#pile of rust / ashes to dust

[witchdisk]

something is terribly wrong with you

I made a website for the hog slapping stuff: instructions for how to do it, what we learned, unedited videos of each slap, immediately after vs healed pics, the works. Check it out, share it with your friends, ask us clarifying questions!

[isabelckl]

smoke and mirrors

messenger ellie williams x aristocrat fem!reader (victorian au)

set in the late 1800s, when paper was banned and all unsupervised communication was made illegal, memory couriers emerged in secret—risking arrest to carry spoken messages across divided cities and restricted borders. with your fiancé stationed in a province you can no longer reach, you're forced to rely on Ellie, a heavily tattooed courier working underground, to carry your words.

Part 2

You walked swiftly, head bowed, your boots scraping through the damp filth of the alleyway. The hem of your black muslin gown was already heavy with mud, and your cloak did little to guard against the chill creeping through the narrow streets. You hadn’t looked up once since slipping past the manor gates—just kept moving, heart tight in your chest, breath clouding in the cold.

You’d never done anything like this before.

No guards. No chaperone. No carriage waiting.

Just you, in plain clothes and a faded bonnet pulled low, hoping no one would look closely enough to recognize the face beneath. A lady of your station had no business in this district—especially not alone. But you had done it. You had escaped.

And all for a message. A foolish, reckless message.

But oh, what does one not risk for love?

Now you stood at the edge of a crooked cobblestone, staring up at the building before you. It was one of the few still upright on this side of the quarter—its brickwork scorched with soot, iron balconies sagging with rust, windows clouded by dust and ash. The guards of the Ministry had passed this way not long ago, their boots echoing like gunshots in the empty street—but even with them gone, you kept your head low.

This part of the city was no longer considered livable. Not by decree, but necessity.

Silence hung in the air like smoke, pierced only by the low groan of the wind through broken shutters and the faint hiss of steam pipes beneath the street.

They said the messenger could be found here.

You stepped inside. The front hall was dim and cold, lit only by a waning wall lamp and the pale gray wash of dusk that leaked through cracks in the boarded windows. The scent struck you first—smoke, damp timber, and something ink-sharp and stale, like forgotten parchment sealed too long.

As you moved deeper into the corridor, your gloved hand trailing lightly along the bannister, a woman came rushing down the stairs—her skirts disheveled, bonnet askew, a handkerchief pressed tightly to her mouth. She nearly collided with you. Her shoulders were trembling, breath coming in shallow gasps as if she’d been holding them in for far too long.

You stepped aside, watching her disappear into the shadowed vestibule below. Whatever news she’d come for, it hadn’t been kind. A death. A denial. A letter that never arrived, perhaps.

Your stomach twisted.

On the second floor, you passed others descending in silence—coats drawn close, eyes downcast, hands clutching thin slips of paper too carefully to be legal. No one spoke. No one looked at you.

Outside the final door, a queue had formed, bodies pressed along the faded wall in a kind of reverent hush. You joined it without a word.

A man two places down cast you a glance. You caught it from the corner of your eye and turned your head slightly, pretending interest in the cracks along the floor. You kept your expression blank. The bonnet helped, but not enough.

Minutes passed. Longer.

When the door opened, a signal without words, you stepped forward and slipped inside.

The room smelled of paper and smoke.

Stacks of yellowed pages crowded every corner—some bundled with twine, some spilling from crates, others piled like unstable monuments along the floor. It looked less like an office and more like a reliquary of lost things.

Heavy curtains swallowed what little light the outside world offered. Dust hung thick in the air. And at the center of it all, an old desk, and the oil lamp that flickers weakly stops it, its glow no brighter than a dying ember.

Behind the desk sat a woman.

Tattoos crept up her arms and curled across the backs of her hands, disappearing beneath the rolled sleeves of a worn linen shirt and the fraying edges of a charcoal waistcoat. She looked like someone who had watched the city fall and found it unremarkable—so long as she had ink, ash, and something to write with. A half-burned cigarette smoldered between two fingers as she scribbled something into a thick ledger, her expression blank, unmoved.

On the other hand, she held a dip pen—its brass nib glinting faintly beneath the lamplight as it scratched across the page, tip freshly stained with ink from the bottle by her elbow.

She didn’t look up when you entered.

You lingered in the doorway, bonnet tilted low, doing your best not to grimace at the stale tang of tobacco hanging thick in the air. You hated that smell. Your fiancé didn’t smoke—never had. You’d grown soft on lavender-scented letters and soap-washed hands, not this.

“I’d like to deliver a message,” you said, voice steady though your pulse betrayed you.

Her pen paused mid-stroke.

She didn’t look up. Just sat there for a moment, as if the sound of your voice had struck something deeper than she expected. Like it reached somewhere memory had been buried but not erased.

She merely raised a hand, fingers flicking in a slow, indifferent gesture.

Permission.

“For my fiancé,” you added, softer this time.

She laid the pen aside with care, brass nib tapping against the rim of the ceramic inkwell. Then she took one last drag from the cigarette and pressed it into the ashtray. At last, her eyes lifted.

Green, sharp, deliberate.

They caught on you and held, and the weight of her stare made your breath stall. Not because she was unfamiliar—but because she wasn’t.

It had been years. Not since before the restrictions. Before permits and boundaries. Before your world had been divided into the watched and the waiting.

Back then, your family’s estate still ran like a clock. Breakfast at seven, guests by ten, servants unseen after dark. Her mother had worked in your home as a maid. Her father was a courier, often seen trudging up the rear garden path, boots caked in mud, hands roughened by winter and labor. And Ellie? Ellie had been the quiet child who came with them on rainy afternoons, holding a ledger too large for her arms, waiting by the back steps until the parcels were signed for.

You had watched her from the drawing-room window. Outside and damp. And always beneath you—figuratively and otherwise.

Your parents would never have remembered her face.

But you had.

And now she sat behind a desk no proper young woman ought to approach, ink on her fingers, smoke curling around her shoulders—as if she'd always belonged there.

Her gaze swept over you—once, twice—slow and deliberate, like she was measuring you. From the laces of your boots to the edges of your modest traveling gown. Something flickered at the corner of her mouth, not quite a smile. Not quite a scoff either. Just a shadow of amusement she didn’t bother to name. She looked rougher now. Harder. Like the years had carved themselves into her skin and left no room for softness.

“How old are you?” she asked, voice low and rasped from smoke and disuse.

You frowned, lifting your chin instinctively. “Old enough,” you answered, finding the question oddly misplaced.

She raised a brow—unconvinced, unmoved. She didn’t argue, didn’t speak. Just watched you with a look that felt far too knowing, like she was waiting for something true to fall from your mouth instead.

The silence grated.

“Pardon me,” you said, a measured edge beneath your words, “but I fail to see what bearing that has. I am here to send a message to my fiancé.”

Ellie leaned back slightly, the movement casual but not careless, then set the dip pen down beside the inkwell with the same precision as before. “I’m aware. That’s why you’re here.”

The tone—flat, edged, knowing—made your jaw tense.

She sighed, gathered a stack of crumpled papers from her desk, and swept them neatly to the floor beside her. “I ask questions because I must,” she said curtly. “Every word I carry is a risk. I’d rather know the nature of those I serve.”

Her voice was measured, serious in a way that left little room for courtesy. The calm sharpness of it matched her expression—cool, unreadable, nothing like the girl you used to glimpse from the window of your room. That girl, trailing behind her mother or father in silence, sodden boots and wide eyes—she didn’t live in this room.

You met her gaze. “I’m old enough. Perhaps older than you.”

The words cut a little too hard, sharper than intended, and you felt it the moment they left your tongue. The irritation hadn’t left, but something smaller and more brittle cracked beneath it.

“And I just…” You inhaled. “I just need to deliver something to my fiancé.”

Ellie tilted her head slightly. Pen returned to her hand—but she didn’t write. Instead, she stared at you again. And again, that quiet, brazen stare made your posture straighten instinctively. It unsettled something in you. Not because she was harsh, but because she was utterly unbothered. Steady. Still.

You weren’t used to being looked at like that. Especially not by someone like her.

“You look young to be wed,” she said at last, words unhurried.

You lifted your chin, letting your gaze harden. “I didn’t come here for your opinion.”

Your eyes swept the room again. So many papers—how many of them were love letters? Pleas? Goodbyes? Secrets? How many were from people like you, hoping for an answer?

She nodded once, a slight tilt of her head toward the space between you. “Very well. Speak what you wish me to carry.”

You hesitated.

She didn’t wait. The pen resumed its motion, its nib whispering across the page.

You stepped forward, carefully. “Tell him… I hope he is well. That his family remains safe.” You paused, throat tight. “That I miss him. Terribly. And that I’m still waiting. I will wait—until all of this is over. And…”

The words tangled.

Saying it aloud felt strange. Saying it to her—stranger still.

“…Tell him I love him.”

Ellie’s pen stilled.

She did not look up. Merely reached for her cigarette and lit it with quiet precision, the flare of the match briefly catching the edge of her cheekbone in gold.

“That is all,” you murmured.

She gave a faint nod, finally lifting her gaze. “In a place like this,” she said, voice low, “it is often simpler to forget than to send things meant to be remembered.”

The weight of it landed harder than you expected.

What did she know of such things?

You slipped a small folded note from your coat—along with a worn banknote and the delivery address, scrawled hastily on creased paper—and placed them on the desk without a word.

You turned, before you could leave, you stopped.

Something twisted sharp behind your ribs. The words rose before you could stop them.

You glanced over your shoulder, voice colder than you meant it. “And what would you know of love, in any case?”

Ellie didn’t so much as blink. She exhaled slowly, the smoke unfurling between you—thin, silent, unreadable.

You didn’t wait for her answer.

The door cracked shut behind you with more force than necessary, the sound echoing down the narrow stairwell. Those waiting outside flinched and turned. You ignored them.

You yanked your bonnet lower, boots echoing in clipped defiance as you passed.

Who says something like that?

Was it truly so difficult—to do your job without stripping hope from those who still dared to hold it?

[professorcloak]

Beneath the Bloodstains P2

part 2!!!

The morning doesn’t arrive all at once—it unravels slowly, in hushed fragments.

You wake to the soft rustle of leaves above, the sound like whispers passed between the trees. A breeze slips through the canopy, cool and cautious, like it’s trying not to wake the world too loudly. The scent of woodsmoke clings to everything—your clothes, your hair, the inside of your lungs—faint but constant, mixed with the earthy weight of damp moss and the dull, coppery tang of dried blood. Not new blood. Not a warning. Just another remnant of yesterday’s violence, woven into the rhythm of surviving.

Your shoulder pulses with a low, persistent ache—a deep throb that anchors you to your body in a way that’s almost grounding. It’s not sharp anymore, not burning. Just tender. Healing. When you flex your fingers, the muscles pull tight. A small wince escapes before you can stifle it.

Daryl’s not there.

You notice before your eyes are even fully open. The space near the fire where he sometimes sits, crouched low with one knee up and his bow across his lap, is empty. His absence settles into the quiet like a shadow—familiar, expected, but not unnoticed.

He’s always been like that. A presence so light it barely leaves footprints. He moves through the camp the way smoke curls through trees—silent, effortless, untouchable. No one questions it anymore. They’ve learned better. You have, too. But still… your eyes linger on the treeline longer than they need to. Scanning without thinking. Like you’re waiting for something you won’t admit you’re missing.

You ease into your jacket with a quiet hiss of breath, careful not to stretch too far, not to disturb the still-mending wound. The fabric is stiff and cold against your skin, but it helps hold you together. A layer between you and everything else.

The camp is beginning to stir, slowly, like a creature reluctant to wake.

Carl sits near the ashes of last night’s fire, disassembling a rifle that doesn’t need fixing, his hands methodical and tense. Maggie’s off to the side, needle in hand, frowning at the uneven stitches she’s trying to force through a torn sleeve. Rick leans against a rusted folding chair, talking to someone in low, clipped tones—his voice always tight, like it’s fighting itself. Everyone’s moving with that early-morning heaviness, a kind of quiet dread that always lingers until the sun is fully up and the dead have stayed dead.

No one pays you much attention. A glance, maybe. A nod. Nothing that lingers. That’s fine. That’s how it’s always been. You’ve never needed to be seen.

Still, your eyes keep drifting to the woods—narrowing slightly, then widening again, watching the places where light turns to shadow.

You tell yourself it’s just habit. But habits don’t make your pulse jump when a branch snaps in the distance.

You find him sitting at the edge of a dry creek bed, half-hidden beneath a canopy of tangled limbs and dappled light. He’s perched on a fallen tree, the bark long since stripped away by weather and time, one boot braced against a gnarled snarl of exposed roots, the other grounded in a bed of dead leaves and pale dust.

His crossbow rests across his lap—unloaded, its limbs slack. The weapon looks at home there, nestled in the cradle of his knees like it belongs to his body more than any limb might. He’s working a small, splintered shaft between his fingers, the blade of his pocketknife glinting as it whittles slow, steady curls from the wood. Each movement is quiet, precise. Purposeful. The kind of silence that doesn’t come from absence, but control.

A pile of shavings gathers at his feet—thin, pale ribbons catching the sunlight like bone flakes scattered in the dust.

He doesn’t look up when you approach. Doesn’t say a word or even pause the motion of his hands. But his chin lifts—just barely. It’s subtle. The kind of acknowledgement that someone else might miss. But not you.

You settle onto a flat rock a few feet away—close enough to share the same patch of shade, but not enough to press in. A safe distance. The one that’s become your version of familiar.

Overhead, the trees rustle gently, the breeze brushing through their branches like a secret being passed around. Somewhere deeper in the woods, a bird cries out—sharp and singular, like it’s mourning something.

You shift slightly, your wounded shoulder catching as you move. The pain is duller now, worn down at the edges, but it still flares if you forget to move carefully. You don’t say anything. But you don’t have to.

“Didn’t redress it this morning,” Daryl says without looking up.

His voice is rough, scraped thin by too many hours awake, too much silence between words. It’s not a question—just a fact, delivered like the flick of a match in a dark room.

You sigh through your nose, rubbing your palm over your knee. “Didn’t feel like it.”

There’s a pause—just long enough for the silence to thicken, but not long enough to get uncomfortable.

He stops carving. Reaches into the worn canvas pouch hanging at his hip, fingers disappearing briefly before tossing something through the air in a small, practiced arc.

It lands beside you with a soft thud—a battered metal tin, dented and darkened with age, its lid scratched smooth. You pick it up and crack it open. The smell rises immediately—pine tar, maybe, or something sharper, antiseptic and wild. Homemade, clearly. Nothing that came from a shelf. You can see how much is left by the scrape lines inside, the residue clinging to the corners. You wonder if he made it. You wonder who else he’s used it on.

Your fingers tighten around it. “Thanks.”

His eyes stay forward, watching the woods like something might stir from them any second. “Figure you’ll want your arm in one piece next time,” he says quietly.

It’s not sarcasm. Not quite concern, either. But the way he says it, low and steady, makes something settle differently in your chest. Like there’s more to it than just practical caution.

You don’t respond right away. The air between you feels stretched thin—not fragile, just... taut. Like a line pulled tight between two trees, swaying slightly in the wind. One wrong word and it’ll snap. But if you leave it be, it’ll hold.

So you don’t push. You sit there with the tin in your lap, listening to the hush of the woods, the slow scrape of Daryl’s knife as he returns to carving. You don’t speak. Don’t need to.

In this world, connection doesn’t always come in words. Sometimes it’s found in quiet offerings and in the middle distance.

Later, when the group sets out—another scavenge, another forgotten pocket of the world buried beneath vines and silence—Daryl doesn’t say a word.

He just falls in behind you.

Not beside. Never beside. But always close enough that you can feel him there, like a shadow stitched to your heel.

The house looms like a corpse at the edge of the treeline—its bones buckled, the roof sagging inward beneath the weight of too many winters and no one left to care. Charred streaks blacken the siding where fire once licked up the walls, now smothered and cold. Ivy and mold claw through broken windows, devouring what’s left with quiet, patient hunger. The front door hangs crooked on rusted hinges, creaking like it doesn’t want to be opened again.

Inside, the air is heavy and wet, thick with the smell of mildew and decay. It clings to your skin, settles in your lungs like rot. Old lives lie scattered across the floor—soggy children’s books, a toppled bassinet, a heap of waterlogged clothes slumped in a corner. A photo frame rests face-down in a puddle of rainwater on the warped wood floor. When you nudge it upright with your boot, the image inside is little more than a blur of faces now—features erased by time and weather. Whoever they were, they're ghosts now.

You move carefully, every step deliberate. The boards groan under your boots, and the faded wallpaper peels in long, curling strips from the damp walls. Your shoulder pulses with dull heat, a rhythmic throb that never quite goes silent, but your grip on the machete is steady. Practiced.

You clear the kitchen first. Then the hallway, its narrow stretch lined with dusty frames and forgotten memories. Daryl doesn’t speak. Doesn’t make a sound. But he’s there behind you, every movement measured, watching the corners you can’t.

When you glance back, just for a second, his eyes are already on you. He looks away immediately, like you caught him peeking through something private.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

The master bedroom is a wreck—collapsed ceiling spilling insulation across the bed like entrails, furniture warped and bloated from water damage. You don’t see the walker until it moves. It comes from behind a cracked wardrobe, fast and quiet—too thin to groan, too dried out to stink. But its eyes burn with hunger, and its hands reach like it remembers what it was.

You spin, but too late.

Its claws scrape your ribs, a glancing blow, enough to tear through your jacket and slice skin beneath. Pain flares bright and immediate, but there’s no time to process it.

Then he’s there.

A blur of movement beside you, wind and breath and muscle. Daryl’s knife flashes silver in the dim light, his body crashing into the walker with a guttural snarl. The blade drives into its temple with a sickening crunch. The thing shudders, jerks, and collapses like a marionette with its strings cut, landing hard at your feet.

The only sound in the room is your breathing—yours and his. Harsh. Fast. Real.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

But he steps in close, rough fingers already on your arm, tugging the fabric aside to check your side. His hand is warm, steady. Too steady.

You don’t flinch. Don’t pull away.

The silence stretches again—thicker this time. His thumb hovers just shy of your skin, near the wound, not quite touching. Like his body’s acting on instinct and his mind hasn’t caught up. Or maybe it has, and that’s the problem.

His gaze flicks over the torn jacket, the red blooming beneath. Nothing fatal. Nothing deep. But his jaw is tight, the muscle ticking once.

Then, like a snapped cord, he pulls back.

“You good?” His voice is low—rasped and rough like gravel under bootheels.

You nod once, breath catching in your throat. “Yeah.”

He holds your eyes a beat longer than usual. Something flickers there—gone before you can name it.

Then he turns. Walks away. And the space where he stood feels colder in his absence.--

[forgotten-retrouvaille]

{original starter / ask linked here} @moonlessnight125

Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality.

When one first saw Jill Valentine , she was the light refracted , splintered divinity , some unlovely portrait of a goddess misremembered .

Blood smeared on a window pane , anguish written in a heretical poem across documents stained with the history of those forgotten.

It was certainly something , when it came to such a thing as this . Ash filled the air with an acrid tinge , dust barely settled upon disturbed soil . Remnants of what was , what had been . What still was.

It was then Jill Valentine found herself , boots stained with soil and smoke , her steps near-silent ; a habit of something long past .

She had stepped between the rubble of a collapsed building; expertly navigating her way across still-smoldering embers , across piles of soft gray powder hot to the touch.

The silence made her uneasy ; very little good came from such a thing.

A hand traced the edge of stone , upon jagged concrete that was once a pillar of some sort . Paved tiles stained with gore , archives of slaughter resting within crevices barely trod .

The ex-cop reached up , towards rungs of slightly rusted steel , a hand wrapping around the first . She pulled herself up with a familiar capability , lifting herself up and over the raised roof edge .

Her gaze landed on another figure , steps remaining light as she made her way closer . Adjusting her shoulder holster slightly , tightening a leather glove , Jill was the first to break the silence .

"So , they weren't wrong when they told us things went to shit ."

[pudgy-planets]

30 Years Ago.

At the Summit of Olympus Mons.

“So this is what it feels like…”

Galaxia froze in place, whipping her head around in the direction of an all too familiar voice. The tyrant’s eyes widened in perplexity, gazing at the scintillating ruby red Star Seed in her clutches. For the first time in her life, she was left truly aghast.

This bewilderment turned to amusement, a sinister grin creeping into her face. This was an illusion. It had to be. The Martian warrior had been utilizing nothing but illusions since she arrived on this worthless planet.

…Then the phantom vanished.

And reappeared behind her.

“Nngh!”

The destruction senshi generated distance between the two by blasting the ground with an orange blast of energy, kicking up a storm of dust and rocks… when the smoke cleared, she found herself alone once more.

…What the hell was this?

“Is this all you know how to do? Destroy. Decimate. Turn everything in your wake to dust and ashes?”

…And there she was again, standing before her with a hardened expression. How? She personally ensured their body was reduced to cosmic dust. Her Star Seed, their very BEING lie within the palm of her own hand.

“…What boorish trickery is this?”

“Are you familiar with Shintoism?”

“Excuse me?”

Without even giving Galaxia an opportunity to comprehend the question, the apparition crouched and collected a handful of rusted soil. Like a sieve, the silkier, smoother grains slipped through the cracks of her fingers, whisked away by the winds.

She stared at the pile of dirt, tilting her head curiously.

“Our core belief is centered around appreciating and respecting the natural world. The plants, the animals, the people. Even the beings we cannot perceive with our own eyes.”

Their fist balled around the soil, squeezing with enough force that their hand began to glow a vivid heat.

“You have only one world. Once it’s gone, it is gone forever. The people, the culture, their metaphysics cease to be. Yet, if just one person persists- it can live on and potentially prosper once more.”

Steadily their hand cooled, unfurling the fist would reveal a fully grown, blossomed flower. Its petals fiery red and stem orangish in hue. Crimson nectar flowed from its stamen, dripping onto the ground at a steady pace.

Mars bent down and buried the flowers roots into the earth. The bloody droplets soon spawned more flowers, springing up at a rapid pace, enveloping the mountainside with their brilliant hue.

“Inevitably, we will reach our end. The stars will dim, life shall no longer prosper, and our universe will extinguish. We are but blips living in a single period of time insignificant to all of eternity. But, we find our purpose. We stumble, we fall, we laugh, we love, we cry, and we grow.”

Rising to her feet, she turned her attention back to a stunned Galaxia, quietly staring up at the sky. The moons, Phobos and Deimos occupied much of its space, however she could still see the endless expanse of stars occupying the Milky Way.

“And for that brief time, we experience being. Doing. Living. That is the crux of why humanity is beautiful. To be forgotten, is not to be unloved… because we ARE the world. I see that now.”

“What could you possibly be blabbering about? Living? Doing? Creating? Only fools too weak to claim what is rightfully theirs would resort to such philosophical dribble. If I have to destroy you again, I shall.”

“I do not fear oblivion. For I have seen true beauty and love. My role has been fulfilled. Not as a Senshi… Not as a Princess of Mars… but as a friend.”

Right as Galaxia prepared to erase this phantom botheration-

“U-UURKKH…”

She collapsed to her knees, golden blood gushing from the… g-gaping hole in chest? She gagged and sputtered, clasping a firm hand over the wound to minimize blood loss and hasten her regeneration.

“H-how… URRrrghhk…”

Glistening essence congealed around her hand and spilled onto the rusted ground, pooling in reflective puddles that smelt of searing flesh.

How… How… HOW?! Minutes ago she had Mars beneath her heel and now…

“GRrrrraaAAAGhhh!!”

Slowly, the wound closed… fibers reconnecting, flesh, muscle, and bone reconstituting from her cells, appearing as if she’d never been harmed at all.

She ascended to her feet, bloodlust oozing from their eyes. The presence of their foe had completely disappeared. Like the wind. The same wind that wounded her body.

Galaxia stared ominously at the Martians’s Star Seed. It pulsed, similar to heart beat. Without another word, she teleported it to her palace and vanished in a pillar of light.

Her ego and pride wounded beyond measure.

[decadence-divination]

Lunar Energetic Reset 🌑♏ days 1-3

I have good new; the first day is so fucking easy. First, here's the spell. You can do it once, you can do it every day if you want, altering your materials and name to fit your lunar phase and intention. Don't laugh at me for liking rhymes, they're easier to remember that way.

Dark moon in Scorpio, destroy my illusions. Steep me in mystery, erase my confusion. My attachments succumb to your cold, hard depths. Cleanse me now of my fear, escort me through this death. All beginnings must have ends, I rise from this darkness, to begin again.

I'm not usually in the business of telling other people what their spells should or shouldn't look like, but how mine might look will be below. I usually try to keep mine streamlined and to the point. Follow your intention to suit your circumstance. A newer practitioner might be terrified of working with moldavite but if you feel your life needs a good hard shake, by all means full send.

I like a circle for big spells and rituals such as this. I think it helps me keep focus, and it feels like a layer of protection? To me, casting a circle is the opening of the gates, if that makes sense. You are telling the universe, "Look at me! Pay attention! I'm giving you instructions, so listen up!"

I do a lot of cleansing for this one too. That's the whole point of the ritual! To get rid of old, stagnant energy doesn't serve you. Sometimes these things can be stuck on there good, like old habits.

A single black or purple candle would do perfectly, nothing wrong with a white one either. Another candle option is four points around you, white or black, symbolizing the four cardinal directions and your elemental powers.

Herbs and oils with banishing, cleansing, or protection properties such as olive oil, rosemary, oregano, vervain, mugwort, frankincense, or you could also tilt a little baneful and go foxglove, wormwood, rust ash, charcoal powder, or even graveyard dirt if there's something really icky clinging to you.

I believe I remember bringing in a hematite and a rainbow obsidian to meditate with during this part, too. Selenite, clear or smoky quartz, moldavite, onyx, black tourmaline or kyanite would be powerful helpers also.

Write the spell out, and everything you are releasing and banishing on the back. Submerge it in a bowl or cup of storm or rain blessed water to charge it. Bury the paper in the yard to charge it with earth.

The best time to do this spell might be at dusk or at night.

Since the goal of this rite is to totally clean and reset your energy, its going to have ripple effects in your life where your energy is concerned (hint: that's everywhere). I like to combine my magic with physical or "mundane," actions to get the most out of my handiwork and minimize aftershocks. Obviously these actions are optional, and will not be accessible to everyone. Your main intention is to meditate on what you are releasing and seeing that it's fully released.

Day one makes me so happy because it is literally cleaning your house but a little chaotic. We're getting rid of the freeloaders. I am giving you permission to make a mess. Obviously this gets trickier with roommates or family, but then you can just rope them in to helping. Pull things off of shelves, out of cabinets and dust as you go. Don't overwhelm yourself too fast, so work maybe on one corner of a room at a time, but don't be afraid to get dirty.

Organize things into keep, donate, and throw away groups. If a pile of ??? grows, that's okay. Leave it for now; you get to address them later. You kind of want to have to be making eye contact with your masterpiece. Put obvious keep things back where they belong as you move through the space, but keep the undecided pile in your periphery.

The second part of stage one is that when you get tired? Just stop. Leave all your crap there if you're able to. Of course, communicate with your housemates and again, you are making an oath to return to it in due time. Stop what you're doing and rest. Attend to your needs. Eat when you're hungry and sit if you get stressed or emotional and take a moment to feel your feelings as they arise. Even contemplating parting with certain treasures is enough to cause waterworks in me. This is also a practice in listening to your body and becoming attuned to your own spirit nature. It will tell you everything it needs if you listen closely enough.

The end goal is to have a clean house with a pile of leftovers you might want to get rid of but idk I really like them and I've already had it for so long. I can't just throw it away! We're not making hard decisions yet. You'll know when you're ready to move to the next phase, or you can ask the moon. You're doing amazing.

Home | Next -> 🌘♐

[birdpersonz]

Halcon Memories of an Iterator

Something quick I whipped up before bed last night, some mild downpour spoilers. This takes place a little before rivulet.

Contains: angst, hurt/comfort, mild body horror, not much dialogue

Words: 883

Summary: Five Pebbles is reaching the end of his structure's life, he's angry at himself more than anything. He remembers what was good while he still can.

The hustle and bustle of everyday life reduced to still air, as though if the breeze were too strong for the weathered and weakened buildings would collapse.

The wind blew gently, a crisp warmth that carried the sun’s energy as though it were reaching for a hug. Dancing between ruined buildings, left behind by those who once lived there. The breeze yearned for what was missing, laughing children playing games, university students rushing to class, even someone taking a comforting walk on their way to work.

No vegetation touched the broken town, as if the thick presence of death around the city prevented any form of life.

Nothing remained, not a single tribe of scavenger walked the streets. Not a soul walked the outside of the superstructure, of his can.

Layers upon layers of dust, the once pale green pearl that had been carelessly discarded upon the structure’s surface had been covered in a thick film of ash and dirt. So aged and forgotten that no iterator would be able to decipher its contents.

The Echo that had once watched over his surface had seemed to vanish. Six Grains of Gravel, Mountains Abound. Though trapped in a state between transcendence and this dying world, their place on this dusty terrain sat empty for years.

The karma gate remained still, silent. Rust spilled onto the once-pristine metal of it, tainting it with the age of its surroundings. It had done well to keep the sickness out, to keep his sickness in.

Past blinking lights and buzzing interfaces. Unwilling to turn off for the last time like many of his others, they stayed on. Was it his stubbornness to become inactive, or did he still hold some will left in him? He doubted it was the latter.

Within the general systems bus, he sat in his chamber.

Five Pebbles sat on the tiled floors, and four of his last remaining neurons hovered above his form. His sunset-coloured cloak bunched up around his legs, red and blue wiring extended from his neck, tangling around him. Usually, he would find it cumbersome, to tidy them immediately. He seemed to lack the energy now, however.

In a pile on the ground, his puppet whimpered and trembled in discomfort, feeling the infection deep inside his system.

The puppet sat, knees to his chest. Surrounded by stacks upon stacks of his pearls, his eyes narrowed at seeing his reflection on their sparkling surfaces.

He could admit, he was far from being a vain iterator, he barely cared for his appearance. But seeing his pitiful figure here, hunched on the floor with a tattered cloak and sparkes flinging from his non-functional mechanical arm, binding him to the walls of this cursed place. He hated it.

He was a robot, an AI controlling a puppet. He should not be able to feel the growing lump in his throat, his glowing eyes felt heavy. He was artificial. Unable to cry even if he wanted to. It tore at his deepest circuitry. He felt like he wanted to scream. For as long as his puppet or broken hardware would allow.

Five Pebbled buried his face in his knees, fingers curling around his mechanical antenna. He wanted nothing more than to rip them from his temples. But he knew he couldn’t.

He cringed, screwing his eyes shut as he felt more of his infection, more of the rot seep into his core, eating away at the inside of his can. Eating away at his memories, eating away at him.

His bright eyes opened, studying his hand. The puppet’s delicate pink fingers dulled to a grey, glowing blue from between the plating of his digits. His sickness had started infecting his puppet, not that he could do anything about it except watch, regardless.

“I’m sorry, Moon,” his mechanical voice came out as little more than a whisper. “Everything I put you through, you were always so patient with me.”

He reached for a bright purple pearl, running his fingers along its surface. It played a tune, the tune of the city that sat atop his can.

“It was not your fault they left us here, abandoned us with their problems. I should not have been so hard on you. I wish I had listened to you sooner, big sister.”

Halcon Memories sung out within the chamber, Five Pebbles drummed his fingers to the beat.

“I do not know if you are even still operational if you are even still alive. But please, wait for me, wherever it is we go to when we die, please wait for me. I need to tell you how sorry I am.”

His eyes drifted to the several firey scratch marks over his puppet’s metallic flesh. He smiled, remembering the little combustible rodent that chose him. So angry at the world, like he once was, the little animal found comfort in him as he did them.

“You too, my citizen, I hope to see you too.”

Halcon Memories faded out, the song coming to a finish. Five Pebbles reached for the pearl, replaying the song. He started to forget about his worsening condition as he focused on the musical notes. In the moment, he was at peace, no longer angry at the world, as his creators. No longer angry at himself.

[themarginalthinker]

Dear Fellow Traveler

There are other vampires in the world, and the world itself is a big, big place. David takes a little trip.

-

Sooo......this is an odd one. Basically so far outside of Lost Boys canon it almost isn't anymore, but it's also a small look into some vampire worldbuilding Berd and I have done. David knows people outside of his pack, and they know him. (They certainly know Max, and that's not a good thing.)

Anyway, here you go. Enjoy?

-

It's not hard to find what you're looking for if you know what to look for.

David meanders down the streets of a late-night San Jose. The place hadn't changed too much since his last visit, a couple years ago. Marko and Paul hadn't been wrong - it was a city of many people, from all over. Most of California seemed like that.

San Jose was not Santa Carla, however. Few places were, David would give it that. Further inland, the air didn't hold salt and brine anymore, wasn't thick with humidity that gripped the scent of whatever organic life passed through it.

The blood here was of a different kind. Smeared on concrete thick with grit and dust. In the ash of smoke from things rolled into cigarettes that even Paul likely hadn't had the time to try all of.

David follows it. It makes no attempts to hide itself.

Humans couldn't smell it, after all.

It takes him past downtown - predictably. Hunting grounds for those with the charm, the grace to stalk the nightclub and bar, and for those without, plenty of pickings in the back alleys and unfortunates sleeping on park benches and bus routes. But one never mixed supper with sleep, and David veered off that path, following the one laid out. He glances up, to the side of a bricked up building. There were less businesses here, tucked away in second-story lofts and between condemned flats. He finds what he expects to see:

A tag, small enough to not draw the eye, in faded brown, sealed below disguising black paint. A calaveras, its grinning teeth showing points at the canines, and the moon in pretty, decorated swirls at its bone forehead.

He'd been following the trail for the last hour. The blood was getting fresher.

The streets are darker out here. Less cars, and those that do pass him are beaters at best. Spaces between buildings are trash heaps, massive junk piles. Sometimes, he thinks he sees something darting out of view when he looks up to the glassless windows of a building. Senses a shift in the air as he passes along a certain way, avoiding the scattered streetlights.

Finally, he comes to a stop.

A warehouse, utterly dilapidated, stretching along before a huge chunk of abandoned manufacturing factory property. Surrounded on all sides by the rusting, decaying waste of metal, the exoskeleton of a once-great beast twisted and scattered to and fro. The back end of it even caving in - but.

If one looked, one could see details in the dark. If one could see in the dark.

Certain places in the roof, patched over with welded bits of sheet metal. Open spaces in the sides, to same. Holes stoppered up. David himself stood before a door to an entryway that used to lead to offices inside, or at least a coatroom of sorts - but the door wasn't just barred with lock and key, no. The hinges had been welded shut to match the patched holes in the roof. To the side, little windows, and behind them nothing but a wall of cinderblocks. One couldn't force their way inside if they tried.

Etched into the glass of one of those windows, another little sugar skull design. Sharp teeth. Moon at its forehead.

"It hasn't been that long, Williams. Can't have forgotten where the front door is."

David smiles, and it's sharp.

"No, it hasn't, and no, I haven't. I was just waiting for a proper welcome, is all."

-

David doesn't know their real name.

Vampires who headed clan hubs rarely needed them, or kept them for long after they took the position.

The vampire who greeted him outside was shorter than David, thinner shoulders, smaller over all, but their face hard set. Copper skin warm even in the darkness, their crow black hair cut short up the back, held in a wolftail with a leather cord.

The leather wasn't animal.

Their clothing was a little more familiar style - not quite the wild fancies of the Boardwalks and the coast with its warm winds and wiles, but something that seemed to fade into the mechanical park above them. Faded denim jacket, bleached into curling, skeletal markings. Lines of fine beadwork amid the torn jeans and hole-riddled long sleeve shirt. Thick boots that had seen more wear and repairs than any sane person would think to use to keep them in working order.

Some of that leather wasn't animal either.

They had brought David down in a new way. A way David, in truth, didn't know. He'd been correct in saying that he'd known the literal doors to the building weren't the way inside, but apparently the real entrance had moved since last he'd come to San Jose. Just before the entrance to the warehouse wasteland, there was a small, unassuming grate laid into the foundations of what would have been a runnoff channel. It came out with only a small application of superhuman strength, and the pair had slipped down - guests first.

The crawl space of a concrete pipe had turned into a constructed tunnel, leading to a basement room where they came up through the floor. Into the clan grounds proper.

David had asked about that, as they climbed the stairs up to the main level, the floor of the half-collapsed warehouse - an aesthetic choice, or a necessity?

"Just young idiots, making noise," the Clan Vamp said.

"Bad enough to warrant a doorman?" David had asked with a raised eyebrow.

The Clan Vamp's smile is thin. "Enough to know you were here when you crossed city limits.

Well, shit.

"This place really has gone to the dogs," David tuts.

"Was it ever anywhere else?"

They exchange smiles - with teeth. Not full teeth, for David's words were not said with malice, and the reply not given in offense. But a flash of fangs to let the other know a boundary had been met. Eye to eye.

They finish climbing the steps from the basement level, and step out into the clan grounds.

In the center of the huge, open space, three fires in low bins flickered. Enough to cast long, dark shadows on the tall walls stretching high above. All around, curtains hung from rafters, some still in their original place, and others torn down and twisted about to form more private quarters. Strings of fairy lights wound through it all, here and there, in mismatched areas of pillows and mattresses, true nests. Further back, in the darker corners, hung bodies, close together or further apart. Those who preferred to roost rather than sleep flat.

Around the fires, similarly were a few groups of couches and chairs and lounges, scattered messes of more places to lay and sit.

And people were sitting. Voices filtered through the air now, shifting like the firelight. Low tones, among groups of twos and threes, occasionally someone taking off to roost in the rafters, or return to the privacy of a nest. Snatches of music came and went, as someone somewhere in the mess tuned a radio.

David takes it all in.

"Is the party over?" He asks the Clan Vamp, nodding at the...somewhat quiet night. He remembers what it was like the last time he came.

They glance at him, a long look full of many emotions, before walking forward, David in tow.

"Sure. Since el caballo de caza decided to come around."

David braces himself.

"How many lost?" He asks quietly.

The Clan Vamp didn't answer right away. They come to a couch, low slung in the age of its use, and they sit themselves down, sinking into a corner of it with familiar ease. They gesture for David to take the opposite end, and he does. Above their heads, in the rafters, the radio is finally tuned, and something slow, melodic and heavy in the bass guitar plays.

The firelight dances across the Clan Vamp's features as they reach into their pockets, pulling out a paper carton. They take two hand-rolled cigarettes, and light one in the flame of the bin fire. They use that to light the other. They hand one to David, who takes it, and draws.

It's not fully tobacco, and David recognizes the taste of familiar drugs, and something unique he's not likely to find anywhere else.

It's a few long minutes of silence, between them. Enjoying the smoke, the amiable air.

Finally, with a flick of a finger to rid the tip of the fag of ash where it puddles on the concrete floor, the Clan Vamp speaks.

"Three packs gone, all come here from Reno. One because they both wanted the same hunting ground, wouldn't listen to negotiation. Other two because the fighting drew line of fire from Hunters."

Loud, young idiots indeed.

The Clan Vamp's unoccupied fingers drum a steady beat on their own thigh. They lick their teeth.

"Lost a childe."

David blinks.

He looks to them. Their dark eyes weren't on him, or the rest of the clan grounds. Rather, they'd focused on the fire, almost transfixed. Their mind elsewhere. Distant.

"Shit," he says flatly.

"No one you knew," they say with a shrug.

David takes another draw of smoke, holding it, letting it curl through him. Watching his own long exhale billow upwards into the dark ceiling. A pair of bodies flitted through the space, unnaturally fast, unnaturally quiet. The pair of vampires above giggling to themselves as they moved about. David's eyes came back down.

As if the knowing mattered.

David thinks about Paul, staying back with Marko, despite the two of them knowing he was going tonight. Wanting to come. Knowing they couldn't.

He thinks about them being here, if...something happened.

"You gonna stay long?" They ask him at length.

David's mouth twists into a grimace he can't quite pass off as a smile.

"Daddy would get worried," he answers.

The Clan Vamp barks a laugh, low and humorless. "Damn. Thought you might'a come out here to tell me some good news, Williams."

"Nope," David drawls, popping the 'p'. "Same as it always was. He's opened a fucking business."

"No kidding."

"Mm. Actual, legitimate thing. Videos and TVs and all that junk. Makes a killing, apparently."

Another laugh between them, only a little bit lighter.

"How long you think he's got?" The Clan Vamp asks, sucking down the last of their cigarette.

David huffs, leaning further back into the couch.

"For as long as the Devil's got patience."

"La bendición."

David grins. It's only a little dulled.

[prince-rowan-of-the-forest]

Ribbons and Rainstorms

Epilogue - 2000 years later...

----

Hello everyone! Thank you so much for reading this far!, since you've made it here I'm assuming you enjoyed my fic, but hey! Consider reblogging? Or leaving me a nice comment? Thank you to everyone who gave me advice and support whilst I wrote this, it wouldn't be the same without everyone in the Big Bang server helping to make this happen <3

Do read this epilogue, though, I personally think its worth it :D

I can't remember who it was who suggested the names for the characters in this chapter, but I love you, and thank you so much.

This fic is my child, I even have a wall in my bedroom dedicated to it, so, you best appreciate it or I'll be coming for your kneecaps!!

<- Previous | Masterpost

----

“You sure it’s this way?” Lara said, turning to her companion, who was squinting at a map as he deftly avoided the thick plant roots that seemed perfectly placed to trip up a person.

“Certain,” he replied, “But— Lara— are you sure we should be doing this? The forest— eugh— definitely doesn’t seem to want us here.”

“Sure, it’s a pretty dense forest,” She said, “But I don’t think forests are sentient, Nathan.”

“Right, right,” Replied Nathan, before he stepped straight into a muddy ditch, getting the stuff all up his trouser-leg, “Why are we doing this again?”

Lara rolled her eyes, “The locals tipped us off about an ancient temple in these woods, it could be the discovery of the century! Don’t you want to be famous?”

“Not if it means getting killed by a forest that seems far more dangerous than it should be,” Nathan said, glancing back at his map, “We should be nearly there— just up this hill, if this temple even exists.”

Half an hour of trekking through the forest that just seemed abnormally out to get them, the pair of archaeologists finally came upon the temple. The place was old, black marble chipped and no longer shining, the braziers fixed to the pillars rusted and filled with ash and fuel long since burned out. The inside was dim, filled with dust and the smell of mildew. Vines and plants trailed across the floors and up the walls, hugging the pillars and walls with thorns and probing shoots. The place was certainly old, and certainly abandoned. 

“Wow…” Lara whispered as they mounted the crumbling steps, clicking on her torch as they entered the dark space.

“We— we should check that the walls are structurally sound before we go in here,” Nathan protested, staying back at the entrance, Lara turned back, rolling her eyes.

“It’s not like we’re taking a sledgehammer to it,” She said, “If it hasn’t collapsed in the time it’s been standing here, I doubt it’s gonna collapse now.”

She dumped her pack on the ground, fishing around inside until she pulled out a high-grade camera. Quickly flicking up the lens cap so she could take photos of the space. 

In one corner was a pile of moth-eaten blankets that barely resembled blankets anymore. A closer look revealed that they had become home to a fair few critters over the years. Nathan deftly cut a sample of the material, running his fingers over it and calling out that it was certainly a good two-thousand years old. Frankly, he was astonished any of it was still here. 

“There’s not much else here — I don’t think,” Lara called, running her hand over the crumbling stone altar. The draped fabric had been entirely eaten away, but the priceless metal decorations — the candelabra, the bowl, the chalice, still remained, “I bet these would fetch a pretty penny, I wonder if the British Museum would be interested.”

Nathan scoffed, “As long as it’s stolen from a native people, I’m sure they will be.” 

“Okay, maybe not the best idea, but we should— we should definitely report this to the historical society.”

“Yeah, good idea— hey Lara— what’s that?” Nathan asked, gesturing behind her. 

“What’s what?”

“Behind you, on the wall.”

Lara turned around, stepping black so the beam from her torch could light up most of the wall. 

Against the back stretch of wall hung a tapestry, a tapestry that depicted two figures holding hands, one with flowing black hair, dressed in beautiful robes that fit the fashion two millennia ago, and the other with tan skin and dressed befitting of a prince from a fantasy book. 

“Oh how beautiful,” Nathan whispered, the sight taking their breath away, “What a lovely tapestry…”

“Can you tell when it was made?” Lara asked.

“Well— based on their dress and the needlework—" he said, slowly approaching the tapestry and running his hand over it, before lifting up the bottom corner and checking the back, “And the wool, it looks to be from a few thousand years ago, but…”

“But what?”

“The fabric has almost no wear and tear whatsoever, the colours are exceptionally bright…” Nathan mumbled, “If someone told me this was made yesterday I wouldn’t be surprised, based on condition alone.”

“How is that possible?” She asked slowly, joining him in front of the fabric to run her hand along the edge, “It should’ve been ravaged by the elements, moths, other forest creatures— but it’s not damaged in the slightest… not even frayed…”

“Very strange,” Nathan nodded, stepping back again to see what it depicted, “Do you think they were friends?”

Lara looked at him with an odd expression, before letting out an exasperated sigh, “‘do you think they were friends’ no friends look into each other’s eyes like that— they’re holding hands— are you dense?”

“Okay okay ,jeez,” He raised his hands in surrender, “Who were they, do you think?”

“Perhaps the ones who live in this temple?” Said a voice from behind them. Both archeologists turned in sync, wide eyed, to stare at the tall figure in the doorway. When he took a step forward — into Lara’s torchlight — they both gasped, because he almost perfectly matched one of the figures on the tapestry. Dress and all — he looked like he’d just stepped out of a storybook, he was almost glowing. 

“Who are you?” Nathan asked hesitantly.

“Why, I’m Ro, of course,” they said, “I know mortals have been severely lacking in whimsy the last few centuries, but surely you haven’t forgotten us all completely. Also, I thank you for correcting your friend, that is in fact my husband.”

“Wait— slow down— just a little bit,” Lara said, raising a hand, “This tapestry is two-thousand years old, you’re saying you are this person— and the other is your husband?”

“Precisely,” Ro said, as though the information made any sense at all, “See?”

He gestured to their hair, where an elaborately designed crown sat atop his bun — the only thing about his appearance that wasn't depicted in the tapestry. It seemed to be made from gold and silver embellished with red and purple gemstones. It looked… incredibly expensive. 

The archeologists didn’t know what exactly the garment meant — unfortunately the culture around hair accessories had been lost to time, and now there were only brief records of the practice — but they could easily assume it was special to this strange person. 

“Now,” He said, reaching behind him and drawing a sword that was as thick as both Lara’s arms and twice as long, “Do you wish to do harm to this temple?”

—-

Lara and Nathan left the temple with no clue how to explain to the rest of society that they had just met — talked to, been threatened by — a God, but they would have to work it out before they got back, because that was without a doubt what had happened to them today. 

----

<- Previous | Masterpost

[sweetearthandnorthernsky]

the war is over and we are beginning (grief, morinel)

spoilers for mordor sidequests potentially??? anyway, morinel is having fun during the reclamation of mordor lol

Saelinriel objects vehemently to leaving you at the hill alone – this is Mordor after all, are her words almost exactly – but you wave away her concerns.

With Sauron gone, most creatures are still weary and wary both, and you reassure her that you have your runes, and that you have Celebros, who lingers near the bottom of the hill.

(They – of all people – understand why you have to do this.)

Saelinriel studies you with a huff, before shaking her head. “Fine, but be careful.”

You watch her go, before turning to the spear that shines through the gloom of Dor Amarth. 

It is not, after all, as if you have much of a grave to sit beside, so the spear will do.

You sit cross legged beside it. 

There is only silence as you watch the dust swirling through the desolate land.

The spear thrums with power and light, and while it shouldn’t surprise you, there is a very small part that is surprised that it survived all these years �� especially when its owner... did not.

"It is done," you say, quietly, almost so quietly you cannot hear yourself as the sliver of glass labeled grief slips a little deeper into your heart, knowing you can say these words only to a lifeless weapon on this shore of the sea. "He is gone, for good this time."

Wind tugs at your hair but you do not feel it.

You understand now, ages later, what your father told you, so many millienia ago, on shores that now lay foundered beneath the sea: Our people are doomed to repeat the same pains, to know the same loves and endure the fickle hammer of fate. We are fated to watch our greatest shine brightly only to fade. Know this well, daughter of the Noldor, for it is also your doom.

You push those thoughts from your mind as you dig handfuls of rust-red dirt and ash to ground yourself in the moment. Dust scrapes your cheekbones, and your eyes water as the splinter wedges itself deeper and deeper.

The weight of the three thousand and twenty five years that you missed -- where you could have done things, could have helped -- weighs like great piles of lead on your shoulders, and you take a heavy breath.

"I am sorry," you say finally, quieter than the wind.

As the wind calms, the weight lifts slightly and the knot of emotions tangled in your chest loosen.

You cannot bring yourself to say: I miss you.

But the splinter eases all the same, though it still hurts.

You think it might always, until you sail.

But, for now, you are content to sit in silence, and let the feelings wash over you.

[drinkmywordslikewine]

of what remains

i wish to drink from you. every last drop that you’d afford me. i want to partake in you. i want to indulge in the very scent of your being. i am yours, effervescently, enraptured by you and entangled in all that would lead to you.

our stagnancy begets isolation. we age, and we age, and we age, and we age. rotting yet never meaningfully vanishing until the last to know our names simply forget what they were. loss and grief have potted soil, planted new life, fertilized cracked earth, watered dry mouths and whispered that every end is a new beginning and we are not truly alone. bones pile up, collect, murmur at each other as fires burn and manses tumble; and they tell their grotesque and morbid stories. mothers watched their sons shrivel and fathers hands turned black and daughters eyes went milky white, people melt and humanity is snuffed in favour of its viscera.

i do not think i’ll drift gently. i writhe against the premise that we came from nothing to die alone. i want. i yearn. i lust, and i’m insatiable. i want. want and want and want and want and want and want. i, want. i, yearn. i wish to drink from someone, from anyone. i thirst and i hunger and i water and i tremble and i desire. it has taken me by now, i’m sure of it. the last of my wits gone as my mind is for consumption to the little bugs that burrow deep into my skull. i always was for consumption.

my body lay upright against the wall of some once-important but now forgotten house. lords have come and gone, masters attained and fled, wars fought and won and lost. i have remained. i am but bones now, a skeleton not just in theory but in practice, there is little else left of me. i am of many who remain, i am of remains, and our stories will vanish. our metal will rust, our blades will dull, we will just be bones rotting in these halls, yearning for what once was and can never be. i hope to join with you soon. souls churn and collide at the end of time, once there is no dust left to settle. to turn back into that primordial soup from which we arose; that hunt is foundational. the chase is what bound us together, the fight is what brought us here, and failure has shaped our lands and built our kingdoms and birthed our children and absconded with our gods and burnt us to ash. erosion is my next desire.

i will become you, as i have wished to drink from you and become you.

04/06/25

[radioiaci]

It was true that Alastor was stubborn - that could not be changed about him, much like a good portion of his personality and being. Whether Pentious agreed to go in or remain outside did not change what he had to do, though the other's insistence on the matter did amuse him just a bit, extending a hand to steady him as he was joined on the porch.

"I will let you know," Alastor replied, appreciative that Pentious seemed determined, but having nothing in mind for how he could help. Much of this, he had to do and cope with himself, leaning to press a small kiss right to the corner of the other's mouth before he turned towards the door.

The door itself, which was truly only two-thirds of what it was supposed to be, gave easily, creaking open on old, rusted hinges as he stepped into the front walkway of the interior. Much of the actual ceiling had been ruined in what he presumed to be the fire, large chunks of wooden slats either fallen away or missing entirely - what remained was charred and blackened as he glanced up to catch a few stray rays of sunlight above.

The wood beneath his feet protested with each step, cautious of where he placed his weight as he ventured further into the darkened, greyed home. The front hallway was long, feeding into the first room which could have ostensibly been seen as a kitchen or dining area. No appliances were present, except for what looked to be remnants of a stove, with what looked to be a pile of wood all but burned to crisps nearby. But that room connected to a small living area, shelves and a few wooden chairs alluding to it be the main 'gathering' place.

And yet nothing substantial remained.

Alastor passed through, searching high and low for any lingering remnants. When they'd moved, they'd certainly not taken everything. And they'd especially left behind any keepsakes of his father's.

But what he did notice was that on one of the remaining wooden beams that made up the shoddy home's construction, were a few carved lines, his first name above them scored into the wood similarly, though one could only make out a few letters of it.

Height markers, he remembered. He had grown tall fairly quickly. His mother had wanted to document it.

Alastor remained crouched there for a few minutes, running fingers over the texture of it; dusting ash from the letters and lines.

Introspective. Lost in nostalgia.

Though every fibre of Pentious' being was telling him to do as Alastor suggested, through his intuition and common sense as the old wood broke beneath his companion, he couldn't do it. Alastor was a stubborn man. And he was dead set on going in. Pentious couldn't stop him and he couldn't stay behind either. He collected himself, fixing his hat once again with an elegant sort of huff.

"Do not be ridiculous, I am not letting you go alone. What if the, uhm-" Pentious paused, honestly not sure what to call the disturbing hovel, "...ceiling collapses on you? I will come too."

He held onto the practically rotten railing of the steps, cursing the awkwardness of his briefly recovered feet. He managed to push himself upon the porch, dreading each creak and other sound that escaped from the aged wood.

He stepped beside the other Sinner, determination on his own face. Even if what could have waited behind the door intimidated him greatly.

"Just tell me if I can be of- of some kind of assistance," he pleaded, curious and even concerned of the mystery that shrouded the secluded location. Just what was Alastor looking for, he wondered.

Just what could be found in a place like this?

[s0mi-um]

“Phoenix”

brightly burned so elegantly

become chosen ash and dust

discovering your remedial reflection

among their gluttonous pile of rust

broken bones forged forgotten

into stones for a home well trodden

creating anew prophet of recalled delight

cascade me now into eternal flight

[emergencyexist]

The last memory in me, fading

Endless scrubbing In the air, the rust takes off And you are but Nameless ashes, a pile of dust, too

blown

away

The caress of the wind

I am coming to be free

Already half gone now, and I

smile

[mystery-of-a-magpie]

Spectacle

A graveyard of a hopeful youth overgrown

in spun sugar plum silhouettes 

each year drifting back to vibrant lights and spectacle.

The fairgrounds, a zombie lurching back from the dead 

Waltzing out of the rusted calliope 

wrapping the scene in an uneasy warmth 

with a foul feeling, a smell of burnt popcorn

lingering from years upon years of use.  

Horses rise and fall like the tide,

sending waves of anticipation as it splashes 

against the sun-kissed cheeks of the unafflicted.

It’s a circus of neon and gasoline, 

the smell of rubber mixing with the oils and sugar 

from the cramped food trucks and the 

sticky fingers that tug at soft sleeves 

choking back tears as they find their way home. 

There’s a bitter-sweet sorrow in the air, 

the type that locks you in a chokehold and 

forces cotton candy down your dry throat. 

The fairground, soon to be full of ghosts all 

searching for a path back to life as it was, before 

dust sparked by sunlight turned bombshells then ash. 

When dust-bunny-dreams weren’t death threats 

and funeral pyres. Before debts piled high among the rubble, 

so far from the innocent fluff we used to know.

The season draws to a close and the carnival packs its bags once more. 

The grifters and drifters and caught-in-the-rift-ers taking their leave

and shuffling to the next town. Another graveyard, another funeral pyre,

another Danse Macabre played in squeaks of jaded memories. 

They fox-trot to the familiar lull of laughter and sweat. 

They have made peace with the carousels and spotlights,

And the clowns put out their cigarettes and put on their smiles.

And the carnies take to their stage with bright fluorescent faces.

Through the falsity of it all, the young lad sat with 

the light of a thousand dying stars trapped in his bewildered eyes.

And the world he saw was not one of apparitions. 

He saw a world of life. 

He heard laughter dancing through a cool summer breeze, 

saw beads of sweat making skin glisten.

Almost ethereal in appearance, 

the world was a storybook opening,

the gates, his Once-upon-a-time. 

As the setting sun trapped the glitter of sugar-spun clouds, 

the stench of chlorine and sunscreen was traded in for 

the smell of rubber mixing with grease and preservatives 

Wafting from the cramped food trucks that lined pathways

Holding sticky fingers tugging at soft sleeves 

Choking back tears they didn't understand, 

With warm, loving arms soothing their tantrums.

As he breathed it in, he looked at the world the way only a child could, 

With joyous excitement and a mischievous smile that screamed “I am the world” and “Let the world be me” 

Everything candy-coated, warped by bubblegum 

And flushed cheeks, with whispers on a school bus 

And the tall tales behind scraped knees. 

On the last day of the fair, he returned, looking at the empty stalls where carnival games once lived and stages where the ghost of magic shows had vanished leaving only watered-down confetti in its wake. He looked at this world not with a sense of sorrow, nor bewilderment, 

but with the same wonder he held before.

His imagination filled in the blanks as he walked 

around the shadows of clowns and carousels. 

The lights of lanterns and fireflies replacing the 

Slowly dying lights of the clockwork fantasy. 

And he found joy in the magic of the world around the circus and spectacle. Outside the flamboyant tents and masterful illusions, he found wonder in the simple sway of the summer breeze. There was something beautiful about the way nature claimed the dead. And suddenly life and death worked in tandem and the world didn’t seem so frightening anymore. 

[ultramagicalternate]

ULTRAMagic Interlude Chapter 13

Previous | First | Next

Master Post - Patreon

“Stupid welder! Don’t fail on me now…”

“Tusk? Why aren’t you using Alchemy for this?

He stopped what he was doing and lifted his face shield. “Donia, I don’t need to call on the powers that be for something this simple.”

“So what are you making?”

Tusk held up three plates that started to form a hollow cube. “This is something I want to try for making Rubedo Stones. I really don’t want to use my Philosopher’s Stone for every mundane transmutation. The only issue is that I suck at making Rubedo Stones though…” He reached into a jar and pulled out a gurgling, hissing, repugnant thing. “Turning Earth Spirits into stones is easy enough…” Tusk squeezed the malignant entity, causing it to glow brightly before turning into a red stone in his hand. “...but these are only good for three to five transmutations before they break and turn to dust.”

Donia processed the dilemma and nodded. “So what’s the deal here? With this weld?”

“Iron-star ash-ideal for alchemical work, and fantastic for keeping ornery spirits in line…” An iron box with sacred symbols etched into it began rattling at the far end of the workshop. “QUIET YOU! I will start throwing you against the wall again if I have to!” The box immediately calmed down.

“Honey, what’s in the box? Me and Auda have been concerned…”

Tusk gestured for the two to put the face shields down again. “It’s a fire djinn I captured back during my training… Don’t open it.” He then went back to welding, managing to get all sides of the cube attached to each other.

Next Tusk needed a metal plate for the base of the cube. Rummaging through his scrap pile, he found a thick piece of metal that was only slightly rusty. Assuming he only had four uses from his Rubedo Stone, he reluctantly got out his Philosopher’s Stone and performed a quick transmutation to get rid of the rust. Using the Rubedo Stone, he made four perfect cuts in the plate so it lined up with the cube. Annoyingly the stone broke and the welder began acting up again. Having gotten fed up for the final time, he growled and finished the job with a transmutation.

“Well there you go. Was that so hard, Sleepybark?” Donia playfully chided.

“No…” Tusk groaned back. A kettle began hissing loudly, snapping him out of his mood. “Oh good, it’s ready.”

“What’s ready?”

Tusk carefully poured himself a cup of hot water, then dropped a tea bag into it. “Dad dug up one of mom’s old recipe books. This tea mix apparently helps one relax and sharpens the mind.”

“You drinking tea? Since when?”

“Since I got back…” He took a sip. “That’s pretty good. Dad’s insistence.”

“Can I have some?”

“Sure. There’s another tea bag right there.” Tusk took another sip and sighed. “You know? I don’t know if the armor is my magnum opus anymore…”

Donia gave him a slightly incredulous look as she sipped her tea. “What makes you say that?”

He thought about it for a second. “It’s a good project, but now I feel like there’s a new idea out there, waiting for me.”

“And to think that several months ago you were content to be just a tree out in the forest…”

Tusk groaned again. “I know, but that whole adventure with Blood lit a whole new fire under my bum that got me thinking… Plus the stuff I brought home.”

The two finished their tea just as someone threw open the door. “UNCLE TUSK!” This startled him.

“ARGH, damn it, Auda! Don’t startle me like that…” Once he fully realized what was going on, he quickly rushed over and held her by her upper arms. “Please, for the love of Source, tell me you went to see your parents!”

She nodded. “Yup.”

“And you’re okay? Nothing’s hurt?”

She shook her head. “Nope”

Tusk let go and breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank the Source… Auda! What was that all about?!”

“Simple, we went to go find Grandma Thora…”

“Yeah, I know that…”

“...and we found her!”

His blood ran cold. “What…?”

“Yup! And she’s going to be home later today” Auda proudly stated.

This caused Tusk to faint, nearly falling to the floor. Donia quickly caught him. “Tusk!?” She exclaimed.

Auda snickered. “Why is uncle so tired? Did he go on an adventure too?”

Donia hefted him upright and leaned him onto her shoulders. “Auda, sweetie, help me get him to his bedroom…”

Sometime later, Blood-Wraith and Thora appeared at the entrance to the village. They were being held up by the other villagers, as to be expected since the village folk were overjoyed to have Thora back. “How long have you been gone, Thora?” Blood-Wraith inquired.

“Hm, let’s see… Auda was 6 and now she’s 12… I’d say roughly six years.”

“Wow… It’s a shame we couldn’t bring Desislav along.”

She nodded. “Yeah, but it’s for the best that he rests after all that… Now where’s my husband?”

As if directly sensing that question, Sigmund was already rushing to the entrance. He could only go so fast due to his age, but that was not going to stop him. “Thora!”

“Sigmund!” The two hugged each other tightly, with the villagers clapping and cheering. Some were also shaking Blood-Wraith’s hand and hugging him too.

“Thora, my dear, it’s been too long. What happened to you?”

“Well, alot. I met the Duchess of The Iron City and we both discovered Deimos’ old research. Apparently there’s a Trench Unlight… Sigmund, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to abandon you and the kids like that, nor the village for as long as I did…”

“It’s alright, Thora. The forest wasn’t going to let us fall. Besides, it all worked out in the end, thanks to Blood-Wraith and Tusk. And I can already sense the knowledge, skill, and insight you collected on your adventure.”

Thora smiled and hugged him again. “Speaking of the kids, where are they?”

“They’re all back at the house, waiting for you. Come, you too, Blood-Wraith. As for the rest of you, we are absolutely having another feast tonight!”

Tusk woke up in his bed, thinking about the last ten years of his life. Were they all just a bad dream? He looked at his right arm and reality came rushing back in. “Oh, right…” He remembered his fainting, sighed, and got out of bed. Blood-Wraith greeted him at his door.

“Teach… Tusk, you’re awake I see.”

“Blood… what’s up?”

“Your mother wants to see you. Do you think you’re ready? Donia told me about what happened earlier…”

He took a deep breath and exhaled. “Sure, I’m good. Let’s go.”

Everybody was in the living room talking. Sigmund, Thora, Auda, Skari, Cordelia, and even Eleanor were all present. There was also another, Tusk’s sister Hertha. They did not realize Tusk had come down stairs given how quiet he was. Auda noticed him, however. After an enthusiastic greeting from her, everyone looked at him. Thora had the warmest smile possible and began to approach him.

“Mom…”

“Tusk. Come here, sweetie.” Thora gave her son the biggest hug possible. “Alright, what’s this I heard about you losing your arm?”

He chuckled nervously. “Yeah, about that…” He held up his right arm. Skari was still uneasy about it and Hertha was shocked. “It’s holding together perfectly,” he said as he flexed his fingers, the scraping of stone being audible.

Thora inspected it thoroughly, incredibly worried, yet curious. “My goodness boy… you really did sacrifice it… I have to ask, where did you learn such a spell? Don’t get me wrong, it’s amazing, whatever it is.”

“I learned it at the Dark Grand Desert. The Screaming God pointed me in the direction of it after I formulated the initial spell to weaken the Lich.”

“Does it hurt, brother?” Hertha asked.

“Nope… but it does get a little stiff overnight. Otherwise there’s not much of a difference. I have to be careful when I bang on stuff, but it’s just like my old arm.” Everyone else gave a weak chuckle to that remark.

“And you’re sure you don’t need any help?” Skari questioned.

“Absolutely,” Cordelia added. “Just let us know and we’ll be there, Tusk.” 

“Don’t worry, Skari, Cordelia. I’ll be fine. Still and again, thanks for the offer.”

“He’s inherited your father’s fortitude, Skari,” Eleanor pointed out. “I think that’s evident given that he has also resumed his alchemical studies.”

Thora clapped. “Ooh! Blood told me about that. Sweetie, can I see your laboratory?”

Tusk thought for a second. “Um, sure. Just not everyone here. It’s a bit small for an entire group… and it’s not that big of a deal all things considered.”

“No problem. Kids? Have a chat with Blood for a moment while I go with Tusk. The boy's not even a year old and he already has stories to tell.”

While Blood-Wraith told the rest of the Willforts of his adventures thus far, Tusk and Donia led Thora to his workshop. Tusk was a little embarrassed over how small and messy it was, but Thora did not care. She was proud of him regardless and marveled at everything, even the failed projects. All of this made Donia giggle and chuckle. Eventually Thora found the armor he and Donia were working on.

“Oh my, what’s this?” Thora asked.

“It’s a set of armor I started a year after you left,” Tusk answered. “The idea was that it could adapt to whomever wore it and protect them. I thought it would be used against the Lich, but there were a lot of setbacks…”

“It’s a shame you didn’t finish it in time, Tusk,” Donia said sympathetically. “I would’ve loved to try it out.”

“Donia…”

Thora took a look at it. The armor was quite magnificent to her despite the simplicity. The choice of colors were also interesting, being sterling white with lime green accents. “So what was the issue you ran into?”

“Well the most recent one was the armor locking up and leaving the wearer trapped inside… guess who found that one out…”

“Hmm… Tusk, I might have some ideas we can try. If that doesn’t work, I have an Ar’ton friend named Bronislav who’s interested in stuff like this. He may also have some ideas on how to fix this.”

Tusk blinked, a little surprised. “Um, sure mom. If you think you can make it work…”

Donia patted Tusk on the back. “You would not believe how long Auda and I have been pushing him to get the project finished. It doesn’t matter if the Lich is gone, it would be a waste to not finish it.”

Thora smiled. “You two will make such a great couple once you’re married. I can’t wait to meet the grandchildren you’ll have.”

Donia giggled. “Thanks…”

“MOM!” Tusk was thoroughly embarrassed at this point.

Back at the house, Blood-Wraith was finishing up discussing what he could about Dunja. “...I legitimately feel bad for her.”

Sigmund stroked his beard, remembering something important. “Indeed, Blood. You’re right to assume she’s remorseful. I’ve had the privilege of speaking to her in recent times.”

Everyone was surprised by this. “Can you explain, dad?” Skari asked.

“I was tending to the garden when I sensed a presence out in the forest. Going to investigate, I stumbled upon her sitting by a stream, pondering her life and her existence.”

Skari was taken by surprise again, but nodded in acceptance. “Huh… well, she can’t be all that bad if the forest freely let her in like that.”

“When did this happen, Chief?” Blood-Wraith inquired.

“Hmm… possibly before the first attack you witnessed. She seemed rather regretful about something, which in hindsight was probably the attack in the first place. I also suspect she’s been hiding out in the forest…” Sigmund could feel Blood-Wraith’s emotions flare up. “It’s best that we don’t seek her out. If she’s making her way back to the light, we should let her do that in peace…”

“So that’s what I’ve been picking up on?” Thora stated as she returned with Tusk and Donia.

“Aye, my dear. It’s been going on for some time too.”

Blood-Wraith exhaled, calming down. “I suppose you’re right, chief.”

Hertha patted him on the back. “Aw, don’t worry, Blood. Everything will be alright.”

“Yeah-let’s invite her to the feast!” Auda proclaimed. The family was surprised, but Sigmund and Thora laughed.

“I had the same idea, kiddo,” said Thora with a laugh.

Sigmund smiled and shook his head. “If she shows up without a blade or ill-intent, I’ll happily seat her at the table.”

Skari gave an amused sigh. “You know what, dad? That’s what I’ve always admired about you: Always willing to extend the olive branch.”

“Well I’d dare say the great war and Desislav pushing me over burned all the wrath out of me, haha.”

Next: Chapter 14

ULTRAMagic Alternate © 2022 William Ford II (ChaoticTempleKnight)