#miserable pyre

[gbhbl]

EP Review: Box - Born To Crawl (Miserable Pyre)

This is an EP that encapsulates what it is to hear something so poignant and powerful, and by keeping things instrumentally simple, it allows the emotion of the vocals to really come through.

Box invites listeners into a wintery dreamscape with their new EP, ‘Born to Crawl’. Scheduled for release on December 24th via Miserable Pyre, this collection reflects the artistic depth and genre-defying ambition of multi-instrumentalist Andrew Stromstad (also of I Am the Intimidator, Poison Idea, Atriarch). There are many words that can sum up the listening experience of this EP, and some may…

[metalhead-brainrot]

[2024.11.21] Radio Brainrot - Oops, only good albums!

death thrash || 2024 || Seattle, WA || Redefining Darkness Records

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speed metal || 2024 || Portland, OR || Miserable Pyre

o()xxxx[:::::::::::::::::> o()xxxx[:::::::::::::::::> o()xxxx[:::::::::::::::::>

death metal || 2021 || Buenos Aires, ARG

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[shavirlight]

i had a cold when i started this fic and now i again have a cold as i finish it. circle of life or something

[pyrefection]

/vent post

if anyone has nice words, my job is making me come in tomorrow when i’m 90% sure i have covid

to stare at a screen for eight hours

in a room of fluorescent lights

i’m not upset nooooooo

[scarlettfevor]

If I knew this is what my top songs were going to look like then I would've listened to lettuce more T-T

[selunesdreams]

Eating Crow, Chapter 29: The (After) Life of the Party

Pairing: Lucanis x Rook

Summary: Rook sees a different side of Illario. Lucanis helps Rook see a different side of intimacy.

Things of note/warnings: 18+ fic, MDNI! chapter specific warnings in AO3 notes.

─── ⊹⊱♤⊰⊹ ───

“Sit down.”

Illario thrust Rook towards the bed in one of the casino’s dimly lit guest rooms, her knees buckling as their backs hit the worn mattress. With a frustrated growl, she pushed herself up, only to be shoved down again. After two more tries, she remained seated, glaring at him as fury simmered in her gaze. He returned the look and folded his arms over his chest.

“Please.” She smoothed the anger coating her voice into something more desperate, her eyes pleading. “You brought me the man you believed responsible for my father’s death all those years ago. You knew how much I needed revenge, more than anyone. But you gave me the wrong man. And now the one truly responsible is within reach and you’d deny me retribution? He’s a threat to the Crows, to everyone we care for-”

“You are in no state to confront anyone, Fiammetta. You’re too emotional, you’ve had far too much to drink-”

“Since when did you become rational?” She sneered, wrapping her fingers around the carved ridges of the bedpost, and pulling herself to her feet. The tips of her fingernails dug through the wood’s finish as she carefully slid one foot forward, her heel scraping across the marbled floor with a screech. Her attempt to move with seductive grace was spoiled by the four glasses of champagne that swam in her blood, nagging at her joints and blurring the corns of her vision. Her former friend remained impassive, one eyebrow raised in skeptical amusement.

“Since you decided you have a death wish, apparently.”

“I’m as good as dead anyway, Illario. Not all of us will survive the gods.”

“You doubt yourself so much, and yet you fight anyway?”

“I trust my team. And I know I can make the sacrifices necessary-”

“So what? You’ve assembled an escort to your own suicide? Is that what this is, Fiammetta? All of this because you just can’t endure any longer?” He scoffed and let his hands fall at his sides, hitting his thighs with a dull slap. “And what of my cousin? You’ve let him believe he’ll have you in the end just so you can yank the rug out from under him?”

“You saw what happened when Cortez took him. I am a distraction. I nearly cost him-”

“And what will it cost him once he’s lost you? Grief is just as much a distraction as love. You should know, Fiammetta, you’ve thought of little else in your entire miserable life!”

“As if you don’t wallow in self pity yourself!”

“Spare me, Fi. It’s not the same. I don’t dwell on the past. But you… you live there.”

Rook opened her mouth, desperately searching for words to shout back. Verbal weapons to silence him, to shake him to his core, but she came up empty.

“He’s never loved anyone, Fiammetta,” Illario pleaded, “Not like you. Don’t do this to him.”

“As if you care-”

“Of course I care!” He charged forward and seized her shoulders, his face an inch from hers as his fingertips bruised her bare skin. “I thought I was doing him a favor. Zara twisted my mind until I truly felt only death could spare him from the fate of becoming First Talon. I was wrong, and it cost me my family. And Lucanis… it cost him everything . He will be an abomination for the rest of his life because I believed Zara’s lies. I betrayed him, my own blood.”

Illario began to tremble, and his grip loosened as his eyes fell to the floor. Shame was etched over every crease in his face, the hollow, dark rings under his eyes.

“Don’t make him suffer like that again,” he whispered, “Don’t lead my cousin on, only to throw yourself on the pyre and make him watch you burn. Spare Lucanis that fate, I beg you. Because I cannot take back the damage I have already done. He has somehow learned to trust despite my failure, but if you betray that trust… no one comes back from that.”

Rook blinked rapidly, her breath hitching as her eyes shimmered and burned. “Why tell me this?”

“I think you may be the only person left in Treviso who would believe me capable of remorse.” Illario released her and angled his head towards the window, unable to bear the weight of her gaze.

“For once in your life, Fiammetta, just do what Viago asks of you and be patient. Ivenci will fall, but politics never move quickly.” A bitter huff of air escaped Illario’s nose, and he shook his head, staring at one hand as he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “Rich, coming from me, I know.”

Rook narrowed her eyes. “Am I to believe you’re done scheming your way into power? That blood magic won’t corrupt you the way it has every other mage that has dared to touch it? If we survive, what happens to you when this is all over?”

Illario turned and yanked the door open, stepping into the hall.

“You forget, Fiammetta, I am not a mage.” He said over his shoulder. “As for your second question… I don’t know. I hear Dairsmuid is nice this time of year.”

Full Chapter on AO3

[threepandas]

Bad End: War Bride

I tried everything. EVERYTHING. But in the end... nothing changed.

We were CRUSHED.

My people fought valiantly. Proud and noble, honorable and good to the very end. I was... I AM... so proud.... so very, very proud to be their honored princess. Their King's first born (and only) child. My small kingdom. My precious, precious people.

Forgive me.

Guhwa is falling. The chrysanthemums our small nation is so known for, red with the rivers of citzen blood spilled. I... Gods, I tried to strengthen our armies. Made allies. Agreements hand over fist. Better weapons! Stronger walls! Food and infrastructure! Anything. Everything! To forestall the end.

This end. Our End. (I had prayed. For so, so long. So very hard. That I was wrong.)

(But I wasn't, was I?)

Bloody and terrible, which... gods, I always feared would come.

Reborn into a story. Where the terrible was made insipid and light. Where all could be forgiven in the name of ~Love~! The death, the horrors, the screams that filled the streets. Children dying in their mothers arms and the blood of brothers as they tried to run. Families torn asunder. Lives cut short.

It's OKAY. It was for LOVE! For the Gods little LOVE story! Roses and romance. Intricate silks and palace drama! How FUN. How ROMANTIC! Look at all these Pretty Boys~!

Sickening. Utterly sickening. It was enough to make me vomit.

My friends, my family, my servants and THEIR families. My PEOPLE. They were not SET DRESSING! Bodies to be thrown on the pyre! Fodder for the machine! The servants who snuck me candies as a child. Who stayed up late to rock me through nightmare. The friends who laughed and joined me in lessons, just so I wouldn't have to be alone.

The people who were so proud of me, I might as well be a daughter of their very own.

MY Guhwa.

I grit my teeth as it BURNED.

The story did speak of me. Or at least, a woman with my name. My face. A selfish, bitter, hateful thing. A lesser antagonist. Little power. After all? Why would a princess from such a minor kingdom have any power in his Majesty illustrious court? The Emperor was the son of heaven after all!

Did she go, I wondered, to seek an alliance? To seduce protection for our people? Was she there by choice at all? In my soul, somehow... somehow I always knew. Suspected. My answer.

Guhwa is just a notch in their belts. Another glorious conquest for their festering empire. Bloated and heaving, like an animal spoiled to rotting. They don't need our land. Don't need our resources. It was about power. Control.

My... my people... my beloved people! DIED for their Power and Control!

I scream, wrathful and grieving, as I swing my glaive. Keeping distance as I strike down the vermin that swarm the palace. Let me die here. Please, gods! Let me DIE here! With my people. My Honored Father. With Guhwa!

There! Lazily striking down servants, who are fighting for their lives. I see golden fucking hair. You. That miserable, festering, philandering, PIECE OF SHIT! Come to claim some honors, have you? Glory in FUCKING BATTLE? What GLORY is there in this?!

My rage feels like acid. A roaring of dragons and a hushing of the world. Inside me, it is deafening. Outside? The world is far away. Only anger. Fury. RAGE. Kill him. Kill him! KILL HIM!! And on the ground, still held in the loyal hand of my Father's finest, is my means. A crossbow. One bolt.

Ignoring the battle around me, calm as tranquil waters at the heart of a hurricane, I lift... and fire.

My smile is gruesome, as I watch the fucker SCREAM.

Pity, it wasn't deep enough to kill. He turned. But I certainly took an eye. Kocked him from his pretty little horse. A grieving and bitter chokes free. I drop the bow. Turn to fight on. And... meet the eyes of Death.

I glare. Baring my teeth like an animal. Too furious to care anymore, what behavior I should present. We will not die quietly. We surrender to no one! If they want our land? It will come blood soaked and in ASHES! Guhwa will give them NOTHING!

Dragon eyes consider me, coolly assessing, even in the midst of open conflict. Storm grey hair like a war banner, snapping in the air behind him, crowns a face untouched by the brutality he's unleashes on all I love. A beautiful monster stands, fights, in our midst.

The third prince. Infamous so-called War God of that Golden Empire. Ah... I wonder... Should be honored?

That humble Guhwa, required the Third Prince himself, to destroy. I guess... ha ha, I guess my actions were not so totally, in vain. Just simply... not enough. Insufficient. Like the struggles of an ant, against the boot that sought to crush it. No. NO!

We do not BOW to the likes of YOU. Dogs!

But of course, in the end... the Gods Laugh. We are not Heaven's favored. Their spoiled little pigs. They make mockery, of humble Guhwa and our pride. It's simple people. My Father, Our Lords, the Generals... all dead. The soilders gather us, the defeated, in ropes. On our knees. Kneeling on the blood soaked ground before them. Women, children, and the wounded.

I kneel before all who remain, dragged alone to the front.

Their fear is like a terrible weight at my back. But... but I can not show it. Will not show it. I am Guhwa's crown now. So, on twisted ankle and screaming knees, I sit properly. Befitting my station. My head unbowwed, my shoulders back. Let them take my head before they take my pride.

I AM Guhwa.

The blonde pretty boy fop, stomps out to hiss and lord over me. Sedately his half brother follows, generals in tow. Blonde boy has a new eye patch. I smirk. Oh dear, bite more the you can chew? May the wound fester unto death, you wretch. I spit. Get a backhand for my troubles. (There are screams. Voices howling in outrage and begging on my behalf. Children start to cry. I do not deserve them. I do not deserve them.)

He draws back a foot to kick me. I do not cower. Bare teeth stained in defiance. Dare him.

"Finish that action, brother, and I will take the leg to match that eye."

There is only one person, here, who would dare threaten the crown prince of that wretched land. More importantly? Only one who could and get away with it. I turn, half disbelieving, only to meet a predators gaze. Dragon eyes, picking me apart. The War God stolling forward, like he's come to examine an art piece, not a prisoner.

Dispite my pride... I feel fear.

His reputation precedes him. And it is not kind.

Still, I clench my hands, grit my teeth, and tilt my head up in defiance. You are NOTHING before me, so called War God! Your Empire TRASH! My Guhwa is worth ten THOUSAND of your filthy little cess pits! I sneer. The picture of royal distain.

(I shake, as his mouth curves ever so slightly in amusement. He sees through me. He sees through me!!)

Cool eyes move from me to his brother. I watch as they turn from cool to a cold and flat I have no name for. Dragons and death. All my mind can scream at me, is those eyes are dragons and death. Run. Be afraid. There... there is nothing human there. Not anymore, if there ever was.

Distantly, I hear the "main love interest" stomp his feet like a child. Rage and demand. He wants my death. My suffering. Humiliation and desecration. How DARE I fight back. Pathetic. I can not keep my disgust from my face. Nor do I try.

The third prince looks bored. Like he's waiting for a child to be "done". Get his little tantrum out of the way. Anyone with eyes can tell a decision was already reached, will not be changing, and the Crown prince's spoiled demands will not be met. The price of battle, after all, is the risk of injury. Did he think this a game?

(Yes. He clearly did. It is winning him no favors.)

"You're in a delicate state brother. It's clear the pain has overwhelmed you." The third prince interrupts, clearly done with tolerating his half brother. "I would hate for you to take a turn for the worst. You should go lay down."

The Crown Prince startles, struggles, but is ultimately manhandled away. All but dragged, shouting and cursing, by his brothers loyal towards the medical tent. Oh dear. Politics at play. Sure hope I haven't condemned the fucker, now that he's not "perfect". That would be terrible!

"Enjoy seeing him suffer, do you? Or is it the humiliation of being dragged away?" Caught staring, my gaze snaps back to the third prince. That terrifying little quirk of the lips is back. He's amused. "It's not hard. I'll show you how to do it."

What.

"You'll have to tell me what other sort of things amuse you. So I can gather them. After all, you're not going to be leaving for a while. I imagine you'd cause trouble, wouldn't you?"

The thought of me causing "trouble" is what finally does it. Turning his smirk into a full, predatory, grin. Like he can't decide if we wants to bark out laughter or bite me. Eyes hyperfocused like he's hoping I'll run. Somehow, someway, bolting so he can chase me down.

(Ice slides down my spine. I... I refuse! T-To be AFRAID!)

Keeping my voice imperious, unafraid, I demand to know why, exactly, I would need to tell him ANYTHING. His laugh is the chuffing of a beast. The exhale of air, more then sound. How cute I am. How funny! Don't I know? Haven't I realized yet?

Guhwa's been conquered. And I have a choice, here.

Either Guhwa get a new king, by force, or it gets wiped of the map! And HOW is this to happen? Oh, little princess, you know exactly how. You're a warbride! But hey, at least you'll be his honored FIRST wife. Instead of a concubine. Like the crown prince wanted.

I jerk back. Ready to hiss exactly where he can shove his... HIS-! When I remember my people behind me. A child, trying bravely not to cry too loud. An elder, whispering prayers. Turning my head... I... I can just barely see them. Dirty, battered, bloody. Willing to follow me straight into hell. They would not blame me if I refused.

Only I would.

Gritting my teeth, I close my eyes. Breathe deep. In, hold, release. Again. For... damn it. DAMN IT! For Guhwa. Be it poison or knife. My hands around his filthy throat. I will burn their wretched nation to the ground. Dance on it's ashes and return a QUEEN.

"That's it. Right there." When I open my eyes, he's crouched in front of me, staring intently at my face. "Beautiful~"

"You'd tear my throat out with your teeth if I gave you even half a chance, wouldn't you? Rip out my entrails and choke me with them. You wear hate so well, princess. Rage. I wonder... what other emotions can I drag out of you?"

He seemed almost gleeful, as he mused.

"Ah, what a perfect little bride I've found. A lovely little monster."

"I can't wait to break you and make you mine."

[serpentface]

Can we hear about some Wardi funerary practices? (and possibly Yotici as well, if you’re in the mood to talk abt them)

Okay I got some for both

Wardi:

The key function of a funeral is to ensure that the deceased has their soul fully detached from their dead body and sent away from the earth, allowing them to move into the afterlife rather than being trapped as an earthbound spirit. The soul remains attached to its body and the earth after death and needs the help of the living to guide it away. Funerary practices can be very complex and are effectively a series of failsafes to prevent the soul from being stuck behind. Technically the only Hard requirement is cremation, but if you want to ensure your loved one (or a politically important person) finds rest and rebirth in the afterlife, you go above and beyond to help them on their journey.

I'll describe the fullest extent of funerary practices here, though keep in mind that completion of All these rites does not necessarily occur for every funeral. This is also describing the standard funeral to the core doctrine of the Faith of the Seven Faced God, and you'll see variance in Wardi folk-religion funeral practices (as well as slight regional variation within the core faith).

---

Core dogma holds that the body should not be allowed to rot or be eaten, with cremation being the only option for respectful treatment of the dead. The body being destroyed by these forces without a proper funeral will cause the spirit to linger trapped to the earth, which is a miserable afterlife. A body that has been found rotten, mutilated, or partly consumed by animals will still be given a cremation, but they will require additional and more extensive rites wherein their wandering spirit is guided back to the body so it can be properly sent off.

People are bound by filial piety and social obligation to care for their dead kin and see that they get a proper funeral (at absolute LEAST ensuring that they are cremated). This is especially an obligation of children to their parents (as is supporting them in old age). It's a matter of personal and familial honor, and failing to fulfill these obligations is regarded as a severe betrayal of your kin and is grounds for the family's current patriarch to disown you and strip you of your name. Priests to the face Kusomache can assist in funerary rites (and preside over most major funerals of public figures), but most of the work comes down to the family members of the deceased.

Cremation can be a challenging practice in a region that is mostly grassland, scrub, and savannah. In practice, fully wood fueled pyres tend to be the domain of the wealthy (the main exception is within the province of Lobera, which has a great swath of intact woodlands). Dry dung fires (the most common source of fuel in the region in general) are appropriate for cremation, but only the dung of cattle and khait is considered ritually pure for this use.

((SLIGHT TANGENT: Cremation has some specific philosophical justification in the Wardi model of primordial cosmic dualism (though note- the practice of cremating dead almost certainly predates this, and this philosophy is also not significant to lay religious practice and most people are not thinking about this during funerals). The universe is composed of extremes of primordial sky (hot/dry/bright/male) and primordial sea (cold/wet/dark/female), reflected in a rhythm of dualism in life and its cycles. During birth, the body is formed in the extreme of primordial sea (manifested in a human body as the womb) and the soul must struggle out of it to reach life. In death, the body is broken apart in the extreme of primordial sky (fire is an example of such an extreme in physical form), and the soul must struggle out of it to reach rebirth in the afterlife. Non-crematory funeral methods return the body to sea-elements (the earth is considered to be mostly Sea in nature), thus not forming a complete cycle. Both primordial forces are challenging and deadly in of themselves, but life itself is sustained via cycling through both))

Upon death, the body will (ideally) be packed in salt to slow obvious signs of decay while the funeral can be prepared. It is otherwise wrapped tightly head to toe in cloth and stored in a cool, dry place. When funeral preparations are completed, the body will be cleaned and prepared, ideally by blood kin (usually the adult children of a dead parent, the parents of a dead child, or the deceased's spouse). If the person was killed by a wound, the wounds will be treated like that of a living person- the soul is still in there and capable of feeling pain, leaving wounds untreated strengthens unwanted ties to its now non-functional body. The body is washed thoroughly and anointed head to toe with a sanctified oil. The oil both assists in cremation and intends to prevent the deceased from feeling the pain of burning. A priest (if present) gives the dead one last blessing with white amenchalme, which is smeared across the entire forehead (as is the case in other blessings of transitional periods- birth, the formal naming of a survived year old infant, marriage).

The body is then clothed as finely as possible and wrapped in a blanket. Protective amulets to safeguard their journey to the afterlife, and shed snakeskins (both evocative of the Face Kusomache and a reminder to the dead of the necessity to leave their body) are wrapped in with them. This process is the last time anyone is allowed to touch the skin of the body, doing so afterwords risks the soul being tempted to remain attached, to its detriment (it can feel the touch, and may miss it).

The pyre is built at the same time as the body's processing (usually in close proximity), and a funeral space is designated. When possible, this space is bound with amenchil rope wound right to left, designating the space inside as sacred and preventing harmful outside agents from entering. Attendants are ideally blessed before entering the funeral space, or should at least self-purify with the gesture against evil.

The funeral should ideally commence in the late afternoon, and the cremation must commence during the hour of sunset. If this cannot occur, it is delayed until the next evening (minimal decomposition of the body within the first few days is acceptable, disintegrating rot is not).

The wealthy dead will have at Least one khait and hunting dog (most often their own) killed to accompany them- the khait will carry them on their journey and the dog will act as a guide. Poorer families will often use clay effigies of khait and dogs instead (or sometimes captured feral dogs). A third component in some funerals is a guardian lion (this tradition is newer and the guardian role is filled by the dog in other circumstances). Typically only kings or Odonii(-kin) are able to get an actual lion killed for them, and it will be an effigy in most other cases. This lion will take the role of the Patriarch Odomache who protects Its family (the entire people) from harm, and will defend the soul of the deceased from threats during its journey.

During funerals of slain soldiers, captured prisoners of war may additionally be killed, which is in part seen as a means of soothing the dead's spirit by taking vengeance for them, preventing the honored dead from becoming stuck earthbound out of anger for their demise. In this case, the prisoners are killed prior to the pyre being built, with their blood being used to consecrate the ground beneath it. The prisoner's bodies will be removed from the funeral space and bound in amenchil rope wound left to right to contain their spirits and prevent them from doing harm to the honored dead (they will typically be cremated (usually without honors) or given back to a defeated foe for funeral rites afterwords).

Offerings are made of items to help the dead on their journey (food, water, wine, clothing, weapons, armor) and as sacrifices to the Face Kusomache, who will ultimately enable the soul to reach its final resting place. Everyone in attendance should offer something (these are nonfatal offerings of food, flowers, and drink), and ideally the family will be able to provide an animal sacrifice to be slain (the best of which for funerals is a cow that has never been bred or yoked). The deceased's kin will bloodlet from the palms of their hands, both in offering and so that Kusomache will recognize the dead by blood and be able to find them, even if the deceased's connection to God was somehow severed. The offerings to the dead are placed on the funeral pyre, while the offerings to Kusomache are burnt separately by an attendant priest.

The women in attendance lead a song when the funeral pyre is lit, the lyrics direct the dead on how to leave their body and undertake their journey, and are sung on repeat. All members will eventually join in. By convention, the song must continue for the duration of the cremation (which may take many hours), usually accomplished by attendants taking breaks and filling the silence when another member goes quiet. (Professional mourners are also available for hire to assist in this process). It is not sung beautifully, it is shrill and often wailed and screamed, which serves to frighten off evil spirits that may harass the dead in their journey (also providing a measure of physical catharsis for grievers).

When the body is fully cremated, a much softer prayer is sung (as best as the attendants vocal cords can handle after the ordeal) as an additional appeal for the dead to be brought safely to their place of rest.

The person's spirit is now undergoing a perilous journey to the lunar lands that will last until sunrise, but from the perspective of the dead it takes a full month. This journey is perilous, it begins in complete darkness within the realm of the earth in which evil spirits live and can potentially harm the deceased. If the dead has had their connection with God badly severed in life (this can be by curses, possession, or very severe spiritual pollution), they may lose their way and remain trapped upon the earth (this is why care for the body and the purity of its living spirit is important during life as well). The living have, however, done their best to give the dead a very good chance. The chant has guided them out of their body and gone a long ways to scare off evil spirits that may harm the traveling soul. The offerings to Kusomache intend to restore any severed connections to God's greater living spirit, bringing the dead back under Its protection. The khait (or khait effigy) will give the deceased speed and ease the duress of their journey, and the dog (or dog effigy) will guide their way by scent even through darkness, and guard the dead from further harm (the lion/effigy will fill the guardian role instead if used).

The rest of the night is spent in vigil. Upon sunrise when the dead has reached their destination, the pyre will be broken down. The deceased's ashes and bones are stored in an urn and will be interred in a family tomb (the spirit should have no more connection to the body at this point, and these tombs are squarely conceptualized as a place for the living to honor and remember the dead, and as personal familial shrines to Kusomache). The mourners break off for a period of rest, and will reconvene at noon for a funeral feast. Funeral feasts are very special occasions, and warrant the slaughter of livestock (even among the poor). The spirit of this feast is to celebrate the rebirth of the dead into the lunar lands, and to honor the living left behind. Lavish funerals of kings and noblemen may involve funerary games during this feasting period (races, bull leaping, mock combat, etc) and performances by singers, dancers, and poetry reciters. The celebratory period lasts until the following sundown, at which point the funeral is over.

It's customary to cut the hair in mourning when the deceased is a parent, child, spouse, or sibling (and can be done by choice for other relations). The exact logistics vary- the South Wardi tradition is for men to enter the funeral with their hair in a topknot, and for women to enter with their hair bound in one long braid in the back. The men will slice through their hair under the knot, the women will cut their braid at the halfway point. Traditions on when this haircut occurs also vary, usually it is either just before the pyre is lit or just after it is extinguished. The cut locks of hair will be interred in the family tomb in a small urn along with the cremains.

A mourning period is observed for these close relations, lasting a full lunar month in recognition of the duration of the dead's journey. Women are generally expected to wear tight formal veils, while men will display their shorn hair unadorned. The blood family is considered ritually impure throughout this mourning period via contact with the dead, and cannot enter temples, participate in festivals, or bloodlet in prayer until its completion, and ideally should not touch other people. It's customary at the end of the month to undergo a full purification (which includes, or at the very least consists of, full body submergence in water and thorough bathing) before returning to their regular life.

---

Preexisting sketch I had of the remaining Haidamane family at their mother's funeral, watching the cremains being interned in an urn. 2/3 of them are displaying attire appropriate for a funeral, in which nice clothing and formal veils are generally an expectation.

Janeys' hair has been cut in mourning. He's got a very fancy cloak and a formal khattanocuy (South Wardi traditional khaitsmane belt ornament) Faiza's hair has been cut too but isn't visible. She's wearing a tight formal veil and has kept her Odonii regalia to the bare minimum lionsmane band and armament in favor of a nice dress and cloak. Couya has refused to dress up at all, save for being persuaded to braid her hair. Her hair has not been cut. She doesn't technically Have to since Livya Haidamane was not her blood mother, and she doesn't Want to because she fucking hates her and is glad that she's dead. She can get away with all this because she's an Odonii and wearing full vestment is justified but it's not a great look.

---

Yotici:

Yotici are an entire species so you're going to see a broad variety of funerary practices. The main variants of funeral practices are:

Cairn burials, in which the deceased is weighed down to the seafloor and a rock cairn is built over them. Practices will vary tremendously whether or not it's appropriate to bury dead within a Garden (an engineered ecosystem in which they maintain their egg masses). Some groups will have designated cemeteries outside of the Garden, others might bury their dead within the Garden and even build up its features on top of them, such as planting corals upon the rocks, making the mounds into nests for their shark eggs, or laying their own eggs on top of them.

Shipwreck burial, in which a body is stored inside or beneath wrecked boats, which are ascribed significance in some Yotici cultures (merely as shelters, as homes for valued animals, as the conquered vessels of malicious hunters, etc).

Sea burials, in which the deceased is weighed down but intentionally allowed to be consumed by wildlife. This will often be valued animals within the garden's ecosystem, or other significant or sacred wildlife.

Sky/sea burials, in which the deceased is allowed to float at the surface to be fed upon by seabirds and marine scavengers.

In both of these instances, there can be variation on what is allowed to consume the dead. In a majority of cases, there will be little attempt to restrict this consumption, but some may involve guarding the body for weeks on end and chasing unwanted animals away.

Land burials, in which the body is deliberately made to be beached. In some cases the significance of this act is wrapped up in the body being on land in of itself, in others it might extend more deeply- the body's direct exposure to the sun, favoring consumption by land animals, or consumption/other use of the dead by other sophonts (who may or may not be recognized by the yotici in question as sapient or notably distinct from other animals, and are commonly considered magical animals or a form of spirit rather than People) (the exact same tends to apply in reverse).

There are a few isolated cases in which a mutualistic relationship between yotici and a neighboring landdwelling people plays directly into funeral rites. Cases where mutually comprehensible languages have developed that can communicate abstract and complex ideas are very rare, so in most circumstances these practices involve both parties ascribing different meanings to their actions while being mutually satisfied with the outcome.

Deepwater burials, in which the body is brought into open ocean (where yotici cannot survive and do not typically travel) and left in this place, usually due to specific meaning being ascribed to this territory.

Kelp burials, in which the body is purposefully suspended by being tightly wrapped and tied in strands of kelp (usually in combination with other practices), which may have significance to some yotici groups, especially as a common staple food.

Abandonment, in which the body is brought far outside of the Garden's domain (or the surrounding seagrass altogether) and left to be treated as it will with no particular concern of its eventual fate. This may be a matter of simple disposal, there may be significance ascribed to bringing the body outside of the Garden's space, or the body may be considered a polluting element.

Enshrinement, in which access is maintained to the body in order to eventually remove its bones and place them in areas of significance. The body may be actively dismembered in some circumstances.

Funerary cannibalism, in which parts of the body are consumed by other members of the pod (usually in conjunction with other practices). As in other sophonts, instances where consumption is an aspect of honoring or treating the dead may occur. Yotici are primarily herbivorous and their beaks are unsuited to tear flesh, but can digest some animal matter.

[noxturnalmoth]

Repentance

Summary: Repentance: n. the action of repenting, sincere regret or remorse.

Hurt, overworking and miserable, two souls find one another and fates intertwine even when they are worlds apart. How can one deal with the guilt of wanting something they cannot have? And why does going against the very principles you have imposed upon yourself feel so good?

Warnings: negative thoughts, mention of drugs (weed)

Word Count: 8, 451

Masterlist: here

Chapter 5 - Deal

Early morning this Sunday you wake up with a groan, not having caught much sleep due to cooking most of the day, letting your back flare up from the pain of standing up this long.

Not like I sleep much anyway.

You drag yourself out of bed, crankily going to the kitchen to prepare your morning coffee before slipping into the bathroom for a much needed shower. Hot, scalding actually, to wash not only the cold sweat brought upon by your nightly jousts with demons of the past, but also to wash yourself clean of your sins. Lingering, omnipresent in your very being no matter how much you scratch, torture yourself or boil yourself alive.

Clothes slide on your still damp body and hair is tamed from its wild mess. Lastly your brace is fastened around your aching middle, supporting your crumbling back like columns holing up the crumbling roof of the ancient temples you read about in your books. Then it's off to the kitchen, drinking the coffee that had cooled while you showered, biscuits momentarily breaking your sips as you chew on them to not go to church on an empty stomach.

You were already cranky enough to go out on your day off, especially to church of all places, especially to him.

The man with the amber stare, the priest with a voice soft as silk, patience as wide as the horizon, his wisdom as profound as the void within your aching soul.

Father Valášek.

Who was he?

He who unraveled you like a spool of wool under a seamstress' hand even with all your tangles and broken strands. He who looked at you like he had figured you out without knowing much about you at all. He who held what it seemed an infinite pool of patience for your anger and bitterness, he who saw all the broken pieces of you in the shroud of darkness you had protected and tortured yourself with since your teen years.

He who was not afraid to let himself get cut by your sharp edges, seemingly always seeking more of whatever pain you could bring.

You groan into the last of your coffee, going to make another one. Unable to keep thinking of the person ready to burn himself in the pyre of your pain just to subdue the flames without another dose of the brown liquid rhythming your exhausting days.

Who was he beneath the cassock? Was his patience due to duty or was there more to it. His knowing stares lead you to, against your will, consider the latter more than the former.

Your tongue burns at the heat of your morning drink, nearly as much as you did under his wise scrutiny, his kind dissection of your mind and soul, his gentle touch always seeming to wish to put you back together and not to break you all over again.

Was his kindness just that?

No. There has to be a catch.

Or is there?

Frustration blurs your vision as each thought of him brings more confusion, that confusion you had gotten rid of after locking yourself in your cycle of self-hatred. One that he brought back by simply wanting to be around and to understand. Clinical, scientific, yet never unkind. No, curious rather. Compelled by kindness you know not the source of.

Was it vanity? The need to prove himself to his reflection? To his Goddess? To his parish and congregation? Or was it simply because he was good.

What a frustrating man.

You grumble as you get up, fishing the two large containers of homemade lasagna you had prepared the day before, more food you had cooked in this kitchen for a single meal than you ever have.

The two glass plates clink together as you stack them in your large bag, strapping it to your back and flinching at the sudden weight on your shattered bones.

The drive to the church is spent questioning the Father's motivations.

His gaze the color of papyrus, rendered golden by the ages, faded and wise, always seeming to pierce through your heart like an archer's arrow. He was a hunter, looking for answers to your enigma, and the simple attention to every single one of your details under his scrutiny left you itching. Uncomfortable at being seen.

But the worst of it all is that by now, on the verge of your fourth meeting, you realize that there's a soothing cool to the burning rash. A comfort in direct opposition to the frustration of being picked and prodded like a scientific marvel. As if a part of you knows he is genuine while most of you rebukes the very thought of it.

And the most heart-wrenching of all is that you also notice how he's taken your every thought, you question him, challenge him, wonder if his banter is to appease you or to observe you. If you are just a project or something more in his eyes.

If the celestial gold of them view you as an equal or if he is like the gods he preaches for and will abandon you as well should you ever open up.

No, it won't happen.

It's what you tell yourself as you pull up to the beautiful cathedral. Following the signs as you get out of your car to finally come up to a door on the side, entering a communal room filled with tables and chairs already set for the luncheon.

"Ah, there you are. Thought you'd be getting cold feet! Not that it'd be wrong in any way, but I'm still glad you did!" A familiar rejoiced voice calls out.

Huck.

"You knew I'd come?" You follow his voice, seeing him through the small entrance to the kitchen.

"Father Valášek told me you would! He seemed glad, I don't remember the last time I saw him this…happy? I guess more content than anything, but same difference." The man chuckles, helping you place your plates in the fridge.

Happy? Content? The priest had talked about you, behind your back, and it was in a positive light. It's uncanny, unfamiliar, uncomfortable.

"Oh?" Your usual sharp tongue fails you at the realization as Huck chuckles, his hair, loose unlike the last time you met, flowing around his shoulders nearly in the same way Father Valášek's does.

"Yeah, I mean he's fond of all of us because of course he is. But he seems particularly rejoiced at you coming around. It's good, both for him and for you. Maybe it'll help you come by more!"

You hum noncommittally, unwilling to tell him that today would quite possibly be the last time he sees you. Yet the hope in his eyes and his words of the priest's interest of you do push you to consider.

"You can go at least a handful more times, two ain't gonna do much for you to decide. But it's a good beginning and we're all proud of you for taking that step!"

Ekko is right, you know it, and as much as you want to deny it the seed he and the man of the cloth had planted in your mind was sprouting, taking root under Huck's kindness and excitement at your presence.

Gods damn it all.

"I guess I'll be going to find my seat at the pews, see you later Huck." He grins and pats your back with enthusiasm as you turn and open a door, one that lets you in the main building.

You're not the first one here, you notice. Yet you're the first one the man behind the altar trains his eyes to, golden sunlight basking the shadow of you. And while it summons more doubt, more bitter anguish, it also dissolves it at once.

The smile he greets you with almost seems relieved, tension you hadn't noticed melting from his shoulders as he waves you to the pews with a gentle movement of his hand, eyes shining down on you with his usual kindness. Something else swirling within them, you mistake it for nervousness as his usual confidence seems to waver beneath it all.

But it cannot be it, right? Why would a man so self-assured be nervous around me? Did he finally realize he was wasting his breath and time? Was it something else?

More questions add to your list of inquiries about the warm yet mysterious about the man in the dark green cassock. Why were you even keeping a list, it wasn't like you were going to stay longer than necessary right?

This question left a bitter aftertaste once you realized that the more you met the priest and received his attention, the more your opinion was swayed.

Mass went on as the last time albeit your point of you changing from outside the church to within it. Huck opened the doors and greeted everyone as Father Valášek welcomed the parish to their seats on the wooden pews. Uncomfortable yes, but even more so for your broken body, mended only by the flimsy brace holding your broken parts together.

No offense to Ekko's amazing craftsmanship of course, but the brace could only procure light relief, not fix you.

Soon enough, after the throng of believers had settled, their comfortable chatter dying down as they looked to the dais, Huck came to join you at the back of the room.

"I'm glad you decided to come back." He whispers, smiling down at you like an angel coming from the skies and piercing the stormy clouds with a lance of light.

Why was everyone so damned nice here? It made it much more complicated to retreat back to the godawful self imposed pain you tortured yourself with everyday.

"I…" Your voice dies down, trailing off as you try to find it in yourself to dismiss him. Yet you can't, and an honest response you didn't expect from yourself slips from your lips before you can realize what you're saying. "Me too, I guess."

Bile claws up at your throat.

Kha anas xera.

I hate it.

Why have they infected me with their kindness when I finally made peace with oblivion?

His smile widens and his eyes gleam as he pats his shoulder to you, his mouth opening as if ready to answer before the priest's accented voice shakes the foundation of the cathedral. Booming in its gentleness, violent in its softness.

"Greeting my friends. I hope life has treated you fairly since last Sunday."

He begins like the last time, his voice prattling, preaching the same devotion and kindness he offers to your closed off self without asking for anything back.

It nearly sickens you enough to make you retch.

How can someone be so good? There has to be something wrong.

His sermon is as thorough as the last, practiced, a habit, the words flowing from his lips like the water of a cascade. His hands moving as he illustrates each word he preaches with the passion only a man this devoted could harbor, his fingers caressing the air as if he were applying ointment to the wounds of each person sat within his church. Providing healing, providing safety, providing patience.

He is an artist painting a beautiful picture, a sculptor carving away at the walls people hide themselves behind, a carpenter helping them building their foundations anew, a shepherd leading his sheep to safety.

A diplomat soothing the masses with bitter truth mixed into the sweeter lies of fantasy. Sugar for the pill. One you no longer swallowed and never would, ever again.

While others stood and sat with each chant they were coaxed into singing, you sat as silent and still as the last time. Not only because you knew none of the songs, but because you'd preach to no god that left you to walk through hell alone while mocking your pain and loss despite your pleading.

In a way you envied their naivety. The one that left them believing that something greater could help them while all they did what they did by themselves, the gods being the obstacles in their way and not their solution.

Father Valášek looked regal, maybe even more so than last time. The copper stole, dark green cassock, blue cincture and rosary now turned into a kaleidoscope of colors due to the light filtered through the stained glass windows. A halo of sunlight emanating from behind him as if he were the very god he preached. The chestnut and silver of his hair seemed nigh unnatural, as if they were made of ancient wood and precious metals. And his eyes?

Oh his eyes were nearly terrifying as they set upon you, his mouth stretching as his arms opened to welcome the souls of the devouts.

The gentle amber glowed as if it were molten gold, bringing heat, bringing light. Scorching you with its holiness, scalding the sinner you are and metaphorically burning you. Yet as you feel goosebumps rising, shivers wracking through you, heat rising uncomfortably under the scrutiny- you know that he may as well be branding you as the very kind of demons Janna fought off for the sake of her people.

This very place makes your skin crawl but he makes it worse.

Your heart and stomach constrict as you get in the line of devouts waiting to receive the ichor, each step bringing you closer to the source of your current misery.

The confusing conundrum of Father Valášek, his form growing clearer as the queue dwindles, soon enough leaving you to face the man. And with nobody behind you, you were alone with him.

His hand is opened with its palm pointing up to the heavens, and you look up into his eyes in question before he looks down to the wooden flooring of the dais.

You nearly scoff as you realize his intention.

He wants to help me and spare me the pain of kneeling by my own devices.

Kha anas xera.

I hate it.

Yet you accept it with a sigh of bitter dejection at your weakness being so easily perceived. Not only from the fling you gave the first time you knelt before him, but also because he knew now.

He knew, after seeing you at Ekko's, of the affliction that plagues you.

The cold floor distracts you from the vipers hissing in your mind to slap away his hand, spit in the face of his generosity and to leave as your hands get in position. Arms positioned horizontally, palms against one another while the middle and ring fingers are placed on the inner wrists of the other arm, you remember.

Your mouth opens like the last time, and the Father's eyes flash with the same unknown emotion as before. It's conflicted, confined, you'd even dare say secret, and deepens as his thumb coated in ichor touches your warm tongue.

You've tasted blood before, and the sweet and tart taste of the mixture disappears for the familiar metallic flavor you are more used to. Lips wrapped around the digit as your mind falls back into its bloodstained memories, replaying in your head like a broken record playing in loops. The same dissonant, grueling melody of screams, gunfire and anguish.

The words his mouth utter are unheard as you glare at Janna, her smile bitter to you unlike the sweetness she presents to her believers. Not free of guilt but free of sin.

Free of your sin. Your burden.

The visages of the dead burned in your mind come back to you, the face of your dead brother screaming for you to save yourself, the filthy crack of your back breaking on stone, the smell of smoke and burnt flesh all etched in your mind like in a tapestry.

All because she hadn't listened to their pleas. If she even existed at all, Jan'ahrem was a complete utter bitch. A selfish being that preferred her bread and circus if you were the jester dancing for her and obeying each of her capricious whims.

"If not for yourself, do it for us."

I'm trying, Sev, Vi. I really am.

The thumb in your mouth hooks above your lower teeth as fingers cradle your chin and pull your face to the priest. Father Valášek looks severe, but not mad. No, worried rather, his gentle smile pulled into a frown, his eyes searching you like a witch would when scrying with her mirror. Picking you apart piece by piece and building you back up with his gaze as he tries to decipher what brought your anger this time. You sigh through your nose and pull away.

"Kod'suhbi al ni-makhaka naa."

May the Blue Bird be with you.

Is all you whisper in an angry huff, disregarding his hand as you get up with difficulty to rush out of his presence and to the incense, whishing nothing but to get out of this church. Frustration overtaking you as you realize you had signed up for the luncheon and could not escape to cool down. Or to simply leave without a word.

You could, but somehow the guilt of leaving and disappointing feels more bitter than the simmering anger and anguish eating at your flesh like acid.

Damn it.

You sit down with a sigh, trying to collect yourself in the empty church as the crowd migrates to the area dedicated to the luncheon. Your neck cracks as you twist it from side to side, shoulders tense with the same conflict eating away at you being rolled to relieve themselves of the weight, fingers cracking as you ball them into fists and crush them gently on the palm of the other hand.

"What was that back at the dais? Did you try to set fire to Janna again?" There is comes again, the voice of Father Valášek, both saving you from yet pulling you deeper into the spiral of your mind.

"Can't say I won't try each time I come around." Your voice is rough, anger barely tamed for the sake of politeness.

"Well, you're a stubborn one I'll give you that."

You scoff as he sits next to you on the hard wooden pew, taking off the copper stole and folding it, the fabric now sitting between the two of you. A bridge and a wall all the same, an offer for comfort by separating you but also proving his presence at your side. The damned bastard knew his way around you like a volunteer helping abused animals at a shelter.

"Don't think you'll find more stubborn in Zaun, padre. And we're quite the headstrong folk." It was his turn to laugh as he acquiesced at your words.

"I find it easy to believe you on this, seabird."

Your head rolls to him, tired eyes gazing through lashes to protect you from the radiance he emanates as you are more than unworthy of it. "You keep on calling me bird related names. What are you an ornithologist?"

The man chuckles as his head sways from side to side. "How much do you know about Janna?"

Your eyebrows furrow in question before you mull over the question.

"Why the fuck do you ask? You know I don't care about her." You clip, unknowingly somewhat lashing out at the hand that feeds out of the need to remain hidden.

What does he feed? You ask yourself. But you know the answer.

He feeds the conflict.

He feeds the part of yourself that dares to hope for something better, a part that you stifle and choke beneath a pillow made of the lead weighting your heart.

"Humor me." He says with the usual gentle smile, the usual knowing gaze, the usual patience that burns through the already frayed edges of your burnt tapestry. All rough and sharp edges eaten away by mold, mites, age and self-destruction in contrast to his soft hands, his soft heart, his soft voice whenever he speaks to you.

Frustration bubbles, not only at him but at how he makes your head run in circles about him the way a dog spins to chase its tail.

"Janna, or Jan'ahrem is the goddess of the winds, later on also referred to as a goddess of freedom and healing. She was praised for bringing cool winds back when our ancestors lived in the Shuriman desert. Then worshiped for leading them to Osha Va'Zaun when the Empire fell. She was said to take the form of a blue bird, suhbi al in ancient Shuriman, to guide the boats our forefathers embarked in while leaving their homeland behind. She's also rumored to have been the one helping us breathe and pushing the noxious fumes of Piltover out of our streets in days of old."

The gentle smile remains on his face as he listens, somehow becoming warmer in the kaleidoscopic filtered sunlight while his eyes twinkle in genuine interest.

How long as it been since anyone listened to my ramblings this way, wanting to hear more of me, wanting to see more of me?

You ask yourself.

Since…Hekarim.

You answer just as quick. And it terrifies you.

He doesn't even seem bored, just…patiently waiting. As if asking for more, as if absorbing the information like a sponge in the sea.

"Now ask me again why I call you bird names." You can see the crow's feet besides his eyes as they narrow in mirth, soft but present, the snaggletooth presented to you as his grin grows.

Little bird. Fledgling. Seabird.

The Blue bird.

The realization crashes down on you like a flood breaking through a dam, terrifying, grandiose, a force of nature that ruins you and drowns you.

He is comparing you to the divine, to a part of your pain you'd rather not face anymore than you already have by standing here in the house of Janna, under her careful mocking gaze as if she both pitied you and asked for more of your pain.

"You can't just call a god hating woman like myself after a god, I'm pretty sure that's considered blasphemy." Your voice is soft, trying to go for the usual banter route after your realization, unwilling to confront the fact he is linking you to the goddess you hate the most. The one to whom you prayed as a child yet let your life crumble like fine china in a battlefield. Unwilling to be angry, somehow, at the man next to you when you had no problem being angry at anyone before.

Just what the hell does he think he's doing to me?

"Eh, that is to be debated. I believe it fits." His head tilts as he hums, the hard T's catching on his tongue like fishes on a net, caught by a fisherman who would use them to feed his village. Your eye roll provokes another chuckle to escape him. "What are you if not a wounded, caged bird? You may hide it well, but I can see it."

"You may hide it well, but I can see it."

The ball in your stomach drops like a ship's anchor in a harbor, something in your throat grows and keeps you from talking and your skin crawls.

"Because this is not the end of you. Not until I have tried all I can."

He had said back at the library, and remembering those very words brought as much comfort as it did panic. Just like anything about the priest did.

Nis nis-kha ruyas.

Stop seeing me.

Nis nis-kha 'abhathas.

Stop looking at me.

Ni'i samahta.

Please.

"Right." You clear your throat as you look into his patient eyes, waiting for an answer that was clearly as sarcastic as he was expecting judging from his raised eyebrow and the slightly pouty grin on his lips.

"Come now, you love to read but you don't enjoy prose?"

"I don't enjoy your prose, you fossil. Nuance." He quietly snickers as you teasingly snap your own remark at him, enjoying the change of pace from the violent currents of your mind. Settling back into banter, something comfortable, something safe and shallow but that still brought some semblance of normalcy and familiarity to the tumultuous maelstrom of this new situation.

This new presence in your life.

One that was trying his damnest to know, to see, to understand, no matter how belligerent you could be or how much you pushed away. And it was as unnerving as it was appreciated.

The most unnerving being how you did enjoy the fact he was paying such close attention to you despite it being hidden far in the back of your mind. But also just how easy it seemed for him to peel back the layers without having to force anything out of you.

To be loved is to be seen, my ass.

It was absolutely terrifying.

"Have you gotten your rage out of your system? We do have a meal to get to, and I bet your crankiness comes partly from hunger." Calls out that soft accented lilt that makes you roll your eyes nearly far enough you could see the grey matter encased in your skull.

"I'm always cranky you lame ass Frank-N-Furter copy. What, next you're gonna give me a strip show and sing about how you're a sweet transvestite from Transylvania?"

A long silent moment passes. Breaths soft yet loud within the silent chamber with vaulted ceilings. His lashes flutter, lips wobble, cheeks twitch. And as always he uses his wisdom to impart upon you knowledge you would never forget, this time as a reflection of previous words you used in the library.

"Bruh."

A beat.

Then laughter, easy, flowing from the both of you as if you had known each other for lifetimes. It flows like the ichor in his chalice, like his hair around his shoulders, like cool water in hot summers and warm soup in biting winters.

And as much as your body tries to pull you back, as much as your mind hisses and screeches, your heart doesn't find it in itself to care about the levity.

For a moment you feel free.

No more hate to the gods, to yourself, to the world. No more anger, pain or fear. Just this instance of laughter shared with a priest who cares too much for his own damn good, and you nearly feel like it wouldn't be all that bad to let him in. If only for a second.

If he was going to play old cards, so were you. "You're very uncreative. Gotta step up your game, pretty boy."

His eyes gleam as he looks at you from beneath the curtain of his hair that had fallen in front of his eyes in his bout of laughter, his grin full, happy. You had remembered, and it seemed like so did he.

"Father Valášek told me you would! He seemed glad, I don't remember the last time I saw him this…happy?"

Happy.

An illusion of emotional freedom unshackled by guilt, anger, sin. Something pure, something utterly human yet out of reach for you.

But you…made him happy, at least from what Huck had said.

Sickening, unthinkable, indescribable. How could someone as miserable as you bring joy to someone like him who had everything to fulfill his own heart? Wouldn't you be doing the opposite instead, bringing doom and gloom upon his shimmering soul instead?

You were broken, sharp glass laid bare and cutting the hands that try to fix the window you once were, feet stomping on you and reducing you to rough dust. Nothing worth being happy about, so why did he seem so…

"I guess more content than anything, but same difference."

Content, yes.

"But he seems particularly rejoiced at you coming around."

Rejoiced at me coming around..

"You're overthinking again." Father Valášek's voice rings in your ear, singing with the usual teasing edge, softened by his wise gentleness. Brought upon by his many years overlooking the parish, you wager.

"Get off my ass." You simply scoff, gently pushing his face away, unwilling to face the fact that you're making a stranger who is the complete opposite of you, who knows nothing about you, happy. Simply by being around you. "Let's go eat, I'm hungry."

The amber swirls with golden shimmer as he watches you get up, his usual knowing look already setting in the depth of his gaze, a bit too abruptly as you flinch in pain but walk it off. You give a jerk of your head towards the door to the luncheon and he shakes his head, you believe you know what he's thinking.

"Great deflection skills." He muses as he gets up, his cane clinking as he walks by your side, lips still tilted upwards. His gaze is as kind as always as he nudges you with his elbow.

"Thanks, I spent years honing them so men in dresses could praise me for them." You whisper back, unwilling to think about what your mind was conjuring merely seconds ago.

But it still feels too real, too raw, and you have to hide and regroup. Put your wall back together before it crumbles and you're left teary eyed at his observance. At the way he seems to remember and catalogue everything you say.

Out of what you fear is care.

"Race you there." Your grin is back in place, a mask, a facade of false joy as you rush to the wooden door of the communal area, needing a few minutes away from the man. And if the overwhelming church crowd was to be your escape, then so be it.

You barely have the time to hear an incredulous laugh before you enter the room, instantly greeted by the smell of homemade dishes and pastries, by the noise of chatter, by the unfiltered golden sunlight flowing through the plain glass windows.

And you feel unwell, perhaps the Father's presence was better than the overstimulating amount of input in the room. Than the feeling of eyes on you although no one was looking.

No. None of it was good at all.

I need to leave. I need to get ou-

"Heya!" Your name is called by a familiar kind voice. Huck is sitting at a table, his hand raised to call for you before he stands up.

You take a couple of tentative steps towards him, skin feeling like a pincushion under the scrutiny of some of the devouts in the room, now staring due to the greeter's loud call.

"Hey Huck." The small pursed smile you give him seems to fuel his enthusiasm like wood in a bonfire. And once you reach him, about to take the plate next to his in order to go fill it and finally begin your meal, he grabs your arm gently.

"Everybody, this is our new friend! She has been coming to our parish since last Sunday and has also made the amazing lasagna that some of you are eating! Please welcome her in kindly!"

Oh fuck.

No, you really need to leave.

All gazes are turned to you, striking you with scorching lances as you're shackled in place by Huck's arm around you. You feel like a corpse in a coroner's morgue, laying on the cold metal table ready to be autopsied. Huck is the harsh fluorescent light shining above you and stripping you naked of the shadows that you hide yourself with while the congregation is the tools carefully placed atop the station.

Under the golden sunlight their shadows seem darker, as if the kind faces they showed were just a facade while the darkness revealed their true horrid intentions. The noise now gone seemed much louder than whatever cluster of conversations they were having before.

Then the coroner stepped into the room, changed from his dark green cassock to the similar colored roman collared shirt, eyes sharp as ever. Sharp as the scalpel he would use to dissect every bit of your soul bared on the autopsy table of the parish. The one Huck's kindness unknowingly trapped your body onto. The click of his cane is like the ticking of a clock showcasing the time you have left until your second death.

Your breathing picks up as you look over the sea of faces, kindness in their gazes too stifling, to sweet to be real.

I can't be looked at in this way.

You tell yourself as your eyes dart around for an exit, Father Valášek covering one of them, the other behind a group of people enjoying their meal.

Fuck.

Noise drowns as you do too within the deep violent ocean of your thoughts, when lips move to greet you all you can do is nod and mechanically tell your name back. Your hand stiff as it shakes the ones of those coming to get a closer look at you.

Like an animal in a zoo, doing tricks, under scrutiny at all times.

I'm not even human to them, am I?

You look down when a child tugs at your clothing, eyes wide and innocent, the rush of blood saturating your ears diminishing just enough so you can hear his tiny voice. "Your lasagna's great miss."

What?

Your eyebrows furrow and you look at Huck who grins, Father Valášek looks back at you with the same joy he had in the church earlier after your bout of laughter. Worry at your freezing swirling in his gaze.

"Oh, uhm, yeah sure. I can give your mom the recipe too if you want?" Your voice speeds and slows, stutters and breaks as the words are expelled from you like they need to come out.

"No." The boy shakes his head, eyes twinkling as he looks at you. "It won't taste as good if it's not from you! Can you make it next Sunday too?"

Your face screws in confusion, panic in your fluttering eyes, and you look at the priest for help who simply tilts his head and shakes it.

There's no escape, not now, not anymore.

A shaky sigh escapes you and you run your hand through your hair. This wasn't a part of the deal. But then again..

"You can go at least a handful more times, two ain't gonna do much for you to decide. But it's a good beginning and we're all proud of you for taking that step!"

Damn it, they've got me cornered.

You close your shaky hands into fists as you swallow the weight in your throat, letting it settle like lead, heavy in your stomach. "Sure thing, I'll…make it again..next Sunday."

Small arms wrap around your legs as a giggle escapes the kid, his face happy and devoid of the usual judgment you find within everyone in your vicinity. You know children are pure, untainted by lies and the slithering of snakes hissing and manipulating his heart unlike adults. So you cannot help the small smile growing on your lips, one of your hands unclenching to ruffle his hair, it's soft unlike the barbed wire and cut glass that you crawl upon usually.

It's almost comfortable, being held by this stranger whom you know holds no contempt for your existence. Because you know he says and shows his truth. No facades. No ulterior motives. Just truth.

When he leaves to go back to his mother, the atmosphere of the room feels less scorching. Noise comes back to the room as people go back to their conversations, silverware clinks, the arm around you leaves as Huck returns to his own meal, the light feels somehow less bright. And the worry within Father Valášek's gaze holds no more of the concern that was transpiring from within it moments ago, no, now it's something you'd say is akin to…pride, but also a small mischievous glint of "told you so".

"I promise I will make it worthwhile." He had said at Ekko's. And with everything happening the way it is, you nearly believe that you're the only being Janna frowns upon and that the priest always having his way around you has to do with her.

Fuck you, you wind bitch. I'll pluck your feathers like a chicken.

"So we'll have you around for another Sunday then?" He smiles.

"Don't get your hopes up for more than that, padre. But…I guess so yeah." You sigh, finally picking up your plate and walking to the long table littered with pots and other containers. Food smelling like the heavens the priest's texts speak of.

"I'm glad that is the case. I do hope you'll come for many more." He begins to scoop up some of your lasagna on his own plate, angling a full spoon to you in silent question to which you nod to. As you move across the table you look at each dish, trying to recognize those he spoke to you about.

"This is the flan right?" Your voice is quiet as you point to the dessert before you.

"Indeed, Mundo has mastered the flan like no one else ever could I believe. If you're looking for the pleşcăviţă and hovězí guláš they're here." The Father directs your gaze to some flat, nearly burger style sandwiches and a large pot of stew.

"Thanks." You slip away from his side to get a small bowl, filling it with the hot soup, picking one of the filled flatbreads for yourself, looking confusedly at the assortment of different relishes and sauces surrounding the plate.

"You fill your pleşcăviţă with whatever you want! But us south eastern Zaunites do love a lot of onion usually!" An energetic voice comes from your side and you turn to see a girl with neon green hair, her eyes bright and electric as she grins at you. "Hey, I'm Zeri, good to meet ya!"

"Ah..yes, Father Valášek mentionned you in passing." You give her a pursed smile and shake her hand, the bile back in your throat at how reassuring her strong grip is, as if she was unknowingly trying to keep you from sinking. You whisper your name very quickly as a rushed introduction before she guides you on how to fill your sandwich.

"Easy! Just put in as much as you want!" She giggles, patting your back and going to raid the table, leaving you to scoop up the toppings you want to put between the seasoned meat patty and the upper half of the flat bun.

After serving yourself a hefty scoop of the Father's stew you return at Huck's side, sitting silently as the others nod their greetings to you, the empty seat next to you filled by the familiar dark green shirt visible in your peripherals.

You try to ignore him, biting into each dish you plated for yourself, letting the tastes settle just a bit of your nervousness, gaze low as you try to forget just where you are and what you're doing. Your phone is in hand, thumb mindlessly scrolling through silent videos and articles as you try to distract yourself, but nothing can make you ignore the feeling of being stared at.

Exactly from where you know he is, on your left, with his stupid clerical attire.

"It's rude to stare." Your voice is low, hushed enough for only him to notice as you purposefully keep your gaze on the small screen held in your palm.

"It's rude to be on your phone at the table." He quips back and your gaze slides to him from the corner of your eye, a small frustrated glare at the man who always manages to burst you out of your bubble.

"Dude, are you obsessed with me or something?"

"No, I do find you interesting though. You always seem to be so good at avoiding all the positive things that happen to you, it's a very intriguing skill." His grin grows devilish and you kick him in the foot beneath the table, forcing a chuckle out of him.

"Told you I don't hesitate to hit senior citizens and cripples. Don't force my hand, padre."

His hands lift in a placating motion. "Alright, alright, she-Hulk. No need to smash me to pieces."

"Yet." You grin back and he huffs out a laugh, his eyes rolling as he kicks your foot back. "Who knew priests could be annoying little shits?"

"And who knew all it took to make you decide to come to church again was a kid doing puppy eyes?"

You groan, turning your phone off and going back to eating. Humming at the taste of his stew coating your tongue, the man smiling in response as you enjoy what he prepared.

That asshole.

But he was right, how could you resist after all? You were hardened and miserable but not heartless and kids did know how to get their way whether they knew it or not, you noticed as much as you saw Ekko and Powder grow up. Their puppy dog eyes always earning them any favors they asked from you, free of charge.

"Good soup." You make an okay sign with your fingers, thumb and index forming a circle as the last three digits stand straight, a chuckle escaping the Father.

"You're softer than you look."

"Shut it, Valášek." You hear his quiet snickers from your left as you serve yourself some soda and bury yourself in it, secretly pouting at how he seems to always see right through you.

"I wanted to ask, it's about the Almakhtutata Aleazima." His voice catches your attention and you turn to face him fully, humming for him to continue. "I mean I can translate the parts that are in the encyclopedia but the thing itself is nearly unreadable. The writing system and composition is pretty much opposite to what we use nowadays and I'm having a hard time translating."

He rubs the back of his neck.

What?

He acting shy all of a sudden, the usual self-assured confidence gone, leaving the place for something more pure and innocent. Like the little boy who held you in his arms as he nearly begged for you to come back next Sunday.

The curiosity in his eyes is striking, it's the same one he has each time he searches for the deeper meaning in your words, the same one he harbors whenever you speak for longer than usual about a subject you like.

Just like when you spoke about your book in the library, or recited what you knew of Janna in the chapel.

"You need help or something?" You swallow a sip of your drink, tilting your head in question. Wondering if he wanted help or another book to help him through his endeavor.

"I'd appreciate it yes. Because even if I were to be able to translate excerpts, maybe I'd use the wrong word or quite possibly change the meaning of the sentence which would render the rest of the text wrong."

You nod thoughtfully. Shuriman is a complex language, something completely out of the ordinary even for a priest such as Father Valášek. From his words you understand that the language of your ancestors isn't taught anymore, even to those maintaining and nurturing the old religions.

What a waste of culture.

But something you also realize is that Xerath's Shuriman isn't the classic imperial Shuriman either, he may have spoken it in his day to day life and some of the book may be in it; but as a slave from Nerimazeth his manner of speech and writing was more of a dialect of the more widespread root language.

"Well, seeing as some of the Almakhtutata Aleazima isn't even in the traditional imperial speech but in an older slave dialect, you would have a much harder time than if everything was simply what we call classic Shuriman."

The man's eyebrows furrow for a moment before his eyes widen. "Of course, yes you did mention of Xerath's origins. It would only make sense that some of his texts, more personal or notes would be in his dialect."

"Yeah, plus Shuriman is read from top to bottom, right to left. Unlike our linear horizontal, left to right reading in Valoran. You'd be left reading weird cryptic messages if anything were to be read in the usual way."

The priest takes a sip, nodding at your words.

"Plus the structure of sentences is much different and the suffixes and prefixes are ultimately important to understand contexts and genders. Because it is a gendered language unlike Valoran, by the way."

He groans, a hand running up his face and through his hair, tugging at the roots. The reaction causing a chuckle to escape from you as you take another bite from your plate. He mumbles to himself, words close to "what am I doing to myself?", "oh goddess…" and "my brain is going to melt, I'm not a linguist".

His eyes settle on you once more, nearly pleading as he mulls over what he should say.

It's good seeing him this torn, a small personal vengeance against the constant turmoil he brings you at whether you should hate or like him, whether you should let him in or push him out and whether you like that fact or not.

Take that small taste of your medicine, padre.

"Would you come to the rectory from time to time to help me with it then?" He sighs and it nearly seems like the words cost him as they would cost you. He seems unused to asking for help.

How strange for a man with such a large, loving community to be scared to ask for a little nudge in the right way. But then again, he is the one everyone turns to for help, but who does he seek when he needs help?

Father Valášek's standing is a double edged sword, it seems.

"Depends, I work two jobs, I barely have enough time to do much for myself during the day. But maybe I can spare my lunches for you from time to time." You give an answer as nonchalant as possible despite the panging in your heart.

Sharp. Bitter.

What the hell are you even doing? Sure, you're never one to refuse helping others, but this feels wrong. Like no matter how you try to cut strings are already attached between the two of you and doing this would mean tipping the scales in his favor. Proving him right that the part of you that hopes is larger than you'd like it to be, proving to him that you're terrified of your own downfall and want help.

But that you don't believe you deserve it. Not one bit.

Letting him get close is a mistake, you know it. It's throwing a wrench in all you've known, all you think, all you've planned. And since he's come in your life, a mere week ago, it seems he's found a way to shift everything within you to begin slithering his way in with the other vipers hissing in your mind.

But not to inject you with his poison, at least not the same kind. This one is worse, because this one would mean the come down would be much more painful.

Maybe in a way he'd help you finally let go once he finally hurts you, slash at your scorched heart hard enough to sever your ties to life for good so you can leave your existence for good.

But in another way, a small voice in the deep recesses of your mind tells you he'll do quite the opposite.

And you don't know which thought is more terrifying. Being broken for good, or being cared for?

"When would you want to do such a thing?" His voice pierces through the noise of your mind.

"Tuesday, we'll have an hour and a half but it should be good enough to get a bit done."

The smile growing on his face at his words should be illegal. Soft, joyful, unashamed. Basking you in the glory of a man as holy as him despite your existence as a shadow, a bottom of the barrel sinner with nowhere else to go but further down the deep pit of self-hatred the world has dug for you.

You feel completely and utterly undeserving of it. An uncomfortable itch spreading beneath your skin and settling in your flesh and bones at the mere thought of him enjoying your presence and wanting more of it.

"Not at all, little bird. If anything, I think that my life will become dull now that I have had a taste of you within it."

What a joke.

"Yes, that'll work perfectly. Thank you, little bird." He breathes out as if surprised yet so overjoyed that the air has been stolen from his lungs.

"Don't mention it." You wave him off, unwilling to let him be any softer, to let him chip at your walls any longer.

What the hell did you just agree to? Seeing him more would hurt you more, confuse you further, yet you proposed your help without any trouble. You had to at least ask for something back.

But would it be overconfident of you? Would it show him that this is only transactional? Would it keep him away from you, only letting him waddle in your shallow waters instead of diving off the deep end?

Would it cut his interest at the bud?

"What would you do in exchange?" You mumble, gazing at Father Valášek from the corner of your eye.

His eyes widen for a fraction of an instant before he chuckles, shaking his head from left to right, lips widened in mirth.

"Oh are you going to extort me?"

"I'm just asking what you're willing to give in exchange for my services. It's only proper business conduct."

"Right." He scoffs. "Proper business conduct." His eyebrows raise and his stare hardens with the same knowing look.

Seriously, how does he do that? Rat bastard.

"I'll share my…cigarettes with you."

Did he just-

The twinkle in his eyes confirmed your thoughts. The priest had just offered you to share his pot.

I mean, don't mind if I do.

"Deal." You present your hand and his grin grows as one slowly manifests across your face.

"Deal."

At least it's all transactional, and the weed will help take the edge off right?

And despite the question echoing through your mind your face falls at the realization that you gave this man a way to slip further into the cracks in your carefully crafted armor.

"Rat bastard." You grumble as you stab your spoon in the flan, enjoying the sweet, caramel covered treat as a weight settles in your stomach.

What the fuck did I just agree to?

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[dirty-bosmer]

TES Crushes

Which NPCs in TES (all games included!) do you crush on, and why? They don't have to be marriage candidates (in vanilla), just people you find yourself blushing around. Hell, it could be a Deadric Prince if that's what you're into. Name them and say what about them you find appealing! Then feel free to tag a friend or two!

Tagged by @babyblueetbaemonster @theoneandonlysemla Thank you <3

Tagging: @ladytanithia @unironicallytes @gilgamish @kookaburra1701 @saltymaplesyrup @rustyram035 @darcxaosit @moriche @pocket-vvardvark @heavy-metal-dick @alma-amentet @pyre-of-pages @guardianlizard

Borrowing some of Julia's number scheme cause it's nice organization :)

#1: Characters I crushed on during my first ever playthrough as a wee lass:

Methredhel: 10 year old me spent countless hours watching her sleep in that huntsman vest/bralett outfit XD

M'raaj-Dar: Young me was so predictable. Some character is mean to me? Gotta make sure I fall in love with them and do everything in my power to get them to like me. Then he apologized to me right before the purification and I knew I was done for. After the purification, I hoisted his body onto a bed in the living quarters and surrounded him with flowers lol

Enilroth: That one stable boy in Anvil who places the last of Mathieu Bellamont's fake dead-drops out for you. I thought he was so normal looking in a game where everyone looked like they were melting.

Cutter: I just thought she was pretty.

Relmyna Verenim: Being a crazy mad scientist devoted to your passions is hawt.

#2: Characters I crush on now:

The Ordinators in Morrowind. It's the ten packs a day ash-choked voice.

Dagoth Ur. He invaded my dreams with a wedding ceremony. I'm pretty sure we've moved past the prosaic love confession. We are now bounded in our blood.

Nazir: He will always be Skyrim's Sexyman to me <3

Astrid: I'm a simple gal. I see a woman who does fucked up things being torn to shreds by the fandom, I 👀

Arquen: Same as above. She’s a baddie to me and I don’t care about the rumor where she ate Lucien’s entrails, that just makes her weirder and sexier 💕

Raminus Polus: He's smart and gives you a fancy necklace and tells you that you're doing a good job, like what else do I need really?

Mathieu Bellamont: the only man I will ever call baby girl. Love a revenge arc. Love a twisted obsession. I genuinely dgaf that he single-handedly wrecked the Dark Brotherhood, maybe the Black Hand should not have been so trigger happy and eager for self-destruction!

Lucien Lachance: Despite the hundreds of thousands of words I've written about him, my feelings for Lucien are kind of complicated 😅 I don’t dislike him, but at some point while writing my fic I realized I gaslit myself into believing he was hotter than he is lol Upon replay, I was like 'man this dude is such a scrub I have to write him to be as creepy and dripless as possible,' which like... I'm still into lol I just feel like a fake fan for it.

Ondolemar: Unique, kissable lips, him degrading me in public only to whip out that, 'there are so few pleasures in life as fine as your company' once he realized he wanted me, oooooh girl

Razum-Dar: I wanted him SO BADLY during the Aldmeri Dominion quests.

#3 Characters I actually married in game:

Nels Llendo: Had a mod to make it possible for my Morrowind playthrough. He killed all the cliff racer for me :)

Jenassa: She might be the only character I ever married on my main LDB's save, and it was actually so devastating because all she would do was stand in the foyer of Proudspire Manor with no clothes on, asking about kids we never had. Look how the glitches massacred my girl :(

Derkeethus: I married him on my Arch-mage save but only on PC because he too was glitched and every time I told him to go home he would run away!!!

#4: Characters I’m only crushing on because of Fics I read

@theoneandonlysemla's Ancano and Faralda I'm so weak for horribly, toxic elves. Yes, abuse your power! Make everyone around you miserable!

@sylvienerevarine's Roggi Knot-Beard. Had no idea who this man was until Sophrine rolled into his life, and from then on I was smitten. Wholesome, sexy, husband of the year <3

@skyrim-forever's Aicantar. Scholarly, bashful mage nerd <3 I actually always thought Aicantar was a cutie and had considered marrying him on one playthrough because even with cheat codes, a lot of the Altmer characters don't have voice lines for marriage. Aicantar's voice made him a suitable candidate.

#5 Characters that have made me 👀 but in an way that makes me embarrassed

The Spider Daedra from Oblivion. I was obsessed with her rack LMAO

Dremora: something about unintelligible, guttural screams and fiery eyes, I think...

Molag Bal. I also blame this one on @theoneandonlysemla

[amaltheas-garden]

This post* of yours gave me an epiphany. Aerion Bright flame is often called mad because he had the delusion that by setting himself on fire he would awaken the dragon, but he failed miserably and it resulted in his death. If you think about it Dany is no less different from him, with how she walked into Drogo's funeral pyre, but the only reason why she isn't deemed mad is because she succeeded. Still the same reasoning pushed them to make this choice in the first place, so I don't see why Dany gets off the hook.

*https://www.tumblr.com/amaltheas-garden/764716416306987008/just-so-were-all-on-the-same-page-cerseis?source=share

the only reason why she isn't deemed mad is because she succeeded

YUP! That pretty much encapsulates everything worrisome about Dany's relationship to magic. I find the point that Dany isn't mad because she knew she would succeed and had no intentions of dying unconvincing because no one who meddled in magic before her and faced the consequences, like Aerion, thought they were going to die either??? Like, the scene very clearly draws attention to this and is asking the readers to evaluate if Dany is acting rationally in that moment. We know she had dragon dreams and would succeed, but that doesn't make her decision any more rational to the people around her:

As she climbed down off the pyre, she noticed Mirri Maz Duur watching her. "You are mad," the godswife said hoarsely.

"Is it so far from madness to wisdom?" Dany asked.

//

"You do not mean to die with him? You swear it, my queen?"

"I swear it," she said in the Common Tongue of the Seven Kingdoms that by rights were hers.

//

She heard the screams of frightened horses, and the voices of the Dothraki raised in shouts of fear and terror, and Ser Jorah calling her name and cursing. No, she wanted to shout to him, no, my good knight, do not fear for me. The fire is mine. I am Daenerys Stormborn, daughter of dragons, bride of dragons, mother of dragons, don't you see? Don't you SEE? With a belch of flame and smoke that reached thirty feet into the sky, the pyre collapsed and came down around her. Unafraid, Dany stepped forward into the firestorm, calling to her children.

(AGoT, Daenerys X)

Dany has absolutely full confidence in herself in this moment, and is proven right. "The fire is mine" in particular stands out, as every other instance of fire in the series has been uniformly shown to be a force of uncontrollable destruction. We can interpret the line in two ways, as either Daenerys herself becoming a destructive force akin to fire, or being mistaken in thinking she could control it, which might become relevant in the inevitable clash between dragonfire and wildfire.

[savagewilderness]

Nicolas, my heart. I’ve even dressed for him. Thought I’d give him a welcome improvisation to fit his attire… although it’s a miserable theme. Nicki approves of the misery. It’s how he likes to be welcomed. Had to roll the cuffs of this antique nightshirt over my elbows as they’re too big as it’s a men’s one 😂!

“Amid all the foulness, I sensed a mortal was near. It was Nicolas and he was alive and I could hear him, vulnerable current of his thoughts mingled with his scent. And something was terribly wrong with his thoughts. They were chaos.

—

Two of the others tore down the ragged drapery, great sheets of black serge that sent up the dust in a suffocating cloud.

The pyre was as big as the one that had consumed Magnus.

And on top of the pyre in a crude wooden cage, Nicolas knelt slumped against the bars. He stared blindly at us, and I could find no recognition in his face or his thoughts.

—

There were bluish marks on Nicki's throat. The lace of his shirt was filthy as were their rags, and his breeches were snagged and torn. He was in fact covered with bruises and drained almost to the point of death.

The fear silently exploded in my heart, but I knew this was what they wanted to see. And I sealed it within.

The cage is nothing, I can break it. And there are only three torches. The question is when to move, how. We would not perish like this, not like this.

I found myself staring coldly at Nicolas, coldly at the bundles of kindling, the crude chopped wood.”

Thank you so much for creating my heart in art @toriangeli ❤️‍🔥🥹🎻

(OMG I kept trying to do this & Nicki kept falling over & then at 4 minutes into this I realised I’d been sat cross legged on the stone floor so long my leg had gone to sleep, so if you want to laugh, imagine me standing up after this & literally DRAGGING my leg behind me till I got to a chair & had to sit for 10 minutes till feeling returned 😂💀.)

[beedreamscape]

When Augustine is being genuine, he calls her Joy. Always Joy.

All the bitting, the fighting, the snipping.

Joy.

Somewhere in the ether Cristabel and Alfred are tangled up, looking down at their myriad long play, hearing the rumors of who they were what they could've done to save him save her, if they were given five minutes, five words, five days... it's a broken record.

They were both beyond salvation, nobody likes a peace maker.

And yet, at the end of it, he calls her Joy and his mouth is dripping with honey and his chest painted with the desecrated remains of her heart.

And she calls him Augustine, all nine letters, and again very softly, pleadingly. Mean souled little man, that person, miserable ass, man-shaped worm, chattering imbecile, vile condescending son of a bitch. Augustine, Augustine, you promised.

He knows her like he knows his own soul like she knows the sternum, he knows her violence like the taste of blood in his mouth, knows her taste like the taste of in-season melons, like the taste of lives past.

She's quick enough in the draw to know every nasty little inch of the Saint of Patience's body down to the millimeter down to the composition of his genetic code down to the taste of his skin.

There's no practical application in that.

She needs not to wrap her arms around him to perceive the marrow of his bones. She needs not to see him to know it's his lungs and his lips and his breath...

He smells like nicotine. Yuck. Pfaugh. She will stain her hands so his remain clean.

My girl, my child, my chick, my dove.

My Joy.

I'm profoundly tired of looking at your face, sick of stirring in the storm of your eyes, I'll eat Cristabel's rotten soul at the red table of your rotten-peach heart instead, I'll call your ribcage my tomb, the pillows of your lungs my grave.

May I burn in your pyre, may our ashes be mingled and fuel a lonely star in the furthest loneliest part of the universe where none can bother our slumber.

Corrosive effervescence, poisonous delight, drunken familiarity.

Shush, my kiwi, my pipsqueak, my bleeding-heart dove, let us rest easy now.

Joy will show you what fervid decided devoted passion looks like - one last crack of this frail wishbone - Mercy will teach you a lesson in forgiveness.

[coramatus]

What if Under the City Streets was even more mean to Ingo?

Then you get the Mad Woodsman AU of an AU.

Cw/tw: mentions of self-harm, suicidal tendencies, dissociation, self-loathing

He gets better though.

The Mad Woodsman was an Ingo who descended fully into madness in the Unknown, attacking anything and anyone that dared get too close with a flaming axe drenched in Edelwood oil. But he inflicted the worst violence on himself, trying repeatedly to kill himself and self-harmed, always failing because his pure despair is fuel for the Beast, making him more useful alive and suffering as a battery to be consumed.

Unlike other Woodsmen, he has a full scraggly beard and long, matted hair and is constantly in a filthy state. His mind is lost in a cloud of misery, despair, and delusions, his moments of clarity few and far between. He is constantly haunted by a figure in white who always stands out of reach, only ever smiling enigmatically at him.

So when Time Lord Emmet Railer appears to try and save him, the Mad Woodsman is immediately lost in raging insanity as he tries to kill the figure, begging to be left alone so he can die in peace. There’s nothing to save. He’s less than nothing. Why can’t the figure leave him alone?

But eventually, the despair becomes too much to bear and he collapses, allowing the Edelwood to take him. When Railer finds him and tries to save him, he begs for oblivion, his heart and soul in so much agony, that death is a relief.

But Railer refuses.

Using his supernatural strength, Railer tears the Edelwood off the Mad Woodsman, ripping whole chunks of bark off at a time. Once enough of him is freed, Railer takes him and his lantern into Time Central station.

The Mad Woodsman is given a room to recover in. But he barely moves. He thinks he’s lost his mind completely and exists in a haze of misery. He refuses to change clothes or bathe because he thinks everything is a hallucination. He is beyond terrified of Railer and Beta, refusing to let them anywhere near him, screaming at them to leave him alone.

However, the Time Manager/Railer’s adoptive time sister, Unity, makes an effort to reach out to him. She takes the feral cat taming approach with him, simply being in his presence and acclimating him to hers. She gently talks to him, tries to help him take care of himself, and makes sure he’s fed. Despite her efforts, he doesn’t outwardly respond to her, often just shuffling back to bed after she coaxes him out. Unlike Railer, the Mad Woodsman never lifts a finger against her, only ever quietly moving away.

It’s decided that they can’t wait any longer to purge his body of the Edelwood oil poisoning him.

The day of the Edelwood oil extraction is a terrifying one. He is put under for the procedure, only for them to discover that Edelwood oil makes up for a quarter of his insignificant weight. He starts to fade, his mind accepting and embracing death as an end to his suffering. With his heart flatlining, Dr. Ingo of @nimbasamedical-train is called and the man is given life-saving blood transfusions, which he begs them not to administer as he wished for oblivion.

When he wakes up, his mind is strangely clear. He’s still miserable, but it’s not eating him alive anymore…

Most of his beard and hair has been trimmed short as the rest of it was filthy and got soaked in oil.

But when Unity comes to check on him, he recognizes her by name. Even when he was insane, he recognized that Unity was only ever trying to help, never daring to hurt her.

As he readjusts to sanity, he still has problems to face.

He’s forgotten what he looks like and can’t recognize faces anymore. He knows what his name used to be but is so full of self-hatred, he’s too ashamed to use it again. So he asks Unity to choose a new name for him.

Unity decides on Pyre.

He accepts it.

And his journey of recovery begins…

[lottiesnotebook]

Happy Friday! “They say she sold her soul to a dark god.” for Morrigan.

MORRIGAN MY BELOVED! This ended up being more of a study of the post-Origins world state in my universe where baby theft is a valid means of acquiring your Dark Ritual infant if you don't want to make your own, so hopefully this is fun...

Morrigan/Luna Tabris, post-Origins, pre-Witch Hunt, implied kidnapping, canon-typical anti-elf racism

@lasatfat | @dadrunkwriting

‘mid the fire and the embers

Morrigan does not consider what it will mean, when she saves the life of Seluna Tabris. She thinks of callussed hands that can kill as easily as they can caress, a wicked, broken smile that still burns brighter than the sun, of a child with hair like spun silver and the power of an ancient god in its veins. She was not made for love, for motherhood, but she thinks of Luna’s child in her arms and a small, selfish part of her blooms with violent joy at stealing away a piece of her love forever, a reminder of the woman who lives because of her magic, her betrayal, her dark and wicked dealings. What will matter, Morrigan thinks, is that Ferelden has their hero, and Morrigan has her child.

Except-

Except, Ferelden knows what to do with a dead hero — martyred Queen Moira, Maric the Savior, their Alamarri maid who went singing to her pyre. A living hero, an elven hero, a daughter of Denerim’s alienage who turned back the Blight from a city that took from her people without kindness or mercy… Ferelden does not know what to do with a hero like that, a hero who does not fit into the narrow, human box they have constructed around the word.

She hears the whispers first when she ventures into town, Kieran (close enough to Cyrion to honour the father Luna loved so dearly, far enough to avoid suspicion) bundled up against her chest:

“Did you see her though? A knife-ear like that, small and skinny besides-”

“And all those big, strong Warden lads behind her? It can’t be true.”

“I hear she bedded King Alistair in exchange for the credit.”

“I hear she used blood magic, or sold her soul-”

Morrigan has never cared for rumours before, or for those who spread them. Talk is cheap, and blunter than blades, lighter than stones. Nobody has ever died from talk, she thinks, as she gathers up her bundles of flour and beans, the staples that towns sell cheaply but forests do not provide. She does not think, then, of Luna humming as she kneaded dough for parathas, of the flour that smudged her nose, how she’d complained when her belly grew too round to easily reach the counter.

She thinks of her later, when she hears that Denerim’s alienage burned.

“Of course, if they were harbouring a blood mage-”

“An apostate-”

“A runaway Warden-”

“They say she sold the king’s child to a witch, and that’s why the Wardens wouldn’t take her back.”

As if Alistair had a single claim to Kieran, as if anyone could claim him but Morrigan and Luna alone!

Words are wind, and talk is cheap, and still, Morrigan finds her feet on the road to miserable, stinking Denerim, to the ashes of an alienage, and a woman who sold her child to save the world, and her own life. If that, to these Fereldens, is wickedness, then perhaps they are both monsters, or perhaps, this world was not made for heroes like Luna Tabris. No matter. Morrigan may be a monster, but she will build a better world for her beloved and their boy, from the bones of those who might have burned her.

[some-small-mercy]

The Broken Throne

What Was

All now know the tale of Lugash-Hiraz, first Lord of the Ochre Plain, then Satrap of Ten Heavens and Assessor of Divine Tribute, and most lately the much-honored Persecutor of the Dishonored Dead. He was well-loved by neither mortal nor God, but he was ancient beyond memory, and rich beyond dreams of avarice. His priests were tyrants and misers, their estates only growing as their patron abandoned each Dynasty in turn, always at just the moment where his betrayal would earn the highest price from their successors. He was a loathsome and many-eyed toad, consumed by sins both petty and grand, possessed of every failing mortal and divine. Most hatefully of all, his appetites were never sated - with each year he forever demanded new treasures and curiosities, ever-dearer sacrifices and slaves. Across what was once the Empire are a millennium of pyres and tombs, hosts and fortunes consigned to the Underworld to preserve the fickle favor of Heaven.

Lo, but his demesne was glorious. A palace of emerald and ivory. A legion of slaves in golden chains and golden masks. Ambrosia-bearing orchards and endless fountains of purest nectar. A court of lesser gods gathered around him, flattering his every vanity in the hope of some scrap of favor, which tried and punished the souls of those who died without blessings or rites. A thousand sacrificed souls, forever glowing with the pyre’s light or walking with the quiet of an airless tomb, waited upon the most transient desire of the meanest guest. All while those to be judged walked barefoot over fields of shattered glass, wailing in agony as they volunteered for trials and games in the hopes of winning the smallest iota of respite.

In the last days of the final Mandate, Lugash-Hiraz grew soft and fat. His reptilian apetites grew so vast that he turned his gaze from the world below and coveted the thrones and offices of the great gods above him, the imperial powers he still debased himself and kowtowed before.

And so it was, that when the order of the world was undone and all fell to blood and ash, he had neither warning nor plan.

And so it was, that when his priests were butchered and burned by those they had held in terror with the lash of his judgement, and his fields and temples were overgrown with all-loving Flesh, he had naught to offer in return but empty rage.

And so it was, that when the White Serpent Fuxi intruded upon his demesne and feasted upon the guardians he set upon it, he had no recourse but to bargain and plead, offering hoards of gold and promises of glory before its ophidian gaze.

And so it was, that the Eater of Gods feasted for a day and a night, and the screams and desperate appeals that were Lugash-Hiraz’s last efforts echo still throughout this grey and lifeless land.

What Is

Fuxi had little interest in mortal souls, no matter the legions that were sent to bar its way. Amid the ruins of the palace of Lugash-Hiraz, many of his household were left unharmed. Bejeweled attendants and silk-garbed heralds as well as the longsuffering drudges whose chains sat more heavily upon them. They lived, in the odd way which the dead might be said to. And yet that mattered little, compared to what else the serpent’s ruin had wrought.

Lo, but they were free!

They made a pyre of all their chains, and fed lash and overseer alike to what remained of their Master’s guardian beasts. Though the gardens wilted and the fountains clogged with filth and silt, they established themselves in the heart and throne of his ruined manse. Amid catastrophe and apocalypse, they exulted and were merry, and partook of all that which had been denied them.

It was only as the glory of their liberation faded that they at last turned their eyes outward, and beheld the wasteland that Heaven had become. The confusion and anarchy that pervaded all, the petty tyrants that now tyrannized the lost and hopeless souls trapped in this ruined shadow of the world.

On every neck a yoke, in every hand a lash. The perfect hierarchy which once oppressed them, replaced with the squabbling of ten thousand petty thugs.

If this was to be the end of all things, the slow dissolution into an exultant Abyss which it is said will follow a world without Mandate and a Heaven without Gods, then surely it might be met with some measure of dignity and grace. An afterlife of an afterlife, where for one bright moment virtue and justice reigned at last supreme.

From amongst their number, the once-slaves elected captains and judges - those whose servitude had seen them shaped into something beautiful or silver-tongued, their minds weighed down with libraries of philosophy which Lugash-Hiraz had coveted but did not read. They donned the golden masks of harbingers and heralds, and walked proudly on what remained of Royal Roads. They held writs bearing the seal of vacant offices, and spoke of debts and bonds most had begun to forget.

They made usurpation an art, and with the authority of their dead tyrant they offered patient mediation and justice both swift and fair. With every secret of rhetoric learned waiting upon a monster’s court, a hundred firefly-wisps in shining eyes and golden masks offered hope, a vision of what yet might be built.

A Republic of Virtue, a shining light against the looming dark. A moment, however brief, where the shades of the dead might finally live as they always should.