#Cold and Pitiless as a Blade (Self)

[onmitsu-taicho]

@noblereason continued from here

Only once they were safely ensconced within Byakuya's office, did Sui-Feng continue speaking. As they couldn't cross their arms with only one, the shorter Captain folded the limb in question behind their back, instead; still rather awkward without their left, it would have to do. Holding themself rigid, lest they start — what did Captain Unohana call it, when they started making repetitive movements when stressed or uncomfortable? Stimming? Irrelevant.

Holding themself rigid, chin high even though they focused their gaze on the kenseikan rather than the taller swordsman's own grey eyes, the petit assassin finally spoke. "I will not prevaricate with you on this matter, Kuchiki-taicho. You are a man, though you were not born so, and thus are my senior in what I believe is called the 'Transition Process'." With their rigidly formal speech, the capitol letters were almost audible thanks to the emphasis placed on them.

"I came to seek what advice you might give me, as I begin my own."

[lvsifer]

Paul Atreides denies him an easy death. Feyd-Rautha has to deal with his new position.

tags: Canon-Typical Violence, Slow Burn, Sexual Tension, Explicit Sexual Content (in the later chapters), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, feyd-rauther is his usual little freak self, will include mentions of noncon later on

Read all under the cut:

Paul Atreides denies him an easy death. Feyd-Rautha does not bleed out in front of the emperor and the terrorist’s household, his Fremen filth and whore mother. Instead, Feyd-Rautha dreams of death on the dirty floor of a prison cell. 

Blood rusts over his mouth, dries to flakes before his body hits the stone, and Feyd-Rautha tongues at it as his hands try to staunch the bleeding of his wounds. He presses where Paul Muad’Dib Atreides has pushed inside him with his blade, hot from the desert air, a pleasure so close to pain or pain so close to pleasure, Feyd-Rautha cannot name the difference.

He writhes now where he lays in a silence more shameful than defeat. All his life he has fantasised of dying in battle, perhaps in the arena, broken by a stronger hand with the rush of fighting still hot in his blood and the screams of the masses in his ears. Triumphant. Foolish of him. Such wishes come to nothing. This is one lesson the Baron could not teach him, not while he had held Feyd-Rautha under the monstrous wing of his tutelage. Sheltered is what he had been, he realises as flies start to buzz around him, landing on his opened flesh. He swats them away, but they circle him as merciless as any blood-drinking desert bird. No, he rots as any piece of meat left under Arrakis’ pitiless sun.

But he will not die. Or have they thrown him into this cell to find an ignominious end and shame the house of Harkonnen? But what advantage would that bring? Half-delirious, Feyd-Rautha shoves a swath of his leather pteruges over his wounds and pulls it tight against his opened skin to shield it from the flies and what eggs they might burrow into his flesh. A shaky exhale flees his lips as he tries to slow his breathing. What would Uncle say if he saw him like this, disgraced and defeated? Would he have fallen from the favour he clawed his way into? Then again, Uncle is dead. Slaughtered like a pig. The memory stirs Feyd-Rautha’s blood and he moans through his teeth. 

The door opens. Feyd-Rautha looks at the upside-down figures, dark-robed, Suk-braids over their left shoulders, a man kneels down beside him, painted lips, cold eyes, and a finger presses into Feyd-Rautha’s mouth with a salve so bitter and tingling he forgets all else for a moment. 

Then darkness sears his eyes shut.

When next Feyd-Rautha wakes, it’s in an airy room. Black night outside. Translucent white curtains billow and desert wind scatters fine dust over the luxurious trappings of the room: a massive wooden table shining with polish, jewels set into silverware, finely wrought tapestries depicting one of the Arrakeen beasts, a sandworm— 

A figure moves from between the curtains, a slow, irregular step. The tall and lean silhouette of the would-be emperor. Feyd-Rautha feels for his wounds, bandaged, then tests his muscles and grits his teeth as pain shoots through him so incandescent he sees lights behind his lids.

“Cousin,” Paul Atreides says in his slow, dragging voice, a voice that holds witch-power as they all heard when Muad’Dib silenced Shaddam’s Truthsayer. 

Feyd-Rautha groans as he tries to sit up. 

Paul watches his efforts from above with cold blue-within-blue eyes. Eyes that are not his own, it seems, eyes that shimmer with a strangeness that makes Feyd-Rautha shiver. 

Paul slinks closer, desert-creature, false prophet, predator. Killer. Except, of course, Feyd-Rautha is alive and by his wish. Or has he died in that filthy cell?

“You recover well,” Paul says. “But I will need you to heal faster.”

Feyd-Rautha sits up with all his strength, feels one of the stab-wounds’ stitches rip. Blood blooms through the white bandages on his torso. Paul tuts. Then Paul is beside him and pushes him back down, efficient, his hands warm on Feyd-Rautha’s skin, black dusty curls brushing his cheek, and Feyd-Rautha breathes him in, spice and desert and a hint of the acrid stench of stillsuits, and beneath it something boyish and honied. Feyd-Rautha wants to sink his teeth into it, tear him apart. 

“Why?” Feyd-Rautha rasps. “Why didn’t you kill—”

“I don’t waste my resources,” Paul says. 

The Atreides lets go of him as though he’s handled some unruly hound. 

“Resources…?”

“Don’t play dumb, Harkonnen,” Paul says evenly, and after a moment’s hesitation he sits on the mattress beside Feyd-Rautha. The oddness of it strikes him, no-one has ever sat beside his sick-bed, certainly not Uncle, nor maid or doctor. He would have killed any who’d have tried. He looks for a weapon now. His eyes sink to the crysknife at Paul’s hip. Iron tang of blood in his mouth.

“Try it,” Paul says, steel in his voice that he’d already shown when confronting the emperor. Power too, the fierceness of a demigod. 

“I just might,” Feyd-Rautha says and finds Paul’s gaze, grins, “Make you kill me after all, cousin.” He bares his black teeth, “All this for nothing.” 

And Feyd-Rautha spits his blood into Paul’s face. Paul does not flinch. His blue-within-blue eyes seem to burn in the glint of the glowglobes. He’s beautiful like that, with his blood on his face, and it hits Feyd-Rautha unexpectedly. Time stills around them. Breath does not come easily as he inhales. 

“I rule you now,” Paul whispers, dips two fingers into the blood on his cheek and sucks it off his fingers, “Your water is mine.” 

A shiver runs down Feyd-Rautha’s spine, humiliation and with it the hook of desire low in his stomach. If Paul notices what it does to him, he does not show it. 

“What do you want of me?” Feyd-Rautha curls his fists in the bedding.

“You’ll know soon enough, Baron,” Paul says and stands. “Heal quickly.” 

With that, he leaves.

The rush of wind and sand fills the room. The grating of it, abrading all it touches. Feyd-Rautha bites his lip, breathes in deeply until all scent of the boy-prophet has gone and cold darkness envelops him whole. 

This planet holds nothing but strangers now. The only family Feyd-Rautha has left is Paul Atreides.

[fromcenotaphy]

okay okay! have we have hbo demon!dean? because I think it'd make a Concept

hbo demon!dean is a concept inDEED just [flirting with anything that has a pulse] [hair always unkempt and flecked with someone’s blood] [can’t keep his eyes away from the guttering candle of stolen grace under castiel’s ribs] [constantly drinking but can’t even get buzzed, not anymore] [smile that’s too hard, too bright, too cold] [cutting swaths through the hordes of hell just because he’s bored] [guts every demon that dares so much as mention sam] [enjoys himself in a thousand petty, meaningless ways, trying to stem the tide of his own pitiless self-loathing] [hunting down angels and ripping out their grace, leaving vials of it on the bunker doorstep] [fucks crowley in hell’s throne room] [breaks both cole’s knees and leaves him in the parking lot without bothering to finish the job] [lets a group of men shove him up against an alleyway wall, lets the anticipatory scent of their lust become overpowering, then turns and grins and rips out each of their throats, one by one] [off the grid for weeks at a time, traceable only by the bodies he leaves in his wake] [uneasy dreams where he’s on the dock of a quiet lake with someone standing beside him, just out of view] [cuts himself on the first blade just to watch sam’s pupils dilate from the smell] [back arching as crowley works him over, eyes stuttering void-black, hands curled in the silk sheets, someone else’s name catching mutely in his throat] [deep in the forgotten bowels of hell, looking impassively at the rack where alastair took him apart for 30 years] [walks into the room where soul contracts are held and burns half of them to ashes before anyone can stop him] [tips his head back and pants when castiel touches the mark on his arm] [runs into dagon at a haze-filled dive bar and smirks into his whiskey as she cuts him a wide berth] [trails the first blade along crowley’s ribs, laughs when crowley flinches] [screams when the first dose of purified blood hits his veins, cracks his head against the stone floor] [bares his teeth at sam and castiel, flicks his eyes black, strains his true form against the edges of the devil’s trap] [tries to rip out his own heart once he realizes he’s nearly cured] [because he still remembers what humanity felt like, and it terrifies him]

[akeirm]

WINGS ❦ Chapter 1 (Pilot)

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The sterile smell of the room is nauseating.  

Yet it feels unfamiliarly familiar. However, it brings no comfort, the mind of the subject is blank.  

It’s cold.  

They stare blearily at the ceiling where a single lightbulb flickers. 

Flick. on. 

Flick. off. 

Flick. on. 

Flick. off. 

A few more moments pass, and steadily they become more conscious. This ‘cold’ thing they lie stretched on top of is a table, that is suited to fit their proportions. They dully wonder how much more of this they will have to take. Despite that they’ve succumbed to the ceaseless probing of the infernal scientist day after day after day. They’ve begun to care less for it. For anyone. 

Especially that one horned child. 

It’s all her fault. 

Still, in the end they were all but one guinea pig of many pitiless trials. A variable unimportant to others if their quirk was ever deemed worthless. insignificant. unclean. 

All to her benefit. I hate her! 

They hear a sudden shuffle of footsteps coming closer to the examination table. A clear and monotone voice spoke,  

“Experiment number one hundred and twenty-three,” 

As soon as the words are spoken, the subject feels a familiar ache in their back... in an empty space between their shoulder blades. 

Something... is missing.  

In an attempt to look in the direction of the dreary speaker for an answer, they make an effort to move, but to no avail. Their body feels heavier than lead. 

“Shall we begin the regeneration process?” 

This time the low, haughty voice of a woman speaks assuming authority, “The poor thing is hardly even conscious as it is. Just look at the state, completely mute. Unless he plans to make use of a mere rotten carcass I say we stop the operation immediately.” 

Almost all at once as the woman makes her contention clear the air grows thick with a violent uneasiness.  

A frigid voice disrupts the woman’s lingering doubt. 

“We will continue with the operation as planned.”  

The body still lain on the table is now seized with fear. They recognize this cold voice somehow, the woman too, and an odd feeling of betrayal suddenly washes over them. But it is quickly overshadowed by the feeling of panic that rapidly seeps into their bones. Their heart palpitates irregularly, beating faster as heavy seconds pass slow in wait.  

What’s going to happen to me? 

“But if you have anything else to say about the way I do things around here Madam then maybe you’ll have a much more enjoyable time reduced to a shoddy puddle of particles, hmm?”  

“Ever the charmer, aren’t you?” 

The sound of a pair of clicking heels makes its way closer to the test subject. They numbly feel a hand cup the side of their face. The 'Madam’ woman speaks again. 

“I gifted you my most prized possession Chisaki,” A sharply polished finger traces the sickly pale of their cheek down to their bare throat how frail, she absentmindedly murmurs to herself. “Don’t make waste of it.” She finishes with an equally dangerous edge.  

“You may begin.” 

The final decision is made at the order of Madam. 

Through the dense haze of their mind the subject realizes the outline of a sharp object is being held closer to their body by an unclear figure, they can scarcely make out the face and shape of an elongated beak obscuring their face with a pair of rounded lenses. 

A… mask? 

As the sharpened device is brought closer their body desperately tries to inch away. Fear begins to swell in the pits of their stomach - they know that the worst of their troubles has yet to come. Paralyzed in the moment, slowing frames of their past appear and scatter in the vast lens of their mind. The loss of the ones their younger self held dear was an agonizing betrayal - unbearable for even them to witness but they had survived. The branch of their back, it was more than what molded their quirk into what it had been, it was an extension of themselves, forcibly severed from their soul and yet that same body still lived and breathed. Tinier, brief flashes of pensive memories pass. I’m alive, they bitterly realize, but I always end up alone. Truthfully, they could have never hated anything more than living; but it was as if living was the only thing that their body could muster. And in this moment, they may - 

Die... 

A single defiant thought leaks from out of their weakened mind.  

“Restrain it. The needle needs absolute precision to work.” 

No, no, no! 

Eyes now bulging wide in alarm the subject becomes lucid, thrashing helplessly trying to free themselves from a sudden force, but instantly the wind is knocked out of them, and their movements cease once it became futile to struggle against the ominous power.  

The body now sits upright in an uncomfortable position, arms pinned to their sides by a large iron bar - a restraint - entrapping their chest and feet, only leaving the naked of their back exposed and free from the metal barrier.  

Without warning, they feel a greater sharp pain, even worse than the minor ache from before.  

“Monitor readings have spiked now, sir. Subject seems to be reacting to the serum almost instantaneously, sir.”  

The body of the subject starts to grow feverish; the sterile room is at too much of a blistering heat to even breathe in. Their condition is becoming grave. The feeling of pain abruptly overtakes the sweltering of their body with a vigor, it siphons into veins pulling them visibly taut, blue and bloodless, halting the once even flow with a harshness. All of it consumes them in an intense agony awakening deep, down burning from within their bones.  

Though the voice of the body once before lay dormant, a vocal rapid traverses through the passages of their breast, and a guttural scream of anguish breaks through the air. 

“Sir... bone cell production and reformation are increasing fairly exponential.” An atmosphere of uneasiness settles amongst the observers of the convulsing sight. “Should we stall the procedure-?” 

“Increase the dosage.” 

“But sir-” 

“Hurry up and increase it.” The man spat coldly. “I don’t care if even half of this entire lab becomes barren land and your organs amass and spill out from the impact. We will see this to its end.” 

The pierced sting descends on the debilitated subject once more at an even stronger, painful magnitude; all too much for the weakened body to bear. The white-hot pain worsens their sight, vision blurring at the edges as their physical state deteriorated along with it. 

Somehow, they can sense an uncontrollable force from within them, threatening to unearth itself.   

“Chisaki what have you done.” the voice of the woman lowers dangerously; seeped with a tone of lethal intent.  

There was that hollow feeling sensed yet again: betrayal. This time mirrored onto the face of the woman as all she could do was gaze idly at her dear, dear treasure on the verge of being devastated and stolen away from her. As such, the frailest of lifeforms relied on walking the thinning tightrope between life and death, succeeding time and time again only to live in others favor.  

But this time something had gone terribly wrong in her grand scheme. 

Help me. 

The echoing terminal thoughts of the subject are all but quieted as a blinding light consumes the lab in fury. 

“It’s painful. It’s all so, so painful!”   

The light erupts with an intensity, taking no time in covering the entire lab in its waking heat, spreading like wildfire. The stark flames worsen, ceaselessly blazing as the pristined floor suddenly begins to move, shaking violently. The tremors cause the clanking of beakers and vials of equipment instantly crashing into a myriad of pieces broken on the ground. 

But unexpectedly, the kindles wane as the intense movement completely halts below, and a large gust of wind passes through the room as though mimicking a cool rainstorm. The call and response of odd power then disappears in thin air, leaving only traces of blackened soot over the cracks in the linoleum in its departure. 

As harsh as the forces had burst, an innocent halo of brightness drastically envelopes the lab with an unnatural ghast. 

Muffled voices of relief and few scattered praises of survival are let out. 

The troubled wails from the subject come to a chilling cease, miraculously, the affliction subsides until it is a small afterthought of discomfort. 

“What a glorious sight.” The woman remarks in awe. 

There lain before the observing scientists was the subject themselves, their form was bathed in the lingering specks of sparkling light in a nearly inhuman fog. 

Their mind however was still clouded over with a muddle of thoughts. Even with their entire body spent and battered, the hex of living held true for them – though strangely enough they still felt an unknown power, humming with raw energy from within. 

The spot rearwards of their chest no longer felt empty or dully ached with pain. That same roughed surface of their back now instead became leaden and heavy, almost like a difficult burden to carry was pushed onto them. Attempting to keep their consciousness afloat they take a deep, labored inhale. Then breathing out, they immediately knew that limb from limb their body had undergone an irreversible change – one largely different from the other obsolete trials those cruel bastards had wrung them through before.  

It was as if they were brought to life a second time. 

Rather than finding themselves to be incomplete, they were no longer removed from the body they had lost complete hold over, and the feeling of unfamiliarity had dissipated entirely, that missing piece was made a part of a whole again.  

Straining to gather what shred of mind that remained they were still unsure of what had happened to them - to their being. They did not know what calmed them beyond uncharacteristic recognition and soothed every wary moment they had ever grown to have gently touching a heart locked away and alone.

A frayed item drifts in between their eyes, lightly, back and forth its swaying motion continued, slowing as it tapered lower. It landed cautiously on their outstretched hand, responding to their curious calling. That rested on the hand was a small, delicate feather of white.  What the subject could not have taken notice to was the gaping throng of eyes unable to grasp the saintly sight before them. All facing in studious observance at what had sprouted from the stub that had once been lone on that same back... of the same weary body. Looking down at the feather they held it with careful purpose; a quiet, intent thought of realization appears clear in their mind. 

Wings. 

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[tea-and-marigold]

The Story of my Life - Helen Keller

I remember reading a chapter about Helen Keller in Hindi at some point of my childhood and being deeply inspired by it. Ever since that day, I’ve had the aspiration to read more about her but I never got the chance to do so due to academic commitments. Now that there’s a nationwide lockdown due to the corona virus pandemic, I decided to finally take some time out to read the story of her life.

The book is a treat to read and Helen Keller is certainly one of the most inspiring women I’ve read about. She was born on 27th June 1880 in Alabama.  She lost her eyesight and hearing due to an illness when she was nineteen months old. During her lifetime, she faced numerous challenges and overcame each one of them with courage and determination. She learned to read, write and speak various languages such as English, Latin, German and French and graduated from Cambridge becoming the first deaf-blind person to earn a Bachelor of Arts degree. She went on to author many books and articles on various subjects especially socialism and women’s rights. She fought for the causes she believed in and was unapologetically vocal in her opinions and criticism of things she disapproved of.

The thing about this book that stood out the most for me was the way she described her encounters with various aspects of life and the world such as nature, history, literature and art. Especially in a time like this when we’ve been forced to sit at our homes, reading this book was like a breath of fresh air. She described nature in a way that it felt like I was sitting right there with her, feeling the blades of grass between my fingers and smelling the faint smell of lilies and roses and that of the earth after a heavy shower. It is a beautiful and inspiring account of her life until college, consisting of all the hardships she faced, how she overcame them, and stories of beauty, love and companionship.

Below are some of my favourite lines from the book:

#1 Keller’s teacher Anne Sullivan explains to her the meaning of love

“Love is something like the clouds that were in the sky before the sun came out. You cannot touch the clouds, you know; but you feel the rain and know how glad the flowers and the thirsty earth are to have it after a hot day. You cannot touch love either: but you feel the sweetness that it puts into everything.”

#2

“It seems to me that there is in each of us a capacity to comprehend the impressions and emotions which have been experienced by mankind from the beginning. Each individual has a subconscious memory of the green earth and murmuring waters, and blindness and deafness cannot rob him of this gift from past generations. This inherited capacity is a sort of sixth sense- a soul sense which sees, hears, and feels, all in one.”

#3

“Sometimes, it is true, a sense of isolation enfolds me like a cold mist as I sit alone and wait at life’s shut gate. Beyond there is light, and music, and sweet companionship; but I may not enter. Fate, silent, pitiless, bars the way. Fain would I question his imperious decree, for my heart is still undisciplined and passionate; but my tongue will not utter the bitter, futile words that rise to my lips, and they fall back into my heart like unshed tears. Silence sits immense upon my soul. Then comes hope with a smile and whispers, 'there is joy in self forgetfulness.' So I try to make the light in others’ eyes my sun, the music in others’ ears my symphony, the smile on others’ lips my happiness.”

#4 Helen Keller talks about the importance of friends and the beauty of companionship.

“Those are red-letter days in our lives when we meet people who thrill us like a fine poem, people whose handshake is a brimful of unspoken sympathy, and whose sweet, rich natures impart to our eager, impatient spirits a wonderful restfulness which, in its essence, is divine. The perplexities, irritations and worries that have absorbed us pass like unpleasant dreams, and we wake to see with new eyes and hear with new ears the beauty and harmony of god’s real world. The solemn nothings that fill our everyday life blossom suddenly into bright possibilities. In a word, while such friends are near us we feel that all is well. Perhaps we never saw them before, and they may never cross our life’s path again; but the influence of their calm, mellow natures is a libation poured upon our discontent, and we feel its healing touch, as the ocean feels the mountain stream freshening its brine.”

I don’t have much else to say except that I hope you read this book, enjoy it and get inspired by it as much as I did.

[karij]

OCtober Writing Prompts Day 19 - Reversed Personality

It’s cold and dark. I can feel cracked flagstones beneath my bare feet. Dark. So dark. I can’t think, can’t breathe. I look around desperately for any sign of light… there! It’s faint but there’s something low to the ground, off in the distance. Light, blessed light. 

I start running as fast as I can, tripping and stumbling in my desperation to reach the light, and then… a shadow swings down. A horrible, squelching noise. A cry of pain. And the light is gone. I fall to my knees, crying out in fear. The light is gone! There’s nothing but the dark, pressing in, suffocating me. Then… it’s back. Smaller, fainter, but coming closer. 

I reach for it as it approaches, tears of terror running down my cheeks. As it gets closer I can’t help but feel I’m forgetting something. Something important. Haven’t I been here before? Done this before? There’s a figure in the light that's coming closer. They seem familiar. The dim light reflects from their gleaming armor. Hobnailed boots clack on the cobblestones with each step. A huge weapon rests on their shoulder, an axe. It seems to absorb the light that ought to reflect off of it. Even without touching it it feels cold, an unearthly chill. And the figure, they’re short, even for a halfling. Almost my height. No, exactly my height. I remember now. My eyes widen with the horror of recognition and I scramble backwards, wanting to scream but not remembering how. 

But I can’t get away from the light. That horrible light. I know what it is now and I don’t want to see it. But it’s getting closer. She’s getting closer, both of them. No! This isn’t how it happened, leave me alone! The tempo of hobnails on stone picks up, just slightly. They’re closing in. I flip over to my stomach, scrambling away on all fours. I have to get away! I can’t do this, not again! But a gauntleted hand grabs my ankle and drags me back towards that hateful light. A ragged sob of terror escapes from my lips, no, no! Let me go! I kick and flail in a useless attempt to escape but they flip me over onto my back and plant a boot on my chest, pinning me in place.

I cover my face with my hands, no, not again! Leave me alone! A familiar voice rings out. Soft yet firm. Confident. Mine. Or… it was.   

“What’s wrong Karri?” I can’t look, I know what I’ll see. “You should be happy! We did it!”

I shake my head, still covering my face. No. No this is wrong! The voice is frustrated now.

“This is what we wanted! Why are you hiding from it?” She’s angry, but I can’t look. I can’t. “We did it! We did it for you! Look, damnit!” 

A clatter of metal as something heavy hits the flagstones. Then she’s reaching down, she’s grabbing my wrist and pulling it away. I fight but she’s too strong for me, I cover my eyes with my other hand. She forces my wrist down and pins it with her other boot. She reaches down and pulls my other hand away, holding it tight. I scream and struggle but it’s no use. She roars now, so incredibly angry.

“Look! Look at what we did, together! Look at me!”

I don’t want to. I don’t want to but I can’t hide from the light, it filters through my eyelids. My eyelids flicker open against my will and I sob. No! I don’t want to look, this is wrong! But I do. And there she is. There they both are. Kendra, standing over me. Dark hair pulled back into a braid, my green eyes looking down at me, tears of fury dripping down her cheeks, my cheeks. And hanging from her right hand, dangling by her golden locks. Her head. Tredora Goldenbrow. Her blue eyes dull, her mouth gaping. That cry before… it was hers.

I look away, tears of terror running down my face. I gasp, trying to choke out a reply. Kendra looks down at me. She’s confused, she’s angry. I can’t fight her. 

“What? What is it? Are you happy?” She shakes the head, blood splattering from the open neck. “We did it! She’s dead. That’s what you wanted isn’t it? Justice.” 

“No!” I choke it out, gasping for breath, “No! This.. isn’t what happened! This is wrong!”

Kendra snarls, a vicious, hateful noise I hope that I’ve never made. “No, it didn’t happen. Because you were too weak to make it happen. Because you let HIM stop you.” She glares down at me, disdainful. “You were always weak-willed Karri. But together… when you were me, you at least pretended to be strong. Now you’re just a whimpering little girl. Again.”

“N-no!” I shake my head, “You’re wrong! I’m not weak, I’m just not…” 

“Not what?” 

“I’m not you!” I’m screaming now, trying to convince myself as much as her. “I’m not a killer like you! I’m not… I’m not like you! What you did was wrong! I didn’t know!” 

Kendra looks startled, confused. “What are you talking about, Karri?” She narrows her eyes. “We killed them all together. I’ve been with you since Donnard, since before. I was with you for Teskerwill, for the Prince, for all of them.” She laughs, incredulous. “I was with you for Tredora too, but apparently that wasn’t enough to stop you from being pushed aside.” 

“I… I’m not like you! I’m not you! You’re just a fake!”   

“Really?” Her eyes are hard now, judging. “Because from where I’m standing, I’m the one who saved Brindol. Without me you’d be lying in a ditch. You need me. Without me, you’re just a scared peasant girl running away from home. Mother’s little disappointment.” 

“I don’t- I’m not-” She’s wrong, she’s lying! “I don’t need you! I hate you!” 

She stops and looks down, she looks tired. “I know.” She shakes her head and looks back up at me. Her eyes are sad, angry too. “I know you hate me, Karri. I just don’t know why.” She lets go of me and steps back. Dropping Tredora, crossing her arms. “We did so many things together. We were heroes together, but you threw me away. And now you’re starting over without me.”

“That’s… we only thought we were heroes.” I’m tired too. I just want this to be over. “It was a lie. We weren’t heroes. We were pawns. They just told us what we wanted to hear.”

“No.” She looks down, her face tight and angry. “No! We saved people, we saved Brindol! We did amazing things! I don’t care what happened after, we were heroes Karri! And you gave it up!” Her eyes are filled with tears, running now. “You threw it away with your self pity. You could have done so much! We could have been the greatest heroes ever seen, we could have been legends! Why? Why did you quit? We could have-” She stops with a gasp of pain, cut off mid sentence. A silver blade protrudes from her chest, thrust through her back. I know that blade. I look up, and there he is. Sidhedan. Tall, clad in flowing black. Utterly pitiless, his face blank despite the brutality of his actions. He twists the blade free and she falls to the ground. Dead.

I just stare up at him, terrified, as the light dies. And then I’m left there in the dark as he fades from view. And I’m alone. This is just a dream. He can’t hurt me here. She can’t hurt me anymore. She’s gone. She’s dead. I fall to my side, curled sobbing in a ball in the endless dark, waiting for morning.

[nehasy]

Fractals

Escaflowne Movie:  Pre movie.  Chesta, Dilandau and Dragonslayers (some gore, explosions and portents of doom)

This is my Escaflowne Secret Santa for @drkstars.  You wanted movie Chesta so tadaaaa!!!  Sweet creepy mystical cinnamon bun!

_____

              He was floating weightless in the darkness, suspended in the nothingness which was the Other.  All around him, the starlight pierced the surrounding void with a cold cruel light, daring him to draw closer, to touch…  He knew better than to give in.  They were the false paths, seeking to lead him astray, to cast his mind into oblivion leaving his body a vulnerable empty shell.

              There were so many forces alive in this world that most never knew about, and fewer truly respected.  He’d seen what happened to those foolish enough to not respect the wild and capricious power which surrounded him.  Several of his peers had been reduced to drooling bags of meat, devoid of mind and soul, their minds burned out from their mental wanderings.  Those were the lucky ones.

              Other’s… well, their empty shells had become host to other forces, other beings. There were rumours whispered in the deepest depths of the Dragon temples that this was what had happened to Lord Folken. That he and his Seer had pushed themselves too far, taken one too many chances and been consumed by something that lurked in the darkness.  

              Wearing their flesh, it had risen in power within the Black Dragon Clan, dominating tribe after tribe, conquering kingdoms and villages alike, leaving nothing of their enemies but scorched earth and bleaching bone.

              “Show me their leader.”  A voice purred in his ear.  Youthful and hungry for battle, it was the voice of a dark spirit given flesh and Chesta couldn’t help but draw a mental comparison to his own lot in life.  Bound to an impure dragon, their fates intertwined upon the wings of destiny.  The will of his master guided his mind, casting it forth like a net towards the enemy camp nestled safely in the gulley a mile away, hidden from all but the sharpest-eyed scout.

              As if his eyes had been given flight, his vision sped across the forest, through the thick brush which disguised the tents of the camp.  He saw men and women gathered around the campfire finishing their thin meal of watery stew and sour wine.  They were tired and battle worn, but their spirits still high.  They’d been harassing the flank of the 45th regiment mercilessly, striking soundlessly in the night without warning or mercy.

              The past week alone, they’d killed Colonel Gilles and Major Raythe. Both had been formidable warriors and rather valuable to the war effort.  Worse, they’d dared to burn the supplies needed on the front lines and freed nearly a hundred prisoners!  They’d done it all and disappeared without a trace, leaving the Black Dragon Army in chaos and looking like fools!

              “A camp within the trees.”  He heard his own voice whisper in a distant monotone, as if something was speaking through him.  “A hundred men and women gather, warriors all.  They bear the banner of Restalos and vengeance is in their hearts.”

“Restalos?  I had no idea there were any survivors.  Hmph, Lord Folken is getting sloppy in his old age.”  The voice dripped with bitter scorn and he could feel the ambition burning behind the words, the predatory nature seeking any hint of weakness, ready to strike if given the slightest opportunity.  “What of the prisoners?”

“No sign.”  He breathed, studying the weapons of those gathered around the fires, seeking some meager warmth from the coming fall night.   Some distant part of his soul wished them what comfort they could glean from the flames, knowing that the icy finger of death would claim them all soon enough.  Even as he watched, he could feel the dark specter of death pressing down on them.  The fates twisting about the camp, every minute he watched, every minute they rested cutting off more paths of survival.  Death was watching, and he was hungry for blood.

“Give me a target Chesta.”  The voice growled, eager for violence, feeling the inevitability of a kill within his grasp.  The young seer couldn’t help but shudder slightly as his vision focussed on a tent hidden beneath the boughs of an ancient tree.  Within he could see two men and a woman, battle-scarred and strong, their eyes burning with the fierce will of the defiant.  The will of those who have lost everything but their desire for vengeance.

The men were large and swarthy skinned. Brothers in blood as well as arms, one sported an axe, the other a sword and shield.  He could feel the weight of the many lives the two had claimed darkening the air around them, but it was the woman who drew his attention.  

She was pale, her hair black as night and her eyes as blue as the midday sky.  Muscles stood out on her arms and two well worn swords hung on her hips.  A thick fur, taken from a bear draped over her back and its claws hung from her throat.  When she spoke, the men listened attentively, and he could feel her spirit burn like icy fire across his mind’s eye.  

“Hidden within the shadows of the ancient oak lies the heart and soul of the enemy.  A great bear wearing the form of a woman.  Strike her down and break the back of our foe.  Miss your strike and she will become twice as fierce.”

“Oooh, she sounds fun.”  Blood dripped from those words and Chesta could feel more paths of escape fade away as the trap began to close.  “Do you think she’ll actually fight back?  Or will she die like the useless rebel filth she is?” The Seer didn’t bother to answer. One wasn’t expected.  Instead, he pulled his mind back into his skull, shivering at the bone deep cold which always filled him after his Visions.  

His body felt heavy, awkward and tired, but he knew better than to give voice to any complaint.  Weakness wasn’t tolerated in the Black Dragon Clan, even less so in the Dragonslayers.

Blinking his eyes rapidly to settle his vision, he watched the albino in the blood red armour wheel his horse around to face the rest of their unit, a wide vulpine grin split his youthful face, twisting it into something demonic.  Crimson eyes, pitiless and cold glittered with undisguised malice as he tapped the bared blade of his sword against his shoulder.  The reflection of his face made his smile more of a rictus grin.  The reaper preparing to sow the lives of those gathered down below.  The soldiers, his unit… Gaea itself… Chesta knew deep in his heart that he followed on the heels of Death like a faithful hound, but it was better to follow at Death’s heels than run before Him.

“Let’s go and say hello.”  Captain Dilandau grinned, those inhuman eyes of his fixed on the hidden camp, power beginning to build around him.  His cruel laughter was echoed by those of his men… no, his boys. They were all so young, painfully young, but Chesta could see the blood running over their hands, dripping onto the ground below and killing everything it touched.  “No survivors.”  The captain added, licking his pale lips in anticipation, already tasting victory.

“Sir, Lord Folken will want prisoners to interrogate.”  Gatti dared to speak up, his voice ever cautious.  Dilandau’s hand tightened on his sword and the second in command drew back, unable to meet that terrible gaze.

“Did I stutter?”  The pale leader sneered, leaning forward in his saddle, ready to spill the blood of his own team if they dared to question him.  “If Folken wants toys to play with, he can get them his damn self!”

“Of course sir!”  The others all replied, knowing what is expected of them.  Chesta’s voice is found among them.  He’d learned long ago not to fight the storm.  It’s far safer to simply allow the winds to blow him where they will.  He’s seen enough examples of what happened to those who stood up to the impure dragon and had no desire to be counted among them.

With his place at the front of the pack confirmed without dispute once again, Dilandau led their charge.  The wind whipped through Chesta’s hair driving away the last vestiges of his disorientation, leaving only the bloodlust and adrenaline of battle. Like the others, a grin split his face as he drew his sword.  The steed beneath him tore through the underbrush without any hint of self preservation or hesitation, infected with their bloodlust.

Young voices rose up in a vicious howl and he could feel the terror filling the minds of those ahead of them.  They’ve heard tales of that sound, whispered around the campfires in the dark of the night, stories of a pack of children, of demons, of wolves wearing the flesh of men.  He knew well the atrocities attached to his team.  Worse, he knew that they barely scratch the truth of it all.

The enemy soldiers learn quickly enough as the Dragonslayers break through the trees, coming in from all sides.  The fires are scattered by horse’s hooves, armour is cleaved by swords and the screams of the dying soon overpower the howls of the boys.

Explosions drown out everything as the ground tears itself apart, cutting a lethal trail through several ranks of soldiers attempting to form up and protect their leaders.  Limbs fly free from bodies, blood rains from above and the tent, guarded so carefully by the ancient boughs of the oak shatters apart.  

Chesta can feel the concussive blast of power from across the camp.  He can feel the lives snuffed out instantly, never having seen the face of their killer. Cries of “Dragonborn” echo through the camp, accompanied by Dilandau’s wild laughter.  Moral is shattered, the ranks scatter and flee, but the seer can feel their futures snuffed out one by one.  No matter how fast they run, their lives are measured in little more than minutes, an hour at most.  The army marched behind them after all, a lethal net ready to catch any who seek to slip through the jaws of the Dragonslayers.  It’s the lucky ones who die quickly.  Lord Folken has never been known for his mercy after all.

The blast which took out the leader’s tent has damaged the roots of the oak, and as Chesta watched, the ancient tree begins to list heavily to the side, the few remaining roots buried deep beneath the earth groan softly in protest, doing their best to keep the tree upright.

There’s nothing he can do but watch it bend beneath its own weight.  Enemy soldier’s race by him, within easy reach of his sword, but he pays them no mind. They’re already dead after all. He’s seen their inevitable fate. What do their short and pointless lives matter in the end when compared to the death of this king of the forest. It had stood tall and proud for centuries… perhaps even more, its power inviolate… until now.

Something was changing.  He could feel it in the wind, hear it rumble deep within the earth. It wasn’t the tree that was falling, torn apart by its own greatness; it was everything.  The world was about to change, the roots cut out from beneath it, and all the little people in its shadow were going to run as it toppled down upon them.

“Chesta.”  Ryoun hissed sharply from off to the side.  “You’re letting the enemy escape!”  The dark haired slayer’s sword dripped wet with blood, so much blood that it formed a river beneath his horses feet.  “If Lord Dilandau thinks you’re going soft there’ll be hell to pay!”

“The leaves.”  Chesta murmured, holding a hand up as if to touch them as they fell all around them like rain, torn free from their branches.  “They look like feathers.”  Holding out a hand towards them, he could almost hear a song echoing on the wind, beautiful and heart wrenching, it promised an end of everything.

[bcrstories]

Vendelot the Reaper, Part 1

Worstest ever time. 

The pungent, irony smell of blood hit Commander Vendelot's nose even before he opened the heavy doors to the basement of the farmhouse their battalion had taken over. The farmer and his family had been disposed of. If they were not sympathetic towards General Athem, they were traitors loyal to General Ashrei. That's how it had been ordered. The basement they had been 'disposed of' was being used now as an interrogation room. Or torture chamber. Vendelot wasn't one for using flowery language.

 "Phew, what a stench. Cave dwellers' blood always has a certain putrid bouquet, I find." Vendelot proceeded down the steps to the basement with a smug look on his face. The physical torture had not been fruitful, as he had suspected. Absolom was a warrior, after all. He was accustomed to pain. That wasn't Vendelot's specialty, anyways.

 "What a sorry sight you are, Vice-Commander Absolom. You've made such a mess. Oh…" The Commander wrinkled his nose as he came to ground level and got a good look at the interrogators' work. His skin was torn from head to toe, muscles cut, bones broken…the way his breathing rattled and shuddered shallowly indicated a flail chest that had punctured a lung. His face was caked in blood, dried and fresh. It seemed they had gone after one of his eyes.

 "This is too much. I told you to leave me something to work with! Imbeciles." Vendelot spat, shoving the interrogators away.

 "He was fighting too much! We had to break--"

 "Silence. I'm going to have to do a little repair work, now. Let's see here…Absolom. Wake up." Vendelot distastefully stepped around the blood puddles on the floor (it wasn't easy) and pulled up a chair to sit beside Absolom's head. He snapped beside his ear. No response. Shaking his head, Vendelot withdrew a solution from his satchel: a potent healing agent used on the field during battle. He dumped it unceremoniously over his face and whatever was left drizzled over his body. Surface wounds in contact with it sealed, and as a result, his blood loss diminished. His slashed face resumed its previous shape. His remaining eye blearily opened.

 "There we have it. I do apologize. My associates were overzealous in their duties." Upon hearing Vendelot's voice, Absolom attempted to move. Pain shrieked in every part of him. All he do was moan and settle back into his restraints.

 "Yes. Hurts, doesn't it? But this is the kind of thing a man such as yourself can tolerate, to a degree. You can train for this. Ah…your bones and teeth are white. You're a surfacer." The Commander noted, able to see both clearly. The slash coming down from his mutilated eye had also slashed through his lips.

 "What a shame. You would have been a useful agent of Athem. Both you and your bastard Commander, Filarion." Absolom lurched towards Vendelot, remaining eye smoldering with fury. His anger and adrenaline allowed him to ignore his screaming body. He was too weakened to make much of a movement. Vendelot seemed surprised initially, but then amused.

 "You see? You can just turn it off. You can retreat from this pain. What good is it?" He leaned down closer to Absolom's fading face, succumbing to pain.

  "You know, they call me 'Vendelot the Reaper.' I can make a dying man suffer anew. I can kill a man over and over. I can reach where no blade can. That is what I'm going to do to you, Vice-Commander Absolom. And without laying a finger on you." Vendelot's voice was low and dangerous. He took pride in his ability to inflict this kind of pain.

 There was a long silence. Absolom was bracing for some kind of blow. Pain somewhere, or anything. He was completely unprepared for the way Vendelot's voice pierced him, past his ears. Into his mind. Loud and perfectly clear, as if his hearing wasn't muffled from dried blood and swelling.

 "Absolom. What matters most to you, in this world?" Vendelot's voice asked in his head. What was this? Absolom, confused, opened his eye and looked at Vendelot. He sat motionless, staring at Absolom. Without his lips moving, Absolom heard his voice again.

 "Do you remember how your Commander killed my Vice-Commander?" He asked. Absolom considered this statement for only a second. He recalled the Vice-Commander and Filarion fighting, swords clashing. Filarion was simply too strong, and faster than he. More experienced, too. Filarion's blade sliced through the air swiftly, doubling back before his opponent could recoil from the blow that Filarion had just deflected. The blade lopped off his sword arm at the forearm, and his head followed. It was a quick, and merciful death. Filarion was not a proponent of unusually cruel deaths. Defeat sometimes included death, as Absolom recalled his mentor telling him when he was young. It was just part of battle. It was nothing personal, and it needed to be done gracefully and efficiently. All of this flashed across his mindscape in a second.

 "Imagine if it had been the other way around." the voice suggested. Reflexively, Absolom obeyed. Filarion's arm was severed, and then his head. In horror, Absolom recoiled. The memory was vivid, as if he'd seen it before. It must have shown on his face, for Vendelot's eyes showed satisfaction.

 "You care much for your Commander, don't you Absolom? But is he the one you care about most?" Vendelot's voice was dimmer and more distant. He was actually speaking now. His lips were moving. Vendelot resumed his flat expression and intense stare.

 "Do you love your Commander Filarion?" The voice asked. Absolom considered the question, and thought his answer. His mind was foggy, but he still had access to his memories and feelings. The most dangerous parts. Of course he loved Filarion. Was Vendelot trying to determine if he was *in* love with Filarion? Absolom could see now what Vendelot was doing. Some sort of mental magic. It couldn't be possible that he could see his memories and thoughts, could it? If he could, what was the need for interrogation? Mind reading was a magic so advanced and so few were able. No, Vendelot couldn't. He was not remotely close to the type of mage that could do that. Absolom thought about how pathetic Vendelot was, and how lowly he thought of him and his gimmicky magic. He must have detected it, as his eyes narrowed. So he could detect something. Absolom steeled himself to resist.

 "What does Filarion mean to you?" The voice asked, more impatiently. Recalcitrant, Absolom thought of something absurd. He's a bowl of beer nuts. The kind you get at a decent tavern. He thought about the last time he and Filarion went to a decent tavern.

 "Who do you love most?"

 Inyol.

A cold dread ran down Absolom's spine. It came springing forth without hesitation. Vendelot pounced onto it like a satisfied wildcat who had just coaxed out its prey.

 "So it's someone else. What is their name? What do they look like?" Vendelot pried, Absolom doing anything he could to stop himself from thinking about Inyol. His name is Inyol, no…don't think of him. Him and his little smirk when he knew he was about to do something cheeky. No! Absolom turned his head away from Vendelot, in an effort to get his cold fingers out of his thoughts, stirring up memories against his will.

 "How much do you love this person?" He continued. His voice was unemotive in this manner. It only made it harder for him to resist the reflexive answers to his questions. Absolom loved Inyol more than anything. He couldn't form words, but the emotion was powerful. He knew Vendelot could sense it.

 "Remember when Filarion killed my Vice-Commander?"

 No…don't you dare. Absolom didn't need prompting to imagine where he was going with it. In a fraction of a second, without being able to stop, he imagined Inyol's arm coming off with a swing of Filarion's sword. Then his head. But no! It was impossible. It wouldn't ever happen. It was just a stupid imagination. Absolom resisted feeling from the disturbingly vivid thought. He concentrated on his anger towards Vendelot.

 "What if Filarion killed them like my Vice-Commander?" Came the next prompt. Absolom focused on his anger.

 I hate you.

 Inyol's arm still came off, then his head.

 "What if you killed them like my Vice-Commander?"

  No! It happened in a second. They were too fast to stop. Absolom's teeth were gritted in frustration, chanting 'I hate you' to tear his mind away from the repeating imagery of beheading Inyol with his own blade. Before he knew it, he was saying it to Inyol. 'I hate you, I hate you.' Off came his head again.

 "You killed him, Absolom. How could you?" The voice was becoming difficult to distinguish from his own thoughts. Vendelot's voice echoed in his own thoughts over and over. But he didn't kill Inyol. He would never kill him.

 "You cut his throat and he is choking on his blood." Absolom was unable to stop himself from picturing it. It was so vivid, as if he remembered it. Like Vendelot was trying to plant these memories. Absolom felt miserable. And guilty. How could he let that happen? He forced himself to fix it in his thoughts. He put his hands over Inyol's gaping neck and held it closed. He imagined healing him like he would if that were to ever happen. But it wouldn't! Absolom's thoughts were going so quickly that he could hardly keep up. Inyol stopped bleeding and choking. Absolom's hands remained around his neck. The association came instantly, and he was squeezing the life out of Inyol. His eyes were wide with fear and his hands were clutching at Absolom's, begging him to stop.

 Vendelot watched with sick pleasure. The fool. He hardly needed to supplement the Vice-Commander's imagination. His feelings for this person were strong, and ripe for manipulating. Absolom was so self-sacrificing for him…Vendelot was a master of his craft. He could feel that distinctly. Vendelot would take advantage of his weakness. Absolom's brow was knitted and face grimacing as thoughts bounced around in his mind, inspiring others and causing more yet. Vendelot looked on, pitiless.

 "You're a monster for imagining these things. Could it be that you've done it already? Are you trying to forget?" Vendelot proceeded. Absolom digested the words, mind interrupted from its cascade. All those things just now, all of them were impossible to do to the same person. He couldn't have. But one of those things? Absolom raked over the collected thoughts and into his memory. Which were memories and which were thoughts? Vendelot's enchantments made it difficult to determine. But it was impossible, Absolom decided. A memory, one he knew to be true, pierced through the doubt. Absolom was about to leave with Filarion and the battalion for the mission…this one. Inyol was there. He said that Ashrei had sent him to see them off, but Absolom knew he had come himself to wish them luck. Filarion knew too. He looked away so conveniently…long enough for Absolom to deliver a swift peck on Inyol's forehead. Absolom turned and left before he could see his reaction, but he knew it must've been good. No way. Absolom would never, and could never hurt Inyol. He was immune to the suggestion.

 Dissatisfied, but not discouraged, Vendelot moved on. There were worse things than death that could happen to a person, after all. Something of a different variety was ever effective in those with loves. Vendelot didn't know it, but he had enough weaponry to drive Absolom into such a rage that he would break himself trying to bite his throat out. Vendelot considered it a valuable weapon of imagery, no less. He had used that occurrence as such many times. Once before, Ashrei's standard bearer, and favored son, had come under capture of General Athem's troops. Vendelot was Vice-Commander at that time, but he had been witness to it. He watched the drugged boy writhe and beg for disgrace. The soldiers were only too glad to do it.

 "What's it like to hold your love? What's it like to kiss them?" He prompted, watching Absolom's features solidify in stony rejection. He thought about holding Inyol shallowly, how his skin was always so warm. Inyol proved to be a highly caustic agent for Absolom's defenses, however. He thought about kissing him too. How his kiss heated him up like liquid fire ran through his veins. That kiss at the thermal pool…it was too tempting to get lost in the vivid memory, when he had suffered so much and his experience of each one was enhanced as they were.

  "You aren't the only one who has kissed those lips and held that body." Vendelot began. It worked best to ease into the horror, instead of presenting it flat out. It often dulled the effect to do so. Gradually easing into it made each progression more intense for the victim. The warmth stopped cold in his veins. He knew that was true.

[onmitsu-taicho]

((While muse is being fickle, I’ve made a bunch of completely unnecessary edits.))

[onmitsu-taicho]

@noblereason continued from here

Fists balled and teeth grit, Sui-Feng looked away from Yoruichi, body minutely trembling as they fought back their reaction to everything that had happened. (They had already cried and had a meltdown in front of him once, no need to do it again.) "It is not — that," they managed, sounding even more brittle and stilted than usual.

"I — You know I — You are aware of my... difficulties," what a way to say neurodivergence, though it was better than broken, as Captain Unohan had often said, "in... interacting with people." A longer pause, before they finally found the words to continue. "I do not understand what you are thinking and feeling, and it — it makes me feel — "

A shuddering breath.

"...It makes me feel even more lost, than when you left."

[onmitsu-taicho]

Two more of Best They™️

((ONE. TWO.))

[onmitsu-taicho]

You feel so safe inside The walls you fortified It's down you go When your walls fall like Jericho

You build 'em up You layer stone on stone You build 'em high To keep out your enemies

The sky grows dark The earth is trembling An unhappy ending To your final fantasy

You feel so safe inside The walls you fortified Supremacy implied Who dares to overthrow?

Arrogance justified Self-importance amplified It's down you go When your walls fall like Jericho

We'll all enjoy the show When your walls fall Like Jericho!

[onmitsu-taicho]

((Picrews because muse is being uncooperative.))

LINK ONE

LINK TWO

LINK THREE

LINK FOUR

[onmitsu-taicho]

@ryusxnka continued from here

With a wordless nod, as for the moment they had nothing further to say, Sui-Feng turned and walked off; the empty sleeve where their prosthetic arm should be fluttering slightly with their movements. Either the younger Captain would follow them from the balcony where they observed their troops' training and to their office, or he wouldn't, and the grey-eyed assassin didn't care which. Assuming Hitsugaya did follow them, however...

"Matsumoto-fukutaicho may be a skilled combatant," the taller swordsman sneered, "but there does not seem to be a single iota of sense in that pretty head of hers." Of course, only belatedly did Sui-Feng realize that — once again — their autism lack of filter had asserted itself. Mentally berating themself fr the slip, they clenched their jaw and gritted their teeth in an effort to keep silent. If they said nothing else, he would keep quiet, too.

Hopefully.

[onmitsu-taicho]

((Because of a combination of continued combat and infection, the upper portion of Sui-Feng’s left arm had to also be removed. As a result, their prosthetic begins at the shoulder.))

[onmitsu-taicho]

"Are we finally finished with yesterday's inane drivel?" Sui-Feng sneered. "Good."