#...that the battlefield is coated only in your blood is not a testament to you Deserving a Good Life...

[uncanny-tranny]

There's this pull in recovery to feel behind in comparison to your peer group, and that's, of course, a valid feeling. It's understandable, but I think a lot of what we don't remember is that... they often aren't starting out in the same place you are.

I think part of the reason so many feel terrible about "being behind" is that it feels like we have to blame ourselves for being behind. If you just weren't affected by it, you'd be right where your peers are, right? It's a way to blame yourself in severe cases.

Recovery isn't about "catching up," I think. It's about pressing the play button and letting yourself live. You might never "catch up," you might never be at the "same level," but that fundamentally doesn't change that your life is worth living how you want it to.

[bardic-tales]

The Harbinger and the Dragon-King, FWC / FF 7 Alternate AU Story

Summary: Bianca descends in her celestial dragon form to shield Sephiroth from Bahamut’s annihilation.

Pairing: Bianca Moore (f!oc) / Sephiroth

Other Characters: Cloud Strife, Bahamut, Barret Wallace, Yuffie Kisaragi

Possible Trigger Warnings: Blood, body horror, deific themes, graphic injury, implied death, loss of bodily autonomy, loud sound imagery, military weaponry, mythological elements, self-sacrifice, supernatural warfare, trauma, violence

Author's Note: Still trying to get back into descriptions. Actions scenes were always hard for me to write, so I took inspiration from Michael Crichton. Also, I been wanting to write this since I love Kaiju fights.

The sky over Junon churned like a wounded beast, thick clouds writhing with anticipation. Lightning forked across the sea-swept cliffs, casting eerie silver light on the great beige cannon: a mechanical behemoth, bristling with the tension of impending war.

From the platform behind the cannon, Cloud stood. The Buster Sword was in hand, and the wind whipped his spikey blond hair. Beside him, his companions were tense, bracing for the unfathomable. The air cracked open with a low, droning hum. A crimson flare ignited the sky.

He had called it.

Bahamut descended with majesty and menace. Six wings stretched wide like scythes of judgment. Its dark silver metallic hide shimmered under the lighting. Talons crackled with energy as it hovered: the lord of the skies. The weight of its presence pushed down on Junon like some kind of divine punishment.

Below and on the opposite side of the platform, Sephiroth stood alone. His coat fluttered like a banner. His head lifted. Silver hair cascaded over one shoulder, as his glowing mako eyes filled with something wicked: calm and knowing.

“Still chasing shadows, Cloud?” Sephiroth’s voice cut through the thunder like a scalpel. “Even with a god at your side, you are nothing.”

Cloud grit his teeth. His heart pounded but not at the insult, rather at the risk. Because he had seen the battlefield shift. Bahamut was not aiming at him.

Its maw opened. There were no words, no roar. Only a building silence, a vacuum of existence preparing to be filled with annihilation. The light that gathered in its throat wasn’t fire. It was unbeing. It pulsed like the heartbeat of the void, growing, growing, growing. Then, the sky ripped.

Like the cosmos had gasped.

A rift, jagged and coiling, tore itself into existence above the cliffside. A figure hurled through it. Wings unfurled. Its massive, feathered limbs laced with smoky black down, as violet miasma trailed after it. Bianca emerged like a comet of pure wrath, her eyes, so many eyes, blazing with violet light.

She didn't roar. She never did. She shuddered the fabric of reality. Her entrance was silent save for the tremble in the air: a vibration deep in the bones of every living thing nearby.

The celestial draconic phoenix, better known as Sephiroth’s consort, had come.

Her body writhed with motion, tendrils from her wings writhing like blind serpents. Each one watched, blinked, and gave testament to the fight that would ensure that day. And every eye turned towards Bahamut.

The divine dragon released its blast, a lance of pure energy tearing toward Sephiroth with divine precision.

Bianca moved.

The world seemed to fold. A blur of feathers and corruption slammed into the energy just as it reached the man she loved.

The collision was catastrophic. More so than anything she had experienced before.

A soundless scream erupted, not from her throat but from the tendrils lining her wings. Her wings flared wide, as she devoured the flare, catching the unholy energy in the span of her being. The tendrils writhed, wrapping around the core of the blast, dragging it into her corrupted form.

The ground split. The sea boiled. Junon shook.

Bianca bled.

Not blood like a human. No. Not even like the blood that awakened after she was skinned alive by her father in her world. No. Viscous, radiant ichor seeped from the joints of her wings, hissing on the metal as it fell. Where it landed, it smoked and sang. It was a high-pitched noise like nails scraping along a chalkboard. Her wounds tore open along her shoulder. Her feathers singed and limbs trembled.

Then, her massive head tilted. Her eyes, all of them, narrowed on Bahamut with hatred older than time. He dared tried to kill her chosen one? He dared?!

Cloud stared, stunned.

“She’s—she was—” he started, stepping forward, memories flooding him. The girl, once on her knees within the Nibelheim reactor, moments from casting herself into the abyss to follow his rival, the girl he and Zack saved: Bianca. No. But this wasn’t her mortal guise. This was something else. Something born of stars, divine energy, and nightmare fuel.

“She doesn’t speak,” Sephiroth murmured across from him. His voice was reverent, as the madness of his obsession shone in his eyes. “But she is the voice of judgment. And you called down a god on me without understanding the consequences.”

Bianca didn’t hesitate. Her body shivered as dark storms gathered above her. The winds howled with a pitch that made Yuffie cover her ears and Barret snarl against the pressure. The heavens cracked as stars fell.

Not meteors. These were not celestial stones. These were dead stars, burning black at the core, trailing violet fire. They slammed into Bahamut’s wings, one after another, driving the beast backward in the air.

The king of dragons roared, retaliating with a surge of his own power, spearing Bianca through the torso with a column of raw energy. The beam pierced her. Her shriek split the air. Blood sprayed in a wide arc, burning the earth below into twisted glass.

Sephiroth's smirk dropped. Something dangerous and sacred entered his eyes: only a look that he had when he spoke of Mother.

He turned to Cloud. His tone was soft but lethal. “You harmed her.”

“She protected you,” Cloud growled. His friends staggered as the ground beneath them quaked again. “She was going to die. That day in Nibelheim. You broke her.”

"She was reborn." Sephiroth’s smile returned: eerie in its serenity. He moved. No one saw when he drew Masamune.

One moment he was standing. The next, he was soaring. His silver hair trailed behind him like a comet's tail. The sky screamed around him as he closed the distance between himself and Bahamut in an instant of impossible speed.

Bianca fell from the sky, crashing into the cliffside. The impact splintered stone, her wings folding protectively over her head. Her eyes blinked erratically across her scorched form. Her blood pooled beneath her, steaming in the rain. She did not rise.

Masamune sang.

It struck Bahamut through the neck, sliding in like water through silk. The divine dragon spasmed. His six wings flailed. Its eyes, wild with fury, met Sephiroth’s calm ones. However, Bahamut found nothing there in Sephiroth's gaze but worship. For her.

With a final push with his hand on the blade of the Masamune, Sephiroth drove the blade deeper, until the dragon’s throat cracked with a crunch of breaking bone. Blood splattered across Sephiroth's face, pauldrons, and chest.

Bahamut collapsed. His enormous body fell into Junon Bay with a splash that sent waves slamming into the docks. The sea frothed red, as the dragon vanished beneath the waves.

Below him, the cannon split down the middle with a groaning shriek. The metal moaned and twisted, cracking from the impact of Bianca’s sacrifice and the final clash of titans. It fell apart into the sea, swallowed by her blood and Bahamut’s disappearing corpse.

Sephiroth landed beside Bianca, kneeling as the rain hissed against her smoking form. He placed one of his hands on her side, feeling her labor breath beneath his fingers. Her body—massive, divine, monstrous, beautiful—was unraveling.

Tendrils once writhing with menace now sagged in ruin. Feathers blackened and fell like ash. Her wings, scorched and torn, convulsed as motes of her celestial essence shimmered in the air: tiny, glowing particles lifting from her flesh like dust in moonlight.

Trembling and slick with ichor, one of her many tendrils reached for him weakly. He caught it.

With care that defied his reputation, Sephiroth wrapped his hand around the dissolving limb. “You’re still perfect,” he whispered. His voice was raw. “Even as stardust.”

The wings continued to unravel. Her enormous eyes blinked across her body. Some were wild. Some dulled with pain. Each one slowly found him in unison. Her gaze was not pleading. It was trust.

She was dying. No. Not dying. Changing. Her form was too powerful and damaged to sustain in this plane.

And yet, Bianca could be saved.

Sephiroth's eyes narrowed. His single black wing flared wide, absorbing the storm's fury, as he continued to gently stroke her side. Black feathers fluttered against his bicep. "Not here, Bia."

With one last look at the battlefield, Cloud and his party, the ruin, and the fallen god which was half vanished behind them, Sephiroth disappeared in a burst of shadow. His wing folded against her side.

They reappeared deep in the heart of the North Crater, where silence reigned and the air vibrated with her broken magic. There, amidst the glacial walls and alien whispers pressing inside his mind, he laid Bianca's remaining essence gently onto the ground.

Bianca’s presence was faint, flickering, but alive, just not whole. He knelt beside her, hand resting over Bianca's gruesome heart.

“This world doesn’t deserve you,” he said quietly, his voice full of something dangerous and devout. “But I and Mother do.”

As her heart broke down and the dust slipped through his fingertips, the air pulsed once. The dust stirred. Bianca, the Harbinger of Destruction and Rebirth, began to reassemble.

@themaradwrites @shepardstales @megandaisy9 @watermeezer

@prehistoric-creatures @creativechaosqueen @chickensarentcheap

@inkandimpressions @arrthurpendragon

[ghostybourbon]

Something Else

Ch. 4 || Bad days

Warnings: MDNI, Canon-typical violence/gore(?), Mention of a mental health condition (DID) . If it triggers a bad feeling (like reminds you of something that’s a bit hard to take), please stop reading it, the last thing I want is my audience getting triggered by my work.

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It’s been months since Split has joined the task force, and had been working seamlessly with the team. Her unique abilities, honed through years of combat experience and her intricate understanding of her dissociative identity disorder, made her a formidable asset to the team. However, she seemed to have a particular rapport with Price.

In the field, their coordination was uncanny. Split's adaptability and the way she transitioned between her various personas had saved them on more than one occasion. It was as though she and Price shared an unspoken language, a silent understanding of each other's movements and intentions.

Back at the base, they often found themselves in deep discussions about strategy, tactics, and the intricate details of their upcoming missions. Price admired Split's ability to see solutions from unique perspectives, and she respected his unwavering dedication to their cause.

Their camaraderie extended beyond the battlefield, and Price had taken her under his wing, teaching her the finer points of leadership and guiding her to harness her formidable skills.

Their partnership was a testament to the bonds forged in the crucible of covert operations, where trust was built not through words, but through actions, where alliances were forged not through promises, but through shared risks and unwavering support. It was a partnership that had allowed them to overcome countless challenges, but little did they know that their most daunting trial lay just ahead.

Despite the seamless coordination with Price and the valuable contributions she made to the team, the storm that would soon engulf them had brewed unnoticed. The battlefield had been their proving ground, a place where they could trust in their skills and each other, but Split's inner demons had remained hidden, like landmines buried beneath the surface.

The night was a descent into madness inside Split's mind. Hel, an insidious and feral persona, waged a gruesome battle for dominance, its vile whispers echoing like a chorus of demons.

In this nightmarish realm, Hel's voice took on a sadistic tone, urging Split towards self-destruction with horrifying promises. "You're worthless, Split. Embrace the darkness. The blade is your only salvation. End it."

Split's internal battle was a grotesque spectacle. She trembled and faltered under the weight of Hel's malevolence. Desperation gripped her, and she approached Captain Price with a concise request, her voice devoid of emotion. "Captain, I need to be restrained."

Price, his expression a mix of concern and apprehension, eventually granted her request, understanding the gravity of the situation.

Hours passed in haunting silence. Each member of the team took their turn, listening for any signs of distress. And then it was Ghost's shift.

In the dead of night, Split unleashed a scream that pierced through the darkness, a sound born of pure agony. Ghost burst into the room, his heart pounding with dread. What he found was a scene straight from a nightmare. Cuts and blood coated Split's body, her eyes vacant, her voice a sinister whisper; Her face the same one that’s been haunting his mind ever since that gruesome day.

Amidst the gruesome tableau, Split uttered words that tore through Ghost's soul. "Looks familiar aye, L.T? Remember me?." She gave him a bloodied smile, much like the one that haunted his mind every night since that mission went wrong.

Ghost, overcome with a mixture of grief and determination, removed his mask, revealing his own scarred face. “(Y/N)” He reached out to her, desperate to reclaim her from the abyss, to find the remnants of the rookie he had left behind in Mexico.

In the darkest recesses of Split's shattered psyche, Hel's sinister whispers persisted, dripping with venom. They echoed through the labyrinth of her mind, like the mournful wail of a lost soul. "It's your fault, Riley," it hissed malevolently, each word a dagger to Ghost's heart. "You left her behind in that hellhole, abandoned and broken. You let her become this... fractured thing. She'll never know the boundaries between reality and delusion, thanks to you."

Ghost felt a lump rise in his throat, choking back tears as he gazed upon the tortured visage of his former comrade. Split's face bore scars, not just physical, but the scars of a soul torn asunder by the horrors of their past. He whispered her name, "(Y/N)," his voice quivering with the weight of guilt and despair, as he desperately tried to reach the remnants of her true self buried beneath the torment.

And then, in the midst of this relentless darkness, a soft and hauntingly fragile voice broke through. "Simon," She whispered, her voice trembling like a fragile flame in a storm. It was a name that carried the echoes of their shared past, a name soaked in the tears of their unspoken regrets. In that moment, Split's plea for help was a heart-wrenching cry, a plea for salvation from the abyss that threatened to consume her completely.

Ghost's vision blurred as tears welled up in his eyes, his heart aching with a profound sadness. He reached out and gently cradled Split's face in his hands, his touch gentle as if trying to mend the broken pieces of her soul.

"(Y/N)," he whispered, his voice trembling, "I promise, I'll bring you back. You're not alone in this fight." He held her gaze, his eyes reflecting a deep well of emotions - regret, determination, and a flicker of hope.

But Hel, the malevolent persona, refused to relent. It continued to taunt Ghost, its voice growing more desperate, as if trying to shatter his resolve. "She's lost, Simon. Forever lost. You can't save her from me. She'll dance in the abyss, and you'll watch her fall."

Ghost felt the weight of those words, the insidious doubt they sowed. But he clung to the faint glimmer of hope that Split's plea had ignited in him. In this darkness, amidst the torment and despair, he was determined to find a way to bring back the comrade he had left behind in Mexico, to heal the scars of their shared past, and to save Split from the abyss that threatened to consume her completely.

In the dimly lit room, Ghost continued to hold (Y/N), his determination unwavering. The team had been on high alert, listening to the nightmarish cries and whispers that had emanated from within. Price, Gaz, and Soap, who had been waiting outside of the room, couldn't bear the suspense any longer.

With expressions etched in concern, they rushed into Split's quarters one by one. Price took charge, his voice commanding yet filled with empathy. "Ghost, continue to help her. We're here with you."

As the team gathered around Split's bed, Gaz and Price, in their typical manner, couldn't help but let out a string of curses under their breath, their frustration evident. This was a situation unlike any they had encountered before.

Soap, on the other hand, stood there, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and confusion. He had seen his fair share of horrors in their line of work, but this was something entirely different. The sight of his comrades in such distress was deeply unsettling.

As the tension in the room reached its heart-wrenching peak, Ghost continued to cradle Split's face, his voice a soothing presence in the storm of her mind. The team gathered around, their concern palpable, their unwavering support a silent testament to the unbreakable bond they shared.

And then, in a moment that felt like an eternity in this house of horrors, something shifted. Split's vacant gaze flickered, like a feeble flame trying to rekindle amidst a downpour. Confusion clouded her eyes, and she blinked, her vision gradually clearing as she surveyed the room.

In that fragile moment, as Split's eyes locked onto Ghost's face, a sudden realization washed over her. Her eyes widened, and her voice wavered as she whispered, "Simon."

But then, something astonishing happened. The storm within her mind began to clear, and with trembling fingers, she reached up and touched her own face. It was as if she had glimpsed a fragment of her own lost memories, a key to unlocking the enigma that was her past.

"Simon, you..." Her voice faltered, a sense of recognition dawning in her eyes. It was a moment of revelation, one that held the promise of unlocking secrets buried deep within the labyrinth of their shared past. Yet, the truth they were about to uncover was far more profound and unsettling than any of them could have imagined. It was a truth that would plunge them into the darkest depths of despair.

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A/N:

Hey everyone! Sorry it took me over a month to release this and also for it to come out short!!! I got so busy with school!

Thank you all for the support! (A little reblog might jumpstart this author’s heart teehee~)

Stay frosty~

-Bourbon

[inb4belphienaps]

warnings: demon hunter au, monsterification (?), blood, gore, fighting (physical), death word count: 2028

Through the sounds of one man’s grunting and the clash of metal meeting hardened flesh, the ground of the forest shakes. Whatever birds had remained in the wake of the battlefield signal to one another (warning not just their own, but also the other inhabitants) that the current fight taking place could have devastating repercussions. More devastating than the smell of iron continuing to linger in the area.

As the earth shifts, flashes of bright light mingle with green smoke, creating a pool of fog that, were it privy to the eyes of outsiders, would hint at sorcery being afoot.

Magic holds its weight here in these lands. Depending on where your loyalties lie, you are either the hunter or the hunted. The former is normally trained in combat and taught to wield their powers as well as their swords. The latter, on the other hand, is feared, for the reasons that they are hunted are rooted deep in their very nature.

They go by many names – creatures of the dark, harbingers of evil, infernal bearers of sin. The list continues. And the stories grow. Generation after generation, children are taught to fear them. They are…demons. Children too in fact, of the King of Hell.

A royalty shrouded in mystery. The legend says that those who look upon his face never again see the light of day. And, since, no one has been able to confirm nor deny the numerous depictions of him, littering the books of those whose teeth chatter at the very mention of his title and covering the walls of the temples erected in honor of those who fight against him, he is better thought of as the very embodiment of your worst fears.

The soldiers are easier to motivate that way, more willing to be shaped into obedience. Whether that is seen as the mangled bodies of their loved ones or heard as the cries of the innocent, they are to never show mercy to the beings that do his bidding.

However, there are those who (baring the markings of a heretic), believe that these monsters were once human. That they sold their souls and gave into the darkness. That they were swayed by sweet words of promises unkept and in the end only saw suffering.

There are also those who, in the same manner, believe that these monsters take on the forms of humans. Either the humans they’ve converted or humans that they are to ravage, soon-to-be victims of a plague that cannot be cured or forgotten.

Dangerous thoughts like these are what make the difference between a good soldier and an immovable hunter. If there is doubt or a shadow of sympathy when facing these beasts, you may very well find your head removed from your body, and then, shortly after, consumed in its entirety.

(Yes...they feed on humans.)

Blood mars the surrounding trees and smothers the leaves, painting them an ugly copper. Where the dirt turns black, Simeon knows a struggle took place. How valiantly his brothers and sisters must have fought, he thinks. And how unsavory a death they must have met.

With this in mind, he steels his resolve and focuses all his energy into the magic materializing in his hands, imbuing it into his sword. He’d perfected his techniques. Trained until they’d become an extension of him and his will.

“Why”, the creature says, “they didn’t tell me they were saving the best ‘til last.”

Simeon neither flinches at nor acknowledges its voice. A voice that would otherwise send humans fleeing, pushes him to carry on, to increase his speed and thrust forwards with accuracy.

“But I suppose I should’ve known. The ones before you were far too weak to stand against me.”

He lunges, twisting half-way when he’s met with a swipe of a giant arm and a lash of a bright-green tail. Green. The color of evil. Green. The color of sin.

“They never had a chance.”

“Quit your blithering, monster. I have no intentions of hearing you speak.”

The creature smiles. Though its features are ghastly and covered with remains, Simeon can make out the ends of its mouth and how they curl upwards.

“You’ll have to cut out my tongue then, hunter.”

With each instance that their magics meet, the world around them becomes all the more obsolete. The serene landscape is instead transformed into an arena, of which only the strongest contender will leave from unscathed.

Simeon has hunted many of these puppets in his time. Cutting their strings and burning their shells, he’d gotten used to the smell of them. Except their appearance is another matter entirely. This creature that stands before him is a testament to that.

Its scales shine in the sunlight, like jewels beneath clear waters. Its limbs are strong and impressive. Its horns, like the antlers of a magnificent stag, demand his attention. Disregarding the loathing he feels; the creature is almost beautiful.

Almost.

He creates some distance between them, reconfiguring his stance and propelling himself off the scarped face of a mound of rocks piled atop one another just so.

The creature is quick to respond and close in on him, running on all fours at him head-first, like a raging bull. Its strides are far and wide, causing Simeon to abandon future attempts at discouraging close combat.

There is a menacing, contained kind of anger that permeates from the creature. He senses it every time its magic brushes against him be it the patches of exposed skin or his armor.  There’s a heat to it too. A hot measure of lethality that reminds him to be careful.

Demons are after all, tricky beings with a history of dabbling in the dark arts (necromancy was nothing to them). These are experienced fighters, unhinged and free to do as they please without their need for self-preservation or the need to maintain their dignity getting in the way.

The sheer force of their clash resounds, akin to a clap of thunder and the sparks that fly as its talons scrape against Simeon’s metal gives ode to the lightning that would normally accompany it.

When they part, following a further exchange of blows, Simeon is panting, and the creature seems excited by the notion.

“You are a creature of the dark. You take solace in the shadows, so you may attempt to flee from your sins but make no mistake, beast”, he hisses, jutting his chin out defiantly with a type of pride that the creature knew all too well, “I will have your head.”

The creature laughs and bares its fangs. Only…the hunter in front of him pictures how they’d glint on his neck, to serve both as a reminder and as a medal for his efforts.

Taking this monster down and fashioning his remains into something wearable? It was the least he could do for his companions who had sacrificed themselves and died fighting. Hell itself would have to freeze over before he’d admit defeat in any sense of the word so that their deaths would not have been in vain.

Suddenly, something splits in the air, the fractures dissipating in a myriad of pieces that could pass for shattered glass and Simeon is temporarily rendered immobile. His eyes widen, and he feels the creature within him. It was invading his mind.

Sentiments of nights spent practicing on his own and memories of harsh winters spent in front of crackling fires cause his shoulders to shake. There, amidst the confusion and horror, his friend’s cheerful visage startles him back into reality.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you?”, the creature chides. “It’s dangerous to go looking for the dead.”

So, the creature knew his intentions. To find his friend and give him a proper burial. His friend, who was probably now disfigured beyond recognition, was waiting for Simeon to find him. He could feel it. His friend, the one who had been there to see him through the hardest times of his life, was calling to him.

“Silence”, Simeon spits, venom coating his demand as he hurtles daggers and magic alike at the looming silhouette shrouded in mist. Each one ricochets off of its hide, and he clenches his jaw. He wasn’t focusing hard enough.

“I’ll give you two seconds to prepare yourself”, it says.

The creature then comes to a standstill and Simeon feels the first inklings of dread. A sentence like that meant that he was either going to be met with a resistance he had no hopes of fathoming or it had a trump card up its sleeve – another nasty trick it could use to its advantage.

“One.”

Wind rustles the foliage above and carries his scent towards it. He tightens his grip on his trusty weapon and tilts his head to the side to crack his neck.

“Two.”

With inhuman speed, it leaps, first into the thickets, disappearing from view, then to his side, grabbing him by the scruff as he’s rendered helpless.

Simeon squirms, his sword doing little to better the situation, and he kicks at the creature’s torso. The dull sounds of his foot colliding with its build send a rush of panic through him. And then-

And then he is falling. And the creature is smiling, eyes narrowing in satisfaction as he looks down at the devastation tainting his features. The creature stands at the edge of the cliff, watching him descend into the abyss.

“What a shame”, it says. “You put up such a good fight, little hunter.”

As the creature turns his back, its ears twitch and it swivels around in disbelief. Was there a humming noise? A buzzing? A ringing in its ears?

It doesn’t have the chance to come to a conclusion. Simeon surges upwards from within the depths, colliding with its giant frame, and crushes it to the ground, with the same foot he’d used to kick it just moments before firmly planted on its chest.

“You…you have wings”, the creature whispers.

Simeon resists the urge to shiver. He hadn’t known he’d had them. He hadn’t known he was even capable of conjuring such things.

In its moment of weakness, he plunges his sword into its chest, watching the expression in its eyes change from bewilderment to indifference. Perhaps this was its way of dealing with death. Upon realizing that it too, like him, is capable of it, perhaps it resigned itself to its inevitable fate.

“What is your name, hunter?”, the creature rasps.

He hesitates. It is said that once a demon utters your name, you are forever cursed. And yet, with the outcome of the battle decided, he’s willing to take his chances.

“My name is Simeon.”

The creature nods once and sighs, as if vaguely fatigued.

“And what do they call you? Do your kind even have names?”

It snickers, and Simeon removes his sword, the severe movement causing it to stiffen and clutch at the fresh wound, talons covered in its own sanguineous substance. He feels no remorse or contrition at the pitiful sight, and he digs his sword in once more, eliciting a grunt. The creature assesses his hands – vigorous and seemly, and baring a ring too.

“Satan. That is my name.”

.

.

.

As the sun sets on the horizon and bathes the scenery in twilight, a shadow emerges from the edge of the forest close to the border. His clothes are ripped, and his blonde hair is covered in mud.

He stands, taking a deep breath in, and closes his eyes. When next he opens them, they glow a vibrant chartreuse – its yellow and green hues mixing together to create an uncanny image. The dust has settled and so has the blood running through his veins.

A body lies beneath his feet. Its uniform indicates that the man was once a solider. And as he turns him over, a familiar-looking ring falls out of the soldier’s pocket. He stoops down to pick it up and admires it in the low light.

Yes, those seemly hands and those crystalline irises that’d shown unwavering tenacity.

He will return. If only to cradle that hunter’s pretty little head in his hands.

[keeweelemon]

You winced at the cold metal pricking your finger. You had been distracted by the loud beeping of cars while you were knitting, and you hadn’t noticed the needle already pointed at your finger.

You raised your finger to check if it was bleeding, but froze once you saw the jet black blood that didn’t even drip or ooze out the tiny wound. You inhaled sharply at the sight, feeling your heart beat faster.

You had almost forgotten.

You stared at the thick liquid with melancholy. No matter what you did, the presence of this liquid flowing in your veins would never let you forget those painful memories.

Flashes of guns and bombs appeared before your eyes. The sensations were too real, the sounds too loud. You can remember everything all too well; the shouts of men around you as you shot them dead, the deafening sound of gunshots, and the begging of your comrades to save them played harshly in your mind. The overlapping voices of your comrades as they cheered their victory. The booming voice of your commander telling you all that this was for the greater good. The rough terrain of rocks, the cold water reaching until your ankles, the sandy dunes...

Everything appeared vividly in your mind as the memories of your past didn’t stop piling up.

You had fought countless battles in your life. You volunteered to fight for your country in wars against other countries, starting from when you were in your early twenties. You’d developed countless scars on your body, each one a story to tell of victories and losses. Each a testament to things you’d done in your lifetime: leaving a brother behind and saving another, killing an enemy and almost getting killed yourself, and so much more.

Regret weighed heavy on your heart as you remembered all those that had died on the battlefield. All those that you desperately tried to save but couldn’t. All that were too mangled to make it back.

It had left you feeling empty.

A tug on your shirt pulled you back to reality. You turned around to meet the eyes of a little girl with brown eyes and black hair staring up at you. You hastily hid your hand in your pocket. She was thin, the shape of her bones visible.

Her wide eyes moved to the beanie you were currently knitting before she shivered.

You realized she was only wearing a short tattered shirt and equally tattered shorts and that she was freezing cold from the winter air.

You quickly removed the scarf around your neck and wrapped it around hers, then you shrugged off your coat and wrapped it around her small figure. You looked at the almost finished beanie in your hands then smiled to yourself. You gently put it on her head. It was few more threads missing, but it would do for now.

She looked at the clothes you’d wrapped around her for a few moments as if in wonder. Then her eyes moved back to you before she smiled brightly in thanks. You smiled back, watching her as she ran off. You didn’t mind that she ran off, figuring she would need the clothes more than you would anyway.

You looked back at your pricked finger. The black blood still remained the same color as it always was. Yet, you felt a little lighter than before.

It reminded you of why you started helping those in need in the first place.

No matter what you did the blood’s color would never change, you knew that already. But you had found that in helping others feel better, in helping those in need, the blood wouldn’t bother you as much. You felt that you could make up for the bad things you’d done because of necessity by doing good things because you wanted to. You wanted to become someone that helped save lives after you had killed so many others.

You’d done thousands of impure things in your life, but whether that meant saving your country’s people or simply helping and donating to those less fortunate, you would do anything.

Even the color of the blood in your veins would not stop you.

Our blood is naturally clear, it thickens and darkens with each impure act. You have always dedicate yourself to good and helping others but today while knitting beanies for the homeless you accidentally prick your finger. Your blood is jet black and so thick it doesn’t even drip.