#ARE YOU FRIGHTENED/ref

[witch-sweets]

I think I'm the only person who headcanons that the prince died before reaching adulthood so let me share some info on that:

He died at 16

He did NOT take his death well whatsoever at first (dying before even finishing school is pretty lame)

Being surrounded by dead people and the ghosts of your future subjects is not good on a literal teenagers mental health

The first time he Killed a person it was on accident and he pretended it was on purpose ("it's not a big deal I killed him he deserved it")

Slowly just became desensitized/indifferent to murder (being surrounded by dead people will do that to ya)

"I reject humanity I wanna be a cryptid"

Awful coping mechanism acquired (consuming the souls of the innocent)

Depressed ghost Prince evolves into emo noodle

"I am no longer emotionally damaged whatsoever" (a lie)

Notices that outsiders have started to refer to him as "the soul Snatcher of Subcon" and steals The Snatcher as his name (Prince is not a very edgy INTIMIDATING name)

Edgy SPOOKY vibes

" I am going to kill everyone"

So in conclusion...

My version of Snatcher is an edgy teen who died 1000's of years ago that decided murder was a good coping skill and went downhill from there

(also nobody knows he died THAT young and just assumes he was an adult)

(only Hat Kid knows)

(nobody knows definitely no one knows)

[erebus0dora]

ladies, gentlemen, and everyone in between, i think this is the first artwork of 2025 in my book, and i had it coming, so, uh, hope you feel this hug..?

(it has been exactly 3:33 am when i finished this one, as you can see, my sleep schedule is off these days)

the initial sketch is below the cut, i had little to no ref for Eric in this angle, so bear with me (i need to study him more, can't say i am frightened by the perspective)

i think there was a gif with a couple hugging like this somewhere, it gave me the idea for the pose, but for the love of God i can't track it down from this one...

[m1ckeyb3rry]

Series Synopsis: You are meant to be a sacrifice to Nikador, but when you gain the attention of the wrong god, you learn firsthand why mortals are not meant to trifle in the affairs of the divine.

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Phainon x F!Reader

Chapter Word Count: 12.7k

Content Warnings: mentions of human sacrifice, mentions of abuse, it’s going to get violent and whatnot i am sure, blood and whatnot to be expected, obviously an alternate universe, an ending i would say is bittersweet??, not really 1:1 with the myth of bellerophon however if you know the myth you will definitely see a lot of similarities in the general progression of the story, phainon is a god, like fr, so ig you could consider it a problematic age gap SKHJF but more so power imbalances in general, phainon is a catfisher for a bit lowkey, vaguely ancient greek/rome inspired but in the way canon is (so loosely + i make most of it up), i have played maybe HALF of amphoreus !! so characterization may be spotty (#powerofau), uhh idk what else i will try to add it in here if/when it comes up ig

A/N: hey guys, it's me again, international best-selling author mira m1ckeyb3rry, with a special announcement!! (/ref) hehe i don't know what sort of writing fever possessed me but i truly wrote this entire thing in a matter of days (which may account for how messy it is but wtvr) anyways you all read the warnings i am sure but here are some additional notes for those who are interested (mostly regarding the background of the fic)!! with that said, i will keep my angsting to a minimum here because you all know the deal atp T_T no i haven't played amphoreus, yes he's probably ooc, i do indeed think this sucks, i am posting anyways. whatever

It was your brother who tied the bells around your wrists, the trembling melody of his hesitance echoing in their silvery clanging as he fumbled with the red silk of the ribbons. The knots he made were clumsy but firm, as artless as was to be expected of one of Nikador’s devotees, and as thunder shrieked outside, you wished most of all for your mother and her careful fingers. Yet she was forbidden from seeing you, not by any divine decree but because she would not stop wailing and the priests found it grating to listen to her repetitive cries. How can they do this? How can they ask for the life of my daughter?

Your brother, the pale-robed prince, would be the one to dedicate your heart to Nikador. Of course he would be — who else could? Not your father, that feeble, fading king who had long ago relinquished the throne to the lord of strife; not your mother, who came from a distant land where a gentle goddess was venerated, an endless forest where they praised reason instead of the steadfast violence that those of the mountain danced for. No, it had to be your brother, the next king, who had yet to prove his faith in the priests, who had yet to appease the thunderstorms which would not vanish from the horizon until that great titan was given the utmost of sacrifices.

“You mustn’t be frightened, sister,” he whispered fervently, winding cloth around your eyes and taking your hands to lead you forward. “This is what you were meant for. The priests said as much, and when have they ever been wrong? Nikador awaits you most eagerly. It will be quick, and then you will be with them. You mustn’t be frightened.”

The stone of the sanctuary scraped your bare feet as you were brought to the center of it and told to stand very still, your brother’s footfalls growing fainter and fainter as he took one step and then another away from you, leaving you alone upon the altar. You stood in exactly the place that countless oxen and sheep had, and although the scent of the many-flowered wreaths resting atop your crown was dizzying and heady, you were sure that it was nothing but the stench of stale cattle-blood which stung at the back of your throat, those dried, acrid remnants serving as cruel reminders of the ritual you had watched countless times yet never dreamt of participating in.

“Hear me, savage king who bears the lance of fury; you who vanquish all enemies and who are with me in all my battles; befriend me in this mine hour,” your brother began, his voice cracking as his hands, still wet with ceremonial water, seized your forearm and drew a shallow gash in it. You bit back a whine, for you would not give the priests the satisfaction of seeing you cower, and you waited until you heard the trickle of blood into flame before you allowed yourself one whimper of dismay, when you could be sure no one was listening.

“Now,” came the soft croon of the High Priest when your brother choked on his prayer, tears thickening his practiced incantation, “do not falter, young prince — call upon Nikador to free us from this storm. What is one life compared to thousands? Every man and woman on this mountain will suffer if this typhoon continues to rage, but until our great lord is duly satisfied, they will not lift the curse on our kingdom. I have seen it myself; the princess is who they demand. Who are you to deny they who have done so much for us? Who are you to deny your own deity?”

“Yes,” your brother whispered. “Yes, yes, my vigorous and horrid-tempered god, please, I pray, I beg you, deliver us from this torment, bring about a new dawn for our home, and — and in return — in return, accept our offering.”

You waited for him to plunge the sacred dagger into your heart, which was no longer your heart at all but rather Nikador’s, yet there was nothing of the sort, only an awed silence and a blistering, immeasurable heat, oppressive in its sudden strength. You turned your head this way and that, though of course with your blindfold it did nothing but frustrate you, the bells around your throat singing mockingly, teasing you with their knowledge of the unfathomable.

“So,” a stern voice said, and although it was softly done, it echoed in your ears such that you had to clamp your hands over them for fear that they would bleed. “This is what has become of the great cult of Nikador. A boy-prince pointing a blade at a sister who will not fight back. They would be ashamed to hear of it.”

“Why have you come?” the High Priest said, and although he was clearly attempting to maintain his dignity, his valor, he could not stop his words from breaking. “He did not summon you! What business do you have with us, who have always scorned you?”

“You called for dawn,” the voice said, nearly laughing, albeit humorlessly. “You called for deliverance. Who else but me did you expect?”

“Please,” the High Priest said, and you heard a thud as he ostensibly prostrated himself before the mysterious presence. “Do not punish us, revered one, sun-bringer, bearer of the world; spare us, and everything on this altar is yours. We shall hail your name for generations to come, shall honor you as surely as we honor Nikador—”

“It doesn’t seem to me that you honor Nikador very well,” the voice observed. “Why should I accept such an exchange? You have drawn the attention of divinity; perhaps I am not the god you wished to see, but I am a god nonetheless, and yet you are receiving me with such an unpleasant welcome. Well, I’ll overlook it this once. Tell me, why do you pray?”

“The storm,” you said when neither the High Priest nor your brother responded to the nameless god. “They say it is borne of Nikador’s wrath, and so we must pray for its end before we are swept away.”

“Ah,” said the god. “You speak. For how silent you were, I thought they must have cut your tongue out.”

“They did no such thing,” you said. The god hummed, and then a blade, sharp as sunrays, traced up the bridge of your nose, slicing away the linen covering your eyes without so much as nicking your skin. You blinked, your vision adjusting to the blinding light filling the temple, and when you realized who you stood before, you immediately fell to your knees and pressed your forehead to the floor.

“Do you recognize me?” he said.

“Phainon,” you said, your heart pounding when he did not correct you. It was him, the young general of the gods, the one who had supplanted Nikador in the pantheon, the bringer of the dawn and the deliverer of the departed — here he was, the deity that those of the mountain despised most, who they had unwittingly summoned to earth from his throne in the heavens. If your brother did not look so aghast, you would’ve sworn at him, for in truth you would rather die in Nikador’s service than live for even a moment longer under Phainon’s gaze, but you could tell even without him saying it aloud that he knew these things already, and furthermore echoed your thoughts entirely.

“Yes,” he said. “Then, knowing this, will you ask for my blessing?”

“No,” you said, surprising even yourself with how resolutely you said it.

“No?” he repeated.

“What will you do to them if I do? This storm is no natural disaster, and for you to free us from it, you will have to venture forth and do battle with Nikador until their fury abates. Isn’t it so?” you said.

“It is,” he agreed. 

“Then I will not ask it of you,” you said. “Since the birth of our people, Nikador has been our guardian. Perhaps a tempestuous one; perhaps a contemptible one, at times; but we will not abandon them. We will not turn our back on fury for a god without so much as a city to his name.”

“Girl!” the High Priest hissed. “What are you doing? Esteemed one, she meant no disrespect, you must ignore her, fright has twisted her mind…”

“Silence,” Phainon said. “I have met many men like you, old priest, and I have no desire in meeting another. Rise, o sacrifice, and enough with the bowing. What is it that will make your loyalties sway?”

“Nothing,” you said, scrambling to your feet and raising your chin, although you did not brave staring directly at him for too long, knowing that the truth of his being would sear away your vision forevermore. 

“What if I threaten to turn you into an ewe or mare?” he said.

“Aren’t I already as much?” you said, lifting your hands and showing him your adornments, which mimicked those seen on the livestock slain for the fifth day of Nikador’s Feast. He chuckled.

“How self-aware,” he said. “Well, what is it you want? Surely there is something. I can halt this storm and make you queen of this mountain in a moment if you say the words. I can afford you endless wealth and eternal peace. I can ensure you never go hungry and that your children are always healthy. Love, riches, power…pray to me and I will give you them all.”

“Do not squander this,” the High Priest hissed at you. “I am not sure how, but you have gained his interest. You must not let pride stop you from this opportunity.”

Yet you had read the stories; you knew what became of those who received the so-called favor of the gods. It was only Nikador who you could trust, only Nikador who disdained all mortals equally. The rest were as generous with their fits of rage as they were their boons and gifts — even your mother’s kind goddess had once caused the forest to wither for five years, after they had been given a bull instead of a sow as they preferred.

“Nikador,” you said. “That is what I ask for. Convince them to take me as their bride, and then, on the day of my wedding, I will swear allegiance to you as well.”

“Nikador has never taken a bride. Even in the heavens, not a single goddess has turned their head, so how would a mere mortal accomplish it?” Phainon said, sounding genuinely puzzled. “And they would not make a good lover, anyways. Are you certain that is your greatest desire?”

“That is all I want from you, sun-bringer,” you said. “If you cannot accomplish it, I will not blame you, but there is nothing more you can give or take from me.”

“You are bold,” he said. “But I will reward you for it. Very well; until the next time we meet, then.”

As quickly as he had come, he was gone, leaving spots in your vision and a curious darkness in the sanctuary, the very walls crying out for what they had held and then lost. You gasped for the breath you had been unable to fully draw in his presence, dabbing away the sweat which had collected on your brow and not daring to look at your brother or the High Priest.

“What have you done?” your brother whispered finally.

“What have I done?” you parroted with a scowl. “You incompetent fool, what choice did I have? You made me bargain with a god — and not just any god but Phainon!”

“Do not raise your voice against the prince!” the High Priest said. “We were — we were so close, we even had a god in our hands, and you wasted his goodwill with such a thoughtless wish. Nikador’s bride! Who do you think you are?”

“Have you forgotten those stories you taught us when we were children? What if we ended up in the way of my uncle? He, too, thought he could parley with gods, and how has it left him? Bereft of an eye! Whatever Phainon may have given us, we would come to regret it, I know it to be so,” you said. “I have asked him for an impossible gift in the hopes that something else will strike his fancy in the meantime and he will not return to toy with me further. Everyone knows Nikador does not love, and furthermore they detest Phainon, so they will be doubly sure to say no to any requests coming from him. It was the best I could think of in such a fraught situation!”

“You’re right,” the High Priest said. “The gods are unpredictable at best.”

“Thank you,” you said warily, for he was not the sort of man that would concede so easily, and especially not with the sort of absurd smile he was, for some reason, donning.

“Thus, we cannot let you stay here. You have gained the attention of Phainon, who is staunchly opposed to Nikador. Who knows what will become of us if we continue to harbor you with that knowledge? Nikador may not strike us down, they are far too judicious for it, but there is no telling what curses Phainon will rain upon us if we mistakenly anger him when his eyes are turned toward our kingdom,” he continued.

“What did you just say?” you said.

“He is headstrong and young as far as gods go, and you are his latest amusement. We are already suffering from Nikador’s wrath. We cannot handle another disaster, especially of such magnitude,” the High Priest said.

“You’re banishing me,” you said, and now you were incredulous. “I who was meant to be your great sacrifice, I who am your princess…you’re banishing me?”

“Perhaps we ought to think it through,” your brother said uneasily, shifting from foot to foot. “My sister is sage and learned; her presence at my side will make my reign only that much stronger. Besides, who’s to say that Phainon will do anything? As she said, likely he will grow bored of Nikador’s obstinance and move on.”

“Are you willing to risk it?” the High Priest said, and if you were not old enough to know better than to raise your hand at anyone, you would’ve struck him on the mouth for his daring. “Your reign will have all the strength you require if you continue to follow Nikador’s teachings. The words of a careless princess tainted with Phainon’s favor will only bring about our end.”

“Your mind is made,” you said. “And if you say it, then it will be done, High Priest.”

“Surely you understand,” he said.

“All too well,” you said, and then you looked at your brother, who avoided your eyes. You waited for him to say something, anything, but he was motionless, as deferent in the end to the High Priest as the rest of the kingdom, despite his many-times-higher status. So it was all you could do to dip your head in feigned respect before spinning on your heel, leaving a path of red footprints in your wake as you left the temple unimpeded.

They gave you until the next dawn to leave — after all, dawn was Phainon’s domain, and so they could pretend like it was mercy or caring that drove them to this. He will guide you, the High Priest assured you as his servants stripped your chambers of their finery, carrying the velvets and silks to the temple where they would be burnt in search of Nikador’s forgiveness. Wherever your path leads you, he will light your way.

You saw him at the kingdom gates in the blue hour, when the sun was beginning to creep over the horizon and your pony was impatiently pawing at the dirt of the road. He wore new robes, the collar trimmed with velvet, his face lined with satisfaction, and when he saw you he had the nerve to bow, although you were a princess no longer and he had not shown you that respect even when you had been.

At his side, her elbow secured with his fist, was your mother, and although her countenance was wan with despair, her very expression begging you not to leave her alone, she did not move. You could not bear to look at her, not without your throat threatening to close, so you pulled your cloak over your shoulders and knotted your fingers in your pony’s flaxen mane, as if through his unwavering strength you could find your own. Then, without looking back, you kicked him forward before you could falter, knowing that every moment you hesitated would only cause you and your mother both to suffer all the more. 

“Go to your uncle!” she shouted after you as your pony spooked at shadows, bolting out of the kingdom with ears pinned. “Go to your uncle, he will—!”

She was cut off by the High Priest’s rebuke, and you squeezed your eyes shut, leaning forward and urging your pony faster, faster, wishing, not for the first time, to be somewhere far, somewhere that the High Priest and his ilk could not reach you ever again. If you had wings, you might’ve flown, and in the back of your mind you laughed at the thought that you could’ve, had you been naive enough to ask Phainon for that kind of a blessing. Yet as it was, your only recourse was galloping away on the mountain road, leaving your temple and your family and your title far behind, where you could never again reach them.

You wandered for some time — how long you could not say, but it was certainly many hours before you came across another person, the first sign of life you had encountered since leaving the kingdom. He was an old man, his eyes a bright shade of ochre set deep in his wrinkled, sun-worn face, his hair thin and white, his limbs spindly and bent. His clothes were torn and looked to be only hastily mended, and he walked with a warped branch serving as a cane, limping along the path without care for the day beating down on his caving back. 

“Sir, are you alright?” you said, reining your pony to a stop beside him, ensuring your shadows fell over the man in some semblance of protection. “Why do you travel by yourself, in such a state?”

He beamed up at you, gummy and pink, and then he coughed. Before you could stop yourself, you were dismounting and patting him on the back, offering him your arm to steady himself with as he heaved and hacked.

“Ah, you are such a kind girl,” he said, his voice hoarse, his gnarled fingers digging into your bicep. “Not many would stop to help a stranger. Your family has raised you well.”

“My mother always told me that it is better to be scorned in the pursuit of kindness than to ignore someone who may be in need,” you said.

“She must be very proud of you,” he said. You frowned slightly before schooling your expression back into a pleasant, if not plain, one.

“Perhaps,” you said. “But what of your family? Why have they let you travel this road on your own? It is dangerous, you know.”

“My family and I are ever-quarreling,” he said, shaking his head with such affected despondence that it was nearly comedic. “My latest actions have drawn their ire, so I have excused myself from my home for a time. They will forgive me sooner or later, and then I will return to pester them as always, but at the moment, it is best that I am on my own.”

“I see,” you said. “In truth, I am in a similar situation, although I do not think I will be forgiven. I go now to my uncle, who does not know, yet, that I am to be spurned, and I hope that he understands my plight a little better than my brother and father did. Do you have a destination, sir? If our paths are similar, then I can accompany you for a time. I do not like the idea of you traveling alone, especially not at night. The wolves are so daring this time of year…”

“I have no path in mind,” he said. “I was set to walk this road until I thought their rage might have cooled, whereupon I would perhaps return home — or perhaps not.”

“Then you must come with me!” you said in alarm, for he was such a frail wisp of a person that even a particularly strong breeze might be enough to knock him over, let alone an actual threat. Though you were sure he was safe from the many thieves that liked to accost wayward travelers, having nothing worth stealing in the first place, that did not mean he would escape the notice of any beasts that might be hungry enough to grow indiscriminate in what they saw as prey.

“Oh, I would not want to be a bother,” he said. You shook your head.

“I insist. It would bother me far more to leave you behind; I would think of you with every step, wondering if something had happened,” you said. “Come, let me help you onto my pony. He is gentle, and anyways I will lead him, so you needn’t worry about falling.”

“You will walk!” the old man said, stepping into your cupped palms nonetheless and allowing you to boost him into the saddle. You shrugged, for although you were unused to such laborious work, you were determined to bear it without complaint.

“My uncle does not live very far,” you said. “And between the two of us, I am the better suited to it. Do not fret — if I thought I could not manage, I would not have offered!”

“You are generous to such a fault. One day, someone may take advantage of it,” the old man said, cracking his back as you began to walk forward.

“It is a habit for me,” you said. “Since childhood, I have been tasked with helping others. Nikador’s teachings call for it, if they are followed in their purest form. There can only be strength if it is in contrast to weakness, and it is the duty of those with to help those without.”

“I have not heard of such a creed,” he said.

“Many accept the words of the priests as those of Nikador themselves, but then, how easy it is to twist ideals if none are willing to seek the truth on their own! I have read the myths and the stories in their most ancient versions, so I have drawn my own conclusions, but I know they are in opposition to most,” you said.

“Then isn’t it vanity for you to assume that yours are the correct ones and theirs are not?” he said. You whirled to look at him with your jaw dropped, and when you saw he was serene as before, his eyes now closed, his lips still half-curled, you let out a surprised bark of laughter.

“I suppose so!” you said. “Though it’s not the priests’ interpretations I am opposed to, it is how — never mind. I should not burden you with my anger, fresh as it is.”

“After helping me, you worry about burdening me?” he said. You waved your hand dismissively.

“It’s beyond explaining, anyways,” you said. “And far from prudent. I have said too much already.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” he said. “The ramblings of an old man are hardly widely believed, anyways. You can speak freely before me.”

“I appreciate your offer,” you said. “But it is alright. You have your troubles, and I have mine; I won’t inquire into yours if you offer me the same courtesy. We may reach my uncle with our sanities intact in that way.”

“If it is what you prefer,” he said, and then neither of you spoke further, leaving nothing but the afternoon birdsong to fill the empty silence. 

He was a good companion, the old man, and as the day bled into night and then back to morning again in a perpetual loop, you found you were grateful for him. Your feet may have ached terribly, but it was better than being alone, even if the two of you never conversed much beyond the basic formalities. You were fond of him in your own way, and with every hour that passed, you thought to yourself how wonderful it would have been if you both had met under better circumstances. Had he been younger, a citizen of your kingdom…had you still been a princess instead of an exile…you might’ve been friends in earnest instead of weary travelers merely following a road without end.

“We are nearing my uncle’s home,” you said when the firs began to mingle with poplars, the sunlight gold and dappled on the path instead of thin and harsh as it was in the alpine territories. “He can be frightening to those who do not know him, but I give you my word that he is a kind man, and I will do what I can to soften his heart to you.”

“You mean to bring me into his city?” the old man said.

“Do you have anywhere else to go? If you are even half as exhausted as I, then you should be thanking me. My uncle is well-regarded, and I will ensure your accommodations are comfortable,” you said.

“I thank you kindly for thinking of me, but it is long past time that we parted ways. I will not be welcome in the forest, and I do not want you to face any more troubles because of me,” he said.

“You haven’t brought trouble,” you protested. “And why wouldn’t the forest welcome you? You are so kind!”

“Ah, you wouldn’t say that if you knew more about me,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Well, you see, my…aunt, who would be furious to know I just called them that, lives in the forest, and they will do anything to chase me away if they learn of my presence.”

“How cruel,” you said when he motioned for you to halt and then slid to the ground. “They really cannot tolerate you to that extent?”

“It would be best not to push it,” he affirmed. “Thank you for coming with me this far, but I will be alright from here. You were nothing like what I expected, but I am happier for it.”

“What do you mean by that?” you said, bending to embrace him in farewell even as you did. He inhaled sharply, and for a moment you thought you had overstepped, but then he was holding you to him with a strength that belied his delicate stature and advanced age. It took you aback, but it was somehow so tender that you made no move to escape, burying your face in his shoulder, which smelled of thyme and mountain-tea.

“Nothing,” he said. “Go on and do not hesitate. We will meet again, I am sure of it.”

“How can you be?” you said, more bewildered now than you had been in the entire time you had known him. He only hummed, mysterious and sly, and then turned to walk back the way you had come. You glanced at your pony, although of course he would be no help, and then back at the man, who continued to hobble along.

“Our business remains unfinished,” he called over his shoulder. “And I do not like to leave things open-ended.”

“...our business?” you repeated under your breath, trying to think of what he could possibly mean by that and coming up blank. Mounting your pony, you cued him forward, and then you shifted in your saddle for one final look at the strange man, who had never confounded you so greatly as in that moment — yet in one final twist, he had vanished, as surely as if he had never been there in the first place. You blinked a few times, attempting to clear your vision, but he did not reappear, and you were left with nothing but the ache in your legs from walking and the lingering warmth of his arms to know that he had been there at all.

The great city of the Grove was sheltered deep in the forest, caught in a sort of perpetual twilight from the lacy shade of the many boughs that criss-crossed over the sky and flourished eternally, blessed by Cerces as they were. Your uncle had told you, once, with mocking in his voice and a pinch to his brow, that the Grove itself was Cerces’s sanctuary, and so the entire place bloomed as a temple might, every blade of grass as sacred as any altar’s offerings.

He was waiting for you by the gates, and you did not ask him how he had known you would come, for of course he had — he knew everything, he was that sort of man, who could see farther and further than hawks and prophets alike. You only handed your pony to a waiting stableboy and then collapsed against him, your arms winding around his neck, clenching the fabric of his long coat and allowing a single sob to escape you.

“Uncle,” you said. “Oh, uncle, uncle, they’ve cast me from the mountain—”

“I know,” he said, and somehow you found his typical perfunctoriness to be a comfort instead of abrasive, as it often was. “I will come to your chambers tonight; there will be time to weep then, but not now. Now you must appear brave, or else I will not be able to convince the others to accept you. They are already wary of taking in one who reeks of Phainon’s meddling, and their reluctance will only double if you appear to be a frightened coward crawling to us and expecting our protection from the gods.”

“Who told you?” you said. 

“Your mother sent a messenger bird,” he said. “Even in ink and parchment, her fear was evident. Is it true?”

“I don’t know what she wrote to you, or what the High Priest has poisoned her mind with, so I cannot say for certain, but given that I am here instead of home, you must know the situation is less than ideal,” you said.

“Later,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose and then adjusting the filigreed eyepatch covering the left half of his face. “For now, have something to eat and take a bath. You look horrible, and you will have to face the rest of the Sages tomorrow.”

“I walked all this way,” you said. “I look better than you’d expect.”

“And still worse than one who must argue with the supreme authorities of the Grove ought to,” he shot back immediately. “Go, and gather your thoughts while you’re at it. They will not let you off without sharp questioning.”

The baths in the Grove were modeled in the way of the seaside capital, Okhema, although according to your father, who had been even so far in his youth, the marble buildings of Okhema had no equal, and certainly not here, where fashion was sacrificed for function. But you were in no position to be selective, and anyways, after traveling for so long, you would’ve been thrilled even by a particularly clear pond, so the steaming waters and stone benches of the bath seemed all but paradisiacal as you approached them tentatively.

Right as you dipped your toe in to check the temperature, you heard a small splashing sound, and then you were gasping, for there in the middle of the bath was a small bird, flapping its wings most desperately as it struggled to stay above the surface. Wading through the water as fast as you could, ignoring how the sudden heat of it nearly burnt you, you scooped the bird into your palms, cradling it carefully to your chest. It fluffed out its feathers indignantly, and you were careful to walk slowly back to the edge, so that you did not splash it by mistake, for it was already so damp and sorry-looking you could not bear the thought of worsening its plight.

“Oh, my dear friend, how did you end up here?” you said gently, mindlessly, looking over at the open window and wrinkling your nose, scratching under its beak in an attempt to soothe the tiny heart that you could feel hammering away in the glass cage of its chest. “Such a pretty creature you are. I’ve never seen anything like you before, but then again, I am so far from home that that shouldn’t come as a shock.”

Sitting on one of the steps carved into the side of the bath, you swished your legs about in the water idly, raising your hands into the air and smiling at the bird, who did not attempt to fly away, only cooing at you sweetly, prompting a giggle from you. It was a little songbird of a variety you did not recognize, small and white, with gold feathers ringing its neck and its beetle-dark eyes, which sparkled as it looked down on you like it was entirely pleased with its situation, despite still being soaked.

“I must continue to bathe, but the window is open, so you may fly away whenever you would like,” you said, setting it down on the lip of the bath before beginning to rub oil into your skin. “Or you may stay! I do not mind the company.”

The bird chirped at you, cocking its head, and although you knew it was ridiculous to believe you could genuinely converse with it, you could not help yourself from shaking your head with the utmost of solemnity, taking your strigil and scraping the oil off alongside the dirt of your ordeals, exhaling in relief as you did so, for it had been far too long since you had been properly clean — and longer since you had bathed of your own volition, not by one of the priests tasked with readying you for the ritual of sacrifice.

“I am glad I came as well,” you said. “You might’ve spent hours on your own if I had not. Well, at any rate, you would’ve been the cleanest songbird the Grove has ever seen, so there is that consolation.”

It pecked your hand as you set the strigil down, as if it were chastising you for making light of its troubles. You let your thumb run along its back in apology, and then you returned to immersing yourself in the bath, allowing the hot water to soothe away the tension in your muscles, which were still taut from how long you had spent walking. The steam turned the world hazy, and you stretched languidly, one arm and then the other, finding yourself in such a dreamlike state it was a wonder you did not fall asleep entirely.

“Do wake me up if I should drift off,” you told the bird through a yawn. “Since leaving home, I have not been sleeping well, if at all. It is difficult to go from a palace to a field in a span of hours, you must understand.”

“Excuse me? This bath is meant only for the Seven Sages. Who are you?”

The voice was masculine and unfamiliar, and immediately you sat up, your earlier playfulness replaced with a sense of dread, though the man had given you no reason yet to fear him.

“My uncle told me it was alright for me to come here,” you said. “He said no one else would be using it at this hour.”

“Your uncle?” the man said. “Ah, Anaxagoras. He always has been one to bend the rules. You are the infamous niece, then? But you look nothing like him.”

“He was taken in by my mother’s family when he was young. We share no blood,” you said. “Who are you?”

“I am Socrippe,” he said. “Another of the Seven Sages of the Grove. Ordinarily, your uncle would have been right to say the baths would be deserted at this hour, but I was tired of our latest debate and asked to be excused early.”

“I see,” you said. “It is an honor to meet you, great Sage.”

“So you are the girl that has piqued Phainon’s interest,” Socrippe said, and then he was crossing the bath so that the two of you were side by side, mere paces apart. You shrank away, but he followed you, and the bird trilled as you edged closer and closer to where it had thus far sat undisturbed. “I can see why. With how beautiful you are, I am surprised you have not won Mnestia’s heart as well.”

“Thank you for your kind words, but I must be going now,” you said. “My uncle awaits me.”

“Your uncle is still busy in that debate, arguing that we must hear your case and give you the chance to stay with us. The rest of the Sages are stubborn, but I am sure they will at least listen to you tomorrow. Have you prepared a proper defense? If not, I can assist you. You will not have to try very hard to convince me, at least,” he said.

“I appreciate your concern, but I really am alright. My uncle’s counsel shall be more than sufficient,” you said.

“What is the hurry? Stay, do not let me be the reason you leave earlier than you would’ve liked,” he said when you made to stand, catching your wrist and tugging at it. You felt it, then, the phantom hands of those priests as they scrubbed your back with pumice, how unsympathetic they had been, how harsh, like they were goading you into a yelp you refused to give them, reluctantly permitting them only the satisfaction of seeing your shivers, which you could not help yourself from. Yanking your arm back, you hastened your pace, although it did not matter when he, too, stood and mirrored your every step.

“Thank you for your generosity, but it is unnecessary,” you repeated, though it was in vain.

“You mistake me,” he said, and although he was not so close, it suddenly seemed as though he were looming over you, as if here were a great tree and you were merely the size of the bird at your feet. “It isn’t generosity. I am not offering.”

You took a deep breath, trying to think of a prayer to Nikador. They would not come to your aid, not so deep in the Grove, which was Cerces’s domain and thus forbidden for all other gods to approach, but the words alone would bring you solace as the Sage came nearer and nearer. Yet for some reason, every ode to war was gone from your mind, and all you could think of was a hymn for the sun-bringer, which you did not even remember ever learning.

How, then, shall I sing of you? For everywhere, Phainon, is beholden to you, over the mountains and across the isles, from high-sloping foothills to beaches canting seaward. Do I sing of how you were born a man amidst golden furrows, and how you then rose to become the joy of mankind itself? Hear this, Earth and wide Heaven, surely he will have his fragrant altar and precinct, and he shall be honored above all; as for me, I will carry his name close to my heart, and I will never cease to praise that white calamity, o shining Phainon, god of every dawn.

In his single-mindedness, Socrippe stumbled on the bird, which set it to shrieking. You covered your mouth as the Sage yelled and the bird flew at his face with a fury you had not expected such a small thing could contain, and then you pulled a towel around your waist, fleeing the bath while he was distracted, thanking Nikador for the intervention under your breath. For surely it had been them, you thought as you touched your forehead in reverence, who else could drive a bird to such madness? And one who had been so cheerful only moments before! You had thought they had abandoned you, but all along they were there, your defender to the last.

You had had some plans of great productivity after returning to your temporary chambers, of eating a full meal and preparing your defense for the Seven Sages, but the bed proved irresistible, and before you knew it you were curling on your side, pulling your blanket up to your chin and closing your eyes, although you promised yourself you would not sleep. It would be unwise — you still had much to do — the day was young, the sun had not even reached its zenith —

A paw batted at your forehead, and at first all you could do was groan, pushing it aside, but to your consternation, the animal remained undeterred, tapping you again and again. You squeezed your eyes shut, doing your best to ignore its demands, but it seemed to disagree with this, for then there was a pressure on your chest, the unexpected weight of the creature all but suffocating, causing you to cough as your lungs constricted in alarm. Against your will, your eyes opened, and you were met with a pink nose and a stare like finchfeathers, glowing even in the dark of the evening.

“I fell asleep!” you said, sitting up abruptly, earning your a plaintive mewl from the cat as it tumbled onto the blanket and looked up at you dolefully, its ears low and its fur standing on end. “Yes, yes, thank you for waking me. It would’ve been embarrassing if my uncle came to visit while I was still slumbering away like a child sent to nap.”

Evidently, the cat forgave you for your transgressions, for it rolled over on its back and peered at you invitingly, beginning to purr as you stroked behind its ears, rubbing its cheek against your wrist in content. A lump swelled in your throat the longer you pet it, and with your free arm you hugged your knees to your chest, trying to stifle your tears but finding yourself unsuccessful.

“How many wonderful things this Grove has,” you said. “First that bird blessed by Nikador, and now—hey!”

The cat’s claws had caught against your palm, leaving behind an angry scratch, not deep enough to bleed, but enough to smart adamantly. When you pretended to scowl at it, it blinked at you, slow and innocent, and then it flicked its tail in an obvious solicitation for you to continue. You did not, crossing your arms and thinking yourself quite stern for it, but instead of being cowed as you thought it would be, the cat only stood and shook itself, prancing about atop the blanket with no small amount of self-approbation. 

“Now, don’t be like that,” you said, giving in and extending your arms. “You took me by surprise, that’s all. Come back.”

The show was over in an instant; it leapt at you, a flying mass of fur and outstretched legs toppling into your lap and tucking its tail over its paws, glaring at you until you continued your earlier ministrations, albeit more pensive now, lost in reminiscing.

“I had a kitten just like you when I was younger,” you said. “Though she was a tortoiseshell, not all white as you are, and she had the prettiest green eyes. Like the emeralds in my father’s Okheman ring. I would tie ribbons around her neck and bring her everywhere with me; in that time, they called her the second princess and claimed I would’ve given her my wreaths if they would’ve fit her.”

You lifted the cat, paying no mind to its disgruntled huff in the moment but patting it in apology after you had returned it to the dip in the cushion where you had formerly sat. Going to the mirror, you began to fiddle with your hair, attempting to make yourself presentable enough that your uncle would not ridicule you for your sloppiness. 

“I would’ve, maybe,” you said to the cat, who was also grooming itself, perhaps in an imitation of you. “But the High Priest took her from me before her first year. He said that it was better I grieved her now, when I loved her less, than to save it for later, when my sensitive mind would not be able to bear it with the unflinching nature Nikador required. I’m not sure what he did with her; he never told me, I think because he knew I would seek her out. In the end, the truth of her fate was less important than what it meant to me — she had gone somewhere I could not reach, as all things I would love eventually would.

“Nikador tells us that we do not weep, we stand true in the face of adversity and turn our sorrow into strength, but I could not help how I cried that night. The priests chastised me for it, but I was a child and did not understand what meaning they were trying to impart. All I knew was that there was a bleak void in my chest, for my heart had gone with her, wherever she might have been, and I did not know if I would ever be whole again.”

Giving up on your appearance and deciding you would just have to take your uncle’s comments in stride, you reclined next to the cat again, permitting it to clamber onto your chest and ruffling its fur idly as your mind wandered, thinking of everything you had left behind without even a farewell. You hadn’t been given the time, not when the dawn encroached so rapidly on the night, not when the High Priest and all who followed him were watching your every move, waiting to find a moment of weakness that they could prey upon — because it was not enough to exile you, of course it was not. They wanted to destroy you, and they would not settle for anything less.

You did not doubt that even now, they were poisoning the hearts of your former subjects, telling them how the princess had been so consumed with thoughts of godhood that she had even abandoned her people, that she had fled from her duties out of some dream of worshipping Phainon and marrying Nikador. Or maybe they would not even say that much; maybe they would omit the last part entirely, simply announcing  that you had grown enamored with Phainon’s promises, had not been strong enough to resist his ethereal temptation, and so had gone somewhere where you could pray to him until he blessed you wholly, in flesh and spirit alike.

“As if I would ever pray to that conceited, arrogant deity,” you muttered to yourself, emboldened by Cerces’s omnipotence in the Grove to speak the truth, for they would defend you if it came to it. “Appearing when he wasn’t even wanted, forcing me to ask him for a boon in exchange for my unwilling worship…what sort of a god! Would that Nikador had come, as they had been bid to. My death might’ve meant something then, for it would’ve been the death of a princess, a sacrifice — I might have become a sort of martyr for my brother to learn spine and soundness from, though that could be asking too much. But we’ll never know, will we? Because thanks to Phainon, I am here, a common outcast begging for shelter and talking to a cat like it can understand me.”

The cat meowed. You gave it a look. It meowed again. You snorted.

“My apologies. Talking to a cat because it most certainly can understand me,” you said. “Do all creatures of the Grove have such intelligence and charm? You must teach my uncle your ways, for he is possessed with twice the intelligence but not nearly half the charm.”

Like you had summoned a visitor by taking one’s name, there was a knock on your door, and before he opened it you knew it was your uncle, because he was a Sage, and so the world of the Grove always bent a little differently where he was concerned. Winking at the cat and raising your finger to your lips like you were swearing it to secrecy, you called for your uncle to enter as he’d like, shifting so that your posture was correct, without flaw, for of the many things you knew he might pick at, you did not want that to be one.

“Good evening,” he said as entered, holding a plate in one hand, resting the other on his hip. “I was told you did not ever call for your meal. I can only assume it was because you were preoccupied with more important matters.”

“Entirely,” you said, taking the food without even thanking him, for you were so famished and he had, you noticed, ensured that what was prepared was a dish you had loved in your youth.

“You are a horrible liar,” he said.

“Only to you, who knows me so well,” you said, permitting yourself the bit of cheek — you had always been his favorite, for the very reasons you were so reviled by the leaders of the cult of Nikador. To the priests, your inquisition was a thing to be feared, but to Anaxagoras, the Fourth Sage of the Grove, it was a cherishable quality that he cupped his hands around and protected, as surely as one might guard the wavering flame of a lantern in the wind. That was why your mother had told you to go to him, and why you had planned on it before she had even made the suggestion: not out of any sort of familial duty, but his keen recognition, his acceptance of the state of things how they were and not how they ought.

“But the time for lies and jest is past,” he said. “Now you must tell me what happened and why you are here.”

“Perhaps we should begin with you telling me what you heard from my mother,” you said. “I do not wish to bore you with redundancies.”

“She did not write much. I doubt that she could,” he said. “All she said was that you had somehow attracted the gaze of Phainon, and so the priests had banished you from the mountains for fear of what Nikador might think should they continue to harbor the devotee of one that is so loathed by that war-mongerer.”

“Then the High Priest has done exactly as I thought he might,” you said. “Of course. Even though I am in exile, my very name cannot be allowed to linger on people’s lips as anything more than a reference to a weak-willed joke of a girl.”

“I surmised as much,” your uncle said, furrowing his brow at the cat, offering it his closed fist. The cat hissed, slinking back to hide behind you, nudging you in displeasure, like it was urging you to reprimand him for even the approach. “But Phainon’s mark does linger upon you, and that can only mean you have asked him for something. I thought you were sharper than that.”

“Do you think I wanted to?” you snapped. “It was Nikador they were meant to summon, my brother and that accursed High Priest. I am sure you are aware of the storms that have torn at the mountain for weeks now?”

“Of course I am,” he said. “Though I was under the impression they paused for a time, and only resumed recently.”

“Yes, I was fortunate that they ceased while I was traveling; perhaps it is that Nikador took pity on me and allowed me safe passage, or perhaps it was Phainon, though I doubt the latter is the case,” you said. “Anyways, during the worst of it, there was a great convocation in the throne room. Every priest in the kingdom was called to attend, and my entire family, too, as we made our plans for how we might appease the great lord. My brother suggested hosting games in Nikador’s name, for they are fond of sporting events, of the competitive verve to it all, but the people were too storm-weary to consider participating in such a ceremony. One of the younger priests thought that we might build a grander temple for them, as ours is old and, some may say, falling into disrepair. Then there was me, who said that maybe Nikador was expressing their displeasure at the order of the priests, who had not served their name in as many years as I had lived.”

“They did not take kindly to it,” your uncle said rhetorically. “You should’ve known better than to say anything.”

“I was tired of them,” you said. “They spoke of games and buildings and slaughterings, but who would do these things? Not them, comfortable as they are, twisting Nikador’s laws to serve their own purposes and make themselves all the wealthier, all the more powerful. The High Priest has already deposed my father in all but name, and he will soon do the same to my brother, who is ten times as irresolute and quivering as his sire, malleable to suggestion in a way you taught me not to be.”

“It is as innate as it is taught,” your uncle said, and although he was brusque, his words were tinged with mourning, for you could tell by the expression he wore that he had already understood where the story was going and now only waited for you to confirm it. “Your brother has long since been past saving. I could not manage it, so how could you?”

“I wanted to, though,” you said. “I wanted to take his hand and bring him into understanding, to lead him from the mania of the priests and into Nikador’s heart, where we might have resided together. I argued with him so desperately that day, him and my father alike, begging them to hear me this once, and for a moment I swear I saw him falter. He would have joined me, uncle, I know it, but then the High Priest had a vision.”

How perfectly it had coincided, a stroke of lightning as the High Priest raised his hand, the room falling silent, your father’s vapidness dissipating in an instant, replaced with a sheen of rapture as he leaned towards the High Priest and away from his straight-backed throne. Nikador had spoken to the High Priest, who was the only one they ever communed with, or so he said, and now he would turn prophecy into decree, vision into direction, storm into sunshine. 

“‘They demand the grandest sacrifice,’” you repeated miserably, the words etched into your memory as clearly as if they had just been spoken for the first time. “‘The princess. Only by giving herself can she satisfy them; anything less will be seen as an offense of the highest order.’”

“What a fraud,” your uncle said, pacing the breadth of the room, and while his voice remained level, his every bootstep was livid, incensed. “To claim divine intervention—”

“But who would say as much? In face of Nikador’s so-called will, we are all powerless,” you said. “How easy it was for him to sentence me to death. My brother did not argue; my mother could not; my father would not. I did not fight it, either, for I knew it would come to nothing, and I refused to let them know that they had — that they had — that they had been successful. I would die as Nikador’s sacrifice, and in the runes written with my blood, my brother, who was tasked with the butchering, would finally come to see the truth.”

“Go on,” your uncle said when you paused. “Finish the story.”

“That idiotic boy,” you said. “He is still a child. Not a prince, and far from a priest, who would be trained in such arts. He was chosen only to prove his mettle, his loyalty to the High Priest, and I suppose he did as much, even going so far as to raise his dagger against me — though in the end, it came to nothing. In his nerves, he floundered his invocation, and so instead of Nikador, he inadvertently called upon Phainon. And unlike Nikador, who is silent even when they do grant our wishes, Phainon answered.

“He turned away the High Priest and my brother alike, finding intrigue only in me. I wonder if he thought I was a sacrifice meant for him, or if he understood that I was Nikador’s and simply did not care, or even delighted in it, thinking that by stealing my loyalty, he would have won yet another victory in that eternal rivalry of theirs. He offered me many things, uncle, in the pursuit of taking me for his own, but I refused them all, for I knew that his blessings would not come without a price. Yet I worried, too; those who reject the gods fare no better than those who embrace them.”

Your uncle’s fingers touched the hollow where his eye had once rested, and, pursing your lips, you let yours follow, lacing through his and squeezing. He had never told you what it was he had bargained his eye away for, had never told anyone, but it did not take a Sage or Cerces to know that whatever it was hadn’t been enough. That was how it was with gods, really; always unequal. Always tilted in their favor. Always lacking.

“I asked him to convince Nikador to take me as their bride. If he was unsuccessful, then my life would not change, or so I thought; if, by some miracle, he was triumphant, then I would be safe at their side, out of the reach of his eventual retribution. For a moment I thought he would refuse, but then he agreed, vanishing with a promise that we would meet again, and that was that,” you said.

“The priests were unhappy that their plan to be rid of you had failed,” your uncle completed. “But they could not kill you without risking Phainon’s wrath, so they came up with some excuse about his enmity with Nikador to banish you from the mountain forever.”

“Yes,” you said. “And so I came here, the only place that I have left. Do you think the Sages will accept me? I don’t demand to be treated like royalty; I know I am not that any longer. But I can read and write, and my mother tells me I am good with the young ones, so I could be a teacher, if there is need…or a recordkeeper, or anything, really, though if it is a more laborious task, I may need instruction, I am still not so good with my hands…”

“Listen to me,” your uncle said, placing his hands on your shoulders firmly. “I cannot promise anything, and neither can I lie to you. The other Sages are disconcerted by your presence, and I cannot blame them. Ever since you came here, it’s as if Phainon himself is with us, and divinity of such magnitude is enough to make even the greatest of men shudder. But you know I am always on your side, and as it happens, I am looking for a teaching assistant, so perhaps — if all goes well — something can be arranged.”

“Thank you,” you said, and if he were one for it, you would’ve embraced him again, as you had upon your arrival. Yet he would not appreciate it, you were sure, so all you did was gather his hands together and press your forehead to his knuckles, holding it there until you could be certain he understood what you meant by it.

Although you had fallen asleep with the white cat tucked under your chin, when you awoke the next morning, it was nowhere to be found. You should not have been surprised, as it was so well-kept and friendly that it surely must’ve belonged to someone, but you could not help the disappointment that crept into your throat. At your loneliest, it had come and, for a time, raised your spirits, so could you be blamed for your longing? Especially now, as you donned the austere garb of one of the Grove’s scholars, pulling the hood over your hair in keeping with their modest tradition. It was foreign, the stiff fabric, the dull coloring, and you longed for something familiar — the rumble of a purr, or the curve of your uncle’s smile, both which you would be denied until after you had passed the Sages’ trial.

Dawn in the Grove was the brightest time of day, and as you swept down the hall towards where the Sages awaited you, you paused by the largest window, narrowing your eyes at the sun peeking above the treetops. The sky wasn’t as vibrant here as it was in the mountains, every shade muted, everything soft around the edges as the morning climbed over the horizon, tinged with the fading lavender of the night. Perhaps it was because Cerces had secluded themselves from the rest of the gods, and so Phainon did not brand their dawns with the same violence as he did Nikador’s, in concession to their enduring neutrality, or maybe in fear of their rare condemnation.

“How, then, shall I sing of you?” you said, reciting the same hymn as had come to mind the day before, the one you must have learnt at some point, though you still could not recall exactly when. “For everywhere, Phainon, is beholden to you, over the mountains and across the isles, from high-sloping foothills to beaches canting seaward. Do I sing of how you were born a man amidst golden furrows, and how you then rose to become the joy of mankind itself? Hear this, Earth and wide Heaven, surely he will have his fragrant altar and precinct, and he shall be honored above all; as for me, I will carry his name close to my heart, and I will never cease to praise that white calamity, o shining Phainon, god of every dawn.”

You did not mean it as a prayer, only a way to taste the words, to roll them in your mouth, to chew on their softness, so unlike the hard, unyielding edges of Nikador’s many odes. They were beautiful, you had to admit as much, coalescing quietly in the corners of your ribcage and flickering like embers, warming you from within like a sunrise captured in miniature. 

A soft rustling drew your attention from the clouds to the sill of the window, where a bird had just landed. It was the same kind as the one you had saved in the bath, and when it did not shy away from your proffered index finger, you rubbed along the honeyed feathers underneath its eye. For a moment, it allowed you the indulgence, and then it hopped away, warbling out a song before taking off and flying back to, you supposed, wherever it had come from. You watched it go, your heart a little lighter for its visit, your shoulders a little less burdened, your mind a little more prepared for your meeting with the Sages.

It began, as many such meetings did, with the most important member speaking first. Although in theory all of the Sages were equal, they tended to hold the eldest of their ranks in the highest esteem, for in the Grove, an accumulation of years also meant one’s wisdom would have increased to match. In the present time, said eldest Sage was Medea, the Sixth Sage, a haughty woman with angular features and irises like frostbitten earth. 

“Niece of Anaxagoras, the Fourth Sage,” she began. “You are here to seek asylum in the Grove. If you pass the examination of the Sages, you will become the Fourth Sage’s teaching assistant, and he will aid you in acclimatizing to life in the Grove, which is surely nothing like the one you have led thus far.”

“Yes, great Sage,” you said, bowing as your uncle had instructed you to, demure and nigh-bashful. “I submit to your inquiries, and whatever it is that you may ask, I swear to answer with only the truth.”

“Only three Sages wish to question you today,” Medea said. “Stagira, the Third Sage, what do you ask of the girl?”

“Will you renounce your ties to Phainon and Nikador alike? If you stay in the Grove, then you will be a child of Cerces, and although Cerces is an affable goddess, they are also a jealous one. You must forget that you were born of the cult of the Nikador, and that you have been chosen by Phainon. Do you have it in you to cleanse yourself of your heritage and your claims, becoming a student anew?” Stagira said. He was a man, older than your uncle but a mere child beside Medea, and his expression was so lively you did not think that he was attempting to trick you, leading you to nod earnestly.

“Yes, great Sage. I will forget that either existed; the cult of Nikador has already expelled me, and Phainon…” you trailed off and shook your head. “I was never his devotee in the first place.”

“That is all,” he said. You glanced at your uncle, who inclined his chin the slightest angle, imperceptible to anyone who was not looking for it, prompting you to sigh. The first test was passed; two more and you were free.

“Apuleius, the Fifth Sage, what do you ask of the girl?” Medea said. He was nearer to her in age, and there was a scar running down his misshapen nose, ending right above the faint line of his mouth. You could tell from even the way he walked that he was less affable than Stagira, but you were used to prickly, thorny men, for they were a common breed whence you hailed, and so you did not shy back as he must’ve liked you to.

“This scar on my face,” Apuleius said, pointing at it for emphasis. “What does your first instinct blame it on?”

War, you thought to yourself. Violence. An altercation. Someone who tried to hurt you, who tried to kill you, who tried to tear your face apart, so that you resembled the two-faced Janus for their efforts.

“An experiment with unforeseen results,” you said. Apuleius regarded you carefully, and then he laughed, clapping your uncle on the shoulder.

“She is quick to learn. Your influence, no doubt, Anaxagoras,” he said. “If a daughter of strife can think through her words so carefully, then all hope may yet not be lost.”

“You know better than to give another credit for one’s victory, Apuleius,” your uncle said. 

“You’re right,” he said. “Well done, girl. And no, although I wish the scar’s origin was so mysterious, the real story is far more embarrassing. I simply fell from my horse and landed face-first onto a particularly sharp stone.”

You winced. “I am glad you suffered no worse injuries, great Sage.”

“It may have left me a little frenzied in the years to follow, but then, those of the Grove always are of such a temperament, so what difference does it make?” he said. “Alright then, boy. Ask her your questions and let us be done with this affair.”

“The Seventh Sage,” Medea said, the corners of her mouth tugging downwards. “Socrippe. What do you ask of the girl?”

The man you had met yesterday in the baths was unrecognizable, his face covered with bandages, a formidable gleam in eyes, the whites of which were shot through with enraged crimson. The other Sages murmured to themselves, and you, too, swallowed nervously, for you had not expected him to be in such a state, not when he had been perfectly fine at your last meeting.

“How was I injured?” he said.

“I am not sure, great Sage,” you said.

“You lie,” he said, and then he was jabbing his index finger at you. “This wicked woman attacked me in our own bath yesterday! I had gone to wash after excusing myself from the debate, and she was so infuriated by my company that clawed at me with her fingernails until she drew blood. She is no dove that we can tame, she is a beast that will hunt all in this Grove down if we let her stay!”

“Is this true?” Medea said sharply. You shook your head.

“No, there must be some mistake, that’s not — that’s not what happened, I didn’t — he approached me, and I did not attack him, I only ran—” you stammered, your composure crumbling at their stony glares.

“You’re accusing a Sage of lying?” Medea said, her every word a self-contained avalanche. “He has taken an oath in the name of Cerces, and he will not break it! Need I remind you who is the guest here?”

“I should’ve known,” Apuleius said, clicking his tongue. “You can dress a wolf in the skin of a lamb, but you can’t make it merciful for long. I am ashamed that I was fooled for even a moment.”

“You may renounce Nikador, but it seems he will never renounce you,” Stagira said.

“I didn’t attack him!” you said.

“I know my niece, and she would never do such a thing,” your uncle said. “There must be some alternate explanation or confusion.”

“So you are calling me confused, Anaxagoras?” Socrippe said. “Careful, or you will be replaced. There are plenty who can do your job just as well as you.”

“Now, Socrippe, you don’t have the authority to declare that,” Medea warned. “It would come to a vote, and do not think that you have the power to sway us all against him.”

 “But as for the matter of the girl…” Apuleius prompted.

You thought there would be hatred in Medea’s mien, but to your shock, she seemed a little sad, clasping her hands together and closing her eyes. Maybe it was that she knew Socrippe had broken his oath and mourned her helplessness in proving the truth, or maybe it was that she only regretted having to give such horrible news when she had surely prepared for a happier occasion. Although the latter was far more probable, the thought of the former comforted you as she clapped once, so you chose to believe in it.

“All those in favor of sending her to Okhema, raise your hands,” she said.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. The rest of the Sages looked at your uncle, at dear Anaxagoras, who clenched his jaw and stared straight ahead with his arms pinned to his sides. They already had a clear majority, so it wasn’t as if they needed his vote, yet you sensed they would not move forth until he made a decision one way or another.

You turned around so that you did not have to witness it, and a minute later, Medea clapped again. You did not know how your uncle had voted; it was like that cat, really, the one you had had in your childhood, the one that the High Priest had taken from you. It didn’t matter whether he said yes or no — what mattered was that it was done, concluded, and irreversibly so.

“The motion is passed. Girl, leave the Grove at once; if you are prudent, you will go to Okhema and tell the Council of Elders that Medea sent you, but never again shall you return here. You are not welcome any longer.”

They were kind enough to return your pony, along with some food and a letter to one of the Elders of Okhema, Caenis, written by Medea herself. You did not wait for your uncle to come and wish you farewell; you did not think he would, anyways. The two of you were not so dissimilar, after all.

Your pony did not complain about being told to trot down the road, going merrily, even flicking his toes as he went along. You were glad that he was happy, for then at least one of you was, and you allowed him the length of the rein to do with as he pleased, eventually urging him to canter, then gallop, until the trees thinned and you had left the forest behind for good.

“Miss! Miss, wait!”

You were ambling through a field of barley when you heard a boy shouting after you. You swiveled in your seat, at first presuming your mind to be playing tricks on you, but then you saw him, sprinting through the resplendent sea of crops with a ball in his hand. His hair was a pale shock on his head, and when he caught up to you, his amber eyes crinkled at the corners in greeting. You halted but did not dismount, for there was foreboding in the air, and although you were loath to leave the child behind, you could not help but think that there was some merit to the notion that he was the very source of your apprehension.

“There you are,” he said, his hands on his thighs as he huffed for breath. “I’ve been looking for you. You disappeared for a little while — it worried me!”

“Do I know you?” you said, as politely as you could. “Perhaps you think I am someone else.”

The boy’s smile did not drop. “I would not mistake you for anyone. We’ve met a few times."

“I’m sure we haven’t,” you said, subtly pressing your heels into your pony’s sides, telling him to walk on, albeit without any speed. 

“Oh! That’s my mistake,” he said. “Wait, wait, do you recognize me now?”

Right before you, he aged decades in only a second, leaving him a hunched old man leaning on a branch, his face split with a broad smile, pink and gummy. Your eyes widened, and although everything in you demanded you flee, you were paralyzed as your old companion waved a wrinkled hand at you.

“Or maybe this is better?” he said, and then he was melting into the form of a white cat, chasing his tail playfully before, in a burst of feathers, turning into a songbird with gold around his neck and eyes. 

“No,” you said, shaking your head furiously, clenching your fists so hard you were surprised your palms did not bleed from the force with which your nails dug into them. “No, it can’t be. Say it isn’t so. Please, say it isn’t so. You can’t be—”

“It is so, o sacrifice!” he said, springing into the air fully formed, a tall man in handsome armor, his eyes still that same burning shade of dawn, his hair still as white as jasmine.

“Phainon,” you said. He beamed at you.

“Well done,” he said. “Yes, it is me. I have been keeping careful watch over you, you know. Why do you think you were never confronted by bandits or bad weather? Ah, but attacking that Sage put me in a lot of trouble with Cerces, so maybe you ought to forget about asking for any blessings and begin to consider how you might repay me.”

“Why would you do such a thing?” you said. “You aren’t Nikador, I haven’t asked for your protection, so there’s — there’s no need for you to give it! Leave at once, I beg of you!”

“Actually,” Phainon said, although he visibly deflated at your repudiation, his shoulders sagging and his eyes growing large, nearly watery with defeat, which was a ridiculous expression on anyone, let alone a fully-fledged god, “I have something to tell you. I think that I can grant your wish, if it is still what you want.”

“What?” you said, your panic replaced with a momentary inquisitiveness.

“Nikador,” he said. “Do you still…desire them? Because if it is so, then listen to me carefully — I have discovered that the stories of their battle-hardened heart are not entirely complete. The truth is as follows: once before, many ages ago, they, too, knew what it was to love.”

taglist (comment/send an ask to be added): @urrluverrr @itseightamineedsleep

[sleepyeepyp3rson]

wwe/pro fighters!141 x announcer!reader

John Price, former two-time Wold Champion, the Bear of the Ring, back from retirement. Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, a newcomer, moving on up to the big leagues. The Golden Boy of London. John "Soap" MacTavish, the Street Fight Champion, the half of the most menacing duo in WWE history. And "Ghost," the Shadow of the Ring, who won last seasons duo Championship with Soap.

an: i JUST got into wwe, so sorry for any inaccuracies! correct me, it's always fun to learn more :3 also also! my first full fic 😭😭 got SO SCARED posting this so sorry if it low key sucks, if it doesn't, i have plans for a second one + shoutout to my awsome beta reader (my best friend)

(masterlist, 2)

Recently, one of the announcers retired after a long career, and WWE scrambled to find a suitable replacement that wouldn't cause an uproar in the dedicated fanbase.

They chose you. A person with an impressive resume and a quick wit, willing to be accidentally trampled if need be. And the best part for the company? The fans love you, some even making compilations and edits of you. Of the few moments you get shown on camera at least. (The wrestlers are the main event.) And the wrestlers seem to like you just fine. Better than the refs and each other, at least. The 141 seem to like you the most, though.

Price, just coming back from a short retirement, was the first match you narrated. You loved him growing up, the finishing moves, the walkout song (Thunderstruck AC/DC,) everything. He put the attitude in the Attitude Era, the main event, the headliner. Then he retired.

You cried during his final show. Being one of the live announcers for his comeback now is huge for you.

He walked out on the ring, fought like hell, and at one point he slung his opponent over the net and the guy crashed into your table. Admittedly it was a little frightening, but seeing John Price drag the guy kicking and screaming back into the ring by his hair was enough of a reward. And the gruff "Sorry, dove," he said to you certainly didn't make anything worse.

But you thought that was it for the nicknames.

Until Gaz. Every match he has, whenever he has the mic, he's referencing you at least once, with an added "Love" or "Sunshine" to it. That alone gave you a thousand more followers on your Instagram, but the post he made on Twitter? At least ten thousand. And it wasn't anything major, but being the "Golden Boy" comes with certain privileges, and he uses them well. You start researching him after that, and he hasn't done that for any other announcer.

Soap and Ghost’s first team-up of the season has them against the men they stole the Duo Champions titles from. Graves and Makarov. Match made in Hell, the two of them. They can't stand each other, but they hate the 141 boys enough to justify a team-up.

During the match, Soap broke Makarov's arm. Maybe he just forgot it wasn't his usual rules, or maybe it was the reference he made to you during the pre-fight trash-talk session. Either way, Ghost had his back, as always, and covered for him by throwing the rest of the match as the script told them to. Either way, they were disqualified.

And you? You're having the time of your life. The fights are right up by your face, the adrenaline rush right there, and this time you actually get to chase it.

Maybe you're egging them on a bit. Grinning like mad during Price's first match, responding to Gaz's tweet and comments with nothing short of glowing praise, giving colorful commentary during Soap and Ghost’s fight. But who can blame you, really? For liking your job, for entertaining people.

Maybe that's why this match, the grand match between Task Force 141 and The Shadows is packed. You entertain people just as much as the wrestlers.

The lights flash, Thunderstruck plays, the 141 boys walk out. Then here comes Graves for a rematch against the ones who broke his arm, complete with his entourage behind him. Surprisingly the whole broken arm thing fits the storyline well, after some panicking from the writers and producers.

"Your boy broke my arm." Graves starts, grin sharp, canines poking out. Grinning despite the red-hot pain in his arm.

"We do what we have to. Keep your mouth shut next time, aye?" It's a measured response from Price, but the headbutt Soap does as soon as the sentence settles is definitely not.

"Grab your popcorn people, the world's Street Fight Champion Soap is jumping right into the fight!" And there's your voice, over the speakers. Sounding thrilled.

The fans both cheer and jeer and Ghost’s chant is started up, a steady thump, thump, of boots on the floor of the stadium.

The fight starts without much else, men thrown and chairs cracked over heads. With the disadvantage Graves has, it's clear who will win, but the play-by-play is still fun to give.

"Oh! And Graves has got Soap on the ropes, can he break his hold- and Ghost runs up behind him, always on his six, yanking Graves away! This is the Champion duo ladies and gentlemen."

And maybe it's distracting the boys a little. Maybe Johnny puffs up a little when you point out his title, maybe Ghost looks over at the booth for a little too long. Just maybe. And just maybe that gives the Shadows an opening for a takedown move or two. And just maybe, the 141 loses twice in a row.

[moonstruckme]

Hi,

I love your writing and your ideas.I was worried if you could write sth about remus as a detectiv. Maby he and reader meet on the job or they are partners.Do whatever you want. Hope this inspires you💗

Hi back! I love this idea and I lowkey thought I was gonna do better with it (I'm less thrilled with the results, sorry) but I hope you like it <3

cw: mention (and some vague flashback) of robbery

detective!Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 1k words

Thunder booms, and you flinch. The detective’s eyebrows lift a millimeter. You pull his jacket closer over your wet clothes, embarrassed. 

“Can I make you some tea?” he offers. 

“No, thank you.” 

You sit in silence for a few heartbeats. The detective seems comfortable with it, but you squirm, his gaze too discerning for your liking. The rain you’ve both come in from has slicked a few tendrils of hair to his forehead, the rest fighting valiantly to curl at the ends. His face is scattered with scars you’d expect more from a hardened military type than a cop, and the circles under his eyes hint at more than one long night spent at the station. Nights probably not unlike this one, only a smattering of police around as he interviews you at his desk.

“Officer—” 

“Remus,” he reminds you gently. 

“Right, sorry.” Your voice quiets. Remus’ expression softens, going tender like he wants to reject your apology, but he doesn’t speak. “Don’t you have questions for me?” 

“I do,” he says, “but—I hope you’ll excuse me for saying—you seem rather shaken up.” 

A laugh, short and humorless, puffs out of you. 

“I’m not saying I don’t understand why.” His calm gaze doesn’t leave yours. “Witnesses are generally more reliable once they’ve had a chance to get comfortable, though. Process what they’ve seen.” 

Your fingers twist in the material of his jacket. You wonder if he takes your trembling for a traumatic response. It might be, you don’t know; your heart is hammering, but it’s also just cold in here. 

“How am I supposed to do that?” you ask. 

“Just like this.” One corner of Remus’ mouth lifts, just a little. You think of the classic good-cop-bad-cop routine from TV shows. You doubt they bother doing that with witnesses, but Remus seems so approachable you’re half wondering when his worse half will come in. “Chatting. Coming down from the adrenaline. Letting me get you tea.” 

“I’m really okay,” you say, doing your best to return his small smile. 

Remus’ warms in response. “As you like. Let’s start from the beginning, yeah? We can take breaks whenever you want.” 

You nod, preparing yourself. 

“What were you doing at the supermarket?” 

“I was…shopping?” Your response seems so obvious you turn it into a question unintentionally. Remus’ expression conveys understanding. He leans forward, setting his elbows on the desk casually. 

“I know it seems unimportant,” he says, “but I’m trying to get a full picture. What were you shopping for?” 

“Oh. Um, I was out of peanut butter.” 

“Was it raining when you went in?” 

You frown. He has to know the answer to that; it’s been raining all evening. “Yes.” 

“What did you do once you got there?” 

“I went to find the peanut butter. I was just barely going to the till when I…when the robbery happened.” 

You don’t realize you’ve mirrored Remus’ posture until his finger touches yours. You’re sitting with your elbows on the desk also, your hands millimeters from his. 

“How did you know it was happening?” Remus asks gently. “Did you see it, or was there a sound?” 

“A sound,” you confirm, your voice wavering a bit. The tip of his forefinger brushes against yours again. “The woman at the till shouted.” 

“What made her shout?” 

“I guess because he showed her the knife.” 

“Did you see that as well?” 

“Yeah. But not right then. She’d already opened the till by the time I got there.” 

The images in your head are already hazing over, memory fading into fiction. The way the employee’s short, frightened cry had made you look up from your phone, freezing you in your tracks just outside the refuge of an aisle. The man hadn’t known there was anyone else in the store. That was clear by the way his eyes widened above his surgical mask, swiveling impulsively to point the knife at you, wavering between two targets. The three of you caught together in a mess of panic. 

You don’t remember doing it, but later you found you’d set your jar of peanut butter down on a random shelf, as though that simple offering would appease the robber and save you any further trouble. 

“What was the person with the knife wearing?” Remus asks. 

“He had a blue jacket, like a windbreaker.” You put your chin to your shoulder, feeling the slick material of the jacket draped over your shoulders. A thoughtless, sleepy movement. “Sort of like this one. Without the police logo, obviously.” 

“About how tall would you say he was?” 

You shrug. “Taller than me. He wasn’t huge, but he was…I don’t know, he had a knife.” 

Remus hums, his finger stroking across your knuckle. He must have moved his hand closer without you noticing. “That must have been frightening.” 

You shrug again. 

He lets you stew in another long, heavy silence. Your face begins to feel hot. 

“Are you alright?” he finally asks, softly. 

“Yeah.” You clear your throat. “Sorry. Just, you’re right, it was scary.” 

“You don’t have to apologize.” Remus’ gaze is warm. Compassionate. “I’m sure you’re tired, I don’t mean to keep you here any longer than necessary. You’ve been a big help. If it makes you feel any better, we’ve been following a robber matching this description for a while, and he doesn’t tend to repeat within the same neighborhood. So you shouldn’t worry.” 

Oh, he’s so kind. He thinks you’re all quiet and shy because you need comfort. And of course, you are rattled still, but it’s got a thing or two to do with that low voice, with those lovely, deep hazel eyes that seem soldered to yours. If Remus wants to improve your memory, he should probably stop touching your hand like a Victorian gentleman testing the bounds of propriety. 

“Do you have any more questions for me?” you ask. 

“A few,” he says, apology in his tone. “Are you sure you wouldn't like anything warm to drink? You’re shivering terribly.” 

You feel very warm, actually, but when his finger moves to your second knuckle the shivers worsen. “Um, sure. I’d have a cup of tea.”

[leighsartworks216]

But they cradled me, yes?

Sylus x gn!Reader

Based on this post

Warnings: blood, super vague refs to Sylus's route (what we can guess at, anyway), slight angst, bittersweet

Word Count: 707 (nice)

Main Masterlist

Love and Deepspace Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

You think of all the things Sylus has done before you met him, sometimes. It’s unfathomable, at best, but you can’t help it.

When he texts you, asking if you’re alright when you send a distraught crow emoji, you wonder if he’s said those words to someone else before.

When he uses his Evol to snag a rare plushie from the claw machine and hands it over, telling you that you just need to say the word and he’d do anything for you, you have to wonder if you’re the only one that is true for.

When he drapes his jacket over your shoulders at a formal event - to keep you warm or hide you from prying eyes, you’re not sure - and he tucks it around your front to ensure it won’t slip off, you have to wonder if you’re the first person to wear his clothes like this.

And you’ll never know.

On some levels, that’s a wonderful thing. When you first met Sylus, when he used his Evol to hold and manipulate you into trying to Resonate with him, when he tried to alter you to reach his goals, you’re more than certain you only got a brief glimpse into who he was before then.

You still see the aftershocks of that carefully instilled terror. In the world around him, it manifests as stares and frightened whispers, devotions of followers terrified to incur his wrath. In you, it made you flinch when he tried holding your hand.

The first time he tried, it was a lovely night. He’d taken you shopping, encouraging you to get anything that caught your eye, carrying bags from different stores effortlessly while he followed along. Then, he took you to dinner. He treated you to the finest cuisine possible, tempting you into trying nearly every item on the menu. Afterwards, he led you up to the rooftop to see the stars twinkling down on the N109 Zone. You think they shine brighter in the harsh territory he calls home.

His fingers had brushed your hand, and you’d startled away, wide eyed and frightened. He’d retracted his touch immediately, apologizing with a slight smile. Once the initial fear ebbed, you’d tried apologizing for reacting that way. But he’d silenced you sharply, saying you did not have to be sorry for a hurt he caused.

He didn’t try to hold your hand again after that. When you felt safe enough, you’d slipped your hand in his, palms pressed close and fingers intertwined. He’d looked down at you with a tenderness you’d never seen before.

You wonder just how much further that hurt runs, for him to be where he is today.

But what does it matter? Where he is today is with you, watching a cheesy romance film in his home, curled together on the couch. He holds your hand, rubbing his thumb along your knuckles. When you look over, he’s not watching the screen anymore.

You tease him about missing the movie, but he says he’ll have time to watch it again. But this time, he wants to savor your reactions, while they’re their most genuine.

The characters in the background are forgotten as he lets your hand go, shifting to cup your face in both his hands. His eyes flit across your face, before settling on your eyes.

He uses his hold to tilt your head where he can reach, before leaning forward to press his lips to your forehead.

There are times with him when you feel sticky, warm liquids on your hands. The lines between hallucination and reality blur when you look down and see blood staining your palms, your fingers.

Sometimes they’re so drenched, you can’t see any exposed skin past your wrist.

You don’t know what these glimpses mean yet. What they’re trying to tell you. But you can’t shake the feeling deep in your gut that they’re real, fragments of a past life you’ve forgotten.

You reach up to hold his own face in your hands, smiling at him as you draw him down to return the favor.

There is blood on both of your hands.

What does it matter? So long as you cradle each other so softly, the blood can be washed away.

[ekurie987]

an interesting thing about the dimetrescu sisters is their eyes are CRAZY. like i was looking on Pinterest for drawing refs and noticed some mods that would take their eye makeup off / bloodstains off. when you really focus on their pupils they look MANIC. that really adds to why they are so ho̶t̶ terrifying. I’m noticing in Cassandra’s specifically:

what makes her frightening is that instead of being angry or threatening she looks absolutely manic, adrenaline filled, and excited for the hunt like a rabid animal. she’s so fucking scary and her big yellow eyes are a large factor in that !!!!

I just like little details like this tysm for reading 🫶🫶

[jesncin]

Chimera Constantine breakdown, refs & nods mega-post

Welcome to the master post of behind the scenes for the Chimera Constantine comics. In the style of the Sons of Mars ones I made, this post archives our research and process. So here we go! This will be a mix of showing references and personal anecdotes for how we cobbled this project together.

I'll be repeating some things I've mentioned across blog posts because I like having all this info in one place.

So! There's a lot of ways to go about re-interpretation and re-imagining a story, and one of my techniques is to not get overly attached to research. While it's good to be informed about a character, sometimes knowing every little thing about them can make one hesitant to innovate and try something different with them. So I'm purposely mindful about how much material I research.

But how does something like that work when the character in question has only 2-3 total appearances, one arc, and a quick revisit several years later? We play twin telephone.

For this project, Cin read the Hellblazer Golden Boy arc and vaguely retold it to Jes, who would then write a story based on assumptions and half-remembered memories of the story. Letting personal experience, influences and bias fill the blanks. We're inspired by how Naoki Urusawa wrote Pluto based on his mis-remembered memories of reading Astro Boy. Also when I was a kid I used to look at book covers and summaries and make up a story based on the limited information I was given. It's fun for me. Part of why I love obscure characters so much is that the lack of content about them lets the reader fill in the blanks about their lives and try telling new stories about them that aren't constrained by a saturated canon.

The original Golden Boy arc written by Jamie Delano (#39-40) is about John Constantine coming to the realization that he strangled his twin in the womb. After taking some 'shrooms, John...manifests into another reality, it's very surreal. There, John meets his twin from a universe where John had died, and his brother gets to live. The twin (taking on the name John Constantine, we'll call him Golden Mage to keep it simple) is John's opposite in every better way. They decide to merge their souls to restore...the universe. You kind of had to be there.

John's twin returns many issues later (#249) to wrap up a different arc, there he and the story are written by Andy Diggle.

The first panel of our full comic references the tarot cards John gets from his reading with Zed.

This panel is a direct reference to this scene where John sees his own shadow on a curtain after his reading with Zed. I like the imagery of this arc, even when the dialogue describing twins is really cringe. We changed it to a mirror to reinforce the mirror imagery throughout the comic. Speaking of which...!

Through Jes' reworking of the story, mirrors were streamlined to be the main way alternate universes were portrayed in the story. They'd be the main motif that paralleled the twins too. In issue #249 of Hellblazer, John uses the mirror to confront his twin who resides within himself after their soul-merge years ago.

The line "He's so beautiful, he frightens me." is spoken by a doctor witnessing the Golden Boy's birth in his universe. We repurposed it to be John's dialogue for when he's describing the man he sees in the mirror.

John's twin uses a sacrifice involving these candles to summon his sickly twin. Jes repurposed the use of candles to a magic salt circle that contains spirits like the Golden Boy (he's nicknamed "Goldie" in our take).

The Golden Boy! Even though he died in the womb, he's portrayed as a boy. Probably because a floating fetus wasn't what they were going for. We wanted to give him a distinct look that foreshadows how much he would grow his hair out. I like that his mouth isn't visible! We use the shape of his eyes and posing to get across how he's feeling. It gives him a vacant-toddler-stare I find really endearing.

We made some minor adjustments to the Golden Mage's design. Initially, we followed his canonical pulled back long hair. But since he was a challenging character to emote when we had one less arm to work with, we decided to part his hair so that it could carry how he's feeling. I like when I can get it to cover a part of his face for intense moments! If it was animated, it would 100% be expressive Ghibli hair.

Our main goal for Golden Mage's characterization is to make him feel like his own person. In the original arc, he's less of a sibling and more of an au of John Constantine himself. He doesn't get his own name. Despite gloating about having a better and more fulfilling love life than John, he also shared the exact same love interests John does. Being a twin is less about a family story and more a vehicle to talk about self hatred and potential here. Which isn't fair to the individuality of the characters!

(note, this is not how the panels look in the og comic, I've rearranged them so that they display on this post better)

So we characterized the Golden Mage to still have his canon charisma (albeit with the dialogue toned way down from his original appearance), but to have a thinly veiled temper under all that bravado to foil his con-man trickster brother. The Golden Mage was vaguely described as not being particularly attached to the love he receives. Golden Mage is also dismissive of his womb twin's death, saying it's something he shouldn't grieve since he never really knew him. We reinterpreted these lines as him being in denial over his brother's death, thinking himself as above his own feelings of grief.

Also as a tiny note, we kept the Golden Mage's name ambiguous to keep with the vibe of the original comic, but in my mind I headcanon his full name to be Marigold "Goldie" Constantine. The yellow flower is culturally associated with prosperity, but also grief and jealousy. It's perfect for him! So we made references to the flower in the cover and first panels of the comic. I also headcanon that as a kid he called John Constantine's ghost "Johnny".

My influences for how this whole beginning meeting scene is staged and played out is E.M Carroll's When I Arrived At The Castle. The "animated" panels of Golden Mage looking back at John and breaking through the mirror is a direct call back to the keyhole sequence in that comic! The premise of daydreaming about how your life could have been and not realizing that you're staring at an alternate universe is loosely inspired by Junji Ito's Hellstar Remina. I really like the concept of staring into the unknown and then something sentient staring back from that. "What if our day dreams are just other realities we're dreaming of" kind of deal. I don't see that sort of thing in the saturation of multiverse stories these days.

Next reference is the Dead Boy's Heart! While I like that this story's its own thing, I was surprised it wasn't linked to John's dead brother in any way. It felt thematically relevant, so we brought it over as a device to trap Goldie while the brothers merge souls.

Twins can be positioned in a bunch of ways in the womb. I think canonically, John and Golden Mage were positioned like they are in the cover for Hellblazer #39, ideal for strangling I guess! We changed it to echo the motion of yin and yang. I do think the inclusion of yin and yang is a little cringey in the original comic even though I get what it's going for (balance and all that, it's just kind of simplistic to the philosophy). But I do like it as a way to echo card imagery we established in this comic. We combined the imagery of the tarot cards featured in the Golden Boy arc and King/Queen/Joker playing cards. So it felt right to bring back that whole upside down twins in the womb thing. Special fact, this is how my twin and I were vibing in the womb.

The scene where the twins hit Ctrl + E to merge layers! It's a pretty iconic pose! I like how their heads peaked out of the panels so I brought it back for our comic too. In our version, the twins fail to merge their souls entirely. In the revisit to the Golden Boy character in the comics in issue #249, it's revealed that the merging "failed" in some way, trapping the Golden Mage within John's soul.

For John's ghost counterpart from Golden Mage's universe we took Dave McKean's portrayal of him very literally haha. I know he doesn't literally have one eye, but we thought it gave him a really distinct look for us to stylize. We decided to keep the ghost kids consistent with no mouth and vacant pupil-less stares. We gave ghost kid!John a sort of bedsheet ghost form to contrast against Goldie.

Speaking of one eye! That's another motif we decided to emphasize throughout the comic. It's not in the source material at all, but we liked it as a way to both hint at chimerism and visualize how the two brothers serve as incomplete halves of each other. Special fact! Heterochromia can show up in chimera twins. Of course in the case of identical twins like the Constantines, their chimerism isn't as detectable since they have identical sets of DNA. But! It's still fun to stylize in a supernatural way. For our take we show the glowing golden eye as the soul of the Golden Boy manifesting in his brother. I like to think that John takes advantage of how undetectable his chimerism is to have an upper hand in any soul-related deals he makes.

This stylized heterochromia is inspired by @ratblazer 's Constantine design! I made a subtle nod to it with young punk John's make up echoing the scar in her design too.

For John's dynamic with Goldie the Golden Boy, we built the conflict of the story around making him doubt his attachment to his dead brother. There's a line of dialogue in the revisited Golden Boy arc about John needing to "let go", so we repurposed it into the Golden Mage assuring him that his attachments make him weak.

Even though the Golden Boy doesn't show up nearly as much as I think he should in canon, John has been shown to be really sentimental about him. John wants to be the Golden Boy's friend because he's so beautiful John mistook him for Jesus as a kid. Canonically, the Golden Boy ghost rejects John's friendship, likely still not over the whole strangulation in the womb thing. It still breaks John's heart though, he's a sobbing mess about being owned by a dead kid.

We changed this whole dynamic! The twin murder in the womb felt very X-men Xavier vs Cassandra Nova, and it's hard to get behind babies having that much motivation before they're even born. In our version, Goldie is a vanishing twin absorbed by John, the sickly twin. Infants being accidentally strangled by umbilical cords does occur in reality. However, we changed their origin to being that of Vanishing Twin syndrome because it was more specific for the ideas we were going for.

I feel this crucial change is more in tune with the overall themes of Hellblazer. John always cheats death at a cost. People are constantly sacrificed for John's continued survival. But the Golden Boy's case would be special, because he sacrificed himself out of love before he even knew what it means to love. Unlike the other ghosts that haunt John Constantine, Goldie isn't resentful of John. I think it makes more sense for the Golden Boy to be attached to John because he's all the Golden Boy's ever known. As a chimera twin, John is like a horcrux holding his brother's soul in his body. This reaffirms survivor's guilt to be something John experiences since his birth.

Canonically, although the Golden Mage initially feels sorry for the ghost of John that haunts him, he rejects John as well. John's ghost in canon is like a nuisance that keeps bothering Golden Mage. There's an instance mentioned of Golden Mage trying to recreate his murder in the womb? It's cryptically written. But Golden Mage does keep using the phrase "banished" to describe his brother.

We took this and made it so that he performed an exorcism on himself to remove his supernatural chimera-bond to John's ghost. The Golden Boy arc is pretty unique when compared with how saturated multiverse stories are nowadays since it doesn't share the science fiction sensibilities. Grief comes up a lot in multiverse stuff, in these stories characters use parallel universes to save a loved one as they're bargaining with their loss. For our take, we wanted a character to use the alternate universes to hurt and lash out at the loved one they're grieving. I pulled influence from Everything Everywhere All At Once's concept of a self destructive character on a search for the one familial connection who could understand what they're feeling.

References! The first panel is a nod to issue #36 where John is sleeping with Marj. We changed her to Kit. The second panel is a direct callback to issue #67, an iconic visual for his break up angst era.

Trivia; this page was added at the last minute! I needed something to bridge the birthday cupcake page and the final panel of Golden Mage's breakdown, so I linked them through candles! In this weird case, I reference my own work! This is a callback to Birthdays, a short comic we made for John Constantine's canonical birthday. It sets the premise for his relationship with Goldie based on the habits and experiences of survivor twins. The pages referencing this comic are meant to re-establish that John shares meals with his twin.

I wanted this page to feel like John's lighting an incense for his dead brother, and to contrast it with the snuffed out candles from Golden Mage's flashback. The candle has a yellow and blue intertwined spiral pattern that calls back to the color of John and Golden mage's dialogue boxes and speech bubbles, along with how twisted they look when they merged. Implying that in this universe, they're together in some way. I really wish I did this intentionally but it was by complete coincidence of making the cupcake pink and balancing it out with pastel primaries. But I sure can acknowledge how cool it looks symbolically okay???

The dialogue here is a nod to John's monologue in issue #19 where John is comforting Simon Hughes. It's re-contextualized a bit to be about sharing grief together in our comic.

This is a really goofy one but- since Golden Mage is supposed to be the fully realized potential of John, we thought that he would have a successful career as a musician and singer where John didn't. I don't think Golden Mage would be a punk singer though, he probably does something he'd consider more elevated.

BUT-! In the 30th Anniversary edition of Hellblazer, Sting (the guy John's appearance is based on) wrote an introduction for the edition while roleplaying as the Golden Boy. Which is nuts. The Anniversary edition basically canonized Sting as being a Constantine variant in our universe with the soul of Golden Boy. Sting, as Golden Boy, describes himself as a musician and singer too. Absolutely bonkers for Sting to throw me a bone this late in the game since no one's touched this character in ages.

Another E.M Carroll influenced panel sequence. This is from the digital comic Out of Skin.

So that brings us to the end of the comic! We've had the ideas for this comic cooking for some time, and it's people's continued interest in our takes on these characters that gave us the chance to finally bring the story together.

I'm very fascinated by the Golden Boy story, not because it's particularly strong compared to other stories in Hellblazer's run, but because its intriguing premise is bogged down by its surreal take on typical Evil Twin tropes. og Hellblazer's strength was always in its raw humanity. John Constantine's character countered the sensational spectacle of his superhero contemporaries. He may be able to outwit a vampire but he's can't fight back against being brutalized by the police. In one of his most iconic arcs, he finds out he has cancer- not because of any supernatural shenanigans, but because he literally smokes too much. In another arc, John's long time girlfriend breaks up with him, and he lashes out by saying the cruelest things to her. When he hears that his abusive dad is murdered, John still cries about it.

I think the Golden Boy arc and the retcon that followed his brief return actively undermines what makes Hellblazer special. Suddenly John's having X-Men-level evil twin escapades in the womb. Suddenly, merging with his twin will help save the universe. Suddenly, it's not smoking that caused John to have cancer! It was actually because he merged with his twin and his twin became the cancer from inside him! Suddenly it wasn't a moment of lashing out that caused John to say all those cruel things to his ex upon their break up, that was actually the Golden Boy controlling him from within, so you see it's not really his fault! Also what followed the break up was extra devastating because of the Golden Boy, somehow.

Often I hear in fandom that when you change a character too much from their canon counterpart it's basically "just an oc" at that point, but in the case of characters who get to be re-imagined and passed through many creative teams, I think that kind of mindset is deeply limiting for transformative work. The line I draw between "just an oc" and an interpretation is if the changes involved engage with their source material in any way or if they're just superficial. Big changes and 180 flips can work because they still respond to the history of said character. It's why we see that kind of thing in canon a lot. These characters are inherently built to be passed through many hands in meaningful ways to varying degrees of success. So I hope that by showing all this process that goes behind big changes to a canon character, people better understand what can go into transformative creativity.

Our thesis for this re-imagining is to take what makes Hellblazer special and re-examine the arc that we felt undermined that. Despite the grief John has for many characters in his cast, mourning isn't brought up at all in the Golden Boy arc. It's dismissed by the characters in narration, and the Golden Mage himself isn't even recognized as a sibling by the narrative, no matter how many times John calls him "bro".

Survivor twin grief over dead womb twins especially is a real thing that's often dismissed because in the words of canon Golden Mage himself "I couldn't mourn for those I'd never known". This is not true to the experience of twins. They play with and remember each other from spending 9 months growing in a tight space together. So when one of them doesn't make it out with the other, that survivor feels a grief they can't comprehend. It can manifest in unresolved trauma, commitment issues, and survivor's guilt. All things that feel so relevant to the themes of John Constantine's character. I think that by integrating the real lived experiences of survivor twins, the Golden Boy arc could've been one the most human and personal parts of the original Hellblazer run. It's could've been a story that helped a community of people so rarely validated in their grief feel seen.

[ppnuggie]

　　　　　　XENOMORPH KING x gn reader

　　　　『　king ,, gender neutral reader 』

　　-> xeno king hcs | meeting him

　　— fluff ,, sfw ,, yautjas are in this universe ,, featuring my ocs panther (yautja talked abt later on in the hcs) & king (the xenomorph ,, briefly mentioned)

　　— here are the hcs :D this is kinda somewhat an introduction to meeting king and more hcs will come soon ,, introducing his brothers of sort ,, im making their refs slowly 😭😭🫡 so hopefully those will be up before i decide to actually turn these hcs into a story n stuff

| • it was an assignment from your higher ups ,, heading to a lesser known "shake and bake" colony located on a distant planet where the habitable zone was way out from the sun surprisingly

| • usually habitable zones for planets would be in the middle ,, but this one was farther out ,, though it also made it more dangerous to be on

| • the winters were hot and the summers were cold ,, temperatures would get quite extreme but for the most part humans could somewhat live on there

| • you were sent with a team of two other scientists ,, along with an android ,, to examine and study the planet more

| • it was on one of your more routinely walks and expeditions around the more countryside of the planet that you stumbled upon something that hadnt been picked up before by scanners or drones

| • abandoned and trashed ,, a lab that was quite dark and gruesome to look at stood in the middle of nowhere on the barren planet

| • you werent too sure of what happened there ,, though it was evident it wasnt anything good judging by all the dried up liquid stains ,, the broken glass and scratches all over the wall

| • some of the furniture and walls looked melted ,, like somewhat poured lava on it and left it there

| • alone on this expedition ,, you took your notes and marked the location on a map of the planet ,, making a mental note to come back soon

| • the more you looked around the more frightening and on edge you became ,, finding skeletal remains of creatures you werent too sure what they were

| • vials were stored away in a broken down freezer ,, or you assumed so based on their labels in an unknown language and strange color

| • there were vials with many strange colors ,, making you second guess if it even was blood inside them ,, vials storing blue and green and orange

| • none looked indigenous ,, as the most the planet had to offer were these strange rodents that burrowed in the ground most the time ,, almost like those naked molerats from your own home planet ,, except these ones werent as terrifying to look at

| • though the more on edge you became the more curious you got ,, wondering what happened here exactly

| • documents were spilt on the ground ,, scattered about and dirtied up ,, some ripped apart and some with strange prints on them

| • without much of a second thought you took them ,, hoping that maybe you could decode the foreign language and figure out what was happening in this place before it became abandoned

| • you gathered what you could of the place ,, taking a few of the vials and gathering photo evidence of the area

| • while doing so ,, you werent aware of the fact you were being watched ,, stalked and observed by an unknown creature in the vicinity

| • when you got back to the base and showed your findings your crewmates were interested ,, the android apart of your team quickly recognizing the language in the documents

| • it belonged to these creatures called 'yacht-ja' ,, or something of those sorts ,, but he wasnt able to provide much else about the documents other than that

| • you planned to go back to the lab the next week ,, wanting to gather as much information on the area as you could before you left the planet and headed back to the mothership

| • after all ,, you were here for only research and study ,, all your findings on the planet would be taken back aboard the mothership for examination and peer review from other scientists aboard

| • the goal was to gather as many samples as possible ,, document as much as you could ,, and return to your station to head to another planet and repeat the process

| • packing a large lunch in case you stayed longer than expected ,, or did too much running around and had little food ,, you headed off back towards the lab with storage for as much information and to store as many samples as possible

| • your camera was ready ,, taking as many pictures as you could whilst also grabbing more vials from the lab itself ,, storing them away in your vehicular device to take back

| • you didnt pay too much attention to the time ,, more focused and fascinated with the lab around you ,, documenting all the rooms and trying to map out exactly how big it was

| • though something about the place did feel uneasy ,, almost like you werent meant to be here at all in the first place

| • not focusing too much on the feeling you continued ,, going through all the documents and photographing the bright green stains on the wall from who knows what

| • there were a few times you thought you saw something in the corner of your eye ,, almost like a figure yet when you looked there was nothing there ,, like a ghost was playing tricks on you

| • the longer you stayed ,, the more uneasy and skeptical you became of the place ,, not feeling the once comforting and interest as last week

| • when you had finished you gathered your equipment to head back to the base ,, noticing how cold and dark it had gotten and hoping you'd be back in time before the base was put on a lockdown for the night ,, usually for safety precautions as not much was known about the nightlife on the planet

| • unbeknownst to you the scene you would come back to ,, a foreign ship not of any human making was perched ontop of some of the houses whilst the rest of the place was up in flames

| • those yautja creatures you'd been told about earlier had visited ,, wreaking havoc wherever they went as they quickly went through all the humans living there ,, killing them quickly

| • with the base nowhere in sight you didnt bother sticking around ,, heading away from the place and into the countryside once again

| • though it wouldnt help ,, being followed by one of the creatures as they latched onto your vehicle and slashed at the metal and tires ,, quickly putting an end to your escape a few miles away

| • dark skin clashed well with his bright purple stripes ,, large scar over his eye and covering his body in general ,, with a bright colored chest

| • he didnt stare for too long before trying to get at you ,, chittering something in his language as he slashed away at your windows

| • adrenaline filled you ,, now positioned in a fight or flight situation and your gut told you to flee at that moment ,, crawling over the passenger seat and exiting out the door as you made a run for it into a nearby forest

| • it wasnt too difficult for the yautja to keep up ,, right on your tail as he ran after you

| • though his chase would be cut short ,, a large creature coming from out of the bushes and tackling him

| • too worried you'll be next ,, you didnt bother to stop and look back ,, continuing to run even though your legs burned and your lungs were on fire from how much cold air you were breathing

| • somehow you ended up at that same lab ,, almost like it was tied to you now that youve discovered it

| • it felt like a scene from coraline ,, where she walks away from the house and towards where the old well would be except it all turns white

| • though there wasnt no white barren land here ,, just the same abandoned lab

| • you weren't complaining though ,, as you'd rather be somewhere sheltered than out in the open ,, making your way through the maze of rooms and hallways before settling in a far away one

| • you collapsed to the floor ,, panting heavily as you shivered ,, sweat gathered at your forehead from the running and sudden near death experience

| • your eyes felt heavy ,, drowsy and exhausted yet you stayed awake ,, keeping guard and not trusting yourself to sleep in this place ,, not when there was too much happening

| • without your knowing ,, you had fallen asleep and left defenseless in the room ,, the creature that had taken out the yautja had followed you there

| • it gazed at your sleeping form ,, noticing your unconscious shivering and making a decision in its mind

| • curling its tail around your body ,, warmth slowly started to surround your body ,, somewhat ceasing your shivering

| • it could only wait for you awaken ,, resting its head on the cold ,, harsh ground as it kept you company through the night

[berrymoos]

🥭 ⏜ more regressor elle greenaway hcs!

➥ first batch here !! ⼃ tagging for team as family / team as caregivers , drunken regression [implied] , && padded agere

... if i had a nickel for every time i wrote something for elle instead of doing an essay due in 24 hours, i'd have 2 nickels, which isn't a lot but it's weird that it's happened twice, right? /ref. ; she's on the mind like crazy i am so ellebrained it's not even funny anymore. not a single day goes by where i don't think abt her she's just. AUGHHAHDJSHDJSH I'M CWAZY BOUT HER !!!!

🥭 ⼃ sudden touches r a big big no-no !! doesn't matter if it's a tap to the shoulder or a surprise hug from behind, they're an unpleasant reminder of the fisher king & a surefire way to send her into fight or flight mode. tickle fights are the biggest no-no (and unfortunately derek has learned this the hard way). even then, she goes through these "phases" in which she either wants nothing more than to cuddle or she's completely & utterly touch-adverse. the team checks in on her status by tapping her hand : pleasant reaction, touch is okay, unpleasant reaction, touch is not okay

🥭 ⼃ lots of tantrums because she has a terrible habit of keeping her emotions under wraps when she's big ; baby ellie doesn't have the strength for it, so it all boils over at the simplest of things, much to her dismay. she'll lash out over spilled apple juice or over a lost crayon, all because she didn't decompress after a rough week at work. her tantrums are destructive, like a hurricane tearing through anything in its path : hitting when she feels cornered, screaming, eventually retreating like a frightened animal. in times like these, gideon & jj are best at settling her

🥭 ⼃ her disdain for the phone increases tenfold when she's little ; she'll put it on silent, hide it under her pillow, & completely forget about it unless she absolutely needs it (ex, spence is shopping & she wants a snack). if one goes off around her she will whine & pout & huff until it's dealt with. much prefers hands-on activities like doodling & playing outside—if screen time is something she falls into, it'll be whatever is on tv. she always flocks back to old shows of her childhood, but occasionally she'll branch out to newer things if the synopsis is interesting enough.

🥭 ⼃ she'd rather die than admit anything relating to her headspace while big—literally includes trivial stuff like the kind of snacks she eats or movies she's seen. vague answers like “i don't know, i watch whatever's on” n “food is food, man, i'm not picky” . the team has to do full-on case studies when she's little just to find out anything (　-̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥᷄◞ω◟-̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥᷅ )

🥭 ⼃ spencer's ramblings continue to be music to her ears ; she takes in everything he says with the biggest brown eyes in existence, blinking at him eagerly as he chatters on and on about the history of ... well, who really knows! she certainly doesn't, but it doesn't matter to her in the slightest. the only way to get her down for a nap is if spencer is talking to her—get him to read a book & she'll be out before he gets through the first page.

🥭 ⼃ code white is the team's code for "elle is regressed on the field & we need to get her out of here." it's a conflicting situation for her ; she appreciates how they're not judging an involuntary reaction, appreciates how they care enough to take action, but she wishes they didn't have to. it's bad enough the fisher king lingers in her mind, but now she has to deal with her brain getting mushy & weird as a result at work? kick her while she's down, why don't you (-、-)

🥭 ⼃ definitely regressed in the hotel room with spencer. she isn't sure if it was reliving the memory as she confides in spencer, the alcohol lowering her walls, or both, but it doesn't take too much poking & prodding for her to collapse into his arms, sniffling, crying over any and everything under the sun. she's not much of a crier—spencer knows—but it's very hard to get her to stop once the tears begin. in the very least, elle didn't fall asleep alone that night

🥭 ⼃ during the four months of recovery leave, elle's nightmares struck with a vengeance. of course, she's had them before—when her dad first died & after cases that really struck a nerve within her—but it's the first time she's ever gotten so close to death. yes, she's been shot at ; yes, she's been hurt on the job ; but never has she been violated in such a manner in the comfort of her own home. never has she been in a hospital bed, fighting for her life while their unsub is still roaming free. many nights, she awoke screaming, crying uncontrollably in the darkness of her own room, huddled in bed, unable to move because the shadows are too big and too scary and she's only little and– uh-oh. a humiliating puddle soaking into her bedsheets. the idea of ... protection is one she absolutely despised at first, but she realized washing bedsheets most of every night isn't very efficient. she only wears them at night ; humiliation keeps her from going any farther

🥭 ⼃ ... when she's too little to truly recognize or deeply comprehend much of anything, the padding is more of an embrace rather than a chain

🥭 ⼃ she literally does not allow anybody to change her, either. as much as she loves spencer, jj, gideon, derek ... it's too intimate for her. it crosses boundaries she can't bend or twist for anybody else. she'd rather struggle with the straps all by herself, frustrated tears pricking her eyes, than have somebody see her at her most vulnerable

🥭 ⼃ big hoodies to conceal the padding !! elle has tons of hoodies of her own, but she likes stealing borrowing derek's cus they're suuuper–duper big & suuuuper–duper comfy !!

🥭 ⼃ on that note, she kinda hates pants while tiny ?? she'd much rather go without them because it's a lot more freeing in her mind, which is why she loves big, baggy hoodies, shirts, & things of similar likeness

🥭 ⼃ penny & morgan spoil her rotten, but penny is the worse of the two. while derek will indulge her desires from time to time, penelope is physically unable to say no to such a cutiepie like elle no matter how many times derek has taught her how to stand her ground !! elle will run to her if she gets in trouble by hotch or if derek is being silly with her ; she knows penny is gonna stick up for her no matter what !!

🥭 ⼃ petunia (her stuffed lamb) & mr brownie (jj's stuffed teddy bear) are confirmed best friends. they attend every single sleepover elle & jj have, every single playdate known to man ... inseparable bestie 4eva !! (until petunia has to get washed cus elle played too rough in the mud n got her all dirty ... but that's another issue for another day!)

🥭 ⼃ very blunt no matter the headspace. she will tell it like it is, well–meaning or not. it often gets her a mildly chastising glance from hotch, but many more giggles from the rest of her friends. (“tha’s mean, ellie!” jj will whisper, nudging her side. “’m not lyin’ ; he’s a big dummy!” elle will huff back, unbothered as she continues to play with her toys.)

[signanothername]

Ough, I'm wondering I know I know we should try and figure out ourselves BUT im wondering. Are you soul colors you use for color's flame in your comic hold any significance? I'm not sure if I'm just... overanalyzing things. Especially since there's a shift to a rainbow to more solid soul color switches from the first few panels to the other ones. Thanks!

Nah I’m actually glad you asked cause I actually love when people analyze the shit outta my comics, it makes me so happy cause i actually love to put all sorts of details in them gdgdgdgdh

I was even planning on replying to your tags cause they were so good dhdhhdh but i might as well use your ask to do so

And in fact, Color’s soul colors do hold a very big significance! I specifically chose the color depending on how Color is feeling or depending on the situation that’s happening ( this is far from what’s actually canon for Color, as the shape of the flame is actually what gives hints about his emotions in canon, so take the colors changing as simply a headcanon i love jdhdhdhhd)

Color starts with a rainbow cause he’s on a hike, he’s feeling all sorts of emotions (I headcanon that Color loves hiking) but it also represents that Color isn’t feeling one emotion strongly over others

Then when he sees Nightmare, the colors turn to a solid color one at a time, but if you look closely you realize the colors i chose are specific to the situation

Here’s an example

When color talks about whether Killer wanted “payback” I specifically chose yellow cause it’s the justice soul in Color, then it changes to blue when Color tells Killer that he loves him more, and blue is for integrity, then it turns to orange when he tells Nightmare about Killer’s message to him cause it requires bravery to say such things to the likes of Nightmare, and so on the colors keep changing to suit the situation throughout the comic >:)

And allow me to reply to your tags here (they’re so good i love them sm dhhdhdhhd)

And thank you for liking his design shdhhzh i just really wanted to draw him with a different outfit, especially since he’s on a hike, a lil adventure if you will, so i wanted to have him be pretty <33333

And as for the clasp it was honestly unintentional hdhzhsh but now that you mention it I definitely need to have Color wear all sorta things that point to his besties, idk i feel like Color would be the type to do that a lot dhhxhxhxh

And i’m glad you called Nightmare pathetic actually cause that’s what i was aiming for, Nightmare is feeling like a lil frightened kid again >:)

AND YESSSSSS like when i was making the comic, Color calling Killer to ask if it’s ok was so damn important to me, like Color is that kinda person y’know? He tries to take into consideration so many things before he acts, he thinks about things and keeps thinking and thinking, Color is emotionally intelligent and his consideration of everything is why i love to think Color gets burned out sometimes, that being said, Color would absolutely think about Killer first before he acts, and while he obviously wants to help Nightmare where he can (despite disliking Nightmare cause he’s selfless like that <333) his bestie comes first <3333333

AND THANK YOU FOR NOTICING THESE DETAILS EEEEEEEEEE

As for the big hand, YAS!!! It’s Canon! Color has 2 other weapons besides his blaster! It’s mentioned in Color’s official ref sheet! (Warning for flashing colors!) But the fandom doesn’t portray it often unfortunately (including me I’m guilty of that) that’s why I really wanted to include it in the comic! :D

And yessssss!! I aimed for Nightmare to look extremely exhausted by the end, I really wanted to show how enduring 500 years of cruelty did to him hdhdhhdhd

And yessss Color is that kinda person, he wants to help where he can, and I mentioned it in a convo with a friend here hdhdhdh

And actually thank you for connecting Color’s design to carebears i love them dhhdhzhhz (the design wasn’t inspired by them i just did it on a whim but i’m so glad it reminded you of carebears actually hdhshs)

[namu-the-orca]

Do you have any advice on how to begin drawing a cetacean? When I'm drawing terrestrial animals, I can break them down into simpler shapes pretty easily, but cetaceans are just Big Tubes and I'm completely stumped on how to start

(Disclaimer that my work is rather stylised, so I'm not looking for advice on photorealism! Just any advice you have in general. I admire your ability to understand and render these sausage-bodied beasts)

Hi! That's an interesting question. I have to admit I had to draw a couple of dolphins first to see how I actually deal with them when free-handing lol. So much of my work as of late is scientific illustration, where in many cases I can build upon my own older illustrations. The new pieces are always 100% new, but correcting a base - however poor - is easier than starting from scratch.

Before I go any further let me stress the eternal importance of references. I can draw a dolphin fine from memory but for it to be actually accurate I need references. I always use them. Especially when it comes to weird poses or angles, but even for illustrations I will reference 25-50 photographs. Use them, study them, find them. They are a resource not a cheat.

Also, years ago I actually started work on a whole series of dolphin drawing tutorials. Or rather, collections of notes and tips for different topics (anatomy, differences between males and females, colouration, variation). Looking at the files now I see I had actually written and drawn a frightening amount already. Perhaps I should try to finish them? Is that something people would be interested in? Anyway, it starts off with a word of encouragement, which I do want to share here:

Actual advice is below the cut:

ONTO METHODS - illustrations

I found that for me, my method depends on whether I'm making an illustration or a full scene painting. For illustrations - which are in flat side view - I actually embrace the sausage. I drew a dolphin for you and saved the steps of how I go about it.

And this is the first. I start with a sort of flat-bottomed airfoil shape, and then add fins and a beak in approximate locations.

Next is refining the appendages and giving a face. Shape and placement of appendages as well as eye and mouth line is all experience and/or reference work.

Then comes fixing what I messed up lol. I always make the head too big first try (would have been good for a baby dolphin though!). Using cutting/transforming/moving selections around I correct proportions to what feels correct to me (again, that part comes from having seen and drawn a lot of dolphins).

Add some markings and hooray we have a spinner dolphin! This is the part where I would seriously start consulting references to check all the details and proportions are in order. If you don't need (photo)realism you can skip that step and use refs further back in the process just to get the shape/idea/colour of the species you're trying to paint right.

MORE METHODS - for different poses

When it comes to dynamic poses, my workflow is completely different. I just start from the nose and build my dolphin from there. Because as said above, they do have anatomy. And I think the way the beak flows into the cheek, the eye bumps connect, then the curve of the throat, the attachment of the pectoral fin, the way the belly curved up towards the genital region, the slight bulge behind that, then the muscles of the peduncle which flow into the flukes - I think the relations between those separate parts are enough for me?

These are the little dolphins (and a porpoise) I sketched from memory. In all cases I started from the tip of the nose and built from there, with minimal or no adjustments/erasing along the way. It was very much outline work. Details on eyes, mouth, etc, would come later. The killer whale is a bit different and got way more detailed than the rest. With such a front view angle I do use some spherical shapes to break it down for the body and face.

Otherwise I've never really liked or used the method of breaking an animal down into shapes, it never felt logical or intuitive to me. My "method" (if you can call it that lol) just comes from having drawn a lot of dolphins. I don't know if it is necessarily helpful when you want to get a grasp of them when starting out. Regardless I do hope this answered your question somewhat and you could get something useful out of it!

Also, I realise now I mostly talked about "standard "dolphins - for whales/short-beaked smaller cetaceans/etc my process is mostly the same, except their heads just have different shapes.

[puppethorror-confessions]

I put together a ref sheet for Sally today because I'm commissioning someone from outside the fandom to draw her, and it reminded me how much I love her actually (platonically ← arospec ← but still). Sally my friend Sally. I wanna hang out with her and watch the plays she makes with the other neighbors...

She put together a Halloween party and then got so frustrated everyone was telling random stories she just casually dropped the biggest piece of lore on the neighborhood's Situation™ we've gotten so far. She went dressed as Pedrolino from Commedia dell'arte.

She climbed the tallest Homewarming tree in town while singing carols, so that Santa Claus would come and wish everyone a good Homewarming, and then just stayed there all day (until she saw Eddie and guided him to the party).

She put together play recreations of Jack and the Beanstalk (story about arriving to a place thousands of times bigger than you, full of magical things, with a giant who wants to kill you and whom you end up having to kill) and the Telltale Heart (story about killing someone and hiding them under the floorboards of your house only to become haunted by the heartbeats).

She cares a lot for Poppy and wants her to participate in the plays, asks her for help to create costumes and food props, and feels really guilty whenever she learns Poppy is frightened by the horror plays. Even if yes the bricking up was a bad idea (even though it was proposed by Barnaby but like w/e) she wanted to help her and keep her safe, and got the whole neighborhood to help. Similarly she cares for Julie also, having her be an important character of just about every play, valuing her additions to the scripts for them (see the Sally & Julie hidden video from Playfellow Exhibition update).

She's secretly very observant, where even though she dislikes both Frank and Eddie, she knows about what's going on between them (whatever you think that is) and brings Frank over to help Eddie when he needs it in commercials (and leaves them alone so that Frank could break character). It's implied she knows more than she lets on too in general...

Her backstory states that even though she was already the brightest star in the sky, she came down to live in Home to help everyone else become stars (→ famous) too! Σ:o)>

I want her to be relevant to the rest of the plot of WH so so bad ... I wanna hear more from her...

[cokoweee]

Heyyyyy buddy got a few questions for ya

Can I just tag you instead of sending asks for fics? I can format it a lot easier when it’s not on the ask thing but I don’t wanna be a bother if tagging will annoy you

Also can you show a picture of your sona in color but also as the big one? I feel a tad bad for freaking up the little one so we makin it up with a better one that’s acceptable

Gah this is so stupid and I’m cringing but me and my friends are entered in a film contest. The film is about a girl struggling with a mental disorder and it’s really uncomfortable and unsettling and some parts. So to lighten it up we’re putting in little references. I was gonna do the ninja turtles but quickly realized that when I think of them I mostly just think of your AUs.

I’m banging my head against the wall as I type this, but do you wanna be in it? Not as acting or anything but like as a reference? Whatever you wish we’ll do. (Except swear coz I have to present it to the university and I’m frightened) but yeah. I speak Spanish semi-decently if you wanna like choose something for the main character to say at some point. Or like your sona can randomly be on the wall or somethin. You can say no ofc, but if you’re up to it I’ll tag you when I post it sometime next year so you can get credit for your ref. Or you can stay anonymous whatever’s more comfy for you. I just don’t wanna reference ur stuff without permission

AUGHAHSJ IM SORRY FOR SPEAKING SO MANY WORDS AT YOU

-Writing anon 🪱

FEAR FEAR FEAR SO MUCH FEAR RN

Oh yu hgo ahead an tag. If it makes it easier for you then 100% just do that lol

theres this doodle Mobii did that has the colors , this one's of the big one. These links better work i swear

aannnddd go ahead, use my lil sona guy lol. whatever versions chill i dont mind it

[etheluu]

The brainrot continues so much so i made my in-game character into a 3d model (which was to just take Estera's model and change it a little bit).

At first it was nothing more than just "haha what if there was this spin-off version of my au where my character is an actual being" but then it evolved way too much so now you have to listen to my yapping for a little bit.

To starts off, what the original idea was before it got too serious:

One day I just got an idea of "what if I made a model of my quote unquote LC character (refs below) into a 3D model?"

And so I did just that.

I took Estera's already finished model, changed the textures, changed the shape a bit and added the characteristic accessories and that does not include Bill Cipher on the head because I don't think the world of lethal company needs any more chaos.

The basic idea is that this character would just stick around Estera (my other LC character), being silly. Just in general being the opposite image of them: Estera being this serious, doomed by the narrative character, trying to fight for survival while the character is there goofing around, a comedic relief if you will.

But then I started thinking about it all too much and gave the character too much lore (I'm still not sure if it's canon in my au or not but it surely exists) (literally an au of an au).

I don't have specifics on how they'd meet or anything so don't expect that, buuuuut

Firstly, Estera gives them a name — To, which is just a polish word for "it". To still remains pretty silly/goofy but I gave them a bit more lore, as a treat.

They're mute but their body language is enough to communicate with others most of the time, they're pretty expressive when it comes to that.

The lore reason behind those weird props (like cat ears and a tie) that I came up with is that they just found it somewhere and took it or someone put those stuff on them and they just went with it. Just the "why not" mentality kind of.

But now the part where I went too serious for them and their character/lore.

They're not a human, wow shocker, I know. The bracken-like leaves totally didn't gave that away.

Sure, I was inspired by the in-game monster bracken with their design, like being a nature-like entity? Made out of leaves but sprinkle some eldritch horror onto it and then you have this:

What exactly it is? Not sure.

The black tendril-like things can and will move. They can imitate other objects with them, e.g.: make it look more like a human head.

When To is scared/frightened, their tendrils will protectively wrap around the white thing in the middle of their "head" so it's not exposed to anything.

What the white thing in the middle is? Yeahh...

I mean, it's important, that's for sure. It's so important in fact that in this version of my au, being like To are hunted down for that white thingy as it is the main component in the making of an apparatus.

cut to To opening up their "head" and letting Estera touch that white thing cough cough I mean what

Possibly their species are related to that of brackens, possibly these two are the same thing in this au. Not sure, I haven't decided on that one.

[mk-wizard]

Transformers Excerpts: NEVER Shoot a Medic

Inspired by this video, but image the ref is Megatron and he's pursued by the ENTIRE Decepticon army. It's funny, but also frightening.

Megatron: Cyclonus! Stop wasting time and let's leave! Cyclonus: Not without our wounded! Megatron: I said STOP WASTING TIME AND LET'S LEAVE!! NOOOOOOW!! Cyclonus: And I said not without our wounded! Megatron: You dare to defy me, you flying rodent?! shoots off one of his wings Cyclonus: AHHH!! Barricade: Hey! Megatron shot Dr. Cyclonus! He shot the doc for being a doc! Blackout: How dare you, Megatron! Scorpinok: You shot Papa Bunny! Starscream: You die today, Megatron! How dare you shoot father after everything he did for you! Megatron: Stand down! they all come at him Stand down, I say! Anyone who doesn't stand down will die! he shoots, but there is a barrage of shots fired back at him Mutiny will not be tolerated! I said- almost gets shot right in the face Ahhhh… Ahhhh!! starts running for his life and even changes into a tank to get away as Decepticons go after him Rumble: Oh no you don't! pounds the ground causing a small Earthquake leaving Megatron unable to traverse the land Megatron: changes back into a bot and keeps running he continues to be shot and gets grazed a couple of time, and his helmet even gets shot off, but he doesn't stop to pick it up Ahh..... Ahhh!! Cyclonus: Stop! Please stop! No more! Please! Megatron: see how they all listen to him…….. feels a mix of envy and horror upon realizing the social power Cyclonus has and doesn't even know it