#harmony and horror decay

[cherrychan-0110]

Decay doodle for @booponn 🖤🖤🖤

[dreadfultox]

These goobers destroy me, finished wip. Sunny belongs to @cherrychan-0110

[sonnyreznor]

[dreadfultox]

He would definitely murder someone

Doobles

Full here

Btw the woman in the 2nd image belongs to @cherrychan-0110

and the puppet in the sixth image belongs to @booponn

btw the one with the night hat on is named Polly

[licncourt]

Underrated horror aspect of IWTV is Pointe du Lac as a perfect Gothic haunted/evil house. It's crazy the disgusting aura that Pointe du Lac plantation has around it and the way death and evil just consume everything it touches and everyone who makes contact with it. We never see Louis' father, he's dead before the story begins and must have died young if Louis was already settled into the role of plantation master at 25. Paul is taken next, struck down violently by his own madness that seems to have come from nowhere and everywhere. Louis obviously followed him by "dying" and then walking the grounds like death itself along with Lestat. Louis' mother is after that, seemingly also dying suddenly and young since they're all still at the plantation when it happens. The Marquis is the last to go, a final victim of the house and the death inside it.

On top of that, all the death and suffering of the enslaved people on the plantation multiplies and amplifies the effect. It seems like the source of the evil really, the house only existing on the merit of the horrors that occur there. They're not just linked, the house couldn't exist without evil. The house isn't a victim of circumstance, it's a perpetrator in much the same way its master is, violent and exploitative by nature and sustained by blood. Louis and the house are mirrors of one another, two gaping maws devouring mindlessly because it's in their being, it's what they are. Maybe the house is what made Louis that way in the first place, a firstborn child in its own image.

In a way, it's literally true. A privileged upbringing enabled by chattel slavery must be a fundamentally corrupting influence, forever coloring how you view the world and interact with others. How could a person's sense of self not be colored by that? Especially someone with a personality like Louis'? It does seem to have an infectious quality that enters the children of the household when it can, certainly with Louis and Paul at least. Louis' darkness was either crafted or exacerbated by the nature of the house. Paul's lightness was corrupted by it, twisted into something evil that the house could claim, and then, allegedly, it kept him trapped as ghost in the gallery. It would have taken Louis too if Lestat hadn't rescued him from the fire, a second Pointe du Lac boy dead by their own hand.

It all makes me wonder if Lestat somehow, subconsciously found this hotbed of death and pain because he's the same kind of devouring evil too. He wasn't going to be a victim of the house because he was a kindred spirit with it, with Louis. They can exist in harmony with the plantation while everything else is consumed and spat out. Louis describes the state of the house in the interview, large and grand of course, but every so often there's a mention of peeling paint, old whitewash, or vines taking over the walls. The house is entering active decay and the indigo trade itself was starting to fail in the region, the reckoning was always near. By the time the house burned, the oratory had been completely consumed by wilderness too, like a symbol that God had left, if he was ever there.

[branwyn-the-half-witch]

Comparative Mythologies of the Long Night: Part One – Blood Betrayal

(posted alongside the twitter threads of the same title)

‘...the fact that some cataclysm took place many thousands of years ago seems certain’

A series of threads examining the myths of the first Long Night, and what it may tell us about the next.

In World of Ice and Fire (WOIAF) we learned that the Long Night was not merely a Westerosi story, but an apocalyptic event that impacted the entire Known World. That it was the same event is undeniable, because the stories share common threads; darkness, and unrelenting cold.

These threads will examine the origins of the Long Night, the stories of the heroes that fought against it, and will examine the parallels that exist with the main series (ASOIAF) in order to determine whether we can learn anything from these nebulous, uncertain legends.

We have one primary story for the origins of the Long Night, which comes to us from the Great Empire of the Dawn, the ancient predecessor of Yi Ti; this was a vast land ruled by the descendants of the God-on-Earth, only son of the Lion of Night and the Maiden-Made-of-Light.

These rulers, associated with specific gemstones, ruled a vast but increasingly troubled and sinful realm for thousands of years until the throne passed to the Amethyst Empress; however, the younger brother of this first Empress usurped the throne, with deadly consequences.

This ‘Blood Betrayal’ is explicitly cited as ushering in the Long Night. Examine how the Bloodstone Emperor’s reign is described; note that he is highlighted as practising specifically necromancy and slavery, and as having cast down the true gods. All hallmarks of the Others.

As an aside, this is the only mention we have of ‘the sinister Church of Starry Wisdom’ still found in port cities. This is a HP Lovecraft reference (‘The Haunter of the Dark’, specifically) where a cult of the same name worship ‘Nyarlathotep’, an outlier in Lovecraftian mythos because he is upon the earth, alive, and can take the form of a tall man. Unlike the detached, unfathomable horrors of Lovecraft’s other monstrosities, Nyarlathotep is deliberately cruel and openly beguiles and propagandises cults into existence to serve his goals.

Sound like anyone we know? The parallels between how Nyarlathotep functions and is described and Euron ‘when men see my sails they pray’ Greyjoy is quite striking, and the fact that the ASOIAF version of this cult is found in port cities serves to underline the parallel further.

GRRM seems enamoured with examining this kind of figure; one who operates by twisting both the physical and metaphysical into propaganda to serve privately hellish and disturbing goals, whose strength is more intellectual than physical, whose weapons are first and foremost the evil men are already willing to do. The Bloodstone Emperor, the Night’s King, Euron, pre-tree Bloodraven (and possibly even post-tree), the Undying; even Mel is a play on this theme insomuch as her reputation; only her inner thoughts reveal that there is more mortal than monster in her.

It’s important to hold to GRRM’s propensity for echoing his themes, heroes AND his villains throughout the world-building, because he’s writing a Song, and so both harmony and leitmotif are crucial.

(Your obligatory ‘Lovecraft-was-a-massive-racist-so-bear-that-in-mind’ note)

The Long Night is framed explicitly as an act of divine retribution; note the symbolism again that the ‘light’ deity turns her face away, and ‘night’ is the punishment wreaked upon the world. It is worth considering that, as above, the world was in a state of decay prior to the Blood Betrayal; this event is analogous to a great many divine cataclysms throughout our own legends, that come following an inciting horror after a long time of mortal hubris and moral decay. As with the fall of Babel, the Long Night leaves the world a broken and divided place.

The world was saved from the Long Night, and the sun returned. But it was not redeemed, and the Maiden-Made-of-Light still has her faced turned away. Evidence of this is shown in the malformed seasons; WOIAF gives us two knowledgable sources, sound, but untrusted by the Citadel. Septon Barth attributes the strange seasons to a magical matter, and one Maester Nicol contends that the seasons were once of regular length and reliable constancy, of which the only evidence were the most ancient of tales – those likely to pre-date the Long Night.

So what can this origin story tell us? Well, it has all of the hallmarks of GRRM’s main series and interlinks two of his cardinal sins; kinslaying and usurpation – most particularly of a rightful female ruler. Targaryen history is sown with usurpations of the House’s women, from the very beginning, reaching a climax with the Dance, and descending into a long nadir where the dragons die out and Targaryen women lose the last ember of escape available to them. I shall speak later of the notion of blood debts being imposed on the innocent to pay for the survival of all humankind, so make a note of that theme occurring in such a primal level here, in the construction of the mythos, and so all-encompassing that the whole world suffers for the actions of one man – and remember that in relation to Targaryen women specifically.

Within ASOIAF itself, the Red Wedding is such a horrific spiritual crime, it reverberates through time and space to touch far-flung dreamers. It has much the same feeling as this mythic betrayal, which I would be unsurprised to learn also involved the breaking of guest-right.

It is perhaps evocative of the described moral decay that led the GEOTD to be thrown down in the first place, that made it seemingly deserving of the scourge that would come to ruin the world. The Others are already on the march by that point in the story, of course, but much of the War of the Five Kings phase of the books does little to dissuade the reader from the belief that the world is due a massive paradigm shift, as lightning striking the tower. When the world is so unfairly and brutally structured, apocalypse becomes a necessity.

This concludes Part One. Part Two concerns the most famous name from our roster of heroes, and their famous sword.

[cleolinda]

Silent Hill 2 commentary: Blue Creek Apartments (4)

PREVIOUSLY ON: Mirrors, knives, “Promise (Reprise),” and camera angles; Angela has been through A Lot.

Spoiler policy: Just about anything but That One Big Thing near the end of the game, particularly information about characters, their motives, and their dynamics. The game’s eight endings may also be discussed. Content notes are below the cut.

Content notes: For this video as a whole, the combat involves the usual bloodshed, acid vomit now with bonus acid explosions, monster body horror, plank and nails melee, handgun shooting. There’s an extra bathtub full of blood for no particular reason. The toilets are notably vile.

This post has Pyramid Head and a brief discussion of sexual assault in video games.

1:43:20: The Key of Resilience takes us to the area just in front of Pyramid Head's fight club. "I don't wanna go there." Massive rumbling and stomping and scraping throughout the building: Pyramid Head is on the loose. "That's why I don't wanna go there." 

All game images are ©2024 Konami Digital Entertainment, and captured from my gameplay in January-March 2025.

1:44:05: The lighting outside the "S" door is absolutely beautiful: "I love it; it's awful." Remember near the beginning of this video when I pointed out the stacks of punishment cages? They're strewn around this area as well, and you can see a few hanging from the ceiling. Take another look at Misty day, remains of the Judgment for the concept. (Does Pyramid Head just stockpile these?! He did kill eleven of my Jameses, I guess.) "Why is he like this? Like I KNOW, but WHY?" Yes, he has a rich history of executioneering. But WHY.

1:45:27: Love to see a mannequin sneak by (genuinely; I think that's so effective and creepy). But here we are at our second piece of sheet music: Alexander Scriabin's "Vers la flamme" ("Towards the flame"). 

Given that we're on our way to the moth room, I feel like the simplest explanation is that we are drawn towards the Pyramid Head confrontation "like a moth to a flame."

(Did not mention: Mary is also associated with moths through her final form in the game, and the "While I am decaying like a rotten thing / Like a garment that is moth-eaten" graffiti at the very beginning of the game. So the "flame" here could be love.)

However, the piece isn't about moths:

Like many of Scriabin's late works, the piece does not conform to classical harmony and is instead built on the mystic chord and modal transpositions of its tone center. A typical performance last 5 to 6 minutes. The piece is notorious for its difficulty, in particular the enormous leaps and long, unusual double-note trills in the final pages.  According to pianist Vladimir Horowitz, the piece was inspired by Scriabin's eccentric conviction that a constant accumulation of heat would ultimately cause the destruction of the world. The piece's title reflects the earth's fiery destruction, and the constant emotional buildup and crescendo throughout the piece lead, ultimately, "toward the flame".

So I asked Ian to talk (1:48:00 on his stream) about mystic chords and the circle of fifths (to which Scriabin had assigned a color wheel). You can actually hear that circle really clearly with the chorus of Lionel Ritchie’s “Hello” on the keyboard overlay. The music was probably chosen for the title, but of course, loops and circles and repetition continue to be a thing in this game (and something Ian says also reminded me that Bloober Team has designed the floor plans to loop back on themselves in case you get lost). We both think Scriabin's idea of fire consuming the world sounds more like Angela than James (as you'll see in Angela's final scene), and we did just encounter her, after all. Near the end of this, I piped up in the chat, "There's just all this stuff that has to be happy accidents, but there's so much of it"; neither of us can tell how intentional a lot of these "references" are, but there's so many of them.

1:48:40: The sneaky mannequin is waiting for us here behind some stairs, and there’s also another Strange Photo.

A picture of the door with the number 208, and the caption “Forever together”: with who? Well, what was in 208? I’m not sure which 208—our options include the terrifying room where you find a dead James (the number "213" has been altered to look like "208"); the creepy room where you’re trapped with all the writing on the walls (V3 1:31:00); and a later hotel room that will involve yet another puzzle. There is a 208 in Blue Creek that I didn’t go inside, but I’ll see if I can go back and try it. Notably, none of these options involve Mary. “James and his guilt” is my best guess. Although I did start wondering aloud who was writing these captions, especially given that we think Pyramid Head killed the dead James in Wood Side: 

You'd think it was James, a James. It couldn’t possibly be Pyramid Head himself, could it? It couldn't. Like can he even… that handwriting is awfully neat for somebody with fingers melded together. With the Mickey Mouse gloves. Like I don't know that he could do that. But right now, it kind of looks like it's saying… [changing my mind] I don't think Pyramid Head would leave a caption about a stripper pole? Like, probably not? Or his favorite flavor of lipstick? Like, probably not. 

The pole photo, and the pole itself, are coming up in the next video. 

1:52:12: The next time we’re here, the upper landing of the stairs will be a Glimpse of the Past: the original Pyramid Fight happened here, somehow, and his exit down a stairwell filled with water (James' element) is what drains the stairs so that you can go down them yourself. Currently, we can hear Pyramid Head dragging his giant scissor-sword around in the distance. "I know, I know! I'm getting there!"

Did not mention: Remember how I said back in the barbershop that Pyramid Head's Great Knife is "a scissor"? You will get an extremely good look at it very soon.

1:53:30: We return to the clock room to set the minute hand to 2 (9:10). I read out the clue note again; "Mildred" descending indicates that it's 2, halfway down to 3, where "Scott [the second hand] lies face down." 

1:54:50: On to the "M" room for moth math. Honestly this is a very quick room. I am dismayed to realize that it's quick because they're sending us straight on to Pyramid Head afterwards: "Whatever, it's moths, stick your hand in the wall and get outta here."

1:55:15: There's a number of empty birdcages (mothcages?) in the apartment, and I think birdcages (which you also see in Lakeview Hotel) represent two different things: 1) love, due to the paired birds we see throughout the game, and by extension, Mary, who felt "caged" by the frame of her hospital bed; and 2) Pyramid Head's hanging punishment cages. There's a particularly tall cage we walk past on the way in—not quite human height, but it's very reminiscent. 

1:56:00: After a break for cold medicine, Mountain Dew, and some dog-walking, it's on to the moths. Ian mentioned that there actually weren't any moths here in the original game, which simply had a hole for James to stick his entire arm into. There are three types of moths in the apartment, including the death's head moth, famously used in Thomas Harris' Silence of the Lambs, and we did see a namesake Harris Street in South Vale. There's a second type of moth with "eyes" on the wings, and a third type with crescent moons. I checked in with my moth expert, @tamaro606, because I was convinced that the crescents were an artistic invention. But no, she said: the eyes and the crescents have most likely been adapted from Hyalophora cecropia and/or Hyalophora columbia—two species of silk moths. Cecropia are the largest moths in North America, so their size relative to James is about right. The cecropias usually have more of a reddish-orange tinge, but the in-game crescents are adapted from a real marking. Antheraea polyphemus also has "eye" markings; I've actually seen one of these in person, and they're a smidge smaller than Hyalophora, but they’re pretty big as well. I'll let you take a look at some videos of those on the side blog.

Did not mention: Again, Mary is associated with moths; see above. 

2:00:45: The puzzle itself is a combination lock on a door; to arrive at its three numbers, we need to count the skulls, eyes, and crescents, and then do some Moth Math ("skulls plus eyes," that sort of thing). I believe the math is different on each level of puzzle difficulty; what I know for sure is that I am too sick to do it. I show you how to find all the moths and count all the moths and math all the moths without actually working it out moth myself, and you're just going to have to trust me on the results. 

2:01:30: Solving the combination opens the door to our local entomologist's bedroom, with is filled with a mounted butterfly collection that Ian says evokes Alessa's in SH1. Most importantly, there is A Hole For James to Stick His Entire Arm Into. ("Well you know what you do with a hole! You know exactly what to do with that!”) This one is actually dripping neon green goo, which we'll only see in one other location: Brookhaven Hospital. Nobody knows what the green goo is supposed to be. Ian says that this might have just been a visual choice on Team Silent's part in the original game, possibly to avoid censorship by turning some dripping blood green, but this may be apocryphal. It doesn't seem to have in-story relevance. 

I truly don't know why James looks so upset about having to reach in to fish out the second hand. His jacket sleeve still looks heinous from the toilet he had to plumb. This is not the biggest problem we have dealt with today. 

2:03:00: More rumbling and stomping and scraping. "Okaaayyyy," I whimper. "There's nothing else to do, guys! There's nothing! It's on! It's fight time! I don't like it!" On our way back to the clock room, we see that Pyramid Head has ripped huge gashes in the walls. 

2:04:10: The clock room looks worse than ever; the back bedroom is now open, and we can collect a health drink and another Strange Photo. 

"How the time flies." Now, I had a very nice theory that these doors are the inside view of the doors to the room where we'll fight Pyramid Head (with a TV added in as a symbol of "a truth James should be punished for"). But the more I look at those doors, the less they look like a match to me. But I still wonder. You do go here right after you finish the clock puzzle, and the timer in the boss fight does run down faster if you do some damage. I'll continue to keep an eye out. 

2:07:00: Time to go; another look at gashes in the walls. Going out to the stairs, the landing has changed: now there's a bloody lying figure on the floor. The Glimpse of the Past here is where the original Pyramid Head fight took place; if you watched the video where I fought him 12 times, you may remember this as the area where I practiced walking James back and forth (yes, that is the level we were at back then). 

What happened in the original fight? Well, as Ashley Bardhan explains,

In Konami's 2001 game, the brief scene begins with blood-soaked Pyramid Head in a stairwell humping a moaning mannequin, who sounds like a really awful video I saw of a pufferfish gagging on a carrot. Pyramid Head dumps her body like a heavy bag of groceries when he spots protagonist James, as blond and dazed as ever, so he broods over him for a while before retreating down a submerged set of stairs. […] Bloober's remake ditches the assault entirely, which I appreciate as both a woman tired of gratuitous sexual assault in horror, and also as person who saw a pufferfish choke on a carrot.

I am very sorry to report that she is correct. 

Watching the original fight there, I honestly do not know how this was supposed to have worked. I know Pyramid Head is slow, but there shouldn't have been any getting around the guy, not with the wingspan the Great Knife gives him. Although, I suppose it is very hard to see through that helmet. 

Meanwhile, the remake goes back to the drawing board and says, "What if... not slow?" IMO, the Silent Hill 2 remake does for Pyramid Head what Rogue One did for Darth Vader: add just enough, not too much, speed and agility to put them back in your nightmares. Literally: a couple months ago, I was having half-waking nightmares while sleeping upright in a recliner with a sinus infection. Finally, I realized I was pawing the arm of the chair to “fight” a Pyramid Head I thought was in the room with me. Because, you see—I was trying to move an imaginary computer mouse. 

2:08:26: Whenever I record attempts at this boss fight, I always talk strategy for about five hours because I don't want to go in. Short version: On a timer, three minutes, doing damage runs it down faster, Nails on Stick hits surprisingly hard, stealth bonus, Always Be Dodging. Someone's actually done it with only the plank in less than 1:30, so we can get out of this pretty fast if we’re brave.

2:11:25: Attempt 1: "He's Pyramid Head, not Pyramid Dick, shoot low!" is a thing that comes out of my mouth. A strong start, and then it all goes to shit. My hands betray me. Around the time James downs a drink and starts strolling idly for God knows what reason, that's when we're doomed. "WHAT IN THE NEUROPATHY IS HAPPENING?!" 

2:13:40: Attempt 2: I somehow hit Any Button before I'm ready. A terrible start, but we prevail in the end. The fight goes almost two minutes exactly, and that time includes the game freezing when I accidentally pull up the desktop.  

I bring a certain "most aggressive mom at the Little League game" energy to these fights that I really think you don't get anywhere else. Yes, I am still scared of Pyramid Head; yes, I was whimpering about this earlier; but I find it so much more upsetting to turn my back on something scary and run from it. I would much rather talk myself into taking control of the situation and run the timer down. And so I find myself in the strange position of shouting "WHERE IS HE? GET HIM! GET HIM!!" and hunting Pyramid Head down to whack him from behind. 

In fact, I think the times I manage to hit him from behind are why the timer runs down faster than I expect: that stealth bonus. You can tell that time is passing by the environment changing: rain falling (indoors, yes), pipes exploding, the room rumbling and shaking. And the sooner those things happen, the faster you're running down the timer, which is why we get rain fairly early in the second attempt. 

(I don't know how it's raining indoors, but I have to think it relates to water being associated with James. Ian and I have discussed this a lot—rain in this game doesn't necessarily represent something obvious like grief; it shows up in a positive context with Maria. I think it's basically moments of heightened emotion that James can't express, like running for his life away from Big Scissor Man.)

Here's the best fight I ever pulled off, so of course it was on the timing run and didn't count. It's less than 1:45, depending on where you mark the "end." It is on Light Combat; I'm not saying I'm an amazing gamer, just that I’ve improved a lot since the HOW DO YOU SPRINT days. 

Listen, some people have gym gains. I have video game fights. 

2:18:00: I drag our collective ass out to the street, where there's a save point; we're done with the apartments. All apartments, always except when those apartments get manifested elsewhere, we will never be free.

Next time! Ian made good enough time with his fourth stream that he kept going through Laura’s and Maria’s first cutscenes; I’ll be starting with those. I am super hype to knock around South Vale with Maria while she nags me to stop going the wrong way but also refuses to tell me what the right way is. We are going to Pete’s Bowl-a-Rama, babe, and that’s all there is to it. We’re also getting a melee weapon upgrade, and I’m going to kill everyone with it, just to celebrate them not being Pyramid Head. 

(SH2R commentary master post)

[sexy-stable-diffusion]

The tragic story of Queen Seraphina

Once upon a time, in a realm where the sun kissed the earth with a golden warmth, there existed a kingdom unlike any other. This was the land of Elaria, ruled by the wise and noble Queen Seraphina. Seraphina was renowned not only for her unparalleled beauty but for her unmatched wisdom and strength.

Her kingdom thrived under her rule, its people living in harmony and prosperity. The heart of her reign was her elite guard, the Valkyries of Elaria, fierce female warriors who were as skilled with diplomacy as they were with the blade.

Seraphina’s life was the epitome of perfection, a tapestry woven with threads of triumph and peace. Her days were filled with the laughter of her people and the counsel of her closest allies. 

Yet, the queen harbored a secret burden; a prophetic dream that spoke of a shadow that would one day engulf her bright kingdom. She dismissed it as a mere figment of her imagination, focusing instead on the present splendor of her reign.

One fateful day, as the sun hung high, Elaria’s tranquility was shattered. From the depths of the Forbidden Forest, a creature of unspeakable horror emerged with a massive demonic army. It was known as the Malgore, an organic monstrosity born from the darkest nightmares. With sinews of twisted flesh and eyes that gleamed with malevolence, it descended upon the kingdom, leaving ruin in its wake.

The Valkyries fought valiantly, their courage unwavering, but the Malgore was a force unlike any they had ever encountered. Seraphina herself donned her armor and led her warriors into battle. The clash was fierce, but the creature's power and his strong army were overwhelming. In a moment of desperation, the Malgore seized Seraphina, binding her with sinewy tendrils that pulsed with a sickly, purple light. The queen’s struggles were in vain, and with a final, triumphant roar, the beast carried her off to its lair deep within the Forbidden Forest.

Imprisoned in the dark, cavernous kingdom of the Malgore, Seraphina was held captive in a cell of living obscurity. The air was thick with the stench of decay, and the walls seemed to pulse with a sinister life of their own. Days stretched into weeks, and weeks blurred into what felt like endless months. Time lost all meaning in the stifling darkness of her prison, each moment stretching into an eternity. Strangely, she felt no hunger or thirst; a malevolent presence seemed to sustain her, its dark energy seeping into her very being. This unnatural existence was a torment in itself, and yet, the true horror had yet to unfold. 

As time dragged on in the Malgore's lair, Seraphina became acutely aware of unsettling changes occurring within her body. She felt a surge in her hormones, an intensity that was impossible to ignore. Her primary instincts and physical needs grew more pronounced, overwhelming her with raw, primal urges. Her senses heightened, her skin prickling with a newfound sensitivity that made her hyper-aware of every movement, every breath in the stifling air around her.

Her thoughts, once clear and strategic, began to blur, invaded by an undercurrent of sensual desires and a fierce will to dominate. Seraphina's transformation took on a grotesque reality. Her once radiant skin began to slowly merge with the fine fabric of her clothes. The delicate lace of her underwear fused with her flesh, morphing into an unnerving, sinewy texture that pulsed with a life of its own. Each thread and seam intertwined with her body, becoming a grotesque, organic armor that seemed to breathe and move with her every gesture. The sensation was both alien and intimate, a constant reminder of the monster she was becoming. The fusion of her clothing with her body seemed to mirror the internal transformation, as her very essence was reshaped by the dark energy that kept her alive.

The organic armor could sculpt her form into any vision she desired—sleek and seductive, fierce and intimidating, or grotesquely beautiful. It accentuated her curves, highlighted her strength, and responded to her slightest touch. With each transformation, Seraphina felt a deep, sensual thrill, her new form a constant source of both power and pleasure. This living, breathing armor became a symbol of her new identity, a queen reborn in darkness, her appearance as fluid and dynamic as the desires that now drove her.

Each passing moment, she felt herself slipping further away from the noble queen she had once been, becoming something far more elemental and powerful, driven by needs she had never known before.

One day, as she lay in the stifling darkness, a single drop of water from the damp cave ceiling found its way onto her body. It slid down her shoulder, tracing a slow, deliberate path along her skin. The sensation was electric, sending a shiver of pleasure through her that made her gasp and arch involuntarily.

Every nerve in her body seemed to come alive, her heightened senses amplifying the simple touch into a moment of exquisite intensity. Her breath quickened, and she felt a deep, pulsing desire awaken within her, overpowering her thoughts with waves of sensual longing. In that dark, oppressive cave, a single drop of water became a catalyst, making her crave the forbidden pleasures her new form promised, igniting a flame of passion that consumed her utterly.

Slowly, insidiously, Seraphina’s body began to change. It started with her skin, once smooth and radiant, now becoming rough to the touch. Her fingers elongated into claws, her teeth sharpened into fangs, and her eyes, once the color of the clear sky, became red. She was becoming an abomination, a twisted reflection of the monster that had imprisoned her.

As her transformation progressed, Seraphina found her mind clouding with dark thoughts. The Malgore's influence seeped into her very soul, corrupting her memories and warping her sense of self. She could feel her humanity slipping away, replaced by a primal, feral instinct. Yet, amidst the encroaching darkness, a spark of her former self remained. It was this spark that kept her from succumbing completely to the Malgore's will.

One night, as she lay in her living prison, Seraphina heard a voice echoing through the darkness. It was faint, almost imperceptible, but it called to her. Following the sound, she discovered a hidden chamber within the cave, its walls covered in ancient runes that glowed with a soft, blue light. At the center of the chamber was a pool of crystal-clear water. As she approached, the water shimmered, and a vision appeared before her.

It was the spirit of Elaria’s first queen, a legendary figure who had defeated the Malgore centuries ago. The spirit spoke to Seraphina, telling her that the Malgore could be defeated once more, but it would require great sacrifice. She revealed that the pool was imbued with the essence of purity and could cleanse the darkness from Seraphina’s soul. However, to defeat the Malgore, Seraphina would have to fully embrace her monstrous form, using the creature’s own power against it.

Torn between her desire to reclaim her humanity and the need to save her kingdom, Seraphina made her decision. Instead of immersing herself in the pool, she devised a daring plan. Using her monstrous strength, she shattered the crystal-clear water pool, gathering the shimmering liquid into a vessel of living flesh. She focused her will, channeling the water’s purifying essence into a single, concentrated form. The water glowed with an intense light, slowly crystallizing into a radiant pink gem that pulsed with a powerful energy.

With the pink crystal in hand, Seraphina felt a surge of strength like never before. She marched back to the heart of the Malgore’s lair, her monstrous form now exuding an aura of both light and darkness. As she approached the creature, her mind began to cloud, invaded by seductive whispers and dark desires. The power of the crystal was immense, but it came at a cost. Sensual urges and a will for destruction and domination began to grip her thoughts.

Days later, in the titanic battle that followed, Seraphina wielded the crystal’s power with ruthless efficiency. Each strike was infused with the dual forces of purification and corruption, weakening the Malgore with pure light force while feeding off its dark essence. The clash shook the very foundations of the cavern, a tempest of light and shadow.

Finally, with a cry that echoed through the ages, she plunged the pink crystal into the heart of the beast. A torrent of light and darkness erupted, engulfing the Malgore and obliterating it completely. As the dust settled, Seraphina stood victorious, the pink crystal now glowing with a darker, more sinister hue.

The victory, however, came at a profound cost. The queen’s transformation was irreversible, her body forever altered into a monstrous form. Moreover, the crystal's corrupting influence began to take hold of her mind more fiercely. Sensual desires and a thirst for power and domination seeped into her thoughts, reshaping her very essence.

Returning to Elaria, Seraphina was met with a mixture of fear and awe. Her people, initially horrified by her appearance, soon recognized their queen, but they also sensed the change within her. The once benevolent ruler now exuded an aura of dark charisma, her eyes gleaming with a mixture of intelligence and seductive malevolence.

Some among her people, brave and defiant, attempted to resist her new reign. They gathered in secret, plotting to overthrow the queen they no longer recognized. Armed with courage and desperation, they confronted Seraphina, hoping to reclaim their beloved kingdom.

But Seraphina was too strong, her power and cunning far beyond their reckoning. The organic armor that encased her body shifted and adapted, effortlessly deflecting their attacks. Her movements were swift and precise, a deadly dance that left no room for error. She anticipated their strategies, countering each move with a ruthless efficiency.

One by one, the rebels fell before her, their efforts futile against her overwhelming might. As they lay defeated, Seraphina stood tall, her presence both mesmerizing and terrifying. She looked down upon them with a mix of pity and disdain, her dark charisma casting a spell over those who remained.

"You cannot hope to stand against me," she declared, her voice a seductive whisper that echoed through the silent streets. "I am your queen, reborn in power and desire. Embrace the new order, or be crushed beneath it."

With her words, the last flicker of rebellion was extinguished. Elaria's people, now fully subdued, could do nothing but bow to their queen, their spirits broken and their hearts captivated by her dark allure. Seraphina's reign of sensual dominance and unyielding strength had begun, and there was no force in Elaria strong enough to challenge her.

Under her rule, Elaria entered a new era, one marked by an iron fist and unyielding dominance. The tale of Queen Seraphina, the Monster Queen, became a dark legend, a story of both terrifying power and unrelenting desire. She led her kingdom with unmatched strength and cunning, her monstrous form and her constant desire to mentally and physically dominate her subordinates, a constant reminder of the darkness she had embraced and now drove her.

Seraphina enslaved all who opposed her, forcing them to fulfill her endless sensual and carnal needs. Her once noble court was transformed into a den of debauchery, where her subjects lived in constant fear and servitude. The Valkyries, once her loyal and noble guard, were now her enslaved warriors, bound to her will and compelled to carry out her every command.

Her kingdom, while thriving under the enforced order, was a twisted shadow of its former self. The sunlit days of Elaria now bore witness to the queen's dark reign, where her subjects' loyalty was ensured through the manipulation of their very wills. Using her dark magical powers, Seraphina cast enchantments that bent the minds of her people to her desires, ensuring unwavering obedience and adoration. These same dark powers were used to augment the strength of her new Valkyrie warriors, transforming them into formidable enforcers of her will. Their enhanced abilities made them nearly invincible, their loyalty to Seraphina absolute and unbreakable. The land prospered, but its people were broken, their spirits crushed under the weight of Seraphina's insidious rule.

Yet, her hunger for power and control was unquenchable. With Elaria firmly under her grasp, Seraphina turned her attention to the sacred kingdoms that had yet to fall before her armies of Valkyrie slaves. She envisioned an empire where her rule was absolute, where her sensual and constant needs were met by countless more subjects.

Her once benevolent gaze now gleamed with ambition and lust as she plotted her conquests. The sacred kingdoms, known for their ancient magic and unyielding resistance, became her next targets. She would send her enslaved Valkyries, now ruthless and efficient enforcers of her will, to lay siege to these lands.

Under her dark banner, the armies marched, spreading fear and domination across the realm. Each conquered kingdom added to her power, each fallen warrior another slave to her insatiable desires. Seraphina's reign of terror grew, her influence spreading like a shadow over the world…

...The end ?

I wanted to try a new exercise, writing a short story and using artificial intelligence to help me illustrate it. It took me a while, but I'm happy with the result… What do you think? Did you like it ?

[wanthelucid]

The Heralding Darkness: A Moon Elf's Birth Under the Aberrant Eclipse

The sacred grove was silent, save for the whispers of trembling leaves under a pale, silver moon. Moon Elves, adorned in robes woven with threads of starlight, gathered in reverence for the long-prophesied birth. A destined child, born on the night of a blood moon eclipse, was to bring wisdom, power, and balance to their kind. The rituals had begun hours ago, chants rising in harmonious unity, their voices weaving an ethereal hymn to the celestial realms above.

But the heavens did not answer as they should.

As the blood moon began its ascent, bathing the grove in crimson light, the first signs of unease rippled through the assembly. The chanting faltered. The wind stilled. The vibrant red glow, once seen as an omen of destiny, began to dim unnaturally, being consumed by something unseen. The crimson light twisted, deepened, and then began to bleed away, slowly, agonizingly.

A presence loomed— - a suffocating, impossible weight pressed upon the grove. The blood moon began to fracture, its surface crawling with tendrils of impenetrable darkness. This was madness, manifest. The sky itself seemed to writhe, folding in upon itself, revealing a void that devoured starlight and sound. It was as though existence itself recoiled in terror.

The gathered Moon Elves cried out, their voices now sharp with panic. Their silvered eyes, once alight with divine serenity, now widened in primal fear. The High Matron fell to her knees, her voice trembling as she clutched the crescent moon amulet around her neck.

"This is- this is not the moon we know!" she choked out. "Something…someone watches us!" The air thickened, tasting of iron and decay, and the sacred grove contorted. Trees bent away from the void, their branches clawing at the earth as if to escape.

The light of the ceremonial crystals flickered and died, leaving only the dying light and oppressive darkness. Shadows became distended and long, their shapes contorting into forms that defied reason.

The laboring mother, lying upon the woven altar at the grove's heart, screamed—not from pain, but from something deeper, more primal. Her cries mingled with the cacophony of the panicking elves, body wracked by unseen forces none could understand.

The midwives, trained in the arts of sacred birthing rites, abandoned their composure, clawing at their temples as whispers filled their ears—alien truths that fractured their minds.

And then, as if in answer to the chaos - silence.

The grove fell deathly still, the oppressive darkness pooling into the center of the altar. The child was born in that suffocating quiet, her first action splitting the unnatural calm like a blade. The void trembled, and thrummed, the shadows dancing at the wave of her tiny hand.

The babe glowed faintly, not with the soft silver light of her kin, but with a dim, extraplanar evil that pulsed in time with the darkness above. Her eyes, wide and unblinking, were shrouded in an otherworldly shadow that was not her own—ancient, knowing, and devoid of innocence. She did not wail as newborns do; she stared, silent and solemn, at the shattered and shadowed heavens.

She knew.

As the gathered elves watched, frozen in terror witnessing the all-consuming abject horror, the incomprehensible void fully emerged from the fracture in reality it tore asunder. The blood moon, now fully eclipsed, disappeared from the sky entirely, leaving an empty, starless sky in its wake. A soundless wave rippled through the grove, shattering the ceremonial crystals and rending the moonlit altar, splintering it entirely.

Despite the wave of force, no sound was heard. It was only felt.

When light returned, it came back pale and aching, the silver moon once again exposed - diminished. The elves' exchanged panicked whispers amongst themselves, their words as frantic and broken as their minds. This was no destined birth as they had foreseen. This was a heralding of something far greater, far darker.

The High Matron, trembling, approached the infant, her voice a hoarse whisper…

"She is not ours. She belongs to…to -" she clutches at her throat before she can finish, eyes bulging. Those words, that name...could not formed by mortal lips.

Though no one dared speak its name, they all still felt it lingering deep in their minds and bodies. The child, swaddled in cloth woven from their sacred moonlight, tainted the light with her touch, corrupting it into a shadowy cloak with stars sparkling within. Her tiny hand reached outward, her fingers curling, as if to command respect from the trembling cosmos.

The dull grey moon above, drained of its silver light, shifted ever so slightly in its course - bowing not simply in respect, but in fear…in desperation.

The elves knew, in their hearts and their bones, that their lives—and the world itself—had been irrevocably changed.

Something had to be done.

[breederking]

The world outside the fortified walls of New Haven had become a desolate canvas of decay and despair. The once-thriving metropolis, a bastion of innovation and human spirit, now lay in ruins, a mere shadow of its former grandeur. The cacophony of the city had been replaced by the mournful whispers of the wind through the skeletal remains of skyscrapers, their shattered glass eyes reflecting the harsh reality of the new world. The streets, once teeming with life, were now silent, save for the occasional scurrying of the mutated fauna that had claimed the urban jungle as their own. The air had the stench of the undying, a constant reminder of the horrors that lurked beyond the safety of the camp's perimeter.

In the heart of this post-apocalyptic wasteland, the survivors of New Haven huddled together, a ragtag assembly of individuals from all walks of life, united by the common threads of fear and desperation. Amongst them was Riven, a young transgender man whose journey had been fraught with adversity long before the world had ended. The scars of his past had hardened him, but the warmth of his newfound family had allowed a flicker of hope to persist within him. His features, a harmonious blend of sharp angles and soft curves, spoke volumes of his resilience, a stark contrast to the harsh environment that surrounded him.

The nights in New Haven were a tapestry of darkness and the ever-present howling of the feral beasts that prowled beyond the campfires. It was during one such night that Riven's world was irrevocably shattered by the hands of someone he had considered a confidant. The perpetrator, a stoic figure named Krovich, had been a pillar of the community, a man whose strength and cunning had saved countless lives. But in the shadows of their shared shelter, Krovich had revealed his true nature, a monster wearing the guise of a hero.

The assault had been swift and brutal, a stark violation of the trust Riven had placed in him. He had felt the weight of Krovich's body pinning him down, the smell of his unwashed clothes mingling with the acrid scent of fear that filled the cramped space. The fabric of their makeshift bed had torn as the man's hands had roughly sought to claim what was not his to take. Riven had struggled, his cries for help muffled by the calloused hand that had been clamped over his mouth. The pain had been searing, a visceral reminder of the fragility of his newfound identity as a man, as the harsh reality of his situation tore through him like the jagged teeth of the beasts that haunted the night.

Krovich had grunted with each violent thrust, his eyes glinting with a perverse pleasure that Riven had never seen before. The sound of fabric tearing had echoed in Riven's ears as his own body was invaded, the searing agony of the act piercing through his soul. His mind had reeled, trying to understand how someone he had looked up to could do this to him. The shadows had danced on the walls of their shelter, twisting into grotesque shapes that mirrored the horror unfolding within.

Riven's fists had been clenched so tightly that his knuckles had turned white, his nails digging into the palms of his hands as he struggled to push Krovich away. Yet, the man's weight was insurmountable, a testament to the physical strength that had earned him respect and trust among the survivors of New Haven. Krovich had ignored Riven's muffled sobs, his eyes focused on the task at hand as if he were merely breaking in a new piece of salvage rather than a person whose trust he had shattered.

In the aftermath of the assault, Riven had lain there, trembling, his eyes staring vacantly at the patchwork of shadows on the ceiling. His thoughts were a tumultuous storm, a cacophony of rage, fear, and disbelief. He knew he could not tell anyone about what had happened; in this lawless world, justice was a luxury that no longer existed. If the others found out, he might become an outcast or, worse, a target for Krovich's wrath.

Days turned into weeks, and the tightness in Riven's stomach grew. He had hoped it was just the stress of the apocalypse weighing on him, but the persistent nausea and the missed menstruation cycle could not be ignored. The realization dawned upon him with the cold, hard clarity of a glacial dawn: he was pregnant. A part of him wanted to scream, to tear out his hair, to do anything to change the cruel twist of fate that had been dealt to him. But he knew that would only bring more danger.

In the stark light of day, he found himself avoiding Krovich's gaze, the man who had so violently taken what was not his to take. Krovich, seemingly oblivious to the turmoil he had sown, carried on with his duties, his broad shoulders squared and his eyes ever watchful. The same eyes that had gleamed with malice now searched the horizon for threats to the camp. The same hands that had bruised Riven now helped to rebuild the shattered world.

Riven's thoughts grew darker with each passing moment. The burgeoning life inside him was a constant reminder of the monster he was forced to live with. The irony was not lost on him; in a world where life was a precious and dwindling resource, he carried the proof of his own violation.

The camp's doctor, a grizzled old woman named Dr. Zyla, noticed the change in him. Her eyes, shrewd despite her years, searched his, looking for the truth behind his sudden bouts of sickness and withdrawal. Riven knew he couldn't hide it forever. The signs of his condition were becoming too pronounced, and he feared what would happen when the others found out.

One evening, as the last vestiges of sunlight kissed the horizon, Riven gathered the courage to visit Dr. Zyla. Her medical bay was a hodgepodge of salvaged supplies, a stark contrast to the gleaming hospitals of the past. She looked up from her work, a mix of concern and curiosity etched on her weathered face.

"You look like you've seen a ghost, Riven," she said, her voice a gravelly whisper.

Riven swallowed hard, his throat tight with unshed tears. "Dr. Zyla, I need your help."

Her gaze softened, setting aside her tools. "Tell me, what's wrong?"

Riven took a deep, shuddering breath. "I... I think I'm pregnant."

The words hung in the air like a toxic cloud, heavy with the weight of their implications. Dr. Zyla's eyes widened for a brief moment before she composed herself. She beckoned for him to sit, her gaze never leaving his.

"How far along do you think you are?" she asked gently.

Riven shrugged, his eyes cast down. "I don't know. Maybe a few weeks?"

Dr. Zyla nodded solemnly. "Alright, let's get you checked." She led him to a makeshift examination table, her grip on his hand firm and reassuring. Her eyes searched his as she gently felt his abdomen, confirming the unwelcome truth. Her expression was one of sadness, but she offered no words of pity. In the harsh world of New Haven, pity was a commodity in short supply.

"You're right, Riven. You're pregnant," she said matter-of-factly.

Riven's heart sank like a stone in the murky waters of despair. "What am I going to do?" he croaked.

Dr. Zyla squeezed his hand. "Have a baby."

The words hit Riven like a sledgehammer. He had never wanted children, especially not like this. But the doctor's words were not a question, they were a statement of fact. In a world where life was the most precious commodity, a baby was a beacon of hope, no matter the circumstances.

Riven looked into Dr. Zyla's eyes, searching for a glimmer of understanding or perhaps a way out. But her expression remained stoic, the lines on her face speaking of countless battles fought and lost. She knew the perils of this world, and she knew the value of a life, no matter the cost.

"But," Riven began, his voice quivering, "this isn't... it's not..."

Dr. Zyla's grip tightened. "I know it's not ideal, Riven, but we can't change what's been done. We must focus on keeping you and the baby healthy."

Riven nodded numbly, the gravity of his situation crashing down upon him like the crumbling edifices outside the camp walls. He was trapped, a prisoner to his own body and the monster who had claimed it. His thoughts swirled with dread and anger, the fierce desire to escape the nightmare that was his reality warring with the primal need to survive.

Days turned into a blur as Riven tried to keep his condition a secret. The tightness in his stomach grew, the nausea more persistent, and the weight of his secret grew heavier with each passing moment. He avoided Krovich as much as possible, the sight of the man's smug smirk and the sound of his boisterous laughter sending shivers down his spine.

The camp was a place of survival, but it had become a prison for Riven. He knew he couldn't confide in anyone, not even his closest friends, lest the truth about his pregnancy become a weapon against him. The whispers and the judging eyes would be unbearable. In the end, it was the fear of being ostracized or worse, being handed back to the monster who had claimed him, that kept him silent.

As the months dragged on, Riven's condition grew more apparent. The once-flat planes of his stomach began to curve with the unmistakable swell of pregnancy. His breasts grew tender, and the bones of his hips ached with the burgeoning life inside him. He tried to hide it with loose clothing and stoic silence, but the whispers grew louder, the glances more pointed.

The day Krovich confronted him, Riven knew it was inevitable. He had been working alongside the other survivors, his back bent under the weight of salvaged materials, when the man's shadow fell across his path.

"We need to talk," Krovich said gruffly, his eyes flicking to the small bulge that was becoming increasingly difficult to conceal.

Riven's heart skipped a beat, his grip tightening on the wooden plank he had been carrying. "What about?" he asked, feigning ignorance.

Krovich's eyes narrowed. "You know what about," he hissed, his voice low and menacing. "The baby."

Riven's heart raced, his eyes darting around the camp, seeking refuge in the faces of the others. But they had all turned away, pretending not to see, not to hear. The silence was deafening, a testament to the fear that Krovich inspired in them all.

"You can't tell anyone," Riven whispered urgently. "Please."

Krovich smirked, his eyes glinting with malice. "Why not, Riven? Afraid of what they'll say?"

Riven's jaw clenched, his eyes flashing with anger and fear. "They'll ostracize me," he murmured, "or worse."

Krovich chuckled darkly. "I don't think so, not when they know it's my child you carry."

Riven felt the blood drain from his face. "It's not," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's not yours."

Krovich stepped closer, his hand landing heavily on Riven's shoulder. "Don't play games with me," he sneered. "You're carrying my legacy, and I'll make sure everyone knows it."

Riven's eyes widened in horror as he felt the weight of Krovich's grip, the same hands that had brought him so much pain now claiming ownership over the child growing within him. The thought of the monster taking credit for this life, of using his suffering as a means to elevate himself in the eyes of the camp, was more than he could bear.

"It's not yours," Riven repeated, his voice stronger this time, the flames of defiance burning in his eyes.

Krovich's smirk grew wider, his grip on Riven's shoulder tightening. "Oh, but it is, little Riven. And everyone will know it. After all, what's a man without an heir?" He leaned in closer, his breath hot and foul. "And what's a whore like you without a man to claim you?"

Riven's stomach churned with rage and fear. He had to find a way to protect the life growing inside him, to ensure that this child, conceived in violence, would not be claimed by the very beast that had brought it into the world.

The camp of New Haven was a place of survival, where alliances shifted like the sands of the desert. Riven knew he had to be careful, had to find a way to navigate the treacherous waters of camp politics without alerting Krovich to his intentions. He couldn't trust anyone fully; the fear of retribution was too great.

But the whispers grew louder, and the eyes that fell on his swollen stomach grew more curious, more hungry. Krovich had started watching him, his smirk never far from his lips, as if he were already savoring the power he thought the baby would grant him. Riven felt like a pawn in a twisted game, a prize to be claimed by the most ruthless player.

The nights grew longer, the darkness more oppressive as the reality of his situation sank in. Krovich began to visit him in the quiet of the night, his touch no longer a secret. The fear that had once paralyzed Riven had morphed into a burning anger that fueled his determination to survive, to protect the life that grew within him.

Krovich's visits were a twisted ritual, a macabre dance of power and control. The man's breath was a noxious cloud in the stillness of the tent, his eyes gleaming with a sadistic pleasure as he loomed over Riven. His once-comforting bulk now a prison of flesh, a constant reminder of the violation that had brought this new life into existence.

"You know you want this," Krovich whispered, his voice a serrated knife slicing through the air. "You're just playing hard to get."

Riven's eyes flashed with anger, but fear held his tongue captive. He couldn't risk another beating, not now, not with the life he was carrying. He turned away, his shoulders taut as he felt the weight of Krovich's gaze upon him. The campfire cast flickering shadows on the canvas walls of their tent, creating a twisted tableau of their twisted reality.

Nightfall brought no reprieve from the relentless march of time, and with it, the inescapable reality of Krovich's nocturnal visits. The man's touch had become a loathsome ritual, a stark reminder of the power he wielded. Riven's body, once a bastion of strength and identity, had been transformed into a battleground, a prison to the monster's twisted desires. Each night, Krovich would sneak into their shared shelter, his breath a noxious cloud of whiskey and malice, his hands a vice that claimed and bruised.

"You're carrying my legacy, Riven," he would murmur, his voice a grotesque parody of affection. "Our child will be strong, like its father."

Riven's stomach would turn at the thought, but he remained silent, his eyes on the flickering embers of the campfire outside. He had to bite his tongue to keep from spitting venom at the man who had so thoroughly destroyed his sense of self.

One night, as the camp settled into the uneasy embrace of sleep, Riven lay in the darkness, feeling the first flutters of life within him. It was a strange sensation, a mix of hope and horror. He placed a hand on his swollen abdomen, feeling a surge of protectiveness for the innocent life growing inside him. It was a silent promise that no matter what the future held, he would fight for this child.

The whispers grew to a murmur, and soon, the entire camp knew of Riven's condition. Some offered sympathy in hushed tones, while others cast judgmental glances. Yet, amidst the whispers, there were those who saw the strength in his eyes, the unyielding resolve to endure.

One evening, as the campfire's embers whispered their secrets to the night, Riven felt the unmistakable kick of life against his palm. The sensation was a mix of terror and wonder, a stark reminder of the war being waged within him. About six months had passed since that fateful night, and the child within him had grown from a burden into a silent companion, a beacon of hope in the shadow of Krovich's tyranny.

Riven's body had changed dramatically, his stomach swollen with the unborn child, his breasts sensitive and swollen. His once-muscular physique had softened, the sharp angles of his jaw giving way to the gentle curve of impending fatherhood.

Krovich, the monster who had planted this unwanted seed, reveled in these transformations. He watched with a twisted sense of pride as the child grew within Riven's womb, a perverse symbol of his dominance. His eyes lingered on the soft mounds of Riven's chest, the tender flesh that had once been firm and untouchable now at his mercy. He would often sneak into the tent late at night, his breath reeking of stolen whiskey and malice, to lay his hands upon the swollen stomach.

"Look what you've become," Krovich would murmur, his voice a slithering snake in the dark. "All because of me."

He would trace the curve of Riven's stomach with a greasy finger, a twisted smile playing across his lips as the baby kicked in response. Riven would clench his teeth, his body rigid with revulsion, but he knew better than to show his true feelings. Krovich reveled in his power, the way his touch could elicit a response from the child within.

"See, it knows its father," Krovich would say, his voice a mix of pride and menace.

Riven's eyes would burn with a rage that had no voice, his heart hammering like a trapped bird against the bars of its cage. Yet, amidst the horror, a spark of defiance grew within him. This child was not just Krovich's; it was his, too. A part of him, a piece of him that had survived the monster's touch. He swore to himself that he would not let the child be tainted by the same darkness that had claimed its conception.

Days turned into a grim countdown as the baby grew larger. Riven's movements slowed, his once-agile frame now laden with the weight of the life inside him. The other survivors began to treat him with a strange mix of pity and awe. Some offered gentle smiles and kind words, while others whispered behind his back, their eyes full of accusation and fear.

The leaks from his chest had started weeks ago, a humiliating reminder that his body was no longer his own. The milk that stained his shirt was a stark contrast to the sweat and grime that covered the rest of him. His breasts, once a source of pride in his masculine identity, had ballooned and betrayed him, now a constant, painful reminder of the biological truth he had fought so hard to bury. The fabric of his shirt clung to the swollen mounds, a silent testament to the horror he endured each night.

Riven's belly had grown to the size of a watermelon, stretching his skin taut and leaving him waddling like a duck. The camp's makeshift clothes could not contain the burgeoning life, and his stomach often poked through the fabric, inviting curious and sometimes fearful stares. The child within kicked with the vigor of a warrior, a silent protest against the prison of flesh that confined it. Riven felt the baby's rage echo his own, a fiery determination to live despite the darkness that had spawned it.

The whispers grew more insistent, the eyes that watched him more calculating. The survivors of New Haven had become accustomed to his condition, yet the curiosity remained, a constant hum in the backdrop of their daily struggles. They saw in Riven's predicament a reflection of their own fears and desires, a reminder of the fragility of existence in this desolate world.

One night, as the camp settled into the uneasy rhythm of slumber, the first sharp pangs of labor began to grip Riven's body. He doubled over, a silent scream caught in his throat as he clutched at the fabric of his tent. The contractions grew stronger, each one a brutal reminder of the monster that had claimed him. Krovich, ever the opportunist, had sensed the change in Riven's demeanor. He stumbled into the tent, his eyes gleaming with excitement at the prospect of the power this child would bring him.

"It's time," he announced, his voice a gruff rumble.

Riven's eyes snapped open, the pain of the contraction subsiding enough to allow the horror of the moment to flood back in. Krovich, the man whose touch had brought this life into being, stood in the flickering firelight, a twisted grin on his face as he watched the agony play out across Riven's features.

"It's time," Krovich repeated, his voice a gruff rumble that seemed to resonate with the pain in Riven's abdomen. "Our child is coming."

The words were like a knife twisting in Riven's gut, a pain that transcended the physical agony of labor. He gritted his teeth, refusing to acknowledge the monster's claim on the life that grew within him. The contractions grew stronger, each one a battle cry that echoed through his soul. He knew he had to escape, to find a way to protect his child from the beast that had spawned it.

But Krovich was not to be denied his twisted sense of victory. He stepped closer, his grin a chilling specter in the dim light. "You're going to need all the help you can get, Riven," he said, his voice thick with anticipation. "Let me ease your pain."

Riven's stomach roiled with revulsion at the offer, but the pain of the contractions was becoming unbearable. In a world where survival was the only law, he knew he had to consider every option. His eyes searched the tent for a way out, a weapon, anything that could help him. But all he saw was the cold, indifferent gleam of Krovich's eyes, the same eyes that had haunted his nightmares for months.

Krovich misinterpreted his silence as consent and moved closer, his calloused hands reaching for the waistband of Riven's pants. Riven's body tensed, his instincts screaming for him to fight, to run, to do anything but allow this violation to continue. But the baby...his baby...was relying on him to be safe, to be born into a world where it had a chance at a life free of fear and pain.

"You'll thank me for this," Krovich leered, his breath hot and sour as he bent over Riven's distended stomach. Riven's eyes squeezed shut, his teeth grinding together as the first tremor of revulsion rolled through him. He could feel the fabric of his pants being pushed down, exposing his most vulnerable parts to the man who had already taken so much from him.

"Please, no," Riven managed to choke out, his voice strained by the impending birth and the horror of what was about to happen. But Krovich's hands were unyielding, his intentions clear.

Krovich chuckled, a low, dark sound that sent chills down Riven's spine. "This will make it easier," he murmured, his breath hot and foul against Riven's skin. "You'll see."

With a sense of horror and resignation, Riven felt his pants being pushed down, exposing him to the monster he had hoped to keep at bay. The fabric was rough, a stark contrast to the gentle touch he had once dreamed of receiving from someone who truly loved him. But this was not love, this was control, a twisted power play that had been forced upon him.

Krovich's breath was hot and moist against his skin, a reminder of the pain and degradation that had led to this moment. The contractions grew stronger, stealing the breath from Riven's lungs and leaving him helpless as the man's mouth descended upon his most private part. The sensation was alien, a mix of pleasure and revulsion that he had never before experienced. His body betrayed him, responding despite the fear and anger that surged through his veins.

"See, it's easier this way," Krovich murmured, his tongue a slithering intrusion that sent a jolt of unwelcome pleasure through Riven's body. "You're going to thank me, Riven."

Riven's eyes squeezed shut, his jaw clenched as he fought the wave of nausea that accompanied the man's touch. Yet, amidst the horror, the contractions seemed to lessen, the pressure within his body easing as Krovich worked his dark magic. It was a perverse trade-off, a moment of relief bought with his dignity.

"Yes," Riven moaned, not out of pleasure, but out of sheer desperation to end the pain of labor. The sound, however, seemed to inflame Krovich's ego, his chuckles turning into full-blown laughter as he took it as a sign of Riven's submission.

The contractions grew stronger, and Riven's body responded in a way he never thought possible. His hips began to rock involuntarily, pushing against Krovich's face, his body desperate for relief from the agony of impending childbirth. Krovich took this as an invitation, his tongue delving deeper, his hands roaming over Riven's trembling thighs.

"That's it, Riven," Krovich murmured, his voice a twisted parody of encouragement. "Take it, let me help you."

The contractions grew stronger, and Riven's body was no longer his own. Krovich's hands were now on his hips, holding him in place as he lined up his cock with Riven's swollen opening. Riven's eyes were squeezed shut, his breaths coming in ragged gasps as he felt the man begin to push into him. The pain was a living thing, a monster that clawed at his insides and stole his voice.

Krovich's grunts filled the tent, a sound that Riven knew all too well. His body tensed as the man began to move, his hips pistoning into Riven with a brutal rhythm that seemed to sync with the contractions. The world outside had ceased to exist; there was only the pain, the fear, and the monster above him, claiming victory.

Riven's eyes remained squeezed shut, his breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. He felt the pressure of Krovich's hands as they held the swollen flesh that contained the child. It was a twisted embrace, a dance of dominance that had been forced upon him.

Suddenly, a warm gush flooded between his legs, soaking the fabric of his pants. Krovich's laughter grew louder, a victorious howl that echoed through the tent. "It seems our little one is eager to meet its father," he said, his voice thick with satisfaction.

Riven felt the warmth spread, the pressure building within him. His body was no longer his own, a mere vessel for the creature that grew and stretched him beyond his limits. He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, his eyes squeezed shut, trying to keep the tears at bay.

"On all fours," Krovich barked, his voice a mix of excitement and dominance.

Riven's body trembled as he complied, his mind reeling with a mix of fear and determination. The foul stench of the man filled his nostrils as Krovich's hand pressed between his shoulder blades, pushing him down to the cold, hard ground. The fabric of the tent wall brushed against his cheek, a reminder of the world outside, a world that had no idea of the monstrosity occurring within.

"Dr. Zyla!" Krovich's voice boomed through the night, cutting through the hushed whispers of the camp like a knife. "Your patient is ready!"

Riven's heart raced, his eyes flickering open to the shadowy interior of the tent. He could feel the warm trickle of fluids down his thighs, a stark reminder of the inescapable reality of what was happening. The sound of hasty footsteps grew louder, and the flap of the tent was thrown aside to reveal the doctor's concerned face.

"Krovich," Dr. Zyla said sharply, her eyes flickering from Riven's pain-twisted features to the bulge of his stomach.

"Look, the whelp is ready to come out," Krovich sneered, gesturing to the pool of amniotic fluid spreading on the ground. "What are you waiting for?"

Dr. Zyla's eyes narrowed, but she kept her voice calm. "I need you to move aside, Krovich."

Krovich sneered but complied, stepping back to allow the doctor entry. Dr. Zyla approached Riven with a gentle urgency, her eyes searching his for any sign of consent. Riven nodded, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he fought the pain. He knew that he could trust her, that she would help him and his child.

The doctor set to work, her face a mask of concentration as she helped guide the baby through the final stages of labor. Despite the horror of the situation, Riven felt a strange sense of gratitude for her calm presence. Her hands were cool and sure, a stark contrast to Krovich's foul touch.

"You're doing well, Riven," she murmured, her voice a soothing balm to his frayed nerves. "It's almost time to push."

The pain was a living entity, a creature that clawed and bit at him, demanding his submission. But Riven was not one to submit easily. He gathered the last of his strength, the last vestiges of his pride, and pushed with all his might. The baby's head crowned, the ring of fire searing him as he brought new life into the world.

"Almost there," Dr. Zyla encouraged, her voice a beacon in the chaos.

Riven's body was a battleground, each contraction a new front line drawn by the relentless force of life. His legs trembled, muscles straining as he pushed with the ferocity of a cornered animal.

"Breathe, Riven," Dr. Zyla's calm voice whispered, a gentle hand on his back. "You can do this."

The contraction hit him like a wave, a relentless force that seemed to crush the very air from his lungs. His body arched, his muscles straining as the baby descended, the pressure in his abdomen unbearable. He could feel the slickness of sweat and fluids on his skin, the rough fabric of the tent beneath him. The smell of earth and burning wood from the campfire outside mingled with the coppery scent of his own fear.

Riven's eyes squeezed shut, his teeth grinding together as he bore down, pushing with everything he had. It was as if his body had taken on a will of its own, a primal instinct that surpassed the pain and the horror of Krovich's presence. The sound of his own breathing filled his ears, a harsh, animalistic grunt that seemed to come from a creature not quite human.

The head emerged, slick with fluids and covered in a film of white, and Riven felt the world shift around him. The pressure eased for a brief, glorious moment, only to be replaced by a new, intense burning as his body stretched to accommodate the baby's shoulders. The pain was a living entity, a creature that had taken up residence within him and reveled in his agony. Yet, he pushed on, driven by a force stronger than fear: the fierce love for the life that grew within him.

The baby's body slid into the world with a wet, sucking sound, and Riven felt a rush of relief so profound that it seemed to wash away the grime of the camp, the stench of fear, and the weight of Krovich's touch. The child was a miracle, a beacon of light in the darkness, a symbol of hope that he had not realized he had been clinging to so desperately.

Dr. Zyla quickly took over, cutting the cord and wrapping the newborn in a clean cloth. "It's a boy," she announced, her voice a mix of amazement and pride. "He's strong, Riven."

Riven felt the last of his strength leave him as the baby was pulled from his body. The world around him swam with pain and exhaustion, but when he heard Dr. Zyla's words, something within him stirred. A boy. His son. The thought was both terrifying and exhilarating. He had to protect him from Krovich's clutches.

"Thank you," Riven managed to croak, his voice hoarse from the effort of labor and the silent screams he had held back.

Dr. Zyla looked up at him, her eyes soft with understanding. "You're both safe now," she assured him, gently placing the squalling newborn into his trembling arms. The baby was a tiny miracle, a testament to the strength Riven had found within himself. He stared down at the tiny face, a mix of emotions warring within him: fear, anger, love, and an overwhelming need to protect.

[cherrychan-0110]

Discord wb doodles I did w/ @booponn n others, featurin a lil doodle of their oc, Decay

And a gnarpy

[dreadfultox]

Never posted this yet @cherrychan-0110 the fellas

[zenithgenderroyaleacademyelite]

**Prompts for Emotional Dissonance Between Fetish Models and Apex/Stuffed Partners**

---

### **1. Unsuccessful Bond**

**Prompt:**

"A Glass Heart Fetish kneels in a desolate academy hall, her hands outstretched toward a fractured Apex doll. Cracks spiderweb across its porcelain face, its once-glowing core now dim. Ghostly threads of psychic energy fray between them, dissolving into ash. The air is thick with static, and the walls drip with ink-like shadows symbolizing failed connection. Style: Desaturated colors, cold blues and grays, with faint golden light trapped under ice."

**Symbolism:** Shattered chains, fading halos, wilting mechanical roses.

---

### **2. Forced Pairing**

**Prompt:**

"A Fetish model is bound by glowing crimson chains to a distorted Stuffed plush, its button eyes bleeding black ooze. Her regalia tattoos burn angrily as she struggles, while the plush’s seams tear to reveal writhing thorned vines. The background pulses with oppressive crimson runes, and cracks split the ground beneath them. Style: High-contrast reds and blacks, jagged edges, and oppressive shadows."

**Symbolism:** Barbed wire, broken marionette strings, a cracked hourglass.

---

### **3. Scorn & Rejection**

**Prompt:**

"A Zenith Fetish turns away from her Apex partner, now a Hollow Doll with empty eyes. His once-regal wings are skeletal, and shards of his glass heart litter the floor. She clutches her own chest, where thorned vines pierce through her robes. Storm clouds swirl above them, rain melting into acid tears. Style: Monochrome with splashes of blood-red and sickly green."

**Symbolism:** A shattered mirror, wilted laurels, a discarded Glass Heart locket.

---

### **4. Heartache & Grief**

**Prompt:**

"A Fetish cradles the lifeless form of her Stuffed partner, now a limp plush with frayed stitching. Glowing doves (her healing power) dissolve into smoke as she weeps. The battlefield around them is littered with broken mecha parts and frozen Zenith shadows. A lone dove escapes, trailing a ribbon etched with ‘*Try Not to Break*.’ Style: Soft pastels corrupted by inkblot voids and decaying gold leaf."

**Symbolism:** Wilted flowers, a stopped pocket watch, crumbling angel statues.

---

### **5. Madness & Corruption**

**Prompt:**

"A Glass Heart’s psyche fractures as her Apex transforms into a grotesque marionette, its strings controlled by Zaddies’ obsidian puppeteer hands. Her regalia tattoos spiral into chaotic scribbles, and her eyes glow mismatched colors (one gold, one void-black). The sky warps into a kaleidoscope of screaming faces. Style: Surrealist horror with neon-pink static, glitch effects, and melting architecture."

**Symbolism:** Broken music boxes, inverted halos, a clockwork heart rusted shut.

---

### **6. Turmoil & Betrayal**

**Prompt:**

"Twin Fetish models—once allies—face off in a shattered Doll Chamber. One commands a blazing angel mecha, the other a corrupted Stuffed plush oozing black ichor. Between them, a cracked Glass Heart pulses erratically, refracting their fractured bond into prismatic shards. Style: Split composition—fiery oranges vs. oily blacks—with a central rift of unstable light."

**Symbolism:** Torn alliance flags, a scales tipping into void, a dying dove mid-flight.

---

### **7. Forced Unity (False Harmony)**

**Prompt:**

"A Fetish and Apex stand rigidly side-by-side in gilded Zenith armor, their forced smiles cracking like porcelain. Their joined hands drip golden blood, and marionette strings tug at their limbs from above. Behind them, a stained-glass window depicts their ‘perfect’ bond—now splintering into lies. Style: Baroque opulence with hidden rot (peeling gold paint, moldering lace)."

**Symbolism:** Puppetmaster shadows, hollow crowns, a music box playing off-key.

---

**Technical Notes:**

- Use **high contrast** to emphasize emotional extremes.

- Incorporate **fractured/double exposure effects** for internal conflict.

- Reference artists like *Beksinski* (horror) and *Kimiya Yoshida* (delicate decay).

Let me know if you’d like to refine a specific prompt or explore additional emotional states! �💔

[i-am-iz]

lol body horror for oz shs

Name: The Fleshbound Calamity

Description: Once they were people—individual souls with their own dreams, families, and stories. But during the harrowing days of the Ten-Year War, when the Gilikin’s chemical blight crept across the land, their fates were twisted into a monstrous whole. The toxic gases, corrosive as betrayal itself, tore apart flesh and identity, melding those caught in its invisible maw into a singular abomination.

The Fleshbound Calamity now roams as a walking nightmare—a seething mass of muscle, bone, and unfathomable hatred. Its many mouths scream in distorted harmony, and its bulbous, roving eyes seem to peer into the very core of those who dare face it. Gazing into those eyes brings not death but a far crueler fate: a wretched convulsion as your body rejects itself, forcing you to vomit up your own burning stomach acid until your knees buckle beneath you. It thrives on such suffering, its gaping jaws eager to consume any Ozian unfortunate enough to cross its path.

Those who encounter the Calamity say its form is ever-changing: an arm here, a face there, mouths yawning where they do not belong. Limbs twitch like the ghosts of their former owners, clawing futilely at the air, as though each wretched part of the beast longs to be free of its cursed amalgamation. The stench of decay follows it, and its steps leave behind a trail of congealed, diseased fluid that poisons the very earth.

Legends say it can sense fear, drawn to the pounding of a frightened heart like moths to a flame. And though it is but a single creature, its presence whispers of collective despair—an eternal reminder of the horrors wrought by the war and the sins of those who unleashed it.To the surviving Ozians, the Fleshbound Calamity is not just a monster but a curse personified. It despises all who breathe the free air it can no longer claim, fueled by unending agony and an undying hunger. No sword nor spell seems to end its torment; it simply lumbers on, ever ravenous, an amalgam of vengeance and despair. Their only weakness is anything that cause the Green Plague.

[viskarenvisla]

Religious Conflict in Werewolf the Forsaken Part 1

So one of the most compelling features of Werewolf: the Forsaken is the notion this pseudo-faith based battle that happens between the factions. The common backstory that unites them has enough contradictions and mysteries, enough things that don't make sense that there is ample room for disagreement. The fact that this disagreement spirals into brutal warfare is what makes the conflict between Forsaken and Pure so interesting to me. In this lecture post, I'll talk about my own take on the backstory that underlays this conflict. In future posts, I'll share my thoughts on the actual conflict that arises from it.

A brief overview: in a mythic time and place, the Spirit World and the Physical World were barely a breath apart. Our paleolithic ancestors were able to enter the World of Spirits through their dreams; Spirits could enter the Flesh Realms by their will. Obviously, this cross-contamination meant that the balance could be thrown out of whack, with Human shamans potentially garnering too much power by enslaving Spirits; Spirits could create little fiefdoms of Human slaves if they so willed it.

To keep the world from going one way or the other, Father Wolf appeared on the scene. Now, Onyx Path pretty clearly laid out that Father Wolf is something called a 'Pangaean', which is like...a Spirit but not, because it also has access to Mage: the Awakening Spheres. I actually do not like this blatant explanation of his nature, so in my stories: Father Wolf's nature is mysterious. Some say he's a God in the sense of Mother Luna; some say he's something entirely other (a Pangaean); some say that he's just a Werewolf that gathered godlike power to himself (I like this possibility, because it implies that Werewolves existed *before* Mother Luna invested them with her Change). Father Wolf's job was to keep the world in balance by ripping apart transgressors; those things that were in fact too powerful for him to deal with he usually Bound into places they couldn't leave (Idigam on the Moon, Cthulhu-esque horrors beneath the Sea, etc.). In the meantime, he had a plethora of offspring called the Firstborn. The nature of the Firstborn is, from what I remember, kind of poorly explained by Onyx Path which I like. Those are the demi-god figureheads of the Tribes (Covenant equivalent for Vampire); I think in First Edition it was stated that they were the offspring of Father Wolf and another Spirit of some sort. I usually take a different tack: The Firstborn are indeed Father Wolf's children, but assuming he's a Werewolf, he mated with powerful shamans, heroines, or women whose nature bestrode the border of human and inhuman. This means the Firstborn are 'human'-born, and like Father Wolf, primordial Werewolves of the ancient days. I digress. Father Wolf became old (how, if he's a God?) and let some horrible shit slip through his claws; five (known) Firstborn agreed that he needed to be removed so one of them could become Alpha, while three (known) Firstborn refused to commit patricide. Now, what's interesting about this: if Father Wolf absolutely had to be put down, why is it that his death sundered and messed up the world so much? Was it just inevitable, or is the whole tale a lie and the truth quite different? What does that say about the Forsaken Firstborn?

Who, indeed, is the villain in Werewolf: the Forsaken? The ones trying to keep the world in its post-Sundered, shitty state of decay, or the ones desperately trying to bring it back to a state of harmony that just so happens to be awful for 99% of Humanity?

It's a great backstory, and one that I think sets up the conflict in Forsaken quite nicely. Next time, I'll talk about how that's actually implemented.

[theblackbookofarkera]

Praath Holdfast

Upon the southern coast of Slukea sits the Praath Holdfast, a collection of gleaming spires and domed temples that seem to mock the grim continent that hosts them. Like a pearl in a nest of thorns, this outpost of the Praath Imperium maintains its decadent splendor even as the horrors of Slukea beat against its walls. The holdfast sprawls across three tiers carved into the coastal cliffs, each level more opulent than the last, connected by bridges of living crystal that sing mournful songs in the wind.

The colonists of the Praath Imperium brought with them their love of excess and indulgence, establishing pleasure gardens where rare flowers from across Arkera bloom in carefully maintained terrariums. Their floating pavilions drift above the city on clouds of perfumed steam, while their markets overflow with exotic goods and forbidden pleasures. Yet beneath this veneer of sophistication and luxury lurks a calculating ruthlessness that has allowed them to survive where other colonies have fallen to Slukea's manifold horrors.

Worship of Lu-Khulu Sarthath drives the expansion of the holdfast, with its priest-architects believing that every new structure erected in the god's geometrically perfect style helps to push back the continent's inherent wrongness. Their temples rise like frozen waterfalls of white stone, their interiors decorated with intricate mosaics depicting Lu-Khulu Sarthath's victories over the chaotic powers that the Praath believe infest Slukea. Whether their god truly holds any sway over this cursed land remains to be seen.

The holdfast faces constant siege from the savage tribes that dwell in Slukea's interior. These are no ordinary barbarians, but rather twisted descendants of failed colonies and lost expeditions, changed by generations of exposure to the continent's corrupting influence. Some have developed extra limbs or eyes, while others can shift their flesh like water or speak in tongues that cause listeners to bleed from their ears. The Praath defend against these abominations with walls lined with ensorcelled mirrors and patrols of warrior-mystics who have learned to turn Slukea's own corrupting energies against their foes.

Despite the dangers, the holdfast continues its slow expansion inland, establishing fortified outposts and sacred sites dedicated to Lu-Khulu Sarthath. Their scholar-priests study the strange phenomena that plague Slukea, believing that understanding and harnessing these powers will elevate the Praath Imperium to new heights of glory. They maintain extensive archives documenting their findings, though many of their early records are stained with blood or end in madness-induced scrawls.

The Praath have learned to exploit some of Slukea's bizarre properties for their own gain. Their magick-workers have found ways to harvest the energies from the strange storms that cross the continent, storing the power in crystalline matrices to fuel their arcane engines. They extract rare minerals from the toxic mushroom forests, using them to create alloys with impossible properties. Even the whispers from the Tar Fields of Baalzi are carefully recorded and studied, though more than one researcher has been driven to self-mutilation after spending too long listening to their secrets.

Yet for all their apparent success, there are signs that the holdfast's presence is not as secure as its leaders would have their people believe. Children born in the colony increasingly show subtle deformities, while the dreams of its citizens grow ever stranger and more uniform. The living crystal of their bridges has begun to sing new songs, their harmonies carrying undertones that make listeners think of decay and entropy. Some whisper that the holdfast is not changing Slukea, but rather Slukea is changing them, molding the Praath colonists into something that better suits the continent's ineffable purposes.

Still, the Praath Holdfast endures, its population growing as it draws ambitious and desperate souls from across the Imperium. Its rulers speak confidently of a future where Slukea's mysteries will be fully understood and its powers harnessed for the glory of Lu-Khulu Sarthath. Whether this represents admirable determination or fatal hubris, only time will tell.

For now, the holdfast remains a beacon of civilization on Slukea's blighted shore, its lights burning bright against the darkness that surrounds it. Yet one must wonder - do those lights truly push back the darkness, or do they simply illuminate the horrors that await the inevitable fall of this proud colony? The answer, I fear, lies in the coming years, written in whatever strange fate Slukea has planned for these ambitious invaders.