#//memories of the past; (DRABBLE)

[ancha-aus]

RealAgeAU Drabble - Gameplan

Hello! Another Drabble (second one i wrote) concerning the idea of Nightmare returning to his original form (Lovely Prompt idea by @spotaus )

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Warning, unedited and unbeta'ed. We die like my ability to spell anything.

----

Cross checks around the corner towards the street and waits for a moment longer before nodding "I think we are in the clear. We can talk here for a moment."

Killer just lounges back against a dumpster as he pants "Good! Cuz! I am not walking another step!"

Horror frowns as he searches his backpack. Slowly taking out some fruits "We need to stop this. We can't get the resources we need like this."

Cross groans as he rubs his face "I know I know. But we can't just settle anywhere! How do we explain..." He stops and slowly turns to look to the side at Dust.

Dust sits completely calm on the gorund, cross legged. Looking perfectly calm and content. With the still struggling Nightmare in his arms. Dust just sits there and looks at Nightmare with a raised brow and moves around a bit. Easily getting Nightmare to sit back in his lap with one of Dust's arm holding Nightmare around the middle wiht both arms trapped. And the second arm around his shoulders to pull him back easily. Nightmare looks grumpy beyond believe and Cross can't take it too seriously as Nightmare lost all his goop and corruption. All that remains is a perfectly normal and adorable tiny babybones.

Cross turns back to Horror and Killer and waits.

Horror looks at the scene before shrugging before turning back to prepare a snack for their now tiny charge. Looking calm as he moves.

Killer snorts "Why would we? Boss is tiny now. So what?" and he shrugs.

Cross groans as he rubs his face. He can admit that he will still need some time to get used to the change. But it is okay as he can accept it. After they found the old picture book and the just as old crown they had been putting together what actually happened. And well, even if they sometimes act dumb three out of four of them have university degrees of some type and Cross had always been one of the smartest soldiers.

That together with the known fact that Drema broke out of the stone young but grew up made the fact obvious.

It wasn't that they were in a situation of Nightmare having been deaged. They were in the situation that the Nightmare they had known had been an aged-up version of the real nightmare. Which is the very same grumpy babybones that Dust is holding right now.

Yeah. Cross just needs a bit more time.

Cross glares at Killer and focusses at the issue they need to actually fix "We know that!" he waves around them "But how do you think anyone is going to react to knowing we have Nightmare and that Nightmare is well... like this again?"

Killer hums and nods "I guess..." he turns towards Nightmare "How about a different name? What do you think Nighty? What can we call you?"

Nightmare glares with all his six year old force "Boss."

Killer snorts "got it tiny boss!" and he grins at Cross and shrugs "Guess that idea is a burst. anything else?".

Cross groans as he rubs his skull "don't you see the issue?! If anyone finds out about this they will try to take him from us and bring him to the Stars, if they don't just call the Stars!" Or worse. And they will think that killing Nightmare would be a reasonable solution to keeping him from aging up.

Killer actually glares as he radiates his blood- and LOVE-lust "Let them try."

Cross sighs as he rubs his face "what do you suggest we do?!"

Killer huffs "Obviously we do what we are doing now. We keep moving and universe hopping." and he nods.

Horror looks up with a frown "We can't do that. We will run out of resources. babybones need nutrients" as he says this he sits by Dust and Nightmare with the cut fruits. Nightmare focuses his full glare on Horror but Horror doesn't even blink. They have gotten used to this routine over the last few days and there is a good reason Dust and Horror do it.

Dust nods as he helps Horror by aiming the still struggling babybones "Not to forget his schooling. Now that he is young again he will need to relearn things. Can't do that while hopping from place to place."

Cross turns back to Killer and crosses his arms "See? horror and Dust agree."

Killer grumbles. "Fine! We find some stupid positive universe to hunker down in some abandoned building and do raids to get stuff. Easy!"

Cross crosses his arms "Still the problem of what we do if someone sees him. How do we explain that? people will think we stole him!"

Killer goes to speak. pauses and tilts his skull "I mean. Technically we did kind of steal him. Sure he was originally our boss, so ours. So we have the right to steal him again but still. Very much stolen."

Cross sputters "I! I wasn't serious!" well he was but not about the stolen comment!

Horror speaks up even as he feeds Nightmare, which Ngihtmare tries to fight but Dust is there to assist him. "Technically it wasn't stealing."

Cross sighs "Thank you Horror-"

"We kidnaped him." Horror finishes his statement as he manages to get Nightmare to eat a bit. Nightmare actually pauses and the stubbornness makes way for the much younger mind that enjoys the food and a tiny soft purr starts to leave the babybones. He doesn't struggle as much anymore as the second bite is brought over.

Cross stops and lets his skull fall into his hands "we are so fucked."

All three speak up "Language."

Cross groans louder. They are so fucked.

---------

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[everlastiingiimmortals]

July 8, 8101 SC.

The starskiff drifts to a slow halt upon the clouds as it slides up to the dock. Jing Yuan's footstep sounds strange as he ducks out of the craft, muffled and yet echoing on the worn stone. The lanterns offer little in the way of warmth and light, unable to chase away the damp chill that has become the norm of Fyxestroll Garden. He doesn't know how long he stands there, breathing in the mist that —strangely — drifts up from the tantalizing sea of clouds just beyond the edge of the dock, but by the time he drags his eyes away from the suppression tower just beyond the bamboo sheltering it from view, the starskiff had already left.

Jing Yuan lets his feet guide him up the cracked and mossy steps, avoiding the square of ghostflame to follow the right path to the crumbling walkway that leads to Swallowsong Pavilion. It's routine after so many years; ritual. Today, like every year since he became general, he will spend the day here under willful exile from the rest of the Luofu. At first, it'd only been at night while the garden was still popular, then his time started to stretch longer, and longer. For a while after, it had only been him present in the garden. Now, he supposes, he'll have to be wary about the heliobi, harmless though they may be, still quietly milling about. Perhaps he shouldn't linger as long this year... Regardless, he trusts Qingzu to handle matters back at the Seat in his absence. He always does.

The rising stone platform leaves his stomach behind, the pull of gravity reluctant to lessen its hold even as he is lifted up, and up. The sound of the masterless guqin grows ever louder as Jing Yuan wanders soundlessly up the steps to the small pavilion. He stops, lingering just next to the table where it sits. ...Could he touch it? Trepidation stalls his fingers as he reaches out, leaving him hesitant as it does every single year. Once upon a time, he might have dared to play. Once upon a time, his hands would have been guided by clawed, nimble fingers, an azure scaled tail tightening around his ankle every single time he purposely plucked a wrong string. Once upon a time, he would have laughed and leaned back against the solid chest behind him, before surrendering his seat to the guqin's real master to be serenaded by notes of falling raindrops.

...Now, though, his hands, deft as they may still be, feel hardened and rough from war. The callouses on his fingers are not from centuries of practice on the instrument, but from centuries of battles and lightning coursing under his skin, and thus the guqin has suffered centuries of neglect. If he were to rest his fingers on the strings, how clumsy would they feel? Would the delicacy required to play be as foreign as he fears, would the strings snap under his strength? Like every year prior, Jing Yuan does not attempt to find out.

Instead, he brushes past the table to lean against the balustrade of the pavilion and let the guqin continue its lonely, mournful melody, breathing in the empty air. From here, he can see the entirety of Fyxestroll Garden. The ghostflame of Verdant Terrace gleams ever bright, and beyond it to the west lies Foxsomn Tomb, most of it obscured by the crags of the delve. To the northwest, Locufox Forest, silhouetted by the mist. He looks up. The sky is dark, once a comforting and welcome cover for his escapades in the garden, but now a cloudy blanket that leaves him both heavy and hollow. The clouds, dark and tinged with a green that would usually remind him of a brewing storm, provide none of the comfort and anticipation that come with it. The wind kisses his cheek and lifts his hair away from his nape. For a moment, he can almost believe it to be cool, familiar hands combing his hair back, but the wind soon dies and the moment is gone.

Once again, his eyes drift back towards Locufox Forest, where the shadow of the fountain is just barely visible. Even if it wasn't, he'd know exactly where to look. This, too, is ritual. After letting the view of the entire delve soak into his bones, Jing Yuan will return to the path, doubling back through Verdant Terrace (usually, he would have wandered the perimeter of the walkway, but with the few spiritfarers and wardens still stationed in the Garden after the Creation Furnace incident, he'd rather traverse unseen). From Verdant Terrace, he will turn north, then west again, entering the gate to the forest and stopping just short of the cobbled path into the forest itself. He will not turn to look to the right. Instead, he will keep his gaze firmly fixed on the ground and step onto the path through the stream. In the midst of the bamboo, he can close his eyes and listen to the trickling water and rustling leaves. A tiny frog croaks from the water, hidden by slender trunks and stone. ...Once upon a time, he would have snuck here for stolen kisses and whispered promises. Once upon a time, he would have hurried to this exact location with the hope of meeting someone, excitement building with every rushed step. Once upon a time, he would have been greeted with loving scolding, lest he slip on fallen leaves or an uneven patch of stone and end up in the water. Once upon a time, he might have waited, just a bit longer, to see if someone would arrive. It is foolish of him to linger as if anyone would show up now. So Jing Yuan lets loose the breath he didn't realize he was holding, blinks his eyes open, and pushes through the bamboo to come face to face with the towering dragon fountain.

Even after seven hundred years, the addition to the garden still stirs his heart. There's a presence of calm and peace the jade fountain carries forth, much like the person it brings tribute to, that the rest of the garden lacks. Perhaps it's the rushing of the small waterfall that chases away his restless thoughts, or the fountain's color, or even the branch of ever-flowering plum that brings a pleasant splash of color to the dismal forest. Regardless, Jing Yuan feels the weight on his shoulders, so constant that he seldom notices it until it's gone, slowly wash away with the falling water. Stepping close to the small railing, he kneels right before the edge of the pond and dips his hand into the water, reaching down until his fingers bump into two familiar, blunt points.

The small stone fox he pulls up is smooth, if pitted, from wear and algae. Shaking his hand free of excess water, he sets it down on the little stone railing, scraping the worst of the algae free with his nail. Finally he settles into a more comfortable position, ignoring the sensation of cold pond water soaking into his gauntlet and up his sleeve. For the first time since stepping foot onto the delve, he smiles; a mournful, fond, tiny thing.

"Another year has passed Baiheng, my heart." Jing Yuan leans back, propping his elbow up against the guardrail. "So much has happened since my last birthday... I've almost lost track of how many it's been." The sigh that leaves his body is monumental. And with it a rush of all the worries gnawing at his stomach and his eye and mind rises up, then ebbs away like the tides. "To think we'd have three decades of peace torn asunder just like that... the rise of the Disciples of Sanctus Medicus, a Stellaron smuggled in by a suspicious third party, an assault by the Antimatter Legion -- Lord Ravager Phantylia, no less...

"...The... official disbandment of the High Cloud Quintet." He allows his voice to waver as he says it. "Then our Creation Furnace exploded, so now the Heliobi are being temporarily kept here. Yingxing would have lost his mind." His laugh is hollow. He strokes the stone fox's ears absentmindedly. "Ah, what to do? So much in such a short amount of time. It was only thirty years of peace... though I suppose that it's an impressive feat from the perspective of the Alliance."

Jing Yuan falls silent once more, letting the flowing water carry his thoughts from his mind. Am I doing right by you two? By what remains of Yingxing and Master Jingliu, and by your reincarnations? The stone fox will not answer him, nor will the jade dragon. They won't provide him with advice, nor reassurance, nor comfort.

"...My eye has been aching," he confesses softly, "ever since before the crisis started, but it's.. worse now. I cannot shake this dread. Master brought dark omens with her, that the Stellaron was a sign of changing tides. She's right; the Antimatter Legion has not been our primary enemy, but it seems as though their movements mean we will come into conflict far more frequently. As the power of the Abundance Axis wanes, another threat rises on the horizon... and more are sure to follow.

"How can I keep our people safe, Yinyue? Baiheng, what can I do to prevent tragedies like yours? Am I doing enough? How much more must I prepare? ...Seven hundred years and it hasn't gotten any easier."

Another sigh, somehow even heavier than the last. Jing Yuan busies himself with cleaning off the stone fox further, until his fingers are stained green and a small puddle of slippery algae rests on the guardrail.

"...Please don't worry about me, though. And don't worry for the Luofu -- I have faith in the rising stars of the Cloud Knights, and the new allies we've made. Yanqing experienced his first setbacks with the Stellaron crisis, but... I think it has done him good. He will learn from this, and the experience will temper his blade and his patience. I am proud of him... I think you would be, too. I wish the two of you could have met him... though I suppose it would have been impossible either way, hm? Ah -- we are hosting the Wardance this year. Generals Feixiao and Huaiyan will be arriving as well, what a mess. I am grateful for their support all the same. Huaiyan is bringing his granddaughter too. She's reminds me very much of Yingxing... it's a small comfort, truth be told. He lives on in many ways, all around us."

Hours pass, sometimes in silence, sometimes with stories, as Jing Yuan fills in the statue and fountain on the events of the previous year. Small anecdotes of his soldiers' lives, the trends around the Luofu, anything and everything that comes to mind. It isn't until his stomach rumbles that he starts, realizing how long he's been lounging on the stone floor, and sheepishly laughs.

"Ah.. pardon me. How embarrassing of me to lose track of time like that." Jing Yuan sits up, grunting as his body protests at the sudden movement. "Ugh- these old bones have been laying down for too long..." Picking up the fox statue once more, he fondly brushes a thumb over its face. "Goodbye, Baiheng." Carefully, he sets it back in the basin of the pond before heaving himself to his feet and looking at the fountain. It's too far for him to touch from dry ground, so he remains where he stands, longingly, and whispers out to it. "Farewell, my heart. I'll visit again next year."

Happy birthday, Jing Yuan.

[whumpshaped]

@bones-arent-real

tw past trauma, bad memories, dehumanisation, conditioning, manipulation

"You have to knead it for a few minutes. Well, for a good while, actually. But it's okay, I'll keep you company."

Whumpee frowned as more and more pieces of dough stuck to their fingers. They turned around and raised their hand to show Caretaker. "What do I do about this?"

"Add more flour. Here." Caretaker stepped closer and grabbed the bag, pouring some over Whumpee's hands and the ball of soon-to-be buns. "Keep kneading."

Miraculously, the flour got rid of the stickiness, and Whumpee started to enjoy the process again. Kneading dough was a very... monotonous process. Fold, press, fold, press, readjust, fold, press, fold, press... Small bubbles of air popped under their inexperienced hands and the scent of spices filled the small kitchen. It was relaxing. Predictable, for the most part. They could've done it forever.

"So good for me. So pliable. You're really just putty in my hands, aren't you? I can shape you however I please, and you'll just bend for me."

Their frown deepened, and they pressed their palm into the dough a little more aggressively. Well, now they were shaping things on their own. And they were treating their little shapeless blob with the care that it deserved... for the most part.

"You can't expect to mould anything without any pressure or force. Surely, even you can understand that. I have to be a little harsh on you to improve you in the long run."

There were better ways to be harsh, they told themself. They were harsh in a very different way with this dough. They were better. They were different at the very least. Their shaping and moulding really did come from love.

Or did it? Did they not just want a pretty thing to devour later?

Well, people weren't fucking dough. What a stupid metaphor anyway.

Caretaker placed a gentle hand on theirs, slowly pulling it out of the bowl. "Now we let the yeast do its thing. We gotta cover the dough and let it rest and rise, yeah? We'll come back to all this when it has doubled in size."

Whumpee nodded, reluctantly stepping away from their newfound stress toy. Letting it rest... that wasn't something Whumper had ever done for them. They were under constant pressure, a piece of coal artificially compressed into a diamond, then polished until there were no hard edges. They had never been left to rest. To take up space. To rise. They were chipped away at, not being fed and allowed to grow.

They nodded to themself, some of the anger subsiding. They were different. And they were going to give this dough a better treatment than the one they had received if it was the last thing they did.

~

general drabbles taglist: @ashh-ed @whumpsday @whump-queen @the-scrapegoat @hidden-dreamland @rosewriteswhump @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night

[antirepurp]

game crashed while trying to enter a boost stage and while i would like to finish the whole game before i really get into finalizing any of my thoughts on the ancients i think. that my idea of the ancients as a kind of uncomfortably militarized civilization holds water actually

where the echidna clan was aggressive and set on expanding their control and the black arms are more Creatures that are looking for new territory if i remember them correctly, the ancients to me feel more. calculative, if you will. all the guardians and enemies, not to mention the titans, are built by the ancients, and i just cannot buy the idea that an entirely peaceful or even pacifistic civilization would rapidly develop that sort of technology and weaponry in what i assume to have been a relatively short time they spent on earth, even if they're being chased by the concept of death. especially when their buildings seem almost rudimentary in some ways, like the "houses" around the islands only vaguely invoke the feeling of housing, none have entrances or windows or anything on them. i think you could argue they're somehow linked to cyberspace, that the ancients partially lived there and accessed portions of it through those buildings perhaps? or perhaps those ruins are akin to storage spaces, and the actual houses were destroyed or wound up decaying over the years. but the weaponry remains. horrendous machines of destruction that ravage the lands and stand up to a conceptual power that cannot be observed in a meaningful way.

on an individual level there's naturally going to be variety, but the inherent war/military focus of all the koco plots just paints this. almost propaganda-esque picture of the ancients?? valiant warriors defending their people from a big bad evil force. from the concept of death and things coming to an end which the series itself has previously stated to be a part of life in games like unleashed and black knight. i think there's some kind of wider meta analysis you could make out of that as well, but im not sure im the right person for that. all i can say that i think there's something uniquely cruel to the ancients with the war/military/weaponry focus, and when its juxtaposed with the being portrayed through the cutesy little things koco are it's kind of. eerie, to me. you could write something remarkably complex out of this but im afraid that the current writers and directors don't have the guts to go that far

[guraiuna]

Memories

Prompt: Memories (from Chilumi Weekly Prompts on twt)

Contains (mild) 4.2 Archon Quest spoilers. Read at your own risk I guess.

"Not in your best shape today, are we, comrade?"

Lumine gritted her teeth, her expression of annoyance clear on her face and in great contrast with his nonchalant one. And that smirk on his face–

She wanted to wipe it off.

Or at least, that was what she felt before, when said spar session took place and she momentarily lost her footing and fell flat on her ass. She felt humiliated and him rubbing salt on her wound with his stupid smirk was not helping. At all.

Now, after months passed, she barely remembered the incident.

Yet it seemed he remembered it fairly well.

She watched quietly as the familiar form swirled into the air, mid-leap, sword at the ready to strike him. Yet, he was quicker than her and dodged her attack.

She recalled that she expected that; yet when the sole of her foot touched the ground below she landed on a round stone and her foot slipped.

Behind him, Lumine watched as she fell, mesmerised by the way her white scarf fluttered in the air as helpless as her.

It then landed on her face, highly comically.

And she would have laughed if it weren't for the overwhelming feeling of shock that took over him as he stared at her, blue eyes opened wide.

Then a wave of worry washed over her.

"Not in your best shape today, are you, comrade?"

Lumine's breath hitched in her lungs. She watched his back as he approached her figure on the ground.

With the same annoying smirk he had reserved just for her when he would gain the upper hand in their fights, Tartaglia lifted the scarf off her face with two fingers.

She recalled loathing its sight back then.

Yet this time she knew; the smirk was fake. Just a mask he wore to protect himself. Hide himself.

And now she could see–

The worry that flashed his eyes. The way he studied her legs, her shoulder that hit the ground.

Scanning them for injuries.

And now she also knew–

It wasn't because he thought she was weak. On the contrary, it was despite the opposite.

Now she knew–

He wasn't even doing it on purpose, yet when he saw her falling and heard her yelp of surprise–

When she didn't move and even her scarf fell on her face–

(She was angry at herself for missing her step and embarrassing herself)

– He couldn't help but feel that something was wrong.

(And there was something wrong, for the moment he lifted the fabric off her face, steel flashed before his eyes.)

His smirk turned into a grin as hydro clashed against her blade. A maddening grin that reflected in his dull eyes, even though it shouldn't. He planted the heel of his boot into the ground.

He was proud of her ambush– his grin the way he wanted to convey that.

He was glad she was alright– his grin hiding that.

Lumine gritted her teeth. Her eyes stung.

Her hands felt cold as she clenched her fist around the pointy metallic thing in her hand. Its spikes burying into her skin.

Just like the memory buried itself into her mind.

Just like he buried himself into her heart.

After Skirk flung him into that portal–

And she had been taken by surprise, Skirk's movement too quick for Lumine to comprehend in time.

By the time her brain processed what happened, he was already gone.

(She hated how her heart skipped a beat when she saw that familiar mop of ginger hair in Skirk's fist.)

Now she hated herself for not snatching him out of her grip when she still could.

After that, her nights became dreamless; her dreams replaced by his memories.

Memories of her.

Of her as she fought. Of her as she asked him to help her with her commissions. Of her fishing.

Of them fishing.

Of them cooking dinner under a campfire in the wild.

Of them looking for fabric for Tonia's gift in Inazuma.

Of their little encounter in Fontaine.

(Oh, how overwhelmed by pure excitement she was when that little memory rolled in. How delighted he was when she played along and encouraged him to give that annoying guy a beating–

And she had to admit, it was entertaining to watch.)

Memories–

Of them.

She gathered that it was because she was the one holding onto his vision. At least, that way it made sense.

What didn't make sense– and took her by complete surprise – was how raw his emotions were.

How many things he was feeling when she was around. How they would waver, change– as quickly as water.

He seemed so nonchalant, so carefree too. And yet each memory came with a burst of feelings and thoughts.

Of heartbeats and held breaths.

It was overwhelming.

"I nearly forgot– I want to give you this." She said and suddenly a flash of blue and silver appeared in her hand.

Her heart churned as she watched it swirl in her palm.

Alrecchino seemed surprised at first– that in itself was a first too.

"Ah, a vision– I understand, I will make sure it reaches him. Thank you for giving me this."

Lumine smiled in response. The Harbinger probably took it as a gesture of trust– that she trusted her enough to give her something which was previously entrusted to her.

Or that she didn't care about him.

It was neither–

Seeing his memories–

Seeing herself through his eyes. Feeling what he felt. All that excitement, happiness, content.

Thrill.

It was overwhelming–

No, it was eating her from inside out.

[baronetcoins]

Ya idu kuda sam tsar' idet peshkom ("It stinks")

(title from the Tom Lehrer song Lobachevsky)

For the home of a society of assassins, the underground chambers of the council were remarkably clean. Maybe the deep red carpets had been chosen to hide bloodstains, or maybe his fellows were just more conscientious than he was. Arno’s half-smile was a little vindictive as he trudged up the stairs, squelching with each step. 

“Le Roi des Thunes is dead.” He announced from the doorway, dripping. 

“Glad to hear of your success.” Mirabeau half-nodded from his seat at the table. “Did you learn anything—what in the name of god is that smell?”

“I had the pleasure of traipsing through half the city’s sewers.” Arno brushed a lock of loose hair off where it was plastered to his face. It left a trail. “But I thought it best not to delay.” 

“Clean yourself.” Mirabeau waved a magnanimous hand. “We can meet further in the morning.” 

“Of course, mentor.” He dipped his head and spun on his heels. He'd rinse himself in one of the fountains before subjecting the Café to this stench.

[bxdbunni]

Knock knock?

Whose there ?

Mom ? Dad?

Are you really running to leave this place so soon? No can leave you alone here.

It’s a digital paradise.

He’s been running ever since his legs could carry him. He had never been happy, surrounded by white faces who told him this was his new home and his life. He was given everything, but something felt like it was missing. Always missing.

A part of himself he would never know, miles away from those who were like him.

They never had time for him. If he wanted toys, food, they didn’t hesitate but a hug? To be tucked into bed? Told bedtime stories? Mom was too busy and dad spent too many nights at the office.

Knock knock…

He hears those voices, they creep in the back of his mind like deathly long fingers scraping against the walls of his bedroom. He had long since become friends with the monsters under his bed. Years of neglect had made him a monster of his own.

Knock knock

Graduating didn’t feel like an achievement. His parents didn’t seem proud, it was expected of him to succeed. Night after night coming to an empty house. Knock knock? Who’s there? No one.

What was a life that felt empty? A home with lights barely on, with no laughter or voices to keep him from sinking into the worm hole of his mind. It was maddening.

Nothing can drown out the noise

No matter what you destroy

No matter who you become

No matter what you avoid

There was nothing for him in the face of reality. Those pesky emotions had become a sick and twisted game of a whack a mole. His hammer tight in his grip, ready to slam it down the second emotions he had buried deep even dared to rise to the surface. He’d slam that hammer down over and over again, desperate and angry to see it becoming harder and harder to hit. Harder to keep down.

By the end of it the only thing left of it is the handle torn from its head from how hard and fiercely he’d hit each one.

It was that knocking in his head. A door he didn’t want to open. A door he had been standing front of for years, knocks from the other side. He’d hesitated turning that knob, scared to see what was waiting on the other side. He was never looking for the exit.

Knock knock

KNOCK KNOCK

KNOCK KNOCK

Who cares.

[twistedisciple]

13. A memory of a friend

Memories | not accepting

𝟦 Griss doesn’t remember much of him. Not his hair, his face, or even what his voice had sounded like. He knows that he was a few years older, or at least acted like it, and had scalloped fingernails. He knows that he had a brother who had lived at the monastery at some point, too. That’s what the others said, anyway.

“Your parents just gave up, huh?”

He remembers how he would ask everyone that, and stare at them and wait.

“Do you remember anything about your normal life?”

Griss had been on the other side of that probing stare once - the eyes of which could have been green, or maybe blue, or even red - but it was the dark splotch on his left cheek, like a forgotten smear of blood, that had sustained the years in his memory. He probably hadn’t given an answer. He probably hadn’t needed to. Those eyes could read words no one else knew, even the ones that had long-since faded beneath the surface of his skin. And yet every time he asked his questions, searching for something only he knew the shape of, he wouldn’t find it, and some deep, dark fissure inside of him grew longer and wider. He’d been punched in the mouth once, and Griss remembers wishing that he had been the one to do it.

He knows that he never talked about his past

(“What about your parents?”

“Remember what Father Laurel read at supper last night?”

“Something about the way trees grow.”

“Yeah. Many of them kill each other.”

“Oh, right.”

“I’ll never look at a tree the same way again.”)

because he had a way of slipping out of questions,

and he remembers how they used to argue

(“My hand hurts”

“That’s the point, right?”

“No, the point is learning to copy Gradlon’s manuscripts. Not write until our hands fall off.”)

even though he was always wrong.

He had liked him.

(an open copybook, the last 5 pages filled in by an inexperienced hand burgundy blooms in the margins)

Or maybe he had hated him.

(“Why did you tell?”

“...”)

But he had learned from him that the price of a bond is blood. And although he doesn’t remember the color of his eyes, the style of his hair, or where he had come from, he remembers his name, Lyco, because it had been etched across his back, stroke-by-stroke.

[highlifeboat]

“Do you ever remember it?”

“What?”

“The time from before we were us. Do you two ever remember it?”

“Daniela, what on Earth are you on about?”

The redhead frowned at her sisters that sat gathered in the library with her. She drummed her fingers on the table, anxiously bouncing her leg while they stared at her. Cassandra, more or less uninterested, glaring with her chin resting on her hand, and Bela, expression unreadable save for how tired she seemed. Daniela slumped in her seat a little.

“I dreamt of a manthing last night….”

Cassandra scoffed. “So? You sleep with a manthing. Who cares?”

“Shut up.” She glared. “This was a manthing I didn’t know. Or can’t.. Remember. Or… something.” She drummed her fingers on the table, pursing her lips. “But he was nice. Warm. Familiar. Like Mama, but… different.” Her sisters shared confused looks. “And I was in a different home. A small home. With sisters that weren’t you. There was a woman, but she wasn’t Mama. And him… And I was me, but I didn’t feel like me.”

There was a moment of silence between the three. Cassandra made a face like she wanted to tell Daniela that a stupid dream was no reason to waste their time, but then sunk down in her chair, mulling over what her sister has said.

“I’ve had those dreams, too….” Bela eventually muttered, breaking the silence. Daniela perked up a little. “Of familiar strangers. A manthing, a woman…. Where I’m me but I’m not… me.” She looked at her hands. “They call me the wrong name… they call me a lot of things. Awful things.” Bela clenched her fists in her lap. “I don’t like those dreams. The manthing, and the woman, they aren’t nice to me, nor each other. They’re scary. Like Mother Miranda….”

Daniela stood, a grin on her face. “So I’m not completely insane, then!”

“Debatable.” Cassandra sneered.

“You must have those dreams, too, Cassandra. Sometimes? Like experiencing bad deja vu.”

The middle sister pursed her lips, glaring at the table for a moment in silence. “...Maybe.” She wrinkled her nose. “It wasn’t anything special. There was a woman, some younger children. But she wasn’t much of a mother. She made me take care of them. It was awful.” Cassandra let out a huff. “I think I hurt one of them. I didn’t mean to. I don’t think. But she wasn’t happy. Then I wake up.”

“So you do!”

“Just because we’ve all had odd dreams doesn’t mean it’s some vision of a previous life, Daniela.”

“But what if it means-”

“It’s a stupid dream!” Cassandra suddenly stood, slamming her hands on the table. Both her sisters flinched. “All it means is that we’re all screwed up in our own special way! You’re a touched starved brat, even though you get nothing but love an affection from everybody, Bela’s an anxious little baby who hates looking in the mirror and worries over Mother’s opinion, even though no one’s pushing her but herself, And I’m stuck being the ignored middle child who gets yelled at because of you two idiots!” She slammed her hands against the table again. Bela moved out of her chair to stand by her youngest sister. “Dreams. Don’t. ‘Mean’ anything.”

Daniela pursed her lips, and Cassandra couldn’t tell if the redhead was going to try and curse her out, or cry over being yelled at. Bela took one of Daniela’s heads, giving it a few small squeezes until she finally looked at her. They shared a silent exchange, looked back at Cassandra, and Daniela’s shoulders slumped.

“You don’t ever think it’s odd we were never babies?” She asked after a beat of silence.

Cassandra rolled her eyes. “Mother didn’t exactly give birth to us, Daniela. Mother Miranda created us.”

“From what?”

“How should I know? But I don’t think it was by picking some poor fools off the street.”

“I think you’re in denial.”

“I think you’re wasting my time.” She crossed her arms. “Dreams don’t matter. They’re too obscure to mean anything. If we were made from the corpses of other people, why would Mother not tell us?”

“I-I don’t know, maybe she thought it would hurt us!”

“Mother wouldn’t lie….” Bela shifted.

“But-”

Cassandra cut her off. “I think your delusions are getting the better of you. Again. You have one strange dream and turn it into a whole… thing.”

Daniela went to reply, then closed her mouth. “...Fine.” She crossed her arms, letting out a huff. “But I’m going to figure this out. I’m going to speak with Mother.”

Bela went to silently stop her sister, only for Daniela to turn into a swarm of flies and rush out of the library. The eldest gave Cassandra a worried look, but the brunette only rolled her eyes.

“Don’t give me that look. She’ll get over it.”

Bela sighed, tugging the sleeves of her dress.

“I hope so....”

[reginrokkr]

Tag dump repost #1 wish me luck that this time Tumblr saves my tags after 38478 years missing many of them—

◟༺✧༻◞ memories are all but forgotten in the river of time ┊queue.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ glimpses in the past of a shattered spirit ┊headcanon.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ events to be remembered in blue veins ┊addendum.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ fragments of light from the roots of truth ┊reference.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ what use has the veil of falsehood? ┊ask.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ sapphire flames in their wake ┊ic.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ lament of a fallen seraph ┊thread.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ searching for a long lost fate ┊meme.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ what lays behind the mantle of faux stars ┊ooc.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ fear not the long night if malice is to fade ┊musings.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ ethereal moon dust sunken in ripples of light ┊reflection.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ moon on the sky as a trembling heart ┊aesthetic.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ requiem of the echoing depths ┊music.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ crystalline traces splattered with stardust ┊open.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ chaos is hardly different to poison ┊dash comment.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ shall fair divination be imparted ┊dash game.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ trust not the gods; nor overthrow them ┊psa.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ connections of an ancient twilight sword ┊promotions.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ forgo that which is cursed by the gods ┊self promo.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ gifts to prevail into eternity ┊keepsake.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ echoes of a fallen star ┊drabble.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ nascent dreams of fading twilight ┊wishlist.┊

[xspacexmuttx]

“So how tall did you want to be?”

A soft feminine voice spoke clearly, cutting through the silence that encompassed the doctor and her client. As an older teenage boy lay there on her operating table he pondered over her question, watching the all white ceiling and the dying strip lights above. That was something he hadn’t thought all the way through. He just wanted legs that worked normally.

“I’m actually not sure. What height do you usually see when it comes to my species? Do we have an average height for males specifically or am I just asking a stupid question?”

Soon after the question was asked a laugh from the doctor followed. And the sound of metal clinging against each other could be heard. Finally she walked over to the table, coming into view. The doctor tying a mask around her face as she approached. God he had forgotten how intimidating she looked.

“While I usually see a plethora of sizes in my line of work with your species I’ve noticed the average size is about 5’9”. Did you want to just go with that?”

Red eyes stared down at the now intimidated boy, awaiting his answer. Meanwhile his own eyes gazed at the rest of her features, as if he was trying to calm himself. She possessed fur as golden as the sun. Dirty blonde hair styled into a neat looking side part. And two massive rabbit like ears that hung over her shoulders like her hair. Her face, though pleasant to look at, still showed her age. If the teenager had to guess he would say she was 30 or so.

“Mhh nah too short for me. How about 5’11”, can you make that work?”

He wanted to at least be as tall as his father. It seemed only right. The doctor only pondered over this request for a few moments before looking back down to her patient and giving him a thumbs up. The boy couldn’t help but to smile in response. Finally his wish was coming true.

”Alright we can make it happen! But first it’s time for you to take a nap. When you wake up you’ll have a fresh pair of new legs.”

As she spoke a mask was placed over the teenager’s snout. He then proceeded to breathe in deeply, allowing the anesthetic gas to fill his lungs. Within moments his vision began to blur and the last sight he took in was of the doctor collecting the correct medical tools and setting them down on a rolling table next to him. Then the world went black.

[deathmimedream]

Broken memory: Cinque

He lay curled on his side in his sarcophagus, tangled in the scraps and rags he used for blankets, the book he’d fallen asleep reading dropped on the damp stone floor.

He gave a soft groan, tossing and turning as much as he could, since he was literally sleeping in a cold, dirty, stone coffin.

His eyes darted around under his lids, sweat beading his brow.

Did the dead dream?

Apparently so.

Usually of old memories.

Cinque had lost most of his, but it was impossible to tell how welcome or loathed any of them were.

This was one of his strongest.

He stood in an old, dirty town square, atop a small platform piled in oil-soaked tinder at the center.

He was stripped of his armor, his weapons, bound to the stake at his back with tight, heavy rope, wearing little more than his gambeson, undershirt, boots, and trews.

His sable hair had long since escaped the silk ribbon tying it back,floating free on the wind and his paints were horribly smudged.

But not from tears.

These foolish people with their closed-minded beliefs and prejudices didn’t deserve to see his tears, hear him pleading or screaming mercy from a God he did not worship.

They had captured him with his small band of followers, but most of them had successfully escaped. He, and a few others had been caught, tortured then executed in the hopes of getting them to confess and repent.

Cinque was wholly unrepentant.

The peasants and commoners stood at the base of the bonfire, gawking at the first unholy knight of Satan before them. Nobles sat to the side on a raised, covered platform, making a spectacle of his execution.

A Roman Catholic priest stood at the foot of the pyre, holding a long staff with a cross, holding it up towards Cinque in a final attempt to get the unholy pope to confess, kiss the icon, and convert for a chance at a merciful death.

“I will not ask a God that does not love me for mercy, padre. He will not listen to Lucifer’s chosen no matter what he has to say. He stopped listening to his children a long time ago.”

The staff was pulled away and the crowd shouted for his death, slinging slurs and insults at him from below.

A few also slung stones, sticks, and curses. They did not reach him.

The town’s guard lit the wood, black, foul, acrid smoke rising from it.

Cinque looked down at it, as the fire caught the wood, heat and flames and smoke rising.

He did not look to heaven, as others had.

He did not pray forgiveness from the God that was not his.

He did not curse the humans who had chosen to kill another innocent man because of who he chose to worship.

He looked upon them with pity, as the flames and smoke grew thicker, that they would never know true freedom.

He did not scream, as his clothing caught fire, not even a wince.

He did cough somewhat on the oily smoke, eyes sad as he looked out to the mob around him, seeing only a sea of hatred for him and his flock.

He knew this would hurt, but he had to hold faith.

His lips moved as if in a prayer, but what he said was swallowed by the pop and crackle of fire.

The flames licked higher, and the horrible smell of burning hair filled his nostrils, and he grimaced in distaste of it, the first few shreds of pain from the heat settling in.

At first it was simply heat, his body numb and questioning the damage being done.

Then the itch of pain spreading over him slowly, until the searing feeling spread, just for a few moments, and then there was nothing.

His Infernal eye glowed brighter than the flames, he felt the ropes burn through, as his dry, cracked lips kept reciting the spell and prayers that kept him from burning to death.

Barely, at that.

He fought to keep his breathing steady, the spell could not be interrupted or it would fail, and he would die.

Behind his words, he felt a soothing presence, as if someone or something wrapped him in an invisible embrace, shielding him beyond his spell.

He chose to not leap from the pyre, but to carefully climb down.

His hair and clothing were still smoldering, skin slightly burnt, but nothing permanent.

He turned, standing to face the crowd, who were all staring at him, dumbstruck. A few were whispering of miracles, of God saving the infernal pope in the end.

“Your God does not save you from the fire. He does not care. He does not listen. He plays favorites, and when he tires of them he hands them back to you, and you torture and burn them for being different. You fool yourselves into believing you are righteous and faithful and pure for it, but really, you’re all just murderous fools.”

He walked towards them, and they parted away, watching, silent as he made his way through the crowd.

A few made the signs of the cross, others knelt, kissing the burnt edges of his clothing as if he were a saint. More stood in shocked silence.

“Not a one of you here, is free of sin. Not even your precious clergy. You kill, and kill, and destroy in the name of your faith. You tear each other to threads for a chance to be better, a chance to see heaven.”

They were all listening, this small town of people, to the antipope, fifth of his bloodline, and his Lucifer-blessed tongue.

“My God only wants you to love one another, to live in harmony with and to embrace your differences, to consent to your choices and celebrate your diversity. “

He looked at everyone, as he finally crossed the square, standing before their church.

“ Yes, my people and myself have killed, but not in the name of Lucifer. We have killed to survive, and protect that which we love and hold dear. As would anyone, if their lives or lives were threatened. “

He turned, face serene, hands held as if in prayer.

“We do not ask for your conversion, your submission or your lives. We are only asking that you allow us to live, and love, and exist. Let us stay here, in fair Linköping. Let us have our church, our homes, and our lives. Let us be amongst you, and together we will be stronger for it. Let us start anew, and preach tolerance and love instead of sin and hatred.”

He looked over the steps of the church, and only saw a sea of kneeling people, right down to the catholic clergy near the pyre.

He saw the start of a new era, and knew here, his people would be safe.

When the undead former antipope awoke, he cried, because he could not remember why his dream had felt so beautiful, or why it felt like a horrible loss when he could not remember it.

[everlastiingiimmortals]

spoilers for the ending of 2.3 below. please read with caution.

"Welcome to the Bonajade Exchange. Who are you? And what do you seek?"

"...My name is Robin, Lady Bonajade."

"...Miss Robin? Now this is a surprise. How can my humble pawn shop be of assistance to you?"

"My brother..." the dove's wings flutter, then droop, folding in on themselves as her voice quavers. "He... he made a grave mistake. And now I fear the worst for him. I.. I know there is... no hope for him here, in this land of dreams we once called home... but I still want him to have a chance at a future, far from Penacony.

"He deserves another chance."

"I see..." Perfectly manicured nails drum thoughtfully on the lacquered table serving as the merchant's desk. "This is a rather tall request, Miss Robin. What are you willing to give up?"

The dove falters and falls silent, as if in the midst of a brewing storm. Under the weight of those cold, reptilian eyes, she shivers, and hesitates. What is she willing to give up? To say everything would be too easy, too simple... too costly. She knows better than to look a predator in the mouth. Would she even be willing to give up everything? To give up her voice? Memories of her attempts to sing and nothing but empty air leaving her throat resurface, and the words die on her tongue. No, not that. To give up her voice would be to give up their dream. Isn't that what she's here to save?

"You still seem conflicted, child." The words startle her, bringing her back to the waiting gaze of the merchant. "If you have yet to find conviction for what you seek, come back later."

"...No. No, I--"

"What are you willing to give up to ensure your brother's safety and freedom? Would you do it even if it meant never seeing him again?"

The dove freezes. And even as a chill seeps into her fingers and drags her heart, sinking, down into a pit of dread, the question becomes an anchor of certainty. It's okay... as long as he is safe. As long as he has another chance. That's all that matters.

Whispers carried the tale of those fateful 48 system hours, when a sun teetered on the precipice of collapse, a paradise stood on the brink of destruction, and a world was poised to surrender to its new master. Amidst it all, a body decayed, a pack of vultures gathered, and a brother and sister were doomed for eternal separation.

"...Yes."

The idle smile on the merchant's face turns sharp, and the dove curls her hands into fists behind her skirt to stop her fingers from trembling. "I see. Then it seems we have our price."

I'm sorry, brother. I love you.

[galaxyrailroads]

Tag Dump #1

❛ ☾ ┄ coffee & science enthusiast ） 。。-- Himeko ❛ ☾ ┄ have already touched the sky ） 。。-- Yukong ❛ ☾ ┄ your mysterious stellaron hunter ） 。。-- Kafka

❛ ☾ ┄ letters from worlds we have visited ） 。。-- INBOX ❛ ☾ ┄ precious memories ） 。。-- SAVED ❛ ☾ ┄ leave the past in the past ） 。。-- HEAD CANONS ❛ ☾ ┄ thoughts of the past and present ） 。。-- DRABBLES ❛ ☾ ┄ music for your soul ） 。。-- MUSIC ❛ ☾ ┄ AMAZING PERSON ALERT ） 。。-- PROMO

[sacrificialblackdragon]

Tag Dump #1

││☾ × reflection  」 。 ( Hak ) ││☾ × you surprise me every time I look at you 」 。 ( Yona / Hime - sama ) ││☾ × when you have someone to protect your body just moves  」 。 ( starter ) ││☾ × i'll keep fighting my life doesn't just depend on it 」 。 ( threads ) ││☾ × you wanted a soldier but that's not me  」 。 ( Main V ) ││☾ × out of dragon breath 」 。 ( ooc ) ││☾ × news from kouka  」 。 ( rp memes ) ││☾ × precious memories 」 。 ( saved ) ││☾ × leave the past in the past  」 。 ( Headcanons )  ││☾ × thoughts of the past and present  」 。 ( drabbles )  ││☾ × if you want me to train you it will cost you  」 。 ( open starter )  ││☾ × music for your soul  」 。 ( music )  ││☾ × your one and only black dragon 」 。 ( self promo )  ││☾ × AMAZING PERSON ALERT !  」 。 ( promo )  ││☾ × a letter from our allies 」 。 ( inbox ) 

[fireandsparks]

TAGS #1 ✦ »» Reflection  」 。 ( Luka ) ✦ »» Precious Memories 」 。 ( saved ) ✦ »»  Leave The Past In The Past  」 。 ( Headcanons )  ✦ »» Thoughts Of The Past And Present  」 。 ( drabbles )  ✦ »» Music For Your Soul  」 。 ( music )  ✦ »» AMAZING PERSON ALERT !  」 。 ( promo )  ✦ »» I hit metal with my left hand instead of my right ...  」 。 ( crack )