue, gaining a much faster pace while in this shape. Its wings are sharp in this state, and it can steer its flight to try and cleave into foes. Its eye can also unleash small burst of Pwdre Ser energeiai, looking to blast targets as it swoops in. The hope is to immobilize prey so it can land on them, grab them in their arms and crush them to paste. Astrologers wonder if it feeds by absorption, the tentacles sucking in whatever fluids are squeezed out of their victims.

Starspawn Cerebro (bottom right) - A starspawn whose birth involved a mix of Phlegm and Pwdre Ser, derived from the specific starfield it was found in. A waddling, almost top heavy, creature whose stubby arms are constantly holding up a bloated fluid filled head. Within this transparent sac of Phlegm and star jelly is a brain-like structure that serves as the seat of its mind and powers. The organ pulses and twitches within the fluid like an erratic heart. The awkward movements and burdensome head of this entity makes it seem like a pushover, but that quickly changes once you get within the range of its mind.

The Cerebro is an inquisitive thing, and its mental influence is quick to reach out towards other beings. The first sign of this entity contacting your mind is the sensation of your brain growing wet and soggy, like someone just filled your skull with mucus. It is a disorienting and unpleasant feeling, which in turn weakens one's focus enough for the Cerebro to start messing with things. Victims that were under its influence spoke of how memories would seemingly come to life before their eyes, before abruptly vanishing to be replaced by another vision. Random sights and illusions of the senses, your brain going wild as the entity pokes and prods. It appears it is digging through your mind like a scavenger rummaging through the garbage. Sometimes it only makes brief contact, at other times it deems it necessary to keep going.

Cerebros seem to deduce when a victim needs to be taken out, coming to this conclusion after exploring bits of the mind. Astrologers guess that the entity sees enough that it knows the victim is a possible threat to its existence, and thus should be disarmed. The result of this decision is the ramping up of hallucinations and confusion, the target practically being transported to a false reality. Visions and nightmares of their mind are brought to life, looking to weaken them through fear. Survivors claim that these illusions feel real, yet there is always something off about them. One telling spoke of how the false people brought to life by the Cerebro moved as if they didn't have bones, their forms far too fluid and flexible.

While the victim is being terrorized, another sensation is building in their brain, the out of place feeling of sleepiness and exhaustion. A growing weariness that tempts the person to submit to slumber, even amongst the horrors. It seems the entity creates sort of a choice in the mind of its targets, to continue their torment or give into the sweet release of sleep. Yet, choosing the latter option is a trick that surrenders control of the mind to the Cerebro. Those who fall for this ploy have their consciousness placed in an unending formless dream, while their body is in a sleep walking state. The Cerebro now controls their movements and reduces them to slumbering zombies, shuffling and stumbling about. These victims serve as toys and guards of the entity, often throwing them at other foes that dare threaten them. Thankfully, this state is not permanent, as the sleeper can be awakened. However, it typically calls for the damaging or killing of the Cerebro, as it stubbornly refuses to give up its toys. Thankfully, they are rather squishy, though it may take a while trying to hit the real one amongst all the illusions.

Starspawn Dextre (center) - A lanky entity easily identified by its numerous arms and varied digits. These spidery creatures typically stride about on two long legs, wandering the starfields as their eyes and feelers constantly scan their surroundings. The arms seem to never sit still, constantly stretching, folding and reaching even if there are no targets nearby. What catches the eye on these beings is the fact that their limbs can end in a variety of different claws, spikes and orifices. The most common is a simple pincer, used for basic manipulation and grabbing. But other ends include a thorny gravity club, a long spike that fires purple beams, a bristly star jelly spitter and a dish-like antenna that sends and receives strange signals. An odd array of weapons and tools, yet this isn't the extent of their bizarre abilities.

While the six arms and their varied ends may seem like an alien arsenal, it seems they have more weapons than you can see. Stories tell of how the Dextre swap out their digits mid battle, changing their tools in the blink of an eye. Yet it makes no sense, to see a limb blur and then suddenly stop with a new claw or organ. Even worse is when a foe succeeds in lopping off one of these reaching arms, because the battle does not become easier. Instead, another blurring of the air occurs, and suddenly their limb is back in one piece. It is a terrifying and alien thing, but the Astrologers have a theory behind it.

The current hypothesis is that the Dextre actually possess more limbs than you can see at any given moment, the majority of them existing on a different layer. Each arm socket actually has three or four arms tied to it, yet only one can exist here on our level at a time. The changing weapons or "regrowth" of a whole arm is not regeneration, but rather them swapping which limb is on our plane, drawing out a new one while shoving the old back into the shadows. It is a bizarre and worrying thing, but it at least gives the comfort that their appendages are finite. A small hope, but a difficult one to take advantage of when besieged by its many vicious limbs.

Starspawn Sol (top left) - A blinding bright disc-like entity whose form is quite obvious to those who see it. It hangs and drifts in the air like the very sun in the sky, yet this entity of light is far closer and quite attentive of those who gaze upon it. The Sol seems to be drawn to those who look at it, slowly spinning closer to the target before hanging around them as if in orbit. Its single eye always stares, while its body pulses with heat and light. It is unknown why the Sol chooses to follow others, though it does provide a source of light and warmth.

However, it is a clingy and temperamental thing, easily overstaying its welcome and causing more harm than good. After awhile, the light it produces becomes blinding and its heat uncomfortable and roasting. Efforts to shoo it away do nothing, forcing one to figure out a different plan to drive it off. But if the Sol feels threatened, it responds with a blast of blistering heat and searing light. Its fins can grow hot enough to melt through armor, turning its body into a burning sawblade as it launches itself at offenders. The current suggestions for escaping this clingy creature is to create and leave behind another light source as bait. The Sol is competitive, looking to outshine other light, thus a discarded lantern can draw its attention. When this happens, one must refrain from looking at it, fleeing the scene while making sure not to make eye contact with the Sol.

Starspawn Luna (top right) - A chitinous floating creature that appears to be a counterpart to the Sol, as its appearance is equally obvious. It uses its tail to propel itself through the air, seemingly without a care in the world. While it does not have a need for attention, it too produces light. However, this is far fainter and paler than the Sol, though it has some far stranger properties. The soft light that emanates from its body appears to take different strengths, or "phases." The variations seem to change slowly over time, which can be tracked by looking at the unnaturally round shadow the Luna casts upon the ground. As it shifts, the shadow it creates changes much like the Ivory Moon up above, going from full to having none at all. One would think it an amusing gimmick for this entity, but unfortunately, starspawn are never harmless. Those exposed to its light quickly learn this.

It appears that the light cast from the Luna has an effect on the minds of those who bask in it, though what happens varies by the phase it is in. Its "new" form, that has no shadow, creates no light, yet its darkness terrifies. Those who witness the dark Luna are filled with an inescapable fear and hesitancy. Grown warriors suddenly feel like a child desperately hiding under their sheets from the horrors of the night, shivering and scared. When its shadow turns to a "crescent," the sensation one feels is nervousness and anxiety, like they know something is about to go wrong, but don't know what. At "half," its effects are thankfully rendered neutral, the one phase that essentially cancels its own abilities out. At "gibbous." the affected feel an invigoration of the spirit, a warmth growing within. A surprisingly positive aspect for this starspawn, yet it hints at its most startling power yet to come. When the shadow is "full" and its light is at its brightest, those who bask in its glow grow wild and crazed, a feral beast on the hunt. Restraint and focus are leeched away, replaced with a rage and bestial insanity. Victims pretty much attack anything that moves or things that appear to look at them the wrong way. Allies are quick to turn on one another, taking the slightest offenses or gestures as calls to war. While the Luna itself rarely attacks, its light forces onlookers into states that are easily exploited by the other starspawn. Astrologers are currently looking for ways to contain a Luna specimen and "lock it" in a specific phase, believing there could be potential in wielding its light.

Lunas and Sols appear to be eternal foes for one another, quickly going wild and fighting each other to the death. If one wishes to rid themselves of either of these starspawn, find their nemesis and let their anger distract them while you slip away.

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Did you think we were only going to have six starspawn? Ha! Foolish notions! Have some more!

[zebrafl00fy777]

this is my character vee. say hi, vee :)

[pidgefudge]

hiii :3 ask game

7, 33, 71, 65 and 94

7. what was your favorite thing as a kid?

transformers rescue bots. every single day after school i would open netflix in the living room and subject my poor father to binging both seasons (the good old days when there were only two,,,,)

33. whats your favorite current class?

ouhhh that's actually tricky. art is *okay* but it's art 1 so pretty restrictive and i don't get to experiment as much as i like. i may actually have to say cs because the labs can be kinda fun i like having a specific goal and specific steps to follow to reach that goal. also i have a 98 in that class which is my best grade in an ap class this year

71. whats your favorite song?

will wood against the kitchen floor!! granted i havent listened to it in a while because ive been more madilyn mei/everybody's worried about owen lately but it's like an overarching favorite yk

65. whats something that would make you fall in love?

ouhhhh i havent done that in over a year but i do gay yearn extensively so heres a few:

- someone who's genuinely interested in my interests and thinks it's cute when i infodump that makes me mega flushed emoji (and bonus points if they get into the thing themself so we can bond over it!! falling in love aside that would make my entire year decade life knowing that i got someone else to love thing as much as i do)

- matching my wit so we can have stupid little semantic debates and play off of each others jokes. but simultaneously being dumb as rocks because i am also dumb as rocks and we need to be able to communicate on the level of my brother and i (our texts are extremely stupid)

- secret third thing if we do an Arguably Homoerotic Activity together (my imagination particularly likes the helping me cut and/or dye my hair scenario) then well. id just be fuckin doomed. weugheffefgh now im gay

94. do you like dinosaurs?

sure ya :3 i was never Huge on them but i definitely like them. in fact i have a lil guy on my nightstand his name is harold the steggy and he's blue!!! also i love jurassic park if that's anything

[sixeyesonathiel]

all’s fair — ares!gojo x aphrodite!reader

YEARNER gojo, heavy making out. thats it. my pants dissipated writing ts

the air reeks of blood.

a secret war tent, just outside the battlefield. the sounds of clashing swords and dying men fill the air, but inside, there is only the suffocating tension between the goddess of love and the god of war who should know better than to meet like this.

satoru storms into the tent, covered in blood and victory, a grin splitting his face. his white hair, streaked with crimson, clings to his forehead, damp with sweat. his armor is dented, the bronze darkened with soot and gore, but his movements are easy, languid—like none of it matters. the god of war lives for carnage, breathes in battle like it’s the very air keeping him alive. and tonight, he’s gorged himself on it.

“missed me?” he teases, voice rough from shouting commands, from laughing as he tore through men like parchment. his gaze finds you immediately, drinking in the way your posture stiffens, the way your fingers tighten around the stem of your untouched goblet.

you shouldn’t be here. not so close to the battlefield, not so close to him.

you exhale sharply through your nose, eyes flaring with barely contained fury. “you’re a fool,” you spit, tossing the goblet aside, letting the wine stain the furs beneath your feet. the taste of it had turned bitter on your tongue the moment he entered. “my warriors fall like flies because of you.”

he hums, stepping closer, unfazed by the scent of rose oil and wrath curling in the air between you. you’re angry. it sends a thrill down his spine.

“your warriors?” he muses, tilting his head, one blood-streaked hand coming to rest against his hip. “love, they’re not yours once they pick up a sword. the moment they choose war, they belong to me.”

your eyes flash dangerously. “you arrogant—”

“besides, you don’t care about them,” satoru murmurs, voice suddenly lower, quieter. the air crackles. “you care about me.”

“you only ever look at me like this.” he adds before you can even deny with another step. he was so close now, close enough that you could see the cut on his cheek, the golden ichor beading there, shimmering in the dim light.

“like what?” you asked, voice quieter now, betraying nothing.

“like you’re furious. like you want to kill me.” his fingers brushed against hers, featherlight, teasing. “like you ache for me.”

your breath catches.

his smirk deepens, something slow and knowing curling at the edges of his lips. his fingers flex against his hip, his other hand dangling loosely at his side, but you can see the tension in his stance, the way his muscles coil beneath the straps of his armor.

you move to slap him, but he catches your wrist, swift and effortless. it’s not a tight grip—he knows you could break free if you truly wanted. instead, he pulls you closer, forcing you into his space, making sure you can feel the heat radiating from his skin, the faint tremor of barely restrained energy thrumming beneath it.

“let go.” your voice is steady, but he doesn’t miss the way your pulse flutters beneath his fingers.

“make me.” he dares, his thumb brushing lazily along the inside of your wrist, over skin that has been kissed by kings, worshipped by emperors.

for a long moment, neither of you move.

you should hate him. you do hate him. he ruins everything, turns every battlefield into his personal playground, drenches the earth in blood as if it were nothing more than spilled wine.

and yet.

your free hand lifts, nails grazing along the rough line of his jaw. he lets you.

“you’re reckless,” you whisper, gaze tracing the cut along his cheekbone, the smear of blood—his or someone else’s—you don’t know, don’t care.

his fingers slide up your arm, curling against your bare shoulder, tracing the delicate gold chains draped there, the silken folds of your dress shifting beneath his touch.

“and you’re a coward,” he murmurs back, breath warm against your lips. “you play your little games, make men burn for you, but the moment someone plays back?” his grip tightens, dragging you against his chest, metal clashing against silk. “you run.”

you exhale sharply, something wild and sharp flashing in your gaze.

he expects you to push him away, to twist from his grasp with one of your usual coy little smiles and words that cut sharper than any blade. but you don’t.

instead, you shift closer, lifting your chin, lips nearly brushing his. “you think i run?” your voice is soft, syrupy, dripping with something deadly. “when i’ve had you chasing me for centuries?”

his eyes darken, that ever-present smirk twitching at the edges.

“don’t flatter yourself, love.”

“oh?” your fingers tangle into the hair at the nape of his neck, nails scraping just enough to make him tense, to make him feel. weak. “so if i were to walk away now,” you muse, voice a purr, “you wouldn’t stop me?”

his grip around your wrist flexes.

you laugh. sharp. knowing.

“that’s what i thought.”

his patience snaps.

he surges forward, crashing his lips against yours, swallowing your triumphant smile with a kiss that tastes of war and lust and something dangerously close to devotion. the world collapses into heat, hunger, and the intoxicating scent of iron and rose oil. the stench of blood still clings to his skin, mixing with the subtle sweetness of the roses in the air, as if the battlefield had bled its violence into the very fabric of the room.

you expect violence—after all, this is the god of war, the very embodiment of destruction. but what you get instead is devastating precision, an artistry in chaos. his mouth moves with practiced arrogance, every kiss a calculated claim, a conquest, forcing you into submission with the same ruthless determination he wields on the battlefield. your lower lip is caught between his teeth, a sharp, agonizing sting that sends a thrill of heat through your body before melting into a slow, sinful drag of his tongue. you curse yourself for the way your knees tremble, betraying the effect he has on you, but you refuse to pull away.

you have kissed kings, emperors, gods. you have been worshipped in a thousand ways, a thousand times over.

but no one kissed like satoru.

no one kissed like a man who had spent his entire life craving battle but found himself craving her more.

his hands, still streaked with blood, still warm from the slaughter, slide down your waist with a predatory grace, the tips of his fingers leaving burning trails over your skin. you gasp as he grips the filmy fabric of your chiton, tearing it aside with a single, effortless pull. the sound of the silk ripping is obscene in the quiet of the tent, echoing between the tension that coils tighter in the air. but you don’t care. not when his palms sear against your bare skin, rough and possessive, tracing every curve he’s only ever dreamed of touching, claiming you like the spoils of war he’s always deserved.

“look at you,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice thick with victory, dripping with satisfaction. “all this time, i thought you’d taste like honey. but you’re just as bitter as i am.” the words are a challenge, but there’s no real bitterness behind them. it’s just the way he sees the world—always finding something to conquer, something to take.

you retaliate by sinking your nails into the nape of his neck, scoring red lines down the sweat-damp column of his throat. the sound he makes—low, filthy, a guttural groan meant for your ears alone—sends a wave of desire crashing through you. before you can process, he lifts you effortlessly, the edge of the war table digging into your thighs as he slots himself between them, his body pressing against yours with an urgency that speaks of battles fought and victories won.

the cold armor at his chest presses against your fevered skin, an icy contrast to the heat pulsing through you. his mouth is scorching, trailing from your lips to your jaw, and then lower, nipping at the frantic pulse in your throat. every movement is deliberate, a dance of dominance and passion, as if he’s marking every inch of you as his own.

“you—” your breath hitches, his teeth grazing your collarbone, sending a bolt of heat straight to your core. “you’re insufferable.”

“and yet,” he breathes, his words dark with satisfaction, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze, his pupils wide with want. the hunger in his eyes is raw, unfiltered, and it makes your heart race in your chest. “here you are. letting me ruin you.”

his hands slide higher, one tangling in your hair, tilting your head back to expose the vulnerable line of your throat. the other traces the dip of your waist, skimming the edge of your hip with a touch so light, so teasing, that it feels like torture. you arch into him, a silent plea, a challenge that lingers between you. and his grin—it’s all teeth, a hungry thing, twisted with desire and amusement.

“say it,” he dares, his thumb brushing the peak of your breast with a featherlight tease that makes your stomach coil tight, an ache that builds with every passing second. “tell me to stop.”

you should. you should push him away, demand he stop. but you won’t. you can’t.

instead, you drag him back by the hair, your lips crashing against his in a kiss that’s more war than surrender, more battle than love. he laughs into your mouth, the vibrations curling straight down your spine, a sound that promises chaos and recklessness, the very essence of him. then—

a trumpet blares outside, cutting through the tension like a knife.

the war calls.

for the first time in centuries, satoru, the almighty god of war hesitates.

his forehead presses against yours, breaths ragged, his fingers trembling where they grip your hips. the air between you is thick with everything unsaid, everything undone, as if the world has paused, holding its breath, waiting for what will come next. you can feel his heart beating against yours, fast and uneven, as if he too has been swept away by this relentless tide of desire.

then, with a smirk that promises retribution, he pulls away, his hands lingering for a moment longer than necessary, like he’s reluctant to let go.

“next time,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, as if he’s daring you to defy him. he tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that contrasts with the hunger still burning in his eyes. “i won’t stop.”

and just like that, he’s gone, leaving you breathless, flushed, furious, and aching in the ruins of a war tent that smells like him—like blood, rose oil, and something far more dangerous.

outside, the battle rages on, but inside, you’ve already lost.

a/n : part two is out fellow freakies🫶🏻

[ilium-ilia]

ichor tongue; salted wounds

simon ghost riley x fem!reader | warlord x servant | masterlist

Chapter One: fall

tw: historical au, not specified ancient greece/rome aesthetics, violence, threats of rape, murder, ancient forms of torture/execution

There are whispers in the wind. 

It arrives as a susurrus so faint that it nearly slips between your fingers like ocean water, leaving behind nothing but grains of sand for you to read. A vague redolence of smoke wafts on the early morning air where it burns your nostrils as you walk to fetch water, yet when you turn to face the sky you’re met with nothing but the same pale blue as you always are. It hangs high above you as you lower a wooden bucket into a well to fill your pitcher until it nearly overflows. It sloshes on your feet, but you can’t feel the discomfort over the sound of the gale swirling by your ears. 

You’re not sure what the whispers say, you only know how it makes you feel. It leaves you with singing blood and twitching fingers. Something roars in the distance—it bellows loud enough to shake the earth like a mighty lion, forcing your bones to rattle with it. There’s something vaguely familiar about their words. Terribly sagacious, they know more than anyone living ever could, and though you have always been a good listener, their omen is something you simply can’t translate. 

So you continue with your morning chores. Bare feet against smooth stone, you travel back to the palace with your arms occupied with your water pitcher while you focus on not tripping on your oversized chiton. Still shaking the fatigue from their bones, the other servants move lazily throughout the halls. Their eyes blink heavily, and their mouths open wide with yawns, but they still have the capacity to send grievous glares your way. Narrowed eyes and sly smirks, they ask you how your morning is. 

You cannot answer. 

But you are not petulant. There are no words left for you to speak, and even if there were, it would have no effect on your status. On the fact that you are a terrible creature—something meant to only be regarded with distaste. Your head stays high as you traverse through pale, cavernous hallways until you arrive at the chambers that house your emperor and lord. 

His name is Herschel Shepherd and he sits at the edge of his bed waiting for you with sizzling patience. Half clothed and greying, he is not as virile as he used to be when you were a child. Soft around the edges, he stares at you with pale eyes while awaiting your services. You utter no greeting as you retrieve a small bronze water basin from beneath a mirror on the far side of the room—a thick bristle brush already sits in the bowl waiting for you. Emperor Shepherd says nothing as you place both the pitcher and bowl at his feet before kneeling in front of him. 

He sighs. “Well. Go on, then.” 

You fill the bowl with water from your pitcher, and then swirl the brush through the liquid before beginning to clean your emperor’s feet. This action has long since lost its humiliating connotation for you. When you were younger, the action left you feeling soiled, just as intented. Now, it is simply a chore; taking care of this man who can hardly bother to look at you with disdain anymore. Scrubbing his heels, rinsing his toes—nothing but a simple assignment. 

You’re halfway through washing his left foot when he speaks again. “I’ll be dead by the end of the night.” 

Pausing, you look up at your emperor with questioning eyes. There’s no bemusement to be found in his features; in fact, there’s nothing at all. Just those same stoic eyes that seem to stare right through you. 

“Don’t look so surprised,” he humors blandly. “You’re mute, not deaf. I know you’ve heard the whispering and seen the wounded. I know you’ve heard that Emperor Price and his barbarians are closing in on the city, breathing down our goddamn necks for the last few months trying to suffocate us. I’ve seen you lingering where you shouldn’t be. I’d punish you for it if I was worried you’d go blabbering about it. Well, they’re here. We’re on our last breath of air.” 

A wicked callosity quickly seeps into the pores of your skin as you stiffly return to your task. You’re not sure what to make of his words. This promise of destruction—of his death. A part of you wouldn’t care if this empire burned to a crisp with nothing but the memory of bones to whisper about its existence. Something to be studied by intellects of the far future. No one in this city has ever done you any favors. Though, you would miss your schedule, you think. Chores and all, you crave consistency. The routine. 

As you move to clean his right foot, you think you might even miss this. 

Though you would not miss him—Emperor Shepherd, so oddly named. Never has he shown the kindness and humility of someone nurturing a flock of sheep. He has only proven himself to be a butcher. No, worse than a butcher. A huntsman. Someone who slaughters and poaches just for the sake of seeing that sweet vermillion ichor. He maims. He shreds. He’s built his empire upon nothing but bone. It’s laughable to think he’s surprised that the corse is finally rotting and giving away beneath his feet. 

“Tell me, girl, do you miss your tongue?” he questions. 

You freeze. 

You were only ten years old when he ripped it from your mouth. Even after over a decade you can still remember the way the marble flooring of the throne room dug into your knees as soldiers forced you to the ground. They had killed your father first. It was said he had spread perfidious propaganda and false accusations against Emperor Shepherd. His punishment?—to be tied to a horse and dragged along the streets. Both you and your mother were made to follow behind him as the bindings dug into his wrists, skin ripping from his flesh as the unforgiving streets tore into him. People threw rocks into the street for him to be dragged over, as if the stone wasn’t punishment enough. He died before you reached the palace—he gasped his last breath just at the base of the stairs—but they refused to cut him free. They kept dragging his mangled corpse until Emperor Shepherd could see your father for himself. Nothing but a limp pile of meat. 

Next was your mother. Her punishment was worse—one that you never got to see, but you could hear plenty well. Shoved inside of a brazen bull, her screams contorted until she sounded like a dying animal as they slowly roasted her to death. Superheated bronze and charred flesh—you don’t think there was a body left to bury when they were finished. For someone they so desperately wanted to silence, the citizens reveled in her blood curdling cries until death ultimately consumed her. 

Then, there was you. A trembling child who could hardly hold back her pules, Emperor Shepherd took pity on you. At least, he claimed as much. It didn’t feel like mercy when his blade cut through the wet muscle in your mouth while tongs pierced the tip of your tongue to hold you steady. It didn’t feel like mercy when you were forever seen as an outcast and forced to work as a servant to the man who stole your autonomy. It didn’t feel like mercy when you were made to wash his feet every day as if you should have been grateful for the second chance at life—as if your life was ever his to take in the first place. 

Shaking your head, you continue to wash his feet. He chuckles at your claim. It’s dry and acidulous, just like he always is. 

“You show such intrepidness for someone so pitiable,” he huffs. Suddenly, he snatches his foot out of your hand, forcing your neck to crane to view him. He does not wait for you to dry him off before placing his soles on the stone floor. “I’ll once again take pity on you, girl. Take today as a day of rest before this city is overrun. Emperor Price trains nothing but beasts. Do yourself a favor and sacrifice yourself before dusk, lest they rape you to death or sew your skin into their clothes. Not unless you’re brave enough to face those barbarians alive. Are you, girl? Courageous enough to face those brutes?” 

Your teeth bite into the side of your cheek as you once again shake your head. 

“Didn’t think so,” he hums. “Go. Let this be my last good deed.” 

When you step foot back outside—far enough away from your emperor that you feel like you can finally breathe again—you realize the wind is still whispering. It’s louder now. What was once a gentle hiss in the air has now grown into small chatter. It chirps like a swarm of birds ready for migration; but they choke on the attar of smoke that hangs like a noose over this city. 

How arrogant of Emperor Shepherd to think he commits a good deed by allowing you one day of freedom. As if he has any other choice than to cut you loose with John Price breathing down his neck. 

The only sound strong enough to drown out the wind is the crashing waves of the ocean. 

Brackish mist kisses the heels of your feet as you sit at the edge of the escarpment, legs dangling above the void. The palace has sat upon this cliff for what’s felt like eons; as if it was created when the world was. Always high upon a precipice, always looking down on the vast city that grovels at its feet. It’s given the impression that this building is important. Towering marble columns, statues of long lost gods and goddesses with forgotten names—the palace is fit for a king, and acts as a brutal reminder that it will always remain out of reach. 

Or, that’s what it used to be seen as. Now, with you sitting behind the garden and staring out at the vast sea that crashes against the palisade below, it feels like a dead end. A terminus. Nothing but a corral to cage in the flighty livestock Shepherd has curated over his countless decades as ruler. The people feel it too. You see it in wide eyes and trembling hands; it lurks in rumbling stomachs that beg for food yet can’t seem to hold it. 

The crying starts around midday when John Price and his warlords breach the edge of the city. They come with long pikes and horses strong enough to trample stone into gravel. The army is baronial and clad in a mix of leather and bronze armor that you can see from the palace—the glint of their swords is nearly enough to drown out the sun. Every man within their ranks roars and you swear you can feel the reverberation echo in the soil. They’re nothing but brutes. Animals. Barbarians. Your emperor had said as much himself, hadn’t he? 

All defences crumble into fine dust within hours. The soldiers stationed at the city environs find themselves skewered like a hog on a spit, painting the road to the palace russet with blood and soot. They cut through the city like a hot knife through butter, rarely bothering any citizen; many of whom are locked inside of their homes as if a door would save them from an army. You watch them close in—from a distance they look like nothing but a line of ants. But those ants grow larger, and their marked prey couldn’t be anymore obvious as they slice directly towards the palace. 

Shepherd does not bother with the theatrics. There are no grand speeches or lordly actions, he does not fight alongside the men who fruitlessly attempt to protect him—he simply sits upon his throne and waits. A dead man walking, he slumps as if he’s already in decay. Pallid and thin, you hardly recognize the man who stole your tongue from you all those years ago. You suspect he’s already been dead for quite some time; marked by John Price, there’s no room left for him to run. 

When dusk hits, and the ocean mist has grown too cold for you to bear, you wander back into the marble palace while your heart is plagued with incertitude. Stepping foot into this building while an army marches towards it isn’t a good idea, but your curiosity pulls at your limbs. It whispers don’t you want to see the end? The end of this empire, the end of him? 

Your mother always said your curiosity would be the death of you someday, but the promise of satisfaction is too great for you to ignore. 

Chaos soaks every inch of the palace as servants flutter through the corridors like flighty birds from a forest fire. They’re nothing but wide eyes, quiet sobs, fists clutching valuables and loved ones—they pay you no attention. They never do, unless it is to sneer. You travel through the halls uninterrupted until you reach the throne. A lordly construct, a large chair carved out of marble sits upon a peak of stairs rising well above the floor. A dying emperor is slumped forward with dull eyes, and if he hears you enter through the side door, he does not show it. 

You hide behind a pillar, obscured by numbra and poor torch light, hands against the cold stone, gaze peering around the curve of the structure just as the main doors burst open. Without guards to protect your hunted emperor, his life is cut short, quick and easy. There is no fanfare of conversation or shouting, or anything else that the old songs would have you believe. There is only a man—John Price—and his knife in Emperor Shepherd’s stomach. 

The old man falls, frail body sliding down the stairs, hands gripping the blade in his gut and yanking it free. Ichor pours from him like the fountains in the garden and the city square. It spews like rust in the light, but he makes no effort to stunt the bleeding. Instead, he looks around, dull eyes soaking in the view of his once great empire, until his attention lands on you. Hands still against the marble, head peeking around the curve of stone—it is the first moment since the knife made its bed in his stomach that he looks upset. 

“Stupid girl!” he spits, throat closing, airway blocked by terminal secretions. “I told you to run!” 

These are the last words he speaks before a new knife runs along his throat, kissing the tender flesh, marring his vocal cords beyond recognition—then, he falls forward, face flat against the floor, his last breath left sputtering in the blood. 

Despite the body at their feet, all eyes in the room turn to you. Pathetic little thing, you can only stare back. Countless men clad in armor with swords clutched in their fists look at you with bored curiosity, but none of them strike fear into your heart quite like him. 

You recognize him instantly only due to the hushed stories you’ve heard from guardsmen. Taller than any man or beast, twice as broad as a working horse, and face obscured with a human skull—they call him Ghost. Eyes darker than the night itself pierce through you from the empty shell of the faceplate of bone as scarred lips grow tight beneath the decaying teeth. It’s held against his head with leather straps, and though it obscures his cheeks, you can still see the keloids that dance along his jaw, hairline, and chin. 

They say he’s slain a battalion by himself. That he’s moved boulders three times his own size to cut down his enemies. Conversation alone would not have you believe such claims from the mouths of garrulous soldiers, but now that you behold him yourself, you think they may have been telling the truth after all. Even his hands are large—long, thick fingers that would make quick work of your skull, squeezing it tight, popping you like a melon. 

Just as your heart leaps into the tightness of your throat, fearing the worst is about to fall upon you, you realize these men are just like everyone else—they look away from you without so much as a second thought. 

It is then that the empire that you loved—the one that never loved you back—falls. Brick by vicious brick, John Price and his Ghost dismantle the order of things until all men loyal to the deceased Emperor Shepherd are either dead, or have re-sworn their allegiance to a new host. You watch them stomp around the palace, swords heavy on their hips, gazes hard and stony as they redirect servants and bark at soldiers to do their bidding. The city transforms overnight. New flags are hung upon homes. Strange men demand order. 

But for you, nothing changes. The death of your emperor does not regrow your tongue. It does not make the other servants respect you. At the end of the day, you are still in your room—one so small it hardly houses a mattress on the stone floor, with a single small window for lighting—alone with nothing but the distant sound of the waves and new shrieking to lull you to sleep. 

And in the morning, the sun still rises. 

A blood orange hue seeps through your small crack of a window, faint smoke still lingering in the air, rusting the gold rays into something macabre. The stench of death hangs heavy over the city as you rise, peeking out into the garden. Untouched, the plants still thrive and the fountain sputters a prismatic spray of water as it always has. Birds play in the basin. Seagulls squawk in the distance. 

Since nothing else has seemed to change, you begin your day like you always do. A trip through the garden, bare feet hitting against the smoothed stone, curious eyes that flicker to you only to avoid your gaze the next moment—if it weren’t for the different uniforms covering the soldier’s bodies, you could almost be convinced as if this was just another normal day. Dip a bucket into the well. Fill your pitcher until it’s overflowing. Tread the path you always have. 

It isn’t until you reach Emperor Shepherd’s chambers that you realize something has shifted. Once pure white linens made of the finest cotton now lay strewn on the floor, marred with darkened bloodstains—red fading to hazel. Bronze and leather armor sits by the foot of the bed, laying against the wooden frame next to a sheathed short sword; the wooden handle is stained with fingerprints. In place of proper bedding, there are now animal pelts. Soft deer hide, wolf pelts, and other creatures you can’t quite name. 

When you see the hulking beast curled up beneath these trophies, you freeze. 

Laying on his side, back faced toward you with no chiton or blanket to cover the pallid skin, you blink as if that will get the figure to vanish. You tread carefully, hands clutching the pitcher so tightly the stonewear nearly shatters beneath your grip as you drink in the lines of scars that pucker on roughened skin. He glows too much to be your dethroned emperor. His skin is full of life and vigor—strength radiates from him with each rise and fall of his shoulders, breaths silent and even. 

You’re nearly at the edge of the bed now. Quiet sunlight illuminates patches of dried blood on his skin. Speckles of high impact splatters dot the side of his bicep, even going as far as to curl over his shoulder before it trails toward his spine. His calf peeks out from beneath the swathes of blankets, revealing dried mud and gore along the ridge of his foot and up his shin. He is sordid. Messy. The antithesis of Emperor Shepherd. 

Still, this act is brazen even for one of John Price’s famed barbaric men. Soiling a dead man’s bed with gore and filth, making the most intimate of spaces his own. But it isn’t until you recognize the skull face plate and leather straps sitting next to the yellowed pillows beneath the beast’s head that you realize just who lays before you. 

Ghost. 

“You’re more quiet than the others they’ve sent in the night.” He speaks like thunder. Not a crack, but a rumble. Deep in the sky, dancing between clouds, chasing the birds from their nests and people into their homes. You jump at the sharp tone to the point water sloshes out of your pitcher, running down your chiton, forcing the cotton to stick to your legs. Unable to clean yourself, you watch in horror while Ghost turns to face you, legs swinging over the side of the bed as he rises, opaque eyes piercing through you like an onyx blade. “Are your people so desperate to be rid of me that they sent a whelp like you to drown me in my sleep?” 

His face is curious, and for a moment you find yourself lost as you look at him. A deep scar carves into the prominent but crooked curve of his nose, reminding you of the cliff that looks out over the coast by the garden. Somehow, without his mask, you do not find yourself capable of being truly terrified of him. He is a man, like any other. The same breed that stole your tongue and your parents—there is not much left to be taken from you. 

“Well?” Ghost stands. Blankets and animal pelts slide off of him, revealing his naked body, but you’re too entranced by his eyes to look anywhere else. He stalks forward, forcing you to take a step back as you shake your head. “No? Then what’re you here for?”

You swallow, thick and clumpy, saliva like sand turning to mud in your mouth. With no tongue to speak with, you opt to show Ghost instead. Gingerly, you retrieve the water basin and bristle brush that you always used when washing Emperor Shepherd. He watches you, eyes glinting with enough curiosity to allow him to hold back his clenching fists as you pour your pitcher into the basin. Then, you carry it. It settles by his feet with a dull thud as you kneel, sitting on your haunches, heels digging into your rump as you wet the brush.

You look up at him, uncomfortably aware of the heavy cock hanging between his legs as he stares down at you. Fables have told you of the way men ravage women in war. How spearing men isn’t enough for them, that they desire the blood that drips between trembling legs after they’ve been torn apart with a meaty cock. If Ghost wanted to, he could do the very same to you. You wouldn’t fight. You rarely do anymore these days. 

It has been made painfully clear to you what happens to people who fight. 

“You think I’m dirty? Is that it? Bet Shepherd told you all ‘bout us. Called us beasts. Barbarians. Do you think I’m not capable of cleanin’ myself up?” he asks. Once more, you shake your head. Scoffing, Ghost turns, attention now drawn by his own chiton laying across the foot of the mattress—he snatches it, and lazily begins to dress himself, uncaring about the gore that still stains him. “You’re quiet compared to the others. Your people like to bitch ‘n moan ‘bout everythin’ beneath the sun.”

Though he doesn’t know it, he’s talking to himself. Or rather, a wall. That’s all you are. A statue brought to life by a cruel artist—one who forgot to give you the muscle to speak. You can only continue to sit there and watch as he pulls the cotton over his body, stained cloth obscuring plush muscle and rigid scars. When he brings his attention back to you, you’re exactly where he left you; hands gripping the brush, water dripping from the bristles, eyes focused on him, soaking up his words. 

“I’ve just insulted your people. Do you still have nothing to say? Are you that pitiful?” he questions. When you shake your head again, he chuckles this time. It’s tense, like a rope pulled too tight, fraying in the center, ready to snap. “Maybe you just like hearin’ me talk.” 

Though his tone is jocular, you can hear the tremors of something different in the vibrations of his voice. He’s frustrated; or maybe curious. An accomplished warrior, he’s gotten everything he’s ever desired. The death of his enemies, valiant conquests where he can pillage anything he wishes—but he hasn’t gotten you. Your voice. Your words. 

His determination seeps from him as he paces around you, knees bumping against your back as he reaches down. A firm hand grasps your throat and then presses, forcing your head backwards, chin pointing toward the ceiling. You recall watching a servant’s throat being slit like this before—head held high, skin going tight so that it may kiss the blade properly. 

“Shame. Always love makin’ the pretty birds sing in the night. Gonna miss that ‘bout home. Now, I’m stuck ‘ere, leading the lot ‘o you. Somethin’ tells me it’s not so easy with you though, yeah? Gettin’ you to sing nice and pretty for me?” His hand wanders, palm rising from your throat up to your chin, thumb pressing against your closed lips. When you make no attempt at replying, he pushes further, the pad of his thumb hitting your teeth. There is no taste. Still, you make no sound, and he huffs; bored. “Do you truly wish to bathe me?” 

You blink, then nod as best as you can with your head knocked against his body. For a moment, you think you see him smile—or perhaps it's just the trick of the light. The odd angle your eyes are forced to view him through. Either way, he seems content with finally getting something worthwhile from you. Something besides a denial. 

“Then you’ll do it properly. None of this sponge bath bullshit. I thought I was supposed to be the barbarian. Don’t you people have a proper bath house?” When you nod again, he pulls his thumb away from your teeth, allowing your chin to drop until you’re looking back at your lap. Your hands are curled so tightly around the brush it mars your skin with indentations—the faint dreams of lacerations. “Good. Take me there. Then we’ll see to it that you sing properly f’me.”

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*full story is currently up for early access, updates will be posted every sunday night (may be a different day depending on time zones)

[spotaus]

I love when I start my own drafts with the phrase "Do a thing with [Character] and [Character] where [Scenario]" because I've learned I'll forget my premise halfway through typing otherwise.