#sinew bowstring

[babblingbookends]

Dick lays like a beautiful princess and Roy lays like a cartoon character who just had an anvil fall on him

[nanamiskentos]

GOOD TO ME ☓ ── ( 両面宿儺 , ryomen sukuna ) mdni.

⌗ sukuna really hates boring council meetings, but when you're around? he hates them a little less.

ᯓ starring ─ ﹙ 両面宿儺 : ryomen sukuna ﹚ ─ the king of curses x reader

𝓳𝓳𝓴. ㅤ﹑ ( 呪術廻戦 x afab!reader )  ─── ❛ cw ⌓. mdni. true form!kuna. heian era. wife!reader. mutual másturbation, teásing, èdging. ríding. cèrvix kissing, brèèding kínk, sukuna ADORES you. wc ⌓. 3.3k. art, clloudgarden.

𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒 ( author says ) there's cousin greg everywhere for those who have the eyes to see

"and, if it is to be said, my lord, so it be, so it is –"

oh, for fuck's sake, sukuna should have known it would have been another useless, dull meeting. the absolute waste of time that left him nostalgic for sticking his head in a fiery kiln, if only to save him from the droning voice of some pathetic subordinate rambling about territorial disputes between lower-grade curses, as if he gave a damn.

these insects, squabbling over scraps, too weak to take what they wanted, too spineless to act without crawling to him for approval. the king of curses can only exhale through his nose, chin propped up on a curled first as he taps fingers against the fine table. patience thinning by the second, maybe he'd kill one of these lowlifes for sport, just to keep things interesting.

"...and so, my lord, we would ask your decision on the matter."

ah, right. this fuckass council couldn't do a damn thing for themselves, can they? two pairs of russet eyes level at the insignificant wretch standing before him, frail-lookin' and wringing his wiry hands like a meek rodent.

"what would you like me to say, hmm?"

the miscreant hesitates, "the...the western border dispute, my lord," he stammers, "do we intervene? or should we let the lesser curses resolve it among themselves? o-only as you see fit, of course."

there must be a thousand other things running through the king of curses's mind at the moment. he's feeling rather peckish, for starters, for it seems the whole, marinated boar that he ravaged through to break his fast was not quite enough to be satiating.

ah, sukuna wonders, there's also that harvest festival looming up, for the cowardly emperor's timid footman did indeed deliver an invitation — lined with gold leaf. and tch', he still needs to replace the bowstring in his yumi, perhaps he would be more inclined to use animal sinew for a more sturdy yield.

all these items of agenda faintly float around in the demon's mind, until he's blinking, remembering the pathetic rogue still shuffling in front of him. sukuna decides to play it safe, falling back to his default answer and favourite philosophy.

"kill them."

"ah, w-who, my lord?"

sukuna sighs, feeling a vague itch on the back of his neck, "all of them. the weaklings who came crying for help. the ones causing the problem. heh, just take out anyone standing within five feet of them while yer' at it," he's waving a large hand dismissively, "if they can't handle their own affairs, i don't wanna' hear about it."

"that doesn't sound very wise now, does it?"

sukuna feels his thick jaw tick, and he needs not even turn his head to see the source of dissent, for he knows your voice, your presence better than he knows himself. he can hear the quiet rhythm of your steps, carrying you behind him, and then towards his side, towards your rightful place.

"the hell are you doing here?" sukuna's tongue clicking behind his teeth, taking in that intoxicating scent of incense and clean silk, and the fresh peaches that you so loved to split open with bare hands when the fruit was in season.

"you said i could sit in your council today," you murmur, sidling closer to his large frame that looms against his grandiose seat of bone and wood.

huh, sukuna does remember making some vague promise like that, some invitation extended towards you, his (mostly) beloved wife — to allow you to sit in on these tedious council meetings. damn shame, how he can't help but make promises in the golden haze of post-coital glow, and how he's obligated to fulfil them later on. whatever, focus.

but it seems that you're already a step ahead of him, smiling at the skittish scoundrel who most certainly does not deserve the privilege of that beauty, "so, what was the matter at hand?"

the wretch seems almost relieved to be conversing with you, rather than the idle terror of the king of curses, and he's shifting on the polished, marble floor, "well, my lady, it was the w-western borders you see. crops had been razed to the ground and —"

now call him a weak-minded fool (or don't, if you sensibly value your life) but sukuna does not even hear nor register the rest of the louse's words.

clawed fingers twitching, shoulders rippling at the sudden sensation of you drawing faint circles over his broad thighs. granted, there is a layer of thick, woven silk between your grazing nails and his flesh, but the sensation of your touch — even through his ivory martial pants, makes sukuna's ears ring.

what sort of game do you think you're playing?

but you're not even looking at him, "now, that is most unfortunate. i assume imperial troops have not been able to intervene?" not even batting your lashes once towards sukuna's flushing face, when your hand is drifting to low centre of his chiselled abdomen, further down so your dizzying touch finds home on his clothed groin.

sukuna only watches with a honed, terrible interest as you shift slightly and the movement parts the fine-lined edges of your robe. the sight sending tendrils of searing flames down his spine, for fuck, if he didn't know any better, you're entirely bare underneath the thin silk of your summer yukata.

and sukuna wagers, he swears, that a single claw tugging at the flimsy fabric would unravel the robes so deliciously before him, delighting him with his favourite vision in the entire world. mouth watering, fangs slipping past the corners of his red lips at the thought of laving pleasurable bruises over your chest, and lower.

fuck all this, border disputes over crops, maggots with their problems, imperial soldiers.

"out." patience snapping like brittle bone, fingers flexed against the edges of his seat at the head of the council. a subtle motion, one that sends every pathetic soul in the room scrambling to their feet. no second chances, no hesitations at his orders for they knew better.

how satisfying then, when the massive chamber doors groan open. the rustle of fabric, the hurried shuffle of sandals, all of them scurrying out like rats. not daring to look back. all except you.

still seated beside him, still watching him. as though you knew exactly what sort of effect your little stunt would have on him. he needs not even look to sense that insufferable curve of your shapely lips, the faint glint of amusement in your eyes.

and sukuna heaves heady air through his lungs, forcing indifferent into every inch of his body — not quite willing to indulge you yet. pretending like the heat licking at his veins wasn't due to you, like his pulse did not thicken, darken and quicken the very moment you walked in. as though there's not hot blood rushing through his stiff cocks at this very moment.

"why the temper today?" you tease, tone as light as a blossom in the spring, "i thought y'were tired, all these dull meetings, my love, they must be getting to you."

"tsk', don't got any attitude, woman." but your hands are on him again, gripping thick, dual shafts that are still draped in silk. and sukuna does his best not to rumble, to purr when the delicious friction of your gliding hands sets him alight, "now, what is it that my queen wants?"

you're tilting your head, giving him those distracting hazy eyes that makes his groin tense, as though your stroking fingers aren't enough to make his wide hips buck, "what exactly do you think i want, 'kuna?"

not lord sukuna, not any other simpering title that the others threw his way. just his name falling from your sweet lips, and it's enough to allow a silent snarl curl at the edges of his lips, because right now? sukuna wasn't thinking about his estate, nor any other ambition save for you. and how easily he could wipe that smug look off your face. how easily he could pleasure you so that your cheeks would flush, and your jaw would drop slack in beautiful squeals of his name, pleas for more.

dark-stained nails shooting out, yanking at your waist. sukuna revels in the sharp gasp that leaves your lips as he yanks you forward, gripping at your flesh and pulling you onto his lap in one fluid motion. no hesitation, no warning and no mercy for sukuna either, it seems. for your robes part and sukuna has to bite back a low, rumbling groan at the feeling of your bare cunt against his thigh. minx.

he has no doubt that you can feel his pulse beat up against you, heavy and thrumming. like war drums beneath his skin but he cares not, for you have only ever been the sole being alive that could undo him like this. aw, cute, how your eyes widen at the sight of his second mouth curling into a sharp, lazy grin.

"well," sukuna presses his lips to the juncture of your neck, amusement laced with something more lustful, "you have my full attention now, don't you? heh, i mean this is what ya' wanted, wasn't it?"

and sukuna, for all his idle threats and vague promises of suffering, cannot help himself. already leaning in, with heat, pressure and teeth. crimson mouth slanted over yours, crushing and demanding, no patience nor hesitation. just hunger.

your soft moan is swallowed by him, for he's greedy, gluttonous for the sight, the sound and the feel of you, and he drinks it all in. devouring the way that you melt against the broad planes of his chest, rocking your hips gently against the stiff tips of his aching cocks that prick through the silk.

blush-pink lashes flickering against creamy, roughened skin, savouring the way you respond. the way your hands slide up, grasping at his shoulders, his jaw, anywhere on your husband that you can touch.

there's a sharp growl lingering in sukuna's bobbing throat, deep and pleased, because this what what he had been waiting for. for you to realise that there was only ever one way that teasing the king of curses could end. and it was right here, with you splayed out for him, in his grasp.

and of course, he knows exactly what you're trying to achieve like this — chasing a sweet and easy relief against his hips. the damp wetness between your thighs crying out for any friction that made your own hips stutter but sukuna's having none of that. gripping at your waist with enough force that leaves you frozen, unable to buck yourself up against him.

"ah, 'kuna," you're whining so beautifully, sukuna has to steel his resolve, "was s-so close." huffing, pouting at your lack of trembling release as sukuna presses a gentle kiss to your jaw.

"ya' really thought i was gonna' let you have it that easy?" sukuna laughs, a deep and wicked chuckle thick with satisfaction, "mmh, i have a better idea, hah."

a broad, wide hand splays itself against your lower abdomen. arching your spine just so, pushing you slightly back so sukuna can drag his hungry gaze to the shimmering, swollen folds that he aches for. already creating such a filthy mess over his lap as he ghosts the very tips of his nails around your mound, "did ya' come in here drippin' just for me, wife? wanted to interrupt all my kingly duties?"

feisty thing you are, for you don't dignify him with a verbal answer. already reaching past the woven band of his martial pants, dipping into his trousers to wrap your sweet hands around his hard cocks. sukuna hisses, doing his best to not just spill translucent seed right then and there. bucking his hips back, slapping your hands away, "you don't get to touch."

and oh, how he loves the frown marring at your kiss-stung pout, the adorable jut of your lower lip scowling at being deprived at the chance of feeling the king of curses unravel under your touch.

"c'mon, wife, how about somethin' better?" sukuna smiles, though it is not a smile that offers reprieve, as he gently presses a soft kiss to your wrist, guiding your hand to your own core, "show me jus' how badly you wanted me."

your whines are delicious, the music of creation to his ears, as you bristle and grumble. rolling your eyes skywards, but eager to chase your own pleasure nevertheless. sukuna watches with greedy eyes, taking in at how you dip two fingers right over your glistening cunt, gently brushing them against your clit so you shiver in his lap.

sukuna is watching you, concentric-ringed eyes fixed on you with the quiet intensity of a god surveying his offerings. but it's clear that you don't have it in you to become self-conscious, already mewling at your own touch. deliciously swabbing the pads of your fingers through your soaking heat, rocking sharper against the numbing pleasure of your own motions.

he's hissing, realising that he may need to take, heh, matters into his own hands as well. matters being the thick, dual shafts that stiffly spring into the air, demanding his attention. angry pink-bulbed tips that leak small spurts of pre already, and sukuna grips at the uppermost cock, fisting a thick hand over his length. keeping his eyes fixed on how your fingers draw gentle circles over your clit (well, of course, he already knew just how you liked it, you're his wife, after all).

"g-good?" there must be a faint cherry flush painting the back of sukuna's neck, doing his very best to pretend he's not stuttering and stammering over his words. but his breath hitches, low and guttural, more growl than a gasp. like a beast caught between restraint and desire.

he's not even sure where the filthy, glorious sounds are coming from. the sopping pap! pap! pap! of skin against skin, of sukuna's thick, muscled fist tugging at his cock, or the slick slide of your fingers in your cunt, teasing at your entrance and your inner walls.

"s-so good, 'kuna," you're sighing, and sukuna loves you all the more for how you blush, jaw falling in honeyed whispers of his name, eyes hazy with the pleasure that is so close to you now, panting over and over.

and because, naturally, sukuna is a greedy and lecherous individual for his wife only, he keeps his lower set of eyes trained on how you're dipping the very tips of your fingers into your cunt, stretching the pad of your thumb up to flick and tug at your clit. a mimicry of what he bestows upon you, and he can see that you're truly that close to a finishing release. eyes droopy and lovesick as you rut at a sharp, staccato pace against him.

close, closer and right on the very edge when sukuna realises that he is a starved man (no, a starved curse? uh, not quite. these are all just semantics) and he's about to —

you're sputtering, tears springing to the very corners of your angelic eyes. crystalline lashes pooling on the very edges of your angry, reddened gaze, "i was so close, what the fuck!"

sukuna nips at your lips, drinking in your huffs and sighs, pulling your hand away from your sodden cunt, "must i ask my wife's forgiveness?" low and husky, rock-salt rasp as he jostles your hips in his powerful hold.

"now, how 'bout i keep ya' hands busy with this?" and he gently guides your slick-stranded hand to his upper cock, shuddering at the pressure of your fingertips against his aching, painful shaft. laving at your collarbone as he pulls you right over the lower shaft, brushing your swollen pussy folds over the cock, soaking him in your sweet, sweet arousal.

"hah, s-stop teasing," you grouse, already beginning a steady and pumping pace with your hands once more that makes sukuna's iron-willed concentration waver. fuck, you're too good at that, despite being barely able to wrap your hand around the sheer girth of the demon's cock.

sukuna does decide to take some small pity on you (see! he's generous!) by pressing soothing circles to your clit, easing you up, "big stretch, hah. jus' take a deep breath for me, wife." slowly lowering you down on his cock, already swabbing turgid veins against your innermost walls, and truthfully? losing his fucking mind at how the feeling your pussy wrapped around him shatters whatever dignity he had left.

"f-fuck me," sukuna breathes, "ohh, 's the sweetest thing in the world." already determined to kiss his weeping tip against your sweet spot as soon as he finds it, already swivelling your hips against the faint curl of pink hairs on his groin. determined to hit that roughened patch of heightened sensitivity.

and because sukuna does have a reputation to keep up, he would not ever admit this to another living soul, lest he be left with little choice but to flay that poor soul alive. but it's barely been half a minute of sukuna's cock being sucked in by your cunt, and he feels as though he may already burst.

it certainly doesn't help that your mouth is pressing sharp kisses to his pectorals, right over the darkened tattoos that brand his chest and the way that your hand is pumping his upper cock, the tip weakly spurting and so close to release.

pleasurable slap! after slap! of his mushroom-tip against your cervix, pressing as deep as he can, as sukuna slowly lifts your hips up and down his shaft. he loves you, he really does adore you and he fears that he may genuinely have to verbalise this sentiment more often, because he feels as though his ragged, dark heart may burst at the sight of you so ethereal, glistening in his hold.

if he were a less jealous, selfish husband, he may have commissioned the court sculptor to get in here, to capture your writhing form and prop it up in the temple for all lesser beings to leave offerings and candles at your image.

but this sight? it's for sukuna to worship alone, to capture in his memory, the image of you gasping and panting for sweet, candied breath, with your cunt drooling in his lap and spitting down his shaft.

"m-more, more, 'kuna," you sweetly murmur, with the edges of your robes slipping off your shoulder so sukuna can nip his fangs into the sweet flesh.

but the king of curses can only smile, a genuine grin that never bodes well for your endurance, splaying five fingers against the thick, bulging tip that presses against your abdomen, "more? better h-hold on, wife, then. 'cause, this?" he prods at the thick tip that is just visible through your womb, "this is where 'm gonna be, maybe give this wretched place an heir? what'dya say?"

having his wife's slippery cunt tacking against his groin, slapping all so nasty and sticky — all while scheming for an heir to finally bring down that wretched emperor in heian-kyō? to see you glowing and round with his child? sukuna's a multitasker, what can he say?

[elbiotipo]

It's interesting how much stuff you need in order to form a civilization other than just food agriculture and metalworking. You need tanneries to turn hides into leather that can be used for clothes, bags, waterskins, shoes, etc. You need hemp or cotton or flax for textiles and cordage, and you need a large amount of people working on turning plant fiber into those. You need carpenters and masons and stonecutters and brickmakers to build your cities and roads, you need an absurd amount of pottery for the sake of storing food and water and wine, you need butchers and shepherds to obtain hides, tallow, knucklebones, materials for bowstring (hair, sinews) and meat, you need miners to obtain metals and precious stones and normal stones and certain chemicals, you need dyers to make your clothes look good, you may need coopers to make barrels if you're tired of pottery, fishers, breweries for beer and mead, beekeepers for honey and wax, shipwrights and longshoremen and sailors and sailmakers for any aquatic activity, charcoal burners for most of your fuel, porters and merchants to move things around, jurists and bureaucrats and architects and engineers to organise everything, etc. etc.etc.

it's impressive that throughout most of human history all of these trades combined were still a minority of the population compared to agricultural workers

I think this is always a great thing to keep in mind when learning history or writing fiction in historical/fantasy settings. Mostly everything we take for granted now is the result of industrial mass manufacturing processes. Just a century ago if that, most things were artisanally done. The amount of professions, some that are rather obscure today and now are practically lost (for example, ALL the very specific jobs in carpentry like wheelers and fletchers), is staggering. It's very worth to remember and record how they work, as they sometimes are the last ones that know their craft...

EUGENIO MONESMA FANDOM RISE UP

However I would slightly disagree with the fact that agricultural workers knew no trade. I would think that the average peasant (for a very loose definition) anywhere in the world was probably more skilled than the average person today. For one, they did have to build their houses, which means skills in whatever material was available. For another thing, most fiber processing and clothes making was done in personal houses or the local village, most overwhelmingly by women. Hunting, and thus butchering, was often a supplement to the rural diet, as well as brewing, alcohol making, thatching and pottery... of course, many of these were specialized jobs and few peasants would be blacksmiths for example, but I think I can say with some confidence that the average person in an agricultural economy had more skills than we think. Of course, this was because they had to do backbreaking labor by themselves to survive.

It is still worth remembering the basic fact, however, that over 80% or 90% of the world population during historical times was indeed composed of agricultural laborers of one sort or another. The times we live today are really unique if we think about this.

[drdemonprince]

What your therapist said about a fracture from a violent attack reminds me of the Buddhist Parable of the Arrow: man gets hit with an arrow, refuses to treat the wound until he learns "whether the man who wounded me was a noble warrior, a priest, a merchant, or a worker", "whether he was tall, medium, or short", "whether the bowstring with which I was wounded was fiber, bamboo threads, sinew, hemp, or bark", and dies without ever knowing any of these things. I've thought of it a lot when I've needed to stop my brain ruminating on whether a thing that happened to me was "actually traumatic".

That is beautiful, thank you for sharing

[lorefulevil]

in the carrot fields

some 3L treebark sparring for @treebarkweek day one: fight/flight!

The first time they spar, Martyn wins easily, and Ren laughs, flat on his back among the new carrots. Maybe no one else has beat him yet. Maybe everybody lets him win. He is the king, after all. He says, You’re good.

Martyn shrugs. He knows he’s good. That’s why he’s still here, still green. You’re just a slouch. And he takes Ren’s hand and helps him up.

*

When they have a rematch Martyn goes slow, uses his eyes, pays attention to Ren’s favourite guards and counters. Someday he’ll need to anticipate them, to get around them one way or another. And for now—well, it’s a bit of fun, isn’t it? He likes Ren’s theatrical flurries, his fluid shifting stances. The chagrin of an unexpected parry. There’s not much to do in the death game besides fighting and fucking. They’ve done plenty of the former, and Martyn reads his king well enough to see they’re getting to the latter.

He still wins, but Ren’s good too. He’s red. He’s been red a long time.

(I could kill you, Ren whispers, teeth bared, when Martyn knocks him over and lands on his chest. Don’t you think so?

Nah, probably not, Martyn says. He helps Ren up. They’re both smiling.)

*

Next time he won’t help, maybe. Maybe next time he’ll put his boot on Ren’s chest and hold him down while he slits Ren’s throat and calls it self-defence. Green and red. They’re not enemies yet, but why wait?

He’ll do it quick, he thinks. Quicker than the other time. No squirmy conscience to stay his hand. Quick enough that he won’t have to see the smile drop from Ren’s face, when he realises they’re not playing any more.

*

Or maybe he’ll wait to see if Ren puts up a fight. Don’t they owe it to each other, after everything they’ve been through: the spectacle, the drama? Martyn’s seen his king tail a wounded foe through the forest, fingers poised on the bowstring, relentless once he’d scented blood. How his eyes drank the moonlight. How hunger pulled taut all the lean muscles of his frame, so his whole body trembled with anticipation of the kill. Hasn’t Martyn earned it, Ren stalking him down, bending to sup like no other prey will serve?

But on the carrot fields Ren lets Martyn’s sword clip his pauldron rather than dodge, even though he’ll bruise later, and Martyn will have to pack snow on his blue-black shoulder. Lets Martyn roll them around in the dirt till they both have grass in their hair, and there’s a pretty flush creeping up Ren’s face. You’re so good.

Martyn feels himself unfurl, uncontrollably: every cold and broken part of him giving way like a flower turning to greet the sun. It frightens him, makes him brusque. Do better.

I like seeing you in action, Ren says. I like watching you win.

*

Martyn throws next time, out of spite.

Or he gets distracted by the scarlet sheen of Ren’s eyes, the bunch and ripple of sinew and muscle when his king swings his sword. Breathless and off-kilter, his own hands shaky on the hilt—but he throws, he’ll tell himself and anyone who’ll listen. Ren holds him down on the frost beneath the bare-branched elms, and when the roots catch at his hair Martyn pretends those are his king’s nails on his scalp, pulling his head back for the blade.

You got sloppy, Ren says.

I did, Martyn agrees.

There are ways to get out of a hold like this. He doesn’t move. He feels the tip of Ren’s blade move in feathery swirls, back and forth, back and forth along his jugular. He wonders if Ren will look at him the same way, after this.

Now what shall I do with you, says Ren.

He smells like snow and steel and softer things, flowers sleeping beneath the soil, dreaming of the spring. Martyn shuts his eyes. You tell me.

*

Ren doesn’t tell him but shows him, there in the shelter of a cold slate sky: slow and lazy, infinitely gentle.

*

The last time they spar, Martyn wins easily, and Ren laughs, flat on his back on the fallow earth. The carrots are long gone; only frost remains. Go on, he says. Do what you planned.

Martyn lifts his sword. Sees again, as if in a dream, the perfect arc of Ren’s blood spray across the altar. Sees him laughing with the red leaves in his hair and the tender violence in his eyes: king of winter and the spring, king of the battlefield even when the battlefield is Martyn.

(They’re still not enemies. If not now: when?)

The sword slips from Martyn’s grasp. He lays himself down next to Ren in the soil they once tilled together. This is what I planned, he lies.

He knows Ren doesn’t believe him, but tomorrow or next week the earth will rise to cover them both, and in the meantime his mouth still tastes the same.

[tycildawnwhisper]

DWC 2025 Day 7 - Punish/Infinite

The sky over Quel’Thalas burned, a sickly green haze choking the sun as black smoke twisted upward through the eternal autumn forest. The screams had faded. Most had. In their place came the relentless scrape of bone against stone, the guttural growls of the risen dead, and the mournful scraping of the Scourge winding through the trees.

Tycil couldn’t move her legs. The weight of her home, the place where love had lingered in quiet corners, where hearth bread and silverleaf oil had soaked into the very walls, had crumbled. Now, shattered beams and quarried stone pinned her, stealing even the possibility of escape. Her fingers, raw and torn from digging, twitched against the dust, but she knew. She would die here.

She lay twisted amid ruin, black hair matted to her face with sweat and soot, green eyes fixed beyond the broken archway. Winethol was there. Or the thing that had been her son. Too still. Too wrong. A bow strung without purpose.

He had been tall, lean, strong, a blacksmith who shaped metal like it was clay beneath his hands. But now, the light in his eyes was gone, drowned beneath a sickly gold that shimmered like molten coin. His freckled skin, once warm, had drawn tight over sharpened bones, gray and lifeless.

He had died in the middle of the village, fighting with a handful of others. She had watched him fall, loosing arrow after arrow, screaming his name until her throat tore. Her quiver had emptied, but not in time. The plaguebone and ghouls had swallowed him into the mud, into silence.

And then, he rose.

Her hands still shook. Not from fear. From failure.

Bacath lay at her feet, his once-gentle face torn beyond recognition, reduced to mangled flesh and slack horror. Her love of a thousand years, her husband had reached for her even as the roof splintered overhead. She had tried to shield him, to hold him, to protect him. She had failed.

His hand remained outstretched, even now. Even in death.

Tycil swallowed against the bitter taste in her mouth. She had always hated crying. Hunters didn’t cry. Hunters endured.

Winethol moved. Leather creaked. Sinew stretched.

Tycil’s chest clenched tight as her son’s fingers curled over the hammer they had given him when he apprenticed at sixteen, the handle warped and blackened by whatever unholy force bound him now. His head tilted, his gaze sweeping the wreckage.

His gaze landed on her.

She did not breathe.

For one breath, a heartbeat, he hesitated.

A flicker. A thread of something buried beneath decay. The boy who had cried when he snapped his first bowstring. The boy who tucked berries into his father’s cloak when he thought no one was looking. The boy who had kissed her cheek before marching to the gate.

Hope fractured through her chest.

Winethol’s fingers twitched. The hammer scraped against stone. He was still in there. Screaming. But whatever controlled him did not care.

A shadow of breath escaped her lips, ragged and hollow. He’s going to kill me.

Not as her son. Not as the boy who had cradled by his older brother and pressed kisses to his mother’s brow. As a thing. A husk. A puppet twisted into mockery.

And part of her welcomed it.

She had nothing left. Bacath was gone. Winethol was gone. Quel’Thalas was dying, choking on ash and horror, devoured by the infinite tide of undeath. What was left for her but the quiet relief of oblivion? She could let go. Close her eyes. Let it happen.

But then, the mother stirred. Not yet. Her hand slid to her belt, fingers closing around a jagged sliver of iron. Not a weapon. Just a shard. But still sharp enough. If she could not save him, she would make damn sure she did not become like him.

Then, a sound. Far off. A voice. A flash of blue over the trees. The multitudes of Scourge turned. Winethol turned.

She knew the dead along the way would be made anew, the destruction, the punishment of their lands for the power greed of a megalomaniac. His name wasn’t known to her in the present, but in the future the entire world did.

Tycil’s lungs ached as she held her breath, as her risen, hollow son faltered.

Then, as though yanked by an unseen thread, he pivoted toward the magic. Toward the city.

Toward Paranir. Hope flickered, fragile and trembling. Her eldest was in Silvermoon. Surely they would be stopped there. Surely he would be safe. Surely.

A mother always worried. Even when her sons had grown, when she had laughed at their protests that they were five hundred years old and she needed to stop pestering them about settling down, she had worried. Now, worry felt like prayer.

If Paranir lived, if he survived, he had to remember. He had to carry their name. Tycil let her head fall back against the ruin, eyes tracing the sky through the fractured ceiling.

The smoke parted, just enough to let in a sliver of golden light.

She smiled, blood staining her teeth.

“Fight, my son,” she whispered, not knowing which one she meant anymore.

“Fight.”

( @daily-writing-challenge )

[ffxivxd]

Clues of the history of archery during the Second Astral Era have been found in Allagan transcriptions of holy texts. They reveal early bows were simple constructs of pliant wood such as yew or bamboo and a bowstring of hemp, silk or sinew from joined limbs

[ancientstuff]

Gobsmacked by the preservation of these.

[isan0rt]

-whispers- new cosplay time.

(I got a 3D printer for Christmas which means I'm going to actually make the Aloy costume I've been planning on since Forbidden West came out).

Some interesting observations having really started investigating how the Nora Anointed armor is assembled;

- there's a LOT of sherpa on this and all of it seems to be padding. The shoulder straps and upper arms on the sleeves are absolutely lined with really thick sherpa and it seems intended to cushion the weight of the armor (the shoulder straps) and absorb shock (the upper arms) given that the sleeves are open under the arms almost to the elbow for breathability. The fur on the boots is pretty ideally positioned to cushion the lower shins. I'm also going to quilt the front shell of the chest plate onto the hair side of sherpa to get that deep quilted look.

- the round pieces on the front of the shoulder straps kinda look like they might be speaker covers. I gotta think about whether I'm gonna actually use speaker parts for real or fudge it.

- the cord tied around the ankles is functional actually. These boots shift like crazy without them, but with cord wrapped around the ankle the leather stays snug to my feet and the insoles stay in place. Presumably all the cord around the wrists and forearms is also functional, to keep the sleeves from fouling a bowstring. Also the boots are hella comfortable (I used economy buckskin with an insole of the same heavy suede I'm going to use for the skirt).

- The skirt designs really seem like a mixture of dye, paint, and decorative stitching. It looks like the darker blue on the edges of the panels is dye, the lighter blue is paint, and then the details on top are a decorative zigzag saddle stitch done with sinew. Then the red is cord, but it is way denser than you could stitch into leather in real life without absolutely demolishing that part of the leather. I will probably have to punch a bunch of offset stitching holes for that to get the look.

- I thought the sleeves would be laced in on top like a pauldron but they're actually stitched directly onto the upper back portion of the shoulder straps, which wraps around the back of the neck and supports the shoulderblade armor. I assume this is for better range of motion, it would definitely be easier to draw a bow with the sleeves stitched on in the back as opposed to on top of the shoulders.

- I'm going to need to spend so much on cord and by-the-foot electrical cabling at Home Depot lmao.

[thewiickedones]

@little-miss-buffy Asked:

"Stop   looking   at   me   like   that, Klaus."

⚔   ──   ⚔   Klaus   stared   at   the   Slayer,   his   gaze   as   steady   as   a   hawk   circling   prey.   She   was   all   jittery   energy,   the   kind   that   smelled   deliciously   of   fear   and   something   else,   something   he   couldn't   quite   name.

He   smiled,   a   slow,   curling   thing   that   seemed   to   unfold   over   centuries.   ❝   I   don’t   know   what   you   mean,   love.   ❞   He   said,   savoring   the   word   as   if   tasting   it   for   the   first   time.   He   leaned   back,   a   picture   of   casual   indifference,   as   if   he   hadn't   spent   lifetimes   perfecting   the   art   of   torment.

❝   Time.   ❞   Klaus   echoed,   rolling   the   word   around   as   though   it   were   a   rare   wine.   ❝   What   a   luxury   it   is.   ❞   He   watched   her,   the   way   her   lips   pressed   into   a   thin   line,   the   way   muscle   and   sinew   bunched   at   her   shoulders,   her   neck.   ❝   And   yet,   ❞   he   continued,   drawing   out   the   tension   like   a   bowstring,   ❝   here   you   are,   wasting   it   on   little   old   me.   ❞

[geekusfemme]

What if?

*******************************************************

Full story on AO3 — Wattpad 100k+

Astarion x Female OC

Rating: Mature

Summary: What if Astarion was betrayed by the Dark Urge and handed over to the Gur Hunter? And what if another kind of hunter saved him and set his life on a new course, one that would ultimately lead him to cross paths with those who had abandoned him? This story aims to give Astarion his own hero's journey separate to the main party, and will run parallel to the canon story in which Durge will be an antagonist.

*******************************************************

The forest lay quiet, bathed in golden light filtering through dense canopies that arched like ancient cathedrals over the narrow dirt road. The clip-clop of Gandrel's pony disturbed an otherwise tranquil woodland, his cart rolling steadily as he adjusted his reins, his attention largely on the road ahead. Behind him, in the cart's shadow, lay a large cage cloaked in heavy canvas, edges bound tightly with rope. Gandrel's eyes flicked occasionally to the side, cautious, as if sensing something amiss in the quiet.

In his periphery, a dark shape loomed, slinking from the undergrowth. A giant direwolf, fur like tarnished steel, padded up beside the cart, its massive paws silent on the earth. Astride the beast sat a young elven woman with raven-black hair, braided and woven with feathers. Her ice-blue eyes held him in a gaze as unwavering as her mount's. She wore a mix of leather and fur armor, each piece worn and shaped by use, the rough sinew of her life in the wilds. In her hand, a bow rested, almost lazily, but her body remained taut, poised as if she could spring from her seat at any moment.

Gandrel steadied his voice, though his grip on the reins tightened. "Greetings, friend - if friend you may be," he called out, keeping his tone cautious yet amiable. "I am Gandrel. May I know your business with me?"

The woman inclined her head slightly. Her expression gave nothing away, yet something about her presence prickled at his instincts. "Greetings, Gandrel. I am Ashara. My business with you will depend on what is contained within that cage of yours."

Gandrel glanced back to the covered cage, feeling a sudden surge of unease. Though he masked it, a shiver crept up his spine. Guiding his pony to the side, he stopped, watching her with wary eyes. She made no move to approach, but the direwolf's amber gaze was fixed upon him.

"It holds no beasts of the forest, if that is your concern," Gandrel replied, choosing his words carefully. "Only a prisoner, one I am taking to Baldur's Gate."

Ashara's expression didn't shift, but her posture did, almost imperceptibly; her bow was suddenly, dangerously, taut, the arrow aimed directly at him. "People are disappearing up and down the Sword Coast," she said, her tone sharp as flint. "I've been hired to investigate. You will show me this prisoner. Now."

Gandrel forced a placating smile, raising his hands slowly. "Please, do not mistake my intent. The prisoner I carry isn't one of your missing innocents. He is vampire spawn - a creature my tribe tasked me with capturing and delivering to Baldur's Gate."

Ashara's gaze never wavered, the bowstring taut in her grip. "Nevertheless, I require you to show me this prisoner."

Reluctantly, Gandrel clambered down from the cart, moving slowly to avoid provoking her further. He reached for the ropes holding the thick canvas in place, fingers steady but betraying a flicker of resignation. With a swift motion, he pulled the covering free, revealing the cage's occupant.

—♤—

Ashara's gaze sharpened as she took in the unusual features of the elven man in front of her: red eyes like garnets gleaming beneath the tangle of his silver curls, pale skin sunlit, but without the burns that would afflict a vampire. He was on his knees with his hands bound behind his back, a strip of twisted cloth silencing any cries he might have given. A rope wound tightly around his neck, the other end of which was passed through the bars of his prison and tied to a metal ring in the bed of the cart.

As he caught sight of her, the elf strained against his bindings, muffled sounds slipping past the gag as he glanced between her and Gandrel with urgent desperation.

Gandrel held up a hand, intercepting her questions before she could voice them. "I understand the confusion," he said, his voice calm yet resolute. "I was also taken aback to find a vampire walking freely in sunlight. But make no mistake - his immunity only serves his deceit. He used it to win the trust of a band of adventurers."

Inside the cage, the elf shook his head furiously, his eyes flashing with fierce protest. In a desperate effort, he scraped his gag against the bars until he managed to free his mouth. Though Ashara searched for telltale fangs, he kept his lips firmly pressed - a gesture that did not escape her notice. She hesitated, her gaze sharp with suspicion, yet unwilling to accept Gandrel's explanation outright.

"Please, listen," the elf gasped, his voice smooth yet strained, an accent polished with nobility. "This Gur is lying through his teeth! My name is Astarion, and I'm a magistrate from Baldur's Gate. I was kidnapped by this thug, who most likely intends to ransom me. Free me, and I'll see you richly rewarded."

Ashara studied him, noting the regal, carefully groomed air about him, the elegance of his speech, his clothing - though dirtied - was finely made. She looked back at Gandrel, suspicion flickering in her gaze. "Proof," she said quietly, her tone brooking no argument. "Show me proof of his nature beyond mere words."

Gandrel's expression flickered as if with hesitation, but he nodded in resigned acceptance. Climbing up onto the cart, he took hold of the rope tied to the elf's neck and pulled it taut, dragging him toward the back of the cage despite his furious writhing. Tying it off, he produced a key and moved to the cage's door, opening it and stepping inside.

Ashara watched, a prickling unease creeping up her spine as he seized the man by the hair, forcing his head back with a relentless grip.

Astarion snarled, his voice venomous. "Unhand me, you filthy bastard! What are you - no!"

Gandrel ignored his protests, gripping Astarion's lower jaw with his other hand, forcing his mouth open to reveal sharp, glinting canines, gleaming in the sunlight like a predator's trap laid bare.

"See?" Gandrel murmured, his voice low, yet something in his eyes seemed troubled as he looked back at Ashara.

All pretense vanished from Astarion's face, twisting his elegant features into something feral as he jerked his head, his fangs flashing as he snapped at Gandrel's hands. The hunter barely flinched, releasing Astarion with an eerie calm, stepping back as if accustomed to such wild resistance.

Gandrel's voice was devoid of sympathy. "I take no pleasure in this, spawn. It would have served you better to be truthful."

Astarion strained against his bonds, spitting like a wild cat. "Go to the hells! I'll tear you to pieces for this, Gur."

Ashara felt a chill crawl up her spine at Astarion's abrupt, vicious change. He'd gone from a desperate prisoner to something far more dangerous, a predator wounded and cornered. Still, her voice was steady when she spoke to Gandrel, watching him as he locked up the cage and loosened the rope tether, giving Astarion just enough freedom to slump back onto his knees.

"What will happen to this vampire once you've delivered him to your people?" she asked, her gaze flicking to Astarion, now panting heavily, his eyes wild with fury.

"What do you think? They'll kill me!" Astarion cut in before Gandrel could answer. The fear in his gaze stirred something reluctant in her, as he pleaded, "Look, I'm sorry for lying, but I haven't done anything wrong. I wasn't going to hurt anyone, I swear."

Gandrel's expression hardened, his voice now cool, a wall built from old wounds and memories. "That may be so these past few days, but you're wanted for more than just being a vampire. You helped steal away the children of my tribe. My own included."

The words fell like stones, each one a blow that left Astarion frozen. He flicked a nervous glance at Ashara, his composure wavering. She caught the tension in his shoulders, the flicker of shame in his eyes, so brief it could've been a trick of the light. But when he looked up, anger masked his face once more.

"I didn't have a choice!" Astarion's voice rose, a bitter edge cutting through it. "Cazador ordered me to take them, and I had to obey. All his spawn have to obey - you know that damn well, Gur!"

Gandrel's face hardened, but a flicker of pain crossed his eyes, so brief Ashara almost missed it. "Willingly or not, it makes no difference. You know what happened to those children, and you will tell us."

Astarion looked away, jaw clenched. "You want to know what happened? They're probably dead by now." His voice was low, resignation tainted with anger. "Nothing I say can change that, and I won't apologize for something I couldn't control."

The weight of Gandrel's sorrow settled heavily in the silence between them, and his jaw tightened, a haunted glint in his eye. "Then my people will have their vengeance... one way or another."

Astarion scoffed, a hollow, bitter laugh escaping his lips. "Killing me won't change a damn thing."

Gandrel turned to Ashara, his eyes weary but resolute. "Now that you've seen my prisoner, am I free to continue on my way?"

She glanced back at Astarion, who had slumped back against the bars, head bowed as though each breath was an effort. A faint sense of guilt stirred within her, but she forced herself to nod, her voice quiet. "Yes... your business with this man is your own."

Astarion's head jerked up, his eyes ablaze with fury and betrayal. "Damn you!" His voice cracked, the anger veiling something more fragile. Then he fell silent, a hollow figure against the iron bars.

Ashara straightened, stroking her wolf's thick fur as she gave Gandrel a respectful nod. "Onyx and I apologize for detaining you, Gandrel of the Gur. May your journey be swift and your burden light."

A weary smile ghosted across Gandrel's face as he climbed back onto the cart, his eyes softening as he inclined his head. "And so too may yours be, Ashara."

She nudged Onyx to step aside as Gandrel took up the reins, his cart lumbering forward along the winding path. But as they passed, her gaze fell back to the figure in the cage. Astarion was watching her, and in his eyes, she caught a shimmer - a trace of something unguarded, unfeigned. A plea that was all the more startling for its sincerity.

"Please..." he whispered, his voice a fragile thread, breaking under the weight of despair. "Help me."

She tore her gaze away, her chest tightening as a pang of guilt twisted within her. Beneath her, Onyx sensed her discomfort, and gave a low rumbling growl of reassurance as they slipped back into the forest.

Beneath the cover of trees, she dismounted, letting her thoughts drift as she resumed the task she'd abandoned earlier - skinning the deer she'd taken down just before Gandrel had passed by.

Onyx settled beside her, his watchful eyes fixed on her with a calm assurance as his voice echoed in her mind.

"You feel guilt over the vampire. Waste not your sympathy. His kind are known for cruelty and deception. His fate is one he surely deserves."

Ashara paused, turning to run her hand over the thick fur along Onyx's neck. "I know. But something about seeing him caged like that - so desperate for freedom - it reminded me of you. People said you were a monster too." She gave a half-smile, her eyes softening. "And I'm glad I didn't believe them."

Onyx's muzzle curled into a canine grin, his teeth glinting. "As am I, my friend."

She sighed, tracing the line of her blade over the deer's pelt. "I know I shouldn't get involved-"

"Then don't." Onyx's voice was calm, grounded in a wisdom that often tempered her impulsive nature.

"But maybe we could free him and let him go somewhere remote and far away from people?" she argued, more to herself than to him. "Like that owlbear we rescued from hunters?"

Onyx scratched an ear, tilting his head thoughtfully. "A vampire is not an owlbear, Ashara. If he is freed, he will remember every slight, every indignity. And he will eventually return to civilization, hungrier and more cunning than before. Do you truly wish the blood of the next innocent traveller he meets to be on your conscience?"

Ashara felt the weight of his words and lowered her gaze, her resolve weakening. "No... you're right."

Onyx's voice softened as he leaned his head against her arm. "If you choose to free him, his fate is your responsibility. You would have to ensure he never harms another innocent soul. And that would mean keeping him close and watching over him."

She glanced up, startled. "What... like a pet?"

A rare bark of laughter escaped Onyx, a sharp huff that made her smile despite herself. "No, not quite. I do not think he would take kindly to that title."

Ashara grinned, feeling slightly foolish at her assumption. Then, a spark of curiosity glinted in her eyes as she remembered. "Oh, how did I do back there by the way?"

Onyx nuzzled her cheek affectionately. "You handled yourself well. You were confident, respectful."

"I wasn't too aggressive?"

"For a man who captured a vampire? I think you showed just the right amount." His amber eyes gleamed approvingly.

Ashara gave a small, proud smile, her hands resuming their work. But even as she focused on the deer, her thoughts drifted back to the prisoner. Those crimson eyes, filled with anguish, haunted her. And as the forest wrapped around her, she wondered if she could truly let that plea go unanswered.

Like what you're reading? Check out the full chapter in the link below.

[babblingbookends]

shhhhhh it's naptime

fshsfshhfshsf he is OUT

[violentdelightshavevioletends]

Onyx Storm Chapter 65 Analysis & Theories. (because I must know what it all means & what happened, so here’s my fresh out the final chapters thoughts… this is of course FULL of MAJOR book SPOILERS): Part 2

*Orange equals book highlights, Purple equals good/important quotes, Pink equals my notes.*

"Do not take more than you can channel," Tairn warns as he lunges forward. His teeth snap closed a few feet behind the wyvern's tail. They're too fucking fast. The wyvern dives, curving along the ridgeline to the right, and Tairn follows. A roar of unfettered agony fills my head, so loud it vibrates my bones and shrill enough to pop my ears. "Sgaeyl!" Tairn bellows, his wings losing their rhythm, and my heart skips a series of beats. Oh Malek, no. I hurl myself at the bond, but the wall of ice doesn't just stand firm; it repels me with brute force. —has he begun channeling yet? Ugh why can’t everyone just listen to Tairn!—

Andarna. —the fact Andarna is still top of this list… I have feelings… it’s no surprise of course I just have feelings— Xaden. Sgaeyl. —Sgaeyl on the list too… I’m fine… it’s fine. But what if that’s what Xaden left in her care *crying*— Mira. Brennan. My friends. They slip through my mind in a whirl of pictures I can't grasp on to, flickering too fast to fully feel. All I can do is ease off the pommels, lean right to spare the inevitable impact to my abdomen as the thick rope of the net digs into my back. "You have been the gift of my life," —those last same words! OW!— I tell Tairn. "It is not over!" he shouts. We hit with a jarring impact, bone crunching against rock, and my left arm snaps —in that time she sees a mender, her arm did break, and Brennan did not fix it as I doubt Imogen wiped his memory too— and the dagger falls. A scream forces its way through my lips as we slide down the mountain…..just like the first time we encountered Theophanie. —and Garrick showed up then too… he’s the Venin I just know it for a sick reason—

Holy shit, we just might survive the fall. "Of course we'll survive!" Tairn growls. "Are you hurt?" I ask Tairn as we come to a stop at what appears to be the edge of the forest. "Nothing that won't heal after we free ourselves and separate her sinew from bone." —Why is Tairn asleep at the end of this book?!— The scent of sulfur fills the air —everyone keeps mentioning that… are we sure it’s flame and not runes or something else? I mean it tracks for dragon warfare but I also pay intention to the repeats— as Tairn breathes fire through the net. Wood crackles and net thwangs. Then he surges forward and the net slips just enough for me to sit up through the opening that's clearly designed to hold dragons, not riders.

"Sgaeyl can handle herself," Tairn grits out, but bowstring-tight tension and worry radiate down the bond as fire streams again and he fights to get us loose. "And the dark wielder descends ahead." —some part of me thought he meant sensing Xaden fully turning— Sure enough, Theophanie's wyvern glides down toward the field like they have all the time in the world, like we're pinned exactly where she wants us. Gods, she's relentless. It doesn't matter that my arm throbs with excruciating intensity—we have to get out of here right fucking now.

For when you lose yours. Strike in the dark, Violet. — hellllooooo book cover quotes—

What the fuck? The fall has broken the wax seal, and the parchment unrolls as I loosen my grip, dropping a carved piece of gray marble in my lap—a ceremonial-looking dagger with familiar flame-shaped —what do they mean? Maybe more runes? Violets bad at them so she probably wouldn’t know (not a dis, just a note)— etchings along the hilt. I glance at the accompanying note from the high priestess of Dunne's temple in Aretia, but the letters blur as the pain in my arm flares and Tairn thrashes to free us. A gift from one servant of Dunne to another. I must warn you-only those touched by the gods should wield their wrath. I will pray to Her that she need not use it to avoid reacquainting herself with the other who curries her favor. Her path is still not set. —THAT QUOTE— My stomach pitches. How would Aaric know l'd lose my dagger, let alone think that some piece of rock could replace—"Ahead of us!" Tairn snaps, and I jerk my attention forward and sheathe the marble dagger out of instinct.

The pair? The scream. "They have Sgaeyl, too." Tairn's rage washes over me like acid. I put myself in front of Tairn —both Xaden and Violet protecting their dragons, dragon riders till the end *crying*— and open the floodgates to his power, welcoming the scorch of heat and flame in my blistered veins. "Silver One," Tairn growls in warning to the accompaniment of the sound of shredding rope. "If I burn out, so be it, but she won't touch you," I say aloud just so Theophanie will know I'm not fucking around. —okay sweet but also if you die he dies so… speaking of; why would they kill Sgaeyl? It would kill Violet who they seem to want alive… so— "Have you made your choice, then?" Theophanie asks, coming closer by the step. "I have." I flick my right hand skyward and let the energy snap through me, yanking it down with the tip of my finger. Theophanie races ten yards to the right, moving faster than I've ever seen. "You'll have to be—" I wield again before she can finish and strike the very place she's standing, earning an immediate clap of thunder. But she's already twenty feet to my left. "Faster," she finishes, and I strike again, only for the pattern to repeat. Again and again and again. My lungs scream as I breathe the very thing l've become, heat and power and rage, but she's still too fast for me to catch and moving closer to Tairn with every failed strike.

"Tell me, do you miss Unbriel?" Her eyes flare, and she startles. Victory. I gather more and more power, spooling it like molten thread. "Do you not yearn for temple?" I use the words the high priestess had on me. Her face twists with an emotion that almost looks like longing, but it's quickly masked with anger. "Do you?" she counters. "Or are you immune, having only been touched, but not dedicated?" —WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?!— She charges forward. "Do you know the pain of never being allowed to return, of knowing that it would sever the very thing that's kept me untouchable all these years?" I let a fraction of my power release, striking the ground in front of her, and she skids to a halt. Touched. Shit, the priestess in Unbriel had said that, too. So had the note wrapped around Aaric's gift. "As a high priestess, you would have had immeasurable power on the isle. How was it still not enough?" "Why serve a god when you can be one?" Theophanie snarls. Putrid fear consumes the bond, followed by another roar that nearly buckles my knees. Sgaeyl. My head jerks upward, my heart lurching against the cage of my ribs as Tairn lurching against the cage of my ribs as Tairn snarls, his talons furrowing in the forest floor. "Don't!" —she knows right then… like Tairn said she would— Terror clogs my throat as I shout for Xaden, but he can't hear me. Draithus is enveloped in darkness, and the shrieking cries of wyvern soon follow, racing across the field and echoing off the rock above. "What—" Theophanie pivots toward the noise.

Shadow spreads like a ripple on a lake, devouring the field in the fury of an onyx storm —not the title quote we wanted— and sweeping toward us at a speed that squeezes the hope from my chest, then outright shatters my heart. The pain hits like a physical blow to the center of my chest. He's terrifyingly powerful with Sgaeyl, but not like this. This is the kind of force that ends worlds. And it's almost here. "I love you," I whisper down the bond, and the ice cracks, but it's not enough to halt the approaching wave of darkness. Shadow throws Theophanie to the ground a second before it rushes over me, whisper soft against my cheeks, tossing us into pitch-black night. "Strike!" Tairn snaps, and I hear the net give way. Exhaustion grabs hold and refuses to be ignored. I'm too tired. Too close to burning alive. What's the point if I can't catch her? "Use the darkness!" Tairn orders. My heart stutters. Use the very thing that's taking Xaden from me? —that line hurt— I never dreamed that taking every possible path to cure him would lead to his choice. The fire devouring me from the inside out threatens to consume my very bones, and for a second, I debate letting it. I couldn't stop my mother, and I can't stop Xaden. I can't save him. Wait. Strike in the darkness. That's what Aaric's note said... —also the book cover— Like he knew this would happen. I gasp as all the pieces click in one overwhelming heartbeat. The reinforcements. Telling me to guard Dunne's temple. Yanking Lynx out of the way before the doors even opened to the great hall. He knew. He's been manifesting this entire time. "He's a fucking precog," I whisper in awe. —I KNEW IT— A real one-not like Melgren, who can only foresee battles —ps if it is Garrick they may be able to stay invisible thanks to relics—. If Aaric wields true precognition, he saw this, and he gave me a weapon made of the fractured temple—a temple Theophanie can't step inside. I don't believe in oracles, but I do believe in signets. I unsheathe the marble dagger with my right hand, then mix my pain into the searing power that scorches what's left of my beating heart, lift my broken arm, and release the agonizing burn of energy skyward. And hold it. The continuous strike lights up our surroundings and branches out through the shadow, revealing Theophanie's back. She stumbles to her feet and whirls toward me, her eyes flaring wide, and she dives left, smacking into an invisible wall and falling backward. A wall that snarls. Scales shimmer to the same silver-blue as my strike, and a small dragon stalks toward Theophanie, her head low, teeth bared. And just like that, my stammering heartbeat stabilizes. Andarna. —how long was she there, why was the bb there? I’m glad! I missed bb dragon… just have questions—

Theophanie reaches out her hand, wonder lighting her red eyes. I don't care what her intentions are-she's not getting her hands on Andarna. Pain wraps me in a broiling vise and fire sears my lungs, but I hold the bolt and sprint. Andarna leaving was one thing; losing her to the touch of a dark wielder is incomprehensible. "Irid," Theophanie whispers with reverence, straining toward Andarna. —WHAT DO THE PRIESTESSES KNOW— I lunge, driving the dagger straight into her heart. Fire breathes through me, until I am char and cinder and agony. —she’s the flame now too— She staggers backward and starts to laugh. Then she sees the blood and stops. "How?" Her eyes flare, and she topples to her knees. "Stone doesn't kill venin." "You were never just venin," —none of them are then— | reply. "Dunne is a wrathful goddess to high priestesses who turn their backs on Her." —and that feels like foreshadowing for Sgaeyl and Vi— She opens her mouth to scream, then desiccates in an instant. I release the bolt, plunging us into darkness and surrendering to the fire burning me alive. "Violet," Andarna whispers. —was it really Andarna? Or was it Xaden?— And then I hear nothing. —WHAT HAPPENED? Does she just wake standing? AGH!—

[blackjackkent]

(Continued from previous post)

"Look at it." Orin's slow smile is caustic and cruel as she looks Rakha up and down with mocking disdain. "Father's favorite, all lost and wandering. Have you forgotten the way home?"

She steps forward, close enough that Rakha can almost feel her breath. Orin smells of blood and viscera; Rakha's head aches and the beast growls viciously inside her skull.

"Should I set your lapdog to screaming? That could help you find the way."

Every sinew of Rakha's body feels drawn tight like a bowstring ready to snap free. Her head aches, a line of fire along the scar where Orin's knife once carved into her brain. And with that pain comes instinctual terror, the desire to flee, to run far away from the shapechanger's reach, to some impossible place where she will never be found.

Orin's presence tears at her like nothing else in the world, for Orin was the one who attacked her, and Orin stands at her side as the other offspring of the dark god that haunts her blood.

But she can't flee. Their battles have not changed. Wyll's city is still in danger. And something far more immediate as well, which makes her spine tingle with rage that is for once all her and none of the beast.

"What have you done with Lae'zel?" she growls, very deep and low in her throat.

Orin's eyes widen dramatically and she smiles with gleeful madness. "Nothing! No, not a thing... still gasping and gagging on the foul airs of Bhaal's temple..." She draws a giggling breath inwards. "I will save her for you. We can peel her corpse together, once the Baneite is dead."

Rakha shudders violently at the image these words conjure, a combination of horror and ecstasy. Orin's smile widens.

"Gortash betrays us, blood-kin," she purrs. "He sets a leash to our slaughter, uses us to drive the herd towards his tin men's oppression." She steps closer again, draws her fingertips along Rakha's jaw. "You must kill the tyrant, smear him across his rock-rotten halls, and pluck the Netherstones from his carcass."

Surely she knows the effect these words have. She is laying them like a trap for the beast in Rakha's head, drawing it out of hiding; it growls hungrily. Yes... yes... we would kill him and split him and smear him and swallow him whole...

Orin's fingertips drift down Rakha's jaw to instead trace over the long artery beneath it, right where her pulse is thumping. "And then we duel, sweet slaughter-kin," she hisses, her eyes bright with eagerness. "The winner claims the stones - Bhaal's true Chosen. THe loser rots on his altar."

Her nails drag ever-so-gently over Rakha's skin, and then her hand drops. "Agree, and I will bring my assassins to heel," she says. "They watch you always, longing to spray the crimson from your veins." Her smile hardens suddenly into a monstrous scowl. "Refuse me... and you'll learn what happens to those who defy Bhaal's doctrine. So will your friend."

Narrator: So this was Orin's intention. A combat against a fellow scion of Bhaal, witnessed by the Lord of Murder himself. Accept, and you must kill Gortash. Refuse, and your companion's life may be forfeit. As might your own - Orin's assassins will hunt you like prey for slaughter.

Perhaps, in another scenario, she might consider this deal. Whatever pact she swore with Gortash, it was not with the intent of keeping it. (Deep in the back of her mind, part of her still craves that welcome he gave to all of her, even the bloody parts, but Jaheira has made it clear this alliance can only be temporary. The Emperor agreed that it need not be honored. Wyll has made it clear Gortash needs to die. She cannot let that part of her win.)

And perhaps, in another scenario, she might give in to her fear of facing Orin head-on. She does not want to be Bhaal's chosen, does not want to surrender to the taint in her blood or battle for supremacy in his cult. And Orin has already destroyed her once before, ripped apart her mind and left her a broken thing to be tortured and mutilated.

But any of those considerations pale beside the immediate and inescapable fact that Orin has taken Lae'zel. The first person Rakha can remember being close to, the first person who helped her, the person whose guidance has directed her right from the beginning.

Her friend.

Attack with purpose, and savor your kills, Lae'zel told her, so many weeks ago, and Rakha cannot think of a greater purpose than this.

"Why wait?" she rasps. Her eyes glint with that same half-mad brightness and for a moment any onlooker could see the horrifying resemblance between the two women - not as clear as it was with Z'rell, but striking all the same. "Let's kill each other right now."

You took my friend. I will rip out your throat and tear you apart.

Orin laughs disdainfully. "You forget how Father's blood clots our veins!" she crows. "It must be returned to him, seeped straight into his grimborn jaws. But first-- first you must make gutspill of the tyrant."

She clenches both fists at her sides in rage at the thought of Gortash. "Do not underestimate his Steel Watch. Seek their cradle in the Lower City and skewer their skull meat. Make them rust and blood. Then you can gore the lordling again and again and again..."

She begins to laugh, a maniacal giggle that snaps to an abrupt halt as she reaches out and grabs Rakha by her collar. "But listen. Listen close, Bone-killer," she growls. "Come to my temple before you turn Gortash to carrion, and I will ready your friend's corpse to greet you."

Again, that slow, icy smile. "Bhaal is waiting, slaughter-kin. Do not disappoint him."

With a roar, Rakha lashes out with both hands, reaching for the changeling's throat, but her palms pass through empty air and then she hits the barn wall beyond with a grunt. Orin is gone.

------

Slowly the ache in Rakha's head starts to dissipate, and she leans forward until her hairline is resting against the wood of the wall.

"Stlarning shapeshifter," Jaheira mutters hoarsely. "She has taken Lae'zel, and would have killed the girl besides..." She looks down at Yenna, who is still crouched behind her, eyes wide with terror. "We must increase our guard. This cannot be allowed to happen again..."

Silence. Wyll has been standing nearby, wide-eyed, watching all of this unfold, and he now steps forward and cautiously rests a hand against Rakha's back; her muscles twitch, and then relax, recognizing the familiar touch. "Are you all right?" he asks softly.

Rakha doesn't answer for a long time. When she does, her voice is so low that it's almost inaudible. "She has Lae'zel," she mutters.

Wyll looks over his shoulder uncertainly at Jaheira, and at Minthara who has approached as well and is leaning one shoulder against the barn's doorframe with knitted brows.

"You have heard Orin's promise to us," the drow says flatly. "Should we pursue her while Gortash lives, she will send assassins for us. She will kill her prisoner."

"Let her assassins come," Rakha rasps. "We will destroy them. And she cannot kill Lae'zel if we kill her first."

Minthara smiles slowly. "Well spoken. I can think of no greater cause than to make Orin the Red suffer."

Wyll clears his throat. "You're certain of this?" he asks.

Rakha shrugs. "We have no choice."

Jaheira draws a breath and lets it out in a long hiss between her teeth. "You have a choice," she says steadily to the back of Rakha's head. "And what matters is your reasons for it. Do you simply wish to see blood spilled? There are easier ways." Her voice is deliberately noncommittal; Rakha cannot tell which decision she approves of.

Rakha's fist presses slowly against the wall's rotten wood until it bends under the pressure. Certainly there are easier ways for the beast to drink its fill here. They could indeed turn on Gortash, rip out his throat, follow Orin's plan to the letter.

But this isn't about the beast. This isn't about Bhaal. This is about her.

"Lae'zel is my friend," she whispers. "And I'm going to get her back."

Jaheira nods slowly and a slight smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "Then the plan is made," she says.

[burner002]

Could you write conner x daughter of hades. She has to comfort him about his nightmares about Luke after getting back from the Argo 2 mission.

ok so maybe i lied abt posting the mphfpc au first. also ?? was a bit confused w the ask but i made it work. reader is nico and hazel's sibling and yeah you'll figure it out. also i think it's more focused on reader than connor WAAAAHH sorry !! being a hades kid already has enough baggage so

wc: 1.8k words

contains: heavily hinted trauma/ptsd

You couldn't sleep. You just couldn't. Even with the warmth of another body pressing onto you, even with his boyish scent mixed with a hint of citrus, even with the assurance of every breath he took, and the breaths that tickled your side, you couldn't find it in you to want to sleep.

If you closed your eyes you'd see bloodshed and gnashing teeth and the flash of bronze. If you listened to anything other than your or his breathing you'd hear roars, of either the raging wind or the hordes of monsters in front of you, or the screams of your companions.

If you looked to the side you'd start picturing red eyes watching you through the window, hungrily waiting for you to let your guard down. If you looked to the other side you'd see your brother Nico's empty bed. You knew it was his, even though he hadn't left a trace.

You wondered how he was doing, but that made a lump grow in your throat and your eyes started to sting and something ugly burned in the pit of your stomach. Fuck! Why did you agree to go on that stupid quest anyway? Quest...no, it wasn't a quest. It was a mistake, that's what it was. A mistake that led you into being separated from your half-siblings—who knows where they are or what they're doing, definitely not you; or if they were still alive—no. No, you told yourself firmly. You would've felt it if it happened. And you have not felt anything. You refused to even entertain the thought.

Your mind started to cloud with worry. Even though you couldn't remember much, the feeling was still there. Nico's eyes genuinely looked like those of a cornered animal; it was the first time you'd ever seen him like that. And then after that, you were on the shores of Long Island, battered and bruised and barely coherent. It was a bad ambush and Nico had shadow traveled you back to camp.

You didn't want to think about him. Because you'd end up crying, and you didn't like crying. And you didn't want to end up crying about everything else, like the burden on your shoulders and possible survivor's guilt, the weight Nico and Hazel would be carrying right now, the responsibility, the lack of your siblings' whereabouts, the primordial deity Gaea waking up...

Fuck. You were spiraling again. In the literal sense of the word, your head wasn't spinning, but it did feel quite loud.

You bit your lip. It's here again.

You didn't want to move. You were afraid you'd explode if you did. Your fingertips tingled. Electricity tickled at the callouses, calling for the hilt of a blade, the surface of a stone to throw, the sinew of a bowstring, the shaft of a spear, even the trigger of a gun.

It's the bloodlust and jitters you'd been feeling these past few weeks, when traveling with Nico, defending the Argo II when attacks struck or yourself when you were out alone. And it didn't help much now, now that you were thinking about all these things and sleep deprived, dehydrated, hungry, and possibly delirious. You were afraid that if you got up and moved your body like how a puppeteer would work his marionette you wouldn't be satisfied with anything until you were able to destroy something completely.

The ugly feeling in your stomach was close to bubbling over the brim. You had parted your lips to sigh, but nothing came out. A jolt of horror went through you. Were you turning into a shadow?

You did the first thing you could do to ground yourself—squeeze Connor's arm which was draped over your body.

He grunted in his sleep and stirred, but didn't wake. You couldn't turn your head to look at him.

This time, when you sighed, you heard your shaky breath. That calmed you down a bit. But Connor moved again beside you, and this time you could hear a faint whisper come out of his mouth.

When you finally look over at him, he's clammy. Sweat is beading at his temples and his brows are furrowed. It takes you a second to snap out of it, a second and the feeling of his hand twitch against your midriff.

"No. I won't..." He's mumbling things, and you wonder whether you should wake him up or not. You've seen and heard of incidents where demigods are woken up in the middle of their nightmares and it springs them into action, triggering their battle skills and having them attack the person who woke them up. Then again, you weren't afraid of that happening with him.

Oh, so now you trusted him enough to think that he wouldn't attack you on instinct?

But then again, no matter what happened when you woke him up, you'd forgive any reaction, violent or not. After all, you yourself stayed up to avoid your own bad dreams.

You didn't want to see him thrash around and you didn't want him to suffer in his dreams for any longer. And you didn't care if it risked your face to wake him up. So you give his arm a little shake.

He doesn't wake, so you do it harder. You use your voice this time. "Connor." It sounds hoarse. It breaks through the silence like a jagged blade.

He stirs again, and you can see his irises move under his eyelids. He blinks awake a few moments later, arms moving confusedly as if he was still, quite literally, half asleep.

When his gaze landed on you, he flinched, but then he realized it was you, so he turned away, embarrassed. Clapping a hand over his mouth, he almost fell off the bed, swinging his legs over the edge.

"I-I can't...oh, Y/N, I'm sorry, sweetie, shit, was I keeping you up?" He looks over his shoulder at you and you slowly shake your head, not sure how to respond to him.

"You were having a bad dream," You explained. "Did I do you a favor or...?"

Connor stayed silent. He put his elbows on his thighs and bent over, cradling his head in his hands. "I don't understand, I don't understand, why did he show up again, I thought—shit." He murmured a string of Greek curses.

Carefully, you scooted over to him. You put a shaking hand on his shoulder. "Do you...uhm..."

"It's...Luke." His voice was strained, like he forced himself to utter the name. The name of his older half-brother who taught him all the best tricks, taught him how to swim, showed him all the best hiding spots in camp, explained all the best ways to pickpocket someone, and also betrayed the camp years ago, becoming the vessel of Kronos, the god who took part in causing the Second Titan War.

You didn't really know much about him. But you could tell that he meant a lot to Connor and Travis. And you could only imagine their pain having to take over Cabin 11 for someone who now had gold eyes and was leading an army to his previous (and their) home.

Connor was shaking his head, and you awkwardly rubbed his shoulder. "I don't want him to come back, I thought I was done with that. He's dead," he said loudly, and for a second you thought he was telling it to himself and not you.

"Gods, I don't want him to come back. I miss him, yeah, no shit, but I don't want him back, I have my own big brother—"

"One that isn't a douchebag, yeah," You blurted out without thinking. You were too groggy to care about his reaction, but to your great surprise, his shoulders trembled with a small laugh.

He sighed and turned to face you. His bottom lip looked red and bitten, the skin punctured, and there were marks on his forehead where he must've dug his nails into. But he was smiling softly, with trembling lips. Smiling like you were the only thing that mattered to him at that moment.

He opened his arms, and when you didn't move closer, remaining curled up on the other edge of the bed like that, he was the one who scooted over, attaching himself to your body as a source of comfort.

He heaved a sigh and murmured something you couldn't understand, but you followed his lead and wrapped an arm around him, too. You would never get over how warm he was, especially in contrast to how naturally cold you were.

Eventually you ended up with both your arms around him, one hand in his hair, the other patting his back. You trusted yourself enough to finally close your eyes. The darkness wasn't so bad when you could feel Connor in your embrace.

You could still feel his brows which were knit together, his tense shoulders and his pursed lips. And yet you were willing to hold him like this until he was all better.

"I'm here," you whispered. "It's alright. It was just a dream. Luke is..." You paused, running your hand through his hair. You were never good with words. "He's not here. He's never coming back anymore, you're safe." Your breath almost got caught in your throat. In the general sense, that was an obvious lie, but you hoped he understood what you meant.

"It's just me, Connor. It's okay."

You felt him bite his lip again, but then eventually he released his balled fists and hugged you back, finally relaxing. The both of you adjusted so you were leaning against pillows propped up, and when Connor finally sat up from pressing his face into you there were lines on his face and he was a bit flushed.

You stared at him, taking in his features and his slight frown. "Are...you okay?" You asked tentatively. He nodded, looking down. You could see his eyelashes were wet. His breath still trembled, but only for a moment. The best you could do was give him a supportive squeeze.

"Thanks." There was a rustle as he pulled the blanket over the both of you, getting back into a comfortable position. "Thank you, for...yeah. I'll try not to think about it." He leaned on the wall and laced his fingers through yours, sighing against your neck. "What would I do without you?"

When you didn't answer, unsure of what to respond with, he chuckled lightly and kissed your cheek. "It's a rhetorical question. I love you."

[maninthemiroh]

About my Spider-Verse DR

Birth name: Kesselly, Kelden Doloe

My nicknames: Kel, Dolo

My faceclaim: Xueli Abbing

Gender identity: Cis-male

Orientation: Demi-Homoflexible

More about me and changes I made below the cut <3

Things I changed:

Pav isn’t a middle schooler because that never really made sense to me and because I’m love him or whatever /hj

Miles, Pav, and I are dating

Pav is more of a help to Miles during the events of ATSV than in cannon because obviously

Miles, Pav, and I all go to Earth-42

Appearance & suit:

I'm albino

My suit, which I sewed myself, consists of tiny rhombuses and is matte

Accessories include a form-fitting leather full-body kinda zip-up hooded jacket which I usually keep half-way on and tied around my waist, a ushanka-type yak fur hate, yak fur leg warmers on top of my boots, moonboot-like yak fur boots, bronze and turquoise claw armor rings (I don’t know what they’re called :/), a yak leather tibetan beaded belt, a nose hoop ring on my right nostril, a utility sash, a quiver for my bow and arrow, and a tiger's eye 108 bead mala necklace with the Om symbol

I keep a herbalism kit, flint and stricker, water skin, rope, extra bowstring, twine, and extra yak leather in the utility stash

I have a professionally done scarification of a spiderweb with a spider descending from it on my right hip and a traditional-style tattoo of a Galsang flower in the middle of the area below my pecs

Also, the face of my mask changes expressions like the ones in the Sichuan Opera and my suit’s logo is that of a descending spider with the little lines that old age microphones used to have (the body of the spider is the microphone and the silk strand is the stand) :]

My hair is almost perpetually in Tibetan braids, a style I inherited from my mom, who always wore them while my dad had locs (MY DAD WAS BLACK GUYS, PLEASE). I prefer to keep my hair this way due to my lifestyle as a cabin-dwelling hunter, not seeing the point in changing it often.

I fear I may be obsessed with making my DRselves 9 feet tall 😣

My spider-suit and outfit's color palette (aside from his jewelry) is Persian Indigo (#240D70), Maximum Red (#DB2014), Titanium Yellow (#F5E202), White (#FFFFFF), Crayola's Forest Green (#64AB71) Fulvous, Bleu De France (#298ED7), American Green (#27A845) and Meat Brown (#EBA934)

Weapons and equipment:

Marlin 336 Classic Rifle – A lever-action rifle for long-range precision.

Mdung Spear – Wrapped in cloth with floral carvings on the head.

Composite Bows – Made from bamboo, wood, and yak sinew for strength and flexibility.

Buck 110 Folding Knives – An unknown number is hidden on my person.

Web-Shaped Arrows – Created with my natural silk, often frozen solid for enhanced lethality.

Spider-shaped Throwing Stars – Made with hand tools and out of bronze to fit my fit.

Abilities & powers:

Super Strength, Stamina, Jumping, Adhesion, Reflexes, Agility - I adapt well to mountain terrain and extreme weather conditions, can leap extreme distances, cling to any surface, and have a lifting capacity of 11.3 tons

Spider-Sense – An almost supernatural awareness of danger.

Venom Production – My fangs (when manifested) can inject paralyzing neurotoxic venom, but I only use it in extreme cases.

Feature Generation – I can sprout six additional eyes in two neat rows, heightening my perception. I usually keep them hidden.

Superhuman Perception – I see the world in a way normal humans can’t. My vision is more precise than a scope, allowing me to track minute movements.

Cryokinesis & Frigokinesis – I can create and manipulate extreme cold, ice, and snow.

Web Manipulation – My webs are more fibrous and dense, making them well-suited for shaping into arrows, traps, and weapons.

Zǔzhòu:

Named after the Chinese word for 'Curse,’ Zǔzhòu is my symbiote. When it takes over I grow and transform to look like a Chinese lion dancer centaur. Like, my head looks like a chinese lion dance head, my hair looks like a mane, I grow a long fluffy lion tail, another pair of legs (the back ones), and I appear furry but it's all, of course, just Zǔzhòu manifesting, so it's not really fur. I don’t know, I hope this makes sense, I’m too lazy to draw it right now. I actually saved Zǔzhòu's life (can symbiotes die? I think they can?) when we first met. See, when I was fighting The Shaman for the first time, one of The Shaman's third eye death rays shot out pointedly missing me as an attempted scare tactic, but I didn't react as he intended, so The Shaman shot one out into the distance and I, concerned it would hit someone, begrudgingly let The Shaman escape as I turned and ran to check. The death ray just happened to have hit Zǔzhòu and I (after demanding an explanation for what the hell Zǔzhòu was) agreed to let Zǔzhòu inhabit my body as long as it agreed to not become, well, parasitic. Nowadays, Zǔzhòu is like the very annoying younger sibling I never really wanted. I often have to bribe it with homemade dre-si for it to behave similarly to how eddie Brock’s symbiote, Venom, is obsessed with chocolate.

Backstory:

Born into an impoverished Tibetan family, I grew up in a household where survival meant knowing how to hunt, craft, and live off the land. Despite the hardship, my parents always set aside enough money every year to take me to see the Sichuan Opera on my birthday, a rare indulgence that sparked my deep love for music and singing.

One day, while performing my daily cleanse of my home—a strict routine to keep my space free of pests—I discovered a Pantropical Huntsman Spider, an unusual find in the cold region. Unlike most, I wasn’t afraid. Instead, I gently picked up the spider, quietly speaking to it as I carried it outside, knowing it would fare better away from my fastidiously kept space.

Unknown to me, the spider was the product of a failed scientific experiment, its DNA altered with radioactive properties beyond natural biology. In what seemed to be a gesture of thanks—or perhaps an instinctive defense—the spider bit me before scampering off.

I shrugged off the bite, knowing Huntsman Spiders weren’t dangerous, but the next morning, I woke with a feeling that something was off. The moment I sat up, a web shot from my wrist, startling me. Fascinated, I spent the day experimenting with my newfound abilities, quickly mastering them with the same precision and patience I applied to hunting.

By the following year, he was fully in control of his powers.

I do not trust technology. I see modern automation as a cold, detached force, valuing human skill and intuition over machines.

My hatred for it deepened after my parents were killed by a self-driving car in what went on to become a hit and run when I was 14. The driver fled the scene, but was eventually caught and arrested.

Since then, I have lived alone in a log cabin I built by hand in the mountains of Yangbajain, Tibet. I refuse to eat anything I didn’t hunt or gather myself and spends hours meditating, often clinging to the ceiling of my cabin.

Despite my isolated nature, I am fiercely protective of Tibet and actively fight for its independence. My reputation as a mystical, ghost-like figure keeps oppressors on edge, as I strike without warning and disappear back into the wild afterward.

(Also, due to my issues with technology, I ride my prize yak, Dekyi, as my only form of transportation besides walking.)

Nemesis:

Years after her death, my mother was brought back by a villain known as The Shaman.

But, a master of forbidden resurrection, The Shaman cannot truly bring the dead back to life, only reanimate them as eternal servants.

My mother is now bound to the villain’s will, incapable of dying, only being incapacitated.

This is my greatest pain—I cannot save her and cannot kill her to set her free.

For now, I search for a way to break the curse, though all past efforts have ended in failure.

PS: My voice claim is Corpse Husband, as per usual.

Taglist: @the-badass-penguin

Divider credits: @/i-mmaculatus and @/v6quE