#( ☆═─ spectre four ─ visage. )

[spectrefour]

tags

( ☆═─ spectre four ─ visage. )

( ☆═─ incoming transmission. )

( ☆═─ thread. )

( ☆═─ starter call. )

( ☆═─ shipping call. )

( ☆═─ aesthetic. )

( ☆═─ musings. )

( ☆═─ headcanons. )

( ☆═─ dash games. )

( ☆═─ dash commentary. )

( ☆═─ memes. )

( ☆═─ queue. )

( ☆═─ spectre one ─ kanan jarrus. )

( ☆═─ spectre two ─ hera syndulla. )

( ☆═─ spectre three ─ sabine wren. )

( ☆═─ spectre five ─ ezra bridger. )

( ☆═─ C1-10P ─ chopper. )

( ☆═─ verse ─ main. )

( ☆═─ verse ─ pre series. )

( ☆═─ verse ─ post series. )

( ☆═─ verse ─ new republic. )

( ☆═─ verse ─ crossover. )

( ☆═─ verse ─ royal guard au. )

( ☆═─ verse ─ undertale. )

[boleynsrex]

@truedevotions / 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒓. a deserted hampton court hallway.

For his part, the King was glad that the morning’s ‘festivities’ – if one could call them that – were well done. The gruesome spectacle upon Tower Green had, in truth, tried his patience; he’d spent the better part of the traitor’s speeches running through the hackneyed phrases and insipid platitudes they’d inevitably lay at his feet. Begging mercy, protesting humility before God and all the world, offering no shortage of honeyed promises to His Majesty in the blind and lusty hope that William would rise from his velvet-canopied throne and offer clemency – cunningly, wickedly delivered at the eleventh hour. They’d pray for intervention until the very moment the ax slashed at their necks, and the smell of blood-soaked straw, cradling the heads of those four traitors, lingered in the air of the palace. (His uncle George had suggested traveling up river for the season, lodging at Whitehall – but Whitehall was drab and dreary compared to Hampton, and with much less parkland to hunt.)

Adjusting the heirlooms that graced his fingers, Wills was also glad for a moment alone as he strolled down the vacant corridors of court; grateful to the sound of silence – as opposed to the footfalls of his councilors, of eager place-seekers, hounding his every step – that followed in his wake. He felt, in these heady late-summer months, rather like a chess piece: hawkishly watched by those gathered ‘round the table for a game, the eyes and ears of the world over glued to his person, hanging like the gardens of Babylon to each word. But, mercifully, his subjects were still filling their guts with lavish feasts, some of them – most of them – piling over the morning’s nausea and disgust. Wills' strides are swift, determined, speared in the direction of his private lodgings (the whereabouts of which, assembled in the reign of his father, were unknown to the rest of the court). Those watching from the vaulted bay windows overlooking the gardens would have glimpsed but a flurry of copper-hair and flash of rich cloth, that undaunted Boleyn set to his shadowed brow, his father’s confident swagger, passing by –– no more than a spectre of a true sovereign.

It wasn’t until he saw a figure looming in one such window –– encased, as it were, like a painting –– that the King took pause, and bent in a hasty greeting. ‘Lady Percy. Twice in one week.’

As Isobel came up from her curtsy, Wills flickered a brow at her. ‘Am I to believe this is a fortunate accident, or have we chosen to forget our rainy rendezvous?’ His lips formed into a thin line, black irises tracing each nuanced flicker in her visage. ‘You’ve said nothing to me since, so you can imagine my surprise.’

His mouth opens, the name Elizabeth Talbot dripping from his tongue, although only silence prevails –– a deafening pause crowded with words unsaid.

[firelightfables-arc]

I’m suffering finding icons to use of emmett scanlan for jim / spectre so I may be changing faceclaims to Michiel Huisman

[alexar60]

L’hôtel particulier (14)

Vous trouverez les chapitres précédents, ici.

Chapitre 14 : Des enchantés

Tatiana arriva peu avant le lever du jour. Comme elle avait la clé, elle ne sonna pas ni ne me réveilla. Elle s’allongea doucement sur le lit, embrassa mon front et s’endormit dans la minute.

Je la laissai se reposer et bien que les travaux reprissent au petit matin, elle ne se réveilla pas malgré les bruits de marteau-piqueur, de perceuses ou de tremblement des murs et j’en passe. Elle dormit toute la matinée sortant de son sommeil vers midi. De mon côté, je partis faire quelques courses et revins préparer le déjeuner.

Lorsqu’elle se leva, elle entra dans la cuisine avec un énorme sourire aux lèvres. Elle m’embrassa tendrement, ravie et heureuse qu’on passe la journée ensemble. Avec sa présence, je me sentis rassuré surtout après avoir passé une partie de la nuit enfermé dans la pseudo-chambre de Diane. D’ailleurs, je ne parlai pas de cette histoire afin de ne pas la terrifier. Elle regarda ensuite le site que je visitais sur la tablette électronique et soupira en fermant les yeux.

-          Tu t’es aussi décidé pour l’Australie ? Ça va nous faire un voyage de combien de temps ?

-          Le temps qu’on aura envie, répondis-je.

-          Mais je travaille toujours.

-          Alors, tu démissionnes et je te paierai comme étant mon infirmière particulière.

-          T’es con, dit-elle en pouffant de rire.

Elle s’assit à côté de moi après avoir regardé les pommes de terre cuire dans le four ; la table était déjà prête. Pendant ce temps, nous entendîmes les ouvriers discuter par la fenêtre. Ils profitaient d’un bel ensoleillement pour manger dehors. Ils riaient de bon cœur autours d’une table de jardin récemment achetée.

Tatiana se gratta la tête utilisant en même temps ses doigts pour démêler ses longs cheveux bruns. J’aimais la regarder enrouler autour de son index une mèche de sa tempe. Cela voulait dire qu’elle avait envie de parler de choses intimes. Elle toussota avant de raconter son dernier rêve, celui qu’elle venait de faire.

-          J’ai rêvé que je dormais ici. C’était ta chambre mais elle ne ressemblait pas à l’actuelle. Tu ne me réveillais pas. Tu déposais simplement un magnifique bouquet de roses à côté de moi et tu murmurais que j’étais enceinte. Quand je me réveillais, tu avais disparu ce qui me troubla au point que tout devint gris dans la chambre. Et puis, j’ai ressentis des coups dans le ventre, comme des petits coups de pied venant de l’intérieur. Et une immense joie.

-          D’où ta bonne humeur ! remarquai-je.

Elle sourit, puis elle prit la carafe d’eau sur la table pour remplir son verre. J’observai le four dont la minuterie indiquait encore cinq minutes. L’odeur de patate cuite embauma la cuisine. Tatiana but une gorgée avant de  demander :

-          Est-ce que tu connais la signification d’une rose bleue dans les rêves ?

Je tressaillis en repensant au tatouage de Diane. Après avoir demandé pourquoi. Elle expliqua que les roses de son rêve étaient bleues. Dès lors, je blêmis et gardai le silence, ne répondant qu’en tournant la tête de la gauche vers la droite. Elle posa le verre et retourna admirer les pommes de terre à travers la vitre du four. Elles étaient dorées avec certains bords caramélisés. Dès lors, elle éteignit le four pour les sortir.

-          On mange quoi avec ?

-          Il y a du jambonneau. Il est sur le plan de travail.

Elle récupéra ensuite le morceau de viande emballé et ouvrit le papier avant de couper le jambonneau en quatre. Elle déposa une part dans mon assiette, une autre dans la sienne et partagea les potatoes maison. Je gardai le regard ailleurs et repensai à cette rose bleue vue la nuit dernière sur la hanche de Diane et rêvée par Tatiana.

Mon amie constata mon absence. Je ne touchai pas à mon assiette. J’avais presqu’envie de quitter la table. Cependant, elle préféra se taire et manger tranquillement. J’entendis les employés se lever pour reprendre le travail. Alors, je pis ceci comme un prétexte et m’excusai tout en allant les rejoindre. Tatiana profita de mon départ pour prendre la tablette et surfer sur le web. Elle chercha la symbolique des roses bleues.

Après avoir discuté avec le chef, je grimpai les escaliers et me dirigeai vers les chambres en travaux. Les pièces étaient méconnaissables, il n’y avait plus de carrelage, plus de papier peint. De plus, un mur fut totalement détruit transformant deux chambres en une grande. De la poussière se déposait un peu partout dans les chambres envahissant aussi le couloir.

Sur le seuil de la chambre de Diane, je me remémorai les positions du mobilier. Je revoyais le lit, l’armoire et la commode. De même, je revoyais aussi le spectre qui tapait la fenêtre. Son aspect terrifiant marquait ma mémoire autant que la beauté de Diane. Pourtant, elle n’avait rien pour elle par rapport à Tatiana qui, elle, était bien réelle. Je ne pouvais pas en dire autant de Diane.

J’entrai dans la chambre pleine de particules fines. Je pouvais les sentir se déposer sur mes épaules et entrer dans mes narines. J’approchai de la fenêtre afin de l’ouvrir et créer un courant d’air lorsque je fus tout à coup saisi d’effroi en découvrant sur le carreau des traces de doigts. Elles reformaient la main du fantôme de la nuit d’avant. Les traces étaient si parfaites que je pus distinguer leurs sillons formant des empreintes. A ce moment, j’appuyai mon avant-bras et à l’aide de la manche de mon sweat, je frottai le carreau pour les effacer. Mais, elles restèrent trop bien visibles.

Mon sang se figea tellement je sentis l’angoisse dominer mon esprit. Je continuai de frotter encore et encore. Seulement les marques ne s’effacèrent pas comme imprégnées dans le verre. Je descendis récupérer un seau et une éponge. Tatiana me regarda d’un œil intrigué. Elle ne dit rien si ce n’est : « Tu ne manges pas ? Ça va refroidir. ».

-          Je dois nettoyer quelque-chose et je reviens, affirmai-je.

Après avoir remplir le seau d’eau et de savon, je remontai au grand étonnement des ouvriers qui se demandèrent quelle folie me prenait subitement. Au passage, j’allai si vite que le seau éclaboussa quelques marches. Mais devant la vitre, j’eus beau frotter, les traces demeurèrent toujours visibles. Je frottai durant plusieurs minutes jusqu’à ce qu’un des artisans proposa de s’en occuper. D’ailleurs, il apporta un produit spécial mais en partant j’entendis l’expression de son étonnement face à la trace indélébile.

Tatiana restait toujours assise. Elle avait fini son assiette et continuait de lire sur la tablette numérique. J’aperçus une rapide photo de rose bleue. Je mangeai les pommes de terre légèrement froide et réfléchis sur la trace qui ne s’enlevait pas. De temps en temps, je croisais le regard de mon amie dont l’œil avait une pointe d’humidité. Elle avait aussi un petit rictus en coin mélange de grimace et de sourire retenu.

Même si elle s’en doutait, je ne voulais pas inquiéter Tatiana au sujet de la maison et de son aspect « hanté ». Dans un sens, cela ne la concernait pas et j’avais plus l’impression que les fantômes de la maison faisaient ressortir des souvenirs perdus ou  volontairement oubliés. Je regardai Tatiana lire, elle semblait si belle, son visage avait un aspect si doux qu’on voulait la protéger. Finalement, je me lançai.

-          Je dois te raconter ce qui m’est arrivé cette nuit et j’ai l’impression que c’est en lien avec mon passé, chuchotai-je.

A cause des travaux, elle ne m’entendit pas. La tête toujours suspendue au-dessus de l’écran, elle appuyait de temps en temps avec son doigt pour changer de page ou sélectionner un blog.

-          Tatiana, tu es là ? Haussai-je la voix.

-          Arthur…je dois te dire que j’ai du retard… et je crois que je suis enceinte.

Ses yeux humides pétillèrent de mille étoiles au point de venir exploser dans les miens. Je m’assis encore plus profondément dans la chaise en voyant brusquement l’avenir défiler devant moi. On dit que face à la mort on voit défiler son passé, eh bien je peux affirmer que face à la vie, on voit son avenir !

Alex@r60 – janvier 2021

[ultravioletcrumble]

Soulbound

We race around the melted char of what was once a neutron star And use the gravity to whip us into dark galactic rifts Yet still somehow we can't escape, they have no flaw, they feel no pain These twisted shadows of the men I once condemned

And here we get to what is arguably the best ‘bop’ of the album, the high energy banger that the band themselves acknowledge as their ‘poster child standalone’ for Abyss. As well as being a blast of a song on its own, the layers of story it presents are fascinating to me- here we see The Immortal’s regrets, and his humanity, which he projects onto the spectres of the four sons as well.

Just as she threatened, The Matriarch sends her ‘boys’ to hunt down The Immortal and The Legacy – terrifying, warped visages of four men, trapped somewhere between life and death, dreadful shades with twisted, savage purpose. These are what is left of The Matriarch’s four sons, those who The Immortal himself had rounded up and doomed to be sacrificed in her bloody ritual. Now they hunt down The Immortal under her orders, her fury theirs as they seek to punish The Immortal and The Legacy both for their transgression against their master.

These spectres seem devoid of life but there is something in their eyes Refuse to see they can't be saved, I push to pull them from the grave End their addiction to the thrall once and for all

But who am I to be their saviour, slave to time When I am doomed to be in chains for all my life

Even as they are chased through countless solar systems in the vastness of space, The Immortal can’t help but feel guilt and sorrow, especially as he himself played a big role in condemning these phantoms to their eternal unlife. He wants to try to help them, and yet he realises that, he too is simply bound unconditionally to be a puppet for whoever calls upon him. If he can’t set himself free, what hope does he have of saving others?

Click the title for the spotify link, and see under the cut for full lyrics.

What is this? Track 5/10. First Song. Next Song.

Full Lyrics: 

We race around the melted char of what was once a neutron star And use the gravity to whip us into dark galactic rifts Yet still somehow we can't escape, they have no flaw, they feel no pain These twisted shadows of the men I once condemned

(We can) Why do you seek us (See right) You won't defeat us (Through you) Turn around while you can (Your soul) Try to remember (Is ours) Why you defend her (This time) Shatter the master plan

Soul bound Endlessly forever Locked between the darkness and the light Don't drown In the swarming, blackened rising Hold on to humanity and fight

Tormented by the tethering of souls to phantoms that remain These spectres seem devoid of life but there is something in their eyes Refuse to see they can't be saved, I push to pull them from the grave End their addiction to the thrall once and for all

But who am I to be their saviour, slave to time When I am doomed to be in chains for all my life

Soul bound Endlessly forever Locked between the darkness and the light Don't drown In the swarming, blackened rising Hold on to humanity and fight

[c-atm]

Possessive Protection

Possessive Protection

“This...This is wrong…”

Connie whispered that to herself as she stepped back, fear and confusion on her face. Holding her broken arm.

“This is so wrong..”

In front of her stood a familiar face, body, build, and damaged attire; a familiar visage all around.

A usually heart-skipping, cheek redding visage. One of charm and a dapper style. A visage that haunted her dreams in the most pleasant ways..

This was not the same, nowhere near it.

Despite the form, the differences were far too prominent. It was ghastly, it’s ‘Steveny’ shape flickering like a flame, ready to burn everything and it was violet.

So violet and viscous.

The purple imposter didn’t look at her at all, his..

It’s attention on the bull-like demon who was slowly getting up after being rammed through a pillar by the purple devil.  

“That’s it, rise to your feet. Regenerative bastard”

 The slasher grin on his 'Steveny' face and the blow horn pitch put her on edge, as the Minotaur snarled towards the devil, fear in its throat as the purple devil gilded forward. With a roar, the Minotaur charged forward it’s  red eyes promising death, each step cracking the tiles underneath them.It stuck forward with a punch towards the devil, it’s fist as big as the devils skull.

On instinct, Connie was prepared to scream in concern.

Only for the sound of ripping flesh to steal that worry for his well-being and replace it with fear of his abilities, as the purple Steven tore the forearm of the minotaur from its body..Before knocking the minotaur across the skull and onto its face,in front of his feet

With said arm..

“Now, a lesson to share to those in hell “ The devil teased, before bringing the limb down the minotaur skull again, like a goddamn mallet. A sickening smash of flesh resounding in the concert hall. He lifted the limb high with a frown.

“Do not…"

and brought it down again…

"Ever.."

And again

"Touch what…"

and again

"Belongs to me!"

The violent, violet demon continued to crack the minotaur head with ruthless abandon, in a pure frenzy. Each strike harder than the last. Bone and smashed flesh scattered along the walls as he beat the long silenced monster. He didn't stop until he felt Connie grabbed his waist.

"Stop, Steven! Please!"

He looked back at her with a bit of a glare. 

"Steven?" He tossed the limb aside carelessly, allowing it and the Minotaur body to fade away in a black smoke leaving a gem.

His cold, slithering voice caused her to step back, chilling her heart. So different from the pleasing tone of her beloved partner.

 Facing him face to face, staring at his dead black eyes and dark purple pupils froze her spine and stole her breath.

"I guess that's not completely wrong."  He chuckled. Looking at her holding her arm, he stalked towards her.

"You're hurt, boon."

"Boon?" Connie inquired trying to push down her fear as she stepped back. She soon found herself between a pillar and the violet demon. She shivered as he moved his face close to her neck breathing in her fright with a teasing chuckle.

"Who are you?" 

He smirked at the steel in her voice. "Me?..I'm what 'he' hides from you, my boon." 

She trembled as he lifted his hand to her chin and ran his thumb across her bottom lip.

'So cold like the arctic, It feels as if I'll freeze to death staying by him.'

She moved her face away from his grip, sneering at the doppleganger. "What do you mean, 'you are what he hides?' "

His eyes narrowed as he gripped her chin tightly. "Hey now, You should be appreciative to me, fledgling. I did save your ass…" He smirked as he looked her up and down, lingering at her hips a bit. "Cute as it is."

*WHAP!* 

The sound of Connie slapping the demon reverberated against the hall.

"Disgusting Demon!" She roared, her eyes blazing in anger. "I don't know who you think you are to speak to me like that, but you are NOT MY STEVEN!"

He laughed cruelly but respectfully, licking the blood off his lip.  "Ooh, I understand why he's so taken with you .That beautiful blazing spirit to match that body….You're definitely worthy to be my boon." Giving her a hungry grin, he kissed her deeply.

Connie screamed through the kiss before pushing the purple beast back with both arms.  

"Bastard!" She swung a fist at the devil who dodged the blow. She attacked again with her left, recently healed, fist only to have him  grab her hand and pull her close 

Black eyes met violet, fiery rage met possessive obsession.

"Is that how you treat someone who healed you? That's fine, it makes me want you m-"

The purple demon voice started to strain as he backed up. Pain on his face as his hands gripped his head and the purple began to flicker and dim.

"HOW DARE YOU!?" The familiar voice of the Steven she knew, ranged out of the demon. "YOU DARE TO DISRESPECT HER!?" 

"I protected and healed her in your stead HUMAN! HOW I take my reward from my boon, my property, is my business...Besides it's not like you don't feel the same way!." 

Connie could only watch shocked, fear and embarrassment on her face as the purple demon fell to the floor on all fours, clawing at the marble scarring it like a jagged knife as he argued in agonizing pain with himself.

"SHUT UP!"

"It's true!!"

"Get out!!"

"You lust for her!"

"I SAID LEAVE, VIOLET!"

Connie covered her mouth as she watched Steven lift his head and thundered out as he clawed his face, ripping the purple flame off his visage and tossing it to the side. 

"S-S-Steven?" Connie cautioned as she took a step forward,  seeing him back to normal, breathing hard on all fours, quivering a bit.

"My..My lady." 

That voice as tired and broken as it was shook her heart as it always did...Connie took a step forward only for Steven to raise his hand.

"Hold on, My lady." Steven grunted as he turned to the purple flames watching it form to a ghostly purple spectre of himself. 

"Violet." His voice was full of hate as he stood in front of Connie protectively. 

“Steven" Violet responded as his translucent and ghostly figure  floated in place, a smirk on his face. "What do you think you're doing?" He pointed his finger tauntingly. “I know you don't think you're gonna keep me from My Boon in some misguided act of protecting her."

"There's nothing misguided about keeping My Lady safe...Especially from the likes of you."  Steven stood in a low stance, his hands in front of his chest in a clawed stance. 

"Don't you mean...'Likes of ME?" Violet grinned, his purple eyes staring straight into Steven's pink ones, before taking one glance at the witch among them. "We're one in the same, My boon."

"Stop talking to.."

"Are you serious?" Connie watched Steven's shoulder tensed ever so lightly. "Steven?"

"I'm his truest, darkest feelings made sentient and given form...You can call me Violet, My Boon."

"SHE ISN'T YOUR BOON!!"

"But she's your 'Lady'? Possessive, aren't we…"

Steven growled ready to strike, when a calming hand rested on his shoulder.

"Steven…"

Steven turned to look at Connie, a flash of shame in his eyes, before turning forward. He breathed deeply and relaxed his stance. "Come on Violet, enough playing." His glare stood as he held out his hand.

Violet kissed his teeth."'What do you mean? No games are being played."

"What's your objective here then, What are you trying to accomplish?"

"....You are useless..as a familiar" Violet growled " You fail at protecting our possession far too often., I refuse to trust you with My boon…:

Steven didn't say anything in response. His fist clenched in anger as his other words hit his heart.

"He protects me just fine, Monster." Connie spoke from behind her Steven, staring defiant at Violet as she stood beside her partner

"As long as I'm present, yes." Violet retorted " All those victories, all those rescues..They could have never been achieved without darker designs. Without me being present, Boon."

"I'm just as capable without you." Steven answered as he cracked his fingers.

"Allowing something to break our things shows capability?!" 

"How about you stop talking as If I’m an object." Connie Intervened, the crest on her wrist glowing. 

"You are!" Violet barked "You are my Boon, Meant to benefit me and enrich my life for my protection power and service.. That's the basis of our contract.!"

"Is that so." She smirked as she thought of what Violet just stated. "Then fulfill your part of the deal Violet and heed my command. RETURN TO STEVEN!"

Before Violet could fathom what was going on, he found himself being pulled towards his more benevolent half. He couldn't  fight it for long at all.. Her command was absolute and felt the need to see it through right down to his core..The need to get her favor.

He hated it, the feeling of being controlled even by her, the lack of freedom annoyed him. At the same time, it made Violet that more obsessive over his boon. Unlike Steven, who wants an equal love with the witch, he would be happy with her completely submitting to him, to stay untainted by unworthy hands. 

To remain his Boon and only touched by him.

"Remember,..I AM HIS THOUGHTS GIVEN FORM, MY BOON! EVERYTHING I SAID. EVERYTHING I DID. HE HAS THE SAME CAPACITY AS WELL!"

Violet gave a howling laugh as he was pulled towards Steven fading out of sight. 

Steven grunted and shook his head, the feeling of rejoining with Violet in such away was a new experience, a worryingly one as well. His confrontations with Violet had never been in the waking world until now. He didn't  have time to think it over as He felt two arms wrapped around him and a head on his chest. 

" My. My lady-I-"

"You're warm.." She gripped the back of his ripped shirt and smothered her face in his mid. "Stars above, you're so warm….It's a lively warmth." 

Steven could only hold her back as she began to quiver and his shirt began to dampen.

[blrowanduck]

Khandro ‘ug-Dongma

Ulukhamukha The Owl Headed Dakini.

Thangka painting by Ngakma Pema Zangmo

From within the lucid gleaming emptiness of being, she instantaneously arise in the mysterious form of the æthereal apparitional owl-headed dakini. She is the nocturnal mistress who shines in the night. She inhabits the dark, as a luminous spectre of indiscernible unease – in which bewilderment becomes self-bewildered and unable to manipulate dualistic coefficients in the cause of referentiality.

All dualistic derangements evaporate in the immutable phantasm of her nubilous protean presence.

The anagogic preternatural vapours of her inchoate kyil’khor undermine all possibility of establishing fixed identities.

Within the dimension of her inscrutable darkness, monism, dualism, nihilism, and eternalism find no footing and fail of their own inability to represent reality.

Her white plumage is the radiant rainbow window on the nine skies in which all phenomena disport as rolpa. All colours manifest within the whiteness of her plumage as rainbows are reflected in pearl.

She wears the wrathful five-skull crown as the sign of her power to transform conflicting emotions into the spectral wisdoms of chö-ku; and to instantaneously transform degraded forms of the physical elements into nondual play.

Her mercurial visage reflects the infinite variegated variety of the colours of dusk which transforms every nuance of deviation into variance from veracity.

Her cheerful screech dispels the demons of arrogance.

Her piercing gaze dispels the demons of puritanism.

Her vajra stare freezes all causes of affliction, so that all beings have the possibility of kindness, merriment, and freedom.

She wears the six pearl ornaments, in display of her mastery of the six vehicles of Vajrayana.

The chest ornament is composed of two circular yungdrungs.

The outer yungdrung is the joyous female manifestation of the four Buddha karmas and the inner yung-drung is the joyous male manifestation of the four Buddha karmas.

She wears mother of pearl yogini’s earrings as the indecipherable indication that she surreptitiously rids beings of the demon of dualistic contrivance.

Her naked tenebrous talons display my ability to make direct contact with every situation - to ride the spatial winds into the sphere of accomplished siddhis.

She cradles an impalpable transpicuous ivory khatvanga in the crook of her left arm. In her right hand she holds the nebulous white lotus of dream awareness.

In her left hand she holds the revenant red lotus of the nang-wa bardo.

She swoops perfectly through all spaces of existence and non-existence in token of her incalculable effervescent kindness, and of my ambiguous ability to initiate self-accomplished wisdom for everyone and everything everywhere.

[darkelfshadow]

Session Summary - 77

AKA “The Strength Of The Anvil”

Adventures in Taggeriell

Session 77  (Date: 24th January 2020)

Players Present:

- Rob (Known as “Varis”) Elf Male.

- Bob (Known as “Sir Krondor) Dwarf Male.

- Paul (Known as “Labarett”) Elf Male.

- Arthur (Known as “Gim”) Dwarf Male.

- Travis (Known as “Trenchant”) Human Male.

- John (Known as “Ragnar”) Dwarf Male.

Absent Players

Nil

NPC

- (Known as “Naillae”) Elf Female. <Controlled by Travis>

Summary

- Toilday, 9th Pharast in the year 815 (Second Era). Spring.

- The party begin this session, in the late evening, having left the Yuan-ti Nest Complex to return to the Tomb Of Diderius.

- The party once again speak to Diderius, Mummy Lord, and their conduct and behaviour pleases Diderius, and the party is allowed to proceed safely through. Varram The White mumbles something about a “dagger” in his confused state and the party search an area of wall near the empty pool and find an enchanted Dragontooth Dagger, an important symbol of status within the Cult Of The Dragon Queen. When Varram sees the dagger he finally snaps out of his confused state and is once again lucid.

- Returning to the group of Devils guarding the unexplored bloody stairs downwards, with Varram now safely secured, blind folded, gagged and hidden from view in a sack, Trenchant disguises himself as Varram and orders the Devils to go outside to “find and bring back beasts of burden.” The Devils leave the Tomb and with the lack of suitable animals in the Serpent Hills will probably be engaged in that activity for a very long time.

- The party proceed through the room with the large golden sentinel. Opening a set of double stone doors, they find an ancient library. Upon entering, a Ghost appears which is visibly upset and emotionally unstable. The Ghost is most concerned about guarding her books, even though all the shelves are empty. The party learn that this Ghost, Ilda, was killed in the library trying to stop a band of robbers from stealing all her books. Not all the books were present in the library however, as Ilda mentions that Diderius had a quantity of books on loan, which he would have had in his private room.

- The party agree to help Ilda in retrieving her books back, except for Sir Krondor who unwisely tells her outright that he has no intention of bringing her books back. When she hears this, she erupts into furry, her face contorting into a Horrifying Visage which the party reel against. Labarett and Sir Krondor suffer from the gaze, each instantly ageing twenty years. Sir Krondor is now 108 years old, nearing middle age for a Dwarf and Labarett is now 141 years old. Ragnar manages to calm down the Ghost and reassures her that they will indeed bring her books back.

- The party return to the unexplored downward bloody stairs and proceed with caution to a stone door, blocked with a single iron spike, which the party remove. Entering the room beyond they find the private quarters for Diderius. When some of the party enter, they are attacked by the appearance of a group of Wraiths and Spectres. These undead foes, which were so deadly to Varram and his men, prove no match for the party now that they have a Cleric Of The Light. Ragnar fills the room with Daylight, which forces the undead to cower. Quickly the party dispatch the spirits thanks to their magic weapons and soon the room is quiet again.

- There is a large pile of old leather bound books and within this Ragnar finds the ancient book he was searching for but the ink is so old and faded that it can not be read. He does find two faded illustrations within the book, perhaps this is a clue to where to look next for the Sun Blade he seeks.

- Within the room is also found an enchanted set of a silver jug and four goblets, an enchanted gold ring with an amethyst gem, several well made silk robes and two Scrolls of Protection From Energy.

- The party gather the items, including the large quantity of ancient books, and return to the library. The pile of books are brought into the library and the ghostly image of Ilda appears around them. For the first time, her voice softens and her expression becomes intense. She looks over at Ragnar and with warmth in her voice says, “Thank you Cleric Of The Light, I may now pass onwards.” Her figure fades and the room is now quiet.

- The party leave the Tomb, being careful to avoid any of the traps or dangers they encountered before, and once again breath in the cold night air of the Serpent Hills. After Ragnar warns the party about Trolls her saw taking the Cultists who were camped on the outside, the party decide to travel onwards for a hour to get away from the Tomb before camping. They find a suitable outcrop of rock to camp next to, with Trenchant summoning Leomund’s Tiny Hut. The night goes uneventfully, except for the sounds of snakes.

- Wealday, 10th Pharast in the year 815 (Second Era). Spring.

- The party arise in the morning, with Labarett performing the dawn ritual upon the Black Dragon Mask. Breaking camp they head off at a brisk pace, thanks to Labarett’s skills, and make good time. The day passes without incident, but the party notice the ever watchful presence of snakes around them.

- Evening comes and the party once again set up a suitable camp site. During the middle of the night, with Labarett and Varis on watch, they see the silhouette of two Yuan-ti againts the night sky watching them. After one of the figures leaves, Varis tries to take out the remaining one with arrows but the figure manages to transform into a snake and slither into a hole in the ground.

 - Oathday, 11th Pharast in the year 815 (Second Era). Spring.

- With the coming dawn, after breaking camp and the completion of the dawn ritual the party eagerly head off towards Boareskyr. About mid morning the party finally arrive at the Boareskyr Bridge. The settlement is visible on the far side of the wide and deep river chasm, and so too is the Tower Of Anvil but before the party can reach the bridge they are cut off by the sudden appearance of a large group of Yuan-ti. The Nest Mother has returned and she will not allow the party to bring back the knowledge of one of the many Yuan-ti nests, and thus battles ensues.

- The party soon find themselves over whelmed by Yuan-ti forces with more and more arriving. Matters turn even worse when three of the Yuan-ti Abominations rip open pouches that shower them in fine green powder that transforms them into larger more dangerous forms. The Nest Mother tries to corrupt Varis’s mind with nightmare visions but he manages to ward them off.

- The party are desperately fighting for their lives, using all their means. Trenchant summons a storm cloud above the plains and begins directing lightning bolts down upon the Yuan-ti. Ragnar summons a sphere of Spirit Guardians around him, giving the party a defensive position. Labarett is raging, taking blow after blow. Arrows fly forth from Varis’s bow striking true. Sir Krondor and Gim charge into combat with their blades swinging into Yuan-ti flesh. Naillae sneaks darting to and forth lunging her daggers into the Yuan-ti.

- The party are being hammered. More and more Yuan-ti appear and are relentless in their assault on the party.

- Naillae looks around, at the injured and trapped party, “We’re doomed!”

- Then a loud, deep, crackling war horn booms out from the direction of the bridge. Sir Krondor smiles and shouts, “Not yet lassy!  The strength of the Anvil is here now!”

- Racing across the stone bridge is a war pony in armour, pulling behind it a wagon and a strange metal contraption. Hanging off the sides of the wagon are two armoured Dwarves, and seated upon the strange metal contraption is another armoured Dwarf. All three are wearing the colours and tabards of the Order Of The Anvil.

- Ragnar looks over at the approaching group and shouts, “Knights of the Anvil! And they have a Dragon Fire Spitter! Praise Truesilver for this miracle!”

- The Knights Of The Anvil reach the end of the bridge and stop allowing the rear Knight, Sir Dawn, to jump off and remove the metal contraption, the Dragon Fire Spitter, and start to aim it towards the battle. The two remaining Knights, Sir Faran and Sir Horal, shout at the War Pony to race onwards.

- As the party continue fighting, they hear a loud boom come from the Dragon Fire Spitter and a large white cloud erupts outwards. A high pitched whistling sound comes from the sky above, and a few breaths later, a large fireball explodes in the middle of the battle engulfing a group of Yuan-ti in flames.

- The tide of battle is turned now with the arrival of the Knights Of The Anvil. The battle is still raging on, and Gim is dropped to the ground, badly wounded and dying. The others in the party race to his aid, with Ragnar healing his wounds from afar whilst Trenchant and Naillae defend his temporary retreat.

- Sir Faran and Sir Horal are engaging the Yuan-ti, hitting them hard and forcing them away from the party but thanks to their War Pony are able to out manoeuvre and stay one step ahead of the encroaching foes.

- Lightning bolts rain from above, and now fireballs explode repeatedly into the Yuan-ti thanks to the Anvil’s Dragon Fire Spitter. The Yuan-ti are losing now, their numbers falling one by one but still they fight, until with only one remaining it transforms into a snake and slithers away. The party cheer and all the Dwarves shout out, “For Fanur!”

<And as the party stand in disbelief at their survival, that is the end of the session.>

XP Allocation

Group - Combined (This is equally divided by the number of players who were involved)

Quests (Only quests that are completed or rendered undoable, during this session, are shown here)

- “Soul At Peace” Release Ilda The Ghost = 500 XP

- “Care For The Elderly” Escort Dalern & Elona To Boareskyr = 350 + 350 XP

- “Fetch Me A Ride” Remove Devils = 300 XP

- “Can Someone Scratch My Nose?” Convey Varram The White In Custody to Boareskyr = 500 XP

Creatures Overcome

- Wraiths = 5400 XP

- Specters = 1000 XP

- Yuan-ti Malisons (Type 1 & 3) = 2800 XP

- Yuan-ti Nightmare Speaker (Nest Mother) = 1100 XP

<Assisted by Forces Of The Anvil, XP Shared and reduced from amounts shown below>

- Yuan-ti Malisons (Type 1 & 3) = 5600 XP

- Yuan-ti Abominations = 14500 XP

Individual (This is only given to that person and is not divided amongst all players)

Special Bonus (Outstanding Role Playing)

Nil

XP Levels and Player Allocations

Player : Start +  Received = Total  (Notes)

Rob : 91122 + 3584 = 94706

Arthur : 72488 + 3584 = 76072

John : 65702 + 3584 = 69286

Travis : 82943 + 3584 = 86527 (Level up to Level 11)

Paul : 71819 + 3584 = 75403

Bob : 78247 + 3584 = 81831

NPC (Naillae) : + (1792)

[chiseler]

The Last Light

There is a moment in David Lynch's Twin Peaks: The Return that on its incandescent surface could have been lifted, weightless, from the great post-war dream of materialist deliverance: The top on the convertible is down, the radio on; The Paris Sisters are singing I Love How You Love Me as a reincarnated Laura Palmer lifts her face to a cloudless sky. Within the tapestry of this early Phil Spector production — his trademark reverb eternally associated with Romance and Death (two conditions Spector knew all too well) — the voice of Priscilla Paris is a siren sound from the American Beyond. We could be hearing a dream goddess lullaby from the whispering gallery, or sweet nothings from the crypt. We don't know. We'll never know. Just as Quentin Tarantino’s Once Upon a Time... in Hollywood keeps us guessing with the elusive murmur that “Sharon Tate will never die,” granting her a gaudy, wondrous L.A. to cavort in where it's 1969 forever and movie stars still matter, so we find ourselves in Tarantino’s version of paradise (complete with flame throwers to the face). In this oneiric echo chamber, momentarily shared by Lynch and Tarantino, Surrealism smiles down upon a vision of American blondness; muscle cars soaked in sunlight; the terrible ecstasy of unending motion; candy for the eye and ear.

David Lynch’s favorite film, to this day, remains Otto e Mezzo, directed by Western Europe's sorcerer of confectionary delights, Federico Fellini; the man who put the “dolce” in La Dolce Vita. And here you have a fleeting taste of ideologies swirled together and spun like ribbon candy: a blur of four-wheeled luxury from the New World, zooming past regional splendor into that fraternity of man: the socio-economic nirvana imagined by Karl Marx.

Careening from one via to another at harrowing, white-knuckle speeds, Fellini was heard to lament that “Some of the neo-realists seem to think that they cannot make a film unless they have a man in old clothes in front of the camera.” George Bluestone, recording these words in 1957 for the pages of Film Culture, was sittings in the literal passenger seat of the ideal metaphor of post-war ebullience in action: that famous Black Chevy skirting the Italian Scylla (the Vatican) and its equally dogmatic Charybdis (the Party); expert, 20th century precision guiding them through Roman streets with graffiti-scrawled churches proudly bearing the hammer and sickle. At those velocities, anything could make sense.

“What for you is the greatest human quality?”, Bluestone asks. Fellini responds, “Love of one’s fellows,” a period-appropriate oath that rings true to his brand of ecumenical solidarity.

“The greatest fault?”

“Egoism.”

Try, if you will, to imagine our more locally sourced egoists nodding along with Fellini in soulful agreement on that one. As a kind of compatriot of Edgar Allan Poe, David Lynch (and, to some extent, Tarantino) spawns from his abiding axiom that “The death of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetic topic in the world.” In Lynch’s hands, American television has become a brightly lit seance for Poe’s ethereal dead. Immortal creatures afflicted with the dream of physical existence, then afflicting the dreamers. Twin Peaks: The Return modifies Poe's axiomatic truth with great help from Amanda Seyfried's Becky and her pair of visionary's eyes, melting Spector's dark edifice of sugar in deathless, Sternbergian close-up — iridescent search lights, ever more urgently scanning the sky above for a sun to swallow her whole. We can only witness and internalize this shimmering ingenue trading places with Old Sol, as if the drugs she's consumed have entered our system and not hers.

Filmmakers like Fellini and Lynch celebrate bodily extremes in intriguing, if differing ways that should naturally gallop right beyond the pale but nevertheless become wholly, weirdly digestible. It is perhaps the innocent glee, even wonderment, of these artists in the vast variety of shapes the human body can assume; innocence which acts as a giant eraser for every awareness on our part of how physical representation in the age of political correctness is meant to function. Lynch is able to present the disabled as by turns childlike, mysterious or magical beings without ever worrying about lending them agency (The Elephant Man's John Merrick is a passive whipping boy for seemingly the whole of Victorian London) or the lie of adult sophistication (the latest Twin Peaks iteration includes a pint-sized hitman who whines like a puppy when his icepick is broken).

Fellini's dwarfs and grotesques, on the other hand, emerge from the struggle of a one-time Marc'Aurelio cartoonist willing one-dimensional images into three-dimensional embodiment. His big women, of course, are fetish figures. They always were. Gargantuan beauties, evidence of a sexual ideal formed in infancy: the big Italian mammissima, seen from below. As Fellini grew into a rather large adult himself, this ideal was simply re-scaled accordingly (even the icy mountain of Anita Ekberg takes on new implication). Goddesses all, they are, however, not meant for conventional movie stardom.

And what of Tarantino? Once Upon a Time's Margot Robbie IS the no-longer-doomed Sharon Tate as she watches herself on the big screen; enjoying a thrill that few have ever known so guilelessly that any half-baked charges of narcissism shrivel to nullity before they can escape a single throat. Here before us is an essential glimpse into the vanishing phenomenon of movie stardom itself, reflexive handwringing from the woke balconies notwithstanding. Tarantino has at last achieved something transcendental: even his grotesques — slack-jawed, gap-toothed, gormless members of the Manson Family conflated with more contemporary Identitarian cultists on the lookout for 'Lookism', knives unsheathed — are downright mythic. Robbie's Tate is a visage both generically perfect and possessed by the angels, every one of them a blond resident of LA County, sincere and unknowable as desert light.  

The vampires, creatures of night slain by sunlight, infiltrated the movie theaters in the 1920s and never left. They sit next to us in the dark, having ceded the power to hypnotize us to the glowing screen itself. Photochemical vagaries invariably allow movie darkness to behave in impossible ways; as if the physical properties of film itself knew no rules, and thus invited us to accept its essential anarchy without question. Before us is a darkness that GLOWS.

A Black & White image flipped into negative can produce black fire, or the black sunlight which illuminated the Transylvanian forests of Nosferatu, through which a box-like carriage rattles at Mack Sennett speed. But with only the smallest underexposure, a little dupey degradation of the print, or even a little imagination (such collaboration is not discouraged), this liquid blackness will spread anywhere, everywhere; the most luminous pestilence known to creation. Be it in the laughing nightmare of Fleischer cartoons of old (Out of the Inkwell, indeed) or Jean Epstein's photogenie phantasmagoria, we're left to wonder. Is daylight burning out the corner of a building, or is it the blackness of the building which is eating into the sky? As with so many such questions, film permits us no answer. We are to simply watch as characters smudge, their shadows emanating out beyond themselves, pulsing and flickering with an obsidian internal flame.

By the time Jean Epstein adapted The Fall of the House of Usher in 1928, it could wisely be said that Poe had been already aggrandized through the mechanism of carbon-arc projection; which is but one way to say that the vision that once seemed unharnessable, had at last been industrialized. Dragooned. Pressed into an ever more modern service at a pace to be measured in frames-per-second. Artists like Epstein and Chomon were the first generation to wield an immense cultural and commercial instrument; at once abidingly real and totally incomprehensible. No medium of expression predating cinema could so thoroughly lift audiences from linear time, or could as convincingly, in the words of Jean Epstein, render death as a conscious state.

Transcendentalism barely scratches the surface here. A more apposite term — the one he nuances in his film theory, “photogenie” (a genesis out of light) — pulls transitory moments, otherwise escaping human perception, into focus. If Poe engrosses us in Romantic conceptions of death as a means to visionary truth, Epstein reveals that same supposedly “elusive” end in our earthly world of telephones, sports cars, Kodak cameras for the every-man and moderne manicures for up-to-the-minute dandies.

The Victorians were falling away. And with them a system of reality contained in narrow, overwrought performances. Withered technique as a means of reflecting Nature — or, to quote Balzac, the “conjugation of objects with light” — was displaced, uncrowned by Jean Delville’s Death (1890), which embodies an altogether different kind of virtuosity, one no Academy could ever comprehend. The charcoal drawing and ode to Edgar Allan Poe’s Masque of the Red Death yearns with a combination of verve and starkness toward a capital “G” Gloom destined to escape salons.

Coming of age in a series of shady elsewheres — the fairgrounds, nickelodeon parlors and movie palaces of an Edwardian America — nitrate and its twinkling mineral essence gave Poe's crepuscular light its time to shine and  thereby illuminate the world. No longer held in the solitary confinement of a page of reproduced text or an image, however still, rendered in paint or ink. Poe's singularly tormented vision was finally written alchemically, in cinematographic rays beamed through silver salts; into moving images of such aggressive vitality as to blast every rational thing from one's mind.

All hail magic mirrors! Celestial mandalas! Giant eggs and butterfly women! Segundo de Chomón's The Red Spectre (1907) ruthlessly invades our eyes with a wraith-magician dissolving through his coffin lid in a red, hand-tinted, flame-flickering hell. His caped, skull-masked presence was to herald the manic new thespic truth that, from this moment forward, the art of acting is in how you respond to light, and how light responds to you. The Specter of Chomon's dark bauble is in every element Poe's Red Death — japing and performing tricks for us, his adoring fans and welcome guests, before announcing our doom — literary metaphor slammed against a literal backdrop of amber stalactites, pellucid as an ossuary.

Doctor Pretorius might have been musing on the history of cinema in 1935’s The Bride of Frankenstein when he said: “Sometimes I have wondered whether life wouldn't be much more amusing if we were all devils, no nonsense about angels and being good.”

by Daniel Riccuito, Tom Sutpen and David Cairns

[asktheskinner]

Ambush of the Dead

Showcasing of Melchiah and Melchahim Post-Nosgothic Civil War. Horror and Violence warning.

The newest caravan strode along the Razielim Road, Dumahim jealously guarding the wagons of ‘liberated’ slaves and bountiful vassals of blood. The pact snarled with cautious eyes and bristling arousal to the ever-clinging sting of earthy rot in the air. Ever since the First Clan’s humbling and even now, a century into the war against the rebellious humans that waned and waxed like a defiant tide against a fortress’ foundation, the Melchahim claimed the Razielim Stronghold for the time being.

The creak of wheels rolling on the paved road before a groan of wood and suddenly the weight of bodies finally collapsed one side of a wagon into a spill of screaming men and women. Immediately one of the overseers were on the mortals with violent rebuke as if their already starving bodies were purposeful to the new difficulty of this most inconvenient time.

At the front, the Alpha of this raiding pack glared as one of his lieutenants came with bowed head of submission. Goliath, one of Dumah’s personally-risen warriors. Unlike the other clans, the Thirdborn was more liberal of his risen creche. From the Grand Magi Vornah to the insufferable Fredrick de Rose...those were nothing to a proud general of the Dark Titan himself. Now, without that braggart to stand in his way, he will collect the septs one by one until the clan was under his rule.  

Like all of his direct inheritance, Goliath was massive. Even for a Dumahim, clad in the baroque armour of wraith-crafted steel and dark motif to the warrior caste that they are born for.  A tusked sneer crossed his tattooed face before snatching his lieutenant by his throat and dragged him up from his boots. The hot stink of recent feast huffed in the choking vampire’s face as he commanded,

“I want my meat back on progress. I want it all at the camp before dawn or I will personally feed your guts to the wargs!”

In that demand, Goliath flung his subordinate back and pointed a talon at the others, “Move now!” The lesser vampires bowed in the midst of their skittering movements for assistance. The fear of another vampire was delicious. Humans, certainly but there was a distinctive pleasure out of beating the fear from a fellow god and it brought an arrogant smile onto his face.

In the reveries, the pockets of upturned earth shifted. The whispers of the long-dead catching ears and suspenseful eyes until a woman screamed as she is roughly plucked by her handlers. “No! No! They’re coming, they come in hungry hate!” “Quiet, you insufferable wench.” The Dumahim hissed, snatching her by the throat. His claws biting into her flesh, already tempted to tear her screaming throat out and feed. It was Goliath’s commandment to keep every last of these blood-bags alive and something grabbed at his ankle. Through the creep of mist that appeared in the middle of their idle without immediate notice. “Wha-!?” Another hand - taloned and iron-grasped - took him into the softened earth. Nearly taking the woman with him, the vampire hissed and roared out. Convulsing and trying to drag himself to no result. “Help me fools!” He gurgled out as his torso yanked this way and that. Two of his brothers hurried off, grabbing his arms and helped. There was a sickly sound and the Dumahim was free!

Without his lower half.

The hateful scream of pain and attempt to remain conscious in the void-wrapped agony as he twisted and tried to reclaim his pulled innards. Skeletal hands erupted from the ground around them, clawing his hollering mouth, arms and organs. Tearing and dragging him back into the earth whence his corpse came.  

More erupted. The dead rose, the firefoxes of glowing sockets from the long-dead soldiers and slaves from past wars as their slowly reconstructed bodies shambled and groaned as puppets. Some holding rusty weapons of soldiery and instruments of farming, others used their gnawed nails and taloned finger-bones for the closest living and nonliving thing they sought. The Dumahim guards hissed, handling their own weapons and taloned fists, charged with savage rebuke. “Back to the grave with you!” One cried out, smashing a risen dead with a backhand that destroyed its upper half into a burst of bonedust and rot. The dust fell a moment, whirled and pulled itself into nostrils and mouth. The sudden wickedness caught the vampire by surprise enough to inhale sharply in shock.

Cough and spitting out globes of polluted saliva, the Dumahim sharply gagged to a sensation in his chest. A crawling spread that pierced into his veins, blackening as it went. “Gah!” The gurgling of pain rousing to eyes watching as his body jerked and spasming, fighting itself from strings unseen. Bones starting to snap in stubborn refusal, changing shape and when the screams became their highest with onlookers frozen in terror that a proud son of Dumah’s clan was nothing but a toy to this eldritch force. This reaver was torn into the material of a creature not of this realm.  His soul howling in its cadaver, fuel to the convulsing abomination of hardened flesh and shivering bones as it lunged in ghastly flight against former kin.

This army of the dead and converted fought at the protectors while their prize stared on, huddling tightly to one another in hopes that they will be safe from this.

In the chaos, seemingly more draugr rose. Their flesh, rotting and bloated under layers of stitches and fused evolution. Powerful and unnatural in their own way. A couple with many arms. Others with armour between layers and masks of blighted gold. Weapons in taloned hands. The rotten yellow of their truth hanging from waists and grim decor. The Children of the Sixth Clan emerge in the most opportunistic time, cleaving the weak and tearing with putrid hatred and spiteful energy.

Among them, more powerful beings walked. Their clan’s curse staled by powers beyond their lesser attribute, gifted by the Lands Beyond. Robes of grim regality and crested armour wrapping their shuddering frames, talons burning of abyssal power hurling violent bolts and screaming magicks at their enemy in their scrambling reformations.

There were too many. The fell power of Melchiah’s magi were honed and cunningly used in the right ways, even as the few lieutenants under Goliath’s routine claimed unlives with centuries’ honed powers and skills. Their maces and hammers crushing bones and bodies with air-ploughing force and their armoured form throwing by inhuman strength. Wargs barking, charging for vampires and closing their powerful salivating jaws for bloody kills but even bodies were weapons to the Sixth Clan.

Their ichor poisoning their killers with organ-melting potency and those not killed outright tore into bellies with bones pulled for weapons and fetishes. Warm blood steaming in the air and fed upon to heal.

All of this chaos. This inpudence. Utter craven disrespect of their betters!

Goliath sneered in nothing but distaste as he swatted four draugr in one decisive swing of his mace-wrapped fist and smashed one of these necromancer-called ghouls under his cloven boot. The pulverization of bones and warped meat crunching under heel before he lumbered for the closest summoner.

The woman, or this vague spectre of one, looked at her behind the porcelain mask under gilded armour and dark robes. He recognized her, even after all these centuries - he recognized Lady Samona. The High Witch of Melchiah’s dregs. Unnaturally tall for the lesser clan with limbs stretched and similar neck, she had a head-sized orb in the fold of one arm and armoured bird-like talons swaying with the calling of black magic.  “Goliath, it has been too long.” Her crowing voice purrs behind her mask’s perked red lips. “Old Samona, I am surprised you are not a pile of rot-slog by now. You are already a hag by the time your Master found you.” He taunted, his stride unstopping in full intent to crush her once and for all.

“And miss this?” She asks and in a sudden incantation that still sounds like mere gibberish to the Dumahim, her bolt flew straight for him. Moving with a crater-depression behind him, Goliath whirled in mid-air and came crashing for his enemy with a roar that shook the night. Samona did not move. She showed no fear of this brute and gave her reason why -

With a flick of her free hand, the bolt came right back with a wily intelligence and struck Goliath off course. The mist was twisting and collecting itself slowly at first before stretching into a great hand, solidifying into an abhorrent horror of groaning bodies consisting at this meaty palm’s fingers to swat him straight out of the air like a toy. 

Limbs grabbing muscle and plating with strength beguiling the rotten beings’ appearance as the solidifying arm was becoming more and more present. The mass of muscle and groaning faces to a crested shoulder of wailing bodies, clawing at the air and their own blood-weeping eyes.  It moved, slamming Goliath again and again into the ground before throwing him into a great Termogent tree with a thunderous crash. 

The dead around them pulled by the ghastly visage, breaking apart to meld and form the Mists’ true appearance. Another arm of similar horrors dragging and armoured legs curling on their digitigrade feet with wicked talons curling into the dirt. The horn-spined body leading to one ugly ‘head’ crested by bony ridges and barely a skull jutting from its fleshy prison. Black eyes glaring their glowing irises of murderous red and something of a smile on its slugging maw of teeth on its skeletal jaws. Meat hanging off its lips like a toad’s bloated thyroid.

Melchiah. Centuries since the loss of his precious stolen retreat, he had resurfaced.

And his gurgling laugh rolled in the air as his grotesque body heaved itself on legs that will not last for long. “Goliath, I have come for you…”

[jarienn972]

The Inbetween - Chapter Five

Time for the next chapter of my ghostly @cssns tale! The cliffhanger that ended the previous chapter is quickly revealed and you’ll find that it is partially resolved, but our heroes aren't out of danger yet. There’s just one chapter left after this one. Once again, thanks to @kmomof4 and the rest of the event organizers for a summer filled with amazing supernatural tales and thank you @allons-y-to-hogwarts-713 for the header and the character art!

AO3  FF.net  Tumblr:  One  Two  Three  Four 

What the hell just happened? Emma found herself asking for the umpteenth time tonight. There's been a brilliant burst of light and a blast of air that nearly knocked them off of the sofa, but honestly - what really happened? She had witnessed similar signs from curses breaking, whether from a True Love's Kiss or whatever the hell else broke curses around here, but this was an entirely different type of curse. Would the curse breaking to free the trapped spirits look or feel the same?

Sensing that her magic was still intact - for the moment, at least, Emma gave a quick swish of her hand to bring the candles back to life. Beside her, Killian was hunched over with his head lowered to his knees and arms still drawn tightly over his ears. "You okay?" she asked, giving his shoulder a little nudge.

Killian drew his head up hesitantly, his eyelids tentative in their opening before he dared lower his arms. "It's quiet…" he whispered, sounding befuddled by that very revelation.

"You don't hear the voices anymore?" Emma asked, hopeful the spell had been a success, but not rushing to inform David or Regina until she was certain.

"I don't believe so...," Killian replied, intently listening for any voices present aside from his wife's. "I think Regina's spell just might have worked…" His voice trailed off as Emma noticed his eyes were locked in an icy stare, but she couldn't tell what he was focused on.

But trying to figure out precisely what Killian was staring at became less important as she became aware of a presence attempting to fill the space between them. "What the hell?" she exclaimed as she felt something trying to force its way between Killian and herself, but even though she was feeling as though that same something was trying to push her away, her husband appeared oblivious to it. "Killian?" she called out to him, but he just sat there, seemingly entranced by whatever was still in this room with them. "Killian!" She shouted his name once again as a chill enveloped her.

The temperature inside the mansion hadn't exactly been balmy all night, but it now seemed to have dropped at least another ten degrees in mere seconds. She knew that all of the windows in the room were closed and even though there had been a blast of wind that had blown through the room just moments ago, it hadn't been this cold. She thought about what they could be experiencing and all that came to mind was that there must still be a spirit here that didn't cross over - one that was suddenly manifesting its presence. It was also blatantly trying to separate her from Killian by inserting an invisible barrier between their bodies, but she'd been prepared for it this time.

"Oh, hell no!" she cried out, directing her words to the unseen spirit. "Not this time, pal…" If this thing was trying to possess Killian again, it wasn't happening. Earlier, when she'd healed the majority of his injuries from the tumble down the stairs, she'd snuck in a protection spell blocking any entity from gaining control of Killian's body again. She doubted even a virus could sneak in right now and that was perfectly fine with her. She hadn't trusted Jeremiah or any of his other ghostly friends to keep their word and not take another turn at controlling the pirate against his will. A quick-thinking modification of the protective spell she'd placed on his heart long ago to prevent Gold or anyone else from taking it had been a potentially brilliant idea, but she had no way to measure its success or failure unless a ghost tried to possess him once more.

Now, with him transfixed - some sort of magic attempting to exert influence over him - she would get her answer, but if her plan was successful, it also meant that they'd be dealing with a very pissed off ghost - and she was definitely right about that. The presence she felt trying to repel her from Killian was exerting increasing force, reaching a point where the pressure was so great it actually tipped over the sofa, sending both Emma and Killian tumbling to the parquet floor. Emma recovered almost instantly, rolling off of the upended sofa and drawing herself into a ready-for-action crouch (not that it would be particularly effective against an invisible enemy). Hampered by the prior head injury, Killian didn't get up quite as quickly, struggling against the sensation of blood rushing to his already pounding skull which left him slightly disoriented. Fortunately, at least the impact with the floor had broken the trance. He toppled over onto his side in attempt to right himself, but couldn't seem to muster the strength to push himself even to his knees.

But what Killian didn't realize was that he wasn't just fighting against his own vertigo - something was intentionally trying to keep him pinned down. It took Emma only seconds to realize that the entity was still attacking him. Oh, no you don't, she thought as she propelled herself forward, grabbing a fistful of the soft, black leather that made up the collar of Killian's jacket and yanking him off of the fallen sofa. The abrupt movement caught him off-guard, leaving him slightly dazed until he regained his senses. One thing was absolutely certain though - they were definitely not alone in this room.

And this ghost wasn't playing nice anymore.

Angered, the spirit diverted its attention from the couple, instead focusing its energy on objects in the parlor - starting with small items it could easily manipulate as it worked toward larger ones. Emma's thermos suddenly became a projectile launched at her head and while it was easily deflected, there were undoubtedly going to be more.

"I'm thinking that maybe we should get out of here…," Emma suggested, although she truthfully had no idea where they could go in this blasted house that would be safe.

"I don't think that this spirit intends to allow us to leave here, Love," Killian replied as he regained his wits. "Our unseen companion is rather upset that you prevented him from possessing my being again - and thank you for that, by the way."

"So, it's the same spirit? The one who called himself Jeremiah?" Emma wondered, trying to figure out why any ghosts would have been left behind if Regina's spell had been successful. Why didn't this one cross over?

"Aye," Killian confirmed. "Tis the same entity. The other voices I was hearing earlier tonight have gone silent so it appears the others have moved on…"

"Why the hell didn't Jeremiah move on?" Emma asked as they ducked an airborne urn that sailed over their heads. "Is that why he's so upset?"

"I don't think so," Killian said, shaking his head as he strained to understand the spirit's message through the chaos. "He's quite irate, but the aggression appears to be directed more towards you than anything else."

"Damn - what did Regina get wrong that kept this one here?" she questioned as the flames of the four candles she'd just re-lit flared, the flames reaching nearly the height of the taper candles themselves before they began blending together to form what looked like a mocking face in the fire. Emma waved her hand to squelch the maniacal flames with a magically guided breeze that would once again envelope them in darkness, but both would agree that they were more unnerved by the fiery visage staring back at them than they were of the dark.

"That was truly disconcerting…," he started to say as they remained frozen in place, trying to discern where the next attack might originate. In the faint light that remained, a glimpse of movement drew his eyes upward and he immediately recognized that the motion he was seeing was the parlor's chandelier swaying - and separating from the ceiling. "Swan - look out!" He cried out as the bracket that once secured the massive light fixture to the ceiling pulled free and sent the entire metal and crystal contraption plummeting to the floor. While they managed to roll out of the way of the bulk of the fixture, broken glass sprayed everywhere along with bits of bronze shrapnel.

"I think he's gotten stronger without the competition," Emma stated as she carefully brushed away the crystal shards along with the dust and cobwebs that accompanied them. "Maybe that's what he wanted all along?" she theorized, figuring it wasn't any crazier of a thought than anything else they'd faced tonight. "I think it's time we got the hell out of this house!"

"I'm in full agreement with you there, but this spirit is not about to cooperate," Killian warned. "From what I can garner, this spectre is quite incensed, yet at the same time, he appears to be gloating…"

"Gloating? Really? Look, I'm partially glad that you can still hear him," she responded, "but I'm really sorry about what it did to you…"

"We can discuss all of that later, Love," Killian assured her. "Right now, it seems our friend, Jeremiah, is in need of a recharge. These manifestations and manipulations drained his energy, so we may have a brief window of reprieve…"

"We should head back to the butler's quarters. I don't think the ghosts have invaded that part of the property because from what I saw when I was briefly in there earlier, nothing in that area seems to be even remotely enchanted." She pushed herself up to a standing position, still wary of invasive spirits and flying objects as she searched for the radio, knowing it had fallen somewhere around the overturned sofa. Killian, still on his knees, spotted it first, locating it beneath one of the loose cushions. He leaned forward to retrieve it, wrapping his fingers around the device before he finally pushed through the dizziness and forced himself to stand.

"If you think that's the best, lead the way, Love," Killian replied, extending his arm to offer the radio to her which she accepted and pocketed, certain they would need it later. She took a few steps over to the console table where the still smoldering candelabra rested, eyeing it suspiciously before daring to pick it up. They were going to need the light, but would there be residual spirit energy accompanying them if they brought it with them? After a brief hesitation (and a struggle with lingering doubt that her magic would fail again), she wriggled her fingers ever-so-slightly to re-light the wicks.

"Good thing I healed that ankle of yours," she quipped as she lifted the candelabra from the table. "We'd better move quickly before Jeremiah regains his strength. We've got to head through the kitchen to get through the butler's quarters and I really don't want to get caught in there by a pissy spirit who can move objects…"

"There'll be no argument from me," Killian assured her as they darted out of the parlor, back into the vestibule. He unintentionally kept a fair distance between himself and the curving staircase as they dashed past it, heading down the corridor that would lead to the dining hall. "Hurry, Love," he urged. "Jeremiah isn't exactly pleased with our attempts to elude him. I can hear him cursing us - and using words far less refined than those of my crew. He isn't yet prepared to throw any more parlor tricks at us yet though."

"Good. C'mon then...through here," she advised as she grabbed his hand, practically dragging him into the dining hall towards the unfurnished square anteroom, immediately noting that its door, which had been propped open earlier, was now closed. She briefly contemplated the possibility of the door being blown shut by the blast of wind moments ago or if it had been intentionally closed by ghostly manipulation. Either way, she had no intent of lingering as she gave the door a forceful kick to swing it back open and allow them to pass through. One more swinging door admitted them into the kitchen where eerie glints of candlelight reflected off of the still shiny steel, aluminum and chrome.

Emma hesitated only for a split-second as they made their way through the room Killian would have referred to as the galley, her mind suddenly invaded by images of flying pots, pans and most worrisome - knives. She shook her head vigorously to dismiss those disturbing thoughts before yanking open the final door that would take them outside onto the covered sidewalk connecting the mansion to its caretaker's residence, whispering a silent prayer that no magical barrier would stop them and then giving silent thanks as the door opened unhindered.

"Swan, we need to move faster," Killian stated anxiously as they passed through the doorway. "We have a very antagonistic spirit here that has nearly reached full strength again!"

They sprinted the remaining few yards to the detached apartment, the dwelling which Killian not-so-fondly recalled had been the Apprentice's home - at least before he'd trapped the old man inside the Crocodile's mysterious, magic-sucking hat, all while the pirate himself had been Rumplestiltskin's unwilling slave. It hadn't been one of his prouder moments, and he sensed Jeremiah taunting him with the haunting memory. Laughter echoed in Killian's ears - evil, mocking laughter that only brought further shame about his actions. Emma noticed his brooding as she shoved the door open, drawing him out of his self-imposed trance by taking hold of a fistful of his lapel and yanking him inside the apartment's living room. She gave him an forceful, almost impolite shove away from the entrance as she slammed the door behind them, turning the deadbolt lock instinctively before realizing how ridiculous that action seemed in retrospect. A deadbolt wouldn't exactly be any barrier to a ghost she thought as she stood breathlessly pressing her back to the doorframe and then two words came to mind.

"Now what?" Emma sighed loudly before pausing to catch her breath. "Can you still hear Jeremiah? What's he thinking now?"

Killian stood in the center of the Apprentice's former living room for a few seconds, listening for the ghostly voices that had plagued him all night before realizing that no - he couldn't hear anything except his own pounding heart. "No. I don't hear him, but I'm not about to believe that or let my guard down just yet. It may just be another trick."

"Hopefully not," Emma replied, unintentionally flinching at the sound of a door slamming in the distance, certain that it was Jeremiah locking them out of the main portion of the mansion. "Earlier tonight, Jeremiah said that the Apprentice knew of their presence, but since he lived here and not in the main house, maybe the old man created some sort of barrier to keep the ghost out of his home?"

"I hope you're correct," Killian replied, massaging his aching temples as he dropped his exhausted body onto the dust-covered, faded plaid sofa. "I'm not certain how much more my head can take…"

"Maybe the Apprentice has some aspirin or something stashed around here?" she suggested, trying to determine where the bathroom might be as she hadn't made it past this room earlier.

"I'll be fine, Swan. Question is - can we leave the property from here without traipsing back through the main house?"

"I don't know, but…" Her train of thought trailed off as the radio in her pocket came to life and she heard the muffled sound of her father's voice.

"Emma? Hook?" David voice pleaded anxiously. "Are either of you able to hear me?" She suddenly realized that while they were trying to remain a step ahead of a ghost, David had been sitting out in front of the mansion, most likely seeing the flashes of light and maybe even overhearing some noises of a rather disturbing nature.

She shoved her hand into her pocket and withdrew the radio, immediately depressing the Talk button. "Yeah...we're here, Dad."

"Oh, thank goodness!" They could hear David's relieved sigh over the crackle of static. "I was seeing more of those strange lights and then, a few minutes later, I thought I heard a crash. I got out of the truck to see what was going on and when I looked through the front window, I could barely make out the chandelier laying on the ground next to an overturned couch…"

"Sorry - we didn't exactly have time to alert you," Emma responded as she made her way over to the other side of the room to join her husband on the sofa. "We've got one angry ghost to deal with here. Killian is pretty sure that the others were freed to cross over, but there's still one here - Jeremiah - and he's dispensed with all of his pleasantries."

"Well, Regina's here," David informed them, the announcement coming as a bit of a surprise to both Emma and Killian. Was she just following up to see if the spell had worked and if so, why didn't she just call David to inquire? "That ghost - Jeremiah - she thinks he might be dangerous…"

"I think we've found that out," Emma replied, perhaps a little too snidely. "He tried to possess Killian again, but I blocked him with a protective spell. I think it pissed him off just a bit because he started throwing stuff at us."

"Where are you now?" David asked impatiently. "You're not still in the parlor, are you?"

"No, we're around back - in the butler's quarters where the old Apprentice used to live," Emma explained. "If you can find a way back here without going through the mansion, it doesn't seem like this section has enough magic for Jeremiah to use so we seem to be alone. He probably has the main house on lockdown again."

"Okay, thanks," David responded. "We'll find a way to get back there because Regina needs to fill you in with what she just told me." The radio went quiet again, leaving Emma and Killian to ponder the last part of David's statement. What exactly did Regina need to tell them and did it have anything to do with Jeremiah possibly being dangerous? Just what the hell had they walked into tonight?

[oneshul]

Emor: The Blasphemer Speaks

“A certain man came out among the Israelites, one whose mother was Israelite and whose father was Egyptian. And the man fought with another man in the camp, who was pure Israelite. The half-breed cursed, using the Name of GOD blasphemously. They brought him before Moses. The half-breed’s mother’s name was Shulamith bat Dibri, of the Tribe of Dan. The Israelite Peace Officers placed the half-breed under guard, until the LORD would clarify His decision to them, regarding the blasphemous half-breed.

“And the Lord spoke unto Moses, saying, ‘Take the blasphemer outside the camp, and let all who heard him curse lay their hands on his head. And then, let the entire Community stone him to death.

“And God said to Moses, ‘To the Israelite people speak thusly: “Anyone who curses his God shall be guilty…and shall be put to death.”’ …And they took the half-breed, the blasphemer, outside the camp, and threw stones at him until he died. The Israelites did as the Lord had commanded Moses. And the nation had peace.”

--Lev. 24: 10-14, 23 (translation mine)

 I, the Stranger, walked through the desert night and the chilly air, on my way to the camp of the Israelites. A silver slipper of a moon shone above, and the sandy path glowed under its pallid light. I thought of Sefkhet, the Egyptian moon-goddess—having lived in Egypt for about four hundred years, many of us were familiar with their gods. She was deity of the stars and of time; surely she would help our people in their struggles through the wilderness. For, truly, the Wilderness kills its inhabitants; it saps their strength, and steals their very soul.

Moses was growing old; it was difficult for him to go out and to come in. His brother Aaron was still grieving the loss of his two boys, Nadav and Avihu, who had been taken from him so suddenly. He offered the sacrifices, yes; but he did them in a mechanical fashion; there was no passion, much less spirituality, in it. There was still Miriam, the eldest, and most enthusiastic for love of God and of leadership—but she was a mere woman, and most of the men would never listen to her.

I trudged through the Wilderness, alone with my thoughts of gods and men. But then, I suddenly saw him out of the corner of my eye—a thin figure, almost lost in the shadows, racing about with such speed that I found him difficult to track. The darkness of the desert night did not help.

Was he friend or foe? I asked myself, and my hand tightened on the handle of the bronze dagger which I carried.

At last, the figure slowed down somewhat, and, heart in my mouth, I hailed him, there amid the wilderness gloom.

“You there, friend,” I began, “Who and what are you, and from where do you hail? Come closer, slowly, or I will skewer you on my blade.”

The figure looked at me directly; a ray of moonlight lit up his face. I shrank back, beholding a visage so tragic and full of horror. I wished I had let him go his way in peace—though I doubted whether peace could ever come to any creature who looked so grievously saddened. Still, he advanced slowly towards me, making no sound. I drew my knife, holding it so that the moonlight reflected off the blade.

“Come forward, holding your empty hands before you,” I commanded, “for I do not like either your looks or manners.”

The spectre threw back his head and laughed—such maddened, screaming laughter as I had never before heard in my life.Nor did I wish to ever hear it again. He seemed to be laughing and crying, both together.

“You cannot hurt me, Mortal,” he said, “for I am—you must believe me!— a suffering spirit—and I am (here he grinned, like a long-dead skull) I am already dead.”

Dead? I wondered, and, as though it had a mind of its own, my knife slid back into its belt-sheath. My hands were cold; I began to tremble all over.

“If you are, as you say, dead,” I said to him—or it—“How comest it that you are alive, and wandering the earth? Why are you not in Sheol, the Place of Silence, where all the spirits of the dead go, whether killed in battle, or dying, full of years, within their tents?”

The spectre stopped, considered my question, and answered me: “I am a wandering spirit, doomed to the flames of Hell—yes, such a place exists!—whose lord, Azazel, commands us to ascend to the Upper World every evening. Here, we gather twigs and branches to stoke its flames. I never rest: by day, I suffer all the torments of Hell, and, by night, I rush about and gather twigs, until the first cock-crow.”

“What was your crime, O Spirit who lived and is now dead?” I asked him, “And why did you go to Hell and not Sheol?”

“I am he of whom you have heard,” said the Spirit, grimly. “I am the spirit of the Egyptian-Hebrew half-breed. They accused me of cursing another man, most blasphemously, in the Name of God. Therefore, both God and Moses decreed that I should die by stoning.”

“That is a gruesome death,” I commiserated.

He nodded. “It is horrific,” he agreed, “I still can feel the rocks hitting my innocent flesh. I did not deserve it. It happened during a fight. My Israelite foe had pushed and insulted me—what was I to do, except strike him, to save my honor? More: the coward was calling out to his brothers and friends to come and hurt me further.”

“That is not what I heard,” I answered, “for I have read the text of your hearing and trial.”

“It is false,” said the spirit, “and I believe that it was altered, to preserve the honor of Israel, and intending to show why a full Israelite is both stronger and more upright than a blasphemous half-breed.”

He began to cry. “What crime did I commit, save that of being born to an Egyptian man and an Israelite woman? Is there no place for me among the people of Israel? All my life I have had to deal with prejudice. Even on my day of death, my dearest friend Shemura bat Elitsafan, a Danite like myself, were planning to marry.”

“Did her family accept you?” I asked, my heart opening up to this unfortunate spirit.

The Spirit shook his head. “No,” he said, “for they said, ‘Away with you, Half-breed! Our daughter will never have bastard children with you. Go and marry your own kind—go back to Egypt!” The tears rolled down his bony cheeks, from eyes that glowed like fire in the desert darkness. “How can I return to Egypt? It is not my home. I have lived all of my life among my people, Israel.”

“Can such prejudice exist among a people such as ours, who were persecuted for four hundred years in Egyptian slavery?” I asked.

“My time in Hell has made me many friends—desperate victims like myself,” said the spirit, gnashing his teeth, “and I have learned that such hatred among people is not confined to Israel. Everywhere, it seems, humanity finds a reason to gossip, and even attack, those who are different.”

“Will this ever change, or is it in Man’s nature to hate?” I asked, “How can we stop it?”

He stared at me—such a gaze as froze my soul. “My time is done on earth, Stranger,” he said, sadly, “but you are still alive. You can make a difference.Begin, NOW.”

And he vanished, leaving me here, with a mission to perform. Will you join me, Friend?

Rabbi David Hartley Mark is from New York City’s Lower East Side. He attended Yeshiva University, the City University of NY Graduate Center for English Literature, and received semicha at the Academy for Jewish Religion. He currently teaches English at Everglades University in Boca Raton, FL, and has a Shabbat pulpit at Temple Sholom of Pompano Beach. His literary tastes run to Isaac Bashevis Singer, Stephen King, King David, Kohelet, Christopher Marlowe, and the Harlem Renaissance.

[tarysande]

Fic Update: Any Four Walls: Shell Game (19/?)

Yes, you read that right. It’s a two update week! 

Also on AO3

#

Shell Game

Stepping into her old life felt like pulling a dress out of the back of the closet expecting the hips to be too tight or the zipper to stick, and finding instead that it still fit perfectly. Even though she’d once loved the dress, once thought about nothing except wearing the dress, now Shepard wasn’t sure she liked it much. Her taste was different. She wanted colors instead of black, white, and red. She wanted something comfortable enough for chasing her kids in, for piggy-back rides, for crawling around in the dirt.

Maybe her old life, her old armor, wasn’t like a dress at all. Maybe that was too innocent a metaphor. Maybe it was more like someone almost three years sober picking up a drink and pounding it back in one pull, already reaching for another. Maybe the drink tasted good. Maybe the drink tasted too good. The weight of the pistol at her hip was good; the weight of the rifle on her back even better.

Far more dangerous than a dress.

More dangerous even than a drink.

She shook her head. Her hair was too tightly bound; it gave her a headache, but the headache was necessary. The pain kept her focused. The pain kept her looking forward, thinking forward, instead of letting her imagination run wild in directions that would only leave her sobbing in the shower, pounding a helpless fist into a tile wall that only broke first because Cerberus had done too good a job rebuilding her bones.

She still bled, though. Still hurt. They’d never been able to pull that out of her.

She put on her armor, her guns. She interrogated suspects who flinched away from her and spoke too quickly. Her husband did not die.

It took no time at all to mobilize the Normandy. With concerned eyes, Alenko deferred to her as he’d always done, and when she tried—only nominally—to protest, he insisted on the grounds she was both senior Spectre and Alliance admiral, outranking him twice over.

She didn’t point out that Spectres didn’t have rank. She didn’t remind him that admirals sat behind desks and didn’t run ground-team Marine missions.

No one said, “Hey, Shepard, you think maybe you’re a little too close to this? You think maybe you should let someone else take point?”

She almost wished someone would, but she wasn’t going to make them. She sure as hell wasn’t going to say it for them, not with so much at stake.

Joker almost said it. She could see it in his frown, the uneasy set of his shoulders, the way he met her eyes and held them too long. Then, though, instead of the words she expected, he only said, “We’ll get them back,” in a tone that reminded her of every damn thing Joker had ever lost.

Including, that one time, her.

Somewhere in the back of her head, away from the planning and the focus and the step-by-step precision necessary for the mission, a mother screamed and beat more than her hands bloody.

She nodded, dropping a hand lightly onto his shoulder. A little of the tension eased. A little of hers did, too. He still hadn’t replaced the hat he’d given Rose; the silver in his hair seemed even more pronounced than it had only a week ago.

“We have a course yet?” he asked.

“Between Naxus’ intelligence and the information I was able to extricate from the survivors of the attack on Garrus, we have a best guess. They say they’re part of a revived faction of Facinus, out of Taetrus.”

“They say?” asked Kaidan, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. Shepard stamped down the unkind thought that said Kaidan stood in what should have been Garrus’ position, borrowing one of Garrus’ gestures. “That sounds like you don’t believe them.”

Shepard dismissed this with a cutting gesture. “Taetrus was in rough shape before the Reapers hit and used the destruction as a galaxy-wide press release. What few survivors remain are still shifting rubble and rebuilding from the ground up. People working that hard that constantly don’t have time to foment political unrest.” She grimaced. “It doesn’t matter where they’re really from, not right now. It’s a shell game. Taking the kids was them putting the ball under the shell and betting me—us—double or nothing. We have to look like we’re falling for the hustle.”

Joker frowned. “The Mactare system then?”

“I suspect we’ll hear from the kidnappers before they let us get that far, but yeah.” She lifted a hand as if to push it through loose hair before remembering she couldn’t. The hand fell heavily back to her side. “I’ll be in the medbay. Let me know when the inevitable call comes in.”

#

Shepard had a countdown clock running in her head. First, it had been hours since the girls were taken; now it was up into days. Four. And thirteen hours. She’d slept a dozen hours altogether, no more. She ate only because Kaidan threw a meal replacement bar at her every time he saw her; Garrus’ doing, no doubt. Jack showed up with caffeine at regular intervals, looking like she wanted to blow a hole in a wall. Or a head. Shepard appreciated both the coffee and the anger; she couldn’t vent hers, but she could damn well live vicariously through Jack.

While the four days and thirteen hours had done Garrus a world of good—once the initial nightmarish period was done with, and she couldn’t think about that, either—Shepard had to shut down the part of her brain that couldn’t stop wondering how much damage could’ve been done to her kids in those hundred and nine hours, or more than the tiles of a bathroom wall were going to end up broken.

She was off about the timing of the expected call; it came after they’d reached the Mactare system, but before they’d hit Taetrus’ orbit. Four days, fifteen hours.

She didn’t run to the QEC, though she wanted to. Garrus, in a wheelchair pushed by Dr. Kandros, beat her there, but he didn’t enter. He sat just outside the doorway, close enough to hear without being seen.

When you were trying to out-hustle a hustler, it was better to look weaker than you were. His hand reached for hers as she moved past him; she paused long enough to kiss his brow and give his fingers a gentle squeeze.

Four days, fifteen hours, thirty-two minutes. Best guess.

Falling into parade rest felt like coming home. She was centered by the time the unfamiliar turian visage crystallized in front of her. “Thank the Spirits,” said the turian woman, immediately putting Shepard’s teeth on edge. Too much. “I’m Matta Casarus, of the trading ship Enixus. We’ve been trying to find your frequency for hours.”

A lie, of course. Shuffle the shells. Follow the ball.

“This is about my daughters?”

The eyes were wide and guileless, projecting innocence. Too much, too much. “As soon as they told us who they were, we turned around and started back to Palaven, but there’s been so much hostile activity in this sector. Raiders, you know. Of course you know. I’m sorry.” The flicker of mandible said don’t look here. A good con-artist. Not good enough.

Shepard had to hand it to her, the woman spun an interesting story. So many details. Too many. A routine trading run from Palaven to Aephus; a distressed ship; rescuing the girls from raiders or slavers—always a market for young children, of course, and the chaos and power vacuum left by the war had only emboldened the bastards—and trying desperately to return them to their parents.

The woman’s subharmonics caught on the word parents, and Shepard didn’t think it was intentional. It told her more than all the rest of the details of the fabricated story combined.

She forced herself to nod and smile as if she believed each and every one.

“I’d like to speak with them, please,” replied Shepard. Chin up, shoulders back, hands clasped behind her back. What do you need me to do? “I’m sure you can understand. I need to see them. I need to know they’re okay.”

Tyrra appeared a moment later, her chin up and shoulders back, too. Brave. Shepard noted the way Matta Casarus—whoever she really was—left one hand on her daughter’s shoulder, and the shoulder stayed frozen beneath it. Scared.

It was a one-two punch, where overwhelming relief hit first, but worry went for the kidneys after. “You okay, sweetheart? Where’s your sister?”

“Sleeping,” Tyrra replied, a little too quickly. “She gets tired.”

A lie, small and undetectable to anyone unfamiliar with Rose’s boundless energy. Rose didn’t do tired. She did full-tilt right until she hit passed out.

Shuffle the shells. Follow the ball. Don’t look away.

“I’ll be there soon. I will always come for you, no matter what. You know that. Matta seems nice. I’m sure she’ll take good care of you.”

Shepard watched the hand on Tyrra’s shoulder, but the blue static of the QEC made subtlety hard to see. Perhaps the fingers tightened a little, perhaps they didn’t. Tyrra said, “We didn’t know what happened after the car crash. We were in a dark room for a while, and then Matta came. She’s been very nice. I have a big turian bed and they gave me new clothes.”

“That’s enough, dear one,” said Matta’s voice in the instant before Tyrra’s image was replaced. “They’ve both been left so exhausted by the ordeal. We’re doing the best we can.”

Shepard nodded, not at the words, but at the way Matta’s subharmonics hadn’t been lying when she said dear one.

“Please, forward us your coordinates and we’ll be there as soon as we can.”

Matta inclined her head. “Certainly. We wouldn’t say no to an escort back to Palaven, if you’re so inclined. We’ve already taken so many risks. We’re hardly a warship, and with raiders about…”

“Of course,” said Shepard. “It’s the least we can do.”

Left suddenly alone in the QEC, her careful posture collapsed and she leaned forward onto the console, head bowed between arms she had to lock straight to keep her whole body from trembling. It took several deep breaths for her to calm her terror, her rage. When she lifted her head, Garrus had already wheeled himself into the room and was watching her carefully, face lit by the golden glow of his omni-tool.

His Council-grade omni-tool.

Amazing what perks a Councilor got, when tech was handed out.

“Liara. You get all that?”

“I did,” came Liara’s voice through Garrus’ omni-tool, just a little tinny.

“I want to know who she really is. I want to know what she had for breakfast. I want to know what perfume she wears. I want to know the names of everyone she’s ever spoken to when she thought no one was listening. Most of all, I want to know why she’s got the kind of grudge against me that made her take my kids.”

“All that and more, Shepard, I promise,” Liara said, with gentleness so close to pity Shepard wanted to scream. Or cry.

She could afford neither.

“It’s a trap,” said Garrus, once Liara had signed off. “There were no pirates.”

“I know.”

“But you’re going to walk into it anyway?”

The slight curve of her lips didn’t feel much like a smile, and Garrus was obviously not placated by it. “I’m going to spring it.”

“Semantics, Shepard.”

“We both know it’s the best way to neutralize the threat.”

He sighed. “You’re going to make me play you in this little scene, aren’t you? Complete with warnings about going off half-cocked, underestimating an unknown enemy, and not considering all angles before jumping into a situation with guns blazing? Sound about right? Please don’t make me bring up Aratoht.”

Shepard crossed to him and knelt beside the chair, cupping his face gently between her palms. His tone might have been wry, but the worry in his expression was palpable, and she honestly wasn’t sure if she was taking comfort from him or giving it. His mandibles trembled. “This isn’t Aratoht,” she said, though even the word still tasted bitter on her tongue. “I have no reason to trust a single word out of this woman’s mouth. Let her believe I’ve been taken in. Let her believe she has the upper hand. I’ll use it against her. We will.”

“Unless that’s what she wants you to think. Wants you to do.” Garrus sighed again, more deeply, and scrubbed his palms against his thighs. “I don’t like it, Shepard. There’s something here we’re not seeing.”

“Liara’s intel—”

“Will come too late, and you know it.” His mandibles flicked, distraught. “We’re too close to this. You know we are.”

“I know we are. But we’re who they’ve got, Garrus. This Matta Casarus has put her cards on the table. If we don’t go all in, she’s got the girls. She could—you know what she could do. We don’t have the luxury of time. We don’t have the luxury of waiting.”

“I know,” he said. Shuffle the shells. Follow the ball. Follow the ball. “I know. But she knows that, too. Don’t let yourself think, even for a minute, she doesn’t.”

Don’t look away.

[thekingsmanscycle]

Karlemon’s Lands: Cosima (continued)

Geography of Cosima

River Vipa. The river that divides Cosima in two, with a source in the Pylaen Hills at Lake Angarano and a mouth in Lake Ysére in Valarre, it is the longest in the country. This course was once the guiding line that divided human-held territory from that of beasts and beastmen during the days of Aurelia and the Scudae. It fed the city of Tanitea and is held to be sacred to Nethos, god of the dead and his daughters the Vanathes. A shrine around halfway along its course is said to be the site of the birth of Jocasta the Dawn Captain.

River Satini. The lesser of the two great Cosiman rivers, the Satini flows into the Bethaynian Gulf from its source in the hilly uplands between Cosima and Valarre. Believed to be named for a long-forgotten Cosiman princess or the daughter of a chieftain, the river is known far and wide for its reputation of being the home of hags, witches, water spirits and at times a murky combination of all three. It holds a special place in Cosiman history as the site of three great victories over the elves during Karlemon’s campaign during the War of Tears.

The Pylaen Hills. The towering range of snow-capped mountains that divide Cosima from Isagor, the Pylaens are pinnacles in the landscape and well known for their harsh and unpredictable weather, difficult crossings and treacherous passes and crevasses and sheer drops. Famed throughout Karlemon’s Lands as the birthplace of the god of the hunt Bromos; it has never appeared as a surprise to devotees of the pantheon that the wildest of the Lydian gods would originate in such a complementary landscape.

Lake Angarano. The largest inland lake in all of Karlemon’s Lands, the Angarano is said to have been named for the newborn son of one of Aurelia’s lieutenants and confidants, the first human born inside the realm of Cosima. Whether the tale is true or not cannot be substantiated, but the lake has an importance all its own to those on its shores. It is a vital transport hub for the region and the salt mined beneath the lake bed and farmed on the shorelines provides a livelihood and trade for thousands of people.

The Isle of Malipiero. An infamous island off the Cosiman coast downriver from the city of Siereggio, once home to a joint Cosiman-Isagoren colony between 1050 CE and 1070 CE. The venture was abandoned after the two hundred strong populace was found to have turned on each other and killed one another to a man, with many of the bodies having been eaten and otherwise desecrated. To this day, no-one is entirely sure why this happened at the height of a bountiful harvest season with a surplus of food and essential supplies and tales circulate about rumours of curses, dark rituals and black sorcery.  

Hadrumentum. A volcanic plug that juts out of the landscape and was held to be sacred by the earliest human settlers, it was the site of a horrific battle between the Cosimans under Caius I Nemesia and the First Titans under Kiriltugh Redbear. In the battle in 877 EE the king lost his life, and three of his sons and fourteen thousand men besides perished. It is situated some thirty leagues south of Cagliasi and is reputed to be haunted by the spirits of those who died there on that day.

Landmarks of Cosima

The Lost City of Tanitea. Once the greatest centre of human population in the Known World, the city of Tanitea was the capital of the Aurelian and Nemesian dynasties and the home of the mythical Throne of A Thousand, the ancestral chair of Aurelia’s descendants. Supposed to one of the most heavily fortified cities ever built, no-one ever took Tanitea by force. Home to temples, libraries, great treasuries, gardens and palaces, the decision by Tycho II to abandon the city and gift it to a party of strangers has been lamented as one of the most foolhardy choices ever undertaken by a monarch of any nation.

The Grand Cathedral of the World's Lights. Built in the outskirts of Novena, Cosima by Sigismondo I Orsini, the great-grandson of Karlemon, the Cathedral is considered to be one of the greatest buildings in all of Karlemon's Lands, a towering place of worship for the Church of the Four Virtues. Since 840 CE it has been custom for Exemplars of the Church to be buried there, safely away from vandals and the prying hands of overzealous would-be champions.

The Great Catacombs of Belvano. A veritable necropolis built into the side of the Monte Lazaro upon which the city stands, it has held the dead of the populace of the surrounding lands for over twenty generations. It is a labyrinth of tunnels, walled with the bones of criminals and traitors, their very cadavers made to ‘support the walls of the mausoleum they were so eager to enter’ according to Hurley’s ‘Almanac’.

The Nemesian Arch. Built by Nestor III Nemesia in the city of Messinia spanning the Satini river, the Arch is a combined water feature, reservoir, dam, bridge, defensive fortification and monument all in one. Owned by the Count Costanza, it is one of the most impressive examples of human architectural engineering built before the Common Era. Though primarily a dam on the river, it supplies the surrounding valley with regular fresh mountain water and prevents flooding of the concourse below during the wet season.

Wildlife of Cosima

Trollboar. A ferocious predator of the southern forests, known for its long memory and reputation for eating the hunters it kills.

Pylaen Longhorn. A tough and hardy goat native to the Pylaen Hills, notorious for its swift temper and long curled horns.

Drake. Primitive reptilian cousins of the wyvern, they are capricious and cunning, if not particularly intelligent.

Dhole. Red eyed black furred dogs popular with farmers, merchants and nobles alike for their territorial and loyal nature.

Khnum. A large and aggressive forest-dwelling armoured creature found in the southern forests, the khnum was the symbol of the Nemesian dynasty.

Limnian Birds. Four-limbed avian predators native to Cosima, they travel in large flocks and during the mating season can easily kill farmers through weight of numbers.

Cosiman Folklore

Bruxari. A widespread tale warning travellers against journeying at night, bruxari are bat-like man-eating creatures that swoop down and carry off the unwary into the night without so much as a sound. Reported to be the once-servants of a great sorceress, who died without releasing them from their task, they horrify by their mere reputation and by the shadows crossing the moon before sweeping in for an attack.

Selvatus. An elusive humanoid creature of legend, Selvatus is a guardian of woodlands and remote places in Cosima. Sightings of him go back to the first Aurelian chronicle, written by Octavian I Aurelian in 750 EE. He is purportedly to be well-spoken and a writer of poetic verse despite his wild visage and to be an excellent host for those few whom he takes in as his evening guests.

Strix. A legendary avian race with a taste for human blood, strixes are regarded as the worst of bad omens, as the arrival of one more often than not precedes the arrival of a flock. They swarm around abandoned towns and villages in winter, picking off weary travellers and leaving them desiccated husks. Though vaguely humanoid in shape, strixes are said to not be sufficiently intelligent to communicate through speech or even gesture.

The Wolf of Pylaea. The mythical guardian of the Pylaen Hills, it defends the villages of the mountain people from attack while they hunt and herd their flocks in exchange for a warm fire in the centre of town around which it may sleep. Said to be the guard dog of a giant who fell in battle with the dragons, the Wolf is reported to be fifty feet tall at the shoulder and to howl with the force of a gale.

Estria. In the city of Cagliasi, there exists an ancestral temple to a goddess not recognised by the Lydian temple as part of the pantheon, built by the noble Giachetti family circa 290 CE. A goddess of life and love, Estria is popular in Cagliasi with young people, prostitutes, farmers and prospective parents, who claim that she will bring good harvests, good health, beauty and fertility to those who pay patronage on Midsummer.  

Lemures. The fabled and dreaded spirits of the restless dead, those not given proper burial, funeral rites or graves that go untended. Belief in these spectres of the dead is said to be immensely widespread amongst the rural population of Cosima and to banish them it is necessary to burn sage, elder wood and lavender in a copper kettle for three days outside your home.

[briangroth27]

Groth Potential Blog Index

For my new followers and anyone wanting to take a look back at older posts, here are direct links to everything I’ve written so far. I hope you find something you enjoy and/or a new conversation starter!

About Me

Short Stories 1-10 are the Spooky Shorts I’ve written for Halloween for the last two years. Some have NSFW language and violence, but I try not to go overboard. The eleventh is a fairy tale from the dragon’s perspective and the twelfth is a short script I wrote based on a friend’s idea.

1. Intuition 2. Visage 3. Lock Your Doors!  4. Sweet Tooth 5. Flicker 6. Deathbed 7. The Next Town Over  8. Deadly Decor 9. Campfire Tales 10. The Final Girls 11. Less a Princess    12. #TurntUpStickUp

Short Films The first link contains two short films I wrote, directed, and acted in back in college as well as a play I starred in (but did not write or direct) afterwards. The second link will take you to my college senior capstone project, a one-man show I wrote, directed, and performed.

1. Men Simplified: The Pizza Box, The Bourne Romantic, and Showing Your Hand 2. An Evening at Fred’s 

Make This Show Pitches for shows I’d love to see. And write.

1. Super-Fast Friends 2. Hawkgirl 

What’s Wrong With This Picture? Finding the good in disliked movies.

1. Ghostbusters II 2. Star Trek Into Darkness

TV/Movie Speculation & Theories 1. The Flash: Who is Zoom? 2. Supergirl: The Secret Tragic Origin of Kara Danvers 3. The Flash: Who was that Masked Man???  4. The Flash: What Has Barry (Un)Done?!? 5. Supergirl: Welcome to Earth-1?  6. Arrow: Who is Vigilante? 7. The Flash: Who is Savitar? 8. Riverdale: The Most Unreliable Narrator?  9. Riverdale: Who Killed Jason Blossom? 10. The Flash: How to Save Iris West 11. Supergirl: What Happened to Mon-El?  12. Is the DCEU Headed for a Crisis? 

TV/Movie Opinions 1. Agent Carter: Don’t Close the File on Peggy Yet  2. Captain America: Bi, Bi, Mr. American Pie? 3. Ghostbusters 2016: I Ain’t Afraid of No Reboot!  4. Arrow Hit the Bull’s-Eye with Real Issues  5. 5 Things I Wish We’d Gotten from Hugh Jackman’s Wolverine  6. Fox Should Wait to Recast the X-men’s Logan 

TV/Movie Wish Lists 1. Eleven Things I’d Love to See from Marvel Studios 2. Supergirl Season 2 Wish List 3. DC’s Legends of Tomorrow Season 2 Wish List 4. Arrow Season 5 Wish List 5. The Flash Season 3 Wish List 6. X-men Films Wish List 7. Bring These Shows Back! 8. Power Rangers 2 Wish List 11. DC’s Legends of Tomorrow Season 3 Wish List 12. Supergirl Season 3 Wish List 13. Netflix MCU Wish List (as of 2017) 14. The Flash Season 4 Wish List 15. Arrow Season 6 Wish List 16. Spider-man Films Wish List

Movie Reviews 1. Jurassic World 2. Ant-Man 3. Mission: Impossible Rogue Nation 4. Fantastic Four (2015) 5. Goosebumps  6. Spectre 7. Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens 8. 10 Cloverfield Lane 9. Deadpool 10. Batman V. Superman: Dawn of Justice 11. The Jungle Book (2016) 12. Captain America: Civil War 13. X-men Apocalypse 14. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Out of the Shadows 15. Now You See Me 2 16. Independence Day Resurgence 17. Legend of Tarzan 18. Ghostbusters (2016) 19. Star Trek Beyond  20. Suicide Squad 21. Jason Bourne 22. Pete’s Dragon (2016)   23. Doctor Strange 24. Arrival 25. Star Wars Rogue One 26. Passengers 27. Moana 28. Split 29. The LEGO Batman Movie 30. Get Out 31. Logan 32. Hidden Figures 33. Kong: Skull Island 34. Power Rangers (2017)  35. Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2 36. Wonder Woman 37. Baby Driver 38. Spider-man Homecoming 39. Atomic Blonde 40. IT (2017) 41. Blade Runner 2049

TV Reviews 1. Vixen Season 1  2. Daredevil Season 2  3. iZombie Season 2 4. Sleepy Hollow Season 3 5. Supergirl Season 1  6. The X-Files Season 10  7. Agent Carter Season 2  8. Bates Motel Season 4 9. DC’s Legends of Tomorrow Season 1  10. Arrow Season 4 11. The Flash Season 2 12. The 100 Season 3  13. Person of Interest Season 5  14. Houdini & Doyle Season 1  15. Stranger Things Season 1  16. Amazon Pilot Season: The Tick & Jean-Claude Van Johnson 17. The Get Down (Part 1) 18. BrainDead Season 1 19. Vixen Season 2 20. Luke Cage Season 1  21. Sherlock Series 4 22. Westworld Season 1 23. Scream Queens Season 2 24. The Exorcist Season 1 25. Iron Fist Season 1 26. Timeless Season 1 27. The Good Place Season 1 28. Dimension 404 Season 1 29. Legion Season 1 30. Bates Motel Season 5 31. Riverdale Season 1 32. Sleepy Hollow Season 4 33. Amazon Pilots 2017: Will vs. the Future, Skyward, A Kid Called Mayonnaise 34. DC’s Legends of Tomorrow Season 2 35. Supergirl Season 2 36. Marvel’s Defenders Season 1 37. The Flash Season 3 38. Arrow Season 5 39. iZombie Season 3 40. The 100 Season 4

Fun Stuff! Homemade Archery Targets Puns Puns 2