#Doorways holy mountains of flesh

[oraculoediciones]

VIKTOR AHMED, las dimensiones del dibujo (2023) El dibujante y animador Viktor Ahmed, nos habla sobre sus orígenes en el dibujo, su paso por la gráfica, la animación y los videojuegos. Pasado, presente y futuro de un artista multifacético y pujante.

[saintsofwarding]

WE SHALL BE MONSTERS

Header art by @keltii-tea ~~

Chapter 1: A Long Time Ago

Once upon a time, there was a girl with a head full of wonders. For if there had not been one such, word would not still go around.

***

She awoke most nights to the distant sound of howling wolves. They sounded like they were right outside her window, but after a moment of fright, lost in her dreams, she came back to herself and listened to the lilt of their voices, long on the still, cold air.

The Saints' Books and Books of the Cataclysm and other holy tomes held in the carved cedar box beneath their church's altar spoke many times of wolves, and of the terrible, wonderful dreams they brought. There was a holy sickness, so the books said, that infected only the most transcendentally pious.

May they come to eat our flesh.

May they come to tear us apart.

Holy of holies, the notion, said the priests. To not only worship the ancient saints, brought with the first settlers of this mountain valley, but become one of their monsters, to be consumed by them-! They always gave a great fluttering of eyes and pressing of hands to hearts when speaking of this, their tones appropriately hushed.

The girl always nodded, her small, pale face set in what she hoped was similarly-appropriate piety, but secretly she thought there was nothing holy about the idea of being eaten.

"The pain sets you free," her father told her, when she related this secret to him one day. He was a carpenter, the best in town, able to join two beams so closely even the girl, with her years of watching him work, could never find the seams. Now, he had paused in his work, surrounded by long, soft curls of planed-off wood, the air thick with the fragrant smell of it. "That's the notion, anyway. Frankly I don't see what all the fuss is about."

The girl giggled. "It doesn't sound very nice."

"Not nice at all." He had sawdust in his blond beard. He might have paused his work, but his hands were still busy. He had a penknife and was whittling a piece of wood into the shape of an animal. "Me, I'd rather die in my bed, with my white beard to my toes, surrounded by you, my sweet, and a hundred grandchildren."

"That's a lot of grandchildren." She wrinkled her nose. "How about just one?"

"Oh?" Her father made a grand show of considering. "Well, I suppose just one. What does this one look like? A kitten? A lamb, like the ones I saw you stroking yesterday when you were meant to be gathering eggs? Maybe a little goblin?"

"No! Not a goblin. A little girl, like me."

"Just like you. With long blonde pigtails and a dreamy, schemey look on her face." He held up the little wooden animal. Now the girl saw what it was: two horns, four legs, a small friendly face. "It's not quite a lamb, but..."

The girl took the little wooden goat and cupped it in her hands. Her father might scoff at priestly tales of sacred pain, but the girl had heard his talk with the other men of the village, when he invited them to their beautifully-made home to boast and drink and discuss, as he said, 'important matters'.

She was meant to be in bed, but she snuck out and padded in her little woolen slippers to the doorway outside the sitting room. Through the shadows she saw the leaping flames, their orange glow shining on bearded faces, heard the glug of strong spirits and the words flowing just as thick and fast.

She hunkered down, her head pressed to the carved door frame, and filled her mind on their conversations. Tales of the village- gossip, her mother would say, with a roll of her eyes and a stroke of her palm down her rounded, pregnant belly. The price of timber, of lamp oil, of chicken feed. The news that came from the outside world, conveyed in by merchants in caravans drawn by shaggy, sure-footed horses, the sole sort that could traverse the treacherous mountainsides that were the only way down to the world beyond.

The mysteries of the surrounding crags and forests, strange creatures glimpsed over a gun barrel, a deep cave that reflected back the voice, so that to speak within was to hold a conversation with onesself that could last for hours-

"Days," the man claimed. He was Claude Moreau, a fisherman from the flank of the village that spilled down onto the shores of a nearby lake, a big man with gentle hands and three small sons, too young to play with the girl, but old enough to want to. "I'd have been stuck in there, chattering away forever, starving to death, if Josef hadn't come and yanked me out-"

"Because you had the bait box!" Josef crowed, and the house filled with laughter.

***

When the girl awoke one night to wolves, something was different. Something had changed. She lifted her head from the thin goosedown pillow and found a hazy stripe of gold across her coverlet. She rolled over and saw the outline of gold around the door.

Voices from without. The low moan of pain.

Slowly, so she might make no sound, the girl slipped from bed. She crept to the door and pushed it; her father had hung it, had carved it, and it swung wide silently. The sitting room was empty, but the door to her parents' bedroom was open, and from it- cries, gasps, the smell of something thick, and sweet.

The girl knew it. Of course she knew it. Every child of the village, born in this harsh mountain place, had it as their cradle-song. Chickens beheaded, pigs slaughtered. The dring of it in a bucket. The weeping of it over the snow.

Blood.

It was not meant to be here. This was home. But here it was, intruding. The girl crept toward the door, pale and hushed, her night-gown shimmering in the candlelight, a small and silent ghost. She came to the doorway and stood and looked within.

Her mother lay on the bed. On her side. Her hand was pressed to her stomach, her nightgown so soaked in sweat it clung to her body, translucent. The bed was a bath of blood. It ran in streams from the blanket, dripping and pooling on the floor. A red ribbon of it reached for the girl's toes; inside, revulsion howled and curled, but her body would not move. Her mother shuddered. A sound escaped her, a low, aching cry.

"Is...is that the doctor..."

The girl did not realize it was her mother's voice at first. It all struck her, then, as if her thoughts were coming to her late. The baby. Something was wrong. Her father had gone for the doctor. He had not come back yet.

"No," the girl whispered.

"Please...please, O saints of warding, O wolves of mercy, let him...come back..."

Her words dissolved into a howl. The girl thought of the wolves. Somehow she made herself move. Somehow she made herself stand alongside her mother, then kneel before her, as if giving worship to her as she lay and screamed and bled.

By the time her father returned with the village physician hurriedly tucking in his shirttails, roused from bed at this late hour, the blood had long gone cold, and the girl had fallen asleep, curled in the hollow of her mother's body, like the baby that was meant to come.

***

It was later, deep within the night, that the village craftsmen's tales turned to the past. To the histories.

The girl, half-dozing, always perked up at this. The only place to find the histories of the village were in the church, and then only a piece at a time, each Sabbath-day, read from the dusty, doddering lips of a dusty, doddering priest. Told by her father, the histories struck a match in the girl's mind and filled the inside of her head with a shadow-box of wonders.

A great crystalline city, deep beneath the earth. Spires to touch the skies, carved from gemstones, a thousand-thousand people filling the air with their songs and their laughter. A perfect place; a perfect utopia. No one fell sick, or went hungry. No one was lost to the snows, no child born blue. No graves were dug, no priests called to lay aconite and mountain ash and silver in crosses over hands laced. There was no need to gather eggs. There, she might dawdle all day, stroke the lambs' wool as fine and white as new snow. There, she might lay and listen forever to whatever tales she liked, and never grow tired.

A perfect place, sundered. A great calamity. Of this her father had no details, merely a darkness in his voice. Flames, perhaps floods; perhaps the place was consumed by the earth, bitten and swallowed in a snap. What mattered was that the people were flung from their perfect dream and into the nightmare of the world beyond.

For they had never known anything else, her father said, the fire burnt low, the glowing coals the only illumination in the endless dark. They had no need for gods within their paradise, but when that paradise was gone, they searched and sought and found their saints, as if waiting, in the air. Save us, they pleaded. Save us and spare us. We are lost and we are lonely.

And their saints were merciful. And their gods were waiting. And their gods asked for little. Only their love. Only their devotion.

We will save you, they promised, give you all you seek and more. We only ask that you become ours, and do as we say in return.

The girl's eyelids drooped, heavy with sleep. Mercilessly, she pinched herself. She wanted to hear the end of the story.

And so the people swore to their newfound gods they would give them their love, their devotion. They became theirs, and swore they would do all they asked for, and more.

For what is that, in return for life?

***

Her mother was lain still and cold on the scrubbed pine table, wreathed in garlic blossoms, a coin on her forehead, another slipped between her lips. The girl sat by her side, holding her hand. She wore black, mourning-clothes never before used. The house was cold, too. The fire had not been lit, and in the corners, dust had begun to accumulate.

No stories, no songs.

***

There are places, the saints whispered, where folk would never die. And those who had left the city, whose loved ones had perished in the cataclysm, lifted their heads in wonder and yearning. To live forever, the saints whispered. To live eternal. To never be forgotten.

That is what we want, they said. To be remembered.

So there is someone who will love us in another time.

So there is always someone waiting for us.

Come with us, they called, deep within the trees, to the ragged and the weary. Soon you will find salvation. Follow us, and it will be yours.

***

When the girl's father at last returned, his clothes were filthy, his fingernails black with what might be dirt. The look in his eyes frightened the girl- hungry and hollow. In his arms he clutched a bundle.

A child, the girl thought, for a moment. The baby that was meant to be born, that died with Mother.

As he neared, however, she saw it was no child within the wrappings, but a wooden box, warped and blackened with age, bound over and over again with red twine.

She blinked as another man entered behind her father. The elderly priest, she saw, who read the holy books so dully.

Her father never went to church unless Mother dragged him along, lamenting his soul. What was he doing with a priest now?

"He can save her," her father said. "Sweet one, your mother- she is not dead. Don't you understand? The stories...they're all true."

A smile broke over his face, trembling and strange, like candle flames in a breeze. The girl saw something brittle in it, something fragile. Something fervent, too.

"She can come back," he whispered.

They made the house dark, drew the curtains, waited for night. Waited for the wolves' howl to fill the frozen air, waited until the ring of candles round her mother's corpse was the only light in the world. The priest made his preparations. He had brought many things, producing them one at a time from the depths of his robes. A reliquary, gilt and glass, filled with clouded yellow liquid and a single human eye, its pupil long-since turned to milk. The bones of some small creature. A goat-headed figurine carved from white crystal.

The girl sat in a corner, her clammy hands in fists on her knees, eyes wide. She did not want to watch this. She did not want to look away.

The priest finished his array and, for long minutes, whispered over her mother's body. Then from the depths of his black and yellow robes he drew the hooked knife.

The girl's fists tightened as he slid its point down her mother's belly. Open it spilled, and the glistening stuff within was revealed. The smell now was not blood; it was warmer, richer, stranger.

Inside the old box-

Something thudded, light as a fingertip tapped against the wood.

The priest straightened. In the candlelight his face was a death mask. He lifted the knife; the girl stiffened. Her father stood with head bent and lips fluttering. The knife cut through the strings on the box in a twang.

He lifted the lid.

Within-

It was a baby after all, the girl saw. A living baby. Not blue, not still. But it was wrong. It writhed. It pulsed there in the priest's hands, unfurling long, pinkish tendrils from its slick flesh. They snaked and coiled gently around the priest's arms, nosing at his skin, at his robes, as if curious, or hungry.

She will live again.

He placed the infant inside her mother's slit-open belly, and the tentacles furled round it, sealing up the wound with a faint, fleshy crackle.

She will live again.

The only evidence it was there was the empty box. The faint pulse of her mother's belly, grotesque for the stillness that surrounded it. And the gash, a perfect red line down her mother's pale corpse skin.

And if she does not-

***

Her father came to stand by her.

After a moment, his hand rested on her shoulder.

"She's strong," he said, his voice a dry rasp. "She'll come back. She'll resist the wolf-sickness. I know she will."

"Did they ever find it?" the girl whispered.

"Find what?"

"Did the saints lead them to the place where the people can live forever?"

Her father smiled. "They found it. Of course they found it. That place is here, Miranda. This is the place where what we love will never die."

[classicschronicles]

Hi lovelies,

Today’s entry is a little different from usual in that rather than talking about about something, I thought I would just share a few of my favourite extracts from ancient literature. I hope you all enjoy!

Homer- Iliad Proem:

“Goddess, sing me the anger, of Achilles, Peleus’ son, that fatal anger that brought countless sorrows on the Greeks, and sent many valiant souls of warriors down to Hades, leaving their bodies as spoil for dogs and carrion birds: for thus was the will of Zeus brought to fulfilment. Sing of it from the moment when Agamemnon, Atreus’ son, that king of men, parted in wrath from noble Achilles.”

Homer- Iliad 19:

"As Dawn, in saffron robes, rose from the stream of Ocean, bringing light to gods and men, Thetis reached the ships bearing Hephaestus' gift. She found her beloved son groaning aloud, his arms round Patroclus' body, while his men stood by, weeping bitterly. The shining goddess came and took his hand, saying; "My child you must let him go, however great your sorrow, and leave him here, dead for all time, slain by the will of heaven.”

Virgil- Aeneid 2:

“Laocoon, the chosen priest of Neptune, was sacrificing a huge bull at the holy altar, when suddenly there came over the calm water from Tenedos (I shudder at the memory of it), two serpents leaning into the sea in great coils and making side by side for the shore. Breasting the waves, they held high their blood-stained crests, and the rest of their bodies ploughed the waves behind them, their backs winding, coil upon measureless coil, through the sounding foam of the sea. Now they were on land. Their eyes were blazing and flecked with blood. They hissed as they licked their lips with quivering tongues. We grew pale at the sight and ran in all directions, but they made straight for Laocoon. First the two serpents seized his two young sons, twining round them both and feeding on their helpless limbs.Then, when Laocoon came to the rescue with his sword in his hand, they seized him and bound him in huge spirals, and soon their scaly backs were entwined twice round his body and twice round his throat, their heads and necks high above him as he struggled to prise open their coils, his priestly ribbons befouled by gore and black venom, and all the time he was raising horrible cries to heaven like the bellowing of a wounded bull shaking the ineffectual axe out of its neck as it flees from the altar. But the two snakes escaped, gliding away to the highest temple of the city and making for the citadel of the heartless Pallas, the Tritonian goddess, where they sheltered under her feet and under the circle of her shield.”

Euripides- Bacchae:

Dionysus is glad when someone in the mountains falls to the ground from the whirling bands, wearing the sacred cloak of fawnskin, hunting the blood of goat-slaughter, the joy of eating raw flesh, racing to the mountains of Phrygia, of Lydia, and the leader is Bromios. Eugi! The ground flows with milk, flows with wine, it flows with the nectar of bees the Bacchic god holds high the blazing flame of the pine to and lets it stream from the shaft, fragrant as the smoke of Syrian incense with running and dances he spurs on stragglers, rousing them with his call, tossing his long, thick hair in the breeze amid the joyful cries he bellows: “On, bacchants! On, bacchants! Wearing the splendour of gold-flowing Iaccus. Sing praise to Dionysus with the sound of the deep booming drum. Joyfully singing Eugi!" to the god of that cry. With Phrygian calls and incantations, when the sweet holy music of the pipe sounds out its holy notes.

Ovid- Love and War:

Lovers all are soldiers, and Cupid has his campaigns:

I tell you, Atticus, lovers all are soldiers.

Youth is fit for war, and also fit for Venus.

Imagine an aged soldier, an elderly lover!

A general looks for spirit in his brave soldiery;

a pretty girl wants spirit in her companions.

Both stay up all night long, and each sleeps on the ground;

One guards his mistress's doorway, one his general's.

The soldier's lot requires far journeys; send his girl,

the zealous lover will follow her anywhere.

He'll cross the glowering mountains, the rivers swollen with storm;

he'll tread a pathway through the heaped-up snows;

and never whine of raging Eurus when he sets sail

or wait for stars propitious for his voyage.

Who but lovers and soldiers endure the chill of night,

and blizzards interspersed with driving rain?

The soldier reconnoiters among the dangerous foe;

the lover spies to learn his rival's plans.

Soldiers besiege strong cities; lovers, a harsh girl's home;

one storms town gates, the other storms house doors.

It's clever strategy to raid a sleeping foe

and slay an unarmed host by force of arms.

(That's how the troops of Thracian Rhesus met their doom,

and you, O captive steeds, forsook your master.)

Well, lovers take advantage of husbands when they sleep,

launching surprise attacks while the enemy snores.

To slip through bands of guards and watchful sentinels

is always the soldier's mission - and the lover's.

Mars wavers; Venus flutters: the conquered rise again,

and those you'd think could never fall, lie low.

So those who like to say that love is indolent

should stop: Love is the soul of enterprise.

Sad Achilles burns for Briseis, his lost darling:

Trojans, smash the Greeks' power while you may!

From Andromache's embrace Hector went to war;

his own wife set the helmet on his head;

and High King Agamemnon, looking on Priam's child,

was stunned (they say) by the Maenad's flowing hair.

And Mars himself was trapped in The Artificer's bonds:

no tale was more notorious in heaven.

I too was once an idler, born for careless ease;

my shady couch had made my spirit soft.

But care for a lovely girl aroused me from my sloth

and bid me to enlist in her campaign.

So now you see me forceful, in combat all night long.

If you want a life of action, fall in love.

Homer- Odyssey 24:

Past the ocean-stream they went, past the white rock, past the portals of the sun and land of dreams, and soon they reached the field of asphodel, where spirits dwell, spectres of worn-out men. Here they came upon the spirit of Achilles, son of Peleus, and of Patroclus too.

Messermoon- Choices 40:

(Okay strictly speaking this one isn’t actually from ancient literature entirely- I just really love it- @little-shit-soph)

After Patroclus fails to convince Achilles to fight for the Greeks.

After Achilles lets Patroclus face the Trojans without him.

The great warrior tilts his head back and asks the gods to “grant that he may return unharmed.”

Bring him back to me, he begs them.

Bring him back to me.

Bring him back.

Gods are a Muggle invention and from what Regulus can tell they are rather unreliable when it comes to keeping people safe. But then, he’s not sure that magic has ever really protected anyone he loves either.

He stares at the door a long time after James leaves.

Bring him back to me.

Bring him back to me.

Bring him back.

But Wizards don’t know how to pray. And Regulus doubts the gods would listen even if they did.

There you have it! These aren’t all of them so maybe I’ll do a part two at some point. I hope you all enjoy the rest of your weekend!

~Z

[inhernature]

"Can't Look Away" (feat. Jamila Woods & Aja Monet)

Does a tree trunk miss a blade Does a teardrop miss a face What science makes us stay See a crash Can't look away You left a scar Why do I feel the same And I been sleeping on it But you been creeping in my dreams Again I'm falling for ya This time I land on my feet

I got out of love with you alive So far Ooh I survived Now I think I'm goin' back in time Too far To change my mind

I sift through the soil in my pot The house plants singing in the light of an open window Was it breakfast you wanted or to feel the hunger of a new dawn? I was dancing in my living room before you posed for a portrait by the record player And perched your lips like a blues song Shooing the shy places within We ate mushrooms for breakfast and listened for what bloomed in our decaying minds I followed the yes in my body and let you read the footsteps between our eyes You belong elsewhere and I am a choice you make at every turn Where nerves go to worship on Sunday Where there is no religion and only love is holy Where touch is a church Where the heart is a playlist that doesn't skip Where the mountains lay on their side And watch us wander away Closer to the earth of one another Where we are a landscape A postcard, a promise, a portal Where to know now what we felt then Where your hands are the horizon Riding the sunset like an open road which is really a doorway I sip the heaven of your hello Where fingers find their way into a prayer Where lovers love more faithful than flesh Where every tomorrow is today Where dimples dance in the desert And the corners of a smile Soft as a blade of light opens the sky Where my thighs are wet with waiting When I say, love, I mean to say, I didn't see you coming

[rainbowxocs]

SPECIES INFO: Yokai

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INFO: Native to Japan. Not quite spirits, not quite demons. Yokai are best described as tricksters. They are quite odd and tend to exist and hide everywhere from the mountains to the streams, to even inside your house.

Yokai come from the creator gods Izanami and Izanagi. Specifically from Izanamis death, which created the Yokai.

Yokai however are not gods per say. They are more just odd occurrences. Shadows out of the corner of your eye.

Some Yokai are dangerous, some are friendly. Some are simply just living their lives while others will actively try to make humans lives more chaotic.

ANATOMY: Yokai are natural shapeshifters. When they are born, they tend to start as a blank slate. Until they decide what sort of Yokai they want to become.

Humans can become Yokai though that is more of a rarer occurrence.

Yokai can sometimes overlap with other Occults like merfolk or fae.

The different types of Yokai tend to be more specializations on what the individual Yokai likes to do. Though there are a few exceptions to this (like for example Oni and Kitsune.)

POWERS: All Yokai have the ability to shapeshift. They are some of the best at it actually. They are able to become whatever they wish to scare humans.

They also tend to be physically strong as well being able to rip apart humans for food and what not.

STRENGTHS: Shapeshifting is their biggest strength. It’s incredibly hard to catch a Yokai due to not only their physical strength but also them being able to shift into whatever they please. A Yokai you try and chase after can simply turn invisible at a drop of the hat and escape you.

WEAKNESSES: Salt is a big weakness to Yokai like allot of occults. Shimenawa however is one of the biggest weaknesses to most Yokai (besides Kitsune.) If you place a Shimenawa over a doorway, most Yokai will not be able to get in.

Other sacred objects from Shintoism and other folk religions from Japan will work on Yokai.

Soybeans also tend to be a weakness for some Yokai. Like for example Oni.

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SUBSECTIONS:

Kitsune: Born from the deity Inari. These Yokai take the form of foxes or sometimes humans. They are servants of Inari and can either be a huge help or… hindering… Due to their Fox like nature they sometimes are a bit too lazy or cunning to actually help you. They are one of the only Yokai that can go into holy spaces and shrines due to their connection to Inari.

Kitsune gain a tail for each 100 years they are a kitsune.

Kitsune tend to be carnivores, however don’t eat humans. They have the ability to control fire and lightning, and are able to float and do divination.

Kejoro: A feminine Yokai shaped like a Yujo or Juri. They have long hair that covers their face hiding their monstrous teeth that craves human flesh. They usually use their means of seduction to lure in male victims. Wearing their kimono a way a prositute would (Obi in the front and slightly off the shoulders.)

However. If you leave them alone they tend to not be as violent as other violent Yokai.

Aonyobo: A Yokai shaped like a nobleman or woman. Dressed in fancy kimonos and makeup. They are constantly checking their appearance in case they have guests over. However when a guest does manage to find one they have a tendency to be so hungry they eat them instead.

Yuki-Onna: A feminine Yokai associated with the cold and snow. People who are lost in blizzards often find her calling to them in the distance. They get transfixed by her beauty and perish in the cold snow.

Bake-Danuki: The Enemy of the Kitsune. Tanukis are said to bring good fortune if you find one. They like to play pranks on humans, though they’re more humorous than chaotic. They also like to entertain humans by drumming on their large bellies.

Taka-Onna: A feminine Yokai who is incredibly tall. She likes to peak through windows and over hedges and trees. Just staring and licking her lips. Giggling. Very creepy. Nobody knows what happens to the people who she grabs and takes away.

Oni: Oni, a type of violent Yokai with large horns and teeth. They tend to leave in caves and their main diet is animals and humans. Oni tend to hoard riches and gold so sometimes are used as a good luck charm to attract wealth. Some Oni are nicer than others, but they tend to be a bit dimwitted. They tend to only have one or two brain cells amongst a group of them.

Nekomata: A humanoid cat Yokai with a split tail. They are known to live in villages together and are friendly to humans. They have their own Kitty religion and you can even find Neko Geiko in their little towns. They eat the same diet that normal cats do.

Kuchisake-Onna: A feminine Yokai. Usually either wearing a mask or hiding her face with a fan. She will approach you, revealing her face, bloody and with slits in her mouth making a smile, she will ask you if she’s pretty. If you say yes, she will slit your mouth into a smile, if you say no, she will kill you.

Jorogumo: A feminine Yokai who looks like a beautiful woman until she reveals that she is part spider. But by the time you figure that out she probably has you trapped in her web. These Yokai can also control real spiders. Their diet is usually meat and humans.

Inugami: Spirits that live inside households that either take the shape of or possess dogs. They act as little Shinto priests or priestesses. Protecting your home in exchange for belly rubs and treats. They have a diet of a normal dog. They can also go into shrines or sacred places.

Futakuchi-Onna: A feminine Yokai, They normally look completely normal until they get hungry, revealing a second mouth on the back of their head… They tend to eat normal food and occasionally humans.

Suzuhiko Hime: A feminine Yokai, and incredibly friendly. They are a humanoid figure comprised of many types of bells, they tend to show up around Shrines and will dance for patrons.

Tennin: A form of Yokai/Angel found only in Asia. They are a humanoid figure with long flowing robes and sashes. Similarly to most angels they will help and protect humans. They are also gifted in the art of music and humans often find them playing songs on mountains and such.

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EXAMPLES:

Are Yoru (Kitsune)

[tacoline]

i do not like this puzzle XD

[godtrials]

hey, i love your tight knit boys playlist. It fits so well sometimes but i was wondering how ou connect some of the songs (like a pound of flesh or bad blood) to sam and dean??

guys, i promise i didn't send myself this ask. someone honest to god prompted me to talk about radical face & supernatural.

say what you will about radical face but who else is writing songs entirely about codependent brothers and dysfunctional parents. exactly. i’ve connected them to sam & dean in specific ways, but i’m 1000% certain someone else could do it totally different.

so here goes! the playlist is roughly linear, although some are flexible. it goes in this order:

Doorways - sam before christmas 1991. It's "when i was just a boy, still owl-eyed, / i tried to count the stars while in my bed / to keep the thoughts of monsters from my head," it's "i believed in all your stories / i believed you'd never lie" (to john? to dean?). he's small and innocent and optimistic about the world.

Summer Skeletons - they're boys! they're kids! "when our heads were still simple / we'd sleep beneath the moon. / you were something / that would always be around" !!!!!!!! "and all the stars fell into the lake / when the water was warm / walked in over my head / but you pulled me out by the collar of my shirt" he can still save his kid brother, okay!

Mountains - i made a post here <3 their father is a mountain of a man and there is someone else out there who watches sam all the time! what else is there to say!!!

Sisters - i made a post here, but also, let's just look at the lines: "your hand rode the wind out the window of the train / we slept in our seats with our knees curled beneath our dirty chins / dad gripped the bags like they might fly away".

A Little Hell - he's ten years old he's got a bloody nose he's watching his big brother. i mean.

Ghost Towns - Dean, Stanford era. he's nameless and travelling and "i still dream of you / but everyone knows / yeah everyone knows if you can, let it go"

The Deserter's Song - Sam, Stanford era. "i knew in my heart that my old life was gone / that in walking away, my name was undone."

Always Gold - it's the sam&dean song, so i placed it at the pilot.

The Crooked Kind - s1/s2. they’re fucked up kids! sam wants to be part of a normal family but he’s as fucked up as they are! he can hear the voices of the dead and the dark! he feels himself growing up & growing evil! also: “and I sit beside my brother and i feel him shake / as he laughs himself right back to sleep / and i’m laughin' with him // but i smell their blood” okay s2 sam we hear you.

Names - they’re on the road. they’re lost and homeless. what else do you need.

Wandering - i always think of this one as dean leaving lisa, but it could also be sam’s realization that he’s not leaving hunting (which i think really dawns on him early s3).

A Pound of Flesh - this one could be s5 or s7, i think. it’s a very desperate things-are-kinda-fucked-but-here-we-go! song. in s5 sam held down by his guilt, s7 by his hallucinations and constant fear. i especially think these lines read like them: “you told me then, hold me down, hold me up to the fire / but don’t you dare hold me back”.

Guilt - s8 finale. don’t know what more to say.

Black Eyes - okay i’m going to be real i first put this here because dean & literally having black eyes in s10 lmao, but in retrospect, i think it’s sam’s mix of desperate mourning for dean and desire for ruby and cold cold fury for lilith in that s3/s4 summer. “i couldn’t count on anyone to stand there behind me and keep the dogs from dragging me off with them,” “my heart will be blacker than your eyes when I’m through with you,” “all of the roads are one now, each choice is the same.”

Chains - dean post-gadreel, I think. “i thought i had control / that i could always walk away / if things turned bad // we were thick as thieves / 'til i became the one / who always went too far / and I couldn't hear you.” also “but in the end I'm lost / and i'll drag you down / yeah, that's my cost” and the “i’m poison” speech lmao.

Bad Blood - this is such a fucking sam song holy shit. there’s some gadreel stuff (“so you said it was for me / when you tried to break me”),  some religious pessimism (“i know, i'm not the kind you pray for”), some throwback to the dean who promised nothing bad would ever happen to sam in s1 (“you took all my fears and / you wrapped them in wonders / but there's no magic inside the moon / it's just a rock you can't reach”).

All is Well (It's Only Blood) - finale, part one. dean dying. “i said i'd fix this / that i'd set things straight / you begged me not to / but i couldn't stay”

All is Well (Goodbye, Goodbye) - finale, part two. “so i collected all our plans and crimes / and set them all alight / the only thing that bound me to this place / you took with you when you died / so goodbye, goodbye.”

[phykios]

marmaromenos, 2/?, percy and poseidon for CommanderBear on ao3 :) [read on ao3]

June, 1444

Percy tilted his head back, staring up at the great, beautiful beast of a church which loomed before him, the one they called St. Sophia, the house of holy wisdom. Everyone in Constantinople knew of this church, of course, towering above the city as it did, a beacon for the men and women of Christendom. Supposedly, travelers from all over the world came to marvel at the sight, at the architectural marvel of the ancient Romans. 

Personally, Percy thought it looked a little lumpy.

Though he supposed it was more impressive than his mother’s temple, with its stone walls instead of wooden beams. Certainly it was much larger. 

He was surprised none of the church guards thought to throw him out, looking as bedraggled as he did. Dirty and travel-worn, with ripped clothes just barely covering his myriad of injuries, he must have looked as one of the homeless children who haunted the street corners, begging for coin or food from kind passersby. Percy was not at all fit to wander such exalted halls. 

Yet wander he did, right up to a guard with a scar on his hand in the shape of a triangle, and with an air of bravery which he did not truly feel, Percy said to the man the words which he had been instructed to say, “I seek an audience with the emperor.”

The guard looked at him over his nose, unimpressed. “Then get yourself to the palace.”

“I request an audience with the Panellenios.” Still the guard stared blankly at him. But Percy had been warned he might be stubborn. “With Zeus Olumpios.”

The man narrowed his eyes. 

Percy glared right back, for he could be a thousand times more hard-headed than any man. 

“Have you been granted an audience?” he asked, after some time.

“No, but--”

“Then he shall not see you,” said the guard. “No appointment, no audience--no exceptions.”

“Oh, I wager he will make an exception,” Percy said, grasping the hilt of the sword which hung around his waist. It seemed to have shrunk on the journey back to Constantinople, now quite easily sized for him, where before it had clearly been forged for a much larger man, though the golden hilt was no less intricate, finely wrought with scenes of war and triumph, with a precision only found in the forges of Hephaestus. 

Blankly, the guard looked at the sword on Percy's hip--then paled in sudden recognition. "Is that--?"

"Indeed," said Percy. "Would you like me to prove it?" And he made to unsheathe the lightning.

“No, no!” hissed the man, taking Percy’s shoulder and pulling him into a shadow. “Please, none of that here.”

Percy gave him a pointed look.

The man sighed. “Follow me.” Then, looking over his shoulder, he led them through the metal doors, into the church.

The first thing Percy noted was the walls. They were purple and green and white, cross sections of marble joined together in a stone tapestry of color and texture. Even the floors were a part of this tapestry, worn smooth from the feet of a thousand pilgrims. 

And then he looked up. 

Percy gasped.

He knew houses of worship to be dark, solemn places, but light streamed into the house of holy wisdom from a hundred different sources. Percy felt as if he were standing at the bottom of a great canyon, looking up at the sun which peeked out from over the cliff. The golden dome, the one which Annabeth had spoken so highly of, it seemed to float on nothing but air, suspended from the heavens as the walls which supported it dissolved into sunlight. And the colors! Lavish mosaics decorated each surface, portraits of emperors and empresses rendered in gold and precious stones, lit with colored glasses of red and purple and blue, as if they had harnessed the power of Iris herself just to shine on the faces of rulers long since passed. 

The guard hissed at him, beckoning him through the hall towards the sanctuary. Laying a hand against one of the marble panels, there shone a blue triangle, and before his very eyes, the marble split open, like two leaves of a book coming undone, until there was a doorway, and a set of circular stairs. “Go,” said the guard. “Do not keep them waiting.”

He did as the man told him, and ascended the stairs. He walked. And walked. And kept walking. At one point, he had to stop and rest a while, catching his breath, one hand braced against the wall. How high was this malakes staircase?

Finally, blessedly, he reached the top. The doors to Olympus opened as he approached, revealing to him the home of the gods. 

Percy stepped out and nearly fell off. 

He stood on a thin, stone walkway in the middle of the air. Below him was the blue dome of St. Sophia and the city of Constantinople, from the height of one of Zeus’ mighty eagles. Before him, white marble steps wound their way through the clouds, into the blue sky, where Percy beheld the peak of a mountain, its summit covered with snow. Clinging to the mountainside were dozens of palaces, each one grander than that of the emperor of Rome, all with white-columned porticos and bronze braziers glowing with a thousand holy fires. Precariously perched gardens bloomed with olive trees and rose bushes, figs and pomegranates hanging low, ripe for the taking, almost as colorful as the temples. On one side, Percy could discern a stone amphitheater built out of the side of the mountain, a hippodrome and a coliseum on the other, and an open-air market filled with colorful tents in between, a vibrant, thriving city plucked straight from the past.

Percy wondered at it all. How could this be? How could the people of the city of Constantinople live underneath such splendor and not see it for themselves? 

In a daze, he walked forward. He passed a few giggling wood nymphs who threw olives at him from the safety of their garden, as hawkers in the market offered to sell him fine food and rich wines, just as the mortals did. Traveling through a beautiful park, he spotted the nine muses tuning their instruments, while a small crowd gathered before them, satyrs and naiads, handsome youths and beautiful girls, unburdened and carefree. None seemed worried about the prospect of an impending civil war. Indeed, the mood was festive and joyful.

Several turned to watch as he passed, whispering to themselves.

Climbing the main road, towards the glittering white and silver palace at the peak, Percy passed through the central courtyard, stepping into the throne room. And it was a room, as it was contained within four walls--but room did not quite clearly capture the enormity of the space. Even bigger than the hall of St. Sophia, massive columns rose to another domed ceiling, gilded not with mosaics, but with living, breathing, moving constellations. He spied Orion, the Dioscuri, and his namesake, Perseus, traveling across the sky in their endless celestial dance.

Twelve thrones, built for enormous beings, were arranged in an inverted U, just as they were with the villas at the agoge, complete with an enormous fire crackling in the hearth, right in the center. The thrones were vacant, save for two at the end: the head throne on the right, and the one to its immediate left. Percy did not have to be told who the two gods were which sat there, observing him, awaiting his approach. He could barely even look at them without feeling his flesh begin to tingle, as though his body were mere moments away from burning.

Zeus Olumpios, the lord of the sky, sat before him on a throne made of solid metal, white and shining, in a great, purple cloak, the color that was reserved for kings and emperors only, his face proud and handsome, but grim, stern eyes steely blue like thunderclouds. The air about him crackled, smelling of flowers, the heartbeat before a lightning strike.

The god sitting next to him was his brother, of that Percy had no doubt, but he could not have been more different. He reminded Percy a little of the fishermen that dotted the harbors of the city, in his simple, light tunic and well-worn sandals. His skin was deeply tanned, hands scarred from the cuts of a thousand fishhooks. His hair was black, like Percy's, on which rested a crown of celery leaves, and his face was dark and brooding, the same look which had branded Percy as a troublemaker. But his eyes, the color of the Bosphorus in the sunlight, like Percy's, were surrounded by sun-crinkles which seemed to indicate that he was a man prone to smiling.

His throne was a fisherman's chair, and at his side, instead of a fishing pole, was a giant, bronze trident.

The gods did not move nor speak, but there was a tension in the air, as if Percy had come to them at the conclusion of some great argument.

Percy approached the fisherman's throne, kneeling at his feet. "Father."

He did not dare look up.

To his left, Zeus spoke, his voice the echo of thunderclaps. "Should you not first address the master of this house, boy?"

He kept his head down.

"Peace, brother," said Poseidon. His voice stirred one of Percy's oldest, most treasured memories: that warm glow he recalled as an infant, the sensation of this god's hand upon his forehead. "The boy defers to his father--this is only right."

"You still claim him, then?" Zeus asked him. "You claim this child whom you sired against our most sacred oath?"

"I have admitted my wrongdoings," said Poseidon. "Now, I would hear him speak."

Percy's heart beat in his chest, a lump growing in his throat. Was that all he was to this mighty being? A wrongdoing? A mistake?

"I have spared him once already," Zeus grumbled. "Daring to fly through my domain... pah! I should have struck him from the sky as I once did to Bellerophon for his impudence."

"And risk destroying your weapon?" asked Poseidon, as calm as the sea after a storm. "Let us hear him out, brother."

Grumbling once more, he acquiesced.

"Perseus," said his father. "Look at me."

He did.

His face was inscrutable. Percy saw no sign of neither approval nor disapproval. It was as if he were attempting to discern the mood of the ocean, whether or not it would provide safe travels or turbulent waves, from only the stillness of the waters. He could not sense whether or not Poseidon was pleased with him, he realized, and, in some strange way, it did not trouble him. Had he been more affectionate or loving, it would have felt like a trick, like the magic of some monster, luring him to his demise.

"Address Lord Zeus, boy," he intoned. "Tell him of your tale."

And so did Percy relate everything as it had happened to him, the long and twisted tale of the lightning thief. He told Zeus of Medusa and the Erinyes, of Echidna in Thessalonica, of the treachery of the god of war and the revelations uncovered in the Underworld. He unbuckled the sword and sheath from his belt, which had begun sparking in the god's presence, and carefully laid it at his feet.

For a long while, there was nothing but silence, broken only by the crackle of the hearth fire.

Zeus opened his palm, and the weapon flew to its master's palm. As he closed his fist about the hilt, it transformed before Percy's very eyes, into a jagged length of metal, a five-meter javelin of arcing, hissing energy.

"I sense the boy is telling the truth," Zeus muttered. "But that Ares would do such a thing... it is most unlike him."

"He is proud and impulsive, my lord," said Poseidon. "Something of a family trait, I believe."

Percy swallowed. "Lord?"

"Yes?" They said together.

"I do not feel that Lord Ares acted alone. There was another... a shadowy puppetmaster, operating just beyond his knowledge."

"How do you mean?" asked Zeus.

In one final, vicious confrontation, Percy had faced the god of war in single combat on the shores of Aitne. Though he had managed to land a blow on the god, striking his ankle, Ares had been poised to strike him down... until a strange, cold presence had seemed to cease the flow of time, causing Ares to stay his hand, a momentary breath of evil which had dogged his dreams, and Percy too told of this. "In my dreams, the voice bade me to bring the bolt to the Underworld, a voice that Ares seemed to have heard as well in his. I believe he was being used to start a war."

"So you do accuse Hades, then?" Zeus asked.

"No, Lord Zeus--I have been in his presence, and it was not what I felt on the beaches of Aitne. Rather, it was the same feeling I had when I got too close to the pit of Tartarus." For that was what it was, he suddenly realized. Something stirred down there, something evil and powerful... and older even than the two gods which sat before him.

Glancing at each other, the lords of sea and sky engaged in a quick, intense discussion in the ancient tongue, which Percy could not follow, though he was able to catch a single word: Father. 

"We shall speak of this no more," said Zeus. "I shall personally go to purify this thunderbolt in the waters of Lemnos, removing the human taint from its metal."

He rose, looking at Percy, who stared back, willing everything in him not to flinch.

Then, his countenance softened, just a touch. "You have done me a service, boy. Few heroes could have accomplished as much."

"I was not alone, my lord," he said. "The satyr Aegidius, and Annabeth Fredriksdotter--"

"To show you my thanks, I shall spare your life. I do not trust you, Perseus of Constantinople, and I do not like what your arrival may portend for the future of Olympos. But for the sake of peace in the family, I shall let you live."

How magnanimous of him. "Thank you, sir."

"Do not let me find you here upon my return. Otherwise you shall taste this bolt--and it shall be your last sensation."

Thunder shook the hall of the gods, and with a blinding flash of lightning, Zeus had gone.

Percy was alone in the throne room with his father.

Poseidon sighed. "Your uncle," he said, rubbing at his nose with a finger, "always did have a flair for dramatic exits. Perhaps he should relieve his son as the god of theater, no?"

Percy could find no proper response to such a question. He was not certain that, even though he was no longer present, his words would not reach the god's ears. "Sir," he said instead, "what was the thing in the pit?"

The god regarded him. "Have you not already guessed?"

He had. "Kronos. The Titan king."

Even in the throne room, as far away from the pit as could be, the name darkened the room, cooling the warmth of the hearth fire at his back.

Poseidon gripped his trident, a calming gesture. "At the close of the First War, Zeus cut our father, Kronos, into a thousand pieces, just as Kronos had down to his own father, Ouranos, a generation prior. Zeus then cast Kronos' remains into the darkest pit of Tartarus. The army of the Titans was scattered, their fortress destroyed, their monstrous allies driven to the furthest corners of the earth--yet the Titans cannot die, any more than we gods can. Whatever is left of Kronos is still alive, in some hideous way, conscious in his eternal pain, hungering for power."

"He's healing," he said. "He is returning."

But Poseidon shook his head. "Over the eons, Kronos has stirred. He will enter men's nightmares, breathing evil thoughts, awakening restless monsters from the depths. But to suggest that he could rise from the pit is another thing."

"That is what he intends, father!" Percy insisted. "That is what he desires!"

"My lord brother has closed discussion on this matter," he said. "He will allow talk of Kronos no longer. You have completed your quest, child. That is all you need to do."

"But--" Percy stopped himself. Arguing would do him no good, and would very possibly anger the only god who he had as an ally. "...As you wish, father."

A faint smile played on his lips. "I see that obedience does not come naturally to you, then."

Percy shrugged. "No, sir."

"I must take some blame for that, I suppose. The sea is a wild thing, and it does not like to be restrained." Grasping his trident, he rose to his full height, then he shimmered, shrinking until he became the size of any fisherman in Constantinople, standing before him. "You must go now, child. But first, know that your mother has been returned from the Underworld."

Percy gasped. "My mother?"

"Even the Lord of Death pays his debts. You will find her at her home."

His heart pounded in his chest. His mother, that wondrous woman, he had left to the tender mercies of Hades, and he had indeed been merciful. So overcome with emotion, he nearly asked if this god, this divine being, would accompany him home to see her. As if Poseidon would deign to walk the streets of Constantinople, mingling amongst the mortals. And besides… if he had thought to visit her all these years, there was not much that would have prevented him from already doing so. 

Poseidon’s eyes took on a little sadness, like clouds on the far off horizon. “When you return home, my son, there will be an important choice which you must make, and a parcel waiting for you there.”

“A parcel?”

“You will understand when you see it. This is my wisdom to you, Percy, that you must decide your own path. No one can choose it for you.”

He nodded, though he did not quite comprehend. 

His face cleared, then. “Your mother is a queen among women,” he said, wistful for his former paramour. “I had not met such a mortal woman in quite some time. And yet, I do feel some… regret, child, that you were born. I have doomed you to a hero’s fate, and a hero’s fate is never a happy one.”

Percy looked away, hoping that his hurt did not show. “I--I do not mind, father.”

“Not yet, perhaps,” he said. “Yet still, ‘twas an unforgivable error on my part.”

Percy bowed, stiff and awkward. He could not bear it any longer, and he knew a dismissal when he heard one. “I shall take my leave of you, then.”

But he had not taken five steps when he heard his father call his name again. “Perseus.”

He turned.

There was a different kind of light in his eyes, now, a sort of fiery pride. “Do not misunderstand me, Perseus. You did very well. Whatever else you do, know that you are mine, a true son of the sea god.”

As he walked back through the city of the gods, towards the dome of St. Sophia, conversations ceased. The muses paused their revelry. Satyrs and naiads, gods and goddesses, and all matter of immortal beings turned towards me, their faces filled with respect and gratitude, and as he passed, they knelt, paying tribute to a hero.

[moodboardinthecloud]

Gathering Council: World of Witnesses

by Sophie Strand 

https://www.facebook.com/photo?fbid=10226588198557848&set=a.1499832382446

Scarlet Tanager. Woodcock. Yellow-throated Vireo. Thimbleweed. St. John’s Wort.Black locust. Honey locust. King Bolete. Cayuga Soil. Schist. Bluestone. Turkeytail. Mountain lion. Coy Wolf. Trillium. Columbine. Mountain Laurel. The Shawangunk Mountain Range. The Esopus Creek. The Millstream. Sturgeon. Purple Loosestrife. Wolf spider. Chanterelle. Osha. Phlox….The litany lasts about an hour, or as long as it takes for me to boil the water for my pour over of coffee and watch streamers of clementine dawn stripe across my living room. Lately, it’s spilled into my early morning run. But by the time I’m done summoning and sending thanks to every being I know in a twenty-mile radius of my home, I’m surrounded by a world of witnesses. The day begins within a more-than-human community. And my decisions henceforth– practical, creative, and spiritual – will be made with the knowledge that I exist in relationship. Everything I do is ecological. When I used the word ecological, I root back to the original etymology: Greek oikos for household. I am not a noun on an empty page. I do nothing alone. I am a syntactical being, strung together by my metabolism and needs and desires, to thousands of other beings. Together we are all a household, and every choice we make, mundane or explosive, takes place within the networked household of relationships. I did not arrive at this practice intellectually. It was not an exercise or a molded habit. It was a lifeline. Anyone who has been seriously ill, or has had a near death experience, will know that it cuts the metaphysical chaff. Illness and injury act like a bottleneck. You are squeezed through, pressurized and simplified. Only the most intrinsic beliefs, prayers, and ideas travel with you through to the other side. I was raised by spiritual parents who wrote about and researched religion and mantric prayer. I was given beads and taught Tibetan Buddhist, Zen, and Catholic prayers from a very young age. I found these repetitive vocalizations to be steadying. But I often struggled with the abstraction of the Christian prayers and the language barrier between me and the Buddhist mantras. Drawn to study, understand, and reinterpret the words, I was increasingly cognitive about prayer, rather than embodied. But after my first-time experiencing anaphylaxis, one of the charming bouquet of symptoms that arrived with the onset of my genetic condition at sixteen, I realized the prayers evaporated with oxygen. As my throat narrowed and my blood pressure dropped, as I watched the people around me reflect my own panic, I realized the only thing that stayed were the animals, and the fungi, and the trees, and the mountains. In those moments I found myself growing as small as a sunflower seed, planting myself on the sandy banks of a river island, halfway down the Battenkill River. I could see a sapphire splash of a kingfisher in the water. Smell sunlight baking the ryegrass into sweetness. Feel the drifting lick of a dragonfly darting across my shoulder blades. I was suspended between life and death. But I was held, not by a prayer or a god or an idea, but by a landscape. By the aliveness that was me, and was also much deeper than me. I didn’t learn this lesson immediately. Not the second, not the seventh, not even the fifteenth time I came through the bottleneck. But each narrow passage winnowed me down to essentials. And what I kept coming back to, in hospital beds, on the bathroom floor, in the ambulance, in my own arms, late at night, trying to assess whether or not to drive myself to the hospital, was that while very little of human civilization stayed with me or offered comfort, an entire universe of life exploded on the other side of these experiences, welcoming me into a greater sense of community. I found myself remembering the mountain lion eyes I once stared into, the marble head of the bald eagle somehow distinct against the similarly white haze of a blizzard. The glittering scent of the lilac grove overtaking the old bluestone quarries on Lewis Hollow. Soon, when I went to pray, I found myself summoning my counsel, in gratitude and also in a petition for their help and their instructive audience. How best may I act? How may I act knowing you are watching tenderly and attentively? What stories do I need to notice? What stories want to be told? Who needs my help today? And whose help can I receive? The potent thing about creating a counsel of beings you live alongside, is that, unlike an abstracted god, they actually show up. The heron does, in fact, dissect the sky, providing a symbol of incisiveness just at the moment when you need to make a decision. The ground really does provide a soil womb for the food that you will eat and metabolize into music, laughter, dance, heated breath on a windowpane, lovemaking. The fungi really do hold the forest together and provide a medicine that heals your brain and rewires your immune system. These are the guardian angels that have roots instead of wings. They are attached to place, and the more you summon them, the more they will show you that there is a miracle in every footstep, a deep abiding embrace in every biome-laced breath of fresh air. This is not a taxonomical exercise. Any name will do. Any way of tracking that invisible and intimate line of connection between you and another being. You exist, not as one end of that thread, but vibrating along its connection. Anything you do to harm yourself, harms other animals and trees and insects. Anything that nourishes other beings, may ultimately nourish you. And when you are suffering, when you are very scared, you do not need to remember a single prayer, or say a holy word. Your body, a doorway poured through with matter, a spider-webbing of relatedness, is prayer enough. Every second you stay present with your connectivity to your ecosystem is sacred, somatic, lived epiphany. If you pray, ask yourself, does your prayer have roots? Does your god sometimes grow fur? Do your holy words grow leaves? Does your spirituality connect you into your situated ecosystem? If you want, it is a lovely thing to slowly name all those beings that make up your environment. And to seek out new relationships to further flesh out this relational prayer. Gather counsel as you would wildflowers. Pick the ones that show up brightly, insistently, and show you they notice you, just as much as you notice them. Gather counsel as you would pick up a few flat stones to skip across the river. Gather counsel as you would stars, without your hands, held only as a flash of light, in the prismatic blink of an open eye.

Image by @tinorodrigriguezartist and @virgoparaiso

[raeynbowboi]

In the Dragon’s Dungeon: How to Play as Maleficent in D&D 5e

As a card-carrying, certified geek, I’m a fan of many dorky hobbies, and among them is Dungeons and Dragons. So in honor of Halloween, I’ve decided to dedicate my very first build to the Mistress of All Evil, Maleficent from the 1959 Disney Classic Sleeping Beauty, and to a lesser extent, her role as the leader of the Disney Villains in the Kingdom Hearts series and other 2nd tier canon material using the animated version. For this build, we are only interested in her animated counterpart. Jolie’s portray is far too noble and sympathetic for the diabolical witch we’re working with here. Maleficent is a very powerful fairy, so our goal for her build is to focus on causing as much unhappiness, pain, and misery as she possibly can.

Picking a Race

While our first instinct is to call Maleficent a Wicked Witch, she is in fact, a fairy. She’s based on the Aged Fairy (or the Bad Fairy in some translations) from the Grimm and Perrault versions of the Sleeping Beauty fairytale. Unfortunately, while Fey exist in DnD, they are not a specific playable race with stats, so we’re forced to improvise. However, there are 3 subraces which seem best suited for what Maleficent could be: [Fallen Aasimar] - since all the other fairies have wings and can only perform good magic, this dark variation on the playable “angel” race which has lost its wings could fit Maleficent’s descent and mirror the fall of Lucifer. With this option she gains +2 Charisma and +1 Strength, 60 feet of darkvision, resistance to both necrotic and radiant damage, the power to instill fear in those around her, and boost her own necrotic damage for a short period between rests. However, this might not fit her the best, and she is slain by a sword endowed with good fairy magic, which could be considered radiant damage. However, Ventus puts her to sleep in Kingdom Hearts Birth by Sleep, so that could be a point in favor of this racial build for the character. [Maka Clan Elf] - Maka Clan elves specialize in curses by praying to old gods of nature and death. With this choice, she gains +2 Dexterity and +1 Wisdom, proficiency with Religion, 60 feet of darkvision, resistance to charm, immunity to sleep spells, and can enter an elven trance instead of sleeping. As a Maka Clan Elf, she knows the Thaumaturgy Cantrip at level 1, and starting at levels 3 and 5 respectively, she can cast both Hex and Crown of Madness once per long rest using her Wisdom modifier. [Shadar-Kai Elf] - The third option is the Shadar-Kai. Once a fey like other elves, the Shadar-Kai became loyal to the Raven Queen, and they have taken up refuge in Shadowfell, a dark dimension. This nicely mirrors Maleficent’s state as a corrupted fairy that now dwells in darkness. As a Shadar-Kai elf, she gains +2 Dexterity and +1 to Constitution, Proficiency with Perception, 60 feet of darkvision, resistance to necrotic damage, being charmed, immunity to sleep spells, and can enter an elven trance instead of sleeping. This archetype lacks pre-set one-use spells, but does allow her to teleport up to 30 feet and appear transparent as she does so, gaining resistance to all types of damage while moving like this starting at 3rd level.

As for her background, we’ll make her a Noble, since Queen Leah (yes, she has a name) refers to her as Your Exellency, which denotes Maleficent as a member of the aristocracy.

Powers and Abilities:

Sleeping Beauty (1959)

-appear and disappear in a flash of fire (teleports only herself, not Diablo) -create gusts of wind (possibly? She may have just blown down the doors) -has a Raven for a familiar -bestow curses, hexes, jinxes, etc. -bestow magical sleep -spy with Diablo (Flora is even afraid to speak her plan to hide Aurora out of fear that Maleficent might find out somehow, Diablo also later finds Aurora, acts as Maleficent’s alarm system, and leads her minions to where the intruders are.) -summon frost, snow, ice, or cold to kill Flora’s flowers -possibly some level of omniscience or divination? (Merrywhether states that Maleficent knows everything, interpret as you see fit) -shoot lightning with her staff. -Put out fires (the fire in the fireplace goes out when she lures Aurora) -possibly transmutation/relocating walls? (The Fireplace suddenly transforms into a passageway, but it’s unclear if that was already there, or if she created this doorway to lead Aurora to the spinning wheel. But once Aurora has been lead away from her room, Maleficent closes off the doorway that she created, and the fairies have to use magic to open the doorway again.) -Appearing as a floating green light (this may or may not be similar to when the three good fairies look like flying balls of colored light when in their shrunken forms.) -Hypnosis/Suggestion (Aurora clearly looks hypnotized while following Maleficent to the Spinning Wheel, only hesitating when she hears familiar voices calling her name, but is then compelled by Maleficent to touch the spindle) -creating inanimate objects out of thin air (she creates a black spinning wheel) -call lightning from the sky -raise a thicket of thorns -using non-physical form to fly/move quickly (as she flies from her tower in front of Phillip in some sort of spiral of sparks) -All the Powers of Hell (her minions are also a disgrace to The Forces of Evil) -transform into a dragon (with a fire breath attack) -weak to holy/radiant damage?

Suggested or Implied Powers These are powers she never really demonstrates in the film, but the other fairies can do them, so it’s possible she can too: -bestow gifts/blessings -shrink to a small size -change people into plants and back again -make inanimate objects float/act semi-conscious -create food -conjure clothing/don disguises -remove the other fairies’ wings -use magic to zap/weld off chains -conjure unholy/necrotic weapons and shields -turn creatures to stone -transform stones into bubbles, arrows into flowers, and boiling oil into a rainbow. -bestow an unholy/necrotic enchantment to a weapon -it’s unclear if her minions are mortal goblins that actually exist in the world, or if they’re demon minions she was given when she sold her service to Chernabog. Thus, it’s uncertain if she can summon more, or if she’s limited to the mortal beings in her service.

Kingdom Hearts

-create, summon, and control the Heartless -Teleporting (this time without columns of fire) -creating portals between worlds/planes/planets -bestow the power to control the Heartless -appear as a transparent projection -bring Oogie Boogie back to life (without the need of his body) -teleport Oogie Boogie and herself -Turn Santa Claus into a Heartless (or at least trying to) -Create a Wall of Fire -”awaken” the evil inside of people’s hearts/force people to stop repressing their evil impulses -make rocks float -summon meteors of heaven -conjure lightning indoors -move as a spiral of sparks/dark fire -Can be put to sleep by Ventus through magic

Converting her abilities to Spells and Feats

Before we can settle on a class, we have to decide what spells would fit under Maleficent based on her canon abilities, then pick a class or multi-classes that cover the widest selection of those spells and powers.

-Mobility     -Arcane Gate (Sorcerer, Warlock, Wizard)     -Astral Projection (Cleric, Warlock, Wizard)     -Dimension Door (Bard, Sorcerer, Warlock, Wizard)     -Misty Step (Sorcerer, Warlock, Wizard)     -Teleport (Bard, Sorcerer, Wizard) -Curses     -Bestow Curse (Bard, Cleric, Wizard)     -Hex (Warlock) -Nature’s Power     -Call Lightning (Druid)     -Control Flames (Druid, Sorcerer, Wizard)     -Gust of Wind (Druid, Sorcerer, Wizard)     -Lightning Bolt (Sorcerer, Wizard)     -Melf’s Minute Meteors (Sorcerer, Wizard)     -Sleet Storm (Druid, Sorcerer, Wizard)     -Ray of Frost (Sorcerer, Wizard)     -Wall of Thorns (Druid) -Transmutation     -Flesh to Stone (warlock, wizard)     -Polymorph (Bard, Druid, Sorcerer, Wizard) -Enchantment     -Charm Person (Bard, Druid, Sorcerer,Warlock, Wizard)     -Suggestion (Bard, Sorcerer,Warlock, Wizard) -Necromancy     -True Resurrection (Cleric, Druid) -Evil Flavored     -Hellish Rebuke (Warlock)     -Negative Energy Flood (Warlock, Wizard)     -Shadow of Moil (Warlock) -Heartless     -Conjure Shadow Demon (Sorcerer, Wizard)     -Infernal Calling (Warlock, Wizard)     -Summon Lesser Demons (Warlock, Wizard)     -Summon Greater Demon (Warlock, Wizard)

Get to Class

If you want to cover the majority of Maleficent’s powers, a Druid/Wizard combination is your best bet. However, Maleficent very clearly states that her power is directly given to her from Hell and that she serves the Forces of Evil, which is textbook Warlock. So, I would label her a Warlock/Druid. Specifically, a Fiend Patron Warlock, as in other Disney material, it’s stated that Maleficent serves Chernabog, the demon from Night on Bald Mountain. However, to offer multiple options, she could also be a Warlock sworn to the Raven Queen, which puts a lot of emphasis on having a Raven as almost an extension of oneself. As a Druid, she would fit well with the Circle of Land. Maleficent’s domain is in the lonesome, desolate mountains, which will also allow her to learn Lightning Bolt, despite being neither a Sorcerer, nor a Wizard.

Stats and Proficiencies

Considering all she had to do was appear and have people gasp in fear of her very presence, we can assume that Intimidation is likely a very highly trained skill of hers. She’s also good at lying to people, so Deception is another skill that would suit her nicely. Looking at how she handles herself, she’s very well-spoken, charming, and well-mannered until she snaps and starts hollering like a cat in heat. So, we should assume that Charisma is going to be her top stat. Next up for the Mistress of all evil is going to be her Wisdom stat, especially if you decided to make her a Maka Clan Elf. We see the wise, cunning side of Maleficent often in Kingdom Hearts as she frequently warns her weak-minded colleagues not to give in to the darkness, which she herself is too self-aware to succumb to. Next is Constitution, we can’t have her losing her concentration while she’s casting spells, like Oogie Boogie did while she was trying to turn Santa into a Heartless. Fourth is going to be Intelligence. It’s not super vital in most 5e builds I’ve seen, but the Mistress of All Evil is actually quite intelligent and clever. We especially see this again in the Kingdom Hearts series where she finds ways to corrupt the world in search of power. We’ll give her Strength next to last. I’m sure she can hit you with her staff or something. And we’ll be dumping Dexterity because this lady doesn’t even try to move in the original kingdom hearts game when you fight her. She’s one of the easiest boss battles because she’s so stationary. She gets better in Birth By Sleep where she’s teleporting around the field, but she still tends to stand still quite a lot. However, if you want to flip Dex and Strength for playability, no one would blame you.

So there you have it. Maleficent is a Noble Fallen Aasimar or a Noble variety of Elf, and is a Mountain Land Druid that has sworn a pact to either a Fiend (Chernabog) or the Raven Queen (via Diablo). What are your thoughts on this build? Do you think she should have been done differently? Did I make any mistakes in my analysis? And do you feel inspired to embrace your inner villain in your next campaign? Do you have a suggestion for who I should do next? Please, any feedback is welcomed and appreciated.

[lillybeeswriting]

Doorways: Holy Mountains of Flesh

Doorways: Holy Mountains of Flesh

The Doorways series gets another chapter-esque installment, is it as haunting as its predecessors? Holy Mountains of Flesh, an apt and disturbing image conjuring title, is the third installment of the Doorways series by Saibot Studios. While my knowledge of the previous games was experienced by other gamers in ‘Let’s Plays’ I had the chance to play the most recent in this games series and I could…

[princessdejamars]

A Picture Worth One Thousand Words Challenge

The rules are simple. 

Take one photo and try to write one thousand words to tell a story about the photo. The actual word count doesn’t matter. It’s just a goal. I’m using this challenge to motivate me to break through my creative block so I can finish my stories.

This is my contribution, and there will be more to follow. I got close with 850 words. This basically sort of covers Nick’s “death” experience and how he comes back from it. The picture shows Nick in his angelic form as the Phoenix and okay if you haven’t figured it out **spoiler** Azrielle is Zoey’s angelice form.

Prompt for this picture

“Death is not an ending.”

Epilogue for Fallen Angel—Phoenix Rising

Death transforms me. No longer bound to my earthly shell, my spirit ascends preparing to face my final judgment by my Creator. The choices I made in life affect the outcome of that judgment. I seek the Valley of Shadows, but I find nothing. No Heaven. No Hell. Just an endless tunnel of rainbow-colored clouds. At the end of the tunnel, I see two doors. One says Life and One Says Death.

I reach for the Door of Life and open it. Ice-capped mountains reach for the clouds. Water cascades down the mountain side forming a pool inside a basin of rocks at the foot of the mountainside. I can see fish swimming lazily in the crystal-clear water. Flowers, birds, and butterflies of every kind and color fill the garden. I step through the doorway into Paradise.

An odd place to face final judgment upon my soul, but who am I to question the will of the Creator. Why does this place feel so familiar? Like I am home after a long and lonely journey. I close my eyes and take a deep breath inhaling the sweet fragrant air when I hear a voice as soft as the wind and as sweet as the birds singing in the trees.

I open my eyes, and I am not alone. Beams of golden light radiate from the angel standing at the edge of the pool. A silver crown sits on top of hair the color of cinnamon and ginger falling down the length of her back in a single braid wound with purple ribbons. She wears a robe of gossamer silk lace and feathers that shimmers like a rainbow in the mist formed by the waterfall behind her.

“Are you the one to judge my soul?” I ask.

“No.” She stepped toward me.

“Who are you?”

“You do not remember.” She tilts her head and looks up at me.

 “No, I’m sorry, but I don’t remember.” I frown as I search through my memory and find nothing but shadows and pain.

“I am Azrielle, the Angel of Death and Sorrows.” She whispers as tears spill from her eyes. The Angel of Death and Sorrows, the one responsible for comforting the dead and dying, the one who comes to escort their souls for their judgment. How strange is it that I want to comfort her, to wipe away the tears from those beautiful violet blue eyes, to see her smile, to hear her laugh?

“Are you here for me? To take my soul to its final judgment before the Creator?” I ask.

“I am here for you, but I have not come for your soul because you are not dead, yet.” She raised her hand to my face. I covered her hand with mine savoring her touch. It burned like a hot white flame against my skin.

“I don’t understand. If I’m not dead, where am I and why am I here?”

“This place is holy ground. There is no judgment here, only a chance for redemption. I know you don’t understand right now, but you will. Do you trust me?”

Holy ground? No judgment? Redemption? Do I trust her? Why does she feel so familiar to me? As if I love her and know her...intimately. Trust her? I turn my head and kiss the palm of her hand.

“With my life.” I know it. I feel it. There is no doubt. Only blind faith.

“As I trust my life with yours. You are where you have always been and always will be, my love, at home, here inside my heart.” She linked her fingers with mine and brought my hand to her face nuzzling it against her cheek before pressing it against her breast. I felt her heart beating strong and true.

 “I feel the truth of what you say; I just wish I could remember.” I wanted to kiss her. Maybe that might jog my memory of her. As if she read my mind, she tilted her head grazing my lips with hers. The kiss electrified me as she placed her other hand on my chest.

“When the time comes, you will remember who you are, who you have always been. You are a Chosen Warrior for our Creator. Find the Heart of God and break the Siren’s Curse.” She whispers her breath sweet and warm against mine.

 My heart exploded as if struck by lightning. No longer in the garden glen, I lay beneath the smoldering timber and rubble of the Temple ruins. Heat and smoke seared my lungs. I struggled to breathe as flames consumed my flesh and bones, but this time I was not alone. Azrielle, the Angel of Death held me in her arms as I lay dying, and I remembered everything, even after the fire died, and my ashes lay cold on the charred stone floor.

 I am Phoenix, the Angel of Resurrection. Reborn from the ashes of the past, I return transformed. Death is not an ending; it is merely another chance to live, to learn, and to love.

[onhirel]

The Peace Found Within

My submission for Dianakko Week 2019 Day 1: Soulmates!

Part of my larger What a Decade Brings universe, and it can be found on AO3!

Magic was such a strange thing. There were rules to it, of course…after all, that was how magic spells were cast. But there was so much that wasn’t known, that would probably never be known. It seemed as though the more someone tried to control it, force it to do what they wanted, the more chance for chaos there was. Was that what had happened to her? Had she misused magic? Had she gone too far, bent it too far to her will in order to do what was necessary? Had her actions made it so that there was no rest, no peace for her?

Akko grimaced from where she knelt in the small temple somewhere up in the mountains of China. She was surrounded by meditating monks, and was trying to achieve the same inner peace that they were displaying, the inner peace that had eluded her since the Battle of Arcturus Forest, the inner peace she was so desperate for. It had been so very long since she had known true peace.

First step, center your breathing.

Her eyes drifted shut as her breathing slowed, and somewhere in the distance, a chanting prayer was called in a nasally voice, the Chinese foreign to Akko’s ears, and she focused on the rolling words for a moment before she slipped deeper, and-

Fire. Death. Ruin. Blood that wasn’t hers on the blade that had formed from the sleeve of her dress. Blood that was hers hot and wet against her torn flesh. The inability to breathe. Terror and hopelessness as she stared the embodiment of Death itself in the face. Diana. Sweet, brave Diana. Working in tandem to dispel that monster. And then, slipping away into oblivion, an oblivion she never expected to come back from.

Her eyes snapped open, and she swallowed heavily, mind racing as the floodgates opened, her memories flitting from one trauma to the next, crashing and smashing and spinning like billiard balls in her still damaged mind.

Ambushes and counter-ambushes against Silent Spring members.

Holding a junior witch’s hand as she bled to death in the aftermath of a particularly bad skirmish, the young woman’s wounds too great to heal in time.

The very first time she killed a person. A man, with dark hair that had silver touching the temples. One of the leaders of a Silent Spring cell. He had smelled of cologne and old books and fear and desperation, and she had killed him and watched impassively as his cold, cruel eyes went dim, a woman’s name on his lips as he exhaled one last time. It wasn’t until she got to the hotel she was using that she had come apart under the realization that she had killed someone.

Her breath was coming fast, far too fast, and the dark, candlelit interior of the temple was no longer comforting, it was claustrophobic, the incense infused air suffocating, pressing in against her senses, and she stumbled to her feet. She mumbled an apology as she jostled the monks seated nearest to her, though if you had asked her what language she had gasped the words out in, she wouldn’t have been able to say. No, she was far too focused on getting out, a cold sweat bathing her body as she managed to escape the dark chamber, fairly exploding out into the sunlit walkways of the mountain temple.

She gasped for breath for a moment. Then, almost angrily, she swept the heels of her palms against her eyes, dashing away the tears that had started to gather. How long had it been, and she was still reacting like this? Her head felt like it was full of static, bursting and popping and hissing, and she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to focus on how the crisp mountain wind felt against her sweat drenched skin.

Thirteen months. That’s how long it had been since the battle. A half month from when she passed out to when she woke up, returned to Cavendish Manor, and then departed from Wedinburgh Airport. Five days after that to when she reached Sucy’s home, and then a week to when she began the long journey to try and quell the demons and black dogs that resided in her mind, keeping the peace she so desperately wanted out of her yearning grasp. The year since departing Sucy’s home had not gotten her that peace, not even the five months she had spent with her family in Japan.

It had been nice to see Okaa-san and Otou-san, as well as her grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins and their children, but…but they had no idea. They could see that the prodigal daughter of the Kagari family was hurt, but they didn’t know how to help her…but they couldn’t be blamed for that. Akko didn’t know how to help herself! But she knew that the quiet whispers, the looks of ill-disguised pity, and the constant pandering would be the death of her. She had found herself distancing herself from her family as each day wore on, retreating to her room to use her crystal ball and phone to talk to her friends from around the world. That had helped some, though she didn’t miss how she spoke to Diana most of all, how she felt the calmest when she was speaking with her once rival, and there were times when the urge to get a plane ticket to fly all the way back to England was almost overpowering, but…

…she hadn’t been ready then, and still wasn’t ready even now. She couldn’t bear to face Diana, not while she was still so broken. Diana deserved happiness…they both deserved happiness, and they wouldn’t find it together, not with the way that Akko was right now. Akko knew that she couldn’t expect to be completely better before returning to England and fulfilling her promise to her…her friend. That was unrealistic. But she just knew, could feel it in her bones, that if she went back to Diana right now, it would only end in tragedy, just like how her visit with her family had.

She had snapped. She hadn’t meant to, she really didn’t, but the counseling services she had tried wasn’t doing anything and she was getting frustrated with how her family was treating her like spun glass. She had PTSD, she wasn’t broken! And always with those looks of pity, of condescension. Our Akko awakened magic, but she can’t get over a battle. Well, fuck you, Aunt Hisako, maybe if you had been there, you’d understand instead of talking about shit you know nothing about!

She was turning into a powder keg, and only needed a spark to be set off, a spark which was provided by one of her cousins, who muttered that perhaps it would have been better if she was normal, if she wasn’t a witch, if she had never left for Luna Nova in the first place, if magic hadn’t ever existed in her first place.

She had screamed at him, words slurring as a cruel reminder of the brain injury she had suffered, but she hadn’t been able to stop, hadn’t been able to hold back. Magic was everything to her. She had worked so hard to be where she was, and if it wasn’t for her, then perhaps Silent Spring would have won, and Earth would have died! The tirade lasted far longer than she had expected, and in the stunned silence that followed, she was aware of just how everyone was staring at her, staring at Akko the Witch, Akko the Freak. Then one of the babies (the daughter of her cousin Hiro? She couldn’t remember…) started crying, and she whirled, retreating to the small room her parents had given her. It didn’t take long for her to pack.

But what really hurt? Her parents didn’t even try to fight when she told them she was leaving. They just accepted it, offering only token words of sad dismay. They didn’t demand that she stay, they didn’t try to keep her home. They knew what she knew: that she didn’t belong. She had seen too much, been through too much. She no longer fit in the mundane world of her family.

“Will you come and visit?” her father had asked, deep voice sad and soft, and she had hesitated at the doorway, backpack slung over her shoulder.

“Hai,” she finally muttered. “After I…yes. I will visit.”

They had hugged one last time, then, the three of them crying, but no more words were said, and she began the next leg of her journey.

Akko’s eyebrows furrowed as she stared out over the lush, green mountains spread before her. The bitter irony of it all was that she hadn’t used the magic she had so vehemently defended once since the end of the battle. Her wand had stayed in her backpack throughout it all. Perhaps that was part of the problem. She felt unmoored, separated from both the mundane and magical worlds. Even when magic would have made things easier, she hadn’t been able to make herself use magic.

After she had left Japan and started travelling through Southeast Asia, she had thought a lot about why she was so hesitant to use the magic that she once loved. While helping plant rice on a small family farm in Vietnam, when she walked her way across Cambodia, as she visited the open air markets in Thailand, and then while she trekked north through Laos into China, she thought about it. She knew it was tied to her trauma, the PTSD that robbed her of any peace, and it was that odd, pervasive sense of looking for something that she was missing that dragged at her feet. She had to find what she was looking for before she returned to Diana or freely used magic again…she had to! So she hadn’t ridden in any car, nor used a bicycle, nor flown in any plane, worried as she was about missing the thing that she was looking for if she went too fast…the only vehicles she ever used were boats when she travelled over open water. But no matter how many miles she trudged, no matter how many people she met and helped, the answer still alluded her.

And now here she was, standing on the walkways of the mountain temple high up in the Chinese mountains, hoping that the holiness of this place would help her find what she was looking for. But here seemed as empty of answers, the same as everywhere else she had been so far. At least the view was nice, with the clouds and mists rolling heavily off the green mountains…

“You seem troubled, my child.”

The voice speaking heavily accented English was startlingly close, for Akko hadn’t heard anyone approach, and she whirled, heart pounding as her body immediately prepared to strike ruthlessly. But it wasn’t a Silent Spring assassin who stood before her, but one of the monks, an old man with skin as brown and wrinkled as a walnut, and he regarded her with calm, kind eyes. Still, she berated herself for letting him get so close without her noticing. Even lost in thought, she should have been paying enough attention to her surroundings to notice anyone approaching…Silent Spring did still exist, even if the majority of them had been destroyed. Those remnants that still existed might very well be wanting revenge. She’d have to pay more attention from now on…as for this man and his statement.

“I am, sir,” she replied honestly, and he nodded in understanding as he strode up to the wall of the walkway, joining her in looking out over the mountains before them.

“This is good. Noting there is a problem is the first step of overcoming it,” he said, before shooting a glance out of the corner of his eye at her. Returning his gaze to the mountains, he spoke his next words softly. “You remind me of a man I once knew.”

She didn’t say anything, but then, she didn’t have to.

“He, too, came here, only long ago, when I was a very young monk. He was a proud man, but troubled, very troubled. You see, he had served in what the Americans call the Korean War. His unit fought many times against the Americans and the South Koreans, and suffered terrible casualties. He was wounded towards the end, and was brought back home, but could find no peace. He never took a wife, never had any children, for the war and what he had seen weighed too heavily upon his mind. Every night, it seemed as though he returned to the war. Every night, he found no peace.”

PTSD, her mind supplied. He was suffering from PTSD, but it didn’t sound like he got any help for it. “What happened to him?”

The monk smiled softly to himself, the expression melancholy. “He told us how he spent years in the wilderness, unable to be near his fellow man, how he was searching for something he could never find. He finally found himself here. It took him many years and support, but he looked deep within himself and found the peace he had so desperately sought without. He eventually became a monk, and was one of the kindest, most tranquil men that I have ever known.”

Akko scoffed, turning a wry smile on the monk. “So I should wander for years in the wilderness before joining a monastery? Is that how I find peace?”

He chuckled. “That hardly seems fitting of the famed Atsuko Kagari.” At her shocked look, he grinned wider. “We are not so removed from the world that we would not recognize someone like you, my child. You have done great deeds already, and I imagine that great deeds still lie ahead of you, and they would not be accomplished if you holed yourself up in a monastery. No, I believe that what you must do is look within yourself. You are not at peace not because of something in the world around you, but instead because of something within you.” His expression turned grave. “That said, my child…there is no easy solution, there is no one thing that will bring you completely to peace. But knowing what lies within your own heart is an important step on your journey, I feel.”

They spoke for only a few moments after that before he took his leave, leaving Akko with a great deal to think about. Take a look at her heart, he had said. Funnily enough, that was more of a literal reality for witches than it was for the mundanes, but it would require the use of magic. Setting her mouth in a determined line, she made her way up to the small room the monks were letting her use. Barely larger than a closet and only just containing the cot and an old set of drawers, it was still sufficient for her needs. She paused on the threshold before stepping in to the room, grabbing her backpack and opening it, hand hesitating for a moment before she grasped her wand for the first time in many months.

The ease at which the wand’s worn handle fit into the palm of her hand, how right it felt to wrap her fingers around the wand that had seen her through thick and thin filled her with a deep sense of sadness. It wasn’t the wand’s fault that she was the way she was. The wand had done nothing wrong, but even now, with how right it felt to hold it again, she felt like ants were crawling all over her body, fear and anxiety prickling over her.

What if she couldn’t cast magic because of how hard it was for her to speak sometimes? What if magic wouldn’t come for her because of the necessary but terrible things she had done with it? What if it could sense her resentment and bitterness at how the one thing that had once brought her so much joy had brought her nothing but pain, heartache, and agony for most of her adult life?

She frowned. No! She was Akko Kagari! She reawakened magic with the help of one of the most powerful witches of their age when they were only sixteen! She would not shy away from this!

Sitting cross-legged on the bed, she took a deep breath to center herself. It was a long, complex incantation for the spell that she was going to cast, something she learned during her last year at Luna Nova. She had struggled with it then, only able to take brief glances within to her own magical signature, but she had matured since then, gotten better control of her magic. If the monk said that she needed to look within, then look within she would!

The words she needed came slowly, spoken with the utmost care, and she could feel the power growing with each uttered syllable. Shaky, yes, but stable enough for what she was trying to do. Her eyes squeezed shut as she finished the last word and released the built up magic, and it was as though she was struck by an ocean wave…massive, indomitable, a force of nature hard to fight. So she didn’t, allowing it to wash over her, and when she opened her eyes again, they no longer saw her room.

No, the view that greeted her was breathtaking, a studded starscape as far as the eye could see, design whirling and flashing, mesmerizing and almost hypnotic. She remembered some of the older witches saying that this spell had been disheartening to cast before the Grand Triskelion had been activated, that the world had seemed a void save for a brief few brilliant but fading glimmers, Sorcerer’s Stones providing magical energy. Now, the entire world was ablaze with magic, beautiful and powerful, sublime in its energy.

But she wasn’t here to look without, she was here to look within.

She turned her gaze towards herself, wincing slightly at the slight disconnect of her consciousness as, for lack of a better description, she looked at herself from a third person point of view. What she saw was…well, pretty much what she expected. It was hard to describe, this crimson, flowering gem with countless petals and facets that was her magical signature. It wasn’t just sight that she perceived, but also feelings…stubborn and headstrong, playful and humorous, but also worn and tired, frightened and wary. Sharp as obsidian in places, but also fragile as spun glass. This was a magical signature…nay, a soul that had been through a great deal.

But then she blinked as her eyes adjusted and she began to perceive more. Her soul wasn’t alone, there were branches that led off into the darkness, almost imperceptible when looked at directly but noticeable from the peripheral, like a dim and distant light in the darkness. So many of them, too, all connecting her to others, but ten were stronger than all the others. Curious, she reached out a hand that wasn’t actually there, and rested her ephemeral fingertips just above a cluster of three strands that ran close together, and she gasped.

A lime green cord that felt stubborn, playful, and strong, a hazel that shared that strength but also had a sharp wit, and a teal that was gentler than the other two, more caring and supportive but not without its own strength. Amanda, Hannah, and Barbara. Fitting, then, that their signatures seemed so intertwined! It didn’t take her very long to identify the rest of the signatures…Lotte and a much dimmer signature that she suspected was Frank’s…Chariot and Croix…Jasminka, as well as Constanze, even Sucy was still there, though hers was not vibrant with life as the others were. But still it remained, and she couldn’t help but remember the one dream she had while at Sucy’s mother’s house and their final farewell. Sucy may be dead, but she wasn’t gone, not truly…and perhaps she wouldn’t really be gone, so long as there were those that remembered her. A bittersweet thought, and a sharp pang of longing ran through Akko. She missed her friend, dearly.

But for all that sadness, she did feel a bit better, having done this. The spell was a stark and definite reminder that for all its chaos, magic joined people together. She was not alone, and never would be. Though the cords of magical energy that connected her with her friends were the strongest, there was no denying that she was connected with countless others, and had she the time, she would have taken care to actually investigate each one. But no, she had to return to the real world. But even as she began to withdraw from the spell, she couldn’t help but look around for the one cord that should have been brightest of all. Where was Diana’s signature?

She barely caught it out of the corner of her eye, but for the briefest of moments, a pale gold streaked with tea green and a light, clear blue flickered across one of the petals of her own signature, and she paused, confused. It seemed to have come from within her essence, and not from a cord connecting her with Diana. Curious now, she gathered her will and dove deeper within her signature, piercing through the outer layers and diving deep, ignoring the brilliant flashes of feelings and the brief flickers of memories tied to her long years of training and schooling to get to where she was.

Deeper and deeper she went, following the flash of gold that grew stronger and stronger the closer she got to the core of her essence, the beating heart of who she was, and when she got there, she gave a soundless gasp into the brilliantly colored void.

It wasn’t a cord connecting her to Diana. No, instead there was a thick strand of the warmly glowing gold signature that was interwoven with the very center of her magical signature, of her very soul. She raised cautious fingers, but where she hadn’t actually touched any other magical signature, she couldn’t help but touch the strand of gold and green and blue that was very much a part of her signature now. A small part, to be sure, but it was still there, still part of her!

Her fingers brushed the surface, and she immediately felt an indescribable flood of warmth, of acceptance, of serenity, of friendship and something more, something that should scare her but didn’t, and after a brief moment, there was a pulse of curiosity from the gold strand as the one that it originally belonged to answered her touch.

Oh. Oh, this was too much! This wasn’t just a minor connection, this was something more, and for a moment she floundered, confused and worried at what it all meant as a word that meant so much with its depth floated to the fore: soulmates.

Diana’s soul was inextricably connected with hers.

The shock of it all broke the spell and with a rush the real world returned to her senses, and she was suddenly aware of the tears coursing down her cheeks. It had been so beautiful but so very powerful, like a typhoon in the distance. She gasped for breath as her body reacted to it all, shuddering with what she had seen.

She would always be a part of Diana, and Diana would always be a part of her. Not just connected, but well and truly a part of each other.

Her crystal ball chimed from within her backpack, and she froze. But no, if that was who she thought it was, avoiding her wouldn’t accomplish anything. Gritting her teeth as she steeled herself, she retrieved her ball and activated it.

Diana’s face greeted her, sleepy and slightly confused as she politely hid a yawn behind her hand. “Akko?” she murmured in a throaty voice once the yawn ended. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, I just…you could tell that was me? How?”

Diana blinked at that, obviously taking the time to think it over. “I don’t know,” she finally answered. “I just did.” Then she frowned, more confused than annoyed or angry. “What was that?”

And so Akko explained it all to Diana who was several time zones away…it must have been very early in the morning for her. Diana didn’t say anything while Akko was talking, and once Akko was done, she still remained silent, face thoughtful. Finally she nodded slightly.

“The Grand Triskelion.”

“Huh?”

“Akko, we awakened magic together…it’s not surprising that our souls are intertwined like that. We were at the epicenter of an event where magic united the world, where everyone with a believing heart supported us in stopping the missile.”

Her tone was calm and factual, and Akko couldn’t stop the question from spilling from her lips. “Being connected like this doesn’t bother you?”

Diana’s head tilted to the side. “Why would it? Akko, you are my dearest friend. You always will be.” A blush touched her cheeks. “Whether as the closest and dearest of friends or…or as something more, I can think of no one I’d rather be so connected to. After all, I don’t lightly make promises to wait for someone to just anyone.” Her face grew concerned, a definite hint of yearning in the lines of her expression. “Akko, I know that I can’t force you to come home any sooner than you are ready to, but it’s been so long already. When are you coming home?”

Going home. Going home to Diana. Going to the one place that she really considered home anymore. The idea no longer seemed as daunting as it was before, but still…

“I don’t know,” Akko admitted. “I’m…I’m still not quite ready.” Diana’s face fell, and Akko’s heart lurched in her chest at the expression. “But…” she started, smiling timidly as Diana looked back up, hope in her blue eyes. “But I think I took a very important step today.”

The truth, she realized with a flash. Her heart and soul still ached, and likely would for a very long time yet. But she wasn’t as alone as she had thought she was, even when she was half the world away from her friends. She was still connected to them, like they were connected to her, and Diana…Diana was a part of her, and now that the shock of that realization had worn off, she took immense comfort in the fact. No matter what, Diana would be with her.

Diana’s smile was soft, but filled with her belief in Akko despite that softness. “I’ll be waiting,” she said, tone unwavering, resolute.

“And I will return to you,” Akko replied, voice just as firm as Diana’s had been. She couldn’t say when, but she would return to Diana. No power in the world could prevent that from happening!

Their conversation ended shortly after that, Diana regretfully informing her that she had to start getting ready for the day, and soon Akko was staring at the blank crystal ball resting on the bed as she processed all that had just happened.

She was connected with her friends, and a small part of Diana’s soul was intertwined with hers, and a small portion of her own soul was undoubtedly a part of Diana’s soul, as well. They would always be connected.

Akko fell back on the bed, smiling at the thought of it. No matter what traumas she endured, no matter what terrors visited in the night, Diana would always be there for her, a silent source of support and strength, a beacon in the dark.

They had been through unbelievable challenges together, had reawakened magic side-by-side, had even stared Death in the face before dispelling its corporeal form. Akko knew that the demons that still hounded her were not gone, and might very possibly never be gone. But they no longer seemed insurmountable like they had before. After all, with Diana’s help?

With Diana’s help, she could do anything.

That night would be the first peaceful night of sleep that Akko had in a very long time. The ghosts and demons still howled in the distance of her dreamscape, but Akko took courage from a steady golden glow that she had only needed to find in order to draw on its strength. Diana’s soul kept her safe through the night, and would do so from then on. In the morning, Akko would thank the monks for their hospitality before leaving the monastery. It would still take her five more months to complete the journey to the patiently waiting Diana, but now the journey had focus, was no longer a hopeless meandering as she looked for serenity. She still helped those she came across, still walked rather than ride in train or car or plane, but now she was motivated more by a curiosity of the world around her and those that lived in it rather than by a sharp, aching desire for peace of mind.

After all, the monk had been right, though she suspected not quite in the way that he expected: serenity was found within her own heart, but it was not her heart that provided her with that serenity, but the heart of her one and only, her soulmate, the one who waited for her:

Diana Cavendish.

[vexing-imogen]

bones, hearts, and other broken things

The Lady of Whitestone’s scream echoes through the foyer as Sylas sinks his fangs into her neck. Her blood warms his throat as he feeds, temporarily sating his ever present thirst. She cries out in pain as she struggles against him ineffectually, her shoulder wrenching out of socket, the bones of her wrist snapping in his iron grasp.

Good he thinks, snarling with satisfaction. Let her suffer. Let her suffer as Delilah was made to suffer.

“Please,” she whimpers, voice already weak. It’s pathetic. She’s pathetic. Weak. It is the greatest injustice that Whitestone is being ruled by this mewling kitten instead of his strong, proud Delilah. His Delilah, who never once lowered herself to beg for anything, not even her life.

He removes his mouth from her to growl in her ear. “Please what?” he snaps. “Are you asking me for mercy?” He tightens his grip on her and she shrieks. “I will grant you the same measure of mercy that you granted my wife when you murdered her.”

He sinks his teeth back into her flesh, drinking more slowly this time. “If you’re going to kill me, fucking do it already,” she says, struggling to break his grip.

Sylas laughs at that. “I don’t think so,” he says, bringing a hand up to caress her cheek. I think I’ll wait for your darling husband to arrive home, so he can watch me tear your throat out. That way he’ll know how it feels to watch the love of his life be slaughtered in front of him and be powerless to stop it.” He laughs again, softer this time, as he kisses her neck, fangs scraping her jugular. “I suppose I am granting you a small bit of mercy, killing you first. You’ll never know how it feels to live without him.”

She’s trembling against him, her heartbeat sounding quick and panicked in his ears. There’s something more there, too. Twin flutters. Soft and impossibly fast. His booming laugh echoes through the hall when the answer dawns on him. His free hand slips from her neck to rest on her abdomen. She stiffens against him, whispers a soft, “No.”

He strokes his hand over her stomach gently. “So, this is why they left you behind. Why they left you alone and unprotected. They thought you’d be safer at home.” He laughs. “They were wrong.”

He pauses to drink from her again. “Perhaps this changes things,” he muses. “Maybe I won’t wait to kill you after all. Maybe he’ll come home to find you in your bed. Pale. Lifeless. Belly torn open and your innards strewn across the sheets.” He hums thoughtfully. “Or perhaps he’ll find you laid out on the altar of your brother’s temple.” He kisses her neck again. “Did you know you taste like him?” he whispers before sinking his fangs in and drinking deep.

The cry she lets out is feral, primal, anger replacing the fear and the pain. She whispers something, and he’s suddenly blinded, reeling back from her, his mouth burning as if he’d drunk acid.

When his eyes adjust, she’s standing before him, emitting brilliant, divine light. Her eyes burn white with the intensity of the sun. She smirks. “Champion of Pelor, bitch,” she says, lunging at him.

She manages to jump onto his back, wrapping arms and legs around his neck and torso. He howls in agony at her touch as he tries and fails to wrest her off of him.

“Sylas!”

A voice rings out across the foyer, and he turns to find Cassandra de Rolo, in her dressing gown, rapier in hand. She charges him, and he just barely manages to draw his own sword in time to parry her first strike.

Even with a radiant half-elf clinging to his back, Sylas is stronger than Cassandra, and he disarms the girl quickly. He strikes hard with his sword, cleaving open her chest, and Vex’ahlia’s grip on him slackens as she screams Cassandra’s name.

He gets a grip on her bad shoulder and tears her off of him, hurling her across the room. Her skull hits the wall with a sickening crack, and she falls limp, the glow dimming but not fully extinguished. He’s looming over Cassandra, raising his sword to strike her down, when an explosion sounds behind him and something impacts his hand, nearly causing him to drop his sword.

He spins around to see Percival standing in the open doorway, gun trained on him, black smoke rolling off of him in waves. He smirks, eyes burning with cold hatred as the rest of Vox Machina steps into view behind him. “Hello, Sylas.”

The pup foolishly puts his gun away and pulls out a sword, charging Sylas with a roar echoed by the goliath that bounds in after him. Sylas parries the goliath’s axe, and swings at Percival, almost catching him across the ribs. He roars in frustration and goes to strike again, but he’s caught off guard by a voice ringing out from behind him.

“Oi, your mama’s so ugly, even Vecna wouldn’t take her on a date!”

The goliath’s axe sinks into his shoulder, and then again into the left side of his chest. He manages to land two hits on Percival, slicing open his cheek and slashing across his thigh. Thunder booms above him, producing a bolt of lightning that nearly forces him to his knees.

A radiant blast hits him square in the chest, and he should run, but Percival is right in front of him, bleeding. He lunges for the pup, intending to rip out his throat, but something strikes him in the back. An arrow, he realizes as thorny brambles erupt around him, and he falls to the floor prone.

He catches a glimpse of Vex’ahlia, propped against her bear, a bow clattering to the ground beside her. A shadow falls over him, and he looks up to meet Percival’s eyes.

The pup has his gun out again, and he’s contemplating Sylas. “Would you like to do the honors, Cass?” he asks as his sister steps into view, her rapier in hand.

She ponders for a moment. “Together, I think, brother.”

Percival nods, cocking his gun as Cassandra rests her rapier at his neck. “Give our best to Delilah,” he says, and pulls the trigger.

Percy doesn’t even bother to watch Keyleth and Pike unleash their Holy Bag of Dicks on the dust that was Sylas Briarwood. He’s dropping his gun and racing to Vex’s side as soon as the trigger’s pulled. She’s conscious, but just barely, the radiant glow emanating from her flickering like a dying candle.

He pulls her into his lap, apologizing profusely when she cries out in pain. “I’m sorry, my love. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He peppers her face with gentle kisses, and he can see the deep brown of her eyes through the blinding white that overtakes them when she invokes Pelor’s blessing. She’s deathly pale, her breath shallow, throat torn open with multiple bite wounds. “Pike!”

He hears the clank of armor as the gnome rushes to them. “Okay, okay,” she says, laying her hands on Vex. “It’s gonna be okay, Percy. She’ll be okay.” Golden white light bursts from her hands, washing over Vex and Percy. He feels his own wounds seal up as he watches the healing magic work over his wife. Her breath evens out, color returning to her cheeks, the marks on her neck now barely visible scars.

She stares up at him, gives him a weak smile. “Hi.”

Percy stares at her for a moment before he crushes her to his chest, sobs overtaking him. “I’m sorry.” He repeats it like a mantra. “I’m so sorry, darling. I’m sorry I left. I should have been here to protect you.”

She clutches him just as tight, hushing him gently. “How could you have known?” she murmurs. “None of us had any idea he was watching us. We all thought I’d be safest here.” She takes his face in her hands, forces him to look at her. “This wasn’t your fault.”

“Say it enough, and I might actually start to believe you,” he mutters, pressing his forehead against hers.

She sighs, and he closes his eyes against her scowl. “That’s the best I’m getting for a while, isn’t it?”

“Probably,” he says, starts combing his fingers through her hair. “How are you feeling?” he asks, catching her wince when she shrugs. He only has to glance at Pike and she’s quietly pouring more healing into Vex. He swallows hard, preparing for the question he doesn’t want to ask. “Is the...is the baby...”

He sees tears start to well up in her eyes. “I don’t know,” she says, her voice catching. “Percy, I don’t...”

He hugs her close again. “It’s alright,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her temple. “It’ll be alright.”

Pike clears her throat softly. “I think I can help,” she offers.

Vex turns to her hopefully. “You can?”

“I know a spell,” she says, shuffling closer. “It should only take a couple of minutes.”

They wait as patiently as they can as Pike casts the spell, but they’re both fidgeting by the time the two minute, and then the five minute mark passes. After ten minutes have gone by, Pike beams up at them. “Well, do you guys want the good news first, or the better news?”

Vex sags against Percy, and he can feel tears starting to soak his shirt. Percy lets out the breath he’s been holding. “The baby’s fine then?” he confirms.

Pike grins. “Yeah. They’re both a-okay.”

Percy’s heart skips a beat, and Vex’s grip tightens on his arm. “Both?” they ask in unison.

“Yeah,” Pike nods. “Congratulations, it’s twins.”

Vex’s hands go to her belly, and she’s smiling through tears when she finally looks at Percy. “We’re having twins,” she says, disbelieving.

“Apparently so,” he says with a laugh that’s only slightly maniacal.

Their delighted laughter echoes through Whitestone Castle as the first rays of sunlight peek over the mountains.

[badolmen]

@billy-hoepe @bonniebunz @softupshur, everybody else who liked/reblogged the first installment: holy heck y’all are so nice, your tags and comments made my day! Now, chapter 2 my friends!

As an investigative journalist, Miles had encountered his fair share of near death experiences. Shadowy threats, an alleyway beatdown, and being shot at had always been fair game in his line of work. He knew what it looked like right before someone fired a gun in his direction.

With a heave he pushed Billy out of the line of fire, behind a stack of blue containers. They wouldn’t protect him for long, but it was better than nothing. But Miles was off balance, arms open, asking for a bullet. 

It hit hard and true, knocking him to his knees.

The pain burned, the bullet buried deep in his shoulder, wedged between his joints. The blood spilled quickly, soaking through his thin shirt and puddling on the icy tile floor. The wind was knocked out of him, shock and adrenaline choking agonized gasps.

He looked up at Wernicke and the soldiers. Miles hoped he would die fighting, with a dying expression of anger and spite. But he was afraid. Terrified. And it showed in the flash of his eyes, shining with fresh tears of pain and panic.  

This was how he died.

But the room had gone cold. His could see his breath, steam shimmering off his blood and sweat frozen to the back of his neck. His pain was replaced with pins and needles, physical static invading every sense and thought. The Walrider.

The soldiers raised their weapons again, bullets spraying the air above Miles. He stayed low to the ground, stealing a glance to Billy. His eyes were open, but glassy, breaths shallow and short. He had stopped shivering.

The Walrider above shrieked and charged, but floated harmlessly over Miles, tearing into the soldiers. Blood drenched everything, spilling thick and heavy from the doorway as the nanite swarm ripped the soldiers and Wernicke to pieces. Miles stayed frozen to the ground, the pain in his shoulder receding to the throbbing ache of being smashed with a sledge hammer rather than fire and sulfur imbued in his flesh.

The blood spatter stopped, but the screams, though distant, continued, echoing above and around the hallway until they faded into the din of the electric lights. He sat up slowly, hands sticky with blood that wasn’t his own, chest soaked with blood that was. The camcorder was coated in the red slick, but still operable. There wasn’t much left of the men that had blocked the doorway, even their guns shredded beyond recognition.

A whimper to his right.

“Billy,” Miles breathed, scrambling over the blood stained tiles to where the smaller man cowered behind the containers, a small square of blue packaging and white tile saved from the massacre of red. His eyes were still glazed and icy, pupils too large to be seeing more than a blur as Miles inched closer.

Miles reached out a hand, but stopped himself. 

“Hey, Billy, can you hear me?” No response. With a shaky sigh, Miles crawled beside Billy, keeping pressure on the bullet hole in his shoulder, and waited. 

---

“I’m here, I’m right here Billy,” Miles said, voice weak and vision fuzzy as he felt Billy shift beside him. He blinked a few times, forcing himself to lucidity. It might have been a few minutes, or maybe hours. Time was slipping from Miles’ consciousness, hands and clothes tacky from coagulated, drying blood.

Billy gasped for air, as though he hadn’t taken a breath since the Walrider left, his skin pale and lips blue. The smaller man seemed dwarfed in Miles’ jacket, curling in on himself and nearly swallowed whole by the fabric. His eyes were shining with tears, sharpened with fear, but they softened at Miles’ voice. His lips twitched to form a word, but his voice was strangled in his throat.

“It’s okay, I’m – we’re good, we can leave this hellhole,” Miles said, dragging himself to his feet and extending a blood slicked hand to Billy. “We’re good to go now,” Billy was hesitant, but his grip was firm as Miles pulled him to his feet as well.

It was slow going, Miles weak and Billy shaking like a leaf, but they made it. The exit.

---

The sun was warm, the wind sweet. Birds – a vireo, a jay, a warbler – all sang in a discordant symphony of morning. The leaves on the trees rustled, shaking morning dew and drops of last night’s rain to soft grass and dark dirt below.

Freedom smelled like spilled gasoline and engine oil from the overturned armored trucks at the back of the asylum.

Billy’s thoughts were scattered, fragmented by bright, golden light and harsh, sharp sound. Sights and sounds that were familiar, yet so alien. Everything was louder outside of the pod, no longer muffled by liquid and glass.

Instead of only his own heartbeat and the hum of the Engine, everything made noise. The sound of Miles’ shoes as they limped through the woods, the wind rustling through the branches above, the buzz of insects, the sound of the jacket’s zipper jingling against itself – things that Billy hadn’t heard in years, stirring some frightful recognition in the pit of his stomach.

How much time had passed? What had happened? Was mom okay?

…

Mom.

He opened his mouth to speak, but still found the words gurgled and tasting of blood. Miles stopped walking, giving Billy a look of concern. His face was streaked with dry blood, eyes dark but soft, cautious but curious.

“You good there?” His voice was rough, deep, by far one of the most alien sounds Billy was getting used to, but that didn’t make it unpleasant. Billy motioned to his throat, weak whispers the only sound he could manage as he swallowed back a mouthful of blood. “I know I know,” Miles muttered, head swinging side to side, eyes distant with pain and exhaustion. “We just gotta make it to the highway. Hitchhike. Probably a trucker, keep a low profile. I know someone in Denver, they aren’t cheap, but they trust me, and they’re our best bet if we don’t want to have Murkoff on our ass-”

Billy shook his head violently, gasping for the words that were trapped in his throat.

“You, you don’t want to go to Denver? Or something?” He nodded. “Okay so you’ve got a better idea?” A single word clearly mouthed. “Mom? You want to go home to your mom?” Billy nodded, but recognized the crease in Miles’ brow, the apprehension in his eyes. An expression pleading for understanding.

Billy whimpered.

“I’m, I’m sorry Bill, we need – first, we need to not die, okay? Make sure we’ll live long enough to get you home. We gotta be safe about this, we don’t want those Murkoff fucks hurting your mom, right?” Miles gave a half smile, the bordered somewhere on nervous and genuine. “But once we’re under the radar we’ll get you back to your mom, ‘kay?”

Billy nodded, swallowing another coppery mouthful. Get safe. Then find mom.

---

The freeway was hot, asphalt burning Billy’s bare feet. Something about the smell reminded him of the Engine, flickers of phantom afterimages from the Morphogenic Engine burned into the background of his vision as he watched and waited with Miles.

They were watching where the horizon met the mountain edge in the distance, a shimmer where the sun had blurred the distinct lines of reality with its warmth, for any movement, any sign of a vehicle unassociated with Murkoff.

Miles was tired, too tired to stand. He sat in the gravel at the edge of the road, blood soaking down his arm to drip over the grey stone. The longer Billy was on his feet, mind soaking up every old sight and smell and sound, the stronger he felt. But Miles only seemed to whither, paling, shaking, and exhausted. Billy let him sleep, the hot sun drying the worst of the blood.

There was a rumble in the distance.

Billy shook Miles’ shoulder gently, the injured man blinking away sleep with wild, panicked eyes and a gasp for air. Billy stumbled back, feeling a breath of cold air across his shoulder as Miles’ frightened eyes sent a shiver of fear down his spine. 

But it passed, Miles shaking himself awake with a groan and pulling himself to his feet. There was truck headed north to Denver.

Miles stood out in the road, waving his arms. Billy felt fear prickle at the back of his neck again, the near suicidal reporter standing with his arms out as the truck thundered forward, until the brakes squeaked, and the vehicle decelerated rapidly, stopping long before it reached where Miles stood.

Miles limped to the driver’s side of the truck, the thundering engine left running. Billy did not like the memory of that sound, the engine humming, loud. Incessant. Like static, invading every corner of his mind. He could feel it. That pressure just behind his eyes, pouring coppery blood down the back of his throat. A breath of ash heaved from his lungs, the flickers of afterimages growing more intense.

The horn honked, loud, clear, and startling. Billy looked up, to Miles waving to him, to his hands. The black dust drifted away. A few deep breathes, and he walked towards the still growling truck.

“This is Marcy,” Miles said, gesturing up to the driver. The noise from the engine seemed to obscure her face, the way the heat blurred the horizon of the road, but Billy could make out her black curls and square jaw. “She’s gonna give us a ride to a nearby truck stop. She isn’t going to Denver, but there’ll be someone there who will be,” Billy nodded, barely hearing Miles’ words against the engine’s roar.

“C’mon, if ya want a ride you better get in,” Marcy said from above, voice soft but strong over the engine.

Billy followed Miles around the nose of the tractor trailer to the passenger side door, climbing up into the vehicle. The seat was wide, but just a little too small for two men to comfortably sit. Luckily, Billy was small and thin, and Miles didn’t mind having some of his personal space invaded for a relatively short trip to the truck stop.

It was somehow quieter inside the truck than outside; the engine’s roar muffled, even as the heavy vehicle picked up speed. Marcy smelled like flowery deodorant and lemons, the cab infused with the sweet, alert smell. Rosary beads clinked together, wrapped around the handle beside the door, a bobble head hula girl dancing on the dashboard.

“So, I gotta at least ask, what the hell happened to you two?” Billy, so close to Miles, could feel him tense, mangled hands curling tighter around the blood stained camcorder. “I know you said, ‘No questions asked,’ and ‘low profile’ and all, but you two are the most…” She stole a glance from the open road to her bloody, half naked, and exhausted passengers. “…Roughed up hitchhikers I’ve given rides to, and I’ve picked up some sad girls and poor kids pretty banged up, but at least they asked for hospital or police, y’all are a little more than strange.”

Miles was silent. Billy looked up at him, the dark, soft eyes closed and breath slow. Asleep, after a night in hell. Marcy gave a sigh, accepting she wouldn’t get a satisfactory answer.

“You can get some rest too, darlin’,” She said, hand reaching for the cross around her neck. “We’ll be at the truck stop in a bit, but you’ll least have till noon,”

Billy closed his eyes, head resting on Miles’ shoulder, the one that didn’t have a bullet buried in it. But he could not sleep. The flickers of the Engine were persistent, a heartbeat beneath his eyelids that flashed with every turn of the truck’s engine pistons.

He did not sleep, but he listened to the truck’s radio. Insect swarms. Overly warm temperatures for the autumn. Storms destroying crops. Economic and political predictions. Not pleasant news, but mundane. Normal. More normal than the muffled, robotic voices from Mount Massive.

It wasn’t quite sleep, eyes cracked open to stave off the flickers of a still too real nightmare, but it was rest. He hadn’t walked so much or so far in years. How many he wasn’t sure, maybe it hadn’t even been that long, but it felt like it. His feet hurt, bare and covered with dirt and pricked by gravel and spruce needles, but sitting there, listening to the radio, Marcy’s quiet humming, and Miles’ ragged breathing, he felt safer than he had in far too long.

Get safe. Go home. Go back to mom. Mom.

She would be so happy to see him again.

[yoonminnow]

Hoppy Halloween

→ pairing | Jungkook x reader

→ word count | 2.7k

→ genre | Drabble! crack, fluff, sprinkle of angst (but not really)

→ summary | You’re incredibly ready to drink away Halloween night at the Beta Tau Sigma frat house without a care, but the universe seems to have different plans when you end up showing up in a matching costume with your unrequited crush, Jeon Jungkook. 

A/N: This is a part of my Halloween drabble series I’m currently writing. Check out the others below.

Seokjin, Namjoon, Yoongi, Hoseok, Jimin, Taehyung, Jungkook

Your spirits are running high as the Beta Tau Sigma frat house comes into view. The sound of your steps on the concrete pavement soon being overtaken by the deep bass resonating from the residence. From where you stand you can already see groups of party-goers spilling out onto the front lawn of the large house, and from the looks of it, even more are lined up outside of the door.

You aren’t sure if it’s the chill from the wind or just the excitement to be taking a (somewhat) well-deserved break from studying for mid-terms, but your body feels as if a live wire is running through it. In fact, you are so ready for this night of unwinding to begin that even the cold wind cannot dampen your spirits. It can, however, threaten you with a mild case of frostbite. So, rather than making your way into the unreasonably lengthy line for entering the party you instead pull out your phone to give Hoseok a call.

The line rings thrice before the dial-tone ceases, giving way to a heavily distorted thumping that is echoing just out of time with the rhythm you are hearing in real time.

“Y/N?” a familiar voice cracks through the line.

“Hoseok, I’m outside the house!” you announce into your phone.

The nonsensical noises blaring from your phone’s speaker prompt you to pull it away from your ear, but Hoseok’s voice rings through a few moments later. “You tied the blouse?”

“I’m outside of the house!” you repeat, enunciating each word as you cup your mouth to the microphone.

“Ohh,” Hoseok laughs. You briefly hear his voice mumble something away from the phone before he addresses you again. “Okay, just walk up. I’ll bring you in.”

“Cool, thanks!” you chirp out as your steps begin to carry you towards the front porch.

Before you can even reach the entrance, you spot your friend’s shock of red hair bouncing up to the doorway, a pensive look on his face as he scans the sizable crowd.

“Hoseok!” you yell out, picking up your last few strides to the entrance. The boy turns towards your voice with a bright smile on his face, immediately wrapping you up in a hug once you’re close enough.

“Ah there you are,” he greets warmly, his sweater-clad arms bringing some much needed heat to your uncovered ones. “I was worried you weren’t coming!”

“And miss a chance to unashamedly get hammered on a weekday?” you laugh, shaking your handle of vodka next to your hip.

When Hoseok pulls away from the hug to eye the bottle, the end of a bunny ear perched atop your head just nearly misses catching him in the eye. His head jerks back quickly as you duck away with a laugh.

“Sorry,” you say as you bring a hand up to adjust the ear. “I’m not used to having an extra appendage on my head.”

“No that’s okay,” Hoseok assures as he lets his gaze travel over the length of your costume. The attention he gives to it initially comes off as a flattering gesture, but when a smirk makes its way onto his features you begin to feel a little nervous.

“What?” you say, looking down at your body to see if you can spot anything strange. Well, besides the fact that the flesh above your knees is on display for the first time in recent history.

“Nothing,” the boy laughs as his eyes travel back up to your face. “Just- did you guys plan this?”

Your brow lifts at Hoseok’s words. “You guys?”

Hoseok pauses to take in your befuddled expression, his face lifting in amusement as yours morphs more into confusion. “Nevermind,” he finally says as he shakes his head with a breathy laugh. “Here, let’s go inside.”

Words of protest sit readily on your tongue, but they’re quickly lost to the overpowering noise as Hoseok pulls you through the front door of the house. Almost immediately, you’re assaulted with the smell of cheap beer and smoke, a scent that you now realize you had been missing these past few months.

Hoseok guides you to the kitchen by the wrist, more for the sake of ensuring you don’t get swept up in the crowd and less for navigation purposes. You had spent enough time here to know the layout of the house through and through. However, for all the time you have spent in this house, you cannot recall a time when the surfaces of it had been so thoroughly covered.

Upon entering the kitchen, all you can see is mountains of bottles and cups, the sight making you thankful that you will not be held responsible for clean-up tomorrow, though you know you’ll end up helping out anyway.

“Holy shit, Hoseok,” you breathe out as you scan the countertops. You step forward to shift a stack of solo cups to the side so you can put down your vodka.

“I know, right? This year we said that entrance was either 15 bucks or a bottle,” he says proudly.

“Which is how we ended up with about ten bottles of Absolut,” a low voice cuts in behind you.

You spin quickly on your heal to face the voice only to be scared shitless when you’re met with the white painted face of the joker.

“Holy shit, Tae!” you exclaim as your shoulders jump up to your ears.

“Oh, sorry, You’re like the fifth person I’ve accidentally scared tonight,” Taehyung giggles as his eyes travel up the length of your fake ears.

“Your costume...” he begins before hesitating.

“Mm, yes?” you lightly laugh. “What about it?”

“It’s the same as-” the boy starts, but he quickly halts his words when he glances over your shoulder.

“What?” your brows furrow for the second time that night as you whip your head around over your shoulder. You catch Hoseok holding a finger to his lips before he quickly swings his hand behind his back, a fake grin appearing on his face. “What’s wrong with you two?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Hoseok waves you off. “But, uh, Tae! I did want to show you something in the living room.”

“Right now?” Taehyung whines, but the clearing of Hoseok’s throat has his face suddenly lighting up. “Ohh, gotcha. Okay, let’s go!”

You quickly swivel your head between the two boys, trying to monitor the exchange, but you give up when Hoseok reaches above your head to pull at Taehyung’s shoulder.

“Stay here, Y/N. We’ll be right back,” Taehyung sing songs back to you as the two make their exit into the main room.

“Weirdos,” you huff out under your breath before turning to grab a clean plastic cup off of the counter. You’ve just picked from the selection of juices to mix with when you hear the chime of a familiar voice behind you, a voice that causes your heart rate to pick up in your chest the moment you recognize it.

“Stop pushing, I can do it myself,” the voice protests.

Unaware that you’ve suddenly doubled your grip strength around a carton of cranberry juice, you turn around swiftly to find one Jeon Jungkook being pressed forward in your direction. His eyes widen upon meeting yours, and his shoes dig into the ground to still his movements. Jungkook’s abrupt stop pulls a grunt from Taehyung who had been pushing him forward from behind, but even so, a dopey smile still manages to pull across Taehyung’s features when he takes in yours and Jungkook’s expressions.

It’s only after a few moments you come to realize that housed upon Junkook’s head is a nearly identical pair of bunny ears as the ones perched upon your own. Your jaw slackens at the sight, firstly because you never imagined that the boy you’ve harbored a crush on for damn near a year now could look any cuter than he normally does on a daily basis. You can now confirm that you were sorely mistaken.

The second reason you’re unable to form a coherent sentence is that you are just now piecing together the reasoning behind your friends’ odd behavior. When it does come together though you are suddenly overcome with the urge to throw the carton of juice in your hand at Taehyung and Hoseok’s smug faces.

Unfortunately, they know very well that you’ve been smitten with Jungkook since they introduced you to him early last school year. In fact, you’ve had to endure their endless teasing for about the same length of time.

Anytime you were anywhere in Jungkook’s vicinity at least one of them would try to craft a way to embarrass you in front of him. They’ve done things like “accidentally” forgetting to tell you that the frat movie night was a couples’ movie night, only for you to find that Jungkook was the only one left without a pair upon arrival. Tae had once invited you over for a pool party, but when you got there you realized that not only was there no party, but the only person home at the time was Jungkook, whom you had to confront in only a pair of shorts and a bikini top. The text to Taehyung that followed should probably be submitted to Guinness for the longest continuous string of insults.

Hoseok one time had even gone as far as sending you upstairs to his shared room to fetch something right after Jungkook had gotten out of the shower. Luckily the boy had a towel draped loosely over him when you came through the door, but the mortification you felt stuck around for quite a while after.

What is ironic about tonight though is that Hoseok and Taehyung didn’t even have to step in to embarrass you. You were able to achieve that all on your own this time.

You feel your face grow hotter with each passing second that Jungkook’s doe eyes are focused on you, but at this point, you are quite accustomed to the younger boy’s tendency to remain tight-lipped in your presence. Actually, this was how you had come to the conclusion that Jungkook held no interest in you after you had met. Still, that doesn’t stop you from feeling tense in your stomach each time you're faced with his silence.

“Hey, Tae,” Hoseok’s voice slashes through the stillness. “Weren’t you looking for Jimin earlier? I think I just saw him outside.”

“Oh! Okay, let’s go out there,” the rigidity in Taehyung’s voice sounding as if he is reading off a script.

You’re about to chime in that you’ll join them, but Hoseok beats you to it. “Y/N, stay here and uh… make me a drink.”

Your face scrunches at his half-assed attempt to brush you off. “What am I, your servant?” you call out to his retreating figure. Your shoulders slump as you exhale before turning your attention back to Jungkook who is now pulling at the collar of his dress shirt.

“Do you want me to make you one too?” you ask with a small smile in an attempt to break the silence.

“Oh, uhm, sure. If you don’t mind,” he nods, his eyes darting from yours to his hands where he toys with the cuffs.

Though you’re annoyed with how Hoseok ordered you to make a drink, and yes, you fully intend on giving him a more than generous pour, you are actually relieved to have something to do besides stare at a boy who would clearly prefer to be anywhere else. At least that’s how it seemed before you suddenly hear the clearing of a throat behind you.

“Uhm, I like your costume,” the younger boy’s shy voice breaches the silence, though you almost miss it because of the loud music spilling into the kitchen.

“Oh,” you say in surprise, glancing over your shoulder as you twist off a bottle cap. “Thanks. Sorry, I didn’t mean to copy yours. I swear I didn’t know.”

“No no, I know,” Jungkook continues from behind as you pour out the drinks. “You, uh… You look better in it anyway.”

“Wha-?” you sputter as you try to not to slosh the clear liquid onto the counter. There’s no way you heard him correctly. It must be the music messing with your ears. “What did you say?”

“Uhm,” Jungkook begins, his voice increasing in volume, but housing the same shakiness. “You just- you look really nice in your costume.”

You’re suddenly thankful that your back is facing Jungkook so he can’t see the way your mouth has dropped open. Either you’re hearing things or you’ve unknowingly entered into some alternative Halloween house-party universe where cute boys compliment you.

You put down the bottle with a high pitched clink against the tiled counters before twisting your body towards Jungkook. Rather than ask him to repeat himself again you opt to look over his features to ensure that he is, in fact, the real Jungkook.

“Are you drunk?” you ask as you spot a blush running across his cheeks.

“W-what?” the boy stutters. “No, why?”

“It’s just, you’re acting kind of...odd,” you specify with the tilt of your head.

“O-odd? How?” Jungkook questions, and all of a sudden you’re having a hard time placing the expression on his face. Is he… nervous?

“Well, you’re- uh- talking to me,” you laugh awkwardly, hoping to ease some of the tension.

“I talk to you sometimes!” the bunny boy insists.

“Yeah, to tell me when Hoseok is passed out on the couch.”

A small smile has emerged on Jungkook’s features, but you can sense that he’s still anxious over something, which is not too far off from how you’re feeling.

“I’m sorry,” he unexpectedly sighs out. “It’s just I’m kind of shy...with you.”

“W-with me?” you babble, trying to sort your thoughts out. “Why me?”

Jungkook’s eyes focus on you once again, his hesitation filling the air up with anticipation again. He tilts his head back in the mix of an exhale and a grown before speaking again.

“I didn’t really want to do it like this,” he says, carding his hand through his hair.  “but I guess it’s because I-uh- like you.”

What?

“What?” you ask aloud.

You almost miss the wince in Jungkook’s features, but before you can retract your response he’s going off at a mile a minute.

“I’m sorry, I know that you don’t feel that way. It’s just that Hoseok and Taehyung wouldn’t stop bugging me tonight about it, and then when I got down here and you look like that,” the boy rattles off as he motions towards your costume. “I don’t know, I’m sorry. You don’t have to say anything. I know you don’t think of me that way, and-”

“Wait, wait, wait. Jungkook,” you cut the bumbling boy off. “You like me?”

Jungkook’s large eyes jump across yours for a moment before he breathes out, “Yeah.”

You exhale as your head tries to sort out this new information. A wave of excitement sweeping over you initially. But as you continue to dig another realization comes to the forefront of your mind, replacing the euphoria with disbelief.

“A-and Hoseok and Taehyung knew about it?” you question.

“Well...yeah,” Jungkook answers, oblivious to the rising heat in your face.

“Oh my god,” you say as your gaze locks on the two boys from where they are watching you from the living room. “I’m going to kill them,” you declare as you begin to stomp your way out of the kitchen.

“W-what? Wait, why?” Jungkook innocently calls from behind you, and something about the uncertainty in his voice causes you to forget your mission to destroy your traitorous friends for just a moment and instead remember that the boy you’re head over heels for has just confessed to you.

With a surge of adrenaline and a bit of intoxication that certainly didn’t come from any alcohol, you turn back to Jungkook who had begun to follow behind you. Without thinking, you reach up to place your hand on the back of his head pulling him gently towards you, and with the shift of your weight onto your toes you’re able to connect your lips in a chaste kiss.

The stunned look on Jungkook’s face when you pull away will surely be burned in your memory, but for now, you just try to suppress the urge to laugh.

“I like you too, Jungkook,” you smile, fingers still comfortably tangled in Jungkook’s hair.

“Wha-” Jungkook begins to question but is interrupted by a barrage of claps that ring out over his voice.

You whip your head back in response to find Taehyung and Hoseok applauding loudly from across the room, two goofy smiles overtaking their features. However, the grins on their faces are short-lived once they notice the death glare you are pinning them with from where you stand. In the next moment, Taehyung and Hoseok are ducking out to swiftly make their way up the stairs.

“Give me a sec, okay?” you say, turning back to Jungkook to press another quick kiss to the confused bunny’s lips. “I’ll be right back.”